The House of Peril (Ainslee's, 1911)/Chapter 8

The great open-air restaurant in the Champs Elysées was full of foreigners. Paul De Poupel and Bill Oldchester were sitting opposite to one another on the broad terrace dotted with small tables embowered in flowering shrubs. They were both smoking, the American a cigar, the Frenchman a cigarette. It was now half-past eight. Instead of taking the first express for Switzerland, they had decided to have dinner in Paris, and to take a later train.

“I do not feel happy at our having left Mrs. Blackett alone at Enghien, Mr. Oldchester.”

Paul De Poupel took the cigarette out of his mouth, and put it down on the table.

Oldchester looked up. His nerves were on edge. What did the Frenchman mean by saying that?

“I don't see what else we could do,” he said shortly.

He had no wish to discuss Mabel and her affairs with this foreigner, however oddly intimate Mrs. Blackett had allowed herself to get with the Comte De Poupel.

“Enghien is a very queer place,” observed the Comte De Poupel meditatively.

Oldchester thought the remark too obvious to answer. Of course Enghien was a queer place; to put it plainly, little better than a gambling hell. But it was rather strange to hear the Comte De Poupel saying so—a real case if ever there was one, of Satan rebuking sin. But at last:

“Of course it is,” he said irritably. “I can't think what made Mrs. Blackett go there in the first instance.”

“She was brought there by the Danish lady she met in a hotel in Paris, and who disappeared so strangely,” answered Paul De Poupel quickly. “It is not the place for a young lady to be by herself.”

Bill Oldchester tilted back the chair on which he was sitting. Once more he asked himself what on earth the fellow was driving at? Was all this talk simply a preliminary to the count's saying that he was not going to Switzerland, after all; that he was going back to Enghien in order to take care of Mabel? What an absurd idea!

Quite suddenly the young American felt shaken by a very primitive, and to him hitherto a very unfamiliar feeling, that of jealousy. Damn it—he wouldn't have that! Of course in love with Mabel Blackett. All that sort of nonsense had been over long ago, but he, Bill Oldchester, was her trustee and lifelong friend; he must see to it that she didn't make a fool of herself either by gambling away her money—the good money the late George Blackett had toiled so many years to make—or—or—worse by far, by making some wretched foreign marriage.

He stared at his companion suspiciously. Was it likely that a real count would lead the sort of life this man De Poupel was leading, in a place like Enghien?

“If you really feel like that, I think I'd better give up my trip to Switzerland, and go back to Enghien to-morrow morning.”

He stared hard at the Comte De Poupel, and noted with sarcastic amusement the other's appearance—so foppish, so effeminate to American eyes. Particularly did he regard with scorn the count's yellow silk which matched his lemon-colored tie and silk pocket handkerchief. Fancy starting for a long night journey in such a “get-up”! Well! Perhaps women liked that sort of thing, but he would never have thought Mabel was that sort of woman.

A change came over Paul De Poupel's face. There was unmistakable relief, nay, more, even joy in the voice with which the Frenchman answered:

“That is excellent! That is quite right! That is first rate! Yes, yes, Mr. Oldchester, you go back there. It is not right that Mrs. Blackett should be by herself. It may seem absurd to you, but, believe me, Enghien is not a safe spot in which to leave an unprotected woman. She has not one single friend, not a person to whom she could turn to for advice—excepting, of course, the excellent Noirs, who keep the pension, and they naturally desire to keep their good guest.”

“There's that funny old couple—that man called Fritz something or other, and his wife,” observed Oldchester.

Paul De Poupel shook his head,

“Those people are not nice people,” he said decidedly. “They appear to be very fond of are Mrs. Blackett, but they they are only fond of themselves. They are adventurers, 'out for the stuff,' as you Americans say. The man is the worst type of gambler, the type that believes he is going to get rich, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, by a 'system.' Such a man will do anything for money. I believe they knew far more of the disappearance of Madame Olsen than any one else did. I have suspected”—he dropped his voice, and leaned over the table—“nay, I have felt sure from the very first, that the Wachners are blackmailers. I am convinced that they discovered something to that poor lady's discredit and—after making her pay—drove her away. Just before she left Enghien they were trying to raise money at the Casino money changer's on some worthless shares. But after Madame Olsen's disappearance they had plenty of gold and notes.”

