 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chet Chris, London, UK. The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont. By Robert Barr. 8. Lady Alicia's Emeralds Many Englishmen, if you speak to them of me, indulge themselves in a detraction that I hope they will not mind my saying is rarely graced by the delicacy of innuendo, with which some of my own countrymen attempt to diminish whatever merit I may possess. Mr. Spencer Hale, of Scotland Yard, whose lack of imagination I have so often endeavoured to amend, alas, without perceptible success, was good enough to say, after I had begun these reminiscences, which he read with affected scorn, that I was wise in setting down my successes, because the life of Methuselah himself would not belong enough to chronicle my failures. And the man to whom this was said replied, that it was only my artfulness—a word of which these people are very fond—that I intended to use my successes as bait, issue a small pamphlet filled with them, and then record my failures in a thousand volumes after the plan of a Chinese encyclopedia, selling these to the public on the installment plan. Ah, well, it is not for me to pass comment on such observations. Every profession is marred by its little jealousies. And why should the coterie of detection be exempt? I hope I may never follow an example so deleterious, and thus be tempted to express my contempt for the stupidity with which, as all persons know, the official detective system of England is imbued. I have had my failures, of course. Did I ever pretend to be otherwise than human? But what has been the cause of these failures? They have arisen through the conservatism of the English. When there is a mystery to be solved, the average Englishman almost invariably places it in the hands of the regular police. When these good people are utterly baffled, when their big boots have crushed out all evidences that the grounds may have had to offer to a discerning mind, when their clumsy hands have obliterated the clues which are everywhere around them, I am at last called in. And if I fail, they say, what could you expect? He's a Frenchman. This was exactly what happened in the case of Lady Alicia's emeralds. For two months the regular police were not only befogged, but they blatantly sounded the alarm to every thief in Europe. All the pawnbroker shops of Great Britain were ransacked, as if a robber of so valuable a collection would be foolish enough to take it to a pawnbroker. Of course the police say that they thought the thief would dismantle the cluster and sell the gems separately. As to this necklace of emeralds, possessing as it does an historical value, which is probably in excess of its intrinsic worth, what more natural than that the holder of it should open negotiations with its rightful owner, and thus make more money by quietly restoring it than by its dismemberment and sale piecemeal. But such a fuss was kicked up, such a furore created, that it is no wonder the receiver of the goods lay low and said nothing. In vain were all ports giving access to the continent watched. In vain were the police of France, Belgium, and Holland warned to look out for this treasure. Two valuable months were lost, and then the Marquis of Blair sent for me. I maintain that the case was hopeless from the moment I took it up. It may be asked why the Marquis of Blair allowed the regular police to blunder along for two precious months, but anyone who is acquainted with that nobleman will not wonder that he clung so long to a forlorn hope. Very few members of the House of Peers are richer than Lord Blair, and still fewer, more penurious. He maintained that, as he paid his taxes, he was entitled to protection from theft, that it was the duty of the government to restore the gems, and if this proved impossible, to make compensation for them. This theory is not acceptable in the English courts, and while Scotland Yard did all it could during those two months, what but failure was to be expected from its limited mental equipment. When I arrived at the manor of Blair, as his lordship's very ugly and somewhat modern mansion-house is termed, I was instantly admitted to his presence. I had been summoned from London by a letter in his lordship's own hand, on which the postage was not paid. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived, and our first conference was what might be termed futile. It was taken up entirely with haggling about terms, the Marquis endeavouring to beat down the price of my services to a some so insignificant, that it would barely have paid my expenses from London to Blair and back. Such bargaining is intensely distasteful to me. When the Marquis found all his offers declined, with the politeness which left no opening for anger on his part, he endeavoured to induce me to take up the case on a commission contingent upon my recovery of the gems. And as I had declined this for the twentieth time, darkness had come on, and the gong rang for dinner. I dined alone in the Salamange, which appeared to be set apart for those calling at the mansion on business, and the meagerness of the fair, together with the indifferent nature of the claret, strengthened my determination to return to London as early as possible next morning. When the repast was finished, the dignified serving-man said gravely to me, The Lady Alicia asks if you will be good enough to give her a few moments in the drawing-room, sir. I followed the man to the drawing-room, and found the young lady seated at the piano, on which she was strumming idly and absent-mindedly, but with a touch nevertheless that indicated advanced excellence in the art of music. She was not dressed as one who had just risen from the dining-table, but was somewhat grimly and commonly attired, looking more like a cottage's daughter than a member of a great country family. Her head was small, and crowned with a mass of jet-black hair. My first impression on entering the large, rather dimly-lighted room was unfavourable. But that vanished instantly, under the charm of a manor so graceful and vivacious, that in a moment I seemed to be standing in a brilliant Parisian salon, rather than in the sombre drawing-room of an English country-house. Every poise of her dainty head, every gesture of those small, perfect hands, every modulated tone of the voice, whether sparkling with laughter, or caressing in confidential speech, reminded me of the grand dame of my own land. It was strange to find this perfect human flower amidst the gloomy ugliness of a huge square house, built in the time of the Georges. But I remembered now that the Blair's are the English equivalent of the Debellaires of France, from which family sprang the fascinating Marquis's Debellaire, who adorned the court of Louis XIV. Here advancing towards me was the very reincarnation of the lovely Marquis, who gave luster to this dull world nearly three hundred years ago. Ah, after all, what are the English but a conquered race? I often forget this, and I trust I never remind them of it, but it enables one to forgive them much. A vivid twentieth-century Marquis was Lady Alicia, in all except attire. What a dream some of our Parisian dress-artists could have made of her. And here she was immured in this dull English house, in a high-necked costume of a labourer's wife. Welcome, Monsieur Valmont, she cried in French of almost faultless intonation. I am so glad you have arrived. And she greeted me as if I were an old friend of the family. There was nothing of condescension in her manner, no display of her own affability, while at the same time teaching me my place, and the difference in our stations in life. I can stand the rudeness of the nobility, but I detest their condescension. No. Lady Alicia was a true debilair, and in my confusion, bending over her slender hand, I said, Madame Lamaquise, it is a privilege to extend to you my most respectful salutations. She laughed at this quietly, with the melting laugh of the nightingale. Monsieur, you mistake my title. Although my uncle is a Marquis, I am but Lady Alicia. Your pardon, my lady. For the moment I was back in that scintillating court which surrounded Louis Legrand. How flatteringly you introduce yourself, Monsieur. In the gallery upstairs there is a painting of the Marquis's debilair, and when I show it to you tomorrow you will then understand how charmingly you have pleased a vain woman by your reference to that beautiful lady. But I must not talk in this frivolous strain, Monsieur. There is serious business to be considered, and I assure you I look forward to your coming, Monsieur, with the eagerness of Sister Anne in the Tower of Bluebeard. I fear my expression as I bowed to her must have betrayed my gratification at hearing these words, so confidentially uttered by lips so sweet, while the glance of her lovely eyes was even more eloquent than her words. Instantly I felt ashamed of my chaffering over terms with her uncle. Instantly I forgot my resolution to depart on the morrow. Instantly I resolved to be of what assistance I could to this dainty lady. Alas! the heart of Valmont is today as unprotected against the artillery of inspiring eyes as ever it was in his extreme youth. This house, she continued vivaciously, has been practically in a state of siege for two months. I could take none of my usual walks in the gardens, on the lawns or through the park, without some clumsy policeman in uniform crashing his way through the bushes, or some detective in plain clothes accosting me and questioning me under the pretense that he was a stranger who had lost his way. The lack of all subtlety in our police is something deplorable. I am sure the real criminal might have passed through their hands a dozen times unmolested, while our poor innocent servants and the strangers within our gates were made to feel that the stern eye of the law was upon them night and day. The face of the young lady was an entrancing