CHAPTER XXX
THE QUEEN OF MEXONIA
Wrayson, who had been prepared for something surprising, was yet startledout of his composure. The affairs of the unhappy Royal House of Mexoniawere the property of the world. He half rose to his feet, but Madame deMelbain instantly waved him back again.
"My friends," she said, "deem it advisable that my whereabouts should notbe known. I certainly am very anxious that my incognita should bepreserved."
She paused, and Wrayson, without hesitation, answered her unspokenquestion. Unconsciously, too, he found himself using the same manner ofaddress as the others.
"Madame," he said, "whatever you choose to tell me will be sacred."
She bowed her head slightly.
"I am going to tell you a good deal," she said, glancing across atLouise.
Louise opened her lips as though about to intervene. Madame de Melbaincontinued, however, without a break.
"I am going to tell you more than may seem necessary," she said, "becauseI believe that I am one of those unfortunate persons whose evil lot it isto bring unhappiness upon their friends. So far as I can avoid this, Mr.Wrayson, I mean to. Further--it is possible that I may askyou--presently--to render me a service."
Wrayson bowed low. He felt that she was already well aware of hiswillingness.
"First, then, let me tell you," she continued, leaning back in her chair,and looking away across the valley with eyes whose light was whollyreminiscent, "that we three were schoolgirls together, Louise, Amy--whomyou know better, perhaps, as the Baroness de Sturm--and myself. We wereat a convent near Brussels. There were not many pupils, and we three werefriends....
"We had a great deal of liberty--more liberty, perhaps, than our friendswould have approved of. We worked, it is true, in the mornings, but inthe afternoons we rode or played tennis in the Bois. It was there that Imet Prince Frederick, who afterwards became my husband.
"I was only sixteen years old, and just as silly, I suppose, as a girlbrought up as I had been brought up was certain to be. I was very muchflattered by Prince Frederick's attentions, and quite ready to respondto them. My own family was noble, and the match was not considered aparticularly unequal one, for though Frederick was of the Royal House,he was a long way from the succession. Still, there was a good deal oftrouble when a messenger from Frederick went to my father. He declaredthat I was altogether too young; my mother, on the other hand, wasjust as anxious to conclude the match. Eventually it was arranged thatthe betrothal should take place in six months--and Frederick went backto Mexonia."
Madame de Melbain paused for a moment. Wrayson felt, from her slightlyaltered attitude and a significant lowering of her voice, that she wasreaching the part of her narrative which she found the most difficult.
"We girls," she continued, "went back to school, and just at that timeLouise's brother came over to Brussels. I think that I have already toldyou that the supervision over us was far from strict. There was nothingto prevent Captain Fitzmaurice being a good deal with us. We hadpicnics, tennis parties, rides! Long before the six months were up Iunderstood how foolish I had been. I wrote to Prince Frederick andbegged him to release me from our uncompleted engagement. His answer wasto appear in person. He made a scene. My mother and father were nowwholly on his side. Within a few weeks he had lost both a cousin and abrother. His succession to the throne was almost a certainty. His ownpeople were just as anxious to have him married. I did not know whythen, but I found out later on. They had their way. I believe thatthings are different in an English home. In mine, I can assure you thatI never had any chance. I entered upon my married life without the leastpossibility of happiness. Needless to say, I never realized any! For thelast four years my husband has been trying for a divorce! Very soon itis possible that he will succeed."
Wrayson leaned a little towards her.
"Is it permitted, Madame, to ask a question?"
"Why not?"
"You have fought against this divorce, you and your friends, sozealously. Yet your life has been unhappy. Release could scarcely havebeen anything but a relief to you!"
Madame de Melbain raised her head slightly. Her brows were a littlecontracted. From her eyes there flashed the silent fire of aqueen's disdain.
"Release! Yes, I would welcome that! If it were death it would be verywelcome! But divorce--he to divorce me, he, whose brutality andinfidelities are the scandal of every Court in Europe! No! A divorce Inever shall accept. Separation I have insisted upon."
Wrayson hesitated for a moment.
"May I be pardoned," he said, "if I repeat to you what I saw in printlately--in a famous English paper? They spoke of this divorce case whichhas lasted so long; they spoke of it as about to be finally decided.There was some fresh evidence about to be produced, a special court wasto be held."
Madame de Melbain turned, if possible, a shade paler.
"Yes!" she said slowly, "I have heard of that. We have all heard of that.I want to tell you, Mr. Wrayson, what that fresh evidence consists of."
Wrayson bowed and waited. Somehow he felt that he was on the eve of agreat discovery.