Oldchester looked again at his companion. At last he was really impressed. Blackmailing is a word which has a very ugly sound in an American lawyer's ears.

“If that is really true,” he said suddenly, “I almost feel as if I ought to go back to Enghien to-night. I suppose there are heaps of trains.”

“You might at all events wait till to-morrow morning,” said Paul De Poupel dryly.

He also had suddenly experienced a touch of that jealous feeling which had surprised Oldchester but a few moments before. But he was a Frenchman, and he was familiar with the sensation—nay, he welcomed it. “To think,” he said to himself, “that I am still capable of jealousy! Eh! Eh! I am not so old as I thought I was!”

Mabel Blackett seemed to have come very near to him in the last few moments. He saw her blue eyes brimming with tears, her pretty mouth trembling; her hand lay once more in his hand.

Had he grasped that kind, firm little hand, an entirely new life had been within his reach. A sensation of immeasurable lo over Paul De Poupel.

But no—he had been right, quite right. He liked her too well to risk making her as unhappy as he might make her, as he would be tempted to make her, if she became his wife.

Paul De Poupel took off his hat. He remained silent for what seemed to his American companion quite a long time.

“By the way, what is Mrs. Blackett doing to-night?” he said at last.

“To-night?” said Oldchester. “Let me see—why, to-night she is spending the evening with those very people of whom you were speaking just now. I heard her arrange it with them this morning.” He added stiffly: “I doubt if your impression is a right one. They seem to me a respectable couple.”

Paul De Poupel shrugged his shoulders. He felt suddenly uneasy, afraid he hardly knew of what. There was no risk that Mabel Blackett would fall a victim to blackmailers—she had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear—but still he hated to think that she was, even now, alone with this sinister man and woman of whom he had formed such a bad impression.

He took his watch out of his pocket.

“There's a train for Enghien at a quarter to ten,” he said slowly. “That would be an excellent train for you—for us to take.”

“Then are you thinking of going back to Enghien, too?” There was a sarcastic inflection in the American's voice,

“Yes.”

The Comte De Poupel looked at Oldchester significantly, and his look said: “Take care, my friend. We do not allow a man to sneer at another man in this country unless he is willing to stand certain unpleasant consequences.”

During the short train journey they hardly spoke to one another. Each thought that the other was doing a strange thing—and a thing which the thinker could have done much better if left to himself.

At Enghien station they jumped into a victoria.

“I suppose we had better drive straight to the Pension Noir,” Oldchester said hesitatingly.

“Yes. And I will go on somewhere else as soon as I know you have seen Mrs. Blackett. She should be back from the Wachners by now. By the way, Mr. Oldchester, you had better ask to have my room to-night; we know that it is disengaged. Please do not tell her that I came back with you. Where would be the use? Perhaps I will go back to Paris to-night.”

The Comte De Poupel spoke in a constrained, preoccupied voice.

“But aren't you coming in? Won't you stay at Enghien at least till to-morrow?”

Oldchester's voice unwittingly became far more cordial; if he did not wish to see Mabel, why had he insisted on coming to-night?

The veranda of the Pension Noir was still brightly lit up, for late hours are the rule in Enghien. As they drew up before the door, the Comte De Poupel suddenly grasped the other's hand.

“Good luck!” he exclaimed. “Good luck, fortunate man!”

Oldchester was rather touched as well as surprised. But what queer, emotional fellows Frenchmen are, to be sure! This Paul De Poupel had evidently been a little bit in love with Mabel, but he was evidently quite willing to think of her married to another fellow. But—but Oldchester was no longer so sure that he wanted to marry Mabel. She was different somehow—another Mabel to the one he had always known,

“I'll just come out, and tell you that it's all right,” he said a little awkwardly. “But I wish you'd come in, if only for a minute. Mrs. Blackett would be so pleased to see you.”

