Chapter 3

It's a dark night and they might some
of them get away. I should imitate the noise of a cat. That would mean
nothing except to those who were waiting for the sound."

The Superintendent probably thought that for a man in his position
it would be undignified to moe-row, for he made no reply. But a minute
later he said to Dorcas, "I've given my men their instructions. My
signal to them will be the bark of a dog--I think it will be
safer than whistling, don't you?"

"An admirable idea!" replied Dorcas. "Now let us go round to the
Outer Circle. We can get into the Park by climbing over the rails."

"But to get into the grounds we must cross the water."

"No--we can get over the bridge and climb over the iron rails on
the other side."

Dorcas, myself, the Superintendent, and two men made our way rapidly
over the bridge opposite the Botanical Gardens and then climbed over
into the private enclosure by York Gate and so went into the vast
deserted Park.

Crossing the bridge that spans the ornamental water we made our
way along the water's edge until we reached the private grounds of
the villa occupied by the Countess. The grounds sloped to the edge
of the water and were not in any way protected, as they could only
be approached from the lake. No one could enter them by day without
attracting the attention of the park-keepers, and at night the Park
was carefully cleared, so there was practically no danger of
intrusion.

As we crept cautiously through the high laurels, choosing a path
that was out of sight of the house in case there should be anyone
watching, Dorcas suddenly halted and "quacked." There were scores of
ducks asleep upon the island on the lake. But she quacked in a
peculiar manner--two quacks, then one quack--then two, then one.

Across the grounds from a laurel bush near a summer house came a low
"quack, quack."

"What's that?" exclaimed the Superintendent.

"My signal. My man is over yonder--he'll make his way to us--let
us stop here."

Our strained ears caught the rustle of the bushes, and presently
a man emerged from the laurels in front of us and came to Dorcas.

"No one's been about all night," he said, "till about a quarter of
an hour ago, when a man came out, went to the shed yonder by the
water, and got a boat hook. He went to the water's edge, and tried
the depth, and then went back into the house again."

Dorcas gave a little cry which she instantly suppressed.

"What do you think that means?" said the Superintendent.

"The worst, I'm afraid," said Dorcas. "It looks as though they were
going to drop something into the water that they wanted to conceal.
We must hesitate no longer. Your men must break in from the front,
and we must try from the back. Hush!"

There was a sound of a door opening.

We peered through the laurel bushes, and saw two figures coming
slowly across the grounds. They were carrying a heavy burden between
them.

"Make a dash for the door," said the Superintendent to Dorcas's man.
"Rush through and open the front door if you can, and let my men in.
Are you armed?"

"I have my revolver," replied the man.

As the figures came nearer our man dashed out. There was a cry, and
the burden dropped. But our man had dashed in at the open door. At
the same time Superintendent Johnson's whistle shrieked out on the
quiet night.

Then we all dashed forward--the Superintendent and one of his men
seized one of the figures, and I and another man seized the other.

Dorcas snatched a bull's-eye from one of the officers, and flashed
it in the faces of the prisoners.

We had captured Jean Vossche and his sister, the lady's maid.

In a moment there were dark figures hurrying across the lawn. The
police in front had come through. Handing the prisoners over to them,
the Superintendent knelt down, and then examined the lifeless body
lying on the ground.

It was a female. Round her body was a stout cord, and attached to
the cord two heavy weights.

The Superintendent examined the woman's face by the light of the
lantern. On the temple was a fearful bruise, as though the poor
creature had been struck by a bludgeon.

Dorcas, with trembling lips, knelt down beside the body, and as
the light fell on the features, examined them carefully.

"It is the Countess Elstein!" she said.

At that moment the officers who had Jean Vossche uttered a cry.

The man, with a desperate effort, had wrenched himself free. Before
he could be seized again he had dashed across the grounds, leapt the
iron railings, and disappeared into the darkness of the Park.

* * * * * *

Leaving the police in charge of Zelie and the body, we went into
the house, which was in possession of some of the Superintendent's
men. A sergeant met us at the door.

