Darkness had just fallen over the wide stretch of the lonely grassland bordering upon the river Blackwater when Larose came wheeling a bicycle in and out among the tall tussocks. He was showing no light and he walked very quietly, peering round on every side with every step he took.
He had left his car in Chelmsford, twelve miles and more away, and had retrieved a bicycle, from where he had previously hidden it, behind a hedge in a lane leading off the Colchester road, and pedalled the rest of the way.
It was now nearly high tide and the mists were rising from the sullen river, and the little creeks which gurgled softly as the oily water flowed to its full between their muddy banks.
There was a fitful moon showing from a threatening sky, and it looked as if a big storm was coming. There was not a breath of air anywhere and the night was oppressive. It seemed as if there was thunder in the air.
“Whew,” whispered Larose, “what a place to be caught in a storm! If any would-be murderers are coming tonight I hope to goodness that they come soon!”
He was not feeling any anxiety now as to the safety of Lord Michael, for, with the warning he had given him and the presence of the Alsatian dogs in the grounds of Tollesbury Hall, he was quite confident no one with evil intentions would be able to approach too near.
But he was continuing to wonder what von Ravenheim’s journey, the previous day, to that lonely spot could mean and why that hole had been dug in the ground. Indeed, if it were not for that discovery, he thought he would not have come to keep any vigil at all that night.
Arriving to within a few yards of where he knew the hole was, he hid the bicycle in the long grass and lay down to keep watch.
But he had been there only a very few minutes when he heard the faint but unmistakeable purr of a car approaching very quietly. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sound but it was too misty for him to see anything.
A couple of minutes or so passed and then the sound stopped altogether. But it had stopped abruptly, and not died away, so he knew that the car had been pulled up somewhere.
A long time now went by, quite ten minutes, and he became uneasy that he had missed whoever had come in the car. He was just rising to his feet when, to his horror, he heard voices close behind him, and he flattened himself to the ground again.
Then came the voice he had come to know so well, that of the Baltic ambassador.
“Curse this mist!” he heard von Ravenheim exclaim. “We’ve come a long way round, Your Excellency, but I’ve got my bearings all right now. We are close to the path leading to the Hall and we shall soon see the lights there.”
“Your Excellency!” gasped Larose. “Then who the deuce has he brought with him?” and, on the instant, he caught his breath again in amazement again, as he heard another voice — that of Herr Blitzen this time.
“And I hope we shall,” growled the Herr. “It’s much farther than you made out; and when we’ve shot them, if you’re so uncertain about the way, we mayn’t be able to get back to the car.”
“But that’ll be quite easy,” said von Ravenheim. “I shan’t make another mistake. Now, there’s a little depression in the ground just here and it leads straight up to the Hall. This way, your Excellency!”
Larose’s heart beat like a sledgehammer as he saw the two men appear out of the mist. They passed within half a dozen paces of him, with von Ravenheim leading the way.
But they had gone a very few yards before Herr Blitzen pulled himself up sharply. “Stop!” he called out peremptorily. “Listen, I hear the baying of a hound!”
A deep silence followed, with the two men standing perfectly still. The moon was showing now and they were so close to Larose that he could see the expressions on their faces. The Herr’s, as usual, was a frowning one, but that of von Ravenheim seemed both nervous and very anxious. The ambassador was opening and shutting his mouth and swallowing hard. He was keeping one hand in his jacket pocket.
“I can hear nothing,” whispered von Ravenheim hoarsely, when a full minute must have passed, “and I assure your Excellency there are no dogs at the Hall. I made particular enquiries.”
“Then lead on,” ordered the Herr, “and we’ll ——”
But the words died upon his lips, for von Ravenheim, whipping round like lightning, had fired twice and planted two bullets in his chest. The Herr made one fierce convulsive effort to remain erect, but it was to no purpose, and he crashed down heavily. He rolled over onto his back and coughed horribly.
