The Broken Thread
handsome couple, whoever theyare." They passed out.
Others were moving, and some, as they passed, bowed to Gilda. Raifecould not get over the depression which had come over him as they hadleant over the balustrade and gazed at the sad-looking river beforedinner. He found an excuse quite early in the evening and accompaniedGilda to her hotel in Bloomsbury. There was a strained manner which hadbroken the chain of happiness that had lasted for two weeks. Havingbade adieu to Gilda he told his chauffeur to drive him to his rooms inDuke Street. When he arrived, he hastily donned a dressing-gown, and,calling his man, ordered a fire to be lit. A disturbed mind frequentlydesires the solace of a fire, and Raife's mind was perturbed with asense of foreboding. A box of cigars, with a decanter of brandy andsome soda-water, completed his equipment for a moody contemplation ofaffairs. As he reclined in the deep-set leather arm-chair, he appeareda perfect paragon of manhood. He was clad in a thin Japanese silkdressing-gown of many and bright-hued colours. The sombre black of hisevening clothes underneath, heightened by the dazzling brilliancy of abroad expanse of shirt-front, completed the colour scheme, revealed inthe subdued light from a shaded lamp on the small oriental table at hisside. Trouble sat heavily on his handsome countenance, as he gazed intothe crackling flames of the fire that his man, Pulman, had recently lit.
"Anything more, sir?" asked that discreet person, a fine type of theunrivalled English manservant.
"Nothing more, Pulman." And as the door was being softly closed, hecalled out: "Oh, Pulman, I don't want to be disturbed."
"Very good, sir," and he retired. As he disappeared downstairs he saidto himself: "Ten to one there's a woman in the case. That ain't at alllike Sir Raife, leastways, not as I have known him all these years."Pulman sighed a sigh of wisdom as he opened the door in the basement onhis way up the area-steps to a neighbouring hostelry.
Left to himself, and secure from intrusion, Raife rose from his chairand crossed the room to a small black cabinet of exquisite design.Producing a tiny bunch of keys he opened the door of the cabinet, andfrom a small door within, which sprung open as he touched a spring, hetook forth a richly-chased and jewelled miniature frame. The miniatureportrait was of Gilda Tempest. He gazed at it, and, as is the wont ofyoung men who gaze at the portraits of their lady love in the seclusionof their own room, he touched it lightly with his lips. Then a suddentwinge seemed to attack him, and a pained expression pervaded his face.He looked at it lovingly, and muttering: "Ah! If I only knew. What isthis unfathomable mystery?"--he replaced it in the drawer.
Raife sat long and moodily. He helped himself freely with the brandyand soda, but the stimulant did not soothe his troubled mind.
After a certain hour the streets of St James's are silent, and DukeStreet, where Raife's rooms were situated, is not an exception.To-night the very quietude, which is generally desirable, oppressed himfurther. Rising again from his chair, he removed his dressing-gown anddonned a long overcoat and a golf-cap. Choosing a stout walking-stick,he went out into the night. The streets of St James's are well guardedby police, but the city nightbird is witty in his ways, at the sametime, evasive and elusive. As Raife swung into Jermyn Street, he wasconscious of a figure that slouched behind him. Stopping abruptly atthe corner of St James's Street, he wheeled around to find that thefigure was now walking in the other direction, or rather did he appearto crawl. Raife walked down St James's Street, and at the bottom hechartered a passing taxi. Chance enters largely into the movements ofthe lovelorn mind, and chance impelled him to direct the driver toHammersmith. At the wide junction of streets called the Broadway, hedismissed the taxi and wandered around for a while. He noticed anothertaxi pull up almost immediately after his own, and a familiar figure ina long coat and flowing tie, got out and crossed to a coffee-stall.Curiosity prompted him to follow. Some heavy traffic impeded hisprogress for about half a minute, and when he reached the coffee-stallthe figure had disappeared. He called for a cup of coffee which he didnot drink.
The trouble entered his mind again and he soliloquised: "Was he beingshadowed? If so, why? Who was this mysterious figure, and where hadthey met before?"
"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud. "What do I care?" The coffee-stall keeperlooked at him, and, with a wide experience of such matters, assumed thathe had been drinking.