picture of animated indignation as she gave utterance to this truism which her countrymen are so slow to appreciate. I experienced a glow of satisfaction. Yes, she went on. They sent down from London an army of stupid men who have kept our household in a state of abject terror for eight long weeks and where are the emeralds? As she suddenly asked this question in the most Parisian of accents, with a little outward spreading of the hand, a flash of the eye and a toss of the head, the united effect was something indescribable through the limitations of the language I am compelled to use. Well, monsieur, your arrival has put to flight this tiresome brigade, if indeed the word flight is not too airy a term to use towards a company so elephantine. And I assure you a sigh of relief has gone up from the whole household with the exception of my uncle. I said to him at dinner to-night, if monsieur Valmont had been induced to take an interest in the case at first, the jewels would have been in my possession long before to-night. Ah, my lady, I protested. I fear you overrate my poor ability. It is quite true that if I had been called in on the night of the robbery, my chances of success would have been infinitely greater than they are now. Monsieur, she cried, clasping her hands over her knees and leaning towards me, hypnotising me with those starry eyes. Monsieur, I am perfectly confident that before a week is passed you will restore the necklace if such restoration be possible. I have said so from the first. Now, am I right in my conjecture, monsieur, that you come here alone, that you bring with you no train of followers and assistants? That is as you have stated it, my lady. I was sure of it. It is to be a contest of trained mentality in opposition to our two-months experience of brute force. Never before had I felt such ambition to succeed, and a determination not to disappoint took full possession of me. Appreciation is a needed stimulant, and here it was offered to me in its most intoxicating form. Ah, Valmont, Valmont, will you never grow old? I am sure that at this moment if I had been eighty, the same thrill of enthusiasm would have tingled to my fingers' ends. Leave the manner of Blair in the morning, not for the Bank of France! Has my uncle acquainted you with particulars of the robbery? No, madame, we were talking of other things. The lady leaned back in her low chair, partially closed her eyes and breathed a deep sigh. I can well imagine the subject of your conversation, she said at last. The Marquis of Blair was endeavouring to impose usurers' terms upon you, while you, nobly scorning such mercenary considerations, had perhaps resolved to leave us at the earliest opportunity. I assure you, my lady, that if any such conclusion had been arrived at on my part, it vanished the moment I was privileged to set foot in this drawing-room. It is kind of you to say that, monsieur. But you must not allow your conversation with my uncle to prejudice you against him. He is an old man now, and, of course, has his fancies. You would think him mercenary, perhaps, and so he is, but then so too am I. Oh yes, I am, monsieur, frightfully mercenary. To be mercenary, I believe, means to be fond of money. No one is fonder of money than I, except perhaps my uncle. But you see, monsieur, we occupy the two extremes. He is fond of money to hoard it. I am fond of money to spend it. I am fond of money for the things it will buy. I should like to scatter largesse, as did my fair ancestral stress in France. I should love a manor house in the country, and a mansion in Mayfair. I could wish to make everyone around me happy if the expenditure of money would do it. That is a form of money, love, Lady Alicia, which will find a multitude of admirers. The girl shook her head and laughed merrily. I should so dislike to forfeit your esteem, monsieur Valmont, and therefore I shall not reveal the depth of my cupidity. You will learn that probably from my uncle, and then you will understand my extreme anxiety for the recovery of these jewels. Are they very valuable? Oh yes, the necklace consists of twenty stones, no one of which weighs less than an ounce. Altogether I believe they amount to two thousand four hundred, or two thousand five hundred, carats. And their intrinsic value is twenty pounds a carat, at least. So you see that means nearly fifty thousand pounds. Yet even this sum is trivial compared with what it involves. There is something like a million at stake, together with my coveted manor house in the country and my equally coveted mansion in Mayfair. All this is within my grasp if I can but recover the emeralds. The girl blushed prettily as she noticed how intently I regarded her while she evolved this tantalizing mystery. I thought there was a trace of embarrassment in her laugh when she cried, Oh, what will you think of me when you understand the situation? Pray, pray do not judge me harshly. I assure you the position I aim at will be used for the good of others as well as for my own pleasure. If my uncle does not make a confident of you, I must take my courage in both hands and give you all the particulars, but not tonight. Of course, if one is to unravel such a snarl as that in which we find ourselves, he must be made aware of every particular must he not. Certainly, my lady. And very well, Monsieur Valmont, I shall supply any deficiencies that occur in my uncle's conversation with you. There is one point on which I should like to warn you. Both my uncle and the police have made up their minds that a certain young man is the culprit. The police found several clues which apparently led in his direction, but they were unable to find enough to justify his arrest. At first I could have sworn he had nothing whatever to do with the matter, but lately I am not so sure. All I ask of you, until we secure another opportunity of consulting together, is to preserve an open mind. Please do not allow my uncle to prejudice you against him. What is the name of this young man? He is the Honourable John Haddon. The Honourable? Is he a person who could do so dishonourable at action? The young lady shook her head. I am almost sure he would not, and yet one never can tell. I think at the present moment there are one or two noble lords in prison, but their crimes have not been mere vulgar house-breaking. Am I to infer, Lady Alicia, that you are in possession of certain facts unknown either to your uncle or the police? Yes. Pardon me, but do these facts tend to incriminate the young man? Again the young lady leaned back in her chair and gazed past me, a wrinkle of perplexity on her fair brow. Then she said very slowly, You will understand, Monsieur Valmont, how loathe I am to speak against one who was formerly a friend. If he had been content to remain a friend, I am sure this incident which has caused us all such worry and trouble would never have happened. I do not wish to dwell on what my uncle will tell you was a very unpleasant episode, but the Honourable John Haddon is a poor man, and it is quite out of the question, for one brought up as I have been, to marry into poverty. He was very headstrong and reckless about the matter, and involved my uncle in a bitter quarrel while discussing it, much to my chagrin and disappointment. It is as necessary for him to marry wealth, as it is for me to make a good match. But he could not be brought to see that. Oh! he is not at all a sensible young man, and my former friendship for him has ceased. Yet I should dislike very much to take any action that might harm him. Therefore I have spoken to no one but you about the evidence that is in my hands, and this you must treat as entirely confidential, giving no hint to my uncle who is already bitter enough against Mr. Haddon. Does this evidence convince you that he stole the necklace? No. I do not believe that he actually stole it. But I am persuaded he was an accessory after the fact. Is that the legal term? Now, Monsieur Valmont, we will say no more to-night. If I talk any longer about this crisis I shall not sleep, and I wish, assured of your help, to attack the situation with a very clear mind, to-morrow. When I retired to my room I found that I too could not sleep, although I needed a clear mind to face the problem of to-morrow. It is difficult for me to describe accurately the effect this interview had upon my mind. But to use a bodily simile, I may say that it seemed as if I had indulged too freely in a subtle champagne, which appeared exceedingly excellent at first, but from which the exhilaration had now departed. No man could have been more completely under a spell than I was when Lady Alicia's eyes first told me more than her lips revealed. But although I had challenged her right to the title, Mercenary, when she applied it to herself, I could not but confess that a nonchalant recital regarding the friend who desired to be a lover jarred upon me. I found my sympathy extending itself to that unknown young man, on whom it appeared the shadow of suspicion already rested. I was confident that if he had actually taken the emeralds it was not at all from motives of cupidity. Indeed, that was practically shown by the fact that Scotland Yard found itself unable to trace the jewels, which at least they might have done if the necklace had been sold either as a whole or dismembered. Of course, an emerald weighing an ounce is by no means unusual. The hope emerald, for example, weighs six ounces, and the gem owned by the Duke of Devonshire measures two-and-a-quarter inches through its greatest diameter. Nevertheless, such a constellation as the Blair emeralds was not to be disposed of very easily, and I surmised no attempt had been made either to sell them or to raise money upon them. Now that I had removed myself from the glamour of her presence, I began to suspect that the young lady, after all, although undoubtedly possessing the brilliancy of her jewels, retained also something of their