“No, no,” muttered the other. “Believe me, she would not!”

Oldchester turned, and walked through into the veranda. It was empty save for the landlord, a voluble southerner, who, as a rule, saw but little of his guests, for he was not ashamed of acting as chef in his own kitchen, leaving the rest of the management of the prosperous pension to his wife. As it happened, however, Madame Noir had had to go away for two or three days.

“I want to know,” said Oldchester abruptly, “if you can let me have a room for to-night? The room of the Comte De Poupel is, I believe, disengaged?”

“I will see, monsieur—I will inquire!”

Monsieur Noir did not know what to make of this big American who had come in out of the night, bringing no luggage with him but one little bag. Then he suddenly remembered; why, of course this was the friend of the pretty, charming, wealthy Madame Blackett, the gentleman who had been staying during the past few days at the Pension Malfait.

Then, this Mr. Oldchester's departure from Enghien had been a fausse sortie? A ruse to get rid of the Comte De Poupel, who was also in love with the American widow? Ah! Ah! Monsieur Noir felt much amused. But the American's tale of love was not to run smoothly, after all, for now another complication had arisen.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “it is all right! I had forgotten! As you say, monsieur, the Comte De Poupel's room is now empty, but” He hesitated, and with a sly look added: “Indeed, we have another room empty to-night—a far finer room, the room of Madame Blackett.”

“The room of Mrs. Blackett?” echoed Oldchester. “Has Mrs. Blackett changed her room?”

“Oh, no, monsieur. She left Enghien this very evening. I have but just now received a letter from her.”

The little man could hardly keep serious. Oh! Those Americans who are said to be so cold! They also when in love behave like other people!

“Ah, what a charming lady, monsieur! Madame Noir and I shall miss her greatly. We hoped to see her for all the summer. Perhaps she will come back, now monsieur has returned.”

“Left Enghien!” repeated Oldchester incredulously. “But that's impossible! It isn't more than three or four hours since we said good by to her here. She had no intention of leaving Enghien then. Do you say you've had a letter from her? Will you please show it to me?”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

Monsieur Noir, followed by the American, trotted off into his office. Slowly, methodically, he began to turn over the papers on the writing table. He felt quite lost without his wife, and just a little uncomfortable. There had evidently been a lovers' quarrel between these two peculiar American people. What a pity that the gentleman, who had very properly returned to beg the lady's pardon, found his little bird flown!

In such poetic terms did Monsieur Noir in his own mind refer to Mabel Blackett. Her presence in his house had delighted his southern, sentimental mind; he felt her to be so decorative, as well as so lucrative, a guest to his beloved pension. Mrs. Blackett had never questioned any of the extras he had put on her weekly bill. And she had never become haggard and cross as other ladies did who lost money at the Casino, Though he was very sorry she had left the Pension Noir, he was gratified by the fact that she had lived up to his ideal of her, for, though Madame Blackett had paid her weekly bill only two days before, she had actually sent him a hundred francs to pay for the two days' board; the balance to be distributed among the servants.

There could surely be no harm in giving this odd-looking American the lady's letter? Still, Monsieur Noir was sorry that he had not Madame Noir at his elbow to make the decision for him.

“Here it is,” he said at last, taking a piece of paper out of a drawer. “I must have put it there for Madame Noir to read it on her return. It is a very gratifying letter—monsieur will see that for himself.”

Oldchester took the folded-up piece of note paper out of the little Frenchman's hand with a strange feeling of misgiving. Then, glancing at the letter: “You have made mistake,” he said quickly. “This isn't Mrs. Blackett's handwriting.”

“Oh, yes, monsieur, it is certainly Mrs. Blackett's letter. You see there is the lady's signature written as plainly as possible.”

