Chapter 1

THE WATCHER

A stout, thick-set, clean-shaven Englishman, with round face,
iron-gray hair, wide jaws and a pair of shrewd, dark eyes behind a
pair of rimless pince-nez, was standing in the pretty lounge of the
Hotel St. George, at Corfu, idly smoking a cigarette, and chatting
with a good-looking, dark-haired young woman of about thirty, who was
also spending some weeks on the beautiful island in the Adriatic.

They had already been there nearly two months, and a friendship had
sprung up between them. Both were there for the winter warmth and
sunshine. The man was a bachelor and a thorough-going cosmopolitan,
who spent his whole life in continuous travel, while the woman was
married to a rather good-looking man about five years her senior,
whose actual nationality was somewhat obscure, but who was probably a
Greek, though he spoke English almost perfectly, as so many educated
Greeks do.

The thick-set Englishman, smiling and care-free, was one of the most
popular of English novelists, whose name was known in every country
throughout the world, Charles Seton Darville. In every bookshop and
bookstall on the five continents his works were sold, for they were
translated into many languages, even into Arabic and Chinese. In order
to obtain the correct local color for his books he was a constant
wanderer to and fro across Europe, meeting many people and having many
adventures in all sorts of odd corners of the Continent.

The British Prime Minister had once said of him that he knew more of
the underworld of Europe than any living Englishman. Certainly Seton
Darville turned his unique knowledge of men and matters to good
account, as witness the high pitch of excitement with which his books
were always written and his descriptions of places and peoples. Hence
they sold by the hundred thousand, and brought him in a very
considerable income.

He was, however, a very lonely man. Though merry and easy-going to a
fault, a careless wanderer who journeyed to and fro with scarcely a
single care, he was possessed of a certain little idiosyncrasy which
his friends never suspected, for there was another more serious and
more strenuous side of his life that he never revealed. The public
regarded him as a popular and prosperous novelist--hence he was ever
welcome in London society, and hostesses were constantly seeking him
out and begging him to grace their tables and their dances.

Because of his awful loneliness amid the vortex of society he had,
years before, adopted as his daughter, Rene, a little girl left
penniless and alone. Upon her the strong, self-willed man had showered
all his affections, and petted her as his own child. But now,
ungrateful perhaps for all he had done for her, she had married, and
left him again with that terrible loneliness which his friends never
suspected.

In such a mood, he was that morning killing time by chatting with
little Mrs. Caborn, who, dressed ready to go out, was awaiting her
husband. There had been a ball at the Casino on the previous night,
and they were discussing it. From where they stood there was presented
through the long windows a fine view of the harbor and the azure sea
sparkling in the morning sun. Of all the islands in the Adriatic,
Corfu is the most picturesque and beautiful, calm and glorious, with
its riot of flowers, a veritable paradise for those seeking sunshine
and peace.

Darville always rose early. Since the first flush of dawn across the
sea he had been writing in his room, busy upon a new romance which he
had contracted to write five years before. The popular novelist is
always full up with contracts from eager publishers who vie with one
another in the matter of increased royalties and who give him
commissions years ahead. The scenes of this forthcoming book were laid
in Italy, but he had resolved to write it in that sea-girt paradise,
away from the bustle of modern life and the distractions of his
friends.

After a few moments a rather tall, thin-faced man, with a small, dark
mustache, a pair of beady eyes and features unmistakably foreign,
joined them. He was George Caborn, the woman’s husband. Though he bore
an English name he was undoubtedly a Southerner, but that was
explained by the fact that his grandfather had been an English
merchant who had settled in Athens.

“Hulloa, Darville!” he exclaimed merrily. “You’re up early!”

“Yes,” laughed the novelist. “I went to bed at four, and up at six.
I’ve been busy writing ever since.”

“We’re going for a stroll; will you join us?”

Darville accepted the invitation, and for an hour the trio strolled
along the sea road, with its wonderful profusion of palms, aloes,
oranges, wild geraniums and other flowers in full blossom, even though
it was winter.

After lunch the novelist, as was his habit, ascended to his room with
his five-day-old English newspaper, and, throwing himself into a deep
arm-chair, lit a cigarette. But, instead of reading, he lay back with
his eyes fixed upon the blue sea, engrossed in thought.

He was puzzled by Joan Caborn, whom he had first met at winter sports
at Wengen, in Switzerland, the previous winter. At the same time he
held her foreign-born husband, whom he had not seen before this
winter, in considerable contempt. The Anglo-Greek seemed to neglect
his wife in favor of a stout, flashily-dressed widow named Madame
Texardis, hence he and Joan Caborn had been thrown much together, and
frequently went for walks alone.

Darville, constant traveler that he was, had had many adventures with
women. He was of a type that appealed to them, and yet actual
affection he had never experienced. He who wrote so constantly about
Love jeered at it, and in his own heart declared that, because he had
never experienced the symptoms, it was a non-existent disease. He had
declared one day in the Savage Club that Love was only the bacillus of
Lust.

