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Being a lurther Volume of the Memoirs of Sir Lacaita, K.C.B,. of Scotland Yard By W. A. MACKENZIE, Author or HL; Majesty's Peacock." The Bite of the Lreeh," '• The Giitteria" &c.. & ° CHAPTER XVi. I From the Book of Revenge. I bad some thoughts of making up this chap- ter o! noth ng but extracts trout Pierre Lap.ir- cerie's diary; but after consideration I have I come to the conclusion to tell the storv in lav own way first, because the facts are so hidden away in a per feet wilderness of usanc ineoherencies, and secondly, because I have no right to inflict unnecessary effort on my readers. A plain story should be a plain story. Nevertheless, where I think the narrative can be illustrated by Pierre own words, I shail introduce an extract or two. Where the diarv fails—that is, with regard to the events immediately preced- ing the clue), and the duel itself-I take the facts given bj Pierre in his deposition, made the day after the duel A deposition you sa- "How could a madman make a deposHion" It was not a madman who made the statement to a magistrate it was a sane man. For the opening of the old wound in his head had done what all the doctors in the world might not have been able to do had they tried for fifty vears—restored sanit) totn intellect tliat, liaa been clouded, just as accident has done in other cerorded cases The first part of the diary consists of a sort of óónmmarv-recounting the trial of the two brothers for treason, their condemnation, their transportation their life in the penal settle- men, and their escape from the horrors of an existence of Hurculean labour and semi-starva- tion The escape I have already treated in the Prologue, and I need not dwell on it now. I begin, therefore, with what happened after the tight between the two brothers—the fight on the sands in the moonlight. Tlteiittlewaves running up the sands washed the raw wound on Pierre's head, and the salt water rasping the raw edges awoke him to find that he was alone— ilon6 and without food on the border of a new and unknown country Where he should find Human habitation, where he should find food to sustain him in his search, were problems that he evaded at first. The one fact that appealed to him "as that his brother Gaston, the brother he had loved, the brother he had shielded on so many occasions, the brother lie had helped so often wit bout afterthought of benefit to himself -thIS brother had abandoned him callously and cruelly, as if he had been of no more account than an old rag And not only abandoned him but bad robbed him ",i,st. had taken from him the mere means of subsistence. The last of Pierre's illusions, about his brother had been pricked, the last dream was over. For hours lie set. on the sand, a dul. pain throbbing at the back of his head, a duller paiu throbbing at his Heart. Under the silver of that lovely moon, and in that wide loneliness, with only the silence and heaven for witnesses, he swore an oath by the Southern Cross, that had before been his sign for hope, and that now was to be his sign for vengeance. Then he fell asleep, feeble and exhausted. When lie awoke it was at the touch of a not too gentle band on his shoulder. A man was standing over him. Pierre spoke French only, the man English but by dint of signs Pierre made him understand that he had escaped from New Caledonia. The man, once a convict him- self and now a farmer took Pierre to his home, scarce three miles away, round a headland to the right. Gaston, you may remember, had struck inland and to the left. That day Pierre i el I into a raging fever and remained in that state for many weeks Conroy —that was tbe name of the farmer—and his wile were all kindness. They nursed him back to life and ultimately to strength. As the fever left him. remembrance of his brother's treach- ery left him too and it was oniv aiter about two years, and on re-visiting the fpot where he had landed., that the memory returped, at first slowiv-then in all its full bitterness. His oath, toc,, Ite remembered. He left the Conroys and, with only his blind purpose for guide, set out to track his brother. It ms7 seem strange, in this century of al- truisr i, brotherly love, and all the other phile .jpliical bubbles, to come across a case where the old passion of revenge, o preached against, so scouted, could sustain a man in a scarce that was to last so many years, and not only to sustain him but to grow in firmness and tenacity with every fruitless setting sun that saw his purpose unfulfilled. Time, they say, wears down everything gutta cavat lapi dem," as the writers say whose Latin is derived from the appendices to dictionaries: but in this case, revenge was I he drop of vitriol that wore avtriy the stone of time. Was there a corner of the