Oldchester looked to where the man's fat finger pointed. Yes, in the strange, the alien handwriting were written two words, “Mabbel” and “Blacket'; but the handwriting, stiff, angular, large, resembled his cousin's sloping caligraphy [sic] as little as did the spelling of the two words that of her name. A thrill of fear, of terrifying suspicion flooded Bill Oldchester's shrewd, commonplace mind. Slowly he read the strange letter through. The missive ran, in French:

Turning on his heel, without even saying “Bon soir” to the astonished, and by now repentant Monsieur Noir, Oldchester rushed out on the veranda.

“Come into the house! Now, at once!” he said roughly. “Something extraordinary has happened!”

The Comte De Poupel jumped out of the carriage, and a moment later the two men stood together in the brightly lighted veranda, unseeing, uncaring of the fact that Monsieur Noir was staring at them with affrighted eyes.

“This letter purports to be from Mabel Blackett,” said Oldchester hoarsely, “but of course it is nothing of the sort! She never wrote a line of it. It's entirely unlike her handwriting—and then look at the absurd signature! What does it mean, Poupel? Can you give me any clew to what it means?”

The Comte De Poupel looked up. Even Oldchester, frightened and angry as he now was, could not help noticing how the other man's face had changed in a few moments. From being of a usual healthy pallor, it had turned so white as to look almost green under the bright electric light.

“Yes, I think I know what it means,” said Poupel in a whisper “Do not let us make a scene here. I know where she is. If what I believe is true, every moment is of value.”

He plucked the American by the sleeve, and hurried him out into the grateful darkness.

“Get into the carriage,” he said imperiously. “I will see to everything.”

Oldchester heard him direct the driver to the police station.

“We may need two or three gendarmes,” he muttered. “It's worth the three minutes' delay!”

The carriage drew up before a shabby little house across which was written in huge black letters the word “Gendarmerie.” The count rushed into the guardroom, hurriedly explained his errand to the superintendent, and came out, but a moment later, with three men.

“We must make room for them somehow,” he said briefly, and room was made,

Oldchester noticed with surprise that each man was armed not only with a stave, but with a revolver. The French police show no kindness even to potential criminals.

They swept on, through the dimly lighted, shady avenues, till they came to the outskirts of the town. Paul De Poupel sat with clenched hands, staring in front of him, and the gendarmes murmured together in quick, excited tones.

At last, as they turned into a dark road, De Poupel suddenly began to talk at the very top of his voice:

“Speak, Mr. Oldchester, speak as loud as you can! Shout! Say anything that you like! They may as well hear that we are coming!”

But Oldchester could not do what the other man so urgently required of him; to save his life he could not have opened his mouth and shouted as the other was doing.

“We are going to pay an evening call—what you in America call an evening call! We are going to fetch our friend—our friend, Mrs. Blackett; she is so charming, so delightful! We are going to fetch her because she has been spending the evening with her friends, the Wachners. The old woman-devil—you remember her surely? The woman who asked you concerning your plans? It is she I fear”

“Je crois que c'est ici, monsieur?” 

The horse was suddenly brought up short opposite a small white gate. Oldchester saw, standing back in a large moonlit garden, a small square house. The windows were closely shuttered, but where the shutters met in one of the lower rooms glinted a straight line of light.

“We are in time,” said the count, with a queer break in his voice. “If we were not in time there would be no light. The house of the wicked ones would be in darkness.” And then in French he added: “You had better all three stay in the garden, while Mr. Oldchester and I go up to the house. If we are gone more than five minutes then one of you follow us.”

In varying accents came the composed answers: “Oui, m'sieur.”

There came a check. The little gate was locked. Each man helped another over very quietly, and then the three gendarmes dispersed with swift, noiseless steps, each seeking a point of vantage commanding the house. Oldchester and Paul De Poupel, talking in loud, confident tones, walked quickly up the path.

Suddenly a shaft of bright light pierced the moonlit darkness. The shutters of the dining room of the Châlet des Muguets had been unbarred, and the window flung open.

“Qui va là?”

