Part 13

A shaft of golden light from the low sun slanted into the place through the western window, from which the Venetians had been pulled back, and fell across the face of the man, who lay still and lax in his chair, eyes closed and chin dropped a little so that his mouth hung weakly open. He looked very ill, as indeed any one might look after such an attack as he had suffered on the night previous. That one long moment of deathly fear before he had fallen down in a fit had nearly killed him. All through this following day it had continued to recur until he thought he should go mad. And there was worse still. How much did Olga Nilssen know? And how much had she told? She had astonished and frightened him when she had said that she knew about the house on the road to Clamart, for he thought he had hidden his visits to La Lierre well. He wondered rather drearily how she had discovered them, and he wondered how much she knew more than she had admitted. He had a half-suspicion of something like the truth, that Mlle. Nilssen knew only of Coira O'Hara's presence here, and drew a rather natural inference. If that was all, there was no danger from her--no more, that is, than had already borne its fruit; for Stewart knew well enough that Ste. Marie must have learned of the place from her. In any case Olga Nilssen had left Paris--he had discovered that fact during the day--and so for the present she might be eliminated as a source of peril.

The man in the chair gave a little groan, and rolled his head wearily to and fro against the uncomfortable chair-back; for now he came to the real and immediate danger, and he was so very tired and ill, and his head ached so sickeningly, that it was almost beyond him to bring himself face to face with it.

There was the man who lay helpless upon a bed upstairs! And there were the man's friends, who were not at all helpless or bedridden or in captivity!

A wave of almost intolerable pain swept through Stewart's aching head, and he gave another groan which was almost like a child's sob. But at just that moment the door which led into the central hall opened, and the Irishman O'Hara came into the room. Captain Stewart sprang to his feet to meet him, and he caught the other man by the arm in his eagerness.

"How is he?" he cried out. "How is he? How badly was he hurt?"

"The patient?" said O'Hara.--"Let go my arm! Hang it, man, you're pinching me!--Oh, he'll do well enough. He'll be fit to hobble about in a week or ten days. The bullet went clean through his leg and out again without cutting an artery. It was a sort of miracle. And a damned lucky miracle for all hands, too! If we'd had a splintered bone or a severed artery to deal with I should have had to call in a doctor. Then the fellow would have talked, and there'd have been the devil to pay. As it is I shall be able to manage well enough with my own small skill. I've dressed worse wounds than that in my time. By Jove, it was a miracle though!" A sudden little gust of rage swept him. He cried out:

"That confounded fool of a gardener, that one-eyed Michel, ought to be beaten to death. Why couldn't he have slipped up behind this fellow and knocked him on the head, instead of shooting him from ten paces away? The benighted idiot! He came near upsetting the whole boat!"

"Yes," said Captain Stewart with a sharp hard breath, "he should have shot straighter or not at all."

The Irishman stared at him with his bright blue eyes, and after a moment he gave a short laugh.

"Jove, you're a bloodthirsty beggar, Stewart!" said he. "That would have been a rum go, if you like! Killing the fellow! All his friends down on us like hawks, and the police and all that! You can't go about killing people in the outskirts of Paris, you know--at least not people with friends. And this chap looks like a gentleman, more or less, so I take it he has friends. As a matter of fact his face is rather familiar. I think I've seen him before somewhere. You looked at him just now through the crack of the door; do you know who he is? Coira tells me he called out to Arthur by name, but Arthur says he never saw him before, and doesn't know him at all."

Captain Stewart shivered. It had not been a pleasant moment for him, that moment when he had looked through the crack of the door and recognised Ste. Marie.

"Yes," he said half under his breath. "Yes, I know who he is. A friend of the family." The Irishman's lips puckered to a low whistle. He said--

"Spying then, as I thought. He has run us to earth." And the other nodded.

O'Hara took a turn across the room and back.

"In that case," he said presently, "in that case then we must keep him prisoner here so long as we remain. That's certain." He spun round sharply, with an exclamation.