"There's a gentleman in one of the rooms," he said. "I can't make
him out at all."

We followed the officer upstairs to a back room. There we found a
dark gentleman lying on a sofa. His legs and hands were fastened
together with cords, and he seemed to be in a heavy sleep. We tried
to rouse him, but he only opened his eyes and looked at us, and then
his head dropped down again.

"It's the Prince--thank God!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "He's
under the influence of some drug, I should think."

"Probably," said Dorcas, "that's how they've kept him quiet. Send one
of your men for a doctor."

We tried our best to restore the Prince to consciousness, but failed.
When the doctor, who had been fetched from Baker-street, came, he at
once found it to be a case of drugging, and said the Prince had
probably been kept under the influence of a strong narcotic for some
time. He had brought certain remedies with him, acting on the
information the police officer who fetched him had given him, and
gradually the Prince came to himself. A couple of hours later a
brougham arrived with the Chief of Police and the Prince's
aide-de-camp, and his Royal Highness was quietly taken to the
doctor's house, and Zelie Vossche, who remained obstinately silent,
was removed in custody.

* * * * * *

His Royal Highness Prince ---- of ---- was able next day to
communicate his adventures to the authorities.

He had arranged to visit the Countess, his morganatic wife, the
evening he left the hotel. There were certain matters he wished to
discuss with her, but he was anxious that their meeting should be a
private one. Zelie Vossche had probably obtained knowledge of the
intended interview, and had communicated it to her brother, who saw
in it an opportunity of assisting the condemned Anarchists of ----.
He communicated with his associates.

When the Prince arrived at the house in Regent's Park late at night
the servants had been sent away to a house the Countess had in the
country. The Countess was leaving for this house next day, and Zelie
advised her to send them on first: then they would not see and gossip
about the visit of the Prince, as they might find out who he was.

Zelie and the Countess were alone when the Prince arrived. But after
Zelie had let him in she admitted Vossche and two of his accomplices.
They waited till the Prince was leaving, then seized and gagged him
and carried him to the upstairs room. The Countess rushed out,
hearing the noise, but was struck down by Vossche. When it was found
she was dead they carried the body to a bedroom, laid it on the bed,
and locked the door.

The next morning Zelie telegraphed to the servants that their
mistress was going to pay a visit and would not arrive till the end
of the week.

The Prince in the meantime was drugged to keep him from attempting
to make a noise. He was fed and tended by Vossche and Zelie, as it
was not the Anarchists' intention that he should be assassinated if
they saved the lives of their comrades.

But when Vossche discovered that a Scotland Yard man was on his
track and that probably he would be traced to the house in Regent's
Park, his first task on escaping was to get rid of the Countess's
body. What the Prince's fate would have been could only be
conjectured.

Vossche and Zelie after disposing of the Countess's body would
probably have made their escape, hoping that a desire to conceal the
adventure of the Prince might lead the police to make no active
search for them.

The story of the murder was gathered from Zelie herself, who was
naturally anxious to prove that she had no active share in the
crime, but only acted to shield her brother and his accomplices
afterwards.

Accepting her story as true the authorities at the inquest put
her name forward as that of an accomplice, and supported her
statement that Vossche was the actual murderer.

They did this not only because they were inclined to believe it,
but as an encouragement to Zelie not to make any statement with
regard to the share which the Prince had played in the tragedy. The
motive of the crime was supposed to be robbery.

A reward for the arrest of Jean Vossche was offered but never claimed.
The Continental Police acting on instructions were as remiss as our
own in endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of the notorious
Anarchist.

As soon as he was restored to health the Prince returned to his
father's court, much to the relief of everybody concerned, especially
the heads of the Royal Family of ----, who were saved the unpleasant
task of rescuing from the scaffold five of the most infamous
scoundrels of modern times.