The old military watchword, as the Frenchman remembered with a sense of its terrible irony, was flung out into the night in the harsh, determined voice of Madame Wachner. They saw her stout figure filling up most of the window outlined against the lighted room. She was leaning out, peering into the garden with angry, fearful eyes.

Both men stopped speaking simultaneously. Neither en her.

“Who goes there?” she repeated, And then: “I fear, messieurs, that you have made a mistake. You have taken this villa for some one else's house.” But there was alarm as well as anger in her voice.

“It is I, Paul De Poupel, Madame Wachner.” The count spoke quite courteously, his agreeable voice thickened, made hoarse by the strain to which he had just subjected it. “I have brought Mr. Oldchester. We have come to fetch Madame Blackett, for in Paris we found news making her return home to America at once a matter of imperative necessity.”

He waited a moment, then added, raising his voice as he spoke: “We know that she is spending the evening with you.” And he walked on quickly to where he supposed the front door to be.

“If they deny she is there,” he whispered to his companion, “we will shout for the gendarmes and break in. But I doubt if they will dare to deny she is there unless—unless”

The two men stood in front of the closed door for what seemed to them a very long time. It was exactly three minutes, and when at last it opened slowly, revealing the tall, lanky figure of “L'Ami Fritz,” they both heard the soft, shuffling tread of the gendarmes closing in round the house.

“I pray you to come in,” said Monsieur Wachner in English, and addressing Bill Oldchester. “I am pleased to see you—the more so that your friend, Madame Blackett, is indisposed. A moment ago, to our deep concern, she found herself quite faint—no doubt from the heat. I will conduct you, gentlemen, into the drawing-room; my wife and Madame Blackett will join us there in a minute.”

Only then did he move back sufficiently to allow the two men to cross the threshold,

Paul De Poupel opened his lips, but no sound came from them. The sudden sense of relief from what had been agonized suspense gripped him by the throat. He brushed past Wachner, and made straight for the door behind which he felt sure he would find the woman whom some instinct already told him he had saved from a terrible fate.

he turned the handle of the dining-room door, and then he stopped short, for he was amazed at the sight which met his eyes. Mabel Blackett was sitting at a round table still laden with the remains of a simple meal. Her face was hidden in her hands, and she was trembling—shaking as though she had the ague.

On the floor Madame Wachner was crawling about on her hands and knees, but as the dining-room door opened she looked up, and with some difficulty raised herself from her stooping position.

“Such a misfortune!” she exclaimed. “Such a very great misfortune! The necklace of our friend 'as broken, and her beautiful pearls are rolling all over the floor! We 'ave been trying, Fritz and myself, to pick them up for her. Is not that so, Mab-bel? She is so distressed! It 'as made her feel very faint. But I tell her we shall find them all—it is only a matter of a little time. I asked her to take some cognac my husband keeps for such bad moments, but no, she would not. Is not that so, Mab-bel?”

She stared down gloomily at the bowed head of her guest.

Mrs. Blackett looked up. As if hypnotized by the other woman's voice, she rose to her feet—a wan, pitiful little smile came over her white face.

“Yes,” she said dully, “the string broke. I was taken faint—I felt horribly queer—perhaps it was the heat.”

Paul De Poupel took a sudden step forward into the room. He had just become aware of something which had made him also feel “queer.” That something had no business in the dining room, for it belonged to the kitchen; in fact, it was a large wooden mallet of the kind used by French cooks to beat meat tender. Just now the club end of the mallet was sticking out of the drawer of the walnut buffet. The drawer had evidently been pulled out askew, and had stuck—as is the way with drawers forming part of ill-made furniture.

Oldchester, over the count's shoulder, was looking anxiously at Mabel. True, she did not seem quite well, but she was all right, and on on quite friendly terms with the Wachners.

What had the Comte De Poupel meant by calling the commonplace, stout woman now speaking so kindly to and of Mabel, a devil? Above all, what had he meant by his hints of deadly danger, by his agonized fear of being too late?