"Look here!" he cried in a lower tone, "how about this fellow's friends? It isn't likely he's doing his dirty work alone. How about his friends when he doesn't turn up to-night? If they know he was coming here to spy on us, if they know where the place is, if they know--in short, what he seems to have known, we're done for. We'll have to run, get out, disappear. Hang it, man, d'you understand? We're not safe here for an hour."

Captain Stewart's hands shook a little as he gripped them together behind him, and a dew of perspiration stood out suddenly upon his forehead and cheek bones, but his voice when he spoke was well under control.

"It's an odd thing," said he, "another miracle, if you like; but I believe we are safe--reasonably safe. I--have reason to think that this fellow learnt about La Lierre only last evening, from some one who left Paris to-day to be gone a long time. And I also have reason to believe that the fellow has not seen the one friend who is in his confidence since he obtained his information. By chance I met the friend, the other man, in the street this afternoon. I asked after this fellow whom we have here, and the friend said he hadn't seen him for twenty-four hours, was going to see him to-night."

"By the Lord!" cried the Irishman with a great laugh of relief. "What luck! What monumental luck! If all that's true, we're safe. Why, man, we're as safe as a fox in his hole. The lad's friends won't have the ghost of an idea of where he's gone to....

"Wait though! Stop a bit! He won't have left written word behind him, eh? He won't have done that--for safety?"

"I think not," said Captain Stewart; but he breathed hard, for he knew well enough that there lay the gravest danger.

"I think not," he said again. He made a rather surprisingly accurate guess at the truth--that Ste. Marie had started out upon impulse, without intending more than a general reconnaissance, and therefore without leaving any word behind him. Still, the shadow of danger uplifted itself before the man and he was afraid. A sudden gust of weak anger shook him like a wind.

"In Heaven's name," he cried shrilly, "why didn't that one-eyed fool kill the fellow while he was about it? There's danger for us every moment while he is alive here. Why didn't that shambling idiot kill him?" Captain Stewart's outflung hand jumped and trembled, and his face was twisted into a sort of grinning snarl. He looked like an angry and wicked cat, the other man thought.

"If I weren't an over-civilised fool," he said viciously, "I'd go upstairs and kill him now with my hands--while he can't help himself. We're all too scrupulous by half."

The Irishman stared at him and presently broke into amazed laughter.

"Scrupulous!" said he. "Well, yes, I'm too scrupulous to murder a man in his bed, if you like. I'm not squeamish, but----Good Lord!"

"Do you realise," demanded Captain Stewart, "what risks we run while that fellow is alive--knowing what he knows?"

"Oh yes, I realise that," said O'Hara. "But I don't see why _you_ should have heart failure over it."

Captain Stewart's pale lips drew back again in their cat-like fashion.

"Never mind about me," he said. "But I can't help thinking you're peculiarly indifferent in the face of danger."

"No, I'm not!" said the Irishman quickly. "No, I'm not. Don't you run away with that idea!" For the first time his hard face began to show feeling. He turned away with a quick nervous movement, and stood staring out of the window into the late sunlight.

"I merely said," he went on, "I merely said that I'd stop short of murder. I don't set any foolish value on life--my own or any other. I've had to take life more than once, but it was in fair fight or in self-defence, and I don't regret it. It was your cold-blooded joke about going upstairs and killing this chap in his bed that put me on edge. Naturally, I know you didn't mean it." He swung back towards the other man.

"So don't you worry about me!" said he after a little pause. "Don't you go thinking that I'm lukewarm or that I'm indifferent to danger. I know there's danger from this lad upstairs, and I mean to be on guard against it. He stays here under strict guard until--what we're after is accomplished--until young Arthur comes of age.

