True to his training, the Provincial had not spoken the truth when he said that he had been ordered to Paris. There was only one man in the world who could order him to do anything, and that man was too wise to test his authority. Raoul d'Audierne had come to Paris for the purpose of seeing his brother--senior by an hour. There were many things of which he wished to speak, some belonging to the distant past, some to a more recent date. He wished to speak of Christian Vellacott--one of the few men who had succeeded in outwitting him--of Signor Bruno, or Max Talma, who had died within pistol range of that same Englishman, a sudden, voiceless death, the result of a terrible access of pa.s.sion at the sight of his face.

But this man was a Jesuit and a d'Audierne, which latter statement is full of import to those who, having studied heredity, know that wonderful _inner_ history of France which is the most romantic story of human kind. And so Raoul d'Audierne--the man whose power in the world is like that of the fires burning within the crust of the earth, unseen, immeasurable--and so he took his hat, and left the little room behind the tobacconist's shop in the Rue St. Gingolphe--beaten, frustrated.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT

"Money," Captain Lebrun was saying emphatically, as the _Agnes and Mary_ drifted slowly past Gravesend pier on the rising tide. "Hang money! Now, I should think that you make as much of it in a month as I do in a year. You're a young man, and as far as I know ye, ye're a successful one. Life spreads out before you like a clean chart. I'm an old 'un--my time is nearly up. I've lived what landsmen call a hard life, and now I'm slowly goin' home. Ay, Mr. Vellacott, goin' home! And you think that with all your manifold advantages you're a happier man than me. Not a bit of it! And why? 'Cause you belong to a generation that looks so far ahead that it's afraid of bein' happy, just for fear there's sorrow a comin'. Money, and lookin' ahead, that's what spoils yer lives nowadays."

The skipper emphasised these weighty observations by expectorating decisively into the water, and walked away, leaving Christian Vellacott with a vaguely amused smile upon his face. It is just possible that Silas Lebrun, master and owner of the _Agnes and Mary_, was nearer the mark than he thought.

An hour later, Vellacott was walking along the deserted embankment above Westminster, on the Chelsea side of the river. It was nine o'clock, for which fact Big Ben solemnly gave his word, far up in the fog. The morning was very dark, and the street lamps were still alight, while every window sent forth a gleam suggestive of early autumnal fires.

Turning up his own street he increased his pace, realising suddenly that he had not been within his own doors for more than four months. Much might have happened in that time--to change his life, perhaps. As he approached the house he saw a strange servant, an elderly woman, on her knees at the steps, and somehow the sight conveyed to his mind the thought that there was something waiting for him within that peaceful little house. He almost ran those last few yards, and sprang up the steps past the astonished woman without a word of explanation.

The gas in the narrow entrance-hall was lighted, and as he threw aside his cap he perceived a warm gleam of firelight through the half-open door of the dining-room. He crossed the carpeted hall, and pushed open that door.

Near the little breakfast-table, just under the gas, stood Hilda Carew.

In _his_ room, standing among _his_ multifarious possessions, in the act of pouring from _his_ coffee-pot. She was dressed in black--he noticed that. Instead of being arranged high upon her head, her marvellous hair hung in one ma.s.sive plait down her back. She looked like a tall and beautiful school-girl. He had not seen her hair like that since the old days when he had been as one of the Carews.

As he pushed open the door, she looked up; and for a moment they stood thus. She set down the coffee-pot, carefully and symmetrically, in the centre of the china stand provided for its reception--and the colour slowly left her face.

"You have come back at last!" she said quite monotonously. It sounded like a remark made for the purpose of filling up an awkward silence.

Then he entered the room, and mechanically closed the door behind him.

She noticed the action, but did not move. He pa.s.sed round the table, behind Aunt Judy's chair, and they shook hands conventionally.

"Yes," he said almost breathlessly; "I am back; you do not seem elated by the fact."

Suddenly she smiled--the smile that suggested, in some subtle way, a kitten.

"Of course--I am glad ... to see you."

In a peculiar dreamy way she began to add milk to the coffee. It seemed as if this were mere play-acting, and not real life at all.

"How is it that you are here?" he asked, with a broken, disjointed laugh. "You cannot imagine how strange an effect it was ... for me ...

to come in and see you ... here--of all people."

She looked at him gravely, and moved a step towards him.

"Aunt Judy is dead!" she explained; "and Aunt Hester is very ill. Mother is upstairs with them--_her_--now. I have just come from the room, where I have been since midnight."

She stopped, raised her hand to her hair as if recollecting something, and stood looking sideways out of the window.

"There is something about you this morning," he said, with a concentrated deliberation, "that brings back the old Prague days. I suppose it is that I have not seen your hair as you have it to-day--since then."

She turned quite away from his hungry gaze, looking out of the window.

After a pause she broke the silence--with infinite tact--not speaking too hurriedly.

"It has been a terrible week," she said. "Mother heard from Mr. Bodery that they were very ill; so we came. I never dreamt that it was so bad when you spoke of them. Five years it has been going on?"

"Yes; five years. Thank you for coming, but I am sorry you should have seen it."

"Why?"

"Every one should keep guard over his own skeleton."

She was looking at him now.

"You look very ill," she said curtly. "Where have you been?"

"I was kidnapped," he said, with a short laugh, "and then I got typhoid.

The monks nursed me."

"You were in a monastery?"

"Yes; in Brittany."

She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with her left hand, which she seemed desirous of bringing under his notice; but he could look at nothing but her face.

"Then," she said, "it would have been impossible to find you?"

"Quite," he replied, and after a pause he added, in a singularly easy manner, "Tell me what happened after I disappeared."

She did not seem to like the task.

"Well--we searched--oh! Christian, it was horrid!"

"I wondered," he said, in a deep, soft voice, "whether you would find it so."

"Yes, of course, we _all_ did."

This did not appear to satisfy him.

"But you," he persisted, "you, yourself--what did you think?"

"I do not know," she answered, with painful hesitation. "I don't think I thought at all."

"Then what did you do, Hilda?"

"I--oh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. Bodery, who came down at once. Then Fred rode over, and placed himself at Mr. Bodery's disposal.

First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did everything that could be done, but of course it was of no avail. By Mr. Bodery's advice everything was kept secret. There was nothing in the newspapers."