The House of Whispers

"Ah, no!" she cried, full of quick apprehension. "Never think of doing that, Walter!"

"Why? Am I not your friend?"

"Such a course would only bring his wrath down upon my head. He would retaliate quickly, and I alone would suffer."

"But, my dear Gabrielle," he exclaimed, "you really speak in enigmas. Whatever can you fear from a man who is known to be a blackguard—whom I could now, at this very moment, expose in such a manner that he would never dare to set foot in Perthshire again?"

"Such a course would be most injudicious, I assure you. His ruin would mean—it would mean—my—own!"

"I don't follow you."

"Ah, because you do not know my secret—you–"

"Your secret!" the young man gasped, staring at her, yet still holding her trembling form in his strong arms. "Why, what do you mean? What secret?"

"I—I cannot tell you!" she exclaimed in a hard, mechanical voice, looking straight before her.

"But you must," he protested.

"I—I asked you, Walter, to make me a promise," she said, her voice broken by emotion—"a promise that, for the sake of the love you bear for me, you will not believe that man, that you will disregard any allegation against me."

"And I promise, on one condition, darling—that you tell me in confidence what I, as your future husband, have a just right to know—the nature of this secret of yours."

"Ah, no!" she cried, unable longer to restrain her tears, and burying her pale, beautiful face upon his arm. "I—I was foolish to have spoken of it," she sobbed brokenly: "I ought to have kept it to myself. It is—it's the one thing that I can never reveal to you—to you of all men!"

CHAPTER XVII

DESCRIBES A FRENCHMAN'S VISIT

"Monsieur Goslin, Sir Henry," Hill announced, entering his master's room one morning a fortnight later, just as the blind man was about to descend to breakfast. "He's in the library, sir."

"Goslin!" exclaimed the Baronet, in great surprise. "I'll go to him at once; and Hill, serve breakfast for two in the library, and tell Miss Gabrielle that I do not wish to be disturbed this morning."

"Very well, Sir Henry;" and the man bowed and went down the broad oak staircase.

"Goslin here, without any announcement!" exclaimed the Baronet, speaking to himself. "Something must have happened. I wonder what it can be." He tugged at his collar to render it more comfortable; and then, with a groping hand on the broad balustrade, he felt his way down the stairs and along the corridor to the big library, where a stout, grey-haired Frenchman came forward to greet him warmly, after carefully closing the door.

"Ah, mon cher ami!" he began; and, speaking in French, he inquired eagerly after the Baronet's health. He was rather long-faced, with beard worn short and pointed, and his dark, deep-set eyes and his countenance showed a fund of good humour. "This visit is quite unexpected," exclaimed Sir Henry. "You were not due till the 20th."

"No; but circumstances have arisen which made my journey imperative, so I left the Gare du Nord at four yesterday afternoon, was at Charing Cross at eleven, had half-an-hour to catch the Scotch express at King's Cross, and here I am."

"Oh, my dear Goslin, you always move so quickly! You're simply a marvel of alertness."

The other smiled, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, said, "I really don't know why I should have earned a reputation as a rapid traveller, except, perhaps, by that trip I made last year, from Paris to Constantinople, when I remained exactly thirty-eight minutes in the Sultan's capital. But I did my business there, nevertheless, even though I got through quicker than messieurs les touristes of the most estimable Agence Cook."

"You want a wash, eh?"

"Ah, no, my friend. I washed at the hotel in Perth, where I took my morning coffee. When I come to Scotland I carry no baggage save my tooth-brush in my pocket, and a clean collar across my chest, its ends held by my braces."

The Baronet laughed heartily. His friend was always most resourceful and ingenious. He was a mystery to all at Glencardine, and to Lady Heyburn most of all. His visits were always unexpected, while as to who he really was, or whence he came, nobody—not even Gabrielle herself—knew. At times the Frenchman would take his meals alone with Sir Henry in the library, while at others he would lunch with her ladyship and her guests. On these latter occasions he proved himself a most amusing cosmopolitan, and at the same time exhibited an extreme courtliness towards every one. His manner was quite charming, yet his presence there was always puzzling, and had given rise to considerable speculation.

