Part 13

For a little while these vain thoughts afflicted him, to give place to others of a very different order. So many strangers were at Andana that he was not surprised to discover an intruder even here upon the mountain path, but when that intruder emerged suddenly from the shadows, and Benny saw that it was the little gendarme, Philip, his interest was awakened while his false gods were shattered. The gendarme, on his part, recognised him immediately, and with hardly a gesture of apology set out to follow him to his house.

"I wish you success for to-morrow, sir," he said, and then, as simply, "I may not be here, unfortunately, to offer my compliments then."

Benny looked at him with curiosity.

"You are going away, Monsieur Philip?"

"Yes, sir, into Italy; the man who killed my brother is there."

Benny walked a little faster, but he did not turn his head.

"How do you know that he is in Italy, Monsieur Philip?"

"Because I have discovered that he left the hotel at Brigue on the night of the murder. I have a friend here, and he knows. The man did not go to Paris; then he has gone to Milan, and I shall find him."

"Do you know who he is?"

The lad stood still and repeated the words very slowly.

"He is an Englishman. They call him Sir Luton Delayne, and his wife is at the chalet down yonder."

Benny stopped also. They stood together, looking down to the window whence the light shone out upon the snow.

"Oh, but that is nonsense. Sir Luton Delayne is a great man in his own country. What do your superiors say to it?"

Monsieur Philip answered without emotion.

"They will give me leave of absence, sir. I am to go to Milan."

"And if you do not find him at Milan?"

"Then the Italian police will help me. I have their promise. It is impossible now that he will escape arrest, sir. I thought you would be glad to know that."

He saluted respectfully and went down toward the valley.

Benny, however, did not move from the place. The light shone upon the glistening snow as a beacon which must guide him, even if it were to the house of his illusions.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE THIEF*

Lily closed her day upon a resolution to set off to Maggiore early on the following morning. She arrived at a decision reluctantly, and each hour made the self-appointed task more difficult. It had seemed heroic when first contemplated--a tribute to duty, and a very real sacrifice; but as the hours sped, she shrank from it and sought the old excuses. What claim had Luton upon her generosity? She knew that he had none.

As a further obstacle there was the chalet, and the restful days she would abandon so reluctantly.

How pleasant the life might have been in the sunshine of the beautiful valley! Everyone had been so kind to her here. These simple folk, seeking simple pleasures, had shown her a new world and taught her elementary truths of which her own philosophy made no account. She thought that she knew them all as friends already; the admirable doctor; little Bess, who was the good fairy of the Palace; the boys, with their tales of woe; the girls, who devoted the interludes to the measurement of imaginary carpets. And then, to be remembered before them all, was there not Benny, the incomparable Benny, a creature so unlike any she had ever known that he came to her as a very apostle of a new revelation?

Here was a prophet, who had been without honour yesterday, but who stood to-night upon the brink of that kingdom of success which few may enter. A woman of the world, she understood what all this might mean to the honest fellow who had befriended her so staunchly. She saw him feted and honoured, grown rich in an hour, a leader among men. Her perception discovered the soul of the man, that soul which a woman--perhaps but one woman in all the world--might fathom.

What ironical destiny had brought these two together? She reflected upon it, contrasting him with others she had known, the ornaments of her world and the drones. Many of these would hardly enter a room which harboured Benny to-night, but she knew that they would fawn upon him to-morrow, for such are the concessions of sycophants to success. He in turn would come to despise the humbler circles in which he had moved and to lose some of those rare qualities which were his strength. Of one thing, however, she had no doubt, and it was this--that a woman's love would be necessary to such a career as his, and that without it mere material success might carry him but a little way.

She had not answered Luton's letter, and it was still unanswered when she went to bed at half-past eleven. The plateau of Andana, usually so still after ten o'clock, then echoed the music of the sleigh bells with a persistence almost intolerable. She heard the cries of workmen, the lumbering of heavy vehicles, the muffled sounds of hammering. And all this contrasted so strangely with the great mountains across the valley, where the moon shone clear upon the giant Weisshorn, and the lesser peaks paid to the greater the homage of a glorious iridescence. A white and silent world it was, mocking the ambitions of men--yet not of all men, for would not one conquer them to-morrow? Such ambition appealed to her womanly instincts unerringly. She trembled when she made the silent confession that this man loved her, but that his love would remain unspoken to the end.

It would have been about one o'clock when the last of the sleighs arrived at the Palace Hotel, and a little later when the workmen had finished their labours. She sank to a dreamless sleep about this time, but awoke almost immediately with the conviction that someone had entered the chalet. A vague intuition of unwonted sounds set her heart beating and held her almost breathless. Someone had entered the little sitting-room, and was not twenty paces from the bed in which she lay. She could hear the man's footsteps as he crossed the room, and believing that he was at her own door she began to tremble violently. A realisation of her lonely situation afflicted her with a sense of inevitability which robbed her of every shred of her courage. She lay quite still, afraid to move a hand. The silence of the night without surpassed belief.