hardness. There had been no expression of sympathy for the discarded friend. It was too evident, recalling what had latterly passed between us, that the young woman's sole desire and a perfectly natural desire was to recover her missing treasure. There was something behind all this which I could not comprehend, and I resolved in the morning to question the Marcus of Blair as shrewdly as he cared to allow. Failing him, I should cross-question the niece in a somewhat drier light than that which had enshrouded me during this interesting evening. I care not who knows it, but I have been befooled more than once by a woman. But I determined that in clear daylight I should resist the hypnotizing influence of those glorious eyes. Monde Dieu! Monde Dieu! How easy it is for me to make good resolutions when I am far from temptation! It was ten o'clock next morning when I was admitted to the study of the aged bachelor Marcus of Blair. His keen eyes looked through and through me as I seated myself before him. Well, he said shortly, My lord, I began deliberately. I know nothing more of the case than was furnished by the accounts I have read in the newspapers. Two months have elapsed since the robbery. Every day that passed made the detection of the criminal more difficult. I do not wish to waste either my time or your money on a forlorn hope. If therefore you will be good enough to place me in possession of all the facts known to you, I shall tell you at once whether or not I can take up the case. Do you wish me to give you the name of the criminal? asked his lordship. Is his name known to you? I asked in return. Yes, John Haddon stole the necklace. Did you give that name to the police? Yes. Why didn't they arrest him? Because the evidence against him is so small and the improbability of his having committed the crime is so great. What is the evidence against him? His lordship spoke with the dry deliberation of an aged solicitor. The robbery was committed on the night of October the fifth. All day there had been a heavy rain and the grounds were wet. For reasons into which I do not care to enter, John Haddon was familiar with this house and with our grounds. He was well known to my servants and, unfortunately, popular with them, for he is an open-handed spendthrift. The estate of his elder brother, Lord Stephanum, adjoins my own to the west and Lord Stephanum's house is three miles from where we sit. On the night of the fifth a ball was given in the mansion of Lord Stephanum to which, of course, my niece and myself were invited and which invitation was accepted. I had no quarrel with the elder brother. It was known to John Haddon that my niece intended to wear her necklace of emeralds. The robbery occurred at a time when most crimes of that nature are committed in country houses, namely while we were at dinner, an hour during which the servants are almost invariably in the lower part of the house. In October the days are getting short. The night was exceptionally dark, for although the rain had ceased, not a star was visible. The thief placed a ladder against the sill of one of the upper windows, opened it, and came in. He must have been perfectly familiar with the house, for there are evidences that he went direct to the boudoir where the jewel case had been carelessly left on my niece's dressing table when she came down to dinner. It had been taken from the strong room about an hour before. The box was locked, but of course that made no difference. The thief wrenched the lid off, breaking the lock, stole the necklace, and escaped by the way he came. Did he leave the window open and the ladder in place? Yes. Doesn't that strike you as very extraordinary? No. I do not assert that he's a professional burglar who would take all the precautions against the discovery that might have been expected from one of the craft. Indeed, the man's carelessness in going straight across the country to his brother's house and leaving footsteps in the soft earth, easily traceable almost to the very boundary fence, shows he's incapable of any serious thought. Is John Haddon rich? He hasn't a penny. Did you go to the ball that night? Yes, I had promised to go. Was John Haddon there? Yes, but he appeared late. He should have been present at the opening and his brother was seriously annoyed by his absence. When he did come he acted in a wild and reckless manner, which gave the guests the impression he'd been drinking. Both my niece and myself were disgusted with his actions. Do you think your niece suspects him? She certainly did not at first and was indignant when I told her, coming home from the ball, that her jewels were undoubtedly in Steffenham House, even though they were not round her neck. But laterally I think her opinion has changed. To go back a moment, did any of your servants see him prowling about the place? They all say they didn't, but I myself saw him just before dusk, coming across the fields towards this house, and next morning we found the same footprints both going and coming. Seems to me the circumstantial evidence is rather strong. It's a pity that no one but yourself saw him. What more evidence are the authorities waiting for? They're waiting until he attempts to dispose of the jewels. You think then he has not done so up to date? I think he will never do so. Then why did he steal them? To prevent the marriage of my niece with Jonas Carter of Sheffield, to whom she is betrothed. They were to be married early in the new year. My Lord, you amaze me! If Mr. Carter and Lady Alicia are engaged, why should the theft of the jewels interfere with the ceremony? Jonas Carter's a most estimable man, who, however, does not move in our sphere of life. He's connected with the steel or cutlery industry, and is a person of great wealth, rising upwards of a million, with a large estate in Derbyshire, and a house fronting Hyde Park in London. He's a very strict businessman, and both my niece and myself agree that he's also an eligible man. I myself am rather strict in matters of business, and I must admit that Mr. Carter showed a very generous spirit in arranging the preliminaries of the engagement with me. When Alicia's father died, he had run through all the money he himself possessed or could borrow from his friends. Although a man of noble birth, I never liked him. He was married to my only sister. The Blair Emeralds, as perhaps you know, descend down the female line. Before came to my niece from her mother. My poor sister had long been disillusioned before death released her from the titles camp she'd married, and she very wisely placed the Emeralds in my custody to be held in trust for her daughter. They constitute my niece as only fortune, and would produce if offered in London today, probably seventy-five or a hundred thousand pounds, although actually they're not worth so much. Mr. Jonas Carter very amably consented to receive my niece with a dowry of only fifty thousand pounds, and that money I offered to advance if I was allowed to retain the jewels as security. This was arranged between Mr. Carter and myself. But surely Mr. Carter does not refuse to carry out his engagement because the jewels has been stolen. He does? Why should he not? Isn't surely you will advance the fifty thousand necessary? I will not. Why should I? Well, it seems to me, said I, with a slight laugh, the young man has very definitely checkmated both of you. He has until I have laid him by the heels, which I'm determined to do if he were the brother of twenty Lord Stephanums. Please answer one more question. Are you determined to put the young man in prison? Or would you be content with the return of the emeralds intact? Of course I should prefer to put him in prison and get the emeralds too, but if there's no choice in the matter I must content myself with a necklace. Very well, my Lord, I will undertake the case. This conference had detained us in the study till after eleven. And then, as it was a clear, crisp December morning, I went out through the gardens into the park, that I might walk along the well-kept private road and meditate upon my course of action. Or rather, think over what had been said, because I could not map my route until I had heard the secret which the Lady Elisha promised to impart. As at present instructed, it seemed to me the best way to go direct to the young man, show him as effectively as I could the danger in which he stood, and if possible persuade him to deliver up the necklace to me. As I strolled along under the grand old leafless trees, I suddenly heard my name called impulsively two or three times, and turning round saw the Lady Elisha running towards me. Her cheeks were bright with nature's rouge, and her eyes sparkled more dazzlingly than any emerald that ever tempted man to wickedness. Oh, Monsieur Valmont, I've been waiting for you, and you escaped me. Have you seen my uncle? Yes, I've been with him since ten o'clock. Well? Your ladyship, that is exactly the word with which he accosted me. Ah! You see an additional likeness between my uncle and myself this morning, then. Has he told you about Mr. Carter? Yes. So now you understand how important it is that I should regain possession of my property. Yes, I said with a sigh, the house near Hyde Park and the great estate in Derbyshire. She clapped her hands with glee, eyes and feet dancing in unison as she capered along gaily beside me, a sort of skippity-hop, skippity-hop, sideways, keeping pace with my more stately step, as if she were a little girl of six, instead of a young woman of twenty. Not only that, she cried, but one million pounds to spend. Oh, Monsieur Valmont, you know Paris, and yet you do not seem to comprehend what that plethora of money means. Well, Madame, I have seen Paris, and I have seen a good deal of the world. But I am not so certain you will secure the million to spend. What! she cried, stopping short, that little wrinkle which betokent temper appearing on her brow. Do you