The Mark Of Cain Part 15

His position was indeed agonizing, and, in the circ.u.mstances, a stronger heart might have blanched at the encounter.

When Cranley last met Maitland, he had been the guest of that philanthropist, and he had gone from his table to swindle his fellow-revellers. What other things he had done--things in which Maitland was concerned--the reader knows, or at least suspects. But it was not these deeds which troubled Mr. Cranley, for these he knew were undetected. It was that affair of the baccarat which unmanned him.

There was nothing for it but to face Maitland and the situation.

"Let me introduce you--" said Mrs. St. John Deloraine.

"There is no need," interrupted Maitland. "Mr. Cranley and I have known each other for some time. I don't think we have met," he added, looking at Cranley, "since you dined with me at the Olympic, and we are not likely to meet again, I'm afraid; for to-morrow, as I have come to tell Mrs. Si John Deloraine, I go to Paris on business of importance."

Mr. Cranley breathed again; it was obvious that Maitland, living out of the world as he did, and concerned (as Cranley well knew him to be) with private affairs of an urgent character, had never been told of the trouble at the c.o.c.kpit, or had, in his absent fas.h.i.+on, never attended to what he might have heard with the hearing of the ear. As to Paris, he had the best reason for guessing why Maitland was bound thither, as he was the secret source of the information on which Maitland proposed to act.

At luncheon--which, like the dinner described by the American guest, was "luscious and abundant"--Mr. Cranley was more sparkling than the champagne, and made even Maitland laugh. He recounted little philanthropic misadventures of his own--cases in which he had been humorously misled by the _Captain Wraggs_ of this world, or beguiled by the authors of that polite correspondence--begging letters.

When luncheon was over, and when Maitland was obliged, reluctantly, to go (for he liked Mrs. St. John Deloraine's company very much), Cranley, who had determined to see him out, shook hands in a very cordial way with the Fellow of St. Gatien's.

"And when are we likely to meet again?" he asked.

"I really don't know," said Maitland. "I have business in Paris, and I cannot say how long I may be detained on the Continent."

"No more can I," said Mr. Cranley to himself; "but I hope you won't return in time to bother me with your blundering inquiries, if ever you have the luck to return at all."

But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a good voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a _comedienne_) at the Palais Royal.

CHAPTER X.--Traps.

The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the lady of _The Bunhouse_, Barton, when he came home from a round of professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there, discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that he was indeed "moving about in worlds not realized." Keen as was the interest which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend's affairs, he now and again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever revolved round the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points.

"Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you," he observed, with some shade of hypocrisy. "Anything new to-day?"

"Yes," said Maitland; "I really do think I have a clew at last."

"Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles," said Barton, groaning as the bell-rope came away in his hands. "Bring lights, please, and tea, and stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend," he remarked, when the blackened but alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door.

"Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir," answered Jemima, who greatly admired the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost comfortable.

"Now for your clew, old man," exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland a cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no sugar. "Oh, Ariadne, what a boon that clew of yours has been to the detective mind! To think that, without the Minotaur, the police would probably never have hit on that invaluable expression, 'the police have a clew.'"

Maitland thought this was trifling with the subject.

"This advertis.e.m.e.nt," he said, gravely, "appears to me undoubtedly to refer to the miscreant who carried off Margaret, poor girl."

"Does it, by Jove?" cried Barton, with some eagerness this time. "Let's have a look at it!"

This was what he read aloud:

"Bearskin Coat.--The gentleman travelling with a young lady, who, on Feb. 19th, left a bearskin coat at the Hotel Alsace and Lorraine, Avenue de l'Opera, Paris, is requested to remove it, or it will be sold to defray expenses.

"Dupin."

"This _may_ mean business," he said, "or it may not. In the first place, is there such an hotel in Paris as the 'Alsace et Lorraine,' and is M.

Dupin the proprietor?"

"_That's_ all right," said Maitland. "I went at once to the Club, and looked up the _Bottin_, the Paris Directory, don't you know."

"So far, so good; and yet I don't quite see what you can make of it. It does not come to much, you know, even if the owner of the coat is the man you want And again, is he likely to have left such a very notable article of dress behind him in an hotel? Anyway, can't you send some detective fellow? Are you going over yourself in this awful weather?"

So Barton argued, but Maitland was not to be easily put off the hopeful scent.

"Why, don't you see," he exclaimed, "the people at the hotel will at least be able to give one a fuller description of the man than anything we have yet. And they may have some idea of where he has gone to; and, at least, they will have noticed how he was treating Margaret, and that, of course, is what I am most anxious to learn. Again, he may have left other things besides the coat, or there may be doc.u.ments in the pockets.

I have read of such things happening."

"Yes, in 'Le Crime de l'Opera;' and a very good story, too," answered the incredulous Barton; "but I don't fancy that the villain of real life is quite so innocent and careless as the monster of fiction."

