CHAPTER IX.
The roar of London’s traffic has died away, for a few brief hours, peace has spread her mystic wings o’er the city of wealth and poverty, pleasure and suffering, joy and pain, virtue and crime. In the sumptuous dwellings of the wealthy, the gentry stretch their pampered bodies on the soft couch of ease and warmth, imitated to a nicety by their dependents. In the dwellings of the middle class, comfort if not absolute sumptuousness is displayed and enjoyed. In the dwellings of the working class, overcrowding and limited space is the chief characteristic, while in the dwellings of the helpless, homeless, and foodless, the vault of heaven is their canopy, the cold flag-stones their couch of rest.
Yet above these scenes, so diversified and strange, peace for a few brief hours has spread her wings. The tramp of the tired horse is silent, the patter of millions of feet is still. Even the wandering, homeless, hungry cur is curled up in some byway fast asleep, dreaming, no doubt, of the rich steaks of meat upon which his poor famished eyes had been fixed this afternoon, when the cruel butcher drove him so mercilessly away.
But there is a faint glimmer of light stealing through the fast-closed shutters of Mr. Trackem’s private room, in Verdegrease Crescent, and if, like the fairy of old, we obtain ingress therein in some mysterious manner, we shall find that worthy seated in a comfortable armchair, with his head thrown back against a soft cushion, his legs crossed, his elbows firmly planted on the chair’s arms, and his hands lightly joined together. A warm fire glows in front of him, and the smile on his face betokens a thorough satisfaction with things in general, and especially with himself.
On the opposite side of the hearthrug is another armchair, likewise occupied, but by a man apparently in by no means so placid and contented a frame of mind as Mr. Trackem. He wears a rough coat and waistcoat of Cheviot wool, and his cord riding breeches and black top-boots are covered with mud and mire. There is blood on his spurs too, which betokens a hard usage of the poor beast that has lately carried him. On the floor lies a brown slouch hat and riding-whip, while by their side is a soft satin cushion, similar to the one against which Mr. Trackem’s head is reclining, and which his visitor has disdainfully tossed on one side.
The manner of this man is excited, and he is leaning forward, and speaking fast and rapidly. He is a handsome man, but has not a nice face, and grey hairs are beginning to mingle in his thick beard, whiskers, and moustache, as well as amidst the once raven locks of his hair. He has thick sensual lips, two rows of fine white teeth, and a restless, roving expression in his dark eyes.
“I tell you, Trackem, I have seen them all three, and I greatly fear that Mrs. de Lara recognised me. Maybe she did not, for the moment she looked round I made off as hard as I could, and have ridden straight from the spot to this place. But if she did, there will be great danger of our plot being discovered, and the idea to me is simply maddening after all I have done, and risked, and put up with to carry it successfully to an issue.”
Mr. Trackem refuses, however, to get excited.
“Pray listen, my lord,” he says suavely. “I think it is extremely unlikely that Mrs. de Lara recognised you. But even if she did, of what avail? She cannot prove it, and her statement would only be regarded in the light of falsehood, invented to screen Gloria de Lara, or else in the light of hallucination. We managed that point very well at the trial. No, no; have no fear on that score. The only point to be looked at is this. If Mrs. de Lara recognised you, or even took alarm at seeing a stranger in her child’s place of refuge, she, and those with her, have in all probability sought a fresh hiding-place. If this be so, their arrest will have to be postponed, until we can lay hands on the spot of their new asylum. It is a pity, for my efforts appeared to be on the verge of crowning success. However, cheer up, my lord. Trackem has never yet failed in any of his jobs, and will not in this one.”
“I was a fool to act as I did!” exclaims Lord Westray, for it is no other than he; “but I could not resist the impulse, Trackem. How do you propose to act if to-morrow we find the birds have flown?”
“I propose this, my lord,” answers Mr. Trackem in a decided voice. “I intend to send round information to Scotland Yard of their whereabouts. Should this information prove too late, I propose to proceed in this wise. I have in my employ a young woman of extremely prepossessing appearance, and without doubt the cutest of all my staff. She has never failed me yet, and I am not apprehensive that she will on this occasion. My instructions to her will be to ascertain Gloria de Lara’s whereabouts, to join her in this rebellion—to be, in fact, one of her most devoted adherents, until such time as I shall require her to be otherwise. When she has been thoroughly entrusted with the rebel secrets, nothing will be easier than to transmit them to us; in fact, I think you know what I mean, my lord.”