"If there's danger," said he, "why we know where it lies and we can guard against it. That kind of danger is not very formidable. The dangerous dangers are the ones that you don't know about--the hidden ones." He came forward a little, and his lean face was as hard and as impassive as ever, and the bright blue eyes shone from it steady and unwinking. Stewart looked up to him with a sort of peevish resentment at the man's confidence and cool poise. It was an odd reversal of their ordinary relations. For the hour the duller villain, the man who was wont to take orders and to refrain from overmuch thought or question, seemed to have become master. Sheer physical exhaustion and the constant maddening pain had had their will of Captain Stewart.

A sudden shiver wrung him so that his dry fingers rattled against the wood of the chair arms.

"All the same," he cried, "I'm afraid. I've been confident enough until now. Now I'm afraid. I wish the fellow had been killed."

"Kill him then!" laughed the Irishman. "I won't give you up to the police." He crossed the room to the door, but halted short of it and turned about again, and he looked back very curiously at the man who sat crouched in his chair by the window. It had occurred to him several times that Stewart was very unlike himself. The man was quite evidently tired and ill, and that might account for some of the nervousness; but this fierce malignity was something a little beyond O'Hara's comprehension. It seemed to him that the elder man had the air of one frightened beyond the point the circumstances warranted.

"Are you going back to town?" he asked, "or do you mean to stay the night?"

"I shall stay the night," Stewart said. "I'm too tired to bear the ride." He glanced up and caught the other's eyes fixed upon him.

"Well," he cried angrily. "What is it? What are you looking at me like that for? What do you want?"

"I want nothing," said the Irishman a little sharply. "And I wasn't aware that I'd been looking at you in any unusual way. You're precious jumpy, to-day, if you want to know... Look here!" He came back a step, frowning.

"Look here," he repeated. "I don't quite make you out. Are you keeping back anything? Because if you are for Heaven's sake have it out here and now! We're all in this game together, and we can't afford to be anything but frank with each other. We can't afford to make reservations. It's altogether too dangerous for everybody. You're too much frightened. There's no apparent reason for being so frightened as that."

Captain Stewart drew a long breath between closed teeth, and afterwards he looked up at the younger man coldly.

"We need not discuss my personal feelings, I think," said he. "They have no--no bearing on the point at issue. As you say, we are all in this thing together and you need not fear that I shall fail to do my part, as I have done it in the past... That's all, I believe."

"Oh, as you like! As you like!" said the Irishman in the tone of one rebuffed. He turned again and left the room, closing the door behind him. Outside on the stairs it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask the other man what this fellow's name was--the fellow who lay wounded upstairs. No, he had asked once, but, in the interest of the conversation, the question had been lost. He determined to inquire again that evening at dinner.

But Captain Stewart, left thus alone, sank deeper in the uncomfortable chair, and his head once more stirred and sought vainly for ease against the chair's high back. The pain swept him in regular throbbing waves that were like the waves of the sea--waves which surge and crash and tear upon a beach. But between the throbs of physical pain there was something else that was always present while the waves came and went. Pain and exhaustion, if they are sufficiently extreme, can wellnigh paralyse mind as well as body, and for some time Captain Stewart wondered what this thing might be which lurked at the bottom of him, still under the surges of agony. Then at last he had the strength to look at it, and it was fear, cold and still and silent. He was afraid to the very depths of his soul.

True, as O'Hara had said, there did not seem to be any very desperate peril to face; but Stewart was afraid with the gambler's unreasoning, half-superstitious fear, and that is the worst fear of all. He realised that he had been afraid of Ste. Marie from the beginning, and that, of course, was why he had tried to draw him into partnership with himself in his own official and wholly mythical search for Arthur Benham. He could have had the other man under his eye then. He could have kept him busy for months running down false scents. As it was, Ste. Marie's uncanny instinct about the Irishman O'Hara had led him true--that and what he doubtless learned from Olga Nilssen.

If Stewart had been in a condition and mood to philosophise, he would doubtless have reflected that seven-tenths of the desperate causes, both good and bad, which fail in this world, fail because they are wrecked by some woman's love or jealousy (or both). But it is unlikely that he was able just at this time to make such a reflection, though certainly he wondered how much Olga Nilssen had known, and how much Ste. Marie had had to put together out of her knowledge and any previous suspicions which he may have had.