Bill Oldchester began to wonder what they ought to do about the gendarmes. Whether it would be possible to get them out of the place without the Wachners knowing they had been there. He felt very uncomfortable, and it seemed to him that Mabel Blackett avoided looking at him.

Had not her last words to him been a plea for his noninterference in her affairs? At the time she had uttered them the words had hurt him, made him feel very angry. But, after all, she was a grown-up woman, she had a right to conduct her life as she liked; she had even a right—and this was a galling thought—to be very much annoyed that he had come back in this way, even following her to her friends' house.

“Well, Mabel,” he said rather shortly, “I suppose we ought to be going now. We have a carriage waiting at the gate, so we shall be able to drive you home. But of course we must first pick up all your pearls—it won't take long.”

But Mrs. Blackett made no answer. She did not even look round. She was still standing looking straight before her, as if she saw something the others could not see written on the distempered wall.

“L'Ami Fritz” entered the room quietly. He looked even odder than usual, for while in one hand he held Mrs. Blackett's pretty black tulle hat and her fancy bag, in the other was clutched the handle of a broom.

“I did not think you would want to go back into my wife's bedroom,” he said deprecatingly; and Mrs. Blackett, at last turning her head round, actually smiled gratefully at him.

She was reminding herself that he had tried to save her. Only once—only when he had grinned at her so strangely, and deplored her refusal of the drugged coffee—had she felt really afraid of him.

Laying the hat and bag on the table, he began sweeping the floor with long, skillful movements.

“This is the best way to find the pearls,” he muttered, and three of the four people present stood and looked on at what he was doing.

As for the one most concerned, Mabel Blackett had again begun to stare dully before her, as if what was going on did not interest her one whit.

At last “L'Ami Fritz” took a long spoon off the table; with its help he put what he had swept up—pearls, dust, and fluff—into the little fancy bag.

“There!” he said, with a sigh of relief. “I think they are all there.”

But even as he spoke, he knew well enough that some of the pearls—perhaps five or six—had found their way up his wife's capacious sleeve.

And then quite suddenly, Madame Wachner uttered a hoarse exclamation of terror. One of the gendarmes had climbed up upon the window sill, and was now looking into the room. She waddled quickly across the room—only to meet another gendarme face to face in the hall.

Mabel's face gleamed; a sensation which had hitherto been quite unknown to her took possession of her, soul and she longed for revenge—revenge not so much for herself as for her murdered friend.

She clutched Paul De Poupel by the arm.

“They killed Anna Olsen,” she whispered. “She is lying in the wood—where they meant to put me if you had not come just, only just in time!'

Paul De Poupel beckoned to the oldest police official present.

“You will remember the disappearance from Enghien of a Danish lady. I have reason to believe these people murdered her. Once I have placed Madame Blackett under medical care, I will return here. Meanwhile you of course know what to do.”

“But m'sieru--ought I not to detain this American lady?”

“Certainly not. I make myself responsible for her. She is in no state to bear an interrogation. Lock up these people in separate rooms. I will send you, reënforcements, and to-morrow morning dig up the little wood behind the house.”

“Are you coming, Mabel?” called out Oldchester impatiently.

“Yes, yes. We are coming!”

Paul de Poupel hurried her out through the hall into the grateful darkness. Behind them rose angry voices—the shrill and gruff tones  of “L'Ami Fritz” and his wife raised in indignant expostulation.

Once out in the dark, scented garden with the two men, one on either side of her, Mabel Blackett walked slowly to the gate. Between them they got her over it, and into the victoria. Paul De Poupel pulled out the little back seat, but Oldchester, taking quick possession of it, motioned him to sit by Mabel.

“To Paris, Hôtel du Louvre,” the count called out to the driver. “You can take as long as you like over the journey.” Then he bent forward to Oldchester. “The air will do her good,” he murmured,

By his side, huddled up in a corner of the carriage, Mabel Blackett lay back inertly; her eyes were wide open; she was staring hungrily at the sky, at the stars. She had never thought to see the sky and the stars again.