That afternoon, examining his own heart and analyzing his feelings,
visions of the past arose of a pretty young society woman in London
who had been his friend ever since her schooldays, and who now had
married a wealthy peer and was one of the leaders of an exclusive and
somewhat go-ahead set. On her marriage, a year before, their many
years of intimate friendship had ended, and that was the secret of his
terrible loneliness and why he drifted hither and thither caring for
nothing and for nobody.

He was aroused from his reverie by a page-boy who brought his letters,
which had arrived by that day’s mail-boat from the mainland at
Brindisi. They were in one large registered envelope, having been
forwarded by his secretary in London. He drew a sigh when he saw the
bulk of the packet. His trusted secretary had already dealt with all
he could, and had sent on the remainder for him to see himself.

As he drew them out, he found the usual budget that every popular
novelist daily receives. Invitations, piteous begging letters, polite
applications for autographs, flattering letters from unknown readers,
bundles of press-cuttings, requests to send autographed books for
bazaars, and copious effusions from cranks of all sorts and both
sexes. One by one he glanced at them and cast them on the floor beside
him.

Suddenly he came to one unopened. The envelope, in an unusually bold
feminine hand, was addressed to his club in London. He tore it open
eagerly and read its contents. The letter was signed “Edris
Temperley.” It began, “Dear Mr. Darville,” and stated that she was
leaving London for winter sports in Switzerland as usual, and
expressed a hope that they would meet at the Palace Hotel at Wengen as
before, and she also expressed a hope that they would all have as good
a time as last season, and that Mrs. Caborn would be there again.

He read it through twice, and then slowly tore it up. Afterwards he
sat pale and motionless for some minutes.

“No!” he muttered. “True, I love Switzerland, but I can’t go to Wengen
again. If she were not there, I’d go. But what is the use? It would
only be painful to me--far too painful. I won’t reply. It is best so.”

And, rising, he paced the room, his countenance hard-set and grave,
his eyes sad, his clenched hands trembling. Receipt of that letter, at
that most inopportune moment, had recalled a brief but sweet romance
of a year ago amid the Alpine snows, with its ski-ing and tobogganing,
its peals of youthful laughter, and the _joie de vivre_. But all
thought of the gay, handsome English sports-girl, with the dark,
shingled hair, he wished to cut out of his life. Indeed, he had tried
not to recollect her, until now her letter had revived the sweet
little romance of the previous winter, and how it had suddenly ended
when one day she had admitted to him that she had been engaged but it
had been broken off; that her late lover was returning to London in a
few weeks, and there was every prospect of a reconciliation.

Her words came as a severe blow to him, but he concealed his feelings,
and a week later had left Wengen, determined to think no more of her.
That letter, however, instantly revived all his recollections and
longings. He remembered how independent and yet how sweet she had
been; how open and straightforward, as an open-air girl should be; and
how he had found that their ideas and ideals were all exactly in
common.

“Folly! Sheer folly!” he muttered to himself, as he stood looking out
across the shimmering sea. “No. To go to Wengen this year would only
bring unhappiness to us both. She is, no doubt, happy. Why should I
step in and try to attain the impossible? Love! Bah--I’m a fool! Yet
there is no love. Poor little Rene--and she has left me--married, and
now I’m forgotten!” he added, choking down a sob.

Tears welled in his eyes as he stood there, a great popular figure in
the world, yet nursing his heavy sorrow in secret. In public he
laughed happily, with his devil-may-care mannerisms, and presented a
brave heart and a never-ceasing _bonhomie_ towards the world.

For fully ten minutes he remained with knit brows and serious face,
as, torn by his emotions, he stood motionless with hands still
clenched. Then, gathering up his letters, he tossed them into his
leather dispatch-case, locked it securely, and, taking a light coat,
ordered a car and went out for a run across the beautiful island to
the opposite shore where the gray, rocky coast of wild Albania lay
upon the horizon.

He halted at a small rural wine shop and drank a couple of glasses of
the excellent red wine made upon the island, and later on, drove back
to the town in the glorious, golden sunset.

That night, on entering the big _salle à manger_ of the hotel, he
noted that Mrs. Caborn was sitting alone. She beckoned to him and
said:

“Do come and sit here, Mr. Darville. My husband has left for Italy. He
had an urgent telegram this afternoon, and was just able to catch the
mail-boat!”

“Gone?” exclaimed Darville in blank surprise which he failed to
conceal. His exclamation was indeed one of consternation.

“Yes,” she replied looking up at him with a rather strange expression.
“Are you very sorry?” she asked in a low, appealing voice.

“Of course not,” he laughed, instantly recovering his surprise. “How
long are you to be alone?” he inquired, smiling, as he seated himself
in her husband’s place at the little _table à deux_.

“Oh! about a fortnight, I think. He suggested I should stay, as he has
to travel on business up to Milan and Zurich, and he thought, if I
remained here, I should be more comfortable than traveling
continuously, as he is sometimes forced to do.”