The man would have been amazed if he could have known what a mountain of information and evidence had piled itself up over his head all in twelve hours. He would have been amazed and, if possible, even more frightened than he was; but he was without question sufficiently frightened, for here was Ste. Marie in the very house, he had seen Arthur Benham, and quite obviously he knew all there was to know, or at least enough to ruin Arthur Benham's uncle beyond all recovery or hope of recovery--irretrievably.

Captain Stewart tried to think what it would mean to him--failure in this desperate scheme, but he had not the strength or the courage. He shrank from the picture as one shrinks from something horrible in a bad dream. There could be no question of failure. He had to succeed at any cost, however desperate or fantastic. Once more the spasm of childish futile rage swept over him and shook him like a wind.

"Why couldn't the fellow have been killed by that one-eyed fool!" he cried, sobbing. "Why couldn't he have been killed? He's the only one who knows--the only thing in the way. Why couldn't he have been killed?"

Quite suddenly Captain Stewart ceased to sob and shiver, and sat still in his chair, gripping the arms with white and tense fingers. His eyes began to widen and they became fixed in a long strange stare. He drew a deep breath.

"I wonder!" he said aloud. "I wonder, now."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE BLACK CAT*

That providential stone or tree-root, or whatever it may have been, proved a genuine blessing in disguise to Ste. Marie. It gave him a splitting headache for a few hours, but it saved him a good deal of discomfort the while his bullet wound was being more or less probed, and very skilfully cleansed and dressed by O'Hara. For he did not regain consciousness until this surgical work was almost at its end, and then he wanted to fight the Irishman for tying the bandages too tight.

But when O'Hara had gone away and left him alone he lay still--or as still as the smarting burning pain in his leg and the ache in his head would let him--and stared at the wall beyond his bed, and, bit by bit, the events of the past hour came back to him and he knew where he was. He cursed himself very bitterly, as he well might do, for a bungling idiot. The whole thing had been in his hands, he said with perfect truth--Arthur Benham's whereabouts proved, Stewart's responsibility, or at the very least complicity, and the sordid motive therefor. Remained, had Ste. Marie been a sane being instead of an impulsive fool, remained but to face Stewart down in the presence of witnesses, threaten him with exposure, and so, with perfect ease, bring back the lost boy in triumph to his family.

It should all have been so simple, so easy, so effortless! Yet now it was ruined by a moment's rash folly, and Heaven alone knew what would come of it. He remembered that he had left behind him no indication whatever of where he meant to spend the afternoon. Hartley would come hurrying across town that evening to the Rue d'Assas and would find no one there to receive him. He would wait and wait and at last go home. He would come again on the next morning, and then he would begin to be alarmed and would start a second search--but with what to reckon by? Nobody knew about the house on the road to Clamart but Mlle. Olga Nilssen, and she was far away.

He thought of Captain Stewart, and he wondered if that gentleman was by any chance here in the house, or if he was still in bed in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, recovering from his epileptic fit.

After that he fell once more to cursing himself and his incredible stupidity, and he could have wept for sheer bitterness of chagrin.

He was still engaged in this unpleasant occupation when the door of the room opened and the Irishman O'Hara entered, having finished his interview with Captain Stewart below. He came up beside the bed and looked down not unkindly upon the man who lay there, but Ste. Marie scowled back at him, for he was in a good deal of pain and a vile humour.

"How's the leg--_and_ the head?" asked the amateur surgeon--to do him justice he was very skilful indeed through much experience.

"They hurt," said Ste. Marie shortly. "My head aches like the devil, and my leg burns."

O'Hara made a sound which was rather like a gruff laugh, and nodded.

"Yes, and they'll go on doing it too," said he. "At least the leg will. Your head will be all right again in a day or so. Do you want anything to eat? It's near dinner-time. I suppose we can't let you starve--though you deserve it."