"Both before my marriage and afterwards," Madame de Melbain said quietly,"I wrote to--Captain Fitzmaurice. I was always impulsive--when I wasyounger, and my letters, especially one written on the eve of mymarriage, would no doubt decide the case against me. Captain Fitzmauricewas killed--in Natal, but in a mysterious way news has reached me of theletters since his death."
"In what way?" Wrayson asked.
For the first time, Madame de Melbain glanced a little nervously abouther. Against listeners, however, they seemed absolutely secure. There wasno hiding-place, nor any one within sight. Upon the land was everywherethe silence of a great heat. Even in the shade where they sat the stillair was hot and breathless. Down in the valley the cows stood knee deepin the stream, and a blue haze hung over the vineyards.
"Nearly eighteen months ago," Madame de Melbain continued, "I received aletter signed by the name of Morris Barnes. The writer said that he hadjust arrived from South Africa, and had picked up on one of thebattlefields there a bundle of letters, which he had come to theconclusion must have been written by me. He did not mince matters in theleast. He was a blackmailer pure and simple. He had given me the firstchance of buying these letters! What was my offer?"
A sharp ejaculation broke from Wrayson's lips. Louise signed to him tobe silent.
"Amy was with me when the letters came," Madame de Melbain continued."She left at once for England to see this man. The sum he demanded wasimpossible. All that she could do was to ask for time, and to arrange topay him so much a month whilst we were considering how to raise themoney. He accepted this, and promised to keep silence. He kept his word,but for a time only. He made inquiries, and he seems to have come to theconclusion that the money was on the other side. At any rate, heapproached the advisers of my husband. He was in treaty with them for theletters--when he--when he met with his death!"
Wrayson had a feeling that the heat was becoming intolerable. He darednot look at Louise. His eyes were fixed upon the still expressionlessface of the woman whose story was slowly unfolding its tragic course.
"A rumour of this," Madame de Melbain continued, "reached us in Mexonia!I telegraphed to Amy! She and Louise were at their wits' ends. Louisedecided to go and see this man Barnes, to make her way, if she could,into his flat, to search for and, if she could find them, to steal theseletters. She carried out her purpose or rather her attempted purpose. Therest you know, for it was you who saved her!"
"The man," Wrayson said hoarsely, "was murdered."
Madame de Melbain inclined her head.
"So I have understood," she remarked.
"He was murdered," Wrayson continued in a harsh, unnatural voice, "onthat very night, the night when he was to have made over these letters toyour--enemies! The message was telephoned to me! He was to go to theHotel Francis. He was warned that there was danger. And there was! He wasmurdered--while the cab waite
d--to take him there!"
Her eyes held his--she did not flinch.
"The man who telephoned to me--Bentham his name was, the agent of yourenemies,--he, too, was murdered!"
"So I have heard," she said calmly.
"The letters!" he faltered. "Where are they?"
"No one knows," she answered. "That is why I live always on the brink ofa volcano. Many people are searching for them. No one as yet hassucceeded. But that may come at any moment."
"Madame," he said, "can you tell me who killed these men?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"I cannot," she answered coldly.
"Madame," he declared, "the man Barnes was a pitiful blackmailing littleJew! For all I know, he deserved death a dozen times over--ay, andBentham too! But the law does not look upon it like that. Whoever killedthese men will assuredly be hanged if they are caught. Don't you thinkthat your friends are a little too zealous?"
She met his gaze unflinchingly.
"If friends of mine have done these things," she said, "they are at leastunknown to me!"
He drew a short choking breath of relief. Yet even now the mystery wasdeeper than ever! He began to think out loud.
"A friend of yours it must have been," he declared. "Barnes was murderedwhen in a few hours he would have parted with those letters to yourenemies; Bentham was murdered when he was on the point of discoveringthem! There is some one working for you, guarding you, who desires toremain unknown. I wonder!"
He stopped short. A sudden illumining idea flashed through his mind. Helooked at Madame de Melbain fixedly.
"This man Duncan who has disappeared so suddenly," he said thickly. "Whomdid you say--who was it that he reminded you of?"
Madame de Melbain lost at last her composure. She was white to the lips,her eyes seemed suddenly lit with a horrible dread. She pushed out herhands as though to thrust it from her.
"He was killed!" she cried. "It was not he! He is dead! Don't dare tospeak of anything so horrible!"
Then, before they could realize that he was actually amongst them, he wasthere. They heard only a crashing of boughs, the parting of the hedge. Hewas there on his knees, with his arms around the terrified woman who hadsobbed out his name. Louise, too, swayed upon her feet, her fascinatedeyes fixed upon the newcomer. Wrayson understood, then, that in some waythis man had indeed come back from the dead.
"HE WAS THERE ON HIS KNEES, WITH HIS ARMS AROUND THETERRIFIED WOMAN"]