They were moving very slowly. The driver was accustomed to people who suddenly decided to drive all the way back into Paris from Enghien after an evening's successful, or tor the matter of that unsuccessful, play.

Hie had been very much relieved to see his two gentlemen come back from the Châlet, leaving the gendarmes behind. He had no wish to get mixed up in a fracas; no wish, that is, to have any embarrassments with the police.

They drove on through dimly lit, leafy thoroughfares till they came into the outskirts of the great city, and still Mrs. Blackett remained obstinately silent.

At last Oldchester began to feel vaguely alarmed. Why was Mabel so strange, so unlike herself? As she had stood waiting for her pearls to be gathered and restored to her, she had certainly behaved oddly, and and yet—and yet the Wachners had been very kind. He hoped they were not angry with him for the presence of the police. Doubtless the men had remained behind to explain and apologize.

And then suddenly Bill Oldchester remembered the letter—the extraordinary letter which had purported to be written by Mabel Blackett. Who had written that letter, and for what reason?

Paul De Poupel leaned forward.

“Speak to her,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Take her hand, and try to rouse her. I feel very preoccupied about her condition.”

Oldchester in the darkness felt himself flushing. With a diffident gesture, he took Mabel Blackett's hand in his, and then he uttered an exclamation of surprise and concern. Her hand was quite cold—cold and nerveless to the touch, as if all that constitutes life had gone out of it.

“My dear girl!” he exclaimed. “What is the matter? I hope those people didn't frighten you in any way? Do you suspect them of having wanted to steal your pearls?”

But Mabel remained silent, absolutely silent. She did not want to speak, she only wanted to live. It was so strange to feel oneself alive—alive and whole at a time when one had thought to be dead, having been done to death after an awful, disfiguring struggle, for Mabel had determined to struggle to the end with her murderers.

“My God!” muttered Paul De Poupel. “Do you not understand? They meant to kill her!”

“To kill her?” repeated Oldchester incredulously.

Then there came over him a rush and glow of angry excitement. Good God! If that was the case, they ought to have driven back at once to the local police station.

“Mabel!” he exclaimed. “Rouse yourself, and tell us what happened! If what the count says is true, something must be done at once.”

Mabel moved slightly; Paul de Poupe1 could feel her shuddering.

“Oh, Bill, let me try to forget,” she moaned. And then, lifting her voice: “They killed Anna Olsen—poor Anna Olsen!” Her voice broke, and she began to sob convulsively. “I would not think of her,” she sobbed. “I forced myself not to think of her—but now I shall never, never think of any one else any more.”

Paul De Poupel put his arm round her shoulder; and drew her tenderly to him.

“Everything has been done that could be done to-night,” he said authoritatively. “And I will see, never fear, that these infamous people are not allowed to escape. Poor Madame Olsen shall be avenged.”

A passion of pity, of protective tenderness, filled his heart, and suddenly lifted him into another region than that in which he had become content to dwell,

“But surely the police ought to take Mrs. Blackett's statement to-night,” objected Oldchester.

“Mrs. Blackett will never be called upon to make any statement to the police,” the count quietly, “There will be ample evidence, quite apart from anything she could tell them; and I would not subject her to the ordeal of appearing as witness in such a case.” He felt that Mrs. Blackett was listening gratefully. “I have an announcement to make to you, Mr. Oldchester, which will, I feel sure, bring me your congratulation. Mrs. Blackett is about to do me the honor of becoming my wife.” He waited a moment, and then added very gravely: “I am giving her an undertaking, a solemn promise by all I hold dear, to give up play.”

Oldchester felt a shock of surprise. The count's words made him forget for a moment—as perhaps Paul De Poupel had meant them to do—the events of this remarkable evening. How mistaken, how blind he had been! The worthy American lawyer's feelings towards the count had undergone a great change. But for Paul De Poupel where would Mabel be now?

He leaned and grasped the other man's left hand.

“I do congratulate you,” he said heartily. “You deserve your good luck.”

And then to Mabel he added quietly: “Under God you owe him your life.”