Inspector Carr is a disappointed man. After all his exertions he
was unable to crown himself with the glory of having found and rescued
the missing Prince. Had he been a better coachman all might have been
well, but in his joy at having Jean Vossche for a fare he forgot about
his horse and drove into a market wagon, the driver of which was fast
asleep. He was pitched off the box into the roadway and lay there
stunned. Jean Vossche, anxious to get on, leaped out and bent over the
insensible man. Possibly he discovered then the trick which had been
played on him. At any rate, jumping on to the box, he drove off at
full speed. When the Inspector came to himself he found that he had
been very kindly taken to St. Thomas's Hospital by a policeman who
thought he was a cabman whose horse had bolted.

* * * * * *

Dorcas Dene has a beautiful diamond brooch which she never wears.
It is the gift of his Royal Highness Prince ---- of ---- who somehow
came to hear of the important part she had played in his rescue.

The one great drawback to her joy in possessing it is that poor Paul
cannot see how beautiful it is. But sometimes when she holds it in
the light he stares at it with his poor sightless eyes and declares
that really the stones must be _very_ brilliant, for it doesn't
seem _quite_ so dark when she holds them up before him.

_IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT_

I had gone down for a week's rest to Brighton, and had put up at
the "Old Ship." The "Old Ship," Brighton, has been to me "a home from
home" for more years than I care to count. Among my most pleasant
recollections of my youth is the smiling face of that fine old
English host, "Mr. Arthur," brother of the proprietor, Mr. Robert
Bacon. All Brighton lovers who "have come to forty year" remember
Mr. Arthur, and still on quiet evenings when old Brightonians gather
together in the famous hostelry it is rare indeed that the name of
Mr. Arthur does not come up in the conversation. What Mr. Gresham
Bacon is to the young Old Shipites to-day, Mr. Arthur was to the
middle-aged Old Shipites of twenty years ago.

Mr. Arthur's name came up on the occasion of the visit to which
I have referred at the commencement of this narrative. There had
been an unusual number of ladies in the coffee-room, and after
dinner, noticing Mr. Gresham Bacon in the hall, I could not help
remarking on the fact.

In the former days the "Old Ship" rather discouraged lady visitors,
and so they were not admitted to the coffee-room, and there was no
ladies' drawing-room. The house was essentially a bachelors' resort,
and if a man brought his wife he had to take a private sitting-room
for her and to keep her there.

"Ladies in the coffee-room, a French table d'hôte and the electric
light at the 'Old Ship'!" I exclaimed. "It's enough to make
'Mr. Arthur' turn in his grave."

Gresham Bacon laughed.

"Yes," he said, "if anyone had suggested ladies in the coffee-room
in his day the dear old boy would have had a fit. But other times,
other manners, and the 'Old Ship' has had to be fitted out as a modern
vessel, and she must sail with the times."

I put on my hat, Commodore Gibson, arrayed as befitted in the "Old
Ship" in blue serge, gilt buttons, and a yachting cap, gave me a brush
down, and as soon as Mr. "Fatty" Coleman, whose portly form completely
filled the doorway, had been temporarily dislodged, I passed out into
the street, and Gresham Bacon, who had followed me, invited me to come
and have my after-dinner coffee at his "arch."

Everyone knows that the "arches" under the King's-road at Brighton
have been rented by private persons, and turned into luxurious
"smoking-rooms by the sea." Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch is renowned for
its hospitality, and one meets there in the season most of the
notabilities of Upper Bohemia, who still look upon Brighton as the
ideal spot for a jaded Londoner. Dr. Brighton is no quack, but he has
the courage to adopt as his motto, "Health restored while you wait,"
and thousands of hard-working Englishmen and Englishwomen who suffer
from an occasional run-down of the nervous system have still a
child-like and beautiful faith in him. There is only one disadvantage
in the Brighton cure, if you are in search of quiet as well as health.
At Brighton you meet people you know all day long, and everybody wants
you to dine with him, or to drink with him, or to "go somewhere." A
man can have hundreds of friends and be as little disturbed by them
in London as if he were on a desert island. But in Brighton you meet
someone you know every minute of the day.