All the sounds the pistol had made were like the muffled crackings of a whip. It had a silencer on.
Von Ravenheim sprang forward and stood over the fallen man. “Not dead yet,” he snarled. “Then I must give you another one.” He spoke in cold ferocity. “But I tell you first, you die because you were selling your country for a woman. You were betraying ——”
But some movement rather than a sound a few feet away made him look up, and he saw the white and menacing face of Larose close to him.
Perhaps for ten seconds the two looked at each other, motionless as graven images, von Ravenheim with the hand holding his pistol dropped to his side, while Larose had got his right hand raised.
Then the wrist of Larose flicked and von Ravenheim passed into eternity with two bullets in the very centre of his forehead.
He fell lifeless, without a groan, a brave man and one loyal and steadfast to that dreaded country which had borne him. A worthy son of an unworthy mother, whose teachings to her children were those which the jungle tigress gives to her young!
Larose sprang forward and knelt by the wounded man. He saw instantly that his wounds were mortal. He wiped the bloody froth from his lips. The Dictator stared up at him.
“I’ve killed him,” said Larose softly, and then, seeing the faint gleam of satisfaction in the fast-glazing eyes, he asked, “You are Herr Bauer, the Dictator of your country?”
The dying man tried to nod, but blood and froth were welling from his lips with each labored breath he drew, and he breathed with dreadful sounds.
“A— letter,” he whispered weakly, “in-my — pocket. Give — it — to — her,” and, even as Larose very gently drew a sealed envelope from his breast-pocket, his eyes closed. He tried to cough, he sighed one long deep sigh, and — he was dead!
And so died another man, great and conquering in his way, but great and conquering as the bacillus of some spreading pestilence or the virus of some cancer eating deep into the vitals of mankind!
Larose looked at the envelope he was holding in his hand. Upon it was written in bold characters, ‘Miss Cecily Castle.’
“And so that is the woman you have died for!” he murmured. “Von Ravenheim was against your having her and he murdered you for your country’s good!” He glanced round at von Ravenheim’s body. “He judged you and now”— he nodded —“he is judged himself!” His eyes gleamed. “I judged him and his punishment was quick!”
Then for a long time Larose considered what he must do.
The terrible consequences which might now ensue appalled him.
The mighty Baltic Dictator was dead, murdered upon a foreign soil and, when the manner of his death became known, it would never be believed by his countrymen that he had not been assassinated by his country’s enemies. The Baltic Ambassador was dead, too, dead by his master’s side; and that made things even worse.
The fury of the Baltic people would be ungovernable and in their blind and insensate rage, all in a few short hours, a mighty conflagration might be started which would scorch through half the civilised world.
Millions of people would be killed, cities would be pulverised into dust and the whole fabric of civilisation would be in danger!
Who would believe his, Larose’s, version of how these two men had died? Who, for one moment, would believe that von Ravenheim had killed his master?
Would even Larose’s own people credit his story? Was it not common gossip that when attached to Scotland Yard he had been always too ready to take the law into his own hands and act as judge, jury and hangman himself? So what probability was there of people, generally, being upon his side now?
Even with his bare and unvarnished tale told, he would have to answer for von Ravenheim’s death and justify that he had shot him only in self-defence!
But had he only done it in self-defence? Certainly not! Undoubtedly, in another few moments, von Ravenheim would have shot him down like a dog, but he, Larose, had had ample time to break his pistol arm and render him quite harmless. Instead, he had aimed straight at his forehead and killed him purposely and deliberately.
Larose moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Then he suddenly smiled whimsically. “In trouble again, Gilbert,” he sighed, “and you’ll have to use all your wits now to get you out of it.” He nodded. “Yes, if only for your own sake, you’ll have to bury these men here and say nothing about it.” His face hardened. “But it’ll be best for everyone in the end.”