wide-Australian continent Pierre did not search 1 Was there a village or town or city he did not explore in its every street ? Was there a moment he did not listen for some one to say to him—" 1 know your face. You were here a year ago." Hither and thither be went for years and yenrs, work- ing just enough to earn a mea and, when it; was wanted, clothing never slackening in his quest, never becoming weary, never losing his desire for reverge. In romances, I believe, writers tell you men do such things for Jove I wonder, do they ? I have never met a case, but here is one where hate turned a man into an untiring sicuth-hound. It is not any the less wonderful because madness lay behind it, all. Once or twicc he had news. But when he arrived at the placcs where his double had been, tbe double had moved on. But, at last, in Sydney, he found something definite. He was wandei-ing aimlessly near the dock used by the Orient Steamship Company. Not looking where he was going he ran into a man who was carry- ing a portmanteau from a cab into the baggage ?hed The portmanteau fell, and the labourer ■wheeled round un him with a mouthful of curses such azi only the Sydney dock labourer can ever hope to achieve. In the middle of his eloquent flow the man stopped and stared. Strike me blind bloomin' pink said he Let rue fee! you," and tie grubbed Pier re's arm NC) I by the Holy Poker, he's not a ghost Xo," said Pierre, I'm not a ghost," and alwayj ready for news of his double, he added quickf-v. Where did you see me fast ?" "Hee ye last?" echoed the man. See ye last? Didn't J carry your luggage on board the Ormuz three weeks ago this b!essed day Did you ?" said Pierre. Did Isaid the man. P'r'aps' ye'II be askin'me next what 3 our name is." 11 And upposing I did," said Pierre, rather cunningly Then I should tell you," said the man, as it were Bowcharnp-G, Bowchamp. Ain't that your name V" Well, and if ii is ?" said Pierre. If it is? It is. An' what I want to know is how you leave Sydney three weeks this blessed day, an' I finds you 'ere now on this spot—this minute—not over there but 'ere, pov'nor—not yesterday or. to-morrow, but now." in the docker's Bowchamp," Pierre recog- nised Beaucliamp, his mother's maiden name. G. Beauchamp couid be none other than his trea.1 herons double. At the offices of the Onent Company he learned for a certaintv-a clerk showed him the sailing list-tbat 1-1 G. Beau- champ" had sailed for London three weeks before. He, too, then, tmr-t follow to London- follow—follow to the end. To get across the world needed money, and Pierre had none. However with tliegrimness of purpose that had kept him goini: all these years, he sought work, and. being a man of some ability, he found it At the end of a year he had saved enough to pay a third-eias- passage from Sydney to Lon- don and [eavo enough to support him modestly for a few months. To London, then, he came Before he left Sydney he spent two pounds of his money in having a ring made which bore in high relief the sf-ai" of the Southern Cross. I did not need," says the diary, any reminder of my purpose, but I wished to have before my eyes always something to recall to me in the Northern Hemisphere, first of all the sign of hope, and then the s.ga of hate." To look ior a man ii Londoa is like looking for a needle iu a i.aystack, with this difference -that til the straws in the haystack of Londo.) are known aud fixed. Even with that in his favour, Pierre fouu'd his task almost hopeless Still, knowing his brother' extravagant tastes —and he felt sure that time had not modi- fied these—he frequented the West End rather than the East. He couiitedigairiorilinving happen to him something like the incident of the Orient dock at Sydney. For weeks— nay, for months, he haunted Piccadilly, St James's Street, and Pall Mail. His funds were getting perilously low. Again he had to find work, and again he found t. By day slaving as a clerk to a French merchant in Soho, he spent his evenings walking in search of the chance And the chance came. Among the other places where Pierre used to frequent was the Cafe Monaco Seated there one evenine he was stared at rather closely by a-entlt-rnan at L neighbouring table Pierre looked at him as much as to sav, Well, what do, ou fin 1 ii angn in u.e ? After a few seconds the gentleman talked up to him and sai l," I'm •ure i can't be mistaken, although you have worked a won lerful > hange n y »urself What on earth have vou done it for?' Done what ?" gaid Pierre. Whv, Due, I don't want to be personal I mean-dyeing your hair. Oh, that ?" said Pierre, with a wave oJ the hand as if to dismiss the subject. But. why did you Say 'Due'?" "Too formal?" said the stranger. Well, then, di Saraluna. J thought you were in Rome.' In Rome ?" echoed Pierre. Well," said the stranger, you