I had not been half an hour in Gresham Bacon's arch before half a
dozen London men had dropped in whom I knew intimately, but whom I
rarely met at home because we were all Londoners.

One of them, a dramatist of repute, had with him the only stranger
of the party. The stranger was introduced to us as Count von Phalsdorf,
and as soon as the name had been pronounced the dramatist, with the
instinct of his art strong upon him, looked round to see what sort
of an effect he had made.

It was certainly a big one. As the dramatist slowly and distinctly
pronounced the name every man in the arch gave a little gasp, and the
eyes of the dramatist gleamed with a feverish delight.

"I met the Count at my hotel," he said with a smile, "we became
friendly; he has heard a good deal of the Brighton arches, and I took
the liberty of bringing him with me to-night to show him yours,
Gresham."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said Mr. Bacon, feeling that as the host he
must say something, but there was a hesitancy in his speech which
we all understood.

The Count was a handsome man--in his uniform he must have looked a
perfectly military Adonis. In ordinary evening dress he was far and
away the most distinguished-looking person in our little assembly.
He spoke English fluently, and his manners were perfect. But--well,
it was a very big "but" indeed.

The Law Courts had just given us one of those sensational scandals
in high life which are the delight of the evening newspapers and a
godsend to the gentlemen who make out the newspaper contents bills,
and to the headline merchants generally.

An English gentleman bearing a name which has been an honourable
one in English history since the days of the Conquest had brought an
action for divorce against his wife, a lady of lineage equal to his
own, and had obtained a decree nisi. The lady had up to the time of
the proceedings been considered beyond reproach. When her husband
separated from her under circumstances which reflected upon himself,
there was universal sympathy for her. She had been everywhere
received in society as an injured lady, and it was a great shock to
all who knew her when, after some few years of separation, her
husband filed a petition for divorce, alleging unwifely conduct on
her part, and giving the name of the co-respondent.

The case against the lady was certainly strong. The evidence of the
petitioner's witnesses could hardly leave any doubt in the minds
of the jury that the neglected wife had sought consolation and
companionship elsewhere. The husband had separated from his wife on
a question which involved no legal proceedings. It had been a mutual
agreement of incompatibility of temper, and it was generally
understood that the "temper" was all on the side of the husband.
He had left his wife and had gone to reside in the country.

But now the roof had been lifted by the Asmodeus of the Law Courts,
and the husband was revealed as an injured man, whose honour had
been sacrificed to the wife's admiration for a handsome foreigner.

The co-respondent was called, and--this was the most sensational
part of the story--he had naturally, after the manner of
co-respondents from the earliest days of Divorce Courts, solemnly
protested his entire innocence. And then suddenly the petitioner's
counsel had handed him a letter and exclaimed in the fierce tones
of a cross-examining Old Bailey barrister, "Now, sir, on your oath!
Did you write that letter?" And the co-respondent staring wildly in
front of him, and gazing at the respondent, who was seated with her
mother at the solicitor's table, had, with a look of mingled horror
and pity in his eyes, faltered out "Yes."

"Then," exclaimed the counsel, "I will read it to the jury." And
he read it, and its contents left no manner of doubt in the mind of
anyone that such a letter could not have been written by an innocent
man to an innocent woman.

While the letter was being read the grey-haired mother almost shrank
from her daughter's side, and the daughter, her face white and her
lips trembling, uttered an hysterical cry and rose hurriedly, and
leant across and spoke to her counsel. The husband's counsel had
nothing more to ask the co-respondent. He was quite satisfied with
his admission that he wrote that letter. It carried the jury's
verdict with it.

Then the wife's counsel rose and begged permission to put his client
in the box at once, and permission was granted him.

Every eye was fixed on the lady as, trembling and almost hysterical,
she fell rather than walked into the witness-box.

"You have heard that letter read?" said her counsel.