“Then he ought to be back on Wednesday week--eh?” remarked Darville,
as the waiter placed the soup before him. The novelist moved the big
vase of mimosa aside, so that he could see her without interruption.
She was dressed in a sleeveless frock of dark purple velvet with four
narrow shoulder-straps, which enhanced the whiteness of her skin,
while around her neck was her only ornament, a rope of valuable
pearls.

As he ate his soup he decided that she was attractive, and that the
opportunity thus afforded them of being constantly in each other’s
society for a whole fortnight was exactly what he desired.

Their conversation soon drifted to winter sports and traveling. She
told him that very frequently her husband journeyed to and fro across
Europe to one or other of the capitals on business. Darville
understood that he was an exporter of Greek produce, and had his chief
office in Athens, with a branch at Salonica, his trade being mainly
with France and England. As for herself, she had told him of her own
many travels. She loved traveling, and had been in America and Canada,
in Spain and Egypt. On her husband’s return they were taking the
Trieste steamer and going to Vienna for a few weeks on pleasure.

That night, as they sat over their coffee in the lounge, without
seeming unduly inquisitive, he obtained from her some facts concerning
Mr. Caborn’s travels which rather puzzled him, and especially in
reference to his hurried departure from the island.

“Do you think your husband’s travels this time will take him to
England?” asked Darville presently, between the whiffs of his
cigarette.

“No,” she answered decisively. “I’m certain he won’t go to England, or
he would have taken me.” The positive tone of her voice aroused his
curiosity.

“His departure was certainly very sudden. I wish I had had an
opportunity of bidding him _bon voyage_,” he remarked.

“Do you?” she asked, with that strange, mysterious look again in her
eyes.

“Why, of course,” he laughed. “When did he receive the telegram?”

“At three o’clock. The boat left at four.”

Darville remained silent for some moments, and then began to chat
about other things, and suggested a motor run together on the
following morning, after he had finished his usual morning’s work,
which occupied him daily from six o’clock to eleven, with an interval
for his _café complet_, brought to his room.

At half-past eleven o’clock she put out her cigarette, drained her
liqueur, and, wishing him a merry “good-night,” left him.

As soon as she had disappeared into the lift, he went across to the
_concierge’s_ bureau, and in confidence inquired at what hour a
telegram had arrived for Mr. Caborn.

“There has been no telegram to-day, monsieur,” replied the man with
the crossed keys upon the lapels of his black velvet-collared coat,
speaking with an Italian accent. “I have been on duty since noon, and
all telegrams are delivered to me here. I keep in this book a register
of all received”; and he indicated a long, narrow memorandum-book
which lay open on the table. “You see the names of all visitors who
have received telegrams to-day. Monsieur Caborn’s name is not among
them.”

“Thank you,” replied the novelist. “You need not say that I made an
inquiry”; and he ascended to his room, a grin of satisfaction upon his
round, good-humored face.

“I thought so!” he muttered to himself, when in his own room. “I
wasn’t mistaken, after all! A very clever pair--extremely clever! The
game is becoming highly interesting. Joan is a very clever little
woman!”

From his usual careless languor Seton Darville instantly became
bustling and active.

Seating himself at his writing-table, he wrote out a curious telegram.
He addressed it to a code address in London, and gave what seemed to
be financial quotations.

To the ordinary eye it was only a commercial telegram, and as such it
was accepted at the chief telegraph office, to which he walked in the
bright moonlight. But at the address in London he knew it would cause
a great flutter of excitement, and that within an hour the tentacles
of a great octopus-like organization would be spread, with eyes and
ears ever open, by night as well as by day, all over Europe.

Seton Darville possessed two separate and distinct personalities. One
was the popular and prosperous erratic novelist imbued with the true
artistic temperament, a lonely man who sought distraction at
night-cafés and night-clubs merely because he could never sleep till
early morning. The other side of his highly complex nature was that of
a shrewd, hard, relentless man, clever, calculating, cunning,
far-seeing, even inhuman and unscrupulous. That second nature of his
he seldom, if ever, showed. Only if his anger were aroused did the
evil side of his dual character reveal itself. At other times he was
able to conceal it beneath his calm, unruffled, Bohemian exterior.

As he walked back along the sea front, where the moonlit waves lapped
lazily upon the beach, amid a truly fairy-like scene, he gritted his
teeth. His suspicion of little Mrs. Caborn had been confirmed within
that half-hour, for he saw that she had lied to him about her husband.

He halted beneath the shadow of a great palm and lit a fresh
cigarette. Then, as he tossed aside the match and strode forward, he
exclaimed aloud to himself:

“This is now a cat-and-mouse game! The cat must watch. I wonder if
what I suspect is true?--I wonder? If it is--then--then I’ll----”

And, without concluding his sentence, he uttered a queer, artificial
laugh, which sounded strange and unreal in the dead silence of the
brilliant night.