said you were going there when I saw you last. Perhaps you've lieen and come back." No," said Pierre, I have not been. but I am going now ?" and rising, he left the gentle- man a statue of astonishment. The Dac di Saraluna Rome! There were the two facts that dinned themselves into Pierre's ears. He left for the Holy City at the sarliest moment next morning, beginning a chase through Europe that was to last for nearly a year. Not until the night of the dinner at the Cafe Anglais did he eve succeed in catch- ing sight of his brother's face But that night lie did see-him for a moment as be was getting into his carriage. He had st-en him, too, shakt hands with ff- uIkes-Abiiev. Next day. in hunting the Rue de la, Paix and the Place Vendome, he encountered and recog- nised the poor old Ue-.u. I wished my villain of a brother to know that I was near—with death for him. I wished, too, to know the place where he lived. So I gave the white-haired old man an envelop marked with the sLrs of the Southern Cross in red. Gaston will know the meaning of that-yes, he will know, and he will begin to fear. I shall not make my revenge a thunderbolt coming out of the sky. A swift death is too merciful. I shall play with him as a cat with a. mouse. As the agony of waiting had been long and bit cr, so I shall make my revenge long and sweet. 1 followed the old man to the Continental Hotel. He was carrying my envelope in his hand. I have found out from the register of visitors that the Due di Saraluna—Holy Virgin the Due —" The extract for that dav stops there. The Due's flight to London Pierre set down to fear. He did not know" of course, that the Due had made up his mind to be in London next morning he did not know that the Due was going to act on Mademoiselle Calmette's vision of the Drexel Dream. Pierre hung about the Hotel Continental until the Due dashed for the Gare St. Lazare, followed him thither, fr ightencd the old Beau for the second time, came on by the same train and the same boat to London, and then, at Victoria. Station losing track of the Due in the bustle and confusion of arrival, contrived to follow fToulkes Abney. Even madmen have some vanity, and know- ing that he would not gain adinittan-, c to a gentleman's rooms in the then disordered con- dition of his dress, he tyeut and made himself presentable in a little hotel in Soho. Return- ing then to the Albany he rapped boldly at the door of the apartments. It was fToulkes-Abney who opened it. This was the third time that Pierre had appeared before him. The "ight seemed to freeze the poor old fellow with terror. I asked him." said Pierre, in his disposi- tion, where my brother was stopping in Lon- don. He turned and fled into an inner room. I followed him again asking my question. He had lost his speech. I was mad, and 1 would have it out of him. I shook him, and shook him, and still he would not answer. And still I shook him-he would not speak, but he fought mo as a wild cat fights-trying to bite and scratch with his naiis. Still 1 shook him, shook him until he fell limp in my hands. He was dead." There is no need to repeat the story how he left ffou kes-Abney's chambers for the theory enunciated by Lascelles and recorded in a pre- vious chapter was confirmed in every detail by Pierre. hvery detail, too, was confirmed of Pierre's meeting with Lukey. It was chance, that brings about so many things in this world of ours, that brought Pierre and Gaston Lapar- cerie face to face in the Green Park just as it was Chance w!th a very big capital C) that brought me to be a spectator of that strangest of strange fights-the end of the fight that had been begun so many years before on the silver sands, under the Southern Cross. CHAPTER XVII. The Professional Beats the Amateur. When I returned to St James's-square from St George's Hospital, I was not too well plca--ed to hear, Please, Sir Nigel, Lord Drake is in the drawing-room with her ladyship, and wishes to see you at once." What in the name of all that was good could Drake want with me a.t that hour ? It was not far off- midnight now. Drake was too much a man of the world to worry over things unless they were rtally important, and I felt he would not have come to St James's-square at that hour except there was something in the wind. There have been men from the office twice for you. Nigel, and the telephone bell has beeu buzzing like an infuriated wasp for the last two hours and more," said Lady Dolly as I entered the drawing room. Where have you been Yes, Lacaita," put in Drake. Where have you been ? These are not elders 'oors." I laughed—although really I was very un- comfortable, for the sight of Drake recalled to me that Mrs Drexe) would be at the Yard at ten the next morning, and I was tacitly pledged to produce her jewels then. As