“Eh? What do you mean?”

  “I mean be careful, of course. Beat me if even I exactly know what I mean. It’s just a thought that came into my head all of a sudden. But there, then, be off, young chap. I ain’t gonna say another word.”

  With difficulty Frank was able to suppress his surprise. He saw that the old man knew much more than he had said and his knowledge might be of huge value to him. He could also see that he had decided to hold his tongue and that it would at that moment be a waste of time to try and get anything out of him. An empty cab passed them and he hailed it. He tipped his hat and stepped inside. He told the cab driver to drive to Oxford Street.

  Keeping in mind the warning, which he had just received from Chuff, he didn’t give the name of the restaurant, where he was to meet Mr. Poiret, because he made up his mind to be careful, very careful. He remembered the two odd whistles, which had seemed to make Joseph Kennan wince and which certainly broke off the meeting between the three men. He remembered that it was after a glance down the street that Chuff had become less talkative and had given him that strange warning. He shivered. He looked out of the window.

  “By heaven,” he said, “I’m being followed.”

  He got the cab driver’s attention by pulling him by the sleeve.

  “Listen to me,” he said, as the man turned, “and don’t slow down. Here, take your five shilling in advance.”

  “Huh? Hey look here...”

  “Listen to me. Go as sharp as you can to Carnaby Street. Turn down it and as you do, go a bit slower. Then drive on at full speed and when you’re back in Oxford Street do what you like, because your cab will be empty.”

  The cab driver laughed.

  “Aha,” he said. “I see you’ve seen too many American movies.”

  “Yes, maybe you’re right.”

  “Then listen to me. Take care, when you jump, you don’t land on your knees. Step out quickly, but no acrobatic stuff, because it ain’t the safest.”

  Frank succeeded in alighting safely and stepped into a shop, before his pursuer had entered the street. The young doctor lurked in the shop for five minutes, but there was nothing to be seen out of the window and no spy had made his appearance.

  “I’m seeing things,” he mumbled.

  He left his hiding place and went in quest of Mr. Poiret. As he approached the location chosen for their meeting, he saw his friend, smoking a cigar. The two men caught sight of each other almost at the same moment. Mr. Poiret advanced to greet the young man with extended hand.

  “Mon ami,” he said with a thick French accent, “Poiret has been waiting for you for the last twenty minutes.”

  The doctor commenced to apologize, but his friend stopped him.

  “Ce n’est pas important,” he interrupted. “Poiret, he knows that you must have had the reasons, but this did not stop him from becoming nervous about your health.”

  “Nervous! But why?”

  “Do you not recollect what Poiret, he tells to you the other evening? Baron St. Ives, he is the dangerous man, who is like the cat, which is cornered in the corner.”

  Frank remained silent and his friend, putting his arm affectionately on his shoulder, said, “Let us walk. It is better than sitting down in the restaurant. Monsieur St. Ives, he is capable of anything. He has the prospect before him of the large fortune, now that he has squandered the one left to him by his brother Thomas. A man in his position is not, how do you say, to be trifled with.”

  “I don’t fear him.”

  “But Poiret, he does. It is for the best that he has never seen you.”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “Not only has he seen me, but I think that he suspects we’re up to something.”

  “C’est impossible!”

  “I’m sure that I’ve been followed today. I don’t have actual proof, but still I’m convinced that I was.”

  Frank recounted to the small Frenchman all that had occurred during the day.

  “You are being watched,” declared Mr. Poiret, “and every step that you take will be known to your enemies and at this very moment, perhaps, their eyes, they are on us.”

  As he spoke he glanced uneasily around. It was quite dark, however and he could see no one.

  “Poiret, he will give to the spies a little gentle exercise,” he said, “and if we dine together they will find it hard to discover the location.”

  Mr. Poiret stopped next to a cab. The driver was dozing on the driving-seat. Poiret aroused him and whispered something in his ear. The two men then stepped inside and the car drove away at a quick pace.

  “What do you think of this?” asked Mr. Poiret. “We will go at this pace for the next twenty minutes. We will then step out and be free for the rest of the night and those, who wish to follow Poiret and his friend tonight, they must have the good eyes and the good legs.”

  All came to pass as Mr. Poiret had arranged. But as he jumped out of the car he saw a dark form slip out of the trunk of the car and mingle with the crowd on the narrow street.

  “Mon Dieu!” he said, touching his huge mustache. “That was the man. Poiret, he wished to throw off the spy off the track and now he sees that he was in reality only treating him to the free taxi ride.”

  To make sure, he took off his glove and felt the lock on the trunk of the cab.

  “You see?” he said. “It has been forced by the metal object. This spy, he is the, how do you say, genuine article. Dangerous.”

  The doctor remained silent, but all was now explained. The woman he loved was being circled by wolves with gold on their minds and murder in their hearts. He and the woman he loved stood no chance, even with the help of the famous detective Jules Poiret, who had been recommended to him by their mutual acquaintance Mrs. Diss. This discovery saddened the dinner and a little after ten the doctor left his friend and went home.

