21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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of paper. “It is this darkness which is so alarming!”
Bellamy turned toward the door.
“You have the telephone in your bedroom, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, ring me up at any time in the night or morning, if you have news.”
Bellamy drove at once to Dover Street. It was half-past one, but he had no fear of not being admitted. Louise’s French maid answered the bell.
“Madame has not retired?” Bellamy inquired.
“But no, sir,” the woman assured him, with a welcoming smile. “It is only a few minutes ago that she has returned.”
Bellamy was ushered at once into her room. She was gorgeous in blue satin and pearls. Her other maid was taking off her jewels. She dismissed both the women abruptly.
“I absolutely couldn’t avoid a supper-party,” she said, holding out her hands. “You expected that, of course. You were not at the Opera House?”
He shook his head, and walking to the door tried the handle. It was securely closed. He came back slowly to her side. Her eyes were questioning him fiercely.
“Well?” she exclaimed. “Well?”
“Have you heard from Von Behrling?”
“No,” she answered. “He knew that I must sing to-night. I have been expecting him to telephone every moment since I got home. You have seen him?”
“I have seen him,” Bellamy admitted. “Either he has deceived us both, or the most unfortunate mistake in the world has happened. Listen. I met him where he appointed. He was there, disguised, almost unrecognizable. He was nervous and desperate; he had the air of a man who has cut himself adrift from the world. I gave him the money,—twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, Louise,—and he gave me the papers, or what we thought were the papers. He told me that he was keeping a false duplicate upon him for a little time, in case he was seized, but that he was going to Liverpool Street station to wait, and would telephone you from the hotel there later on. You have not heard yet, then?”
She shook her head.
“There has been no message, but go on.”
“He gave me the wrong document—the wrong envelope,” continued Bellamy. “When I took it to—to Downing Street, it was full of blank paper.”
The color slowly left her cheeks. She looked at him with horror in her face.
“Do you think that he meant to do it?” she exclaimed.
“We cannot tell,” Bellamy answered. “My own impression is that he did not. We must find out at once what has become of him. He might even, if he fancies himself safe, destroy the envelope he has, believing it to be the duplicate. He is sure to telephone you. The moment you hear you must let me know.”
“You had better stay here,” she declared. “There are plenty of rooms. You will be on the spot then.”
Bellamy shook his head.
“The joke of it is that I, too, am being watched whereever I go. That fellow Streuss has spies everywhere. That is one reason why I believe that Von Behrling was serious.
“Oh, he was serious!” Louise repeated.
“You are sure?” Bellamy asked. “You have never had even any doubt about him?”
“Never,” she answered firmly. “David, I had not meant to tell you this. You know that I saw him for a moment this morning. He was in deadly earnest. He gave me a ring—a trifle—but it had belonged to his mother. He would not have done this if he had been playing us false.”
Bellamy sprang to his feet.
“You are right, Louise!” he exclaimed. “I shall go back to my rooms at once. Fortunately, I had a man shadowing Von Behrling, and there may be a report for me. If anything comes here, you will telephone at once?”
“Of course,” she assented.
“You do not think it possible,” he asked slowly, “that he would attempt to see you here?”
Louise shuddered for a moment.
“I absolutely forbade it, so I am sure there is no chance of that.”
“Very well, then,” he decided, “we will wait. Dear,” he added, in an altered tone, “how splendid you look!”
Her face suddenly softened.
“Ah, David!” she murmured, “to hear you speak naturally even for a moment—it makes everything seem so different!”
He held out his arms and she came to him with a little sigh of satisfaction.
“Louise,” he said, “some day the time may come when we shall be able to give up this life of anxiety and terrors. But it cannot be yet—not for your country’s sake or mine.”
She kissed him fondly.
“So long as there is hope!” she whispered.
XI. VON BEHRLING’S FATE
It seemed to Louise that she had scarcely been in bed an hour when the more confidential of her maids—Annette, the Frenchwoman—woke her with a light touch of the arm. She sat up in bed sleepily.
“What is it, Annette?” she asked. “Surely it is not mid-day yet? Why do you disturb me?”
“It is barely nine o’clock, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur Bellamy—Mademoiselle told me that she wished to receive him whenever he came. He is in the boudoir now, and very impatient.”
“Did he send any message?”
“Only that his business was of the most urgent,” the maid replied.
Louise sighed,—she was really very sleepy. Then, as the thoughts began to crowd into her brain, she began also to remember. Some part of the excitement of a few hours ago returned.
“My bath, Annette, and a dressing-gown,” she ordered. “Tell Monsieur Bellamy that I hurry. I will be with him in twenty minutes.”
To Bellamy, the twenty minutes were minutes of purgatory. She came at last, however, fresh and eager; her hair tied up with ribbon, she herself clad in a pink dressing-gown and pink slippers.
“David!” she cried,—“my dear David—!”
Then she broke off.
“What is it?” she asked, in a different tone.
He showed her the headlines of the newspaper he was carrying.
“Tragedy!” he answered hoarsely. “Von Behrling was true, after all,—at least, it seems so.”
“What has happened?” she demanded.
Bellamy pointed once more to the newspaper.
“He was murdered last night, within fifty yards of the place of our rendezvous.”
A little exclamation broke from Louise’s lips. She sat down suddenly. The color called into her cheeks by the exercise of her bath was rapidly fading away.
“David,” she murmured, “is this true?”
“It is indeed,” Bellamy assured her. “Not only that, but there is no mention of his pocket-book in the account of his murder. It must have been engineered by Streuss and the others, and they have got away with the pocket-book and the money.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
“There is nothing to be done,” Bellamy declared calmly. “We are defeated. The thing is quite apparent. Von