“Sir Raife Remington and party left Marseilles to-day, en route for the United States.”
He reflected: “It’s fifty to one Remington didn’t put that notice in. I wonder who did. It would take a lot of people in. It’s clever enough for that blackguard, Malsano. After that note on the cliffs, at Cromer, he isn’t going to tell us he’s alive, at least, not in that way.” He took the telephone and rang up the New York Herald office. He told them who he was. Then he read the notice and asked: “Where did you get that notice from?”
An American voice replied asking him to hold the wire. “The man who took it in is not on duty, but the office-boy describes him as a little man, dark, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a big, black necktie. He looked like an artist from the Quartier Latin.”
Herrion answered: “Thanks, that will do. I think I know the man.”
Replacing the receiver he smiled rather than spoke to himself. “I thought so. It’s Malsano’s work, and the man who took it was Lesigne. I must find an excuse to arrest that fellow Lesigne. Malsano’s been too clever for me, up to now.”
Mr Herrion took his hat, strolled along the boulevards, and made his way to the Prefecture of Police. Here he described Lesigne, and put it, tentatively, that he was a dangerous fellow, and that whereas he, Herrion, could not actually prove anything criminal against him, at the same time, he was satisfied that the man was an active agent among a bunch of criminals. His arrest would serve a useful purpose. The arrest was not made, for Doctor Malsano had other uses for Lesigne, and he had left Paris.
The plans for the burglary in the Champs Elysées were progressing, but they formed no part of Raife’s work in the matter. He was to supply the “agility, courage and daring” on the night, and he readily consented to act such a part. In his present mood he was prepared with all those qualities. In the meantime, he had leisure to enjoy Gilda’s company. After the fright when Gilda had seen Detective-Inspector Herrion, in his disguise, at the Café Buonaventure, they avoided the boulevards, and took trips into the country. They preferred the country that has been made famous by the great French painters, Corot, Daubigny, and the other founders of the Barbison school. Here, among a simple peasantry, in wood and dale, they wandered together, this extraordinary couple, who, starting with all that beauteous man and womanhood could endow them with, were both involved in crime. The crime was not of their making, yet they were almost unconsciously made the active agents.
It was evening time on one of these happy days, and the sun had set, leaving the fierce glow of brilliant orange, merging into crimson and carmine, flecked with lilac clouds, until high in the heavens, the azure depth was tinged with emerald. Low in the foreground, subdued, yet vivid siennas, with scarlet poppy blossom here and there, welded into deep purples, silhouetted against the vivid sky. They sat on a knoll among the wild flowers, hand in hand, and, as is often the wont of lovers, they spoke little. Raife’s past life was, for the present, a closed book. He thrust thought from him, and appeared content as long as he was in Gilda’s company. She appeared to have no memory of the past as long as he was with her. A tiny cabaret was generally to be found conveniently near, and supplied all the refreshment they needed. The mystery of this handsome couple, who seemed to be in a semi-trance, caused speculation, as the worthy woman, or sometimes her husband, brought the simple food and wine that made their meal. Then, outside the cabaret, they would sit at a table, sipping coffee and liqueurs until the moon shed her silver light and wrapped the world in the subdued glow that has ever been the chosen accompaniment of lovers. Then, late back to the flat, where Gilda sang French love-songs, until the arrival of the braggadocio Denoir, or a missive from Malsano brought them back from the quiet delights of their prolonged love-dream.
At night, away from the influence of Gilda’s fascinating presence, Raife’s mind was subject to storms of emotion. Where was he trending? To what further depths was he descending? His thoughts sometimes led to Hilda—his wife whom he had deserted. His mother’s dignified and beautiful face would appear to him as in a vision. His happy boyhood days at school, college, and Aldborough Park, crowded before him.
Then he remembered the fateful day when he had met Gilda, with his friend Edward Mutimer, on the front, at Southport. The unexpected reunion at Nice. Then the nightmare haunted him. The nightmare of that night when he had discovered Gilda as a burglar in the library at Aldborough Park. These and a score more of incidents rushed to his mind. Surely no man’s life in so short a time had been crowded with so much incident. Through it all, he was compelled, by some fate, to act against his convictions. What was this evil genius that haunted him? He would break away whilst there yet was time.