think we won't get the emeralds, then? Oh, I am sure we will get the emeralds. I, Valmont, pledge you my word. But if Mr. Jonas Carter, before marriage, calls a halt upon the ceremony until your uncle places fifty thousand pounds upon the table, I confess I am very pessimistic about your obtaining control of the million afterwards. All her vivacity instantaneously returned. Poof! she cried, dancing round in front of me, and standing there directly in my path so that I came to a stand. Poof! she repeated, snapping her fingers with an inimitable gesture of that lovely hand. Monsieur Valmont, I am disappointed in you. You are not nearly so nice as you were last evening. It is very uncomplementary in you to intimate that when once I am married to Mr. Jonas, I shall not weedle from him all the money I want. Do not rest your eyes on the ground. Look at me and answer. I glanced up at her, and could not forbear laughing. The witchery of the wood was in that girl. Yes, and a perceptible trace of the gallic devil flickered in those enchanting eyes of hers. I could not help myself. Ah, Madame Le Maquis de Belheur! How jauntily you would scatter despair in that susceptible court of Louis! Ah, Monsieur Eugene de Valmont, she cried, mimicking my tones, and imitating my manner with an exactitude that amazed me. You are once more my dear de Valmont of last night. I dreamed of you. I assure you I did. And now to find you in the morning, oh, so changed! She clasped her little hands and inclined her head, while the sweet voice sank into a cadence of melancholy, which seemed so genuine that the mocking ripple of a laugh immediately following was almost a shock to me. Where had this creature of the dull English countryside learnt all such through-through of gesture and tone? Have you ever seen Sarah Bernhardt, I asked? Now the average English woman would have inquired the genesis of so inconsequent a question, but Lady Alicia followed the trend of my thought and answered at once as if my query had been quite expected. Mais non, Monsieur? Sarah the Divine! Ah, she comes with my million a year in the house of Hyde Park. No, the only inhabitant of my real world whom I have yet seen is Monsieur Valmont. And he, alas, I find so changeable. But now adieu frivolity, we must be serious. And she walked sedately by my side. Do you know where you are going, Monsieur? You are going to church. Oh, do not look frightened, not to a service. I am decorating the church with holly, and you shall help me and get thorns in your poor fingers. The private road, which up to this time had passed through a forest, now reached a secluded glade, in which stood a very small but exquisite church, evidently centuries older than the mansion we had left. Beyond it were grey stone ruins, which Lady Alicia pointed out to me as remnants of the original mansion that had been built in the reign of the Second Henry. The church, it was thought, formed at the private chapel to the hall, and it had been kept in repair by the various lords of the manor. Now hearken to the power of the poor and learn how they may flout the proud Marquis, cried Lady Alicia gleefully. The poorest man in England may walk along this private road on Sunday to the church, and the proud Marquis is powerless to prevent him. Of course, if the poor man prolongs his walk, then he is in danger from the law of trespass. On weak days, however, this is the most secluded spot on the estate, and I regret to say that my lordly uncle does not trouble it even on Sundays. I fear we are a degenerate race, Monsieur Valmont, for doubtless a fighting and deeply religious ancestor of mine built this church, and to think that when the useful masons cemented these stones together, Madame Le Marquis de Bel Air or Lady Alicia were alike on thought of, and though three hundred years divide them, this ancient chapel makes them seem, as one might say, contemporaries. Oh, Monsieur Valmont, what is the use of worrying about emeralds or anything else? As I look at this beautiful old church, even the house of Hyde Park appears as nought. And to my amazement, the eyes that Lady Alicia turned upon me were wet. The front door was unlocked. We walked into the church in silence. Around the pillars Holly and Ivy were twined. Great armfuls of the shrubs had been flung here and there along the walls in heaps, and a stepladder stood in one of the aisles, showing that the decoration of the edifice was not yet complete. Subdued melancholy had settled down on my erstwhile vivacious companion. The inevitable reaction so characteristic of the artistic temperament augmented doubtless by the solemnity of the place around whose walls in brass and marble were sculptured memorials of her ancient race. You promised, I said at last, to tell me how you came to suspect, not here, not here, she whispered. Then rising from the pew in which she had seated herself she said, Let us go. I am in no mood for working this morning. I shall finish the decoration in the afternoon. We came out into the cool and brilliant sunlight again, and as we turned homeward her spirits immediately began to rise. I am anxious to know, I persisted, why you came to suspect a man whom at first you believed innocent. I am not sure but I believe him innocent now, although I am forced to the conclusion that he knows where the treasure is. What forces you to that conclusion, my lady? A letter I received from himself, in which he makes a proposal so extraordinary that I am almost disinclined to accede to it, even though it leads to the discovery of my necklace. However, I am determined to leave no means untried if I receive the support of my friend Monsieur Valmont. My lady, said I with a bow, it is but yours to command, mine to obey. What were the contents of that letter? Read it, she replied, taking the folded sheet from her pocket and handing it to me. She had been quite right in characterising the note as an extraordinary epistle. The honourable John Haddon had the temerity to propose that she should go through a form of marriage with him in the old church we had just left. If she did that, he said, it would console him for the mad love he felt for her. The ceremony would have no binding force upon her whatever, and she might bring whom she pleased to perform it. If she knew no one that she could trust, he would invite an old college chum and bring him to the church next morning at half-past seven o'clock. Even if an ordained clergyman performed the ceremony, it would not be legal unless it took place between the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon. If she consented to this, the emeralds were hers once more. This is the proposal of a madman, said I, as I handed back the letter. Well, she replied with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. He has always said he was madly in love with me, and I quite believe it. Poor young man, if this mummery were to console him for the rest of his life, why should I not indulge him in it? Lady Alicia, surely you would not countenance the profaning of that lovely old edifice with a mock ceremonial. No man in his senses could suggest such a thing. Once more her eyes were twinkling with merriment, but the honourable John Haddon, as I have told you, is not in his senses. Then why should you indulge him? Why? How can you ask such a question? Because of the emeralds. It is only a mad lack, after all, and no one need know of it. Oh, Monsieur Valmont! she cried, pleadingly, clasping her hands. Yet it seemed to me with an undercurrent of laughter in her beseeching tones. Will you not enact for us the part of clergyman? I am sure if your face were as serious as it is at this moment, the robes of a priest would become you. Lady Alicia, you are incorrigible. I am somewhat a man of the world, yet I should not dare to counterfeit the sacred office, and I hope you but jest. In fact, I am sure you do, my lady. She turned away from me with a very pretty pout. Monsieur Valmont, your knighthood is, after all, but surface deep. It is not mine to command and yours to obey. Certainly I did but jest. John shall bring his own imitation clergyman with him. Are you going to meet him to-morrow? Certainly I am. I have promised I must secure my necklace. You seem to place great confidence in the belief that he will produce it. If he fails to do so, then I play Monsieur Valmont as my trump card. But Monsieur, although you quite rightly refuse to comply with my first request, you are surely not reject my second. Please meet me to-morrow at the head of the avenue promptly at a quarter-past seven and escort me to the church. For a moment the negative trembled on my tongue's end, but she turned those enchanting eyes upon me, and I was undone. Very well, I answered. She seized both my hands like a little girl overjoyed at a promised excursion. Oh, Monsieur Valmont, you are a darling! I feel as if I'd known you all my life. I am sure you will never regret having humoured me. Then I did a moment later. If we get the emeralds. Ah, said I, if we get the emeralds. We were now within sight of the house, and she pointed out our rendezvous for the following day, and with that I bade her good-bye. It was shortly after seven o'clock next morning when I reached the meeting-place. The Lady Alicia was somewhat long in coming, but when she arrived her face was aglow with girlish delight at the solemn prank she was about to play. You have not changed your mind, I asked, after the morning's greetings. Oh, no, Monsieur Valmont, she replied with a bright laugh, and determined to recover those emeralds. We must hurry, Lady Alicia, or we will be too late. There's plenty of time, she remarked calmly, and she proved to be right, because when we came in sight of the church the clock pointed to the hour of half-past seven. Now, she said, I shall wait here until you steal up to the church and look in through one of the windows that do not contain stained glass. I should not for the world arrive