“I understand,” mutters the other moodily. “You mean to set her to the informer’s trade. A female Judas, in fact.”
“You have it, my lord, extremely well expressed. Ha, ha!” laughs Mr. Trackem quietly, as he rubs his hands together, and nods approvingly. “And what does your lordship think of my little plan?” he continues inquiringly.
“Damned clever and diabolical, Trackem, if you want to know the truth,” answers Lord Westray a shade bitterly. He has fallen pretty low, but this seems indeed the lowest depth of the abyss into which he is invited to plunge, for the being who is an accessory before the fact is every whit as villainous as the being performing the deed. Of course he knows this.
“Clever, I grant you, my lord. It is my business to be so. Diabolical I demur to. All is fair in love and war. But pardon me, excuse a moment’s absence,” and Mr. Trackem, as if struck by a sudden idea, rises and leaves the room.
Lord Westray rises, too, and begins pacing up and down it. There is a dark, angry look in his eyes, and a cruel smile on his thick lips.
“All fair in love and war,” he exclaims savagely; “that is a true saying. I loved her—yes, I did love Speranza once, but she scorned and flouted me, and I could not forget that. Even after I married her I loved her, I believe, though she complained that I treated her cruelly. And what if I did? She was only a woman, and my wife. What business had she to complain? What business had she to take the law into her own hands, and go off with that fellow? Ah! I think she counted without her host there, but I was revenged,—yes, yes, I took ample revenge. And then, when she might have made it up, when I offered to re-marry her, she flung me from her path, and that girl of hers, whom I thought then was a man, ordered me out of the house. Ah! but I think there again I have come off the victor. I think it is I who have scored. The world believes me dead; Hector D’Estrange, now Gloria de Lara, is my murderer. If we lay hands on her, the Government is bound to make her pay the full penalty of the law. It will break Speranza’s heart, and I, I shall triumph and be revenged. None shall flout or scorn me without rueing it. By God! no one ever shall.”
The laugh is a horrid one with which these last words are accompanied. It is hard to believe the man a human being. Character of this description is false to Nature, surely? Yes, but the education which produced it was false and unnatural too. Human character depends greatly on early teaching. The parent has a heavy responsibility in the moulding of youth’s first impressions. Lady Westray, if from the grave you could arise and look upon your handiwork, perhaps even you, shallow, vain, heartless as you were in life, might shudder and repent!
At this stage the door opens, readmitting Mr. Trackem. He walks over to his seat by the fire and reoccupies it.
“I have sent for her, my lord,” he informs Lord Westray in a business-like voice. “It has struck me that it will be best to employ my female Judas without any delay. Second thoughts convince me that it would be mere waste of time to communicate with Scotland Yard. I have not the smallest doubt that, as Mrs. de Lara caught sight of you, ‘The Hut’ is vacated ere this. At any rate, we will put Léonie on the track, and start her from there. I have no fear that she will disappoint us. She has a marvellous genius for the discovery of the hidden.”
“A human bloodhound and Judas combined in one,” laughs Lord Westray. “I am curious, Trackem, to behold this monstrosity.”
“A curiosity which is about to be gratified,” remarks the other coolly, as a low tap is heard on the door of the room in which these two men are hatching their diabolical plans. “Come in, Léonie.”
The door opens softly, and a woman glides in. She is small and of slight build, with a bright, fair complexion, even, firm mouth, dark grey eyes fringed round with a wealth of lashes, which at once attract the onlooker by their extraordinary thickness. Her hair, which is cut short, is soft, glossy, and wavy, and is parted on one side, clustering upon her forehead and around her face. On this face play the lights and shades of a constantly changing expression, and if ever genius told its tale in eyes, it is indelibly stamped in these.
Mr. Trackem smiles covertly as he glances at Lord Westray, and notices the expression of surprise in this latter’s face. Léonie has walked straight over to Mr. Trackem’s chair, and is standing beside him.