"Yes."

"On your oath, have you ever received such a letter?"

"Never--as God is my judge. I have learnt the contents of it for the
first time now."

"And is there any truth in the charges that have been made
against you?"

"Not one word."

"Have you ever received Count von Phalsdorf under your roof?"

"Never."

"Have you ever spoken to him?"

"Frequently--but as one speaks to any gentleman to whom one has been
introduced."

"You have heard the evidence of the hotel servants at Nice, of your
own maid, of the servants at your London residence. Do you deny
their statements?"

"Absolutely, and on my oath."

But the oath of the respondent availed nothing against the evidence
of the other side, which was about as conclusive as it could possibly
be, and the result of the trial was a decree nisi, and the husband
to have the custody of the children, one a girl of fourteen and the
other a boy of twelve.

And the co-respondent in this remarkable case was the Count von
Phalsdorf, and all who had read the letter had made up their mind,
without being able to say exactly why, that the Count was an infernal
scoundrel in the first place to have so cruelly compromised such an
amiable and gentle lady, and an infernal fool in the second place to
have written such a dangerous and damning love-letter to a married
woman.

And that is the reason that, with the details of the case fresh in
our memories, we all of us felt that the dramatist had been guilty
of an exceedingly unpleasant practical joke in introducing the Count
into the little friendly circle gathered together in Mr. Gresham
Bacon's arch.

We felt it so much that we were so decidedly uncomfortable, the
laws of hospitality preventing us telling the Count what we thought
of him, that one by one we rose and remembered an appointment and
went, and when there was nobody left but the host, the dramatist rose
too, and with a grin that was meant to be a smile, bade Gresham
Bacon good-night, and took the Count away with him.

It was about nine o'clock when we broke up, and having nothing to
do, I went into the Brighton Alhambra and spent the evening there.
It was half-past eleven when I returned to the "Old Ship."

The night-porter opened the door to me, and seeing that I was going
towards the smoke-room came after me.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the waiter on your floor
asked me to be sure and tell you when you came in that there is a
letter in your sitting room waiting for you. The gentleman in No. 6
gave it to him to give to you."

"Oh," I said to myself. "The usual, I suppose. It's somebody who
wants to keep me up half the night playing poker. I shall have to
make an excuse."

I went to my room and found a letter on my table. Directly I had
seen the handwriting on the envelope I uttered an exclamation of
surprise and opened it eagerly.

"Dear Mr. Saxon,--Paul and I are staying here. Our sitting-room is
No. 6. If you come in before twelve and have nothing better to do,
come in and see us.

"Yours always,
Dorcas Dene.

"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!" I exclaimed, as I shook
hands with Paul and Dorcas. "Whatever are you doing at Brighton?
Having a few days' rest, I suppose."

"I'm having the rest," said Paul, with a smile, "but Dorcas is
here on business."

"On a case? Is it an interesting one?"

"Very interesting," said Dorcas, "but a very unpleasant one in
many ways, and I'm not very confident about the result."

"What is it? a murder--a robbery--or a mysterious
disappearance?"

"No; this time it is a divorce."

"A divorce! But I thought you never touched that branch of the
profession."

"I don't as a rule, but in this case the circumstances are
peculiar, and I am deeply interested in one of the parties to
the suit."

"The husband?"

"No, the wife. You have read the case, I expect, because it has
been in all the papers. It is the one in which Count von Phalsdorf
was the co-respondent."

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed; "how singular! I've met the man this
evening. He's here in Brighton."

"Of course--that is why I am here."

"But I don't quite understand where you can come in as a detective
now. You're rather late, are you not, seeing that the case is
practically decided, for the judge has granted a decree nisi?"

"Exactly--and nisi means 'unless'--which is, unless before the
expiration of six months certain facts should be brought to the
knowledge of the Court--or the Queen's Proctor I suppose it would be
--which would prevent the judge making the decree absolute."