before Mr. Haddon and his friend are there. I did as requested, and saw two young men standing together in the centre aisle, one in the full robes of a clergyman, the other in his ordinary dress, whom I took to be the honourable John Haddon. His profile was toward me, and I must admit there was very little of the madman in his calm countenance. His was a well-cut face, clean-shaven, and strikingly manly. In one of the pews was seated a woman. I learned afterwards she was Lady Alicia's maid, who had been instructed to come and go from the house by a footpath, while we had taken the longer road. I returned and escorted Lady Alicia to the church, and there was introduced to Mr. Haddon and his friend the maid of divine. The ceremony was at once performed, and man of the world as I profess myself to be, this enacting of private theatricals in a church grated upon me. When the maid and I were asked to sign the book as witnesses, I said, surely this is carrying realism a little too far. Mr. Haddon smiled and replied, I am amazed to hear a Frenchman objecting to realism going to its full length, and speaking for myself I shall be delighted to see the autograph of the renowned Eugene Valmont. And with that he proffered me the pen, whereupon I scrawled my signature. The maid had already signed and disappeared. The reputed clergyman bowed us out of the church, standing in the porch to see us walk up the avenue. Ed! cried John Haddon, I'll be back within half an hour and will attend to the clock. You won't mind waiting. Not in the least, dear boy, God bless you both. And the tremor in his voice seemed to me carrying realism one step further still. The lady Elisha, with downcast head, hurried us on until we were within the gloom of the forest. And then, ignoring me, she turned suddenly to the young man and placed her two hands on his shoulders. Oh, Jack! Jack! she cried. He kissed her twice on the lips. Jack! Monsieur Valmont insists on the emeralds. The young man laughed. Her ladyship stood fronting him with her back towards me. Tenderly the young man unfastened something at the throat of that high-necked dress of hers. Then there was a snap, and he drew out an amazing, dazzling, shimmering sheen of green, that seemed to turn the whole bleak December landscape verdant, as with the touch of spring. The girl hid her rosy face against him, and over her shoulder with a smile, he handed me the celebrated Blair emeralds. There is the treasure, Valmont, he cried, on condition that you do not molest the culprit. Or the accessory after the fact, girdled Lady Elisha in smothered tones, with a hand clasping together her high-necked dress at the throat. We trust your invention, Valmont, to deliver that necklace to Uncle, with the detective's story that will thrill him to his very heart. We heard the clock strike eight. Then a second later, smaller bells chimed a quarter past, and another second after they tinkled the half-hour. Hello! cried Haddon, Ed has attended to the clock himself. What a good fellow he is! I looked at my watch. It was twenty-five minutes to nine. Was the ceremony genuine then, I asked? Ah, Valmont, said the young man, patting his wife affectionately on the shoulder. Nothing on earth can be more genuine than that ceremony was. And the volatile Lady Elisha snuggled closer to him. End of Chapter 8 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Czechris, London, UK The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont by Robert Barr Chapter 9 The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes With apologies to Dr. Conan Doyle and his excellent book, A Study in Scarlet I dropped in on my friend Sherlock Holmes to hear what he had to say about the pegram mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenance as of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Holmes had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved to be the case. For one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogising the alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlock Holmes's contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export. He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted me with his usual kindness. I've come, I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind to hear what you think of the great pegram mystery. I haven't heard of it, he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that very thing. Holmes is curiously ignorant on some subjects and abnormally learned on others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great boon. The pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory of Scotland Yard. I can well believe it, said my friend calmly. Perpetual motion or squaring the circle would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory. This was one of the things I always liked about Holmes. There was no professional jealousy in him, such as characterised as so many other men. He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair, placed his feet on the mantle and clasped his hands behind his head. Tell me about it, he said simply. Old Barry Kipson, I began, was a stockbroker in the city. He lived in pegram, and it was his custom to come in, shouted Holmes, without changing his position, but with a suddenness that startled me. I had heard no knock. Excuse me, said my friend, laughing, that my invitation to enter was a trifle premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which a detective should never do. The fact is a man will be here in a moment who will tell me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line. Ah! you have an appointment in. In that case I will not intrude, I said, rising. Down, I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming. I gazed at him in amazement. Acustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation. I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognized my card, because as you know they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that he will talk of it. And the chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that. Besides, there is always come in. There was a wrap at the door this time. A stranger entered. Sherlock Holmes did not change his lounging attitude. I wished to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision. This is Mr. Holmes, I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly and seemed half asleep. Allow me to introduce myself, continued the stranger, fumbling for a card. There is no need. You are a journalist, said Holmes. Ah! said the stranger, somewhat taken aback. You know me, then. Never saw or heard of you in my life before. Then how in the world? Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him, unless I tell him. The devil, cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid. Yes, drawled Holmes. It's a devil of a shame that such things are done, but what would you, as we say in France? When the journalist had recovered his second wind, he pulled himself together somewhat. Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you say you have never seen? I rarely talk about these things, set combs with great composure. But as the cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your first and second fingers are smeared with ink. We show that you write a great deal. This smeared class embraces two subclasses, clerks or accountants, and journalists. Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers are badly and carelessly smeared, therefore you are a journalist. You have an evening paper in your pocket. Anyone might have any evening paper, but yours is a special edition, which will not be on the streets for half an hour yet. You must have obtained it before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper not written by himself, therefore you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff, that the author is a friend of yours I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation. Really, Mr. Combs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory by Jove, you are. A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter. Do you mean to insult me, sir? I do not. I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow. I am in earnest. Indeed, I am, sir. Then heaven help you," cried Combs, slowly raising his right arm. I sprang between them. Don't shoot, I cried. You'll spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlock, don't you see the man means well? He actually thinks it's a compliment. Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, with his customary bland courtesy, you wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilbur Scribbings? The journalist started. How do you know my name, he gasped. Combs waved his hand impatiently. Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name. I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top hat, Scribbings held upside down in his hands. You have heard, of course, of the Pegrum mystery. Tush! cried the detective. Do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegrum affair? The Pegrum case has baffled everyone. The evening blade wishes you to investigate so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission? Possibly. Tell me about the case. I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barry Kipson lived at Pegrum. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegrum on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago Mr. Kipson was brought down by the Influenza. On his first visit to the city after his recovery he drew something like 300 pounds in notes and left the office at his usual hour to catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive as far as the public have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head and his money was gone pointing plainly to murder and robbery. And where is the mystery, might I ask? There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the Scotch Express which leaves at 6 and does not stop at Pegrum? