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House of Whispers

<h3 id="id00889" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XVII</h3> <h5 id="id00890">DESCRIBES A FRENCHMAN'S VISIT</h5> "Monsieur Goslin, Sir Henry," Hill announced, entering his master's room one morning a fortnight later, just as the blind man was about to descend to breakfast. "He's in the library, sir." "Goslin!" exclaimed the Baronet, in great surprise. "I'll go to him at once; and Hill, serve breakfast for two in the library, and tell Miss Gabrielle that I do not wish to be disturbed this morning." "Very well, Sir Henry;" and the man bowed and went down the broad oak staircase. "Goslin here, without any announcement!" exclaimed the Baronet, speaking to himself. "Something must have happened. I wonder what it can be." He tugged at his collar to render it more comfortable; and then, with a groping hand on the broad balustrade, he felt his way down the stairs and along the corridor to the big library, where a stout, grey-haired Frenchman came forward to greet him warmly, after carefully closing the door. "Ah, mon cher ami!" he began; and, speaking in French, he inquired eagerly after the Baronet's health. He was rather long-faced, with beard worn short and pointed, and his dark, deep-set eyes and his countenance showed a fund of good humour. "This visit is quite unexpected," exclaimed Sir Henry. "You were not due till the 20th." "No; but circumstances have arisen which made my journey imperative, so I left the Gare du Nord at four yesterday afternoon, was at Charing Cross at eleven, had half-an-hour to catch the Scotch express at King's Cross, and here I am." "Oh, my dear Goslin, you always move so quickly! You're simply a marvel of alertness." The other smiled, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, said, "I really don't know why I should have earned a reputation as a rapid traveller, except, perhaps, by that trip I made last year, from Paris to Constantinople, when I remained exactly thirty-eight minutes in the Sultan's capital. But I did my business there, nevertheless, even though I got through quicker than messieurs les touristes of the most estimable Agence Cook." "You want a wash, eh?" "Ah, no, my friend. I washed at the hotel in Perth, where I took my morning coffee. When I come to Scotland I carry no baggage save my tooth-brush in my pocket, and a clean collar across my chest, its ends held by my braces." The Baronet laughed heartily. His friend was always most resourceful and ingenious. He was a mystery to all at Glencardine, and to Lady Heyburn most of all. His visits were always unexpected, while as to who he really was, or whence he came, nobody—not even Gabrielle herself—knew. At times the Frenchman would take his meals alone with Sir Henry in the library, while at others he would lunch with her ladyship and her guests. On these latter occasions he proved himself a most amusing cosmopolitan, and at the same time exhibited an extreme courtliness towards every one. His manner was quite charming, yet his presence there was always puzzling, and had given rise to considerable speculation. Hill came in, and after helping the Frenchman to take off his heavy leather-lined travelling-coat, laid a small table for two and prepared breakfast. Then, when he had served it and left, Goslin rose, and, crossing to the door, pushed the little brass bolt into its socket. Returning to his chair opposite the blind man (whose food Hill had already cut up for him), he exclaimed in a very calm, serious voice, speaking in French, "I want you to hear what I have to say, Sir Henry, without exciting yourself unduly. Something has occurred—something very strange and remarkable." The other dropped his knife, and sat statuesque and expressionless. "Go on," he said hoarsely. "Tell me the worst at once." "The worst has not yet happened. It is that which I'm dreading." "Well, what has happened? Is—is the secret out?" "The secret is safe—for the present." The blind man drew a long breath. "Well, that's one thing to be thankful for," he gasped. "I was afraid you were going to tell me that the facts were exposed." "They may yet be exposed," the mysterious visitor exclaimed. "That's where lies the danger." "We have been betrayed, eh? You may as well admit the ugly truth at once, Goslin!" "I do not conceal it, Sir Henry. We have." "By whom?" "By somebody here—in this house." "Here! What do you mean? Somebody in my own house?" "Yes. The Greek affair is known. They have been put upon their guard in Athens." "By whom?" cried the Baronet, starting from his chair. "By somebody whom we cannot trace—somebody who must have had access to your papers." "No one has had access to my papers. I always