He looked up at the quickly darkening sky and realised that whatever he did it would have to be done quickly, otherwise, with any suspicions aroused he would leave tracks behind him which could be followed easily.
Searching round for the spade, and finding it at once, he proceeded to reopen the grave von Ravenheim had dug the previous day, realising now for whom it had been intended.
He dragged the body of the ambassador to the side and toppled it over, then much more gently laid the body of the Dictator beside him.
Ten minutes later, carrying the spade and pick-axe with him, he was wheeling his bicycle with all haste to where he was hoping von Ravenheim would have left the car. He found it where he had expected and, bundling the bicycle into the back, at once started the engine and drove off as quietly as he could. He had to go very slowly, for it was now almost pitch dark, but he reached the main road without mishap and set off towards Colchester, in the direction opposite to that of London.
He was only just in time, for he had barely travelled a couple of hundred yards or so upon the bitumen when the rain began to descend in torrents. But it could not be better, he told himself, for with the rain coming down so heavily the hollow where the bodies lay would soon be feet under water.
At first he had no clear idea as to where he would take the car. All he was thinking of was to get it as far away as possible from those grasslands by the Blackwater.
But gradually a plan began forming in his mind. He would abandon it not far from Harwich, from where the passenger steamers sailed daily for the Baltic ports. Then, when it was ultimately found and von Ravenheim himself was known to be missing, he hoped it might be supposed that, for private reasons of his own, the Baltic ambassador had left secretly for home.
He passed through Colchester on the Harwich road and, the torrential downpour still continuing, met very little traffic. Then, when well on his way to the seaport, a much bolder idea took possession of him. He would dump the car over the Parkeston quay into the deep water of the river Stour.
The quay was nearly two miles distant from the town of Harwich, and it was there the passengers alighted from the London trains to join the steamers proceeding overseas. Parkeston itself was not a residential area; and, with but a few scattered houses, the railway station was the only important building there. Except when boats were arriving or leaving, the quay was nearly always deserted, save for a few amateur fishermen who dangled their lines over the side.
Larose knew the locality well, having many times passed there when sailing up the river.
Leaving his bicycle hidden in a field about half a mile away, he drove boldly into the big and dimly-lighted yard of the railway station, trusting that in the darkness and with the hour so late and in the pouring rain to meet no one.
As he had expected, there was not anyone about, although he could hear trucks being shunted not very far away.
He made very slowly for the far end of the quay, thankful that the beautiful engine of his car was so silent. Then, when only a few yards from the quay-side, he jumped quickly out and left the car to proceed upon its own. It swerved a little but reached the side without stalling and toppled over into the water.
It fell with a mighty splash, but the noise was drowned by the violence of the rain and the sounds of the shunting trucks. In an instant it was lost to sight.
Apparently, no one had heard or seen anything.
Making away with all haste, he retrieved his bicycle and rode on until well past Manningtree. But the rain still continuing to fall as heavily as ever, he pulled up at a little village inn and stayed the night there.
The next morning it was still raining, but he set off very early and was soon not far from where he had left his car in Chelmsford. He discarded his bicycle for good in a dense wood and, calling for his car, arrived home at Carmel Abbey, in Norfolk, soon after noon, being of opinion that, after all his adventures of the past three weeks, he deserved a good rest.
Then for a week he never went beyond the grounds of Carmel Abbey. Indeed, he seldom even left the house, as the rain continued day after day. There were floods all over the country and he read that the Blackwater had overflowed its banks, inundating the low-lying lands on either side to the depths of many feet. So he knew it might be several months before the site of the grave would be uncovered again, even if the depression where it lay were not wholly filled in by the silting of the river mud.
Each morning when he opened the newspaper he half expected to read of the Baltic ambassador being missing, but there was never any mention of him.
The papers were in the main full of the arrests of so many of the Irish Republican Army and great praise was accorded to Scotland Yard. Inspector Drew being referred to as a very smart officer, and the work of his particular department extolled to the skies.