before, Drake," said I, I have been on your buiine«s—or part of your business. I have been seeing after the physical and spiritual wel- fare of ffoulkes Abney's murderer." Don't joke," said Drake. Also," said I, I've been having an ani- mated one sided conversation with your friend the Due—he did all the talking-and a little rough and tumble work besides." You've got him" cried Lady Dolly, eagerly. No," said I, not just yet but when we meet, and I hope that won't be long now, it's for keeps. J must go down to the Yards-I ought to have been there before this, 80 you'll pardon my asking you, Drake-this is not a friendly call, is it ?" No, it's not," he said, looking a trifle embarassed, and I saw he did not wish to talk before Lady Doily. "Very well," said T, "if Lady Dolly will cxcusc you, you can walk down with me and we can talk on the way." Well, now," said Lady Dolly, •• that's rea mean of you, as Mrs Drexel would say. I'm just dying to hear all about everything. You must be content to-night," said r, with knowing that to-morrow you'll get your suede gloves." Ah well she sighed, I suppose T must. When I know there's a thrilling story some- where, to be fobbed off with a dozen pairs of suedes Drake and I were outside now, and had turned into Pall Mall. Hansoms were flying by from the theatres, westwards to the clubs for supper and Victoria Station, eastwards for the newspaper offices with heavy critics, for it was Jl, first night at the King's Theatre. I just remembered that. So you didn't go to see Ribbons and Robes: Drake 1" said J. A first night without you is like Hamlet with the Prince of Den. mark left out." Oh, they'll have my name all the same. They keep me in type. No. I didn't go I sent Effie and the Drexels instead. They went late. Do you know why I didn't go ?" 1 ? No." Y ou'!l have to take me on your staff, Lacaita Um ?" I never knew a man who told a whopper with so little conviction." Drake You went to yourdesk for your jewels, and you didn't find" them." Did I ?" You thought I didn't know. My dear Lacaita, you must really thank me for distract- ing Mrs Drexel's attention." I laughed. Very well,Drake, if you think you did me any service I thank you-I do thank you most heartily. And I thought over things afterwards. Your real detective goes into his study, pulls down the blinds, lights his pipe. and without leaving his comfortable chair solves the most abstruse problems That's what I did I'm your real detective," and Drake laughed boi- sterously. "You're the real book detective m one thing, Drake," I retorted You talk." Well hit, well hit!" he laughed. But I'll astonish you. Listen. You were a very fool- ish man to go to Stroud Green this afternoon— ves, it is st.ill this afternoon—you should have known better than to walk right into the Due's trap like that." Due's trap ?" How did Drake know of this ? "Tell me-am I right or am I wrong? Didn't the Due get you out of the way so that he might get the jewels from your desk?" What on earth, Drake, put that into your head ?" And as I asked that, I was debating whether I should tell him the truth or not. ."This gave me the notion. I spotted that you were inventing, Lacaita, and 1 wanted to find out why. You didn't want Mrs Drexel to know that the jewels were not where you had put them. So after I had packed off my people to the theatre, I put on my noble and honour- able thinking-cap and began to consider. I'm not going to expose my methods to you. Lacaita, vou'd be bagging them, they're so original- but as a result I said to my noble and honour- able self: Lukey may know something of this. Go and see him.' And you 'id ?" I did. He had just b, en tucked in, and was feeling pretty comfy The doctor fel ow wasn't lor letting me see him, but Lukey told him he'd undo the bandages unless I was allowed up. If his future father-in-law couldn't see him, who could ?" Father-in-law ?" Well, well, I think I shall have to be. That time yesterday when the Due palmed off his walking-stick on him, Lukey came to ask me for Effie. I put off my answer for a week. But, by gad, he's a plucky fellow, and as Effie says she wants him, have her be e>hall. Yes. Lukey's got grit. He told me the story of Merry- thought Road- Merryweather Roa.d," I corrected. Merrythought is better, as far as Lukey is concerned," said Drake. He told me the story, and I could see he didn't want to make any thin" ot the part he .clayed Ilikedthat. md ir I know anything of Effie she'll like it too." I Good luck to them both," said I. Good uck to them both" We were at Scotland Yard now Come in,' said I, and wait a few minutes; nnd then I'll tell you whether you were right or wrong I'll tell you whether you II make a. de- tective or not" ou please. sir," said the night porter, (nspector Willingale has just come and asked for