"Thanks, I want nothing!" said Ste. Marie. "Pray don't trouble about me!" The other man nodded again indifferently, and turned to go out of the room, but in the doorway he halted and looked back.

"As we're to have the pleasure of your company for some time to come," said he, "you might suggest a name to call you by. Of course I don't expect you to tell your own name, though I can learn that easily enough."

"Easily enough, to be sure," said the man on the bed. "Ask Stewart. He knows only too well."

The Irishman scowled. And after a moment he said--

"I don't know any Stewart." But at that Ste. Marie gave a laugh, and a tinge of red came over the Irishman's cheeks.

"And so to save Captain Stewart the trouble," continued the wounded man, "I'll tell you my name with pleasure. I don't know why I shouldn't. It's Ste. Marie."

"What?" cried O'Hara hoarsely. "What? Say that again!" He came forward a swift step or two into the room, and he stared at the man on the bed as if he were staring at a ghost.

"Ste. Marie?" he cried in a whisper. "It's impossible!

"What are you," he demanded, "to Gilles, Comte de Ste. Marie de Mont-Perdu? What are you to him?"

"He was my father," said the younger man, "but he is dead. He has been dead for ten years." He turned his head with a little grimace of pain to look curiously after the Irishman, who had all at once turned away across the room, and stood still beside a window, with bent head.

"Why?" he questioned. "What about my father? Why did you ask that?"

O'Hara did not answer at once, and he did not stir from his place by the window, but after awhile he said--

"I knew him ... That's all." And after another space he came back beside the bed, and once more looked down upon the young man who lay there. His face was veiled, inscrutable. It betrayed nothing.

"You have a look of your father," said he. "That was what puzzled me a little. I was just saying to----I was just thinking that there was something familiar about you.... Ah well! we've all come down in the world since then. The Ste. Marie blood though! Who'd have thought it!" The man shook his head a little sorrowfully, but Ste. Marie stared up at him in frowning incomprehension. The pain had dulled him somewhat.

And presently O'Hara again moved towards the door. On the way he said--

"I'll bring or send you something to eat--not too much. And later on I'll give you a sleeping powder. With that head of yours you may have trouble in getting to sleep. Understand, I'm doing this for your father's son, and not because you've any right yourself to consideration."

Ste. Marie raised himself with difficulty, on one elbow.

"Wait!" said he. "Wait a moment!" and the other halted just inside the door.

"You seem to have known my father," said Ste. Marie, "and to have respected him. For my father's sake will you listen to me for five minutes?"

"No, I won't!" said the Irishman sharply, "so you may as well hold your tongue. Nothing you can say to me or to any one in this house will have the slightest effect. We know what you came spying here for. We know all about it."

"Yes," said Ste. Marie with a little sigh, and he fell back upon the pillows. "Yes, I suppose you do. I was rather a fool to speak. You wouldn't all be doing what you're doing if words could affect you. I was a fool to speak." The Irishman stared at him for another moment and went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

So he was left once more alone to his pain and his bitter self-reproaches, and his wild and futile plans for escape. But O'Hara returned in an hour or thereabouts with food for him--a cup of broth and a slice of bread; and when Ste. Marie had eaten these, the Irishman looked once more to his wounded leg, and gave him a sleeping powder dissolved in water.

He lay restless and wide-eyed for an hour, and then drifted away through intermediate mists into a sleep full of horrible dreams, but it was at least relief from bodily suffering; and when he awoke in the morning his headache was almost gone.

He awoke to sunshine and fresh sweet odours, and the twittering of birds. By good chance O'Hara had been the last to enter the room on the evening before, and so no one had come to close the shutters or draw the blinds. The windows were open wide, and the morning breeze, very soft and aromatic, blew in and out and filled the place with sweetness. The room was a corner room with windows that looked south and east, and the early sun slanted in and lay in golden squares across the floor.