In accordance with his expressed wish, Larose’s part in all which had taken place was not specifically mentioned. One newspaper, however, remarked enigmatically that had all the facts leading up to the arrests been known to the public they would realise how much they were beholden to an anonymous worker on their behalf.
A week of inaction having passed, Larose began to become restless again. He was intensely curious, too, as to what the Secret Service people must be thinking as to the sudden disappearance of the Baltic ambassador and the supposed Herr Blitzen, the news of which would certainly have filtered through to them by underground channels. He felt now pretty sure, too, that the Herr’s real identity had been known to them all along.
So, upon the eighth day he went up to town to have a chat with the Head of the Counter Espionage Department. He chose Mr. Grant, of all others, because he had aways got on so well with him. Mr. Grant was not so bound down by red tape, and was a man of broad and sympathetic understanding. Apart from that, he knew quite well Mr. Grant would believe anything he, Larose, might tell him.
Mr. Grant received him warmly. “In the limelight again, Mr. Larose,” he smiled. “Really, whenever you come out of your shell you have a perfect genius for attracting to you members of the criminal classes. They are like moths around the candle and they generally burn their wings”— he nodded significantly —“much to the satisfaction of the community.” He looked up at the clock and made a gesture of annoyance. “I am always delighted to see you, as you must know, but it happens you have arrived now at a very awkward time. I am expecting the Prime Minister any moment, in fact, he may be even now be upon his way here.”
“Well, I can wait if he comes,” said Larose. “I am in no particular hurry.” Then he rapped out, “It is about that Herr Blitzen I have come to speak to you.”
“Herr Blitzen!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, looking very puzzled. “What do you know about Herr Blitzen?”
Larose drew in a deep breath. “That he is dead,” he said solemnly. “The Baltic ambassador murdered him!”
But Mr. Grant did not appear to have taken in what he had heard. He just stared and stared, very hard.
“Yes, he is dead,” went on Larose, with a sigh. “Von Ravenheim murdered him and I shot von Ravenheim. I buried them both in the one grave and no one knows anything about it. It happened a week ago last Saturday.”
Still Mr. Grant said nothing, and Larose raised his voice and asked sharply, “Don’t you understand what I say, sir? They are both dead, I tell you, one murdered and the other killed.”
Mr. Grant’s voice was shaking. “Mr. Larose, I have always believed implicitly whatever you have told me, and you now say that Herr Blitzen is dead?”
“Yes, murdered,” nodded Larose, “murdered by von Ravenheim.”
Mr. Grant’s face was ashen grey. “Do you know who Herr Blitzen is, or was, if what you tell me is true?” he asked.
“Yes, Herr Bauer, the Baltic Dictator,” said Larose. “I learnt it from him when he was dying.”
“Then do you realise what it all means, now it has happened over here?” asked Mr. Grant in great distress. He raised his hands protestingly. “But I cannot believe it, I really cannot. It is so awful and”— but he broke off suddenly, with a startled expression upon his face. “Yes, yes, oh, I believe it now!” He nodded. “Von Ravenheim has been missing for several days! No one at the Embassy has breathed a word, but we have learnt secretly that he cannot be found and they are in a state, bordering upon panic. So, it corroborates what you say and ——” but the telephone bell tinkled upon his desk and he held up on his hand.
A moment’s silence followed and then he spoke into the mouth-piece. “Yes, bring him in at once,” he said. “I’ll see him immediately.” He turned back to Larose. “It’s the Prime Minister,” he whispered, “and we’ll hear your story together.” He nodded. “I’m not sorry he’s come. It would have been most distressing to me to tell him this dreadful news secondhand, as, of course, Herr Bauer’s death in this way may have world consequences. It will be much better for him if you tell him everything yourself, as an eye-witness.”