Hill came in, and after helping the Frenchman to take off his heavy leather-lined travelling-coat, laid a small table for two and prepared breakfast.

Then, when he had served it and left, Goslin rose, and, crossing to the door, pushed the little brass bolt into its socket. Returning to his chair opposite the blind man (whose food Hill had already cut up for him), he exclaimed in a very calm, serious voice, speaking in French, "I want you to hear what I have to say, Sir Henry, without exciting yourself unduly. Something has occurred—something very strange and remarkable."

The other dropped his knife, and sat statuesque and expressionless. "Go on," he said hoarsely. "Tell me the worst at once."

"The worst has not yet happened. It is that which I'm dreading."

"Well, what has happened? Is—is the secret out?"

"The secret is safe—for the present."

The blind man drew a long breath. "Well, that's one thing to be thankful for," he gasped. "I was afraid you were going to tell me that the facts were exposed."

"They may yet be exposed," the mysterious visitor exclaimed. "That's where lies the danger."

"We have been betrayed, eh? You may as well admit the ugly truth at once, Goslin!"

"I do not conceal it, Sir Henry. We have."

"By whom?"

"By somebody here—in this house."

"Here! What do you mean? Somebody in my own house?"

"Yes. The Greek affair is known. They have been put upon their guard in Athens."

"By whom?" cried the Baronet, starting from his chair.

"By somebody whom we cannot trace—somebody who must have had access to your papers."

"No one has had access to my papers. I always take good care of that, Goslin—very good care of that. The affair has leaked out at your end, not at mine."

"At our end we are always circumspect," the Frenchman said calmly. "Rest assured that nobody but we ourselves are aware of our operations or intentions. We know only too well that any revelation would assuredly bring upon us—disaster."

"But a revelation has actually been made!" exclaimed Sir Henry, bending forward. "Therefore the worst is to be feared."

"Exactly. That is what I am endeavouring to convey."

"The betrayal must have come from your end, I expect; not from here."

"I regret to assert that it came from here—from this very room."

"How do you know that?"

"Because in Athens they have a complete copy of one of the documents which you showed me on the last occasion I was here, and which we have never had in our possession."

The blind man was silent. The allegation admitted of no argument.

"My daughter Gabrielle is the only person who has seen it, and she understands nothing of our affairs, as you know quite well."

"She may have copied it."

"My daughter would never betray me, Goslin," said Sir Henry in a hard, distinct voice, rising from the table and slowly walking down the long, book-lined room.

"Has no one else been able to open your safe and examine its contents?" asked the Frenchman, glancing over to the small steel door let into the wall close to where he was sitting.

"No one. Though I'm blind, do you consider me a fool? Surely I recognise only too well how essential is secrecy. Have I not always taken the most extraordinary precautions?"

"You have, Sir Henry. I quite admit that. Indeed, the precautions you've taken would, if known to the world, be regarded—well, as simply amazing."

"I hope the world will never know the truth."

"It will know the truth. They have the copies in Athens. If there is a traitor—as we have now proved the existence of one—then we can never in future rest secure. At any moment another exposure may result, with its attendant disaster."

The Baronet halted before one of the long windows, the morning sunshine falling full upon his sad, grey face. He drew a long sigh and said, "Goslin, do not let us discuss the future. Tell me exactly what is the present situation."

"The present situation," the Frenchman said in a dry, matter-of-fact voice, "is one full of peril for us. You have, over there in your safe, a certain paper—a confidential report which you received direct from Vienna. It was brought to you by special messenger because its nature was not such as should be sent through the post. A trusted official of the Austrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs brought it here. To whom did he deliver it?"

"To Gabrielle. She signed a receipt."

"And she broke the seals?"

"No. I was present, and she handed it to me. I broke the seals myself.

She read it over to me."

"Ah!" ejaculated the Frenchman suspiciously. "It is unfortunate that you are compelled to entrust our secrets to a woman."

"My daughter is my best friend; indeed, perhaps my only friend."

"Then you have enemies?"

"Who has not?"

"True. We all of us have enemies," replied the mysterious visitor. "But in this case, how do you account for that report falling into the hands of the people in Athens? Who keeps the key of the safe?"