“You want me?” she inquires in a matter-of-fact voice. Apparently the break of dawn summons is not in the least strange to her.
“I do, Léonie,” answers her master quickly. “I have a little job on hand that I think I can entrust to you, and I rely upon you to carry it out successfully. There is, as you no doubt know, a large reward offered for the apprehension of the adventuress Gloria de Lara, or for such information as may lead to that apprehension. Now I see no reason why my clever little Léonie should not be the person to win that reward, or at any rate a part of it. My commission to you is this. First of all get speech with this Gloria. This necessitates finding her out. Next, worm yourself into her confidence by a display of zeal which I can perfectly trust you to simulate. Keep me informed of her plans and movements as soon as you are able to speak with certainty of them, and be ready to act as I bid you on receipt of any communication or instruction which I may desire to send you. Now, Léonie, remember I trust this job to you, because there is none so fitted as you to undertake it. I have every faith in your sagacity and prudence. I have heard a good deal of Gloria de Lara’s wonderful cleverness; I am mistaken if my little Léonie is not her match.”
There is a glitter in the girl’s dark grey eyes, a quiet smile on her lips.
“You may trust me,” she remarks laconically.
“I know I can,” answers Mr. Trackem gravely; “I know that very well. Now, Léonie, your work begins at once. Gloria de Lara, her mother Speranza de Lara, and the Duke of Ravensdale were seen at a little place called ‘The Hut,’ near Bracknell, belonging to the duke. I have reason to think, however, that they have fled that place this very night. You had better go straight there, and take up the scent from the spot. I leave all to you. You can draw upon me, you know. Keep me advised of your whereabouts, stick to the letter of my instructions, and send me good news as quickly as possible. I have no more to say, unless it be that you are to effect that which Scotland Yard cannot.”
“I will,” answers this strange laconic creature, as with a slight inclination she turns and leaves the room.
“Well, I’m blowed, Trackem, if that is not the queerest elf I ever set eyes upon in my life!” exclaims Lord Westray as the door closes. “Where on earth did you raise her from?”
“A pretty elf, too, eh, my lord? Hardly a monstrosity,” observes Mr. Trackem drily. “Where did I raise her from, you ask? Well, that’s just the point. I don’t care to tell you who she is, but I’ll tell you this much. She’s the daughter of a customer of past days. Her father was a great man. At least the world said he was. She’s got plenty of blue blood in her veins; she’s well bred enough. Her mother died here. The great man forsook her, and the child was left in my hands. I found her pretty, remarkably intelligent, and quick-witted. I determined to train her to be useful, and I think I have succeeded. She has certainly proved a most profitable speculation, and repaid the excellent education I have given her. I have no reason to repent my philanthropic act,” and Mr. Trackem laughs drily.
“Well, you are a clever fellow, and no mistake, Trackem. I gave you credit for a good deal, but not for rearing detectives from childhood. I thought I knew pretty nearly everything, but this is a new experience,” remarks the earl, fairly surprised.
“Yes, my lord, you have seen a good deal and know a good deal. I admit your experience is wide and varied. But not even you know half that goes on in this wonderful city. There’s many a queer thing takes place about which outsiders know nothing. It’s only natural. What else can you expect in a place like this? And now I think I have no more to communicate for the moment. It will be daylight soon, and I feel I want a snatch of sleep. I will bid you good-night therefore; and I don’t suppose you will be sorry to follow my example. You have had a pretty long, tiring, and eventful day. Good-night, my lord.”
Saying which, Mr. Trackem rises from his armchair, takes hold of a small hand-lamp standing on a table close by, and with an obsequious bow to the patron, for the sake of whose gold he is serving, leaves the room.
For yet another hour that patron paces up and down it, absorbed in moody thought. It is hard to draw the picture of this man, when one thinks how otherwise it might have been had the passions of his youth been curbed, his early life disciplined, and his powers for good fostered and encouraged. If the dream of Gloria de Lara be realised, the time will come when character such as this will know an existence no longer; but this can only be when the standard of morality is placed on a higher pedestal, and the laws of Nature are acknowledged and upheld.