But if Mr. Grant were not sorry Mr. Newark was going to be present, Larose certainly was. He respected the Prime Minister, as did everyone, as a man of sterling honesty of character. But he was much too punctilious to suit Larose, too tied down by red tape and too bound by decorous British traditions. A gentleman himself, he treated everyone as gentlemen, too. He could be as credulous as a little child and, believing anybody’s word, was most pained and surprised when he found out he had been fed upon lies. His was the velvet glove all right, but there was no iron hand inside it, and he was not the man, Larose thought, to handle unscrupulous opponents. He was not the man to fight a winning fight if the other man fought unfairly.
He came into the room and Larose was introduced to him. He had heard of the part Larose had so recently taken in bringing about the arrest of the Irish terrorists, and congratulated him warmly, in well-chosen words and with an old-world courtesy.
Then Mr. Grant unburdened himself quickly of the dreadful tidings Larose had brought, and, relying upon Mr. Grant’s assurance that it was all true, the Prime Minister’s distress and consternation were painful for the others to see.
“But what shame it will bring upon our country!” he almost wailed. “What a disgrace for us all that it has happened here!”
Then Larose was bidden to tell his tale in detail, and uncertain now of his own position, he told it warily and with many reservations. He kept back quite a lot.
He said he had had reason to suspect the Baltic ambassador of intending to take the life of a certain public man, and, consequently he, Larose, had been upon the watch in the vicinity of the threatened man’s house upon the fatal night. Then he related more fully the happenings upon the lonely grasslands and how he had seen von Ravenheim arrive with the supposed Herr Blitzen, and had heard him address the Herr as ‘Your Excellency!’
Then he told of the murder of Herr Blitzen and how he had shot von Ravenheim and buried them both in the grave the ambassador had already prepared. He slurred over what happened afterwards to the car, simply stating that he had hidden it where it would never be found.
The Prime Minister wrung his hands. “But how shall we stand in the eyes of the world now?” he asked despairingly. “Who will believe it happened as Mr. Larose says? What will Herr Bauer’s own people say?”
“They should never learn anything about it,” said Larose sternly. “What I have told you must never go farther than this room.”
“They must never learn about it!” ejaculated Mr. Newark in horrified tones. He shook his head emphatically. “No, no, Mr. Larose, we Britishers don’t do things like that! Their bodies must be disinterred at once and when they have been formally identified, the Baltic Embassy notified without a single minute’s delay.” He drew himself up proudly. “We must preserve the honor of our country in the eyes of the world.”
“And what’ll happen then?” asked Larose, with his face set hard as flint. “You may precipitate a world war!”
The Prime Minister drew in a deep breath. “It cannot be helped if we do. We must face all consequences bravely.” He wrung his hands. “Oh, what a dreadful calamity this it! We’ve taken such care all along that no harm should come to this man, ever since he came over here.” He seemed to now realise something for the first time and addressed Larose frowningly. “But you say this all happened a week ago! Then why haven’t you made it known before? Think of the added suspicion which will be aroused by this delay! Why didn’t you tell us at once?”
“It was not in my mind to tell anybody,” said Larose slowly, “and I’m sorry I said anything now.” He nodded. “Yes, it was very foolish of me to have come here to Mr. Grant, and it’s doubly unfortunate you should have been happening to come here, too.”
“Well, it’s done now,” said Mr. Newark sharply, “and we can’t remain silent. There’ll be the usual inquest of course, and the whole matter made public. You’ll have to go into the witness-box, too, and justify yourself for having taken the ambassador’s life, and not leaving him to be dealt with by the ordinary processes of the law.” He spoke now in much firmer tones than he had hitherto used. “Where are they buried?”
Larose considered. “Oh, where they are doing no harm,” he replied casually. “They couldn’t be in a better place and the world is well rid of them. They were bad men.”
The Prime Minister looked plaintively at Mr. Grant, and the latter, understanding what he meant, asked persuasively, “Now where did you bury them, Mr. Larose?”
