Part 3 (1/2)
”A gentleman wishes to speak with m'sieur on very urgent business. You are unacquainted with him, he says. His name is Max Morel, and he must see you at once. He is in the hall.”
Poland's face went a trifle paler. Whom could the stranger be? Why did he desire an interview at that hour?--for it was already eleven o'clock.
”Sonia dear,” he said quietly, turning to his daughter, ”will you leave me for a few moments? I must see what this gentleman wants.”
The girl followed Felix out somewhat reluctantly, when, a few seconds later, a short, middle-aged Frenchman, with pointed grey beard and wearing gold pince-nez, was ushered in.
Philip Poland started and instantly went pale at sight of his visitor.
”I need no introduction, m'sieur. You recognize me, I see,” remarked the stranger, in French.
”Yes,” was the other's reply. ”You are Henri Guertin, chief inspector of the surete of Paris. We have met before--once.”
”And you are no doubt aware of the reason of my visit?”
”I can guess,” replied the unhappy man. ”You are here to arrest me--I know. I----”
The renowned detective--one of the greatest criminal investigators in Europe--glanced quickly at the closed door, and, dropping his voice, said--
”I am here, not to arrest you, M'sieur Poland--but to afford you an opportunity of escape.”
”Of escape!” gasped the other, his drawn countenance blanched to the lips.
”Yes, escape. Listen. My instructions are to afford you an easy opportunity of--well, of escaping the ignominy of arrest, exposure, trial, and penalty, by a very simple means--death by your own hand.”
”Suicide!” echoed Poland, after a painful pause. ”Ah! I quite understand! The Government are not anxious that the scandal should be made public, eh?” he cried bitterly.
”I have merely told you my instructions,” was the detective's response, as, with a quick, foreign gesture, he displayed on his left hand a curious old engraved amethyst set in a ring--probably an episcopal ring of ages long ago. ”At midnight I have an appointment at the cross-roads, half-a-mile away, with Inspector Watts of Scotland Yard, who holds a warrant for your arrest and extradition to France.
If you are still alive when we call, then you must stand your trial--that is all. Trial will mean exposure, and----”
”And my exposure will mean the downfall and ruin of those political thieves now in power--eh?” cried Poland. ”They are not at all anxious that I should fall into the hands of the police.”
”And you are equally anxious that the world--and more especially your daughter--shall not know the truth,” remarked the detective, speaking in a meaning tone. ”I have given you the alternative, and I shall now leave. At midnight I shall return--officially--when I hope you will have escaped by the loophole so generously allowed you by the authorities.”
”If I fled, would you follow?”
”Most certainly. It would be my duty. You cannot escape--only by death. I regret, m'sieur, that I have been compelled to put the alternative so bluntly, but you know full well the great issues at stake in this affair. Therefore I need say nothing further, except to bid you _au revoir_--till midnight.”
Then the portly man bowed--bowed as politely as though he were in the presence of a crowned head--and, turning upon his heel, left the room, followed by his host, who personally opened the door for him as he bade him good-night.
One hour's grace had been given Philip Poland. After that, the blackness of death.
His blanched features were rigid as he stood staring straight before him. His enemy had betrayed him. His defiance had, alas! cost him his life.
He recollected Shuttleworth's slowly uttered words on the night before, and his finger-nails clenched themselves into his palms. Then he pa.s.sed across the square, old-fas.h.i.+oned hall to the study, dim-lit, save for the zone of light around the green-shaded reading-lamp; the sombre room where the old grandfather clock ticked so solemnly in the corner.
Sonia had returned to the drawing-room as he let his visitor out. He could hear her playing, and singing in her sweet contralto a tuneful French love-song, ignorant of the hideous crisis that had fallen, ignorant of the awful disaster which had overwhelmed him.
Three-quarters of an hour had pa.s.sed when, stealthily on tiptoe, the girl crept into the room, and there found her father seated by the fireplace, staring in blank silence.
The long old bra.s.s-faced clock in the shadow struck three times upon its strident bell. Only fifteen minutes more, and then the police would enter and charge him with that foul crime. Then the solution of a remarkable mystery which had puzzled the whole world would be complete.