In a dazed state Raife left the mansion and walked into the night. Gilda, from her point of vantage, had watched and waited in a state of anxiety from the time when her lover had made his perilous climb along the gutter-pipe to the window through which he had effected his entry. She had felt, during the long wait until he reappeared, that she would willingly have changed places. She was accustomed to these hazardous undertakings, and was inured to the disgrace of it.
Malsano and Denoir watched at a distance, each malignantly confident of their revenge.
A green light flickered in the Avenue, and two cars from opposite directions dashed up to the house that Raife had just left. Four gendarmes alighted from each car. At the same time the front door of the mansion was opened, and two men-servants en deshabille appeared. Raife was called to his senses, alert after the dazed condition which followed the sight of his wife, lying asleep on the bed in the room which he had entered as a common burglar. Two gendarmes made a dash at him. He drew his revolver, but hesitated to fire. He was a burglar, but some sense that remained in him prevented him from shooting a gendarme who was only doing his duty. A piercing shriek rang through the night. The gendarme, who felt he was threatened and in danger, fired at Raife. From a doorway where Gilda had watched the commotion, she rushed with an astounding swiftness, and was in front of Raife before that shot was fired. Two gendarmes had thrown themselves upon Raife, but, with a violent effort, he threw them off and flung his revolver far into the roadway. He dashed to Gilda and caught her in his arms, kissing her with a fierce passion. “Gilda! Speak to me, Gilda! Why did you try to save me? My life is of no account and yours is so precious.”
The police stood around, inert, as the dying girl, in short sentences, gasped her last message. She told him of the doctor’s treachery. How he had betrayed Raife to the police, and that she had only learnt of the plot when it was too late to stave off the disaster. “They did not tell me until you had entered the house. It was then too late.”
Gilda’s last words were: “Raife, I—I was not altogether bad. I loved you dearly, Raife. Your father killed my father. There was the feud—the vendetta, and we were made to suffer. I should have made you a good and honest wife if we could have escaped the evil influence. God has willed it otherwise. Good-bye, dearest. Kiss me. Then, then—go to Hilda. Forget me. Go—go to Hilda and be happy. If you think of me, Raife—pity me!” Gilda Tempest, the mysterious, beautiful girl, trained to crime, with the nature of an angel, collapsed and died in the arms of the man into whose life she had entered with such disastrous effect.
In the presence of this pathetic scene the agents of police stood in silence, and with what appeared to be respect. At length the sergeant approached Raife, saying: “This is indeed a tragedy, monsieur, but it remains my duty to arrest you. Monsieur Vachelle, you are under arrest.”
Three gendarmes approached. Raife bowed. A silent figure had been an onlooker at this scene until now. Detective-Inspector Herrion approached the group and, speaking to the sergeant, said: “This gentleman is Sir Raife Remington, the missing baronet of whom I have spoken to you. This is the house of his wife, Lady Remington. I don’t think there can be any charge. A man is not a burglar in his own house. With deference may I suggest that we enter the house. Lady Remington will make the necessary explanations.”
The scared men-servants were still there and, acting on Herrion’s instructions, they carried the lifeless form of Gilda Tempest into the hall that was now brilliantly-lit. Raife re-entered the house where, a short while before, he had stealthily entered as a burglar. The crowd of people which had collected outside in answer to the revolver shot and general commotion, were dispersed, and the Avenue des Champs Elysées resumed a more normal aspect.
Detective-inspector Herrion approached the sergeant and whispered: “I will be responsible for Sir Raife Remington. You may trust me. Don’t let that fellow Malsano escape you. He is not far away you may be sure.”
The sergeant smote his chest, exclaiming: “That will be all right, Mr Herrion. I have arranged for that. You may be sure he is safely with us by now.”