The man had crossed the room and was now at her writing-table. She could hear the rustle of papers and the click as of a lock. In a sense this was a relief, and gave her the necessary respite. She began to remember how unlikely it was that any thief would visit so poor a house as this chalet, or, if he did visit it, would trouble himself about letters. The excellent reputation well earned by the people of Andana occurred to her, and would have reassured her but for the alternative. For if this man were not a common thief, what then? Instantly she recalled the affair at Vermala, and a new fear came upon her. Yes, she understood it all in an instant and, creeping from her bed, she dressed herself with tremulous fingers.

Surely the man must hear her and take alarm. This was her idea as her clothes rustled in her hand, and her tiny feet shuffled upon the polished boards. The man would hear her and burst through the folding doors presently. When, however, he made no sign, she became a little emboldened, and being now quite dressed, she went to the interstice of the doors and looked through. Then she perceived her husband's valet, Paul Lacroix, who was searching her writing-table by the aid of an electric torch, whose aureole fell weirdly upon the scattered papers.

Paul Lacroix! That it should be he! She remembered that she had last seen him at Holmswell on the eve of the debacle. He had always been a silent, civil fellow whom it was a pleasure to have in the house. Luton, she knew, trusted him entirely, and the others gave a very good account of him. When the crash came, he had followed his master without complaint, to Africa and then to the East. She believed him staunch, and would have named him as one of the few in her own house who had done his duty loyally both to master and to mistress. And here he was at Andana, prying among her papers! The very fact robbed her of all fear and, opening the door immediately, she asked him what he was doing.

He was a man of the middle height, clean-shaven, and with crisp black hair, which contrasted sharply with a very pale face. It may be that he was not unprepared for interruption; for he merely looked up as Lily entered, and then, shutting down the desk with a click, he held his hand upon it while he answered her.

"Madame," he said, "I am seeking Sir Luton's address."

The effrontery of it astonished her. She switched on the electric light and came a little further into the room.

"You are seeking my husband's address, but why did you not come to me?"

He smiled a little contemptuously.

"I did not come, Madame, because you would not have given me what I wanted."

There was a threat here, and she could not mistake it. The peril of her situation occurred to her immediately. He had offered no opposition when she switched on the light; he knew, then, that she dare not summon assistance, and was content with the knowledge for his security.

"I do not understand you," she said with wonder. "Why are you not with Sir Luton?"

He laughed openly.

"You know that, Madame--you and the other. Why do you ask me the question?"

She thought upon it, trying to recall the account of the flight as it had been given to her.

"You were to go to Paris," she said presently, "you were to await Sir Luton there?"

He did not deny it. His shoulders were lifted in a characteristic gesture, his hands outspread when he rejoined:

"But, Madame, my master will never go to Paris--not while the police of Switzerland are looking for him."

She began to breathe as one distressed. Little had been said, but that was sufficient. She knew the character of this man now; there was no need to ask another question.

"Be plain," she said, after an interval of hesitation, "what is your object, what do you mean by this intrusion?"

He bowed his head.

"I wish to go to London. I have an offer of employment from an American there. Sir Luton must give me a character--and one hundred pounds. If I cannot have the character, I must have one hundred pounds. Then I shall be ready to say that my master has gone away, and that I am unable to apply to him. Madame, if you can help me in this?"

She reflected, trembling a little in the night air, and greatly afraid now both for herself and for her husband. Certainly she must not give Luton's address--that would be a madness surpassing belief. And if she paid the hundred pounds--why, she had not such a sum in her possession at the moment.

"How can I give you the money here in Switzerland?" she asked. "You know that it is impossible."

He was prepared for such an answer.

"Madame, no doubt, would have her jewellery with her--there would be something she could offer me. It would be very unfortunate if there were not, for then I must go to Martigny to the police. Will not Madame think of it?"

He advanced a step and stood quite close to her. She could see his clear eyes looking her through and through, and she quailed before their scrutiny. A call for help would bring those white hands to her throat--she was quite sure of it.

"I will give you what you want," she said, "if you will wait here."

He bowed again, and she returned to her bedroom. She had little jewellery with her; but a basket brooch of rubies and diamonds was worth far more than the sum he demanded, and for the sacrifice of that she was not quite prepared. Trembling hands unlocked her jewel case, and trembling fingers searched it. Then she heard a step behind her, and turning about swiftly, she discovered the valet at her elbow. The expression upon his face had changed altogether. It had become that of a wolf seeking prey.