"Everyone knows that murderers are generally detected through some incredible piece of carelessness," said Mait-land; "and why should this elaborate scoundrel be more fortunate than the rest? If he _did_ leave the coat, he will scarcely care to go back for it; and I do not think the chance should be lost, even if it is a poor one. Besides, I'm doing no good here, and I can do no harm there."

This was undeniably true; and though Barton muttered something about "a false scent," he no longer attempted to turn Maitland from his purpose.

He did, however, with some difficulty, prevent the Fellow of St.

Gatien's from purchasing a blonde beard, one of those wigs which simulate baldness, and a pair of blue spectacles. In these disguises, Maitland argued, he would certainly avoid recognition, and so discomfit any mischief planned by the enemies of Margaret.

"Yes; but, on the other hand, you would look exactly like a German professor, and probably be taken for a spy of Bismarck's," said Barton.

And Maitland reluctantly gave up the idea of disguise. He retained, however, certain astute notions of his own about his plan of operations, and these, unfortunately, he did not communicate to his friend. The fact is, that the long dormant romance of Maitland's character was now thoroughly awake, and he began, unconsciously, to enjoy the adventure.

His enjoyment did not last very long. The usual troubles of a winter voyage, acting on a dilapidated digestive system, were not spared the guardian of Margaret But everything---even a period of waiting at the Paris _salle d'attente_, and a struggle with the _cochers_ at the station (who, for some reason, always decline to take a fare)--must come to an end at last. About dinner-time, Maitland was jolted through the glare of the Parisian streets, to the Avenue de l'Opera. At the Hotel Alsace et Lorraine he determined not to betray himself by too precipitate eagerness. In the first place, he wrote an a.s.sumed name in the hotel book, choosing, by an unlucky inspiration, the pseudonym of Buchanan. He then ordered dinner in the hotel, and, by way of propitiation, it was a much better dinner than usual that Maitland ordered. Bottles of the higher Bordeaux wines, reposing in beautiful baskets, were brought at his command; for he was determined favorably to impress the people of the house.

His conduct in this matter was partly determined by the fact that, for the moment, the English were not popular in Paris.

In fact, as the French newspapers declared, with more truth than they suspected, "Paris was not the place for English people, especially for English women."

In these international circ.u.mstances, then, Maitland believed he showed the wisdom of the serpent when he ordered dinner in the fearless old fas.h.i.+on attributed by tradition to the Milords of the past But he had reckoned without his appet.i.te.

A consequence of sea-travel, neither uncommon nor alarming, is the putting away of all desire to eat and drink. As the waiter carried off the untouched _hors d'oeuvres_ (whereof Maitland only nibbled the delicious bread and b.u.t.ter); as he bore away the _huitres_, undiminished in number; as the _bisque_ proved too much for the guest of the evening; as he faltered over the soles, and failed to appreciate the cutlets; as he turned from the n.o.blest _crus_ (including the widow's _crus_, those of La Veuve Cliquot), and asked for _siphon_ and _fine champagne_, the waiter's countenance a.s.sumed an air of owl-like sagacity. There was something wrong, the _garcon_ felt sure, about a man who could order a dinner like Maitland's, and then decline to partake thereof. However, even in a republican country, you can hardly arrest a man merely because his intentions are better than his appet.i.te. The waiter, therefore, contented himself with a.s.suming an imposing att.i.tude, and whispering something to the hall porter.

The Fellow of St. Gatien's, having dined with the Barmecide regardless of expense, went on (as he hoped) to ingratiate himself with the _concierge_. From that official he purchased two large cigars, which he did not dream of attempting to enjoy; and he then endeavored to enter into conversation, selecting for a topic the state of the contemporary drama. What would monsieur advise him to go to see? Where was Mile. Jane Hading playing?

Having in this conversation broken the ice (and almost every rule of French grammar), Maitland began to lead up craftily to the great matter--the affair of the bearskin coat. Did many English use the hotel?

Had any of his countrymen been there lately? He remembered that when he left England a friend of his had asked him to inquire about an article of dress--a great-coat--which he had left somewhere, perhaps in a cab.

Could monsieur the Porter tell him where he ought to apply for news about the garment, a coat in _peau d'ours_?

On the mention of this raiment a clerkly-looking man, who had been loitering in the office of the _concierge_, moved to the neighborhood of the door, where he occupied himself in study of a railway map hanging on the wall.

The porter now was all smiles. But, certainly! Monsieur had fallen well in coming to him. Monsieur wanted a lost coat in skin of the bear? It had been lost by a compatriot of monsieur's? Would monsieur give himself the trouble to follow the porter to the room where lost baggage was kept?

Maitland, full of excitement, and of belief that he now really was on the trail, followed the porter, and the clerkly man (rather a liberty, thought Maitland) followed _him_.

The porter led them to a door marked "private," and they all three entered.