"I do. It is never out of my possession."

"At night what do you do with it?"

"I hide it in a secret place in my room, and I sleep with the door locked."

"Then, as far as you are aware, nobody has ever had possession of your key—not even mademoiselle your daughter?"

"Not even Gabrielle. I always lock and unlock the safe myself."

"But she has access to its contents when it is open," the visitor remarked. "Acting as your secretary, she is, of course, aware of a good deal of your business."

"No; you are mistaken. Have we not arranged a code in order to prevent her from satisfying her woman's natural inquisitiveness?"

"That's admitted. But the document in question, though somewhat guarded, is sufficiently plain to any one acquainted with the nature of our negotiations."

The blind man crossed to the safe, and with the key upon his chain opened it, and, after fumbling in one of the long iron drawers revealed within, took out a big oblong envelope, orange-coloured, and secured with five black seals, now, however, broken.

This he handed to his friend, saying, "Read it again, to refresh your memory. I know myself what it says pretty well by heart."

Monsieur Goslin drew forth the paper within and read the lines of close, even writing. It was in German. He stood near the window as he read, while Sir Henry remained near the open safe.

Hill tapped at the bolted door, but his master replied that he did not wish to be disturbed. "Yes," the Frenchman said at last, "the copy they have in Athens is exact—word for word."

"They may have obtained it from Vienna."

"No; it came from here. There are some pencilled comments in your daughter's handwriting."

"They were dictated by me."

"Exactly. And they appear in the copy now in the hands of the people in Athens! Thus it is doubly proved that it was this actual document which was copied. But by whom?"

"Ah!" sighed the helpless man, his face drawn and paler than usual, "Gabrielle is the only person who has had sight of it."

"Mademoiselle surely could not have copied it," remarked the Frenchman.

"Has she a lover?"

"Yes; the son of a neighbour of mine, a very worthy young fellow."

Goslin grunted dubiously. It was apparent that he suspected her of trickery. Information such as had been supplied to the Greek Government would, he knew, be paid for, and at a high price. Had mademoiselle's lover had a hand in that revelation?

"I would not suggest for a single moment, Sir Henry, that mademoiselle your daughter would act in any way against your personal interests; but—"

"But what?" demanded the blind man fiercely, turning towards his visitor.

"Well, it is peculiar—very peculiar—to say the least."

Sir Henry was silent. Within himself he was compelled to admit that certain suspicion attached to Gabrielle. And yet was she not his most devoted—nay, his only—friend? "Some one has copied the report—that's evident," he said in a low, hard voice, reflecting deeply.

"And by so doing has placed us in a position of grave peril, Sir Henry—imminent peril," remarked the visitor. "I see in this an attempt to obtain further knowledge of our affairs. We have a secret enemy, who, it seems, has found a vulnerable point in our armour."

"Surely my own daughter cannot be my enemy?" cried the blind man in dismay.

"You say she has a lover," remarked the Frenchman, speaking slowly and with deliberation. "May not he be the instigator?"

"Walter Murie is upright and honourable," replied the blind man. "And yet—" A long-drawn sigh prevented the conclusion of that sentence.

"Ah, I know!" exclaimed the mysterious visitor in a tone of sympathy. "You are uncertain in your conclusions because of your terrible affliction. Sometimes, alas! my dear friend, you are imposed upon, because you are blind."

"Yes," responded the other, bitterly. "That is the truth, Goslin. Because I cannot see like other men, I have been deceived—foully and grossly deceived and betrayed! But—but," he cried, "they thought to ruin me, and I've tricked them, Goslin—yes, tricked them! Have no fear. For the present our secrets are our own!"

CHAPTER XVIII

REVEALS THE SPY

The Twelfth—the glorious Twelfth—had come and gone. "The rush to the North" had commenced from London. From Euston, St. Pancras, and King's Cross the night trains for Scotland had run in triplicate, crowded by men and gun-cases and kit-bags, while gloomy old Perth station was a scene of unwonted activity each morning.

At Glencardine there were little or no grouse; therefore it was not until later that Sir Henry invited his usual party.

