Malsano’s revenge was nearly complete. Raife was now hopelessly compromised. Creeping stealthily along a wide corridor, he entered the library, and, with all the skill of a practised hand, proceeded to rifle a bureau, from which he extracted notes and gold. Revelling in the weird excitement of the debasing act, he ascended the staircase and opened the door of a bedroom. It was a large room, and he was confronted by a subtle perfume which was familiar to him. Where had he met that perfume before? He stood on the threshold and hesitated to perpetrate a further dastardly deed by entering the room. It was evidently a woman’s room. Raife was not acting of his own volition. A strange impulse controlled him, and he was not master of his actions. There was a soft light diffused, revealing a large, four-poster bed, curtained in pale-tinted dimity. He would have thrashed another man to the point of death for such an action as he was now guilty of. He approached the bed, and pulling aside the curtain, was stricken with horror to behold his wife—Hilda—sleeping peacefully. He stood spellbound, unable to move. A ghastly look of terror and remorse spread over his face. His handsome features were distorted, and his athletic frame convulsed with emotion. The events of the last year crowded his mind in a tornado of shame. Each second was an eternity of mental suffering. Hilda lay there sleeping, her beautiful cheeks suffused with a delicate glow. Her soft brown hair fell in clusters, enhancing the charm of this picture of exquisite innocence. Raife’s mind was in a state of hideous torture. Slowly and softly he withdrew from the room, and descended the staircase to the library. He approached the bureau—his wife’s bureau—that he had ransacked and restored the stolen money. With bowed head he crossed the big hall, dazed and scarcely realising his actions. Softly he opened the front door and passed out into the night.
Before Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead returned to the United States he fulfilled his compact, and Hilda was endowed with a substantial fortune. The stress of events had told heavily on her and Raife’s mother, and, yielding to Hilda’s persuasion, she had rented the furnished mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. She had hoped by means of such a distraction to take their minds off the great trouble.
Detective-Inspector Herrion was a forceful man, and he had set himself the task of finding Sir Raife, the missing baronet, and he had determined to run Malsano to earth. On the day when he had let Lesigne slip through his fingers at Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Herrion had a suspicion that he had been tricked by the innocent-looking old lady, who appeared to be so busy dusting out the apartment. The flat of Monsieur Henri Vachelle was, therefore, kept under observation, but Malsano was far too wily a criminal to be trapped easily, and the flat was deserted, and the gang found fresh quarters. Herrion was sitting in his room at the obscure little hotel that he affected, when the telephone bell rang, and, removing the receiver, he took a message to the effect that, if he would call at the prefecture, there was important news awaiting him.
Hastily seizing his cap he started off. He was met at the entrance by a sergeant, who said: “Quick, Mr Herrion, I think we have found your missing ‘Baron.’ Will you come with me to the Avenue des Champs Elysées?”
A taxi was in waiting, and they entered together. As the car sped towards the famous avenue, the sergeant told Herrion: “We have received a letter, an anonymous letter, saying that a burglary will be committed to-night. The house is surrounded, and it is believed that it is the gang of that old scoundrel, Malsano. The gang is in force, and the cunning old reprobate has chosen the house of the Lady Remington, who is the wife of your missing ‘Baron.’”
Herrion was agitated, a weakness the astute detective-inspector seldom allowed himself to indulge in. With a smile of satisfaction the little man remarked: “If that man Malsano is in this affair, for heaven’s sake don’t let him escape. It looks as if we are in for a breezy time. I have no power here, and I can only look on. Mind, the men of Malsano’s gang do not hesitate to shoot. Shoot on the least suspicion. Shoot first, not to kill, only to maim.”
The gendarme looked at Herrion, raising his eyebrows as he said: “Monsieur Herrion, we shall not be unprepared, and we are not so tender with our criminals as you gentlemen across the Channel. We, too, have a score to settle with this Malsano. And there is that mysterious woman, who seems to be all over Europe at the same time. I have seen her. Ma foi! She is clever and beautiful, too.”
Herrion replied: “Yes, that is the woman who is responsible for Sir Raife Remington’s downfall. She is dangerous, but she is the decoy and the tool of that doctor fellow Malsano.”
The taxi stopped at a corner of a street, and they alighted. Seven or eight men were secreted in doorways, and the sergeant approached each one separately and gave them whispered instructions. Herrion’s position was quite unofficial, but his popularity with the police of Paris had made it possible for him to be present and to participate in the “round-up,” or coup.
The author of the anonymous letter to the Paris police was Doctor Malsano. Raife had ceased to be useful, and his influence over Gilda was conflicting with the doctor’s plans, and he must be sacrificed. Murder was only resorted to by this criminal scoundrel when all else failed. It would be a triumph to secure Raife’s conviction and sentence to a long term of imprisonment. The terms of the vendetta would be carried out when this hated British aristocrat was a convicted felon.