XXIX. LASSEN’S TREACHERY DISCOVERED

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      About twenty minutes past six on the same evening, Bellamy, his clothes thick with dust, his face dark with anger, jumped lightly from a sixty horse-power car and rang the bell of the lift at number 15, Dover Street. Arrived on the first floor, he was confronted almost immediately by the sad-faced man-servant of Mademoiselle Idiale.

      “Mademoiselle is in?” Bellamy asked quickly.

      The man’s expression was one of sombre regret.

      “Mademoiselle is spending the day in the country, sir. Bellamy took him by the shoulders and flung him against the wall.

      “Thank you,” he said, “I’ve heard that before.”

      He walked down the passage and knocked softly at the door of Louise’s sleeping apartment. There was no answer. He knocked again and listened at the key-hole. There was some movement inside but no one spoke.

      “Louise,” he cried softly, “let me in. It is I—David.”

      Again the only reply was the strangest of sounds. Almost it seemed as though a woman were trying to speak with a hand over her mouth. Then Bellamy suddenly stiffened into rigid attention. There were voices in the small reception room,—the voice of Henri, the butler, and another. Reluctantly he turned away from the closed door and walked swiftly down the passage. He entered the reception room and looked around him in amazement. It was still in disorder. Lassen sat in an easy-chair with a tumbler of brandy by his side. Henri was tying a bandage around his head, his collar was torn, there were marks of blood about his shirt. Bellamy’s eyes sparkled. He closed the door behind him.

      “Come,” he exclaimed, “after all, I fancy that my arrival is somewhat opportune!”

      Henri turned towards him with a reproachful gesture.

      “Monsieur Lassen has been unwell, Monsieur,” he said. “He has had a fit and fallen down.”

      Bellamy laughed contemptuously.

      “I think I can reconstruct the scene a little better than that,” he declared. “What do you say, Mr. Lassen?”

      The man glared at him viciously.

      “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said. “I do not wish to speak to you. I am ill. You had better go and persuade Mademoiselle to return. She is at Dover, waiting.”

      “You are a liar!” Bellamy answered. “She is in her room now, locked up—guarded, perhaps, by one of your creatures. I have been half-way to Dover, but I tumbled to your scheme in time, Mr. Lassen. You found our friend Laverick a trifle awkward, I fancy.”

      Lassen swore through his teeth but said nothing.

      “From your somewhat dishevelled appearance,” Bellamy continued, “I think I may conclude that you were not able to come to any amicable arrangement with Mademoiselle’s visitor. He declined to accept you as her proxy, I imagine. Still, one must make sure.”

      He advanced quickly. Lassen shrank back in his chair.

      “What do you mean?” he asked gruffly. “Keep him away from me, Henri. Ring the bell for your other man. This fellow will do me a mischief.”

      “Not I,” Bellamy answered scornfully. “Stay where you are, Henri. To your other accomplishments I have no doubt you include that of valeting. Take off his coat.”

      “But, Monsieur!” Henri protested.

      “I’m d—d if he shall!” the man in the chair snarled.

      Bellamy turned to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

      “Look here,” he said, “I do not for one moment believe that Laverick handed over to you the document you were so anxious to obtain. On the other hand, I imagine that your somewhat battered appearance is the result of fruitless argument on your part with a view to inducing him to do so. Nevertheless, I can afford to run no risks. The coat first, please, Henri. It is necessary that I search it thoroughly.”

      There was a brief hesitation. Bellamy’s hand went reluctantly into his pocket.

      “I hate to seem melodramatic,” he declared, “and I never carry firearms, but I have a little life-preserver here which I have learned how to use pretty effectively. Come, you know, it isn’t a fair fight. You’ve had all you want, Lassen, and Henri there hasn’t the muscle of a chicken.”

      Lassen rose, groaning, to his feet and allowed his coat to be removed. Bellamy glanced through the pockets, holding one letter for a moment in his hands as he glanced at the address.

      “The writing of our friend Streuss,” he remarked, with a smile. “No, you need not fear, Lassen! I am not going to read it. There is plenty of proof of your treachery without this.”

      Lassen’s face was livid and his eyes seemed like beads. Bellamy handed back the coat.

      “That’s all right,” he said. “Nothing there, I am glad to see—or in the waistcoat,” he added, passing his hands over it. “I’ll trouble you to stand up for a moment, Mr. Lassen.”

      The man did as he was bid and Bellamy felt him all over. When he had finished, he held in his hand a key.

      “The key of Mademoiselle’s chamber, I have no doubt,” he announced, “I will leave you, then, while I see what deviltry you have been up to.”

      He walked calmly to the table which stood by the window and deliberately cut the telephone wire. With the instrument under his arm, he left the room. Lassen blundered to his feet as though to intercept him, but Bellamy’s eyes suddenly flashed red fury, and the life-preserver of which he had spoken glittered above his head. Lassen staggered away.

      “I’m a long-suffering man,” Bellamy said, “and if you don’t remember now that you’re the beaten dog, I may lose my temper.”

      He locked them in, walked down the