Larose hesitated. “O-oh, I don’t think I shall say.” His voice hardened. “No. I shan’t.” He shook his head. “I won’t be responsible for laying the world in ruins. I’ll just hold my tongue.”
“But, Mr. Larose, Mr. Larose, you can’t act like that,” protested the Prime Minister. “You’ve made a confession and ——”
“A confession!” snapped Larose angrily. “Oh, there was nothing of a confession in what I told you! Don’t run away with that idea. I have no regrets for anything I did that night and I’d do it again, every time. Yes, every time.” But then, all suddenly, he quieted down. “There, gentlemen, just forget I said anything. That’ll be the best plan. Let the matter drop.” He rose smilingly to his feet. “I think it was all a dream.” His face lit up in apparent great relief. “Yes, yes, of course, it was! I’m sure of it now!” and he moved towards the door. “Good morning to you both.”
But the Prime Minister barred his way. “You can’t go off like that,” he said very sternly. “You’ll have to admit the truth now.”
Larose raised his eyebrows. “The truth, sir,” he ejaculated, as if in great surprise. “What truth is there ever in dreams?” He nodded emphatically. “I tell you it was all a dream. I’m positive about it now!”
“But we’ll find out where you were that Saturday,” said Mr. Newark angrily. “We’ll have your movements traced.”
“A-ah, that’s right,” nodded Larose. “Put Scotland Yard on to me. It will be great sport for them there.” He laughed. “But don’t ask me to give any help,” and with a wave of his hand, he let himself out of the room.
The Prime Minister and Mr. Grant looked at each other. “Do you think it really all happened, Grant?” asked the former, looking very worried.
Mr. Grant was delighted with the turn things had taken, but he hid his satisfaction under a very solemn air. “I’m quite sure it did, sir,” he replied. “Mr. Larose would never swerve a hair’s breadth from the truth in a matter like this.” He frowned. “He is a singular man, this Larose, and has his own code of morals. But he has a fierce passion for justice”— he sighed —“although it may be of a wild kind.”
Will the world ever learn the true story of what happened afterwards?
Who was the puppet, who, following those weeks of silence, sprang suddenly before the Baltic people as their still triumphing dictator, mouthing threats and curses in the old way, and gibbering, as one had so often before, that it was the destiny of their race to become the conqueror of all mankind?
Who was he who later loosed upon the world that hell of blood and agony, and then, when the Baltic might was broken, vanished from all human ken?
Are any alive now who can tell?
It is doubtful.
So many perished in that frenzied aftermath of war, secretly, silently, and in such countless unrecorded ways, that it is probable that among them were those who alone could have told the tale.
So there we must leave it.
Some months later the Prime Minister went down into Norfolk to open a new county hospital which had just been erected in Norwich and, somewhat to his surprise, met Larose there as one of the leading members of the reception committee.
He shook hands with him with something of a wry smile, but later in the afternoon drew him to one side and spoke most pleasantly.
“You know, Mr. Larose,” he said, “I’ve been hearing quite a lot about you today, and how largely the building of this beautiful hospital is due to the generosity and exertions of you and your very charming wife.”
“Fortunately, we were able to be of some small service,” smiled Larose. “My wife has always been very keen about hospitals.”
The Prime Minister frowned. “But I don’t think you have been quite fair to your good lady, Mr. Larose. Now, have you?”
Larose looked puzzled. “In what way, sir?” he asked.
“Well, I understand,” went on Mr. Newark, “that when you married her you took her title from her. She was Lady Ardane then, and now she is only plain Mrs. Larose.”
“But she’s not plain, sir,” remonstrated Larose warmly.
“No, no, certainly not in looks!” exclaimed the Prime Minister instantly. “I didn’t mean that for one moment. I meant in her name only, as she’s just plain Mrs. Larose.” He patted Larose upon the shoulder. “Well, we must remedy that.”
Larose did not pretend to misunderstand what he meant and blushed scarlet.