Lily knew that this was the most dangerous moment she had lived. The man's quick breathing, his crouching gesture, the strange light in his eyes, betrayed him beyond recall. He was about to spring upon her, to crush out her life with iron fingers. He would have done so but for an intervention which one night, and perhaps one only in the story of Andana, made possible. A sleigh was coming up the mountainside; the bells rang out musically; the voices of men were to be heard. They brought the valet to his senses instantly. He did not reason that the sleigh would pass and that his opportunity would recur. Crime had not been in his thoughts when he entered the chalet; he shivered at its near approach, and, drawing back, he waited for her to speak.

"Take this," she said; "if you have any sense of honour, leave Andana immediately. I have friends here, and I shall acquaint them with what has occurred. Now go."

He went without a word, striding through the sitting-room and turning into the little hall. She heard the front door shut after him, then the echo of light steps upon the snow. Her first thought was to wake the maid, Louise, and to send her for help, but she corrected that immediately, and set to work to bolt and bar the place to the limit of its resources. When that was done, she returned to the desk which the man had been about to rifle and examined its contents closely. Luton's letter was untouched. It lay at the bottom of the drawer, and it was unlikely that the man had seen it.

But granting that he had not, what then? She knew something of the story of blackmail as society has written it, and she perceived her danger. This man would return; or, if he did not return, he would send his agents.

The false step, if it were a false step, could never be retrieved. Upon the other side stood the hard truth that, had she not refused him, the whole story would have been made public to-morrow. She was sure of it. The Swiss police would have been told that Sir Luton Delayne had murdered Eugene Gaillarde and had not gone to Paris. All her hope lay in the belief that Paul Lacroix knew nothing more than this. If he did know more, the end was at hand.

She slept no more that night, for now an ordered imagination could tell her just what would happen in case the worst should befall. They would arrest Luton and bring him across the pass. Every paper in Europe would tell the sordid story of his life. Tried by an alien jury, he would be convicted, and the extreme penalty might follow conviction. For herself, there would be the contemptuous sympathy of the world. Her life would have been lived, and what a life! Had she known one hour of true happiness since her childhood? Even her wedding trip had been a story of disillusion. A lover's kisses were still warm upon her lips when she had awakened to the truth that she could never love him. Thereafter her existence had been that almost of a recluse. The magnificent gifts with which her father dowered her had been squandered with the mad profligacy of the born gambler. She had descended the ladder of humiliation step by step--to this!

What would Paul Lacroix do? This was a question engrossing above any other. If he held his tongue, how long would it be before he returned to Andana?

She perceived that she must go away--must not delay an hour. She resolved to set out for Sierre as soon as she could make her arrangements and travel thence to Milan. It would be time enough afterwards to decide whether she should or should not go on to Locarno.

Paul Lacroix, meanwhile, had left the chalet and returned to the village of Andana, where he shared a room in the little cafe with the gendarme Philip. The influx of visitors kept this rude cabaret open all night upon the eve of the flight, and Lacroix came and went without observation. He found the lad Philip in bed, but not asleep; and when he had shut the door of their room carefully he blurted out his tidings.

"It is well, my friend; I have done what you wished."

Philip sat up and stared at him with dreamy eyes.

"You know where he is, Monsieur Paul?"

The valet seated himself upon the edge of the bed, and regarded the young man's face closely.

"For what will this reward be paid?" he asked without premise. Philip opened his eyes.

"For intelligence which will lead to the arrest of the Englishman," he said.

Paul thought upon it.

"It would make no difference whether he were arrested by the Swiss police or the Italian?"

Philip agreed.

"A reward of two thousand francs is offered by the Government--another two thousand will be paid by the English soldier, the Captain Barton, who is now at Grindelwald. That would make four thousand francs altogether."

"Which will be earned by the man who gives the information. Very well, Monsieur Philip, we understand each other. I am going to Paris to-morrow--you will go to this address. You will find Sir Luton Delayne in the house which is named."

He searched out a piece of paper from many scraps in his pocket, and wrote down the address carefully. Then he stuck a pin through it, and affixed it to the bare wooden dressing-table where all could see it.

"You will claim the reward, and will pay me one-half, Monsieur Philip? I am generous, for I could go myself to Martigny and get the money. But I have some business in Paris, so I leave it to you. This is between men of honour--you will pay me my share?"

Philip merely nodded his head. He was staring at the paper as though afraid of it. But Paul Lacroix undressed himself quickly and got into bed.

There would not be much more to be got out of Lady Delayne, he thought. He knew women well enough to foresee that she would tell her friends to-morrow--most probably the black-haired engineer about whom the people were making such a fuss. And he was a man to be avoided. Paul Lacroix was already resolved to remove himself as soon as might be from any possibility of a reckoning with this fellow.

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE FLIGHT IS BEGUN*

Benny had dreamed that he fell in the Val d'Herens after an ignoble start from the plateau of Andana. He woke upon this to find it was but a dream, and that the little abbe stood by his bedside with a steaming bowl of coffee in his hand. Here was a man who had been up all night, and who would not sleep until the issue were known. Never was there such an enthusiast.