"I don't know what the process is," I answered with a smile,
"because I have never been divorced, but after having read the
evidence in this case I can't for the life of me see what possible
chance you have of putting a different complexion on the affair."

"Nor did I," said Dorcas, "when I was first consulted. The unhappy
lady came to me with her mother the day after the trial. Both were in
a state of the greatest excitement and distress. 'Mrs. Dene,' said
the old lady, 'my daughter is the victim of the wickedest lies that
were ever uttered in a court of justice. She is an absolutely innocent
woman. But everything is against her, and on the evidence taken I
confess myself the jury could have come to no other verdict. But they
have perjured themselves--the whole of my wicked son-in-law's
witnesses. We come to you as our last hope. We have heard how clever
you are. We have been told that if anyone can save my dear daughter
from the shame and infamy which she has no right to bear, it is you.'

"I shook my head and explained that I never took up divorce cases--
I didn't think that they were a woman's work, and I objected
altogether to the methods employed by the detectives and private
enquiry agents who were usually associated with the business.

"The wife added her entreaties to her mother's. With tears in her
eyes she declared that unless her innocence could be proved she would
put an end to her existence. She could not live on under the suspicion
of guilt. She would never see her children again or look into their
innocent faces until this foul stain had been removed from her name.
'Ah, madam!' she cried, her voice choked with hysterical sobs, 'for
my children's sake I ask you to help me. Think--think of the heritage
of shame which will be handed down to them if I cannot prove that
these horrible allegations against me are only a fabric of lies built
up by the perjured witnesses in my husband's pay.'

"I watched the lady narrowly as she spoke. There was not the slightest
doubt as to the genuineness of her emotion, and the idea of her
innocent children suffering all their lives from the branding of
their mother as an adulteress strongly appealed to my woman's heart.

"I asked them to wait while I re-read the case. I fetched my
newspaper file and ran through the evidence, and when I had finished
I was still utterly unable to see things in a hopeful light. However,
they appealed to me so pitifully that at last I consented to take up
the wife's case professionally, and after going over every point with
her carefully, and impressing her with the necessity of telling me
absolutely everything that occurred, even if it weakened rather than
strengthened her position, I sent them away with the assurance that
I would do my best, and that they should hear from me in a fortnight.
Earlier than that I could not guarantee to have made any progress
either one way or the other. I ascertained yesterday that the
co-respondent had come to Brighton, so brought Paul with me and came
here. I am convinced that my one chance of finding a weak spot in
the enemy's armour--always supposing that there is one--will come
through Count von Phalsdorf."

"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I also have read the case carefully
over, and it seems to me that even _you_ will be unable to put a
different construction upon it. You don't imagine that there is the
slightest foundation for the wife's contention, that the whole of
the husband's witnesses committed deliberate perjury?"

"No; I believe that they gave their evidence truthfully."

"Then that makes your task an impossible one. The evidence taken
altogether is damning. There isn't a weak link in it. Just let me
run over it with you."

"By all means," said Dorcas.

"Very well. There is the evidence of the meeting at Nice."

"Undisputed by the wife!" exclaimed Dorcas. "She admits that when
at the Hôtel de France, with her mother, she was introduced to the
Count von Phalsdorf by an English lady of her acquaintance. The Count
was understood to be a young man of position, and well known in
Berlin society."

"And is that denied?"

"It is not denied that he _was_ all that was claimed for him three
years ago. He is undoubtedly a man of high birth, and he was at one
time in a very enviable position, but he had ceased to be that when
my client met him at Nice. As a matter of fact, I have ascertained
that he left Berlin over two years ago in disgrace. He had lost
large sums by gambling, and had engaged in a transaction to replenish
his purse when the discovery led to his banishment from Court and
from Berlin society. He left Berlin practically a ruined man. Though
his father is wealthy, he took his son's disgrace so much to heart
that he has refused to recognise him and does not allow him a
farthing."

"Very well. We will take it that the Count is an exile, that he has
no money from his father, and that he is in bad odour generally.