you. He said he was Going on in a few minutes to St James's Square." Good said I and- taking Drake to my room I left him there, bidding him wait for me Then [ hastened along the corridor to Willin gale's room. It was then three minutes to twelve. Willingale was taking a pair of handcuffs from a drawer. I cmid not help starting at the smile of pleasure that irradiated bis face, so different from the chagrin and gloom that shadowed it in the afternoon. You look pleased, Willingale," said I. And with good reason, sir," said he. got him?" said 1. unconsciously using the words Lady Dolly had used to me but a few minutes before. Ko, sir, said he," not just yet,"—a parody of my reply. You know where he is 1" Ves. sir. and also where he will be inside another hour." How do you know ?" Mademoiselle Calmette told me, She told him where the jewels were—on two occasions she told him. Why shouldn't she tell me where be is ?" Splendid Splendid Where is he, then 1" He is now in bed, in room 47, at the Boling- broke Hotel Then why are we dawdling here ? Come— let us away." There's no hurry, sir. He won't run. I pin my faith to Mademoiselle Calmette. You will see, sir, you will see said I," you can tell meon the way. You had better get one or two men to help." I don't think we ll want them, sir, butthey may as well come." A word and they followed us. I forgot com- pletely about. Drake. Where is Mademoiselle Calmette now ?" Receiving every attent on at the Royal Free Hospital, Gray's Inn Road; in the next bea to Mrs ( higman Mrs Chigman ?" said I. Landlady of the bouse that was burned in Calthorpe Street, and wife of Billy the Twister And wilh that introduction Willin- gale gave me Fraynham's story and his own By the time he had finished we were at the Bolingbroke. I inquired for the manager, gave my name, and in a moment he was with me. When he saw that I had men with me. his face grew long. He suspected something. You wish to speak with me. Sir Nigel ?" and he pointed the way to his private room. I want to see the hst of your guests," said I. There is someone here, Sir Njgel- he began. Bring your register at once," said 1. "I have no time to waste." For moment he looked as though he would dispute the order, but he though: better of it. He went away and returned with the book in a coupls of seconds. I ran down the list of names and the corres- ponding numbers of the rooms allotted No 47 was not among the numbers, and there was no name that looked like Laparcerie or Saraluna or Reauchamp 1 turned to the manager. Who occupies No. 47 ?" If it is not on the list, Sir Nigel, the room is empty." Your clerk may have made a mistake." We don't make mistakes at the Boling- broke, sir." Is it not oceupied," said Willingale, by a gentleman who arrived without luggage ?' The manager drew himself up very starchily. We do not receive guests without luggage at the Bolingbroke." Tut, tut," said 1. rising to my feet, what a waste of time. You have no objection to our visiting No 47 ? We believe we shall find a criminal there." The manager lifted his hands in horror. if he is," said I, you can trust my men not to make any disturbance None of your guests shall be annoved, as far as we can help it. Come sir. show us the room Very reluctantly he led the way. I enjoined the greatest quiet. As we turned to mount the stairs, Willingale whispered one of his men to secure a four-wheeled cab. At the door of 47 we dismissed the manager- Willingale examined the lock The key was on the inside. With long thin pliers he turned the key, and with the utmost caution we pushed the door open and entered the room—the thick pile carpet deaden- ing any sounds our boots might have made. Johnson, Willingale had said to the other assistant in the corridor, when you hear me sav the word Now: touch the electric switch by the door, and then rush forward to help me if I shouid need you. But 1 think I can manage by myself." Willingale and I movei forward a step or two and then he laid his hand on my arm and signed for me to shop stopped I could bear heavy breathing The room was in total darkness. The thick curtains cut off all light from the lamps in the courtyard, and all the electric candles in the corridor bad been extinguished. A moment or two passed in silence, and then came a sharp Now from Willingale, sharp as a pistol shot. The light flashed, and Johnson leapt past me. But Johnson was not needed. Willingale had calculated weil. The Due had leaped up at the word Now," his arms out, pushing away the bedclothes, his sleep-dimmed eyes shut against thesudden glare of the electric light In that second Willingale had the handcuffs on him and the cat ches snapped. It was one of the smartest things I have ever seen or wish o see. (To be concluded).

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