"It is nothing," he said apologetically. "I have often watched for thirty hours at the Hospice when there has been a storm. We make little difference between night and day up there. The poor people who fall in the snow would not thank us if we did."

Benny laughed, and sitting up in bed, he drank his coffee willingly.

"What time is it, Abbe?"

"It is half-past six o'clock; you have two hours yet. Your brother is already dressed; you will find him in the shed."

Benny put on his engineer's overalls and went down. He felt a little excited; perhaps he was actually nervous, but no one would have guessed as much. Whistling a few bars of an ancient waltz almost in as many keys as there were notes, he went out to the shed and set to work to help his brother. It was still black dark, and the great arc lamp shone out weirdly at such an hour of the morning.

Jack Benson carried an electric torch in one hand and an oil-can in the other. He said that all was well. He had been over the "ship" from stem to stern--there was not a nut which a spanner could tighten a hair's-breadth, not a wire that was not taut. The machine itself seemed to bear witness to the truth of this. Benny himself admitted that she was a picture, while a stranger would have likened her to a great steel bird, with the head of a snout-faced whale and the fins of a ravening shark. Another image would have made of her a shining torpedo, with great wings thrust out on either side and a monster propeller large enough to have moved a steamship at her stern. It seemed ridiculous that those slight stays, those ridiculous bicycle wheels supported her as she stood. Yet that was the truth, for she was light to the point of miracle.

"Shall we run the engine now, Jack?"

Jack thought that they might.

"I'm not too sure of that union we made yesterday, Benny. You'd look handsome if the petrol gave out. Let's run her, and see if it's leaking. You've a good hour yet before you need go up. There's breakfast, too--you'll have to let the Abbe fill you up, for he's cook this morning. Are you ready, old boy? Then let her rip."

He switched off the magnet, gave a few sharp turns to the propeller, and the engine started. Had not the machine been anchored, she would have glided off at once, but, being anchored, she heaved and tossed as a ship at sea. Jack was satisfied with the union, and declared that it was not leaking, upon which Benny announced his intention to take a short flight as a final precaution.

They ran the machine out of the shed, and he climbed into his seat, to which a light steel door in the side of the torpedo-like body admitted him. Once again Jack started the engine. Benny glided swiftly over the snow for some thirty yards, then rose swiftly and circled the Park Hotel. There was no wind and it was bitter cold. Of all the visitors, he did not espy a single one upon the slopes beneath him. An intense silence prevailed--a silence that was almost ominous.

They sat to breakfast upon his return, and the abbe served an excellent omelet and some eggs which he had captured in the village last night. If their talk was a little constrained and nervous, the circumstances more than justified it. Here they were, with their eyes upon a goal so distant that its attainment seemed impossible. All the dangers, the risks, the difficulties of such an emprise stared them in the face, and would be remembered. A man's life might be the price of success. Secretly in his heart, Jack wondered if he were speaking to his beloved brother for the last time. It might be that.

Benny, upon his part, said very little. He had a map of the Pennine Alps on the white cloth before him and he studied it closely. His questions concerned the arrangements and the names of the committee of the Aero Club of England, who would be present. He understood that his flight was to be checked at Chamonix and again in the Val d'Anniviers as he returned. There were to be watchers at Zermatt and at the Weisshorn hut, if it could be reached. Twice he was permitted to land for petrol. He made it out that they were sixty-three miles from Mont Blanc as the crow flies, and that would be his first halting-place.

"Marfan and Collot from Paris are to be there," he said, "I had a letter from them. I hope there will be good landing somewhere near the hotel--it wouldn't do to mow down the crowd. I've got a spot in my mind, but they may not have in theirs. The petrol, of course, will be all right. Emile is seeing to that, and he's a man to trust."

Jack agreed to it. Emile was the cleverest airman he knew.

"If you want anything at all, Benny, it may be a couple of plugs. Mind you see they don't blow. The oil's gone through from London, and I had an advice from Chamonix yesterday saying they had stored it. Mind you keep alive in the valley from the Matterhorn, and remember to come up pretty far before you swing and drop. The wind looks like being an easter; you'll have to take care in the last hour."

He agreed, and consented under compulsion to eat his breakfast. Day had broken now at the far end of the Rhone Valley, and the higher peaks were shaping above the mists to pinnacles of rose and silver and many shades of purple. Clouds drifted toward Sion and the west; the great chasm below them was so filled by the rolling white vapour that it might have been a sea of downy billows; but the day promised warm sunshine and little wind despite Jack's prophecy. Benny liked the look of it altogether; and when, without warning, strains of ridiculous music were to be heard on the path below the chalet, he pushed on his hat and went out.