Gabrielle had been south to visit one of her girlfriends near Durham, and the week of her absence her afflicted father had spent in dark loneliness, for Flockart had gone to London, and her ladyship was away on a fortnight's visit to the Pelhams, down at New Galloway.

On the last day of August, however, Gabrielle returned, being followed a few hours later by Lady Heyburn, who had travelled up by way of Stirling and Crieff Junction, while that same night eight men forming the shooting-party arrived by the day express from the south.

The gathering was a merry one. The guests were the same who came up there every year, some of them friends of Sir Henry in the days of his brilliant career, others friends of his wife. The shooting at Glencardine was always excellent; and Stewart, wise and serious, had prophesied first-class sport.

Walter Murie was in London. While Gabrielle had been at Durham he had travelled up there, spent the night at the "Three Tuns," and met her next morning in that pretty wooded walk they call "the Banks." Devoted to her as he was, he could not bear any long separation; while she, on her part, was gratified by this attention. Not without some difficulty did she succeed in getting away from her friends to meet him, for a provincial town is not like London, and any stranger is always in the public eye. But they spent a delightful couple of hours together, strolling along the footpath through the meadows in the direction of Finchale Priory. There were no eavesdroppers; and he, with his arm linked in hers, repeated the story of his all-conquering love.

She listened in silence, then raising her fine clear eyes to his, said, "I know, Walter—I know that you love me. And I love you also."

"Ah," he sighed, "if you would only be frank with me, dearest—if you would only be as frank with me as I am with you!"

Sadly she shook her head, but made no reply. He saw that a shadow had clouded her brow, that she still clung to her strange secret; and at length, when they retraced their steps back to the city, he reluctantly took leave of her, and half-an-hour later was speeding south again towards York and King's Cross.

The opening day of the partridge season proved bright and pleasant. The men were out early; and the ladies, a gay party, including Gabrielle, joined them at luncheon spread on a mossy bank about three miles from the castle. Several of the male guests were particularly attentive to the dainty, sweet-faced girl whose charming manner and fresh beauty attracted them. But Gabrielle's heart was with Walter always. She loved him. Yes, she told herself so a dozen times each day. And yet was not the barrier between them insurmountable? Ah, if he only knew! If he only knew!

The blind man was left alone nearly the whole of that day. His daughter had wanted to remain with him, but he would not hear of it. "My dear child," he had said, "you must go out and lunch. You really must assist your mother in entertaining the people."

"But, dear dad, I much prefer to remain with you and help you," she protested. "Yesterday the Professor sent you five more bronze matrices of ecclesiastical seals. We haven't yet examined them."

"We'll do so to-night, dear," he said. "You go out to-day. I'll amuse myself all right. Perhaps I'll go for a little walk."

Therefore the girl had, against her inclination, joined the luncheon-party, where foremost of all to have her little attentions was a rather foppish young stockbroker named Girdlestone, who had been up there shooting the previous year, and had on that occasion flirted with her furiously.

During her absence her father tried to resume his knitting—an occupation which he had long ago been compelled to resort to in order to employ his time; but he soon put it down with a sigh, rose, and taking his soft brown felt-hat and stout stick, tapped his way along through the great hall and out into the park.

He felt the warmth upon his cheek as he passed slowly along down the broad drive. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only I could once again see God's sunlight! If I could only see the greenery of nature and the face of my darling child!" and he sighed brokenly, and went on, his chin sunk upon his breast, a despairing, hopeless man. Surely no figure more pathetic than his could be found in the whole of Scotland. Upon him had been showered honour, great wealth, all indeed that makes life worth living, and yet, deprived of sight, he existed in that world of darkness, deceived and plotted against by all about him. His grey countenance was hard and thoughtful as he passed slowly along tapping the ground before him, for he was thinking—ever thinking—of the declaration of his French visitor. He had been betrayed. But by whom?

His thoughts were wandering back to those days when he could see—those well-remembered days when he had held the House in silence by his brilliant oratory, and when the papers next day had leading articles concerning his speeches. He recollected his time-mellowed old club in St. James's Street—Boodle's—of which he had been so fond. Then came his affliction. The thought of it all struck him suddenly; and, clenching his hands, he murmured some inarticulate words through his teeth. They sounded strangely like a threat. Next instant, however, he laughed bitterly to himself the dry, harsh laugh of a man into whose very soul the iron had entered.