take good care of that, Goslin—very good care of that. The affair has leaked out at your end, not at mine." "At our end we are always circumspect," the Frenchman said calmly. "Rest assured that nobody but we ourselves are aware of our operations or intentions. We know only too well that any revelation would assuredly bring upon us—disaster." "But a revelation has actually been made!" exclaimed Sir Henry, bending forward. "Therefore the worst is to be feared." "Exactly. That is what I am endeavouring to convey." "The betrayal must have come from your end, I expect; not from here." "I regret to assert that it came from here—from this very room." "How do you know that?" "Because in Athens they have a complete copy of one of the documents which you showed me on the last occasion I was here, and which we have never had in our possession." The blind man was silent. The allegation admitted of no argument. "My daughter Gabrielle is the only person who has seen it, and she understands nothing of our affairs, as you know quite well." "She may have copied it." "My daughter would never betray me, Goslin," said Sir Henry in a hard, distinct voice, rising from the table and slowly walking down the long, book-lined room. "Has no one else been able to open your safe and examine its contents?" asked the Frenchman, glancing over to the small steel door let into the wall close to where he was sitting. "No one. Though I'm blind, do you consider me a fool? Surely I recognise only too well how essential is secrecy. Have I not always taken the most extraordinary precautions?" "You have, Sir Henry. I quite admit that. Indeed, the precautions you've taken would, if known to the world, be regarded—well, as simply amazing." "I hope the world will never know the truth." "It will know the truth. They have the copies in Athens. If there is a traitor—as we have now proved the existence of one—then we can never in future rest secure. At any moment another exposure may result, with its attendant disaster." The Baronet halted before one of the long windows, the morning sunshine falling full upon his sad, grey face. He drew a long sigh and said, "Goslin, do not let us discuss the future. Tell me exactly what is the present situation." "The present situation," the Frenchman said in a dry, matter-of-fact voice, "is one full of peril for us. You have, over there in your safe, a certain paper—a confidential report which you received direct from Vienna. It was brought to you by special messenger because its nature was not such as should be sent through the post. A trusted official of the Austrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs brought it here. To whom did he deliver it?" "To Gabrielle. She signed a receipt." "And she broke the seals?" "No. I was present, and she handed it to me. I broke the seals myself. She read it over to me." "Ah!" ejaculated the Frenchman suspiciously. "It is unfortunate that you are compelled to entrust our secrets to a woman." "My daughter is my best friend; indeed, perhaps my only friend." "Then you have enemies?" "Who has not?" "True. We all of us have enemies," replied the mysterious visitor. "But in this case, how do you account for that report falling into the hands of the people in Athens? Who keeps the key of the safe?" "I do. It is never out of my possession." "At night what do you do with it?" "I hide it in a secret place in my room, and I sleep with the door locked." "Then, as far as you are aware, nobody has ever had possession of your key—not even mademoiselle your daughter?" "Not even Gabrielle. I always lock and unlock the safe myself." "But she has access to its contents when it is open," the visitor remarked. "Acting as your secretary, she is, of course, aware of a good deal of your business." "No; you are mistaken. Have we not arranged a code in order to prevent her from satisfying her woman's natural inquisitiveness?" "That's admitted. But the document in question, though somewhat guarded, is sufficiently plain to any one acquainted with the nature of our negotiations." The blind man crossed to the safe, and with the key upon his chain opened it, and, after fumbling in one of the long iron drawers revealed within, took out a big oblong envelope, orange-coloured, and secured with five black seals, now, however, broken. This he handed to his friend, saying, "Read it again, to refresh your memory. I know myself what it says pretty well by heart." Monsieur Goslin drew forth the paper within and read the lines of close, even writing. It was in German. He stood near the window as he read, while Sir Henry remained near the open safe. Hill tapped at the bolted door, but his master replied that he did not wish to be disturbed. "Yes," the Frenchman said