  Mrs. Diss, who lived in the same building as Mr. Poiret had not been wrong, when she told Dr. Frank Defoe in Carl Esprey’s hotel suite that sorrow and impending danger had brought Count and Countess Bletchley nearer together and that Miss Cora had made up her mind to sacrifice herself for the honor of her brother. Unfortunately this change in the relationship between husband and wife had not taken place immediately. After her conversation with Earl Keresley, in which he had blackmailed her with the information only the Weasel could have told him, Jane’s first thought had not been to go to her husband, but to write to Philip, who was as much compromised and in danger of exposure as she herself. Her first letter didn’t beget a reply. She wrote a second and then a third, in which, though she didn’t go into details, she let Lord Swaffham know that she was the victim of blackmail and that danger hung over their heads. Her last letter to Philip was brought back to her by her footman, without an envelope and across it Philip had written, “What goes around, comes around. Justice at last.”

  These words lit up in fire before her eyes. Misfortune had at last found her door and the hour of retribution had come. She sat down on a sofa. She was not the young woman, she had been. Her energy had been slowly eaten up by life. Her mind was not as resilient as it once was. She did not know whether she would be able to live though another crisis. She sighed. At last she felt weak. She told herself that she had to be prepared to suffer. She was at last willing to atone for her many crimes.

  Then, when she felt all hope was lost and she must go to her husband for aid, it came to her that the blackmailer had not stipulated his price. She called the earl and demanded to know the price.

  “A trifle,” he responded. “Your sister-in-law.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My friend Baron Jason St. Ives wishes to marry Miss Cora Bletchley.”

  “Oh, happy day!” she thought to herself. “I’m saved!”

  She decided to blame him for the reason for the blackmail, murdering his employee Charles in a fit of rage all those years ago. When she told her husband the blackmailer’s price for keeping silent, the count immediately ran for his gun cabinet and vowed to kill the earl and himself and only by telling his sister Cora, what danger her brother was in, did Jane elicit the agreement of the tremendously wealthy young woman to marry Baron Jason St. Ives and save her brother from death at his own hand or the gallows.

  The Count’s mind reeled. He called up to his memory what Jane had been, when he first saw and loved her at Worrall Manor. She was pure and modest then. Bletchley had had hideous doubts concerning her relations with Philip, both before and after marriage. His wife had always firmly denied this. Now here she was, fighting for his life, trying to hide the guilty secret of his past life. He had believed that Jane did not love him, but now he had to reproach himself for the indifference he had displayed towards her.

  He didn’t respond to his sister’s terrible offer to sacrifice herself for him. But, when the countess had concluded her speech, he left the room, stretching out his arms and grasping the walls for support, like a drunken man.

  The count believed that Cora was chosen because of her wealth, her favorite aunt had left her considerable fortune to her, not because the Baron had fallen in love with her.

  Cora had heard all those fatal words, “ruin, dishonor and gallows,” come out of her sister-in-law’s mouth. At first she hardly understood what she was saying. She believed herself to be still sleeping. She tried to shake it off, but too soon she knew that the whispered words were sad realities and she lay on her bed shaking with fear. Much of the conversation escaped her, but she heard enough. Her brother’s past sins were to be exposed, if the sister didn’t marry a man entirely unknown to her, Baron Jason St. Ives, the brother of Thomas St. Ives, who had disappeared a few years before. She knew that her torture wouldn’t be for very long, because she loved Frank Defoe and to part with him would be to part with life itself. She made up her mind to live until she had saved her brother’s honor by the sacrifice of herself and then she would be free to accept the peace death would afford her. She was a youth of sound constitution and courage. When she had made up her mind her will was as strong as ever.

  Her first act was to write a letter to her lover to break off their unofficial engagement, which had driven him to the verge of madness and then, fearing for her brother’s life, that his anger or remorse might drive him to act rashly, she went to him and told him that she knew all.

  “I love no one,” she said with a pitiful smile, “and therefore the sacrifice is not so great after all.”

  The count was not for a moment duped by the generous woman, but he didn’t dare to brave the scandal of the death of Charles. Time was passing, however and the miscreants in whose power they were didn’t give any signs of life. Earl Keresley didn’t appear again and there were moments, when the unhappy Cora actually tried to hope.

  “Have they forgotten us?” she thought.

  But no, they were dealing with people, who never forgot. They had other fish to fry. The Swaffham affair was moving along satisfactorily and every precaution had been taken to prevent the detection of Allen Acheson and his son as impostors and engaged as he had been with that, Joseph Kennan had no time to turn his attention to the marriage of Miss Cora Bletchley and Jason St. Ives. But then it was time to dispatch the Weasel on this errand.

  This amiable individual, who had only become more disagreeable in disposition as he grew richer, though he was moving in the shadows of high society, didn’t consider it necessary to make any improvement in his attire. This was the reason why the footman, on seeing such a shabby visitor and hearing him ask for the count or countess, didn’t hesitate to reply, with a sneer, that his master and mistress had been out for some months and were not likely to return for a week or two. This fact didn’t seem to sway the wily old man, because taking one of Earl Keresley’s cards from his pocket, he begged the kind gentleman to take it upstairs. He was sure that he would at once be sent for.