In the distance he could hear the shots of his guests, those men who accepted his hospitality, and who among themselves agreed that he was "a terrible bore, poor old fellow!" They came up there—with perhaps two exceptions—to eat his dinners, drink his choice wines, and shoot his birds, but begrudged him more than ten minutes or so of their company each day. In the billiard-room of an evening, as he sat upon one of the long lounges, they would perhaps deign to chat with him; but, alas! he knew that he was only as a wet blanket to his wife's guests, hence he kept himself so much to the library—his own domain.

That night he spent half-an-hour in the billiard-room in order to hear what sport they had had, but very soon escaped, and with Gabrielle returned again to the library to fulfil his promise and examine the seal-matrices which the Professor had sent.

To where they sat came bursts of boisterous laughter and of the waltz-music of the pianola in the hall, for in the shooting season the echoes of the fine mansion were awakened by the merriment of as gay a crowd as any who assembled in the Highlands.

Sir Henry heard it. The sounds jarred upon his nerves. Mirth such as theirs was debarred him for ever, and he had now become gloomy and misanthropic. He sat fingering those big oval matrices of bronze, listening to Gabrielle's voice deciphering the inscriptions, and explaining what was meant and what was possibly their history. One which Sir Henry declared to be the gem of them all bore the manus Dei for device, and was the seal of Archbishop Richard (1174-84). Several documents bearing impressions of this seal were, he said, preserved at Canterbury and in the British Museum, but here the actual seal itself had come to light.

With all the enthusiasm of an expert he lingered over the matrice, feeling it carefully with the tips of his fingers, and tracing the device with the nail of his forefinger. "Splendid!" he declared. "The lettering is a most excellent specimen of early Lombardic." And then he gave the girl the titles of several works, which she got down from the shelves, and from which she read extracts after some careful search.

The sulphur-casts sent with the matrices she placed carefully with her father's collection, and during the remainder of the evening they were occupied in replying to several letters regarding estate matters.

At eleven o'clock she kissed her father good-night and passed out to the hall, where the pianola was still going, and where the merriment was still in full swing. For a quarter of an hour she was compelled to remain with the insipid young ass Bertie Girdlestone, a man who patronised musical comedy nightly, and afterwards supped regularly at the "Savoy"; then she escaped at last to her room.

Exchanging her pretty gown of turquoise chiffon for an easy wrap, she took up a novel, and, switching on her green-shaded reading-lamp, sat down to enjoy a quiet hour before retiring. Quickly she became engrossed in the story, and though the stable-chimes sounded each half-hour she remained undisturbed by them.

It was half-past two before she had reached the happy dénouement of the book, and, closing it, she rose to take off her trinkets. Having divested herself of bracelets, rings, and necklet, she placed her hands to her ears. There was only one ear-ring; the other was missing! They were sapphires, a present from Walter on her last birthday. He had sent them to her from Yokohama, and she greatly prized them. Therefore, at risk of being seen in her dressing-gown by any of the male guests who might still be astir—for she knew they always played billiards until very late—she took off her little blue satin slippers and stole out along the corridor and down the broad staircase.

The place was in darkness; but she turned on the light, and again when she reached the hall.

She must have dropped her ear-ring in the library; of that she felt sure. Servants were so careless that, if she left it, it might easily be swept up in the morning and lost for ever. That thought had caused her to search for it at once.

As she approached the library door she thought she heard the sound as of some one within. On her opening the door, however, all was in darkness. She laughed at her apprehension.

In an instant she touched the switch, and the place became flooded by a soft, mellow light from lamps cunningly concealed behind the bookcases against the wall. At the same moment, however, she detected a movement behind one of the bookcases against which she stood. With sudden resolution and fearlessness, she stepped forward to ascertain its cause. Her eyes at that instant fell upon a sight which caused her to start and stand dumb with amazement. Straight before her the door of her father's safe stood open. Beside it, startled at the sudden interruption, stood a man in evening-dress, with a small electric lamp in his clenched hand. A pair of dark, evil eyes met hers in defiance—the eyes of James Flockart.