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket and all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in the two compartments on each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired. Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between London and Brewster? Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by Signal just outside of Pegrum. There was a few moments pause when the line was reported clear and it went on again. This frequently happens as there is a branch line beyond Pegrum. Mr. Sherlock Holmes pondered for a few moments smoking his pipe silently. I presume you wish the solution in time for tomorrow's paper. Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well. My dear sir, I do not deal with theories but with facts. If you can make it convenient to call here tomorrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the full particulars early enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking much time over so simple an affair as the Pegrum case. Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a speechless condition and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand. Sherlock Holmes relapsed into his old lounging attitude with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion so I said nothing. Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. I do not wish to seem to be rushing things at all, Watson, but I'm going out tonight on the Scotch Express. Would you care to accompany me? Bless me, I cried, glancing at the clock. You haven't time. It's after five now. Ample time, Watson. Ample, he murmured, without changing his position. I give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing gown for boots and coat, three seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a handsome, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. Still be glad of your company. I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was most interesting to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we drove under the lofty iron roof of the terminus, I noticed a look of annoyance passed over his face. We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time, he remarked, looking at the big clock. I dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur. The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. The detective tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. You have heard of the so-called Pegrum Mystery, I presume? Certainly, sir, it happened on this very train, sir. Really? Is the same carriage still on the train? Well, yes, sir, it is, replied the guard, lowering his voice, but of course, sir, we have to keep very quiet about it. We have to travel in it else, sir. Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment in which the body was found? A lady and gentleman, sir, I put him in myself, sir. Would you further oblige me, said the detective, deftly slipping half a sovereign into the hand of the guard, by going to the window and informing them in an off-hand casual sort of way that the tragedy took place in that compartment? Certainly, sir. We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a suppressed scream in the carriage, instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced gentleman who scowled at the guard. We entered the now empty compartment and Combs said, We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster. I'll see to that, sir, answered the guard, locking the door. When the official moved away and what he expected to find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case. Nothing, was his brief reply. Then why do you come? Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at. And might I ask what those conclusions are? Certainly, replied the detective with a touch of lassitude in his voice. I beg to call your attention first to the fact that this train stands between two platforms separated from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started. But the door on this side is locked, I objected, trying it. Of course, but every seasoned ticket-holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard not seeing him and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. The patient's temperature rises several degrees above normal and he has a fever. When the malady has run its course the temperature falls to three quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because you were a doctor. I admitted such was the case. Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescence mind turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barry Kipson's friends did not watch him. You remember the twenty-first, of course? No? It was a most depressing day, fog all round and mud underfoot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified if possible, but forgets his seasoned ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets something. But how do you account for the disappearance of the money? The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man and knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard he probably sent the notes to an enemy. If not they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect of a night ride on the Scotch Express and the view from the windows of the train as it passes through the northern part of London is particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation. What became of the weapon? That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drew down the window on the right-hand side and examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief and drew up the sash. Just as I expected, here he marked, speaking more to himself than to me. There is a slight dent on the top of the window frame. It is of such a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the nervous hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the carriage. As a matter of fact it bounced away from the line and lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The only question that now remains is where the deed was committed and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London. But that fortunately is too simple to even need explanation. Great Heaven, Sherlock! I cried. How can you call that simple? Seems to me impossible to compute. We were now flying over northern London, and the great detective leaned back with every sign of Ornwee closing his eyes. Alas, he spoke wearily. It is really too elementary, Watson, but I am always willing to oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to work out the ABC of Detection for yourself, although I shall never object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables. In his mind, to commit suicide, Gibson naturally intended to do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegrum, he came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is a count of four by the screech of the air-break added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also sounding the train being a fast express would stop as near the signal as possible. The air-break will stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At three times the length of this train from the signal post towards London, deducting half the length of the train as this carriage is in the middle, you will find the pistol. Wonderful, I exclaimed. Commonplace, he murmured. At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of the air-breaks. The Pegrum signal again cried combs, with something almost like enthusiasm. This is indeed luck. We will get out here Watson and test the matter. As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line. The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, which changed to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on with increasing speed, the detective countered the carriages and noted down the number. It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the western sky, throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesome night in that strange place impressed me, but the detective was a most practical man. He placed his back against the signal post and paced up the line with even strides counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way beside him silently. At last he stopped and took a tape line from his pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six inches were unrolled, scanning the figures in the one light of the new moon. Giving me the end, the metals motioning me to proceed down the embankment. I stretched out the line and then sank my hand in the damp grass to mark the spot. Good God! I cried aghast. What's this? It is the pistol, set combs quietly. It was! Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record of the investigations of Sherlock Holmes, as printed at length in the next day's evening blade. Would that my story ended here? Alas! Combs contentiously turned over the pistol to Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated as I always hold by jealousy, found the name of the cellar upon it. They investigated. The cellar testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr. Kipson as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was arrested and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal. It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man and usually came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the miscreants turned their thoughts toward the disposal of the body, a subject that always occupies before the deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line and have it mangled by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body halfway up the embankment, the express came along and stopped. The guard got out and walked along the other side to speak with the engineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the deceased's key. It was known that the pistol dropped when they were hoisting the body in the carriage. The Queen's evidence dodged didn't work and Scotland Yard ignobley insulted my friend Sherlock Holmes by sending him a pass to see the villains hanged. End of chapter 9 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Czechris London UK The triumphs of Eugène Valmont by Robert Barr Chapter 10 The Adventure of the Second Swag The time was Christmas Eve 1904. The place was an ancient secluded manor house built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stood at the head of a profound valley, a valley clothed in ferns and a well-clothed a valley clothed in ferns waist-deep and somberly guarded by ancient trees the remnants of a primeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could be seen. The descending road which connected the King's highway with the stronghold was so sinuous and precipitant that more than once the grim baronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiate the dangerous curves. This isolated situation and gloomy architecture of this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observer with the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of dark deeds. Would it not for the fact that the place was brilliantly illumined with electricity while the silence was emphasised rather than disturbed by the monotonous regular thud of an accumulator pumping the subtle fluid into a receptive bed in an outhouse to the east. The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain but the very somberness of the scene made the brilliant stained glass windows stand out like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was the appearance presented by Undershore the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle situated among the wilds of Hindhead some forty or fifty miles from London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote from civilization law should be set at defiance and that the one lone policeman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passed the sinister gates of Undershore. In a large room of this manor house furnished with a luxuriant elegance one would not have expected in a region so far from humanising influences sat two men. The giant in stature whose broad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look of determination to his countenance which was further enhanced by the heavy black mustache which covered his upper lip. There was something of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had in fact taken part in more than one fiercely fought battle and was a member of several military clubs. But it was plain to be seen that his ancestors had used war clubs and had transmitted to him the physique of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of the Strand which he held in his hand nor read the name printed there in large letters to know that he was face to face with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. His guest, an older man yet still in the prime of life whose beard was tinged with grey was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated novelist belonging as he evidently did to the civil and not the military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man of affairs shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory and these two strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very probably feel disappointed as he finds, as he supposes, merely two old friends sitting amicably in a country-house after dinner. There seems to his jaded taste no element of tragedy in such a situation. These two men appear comfortable enough and respectable enough. It is true that there is whiskey and soda at hand and the box of cigars is open yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the most placid revealed only to writers of fiction in our apony press. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two men tried as by fire under a great temptation and then let him say whether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scatheless from the ordeal. Have you brought the swag, Sir George? asked the novelist with some trace of anxiety in his voice. Yes, replied the great publisher, but before proceeding to the count, would it not be wise to give orders that will ensure our being left undisturbed? You are right, replied Doyle, pressing an electric button. When the servant appeared, he said, I am not at home to any one. No matter who calls or what excuse is given, you must permit none to approach this room. When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive oaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail pocket of his dress-coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings, poured the rich red gold on the smooth table. I think you will find that right, he said, six thousand pounds in all. The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile at four fingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, saved by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a cord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright muttering, Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times? Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring to keep his memory green, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten. Not at home, cried the vibrant voice, nonsense, everybody is at home on Christmas Eve. You don't seem to be, he heard the servant reply, me, oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master, and at once. Master left in his motor-car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given to-night at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away, answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art. Nonsense I say again, came the strident voice. It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall, spattered with mud, shows it upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor, second a publisher, and third a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with this heraldic device is Sir George Nunes. You forget Sir Alfred Harnsworth, said the servant whose hand held a copy of answers. If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed. As the last shower began at ten minutes to six, Sir George must have arrived at Hazelmere station on the 619 from Waterloo. He has had dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Connondoyle, doubtless in the front room which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now if you will kindly take in my card, but I tell you," persisted the perplexed servant, that the master left in his motor-car for the county ball at the—oh, I know, I know! There stands his suit of armour, too, newly black-ledded, whose coat of arms is a cushion typewriter on an automobile rampant.—Great heavens, c'est Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire. You have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say? A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist brow. I say, he replied sternly, that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces. Then triply bolt the door, advised noons, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair. Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears, as Doyle fiercely rising to his feet? No. I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall. Better have him in the drawing-room where it's warm, suggests Sir George with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters. The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's Westminster Gazette over the pile of gold, stroked to the door, and threw it open and set coldly. Show the gentleman in, please. There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man with clean shave and face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose. Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you, Sir George, it is quite superfluous, said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a liberal of strong home-rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock neck-tie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Nunes. Congratulations, Sir George. Rapidly rising, replied the editor, I am glad of that, asserted the intruder suavely, and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling. The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire, and rubbed them vigorously together. I perceived through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold. Doyle interrupted him with some impatience. You didn't see it through the paper, you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets. As I was about to remark, went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs a hundred and twenty-three point four four grains. Therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, in the metal, and figured out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George? In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?" asked the astonished publisher. Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table. Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing, said Doyle Wirrily, sitting down in the first chair Can't you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other. That is true, said Sherlock Holmes. The fact is, I followed Sir George Noonze into the capital and count his bank this afternoon where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold. But when he learned that this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces of Waddupois weight, and that even Troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took the gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two Ruffians a century or so ago. There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice when he said, Did you not realise that you were in a dangerous locality and likely to fall in with two Ruffians asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. No, the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with me, although I expect to bear many away. Would you mind telling us, without further occlusion, what brings you here so late at night? Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly. After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduct even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to undershore, but he should have left the other at 221 B Baker Street. I call this little trip the Adventure of the Second Swag. Here is the Second Swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share were some honoured words of complement in the stories you wrote. Now it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and in this instance they do not even turn away Roth. So far as the Second Swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it. I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine," said Doyle, apparently netled at the other slighting reference to his powers. I was well aware when you came in what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank you also followed him to Waterloo Station. Quite right. When he purchased his ticket for Hazelmere you did the same. I did. When you arrived at Hazelmere you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr. Watson, telling him of your whereabouts. You are wrong there. I ran after the motor-car. You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs which I need not mention that point irrevocably to such a conclusion. The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle awaited his answer. Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram nor spoke any message since I left London. Ah! No, cried Doyle. I see where I went astray. You merely inquired the way to my house. I needed to make no inquiries. I followed the real light of the automobile partway up the hill, and when that disappeared, I turned to the right instead of the left, as there was no one out on such a night from whom I could make inquiry. My deductions, then, are beside the mark, said Doyle Horsley, in an accent which sent cold chills up and down the spine of his invited guest, but conveyed no intimation of his fate to the self-satisfied later arrival. Of course they were, said Holmes, with exasperating self-assure, but I did not know with exasperating self-assurance. Am I also wrong in deducting that you have had nothing to eat since you left London? No, you are quite right there. Well oblige me by pressing that electric button. Holmes did so with much eagerness, but although the trio waited some minutes in silence, there was no response. I deduct from that, said Doyle, that the servants have gone to bed, after I have quite satisfied all your claims in the way of hunger for food and gold, I shall take you back in my motor-car, unless you prefer to stay here the night. You are very kind, said Sherlock Holmes. Not at all, replied Doyle. Just take that chair, draw it up to the table, and we will divide the second swag. The chair indicated differed from all the others in the room. It was straight backed, and its oaken arms were covered by two plates, apparently of German silver. When Holmes clutched it by the arms to drag it forward, he gave one half-articulate gasp and plunged headlong to the floor, quivering. Sir George Nunes sprang up standing with a cry of alarm. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle remained seated, a seraphic smile of infinite satisfaction playing about his lips. As he fainted, cried Sir George, no, merely electrocuted. A simple device the sheriff of New York taught me when I was over there last. Merciful heavens, cannot he be resuscitated? My dear Nunes, said Doyle, with the air of one from whose shoulders a great weight is lifted, a man may fall into the chasm at the foot of the Reichenbach fall and escape to record his adventures later. But when two thousand volts pass through the human frame, the person who owns that frame is dead. You don't mean to say you've murdered him? asked Sir George in an odd whisper. Well, the term you use is harsh, still it rather accurately sums up the situation. To speak candidly, Sir George, I don't think they can indict us for anything more than manslaughter. You see, this is a little invention for the reception of burglars. Every night before the servants go to bed they switch on the current to this chair. Finally I asked Holmes to press the button. I place a small table beside the chair and put on it a bottle of wine, whiskey and soda and cigars. Then if any burglar comes in he invariably sits down in the chair to enjoy himself, and so you see that piece of furniture is an effective method of reducing crime. The number of burglars I have turned over to the parish to be buried will prove that this taking off of Holmes was not premeditated by me. This incident, strictly speaking, is not murder, but manslaughter. We shouldn't get more than fourteen years a piece, and probably that will be cut down to seven on the ground that we had performed an act for the public benefit. A piece, writes Sir George, but what have I had to do with it? Everything, my dear sir, everything. As that babbling fool talked I saw in your eye the gleam which betokens avarice for copy. Indeed, I think you mentioned that January number. You were therefore accessory before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor etch. Sir George sank back in his chair well nigh breathless with horror. Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes. Authors, however, are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they issue a book. Doyle laughed easily. I'm used to this sort of thing, he said. Remember how I killed off the people in the white company? Now, if you will help me to get rid of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. He often disappears for weeks at a time so there really is slight danger of detection. Will you lend a hand? I suppose I must, but I'm not a very intelligent and strict man. Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock Holmes had caused and acted now with an energy which was characteristic of him. Going to an out-house, he brought the motor-car to the front door, then picking up homes and followed by his trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tunnel behind. He then threw a spade and a pick lighting the lamps. He bade his silent guest get up beside him and so they started on their fateful journey taking the road past the spot where the sailor had been murdered and dashing down the long hill at fearful speed toward London. Why do you take this direction? asked Sir George. Wouldn't it be more advisable to go further into the country? Doyle laughed harshly. Haven't you a place on Wimbledon common? Why not bury him in your garden? Merciful motors!" cried the horrified man. How can you propose such a thing? Talking of gardens, why not have buried him in your own which was infinitely safer than going forward at this pace? Have no fear," said Doyle reassuringly. We shall find him a suitable sepulchre without disturbing either of our gardens. I'll be in the centre of London within two hours. Sir George stared in a fright at the demon-driver. The man had to go to London of all places in the world. Surely that was the one spot on earth to avoid. Stop the motor and let me off," he cried. I'm going to wake up the nearest magistrate and confess. You'll do nothing of the sort," said Doyle. Don't you see that no person on earth would suspect two criminals of making for London when they have the whole country before them? Haven't you read my stories? The moment a man commits a crime he will not be able the moment a man commits a crime he tries to get as far from London as possible. Every policeman knows that. Therefore two men coming in to London are innocent strangers, according to Scotland Yard. But then we may be taken up for fast driving and think of the terrible burden we carry. We're safe on the country roads and I'll slow down when we reach the suburbs. It was approaching three o'clock in the morning when a huge motor-car turned out of Trafalgar Square and went eastward along the Strand. The northern side of the Strand was up, as it usually is, and the motor skillfully driven glided past the piles of wood-paving blocks, great somber kettles holding tar, and the general debris of a repaving convulsion. Opposite Southampton Street, at the very spot so graphically illustrated by George C. Haight on the cover of the Strand magazine, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped his motor. The Strand was deserted. He threw pick and shovel into the excavation and curtly ordered his companion to take his choice of weapons. Sir George selected the pick and Doyle vigorously plied the spade. In almost less time than it takes to tell it, a very respectable hole had been dug and in it was placed the body of the popular private detective. Just as the last spadeful was shoveled in place, the stern voice of a policeman awoke the silence and caused Sir George to drop his pick from nerveless hands. What are you two doing down there? That's all right, officer, said Doyle glibly, as one who had foreseen every emergency. My friend here is controller of the Strand. When the Strand is up, he's responsible, and it has the largest circulation in the— I mean, it's up oftener than any other street in the world. The Strand is up, and it has the largest circulation in the— I mean, it's up oftener than any other street in the world. We cannot inspect the work satisfactorily while traffic is on, and so we've been examining it in the nighttime. I'm his secretary. I do the writing, you know. Oh, I see, replied the constable. Well, gentlemen, good morning to you and merry Christmas. The same to you, constable. Just lend a hand, will you? The officer of the law helped each of the men up to the level of the road. As Doyle drove away from the ill omen spot, he said, Thus we have disposed of poor homes in the busiest spot on earth, where no one will ever think of looking for him. And we've put him away without even a Christmas box round him. We've buried him forever in the Strand. End of chapter 10. End of the triumphs of Eugène Valmont.