Mr. Newark waved his arm round the beautifully appointed ward in which they were standing and added, “Yes, for this and”— he paused significantly and looked Larose straight in the eyes —“for certain other services rendered to our country, I shall bring up your name to His Majesty.” He smiled with great good nature.
In the late days of the following December, Larose was spending a few days with his family in Cornwall and one afternoon, taking a walk by himself upon the cliffs at Newquay, he came suddenly upon Hilda Castle.
They shook hands warmly and then Larose asked, “And how is your sister,”— he smiled —“the Miss Cecily of those troubled days? I saw in the paper that she was married.”
“Oh, she’s quite well, thank you,” replied Hilda. But then her face clouded and she corrected herself quickly. “No, she’s not at all well,” She nodded. “In fact, we’re very worried about her.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Sir Gilbert.
Hilda hesitated. “Oh, nothing much,” she said, but then, seeing the sympathetic dismay in his face she added in a burst of confidence. “Still, I’ll tell you, for I know I can trust you.” She went on quickly. “It’s like this. Cecily is very worried about Herr Blitzen.”
“But how does he worry her?” asked Larose.
“He haunts her, for she is always afraid that one day he’ll find out where she is and try to take her away from her husband. She knows he tried to kidnap her that morning in Haslemere and it’s never out of her mind.”
“I see,” said Larose thoughtfully, after a moment’s silence. He brightened up. “Well, you take me back home with you now and I’ll have a little chat with her. I think I can make her mind easy.”
He found Cecily just as pretty as ever, but a little thinner and with a drawn look about her eyes. Hilda left them together and, after a few minutes’ casual conversation, Larose said rather mysteriously. “I’m so glad your sister brought me in to see you, as it gives me an opportunity to explain something I did not like to put in writing.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s about that letter from Herr Blitzen I forwarded on to you at the War Office.”
“You forwarded me that letter!” exclaimed Cecily, with her eyes opened very wide.
“Yes, I put it in the covering envelope,” said Larose, “and typed the address so that no curious person should note the handwriting and ask you about it.” He nodded. “Of course, I knew then who Herr Blitzen really was.”
“But who told you?” asked Cecily sharply.
“He did himself,” said Larose, and he added very solemnly, “just before he died.”
“Before he died!” exclaimed Cecily wildly. She could hardly breathe in her emotion. “You say he is dead?”
“Hush, hush!” warned Larose very sternly. “Yes, he is dead and I was with him when he died, but that is a secret you must always keep to yourself and never make me regret I have disclosed it to you.”
“But when did he die?” asked Cecily, still breathing hard.
“The very day he wrote you that letter,” replied Larose, “and it was in this country, but I must not tell you where.” He nodded. “As he had come here in secret it was thought best that his death and everything about it should be kept secret, too.”
“And what did he die from?” asked Cecily, very bewildered.
“From haemorrhage of the lungs,” said Larose. “It was very sudden.” He shook his head. “But there, I’ll not say anything more about it. I really ought not to have told you now.”
“Oh, but how you’ve relieved my mind!” said Cecily. “I shall be a different woman now. I have been all along so terrified that he would come to try to kidnap me again.” She sighed. “Poor Herr Bauer, I do think he was fond of me in his violent, masterful way!”
They chatted for quite a long while and then she came to the garden gate to wave him a smiling good-bye.
“Chance, chance,” murmured Larose, “it was only by chance that those two met!” He sighed deeply. “But what a mighty part chance plays in this muddled world of ours and upon what small happenings do great events depend! But for the color of that girl’s eyes, her pretty mouth and the contours of her face — how different might have been the fate of that most baleful character in history! He might have passed away to the roaring of the guns and in that hell of carnage he had so long prepared for others, or he might, even now, be still in flight or exile. Instead, he lies in that shameful grave upon the lonely marshland, with that other murderer to keep him company until the resurrection morn.”
The End