  Bletchley, when he read the name on the card, turned ghastly pale.

  “Show him in the library,” he said curtly.

  The footman left the room. The count mutely handed the card to his wife, but she had no need to read it.

  “I can guess what it is,” she gasped.

  “The time to settle my accounts has come,” said the count.

  The countess flung herself on her knees and taking the hand that hung placidly by his side, she pressed her lips tenderly to it.

  “Forgive me, Howard!” she mumbled. “Please, will you not forgive me? I’ve been a miserable wife to you and why didn’t Heaven punish me for the sins that I have committed and not make you suffer so much?”

  The count pushed her gently aside. He suffered intensely and yet no word of reproach escaped his lips against the woman, who had been the cause of the murder, which had ruined and continued ruining his life.

  “And dear Cora,” she went on, “must she marry this wretched scoundrel?”

  Cora was the only one in the room, who preserved her calmness. She had so taught herself that her inner distress was not apparent outwardly.

  “Don’t make yourselves miserable,” she said, with a faint smile. “How do we know that Mr. St. Ives isn’t a wonderful man after all?”

  The count looked at his sister with a look of the fondest affection and gratitude.

  “Dearest Cora!” he murmured.

  Her fortitude had restored his composure.

  “Let us appear calm,” he said, “whatever our true feelings may be. Time may aid us and God may provide us with a means of escape.”

  The footman conducted the Weasel to the sumptuous library, in which the countess had received Earl Keresley’s visit. To pass away the time, the old man took a mental inventory of the contents of the room. He felt the texture of the curtains, looked at the bindings of the books and admired the expensive bronzes on the mantelpiece.

  “Just what I thought,” he mumbled, as he tried a luxurious leather armchair. “Everything is the best of the best. When matters are settled, I would like to buy a little pied-a-terre just like this one.”

  He stopped himself, because the door opened and the count entered the room. He looked calm and dignified, but very pale. The Weasel made a low bow, pressing his greasy hat against his heart.

  “Your humble servant at your service,” he said.

  The count had come to a sudden halt.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but didn’t you send up a calling card asking for me?”

  “I’m not Earl Keresley. Certainly not. I used that highly respectable gentleman’s name, because I knew that my own was totally unknown to you. My name is Newton, Armand Newton.”

  Mr. Bletchley gazed suspiciously on the shabby individual in front of him. His mild and benevolent face inspired confidence and yet his eyes flashed cunning and danger.

  “I’ve come to talk to you about the same issue,” continued the old man. “I’ve been ordered to tell you that it is time.”

  The count hastily closed the door and locked it. The attitude of the man made him feel the weakness of his position.

  “I understand,” he answered, “but how is it that you have come to me and not the earl?”

  “He intended to come, but at the last moment he refused. Earl Keresley, you see, has a great deal to lose, while I...” He stopped talking and pointed with his hands at his tattered coat. “All I own in the world, I wear on my back.”

  “So I interact with you?” asked the count.

  The Weasel nodded his head.

  “Yes, Count. I have an eye witness report and your wife’s correspondence.”

  “Enough,” said the count, unable to hide his anger and disgust. “Sit down.”

  “Count, it is time to settle this matter for once and for all, so I must be blunt. Are you going to put the police on us?”

  “I won’t do anything of the kind,” was the terse answer.

  “Then we can get to business.”

  “Yes, if I...”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders.

  “There is no asking in the case,” he said. “We give you our conditions and you can accept or reject them.”

  These words were said in a tone of such insolence that the count was for a moment tempted to hurl the blackmailer from the window, but he decided to restrain his violent emotions.

  “Let me hear the conditions then,” he said impatiently.

  The Weasel took from his coat an old pocketbook and took from it a piece of paper.

  “Here are our conditions,” he said slowly. “Count Bletchley promises to give the hand of his sister, Cora to Jason Baron St. Ives. His sister will bring into the marriage the six hundred thousand shilling she inherited from her aunt and promises that the marriage will take place without delay. Baron St. Ives will be formally introduced at your house and he must be cordially received by you and your wife. Four days later he must be asked to dinner. Fifteen days later you will give a ball in honor of the signing of the marriage contract. The witness report and all the correspondence will be handed to you as soon as the wedding has taken place.”

  The count listened to these conditions with tightly compressed lips and clenched fists.

  “And who can assure me,” he asked, “that you will keep your end of the deal and that these papers will be given to me?”

  The Weasel looked at him with an air of pity.

  “My good man, think,” he said. “What more could we expect to get out of you than your sister and her money?”

  The count kept quiet. He stood up and paced up and down the room, eyeing the messenger keenly and trying to detect some weak point in his attitude of cynicism and audacity. Then speaking in the calm tone of a man, who had made up his mind, he said, “I remember you from up North. You weren’t so arrogant then.”

  The Weasel shrugged and answered calmly, “An attitude is like a coat, you change it in accordance to the weather.”

  The count looked at him once more.

  “The weather has changed for you, hasn’t it?”

  The other man shrugged.

  “You hold me as in a vice. Your conditions are unacceptable, but I must accept them.”