Raife sauntered away, leaving his coffee untouched, which more than everconfirmed the coffee-man's view of the subject. Again a blind impulsesteered Raife, and he found himself wandering among the queer littlestreets and alley-ways that fringe the riverside and lead to HammersmithMall. The tide was high and the dull swish of the water, as it swungpast the moored barges, soothed his troubled mind for a while, and hebecame engrossed in the strangeness of his weird surroundings. A slightmist came off the river and added to the mystery. He had now reachedthat part of the Mall made famous by William Morris, and those brilliantmen who founded the Kelmscott Press, and restored the merits of Englishtypography and printing. The houses of Chiswick Mall and HammersmithMall are famous for their old-world charm, and many of them suggest,from without, the wealth and comfort within.
Time flies quickly to the engrossed and contemplative mind. Raife hadseated himself on a sort of disused capstan, and was gazing at the riveras he smoked his pipe. At rare intervals, he heard footsteps in thedistance, and assumed they were bargees, or other workmen, going totheir nightly occupations. The rumble and clink of machinery proclaimedthe proximity of a brewery that does not distinguish between night andday in its operations.
Once, looking round, as he imagined footsteps that were too stealthy forthose of a British workman, he fancied he saw the mysterious figure ofJermyn Street and the Broadway. He chased away the thought as merelyfanciful and the result of his perturbed brain. The incident trended inhis thoughts, however, towards that persistent person. Presently, itflashed through his mind and brought a crowd of recollections to him:the curious meeting with Gilda at Nice; the message conveyed by thelittle Italian girl among the orange groves by moonlight; the messagedelivered at the entrance of the cafe!
Yes! He was sure now. It was that Apache fellow, who looked as thoughhe might be from the Latin quarter of Paris, and yet was not. But hadnot Gilda told him that he was killed in the motor smash outside Cuneo?Again he said: "Bah! What does it matter? Or, what do I care?"
With a suddenness that took him quite off his guard he was seized frombehind. His arms were pinioned in a firm grip, whilst another man,holding a revolver, went through his pockets. As becomes an outragedEnglishman, whether he be plebeian or aristocrat, Raife swore violently,and struggled viciously. At length, the man who searched his pockets,said: "It's all right, sir, he's got no weapon or arms." Still holdingthe pistol in front, his arms were released from behind. Raife turnedto face the man with the iron grip who had pinioned him so easily. Bothmen gave a start and an exclamation of surprise.
"Good heavens! Herrion--Inspector--what's the meaning of this?"demanded Raife.
"Well," said Inspector Herrion, for it was he, the immaculate ScarletPimpernel of Scotland Yard, "we hardly expected, Sir Raife, to find youhere, at this hour of the night."
Raife laughed, and said: "I couldn't sleep, so I took a stroll."
"Rather a long stroll, Sir Raife, from St James's to the Mall,Hammersmith, in the middle of the night," said Herrion with a curioussmile. "May I call on you in the morning, sir?" he added.
"Why to be sure, I'll be delighted to see you. But leave that infernalgrip of yours behind," and they both laughed.
At this moment there was a trampling of bushes in the garden behind, theswinging and slamming of a heavy iron gate, and then a shout: "Stophim!" A cloaked form, with flowing tie, dashed past a few yards fromwhere the trio stood. They joined in hot pursuit, but the Apache, forit was he, was fleet of foot and had a good start. Further, he seemedto know every alley and byway in this maze of wharves and streets.
Taking part in the chase, Raife was handicapped by his ignorance of theneighbourho
od, and, at the outset, ran into a post in the dark andplaced himself _hors de combat_ in the matter of speed. Raife was arunner, but to charge full tilt into a post was a sore handicap. Aftera while, Herrion, the dapper, little detective-inspector, was the onlyone left in the chase, and he ran as well as the Apache, but the Apachehad the start, and, with the inherited cunning of his breed, understoodthe art of doubling. The inspector was unfamiliar with these alleys andslums, and it looked as though the Apache had got clean away. They cameto a _cul de sac_ and there was no trace of him. With the consummateskill of his class, he had vanished into space and was gone. The twopolicemen and Raife retraced their steps and met other officers.Herrion was not the type of man to abandon his quarry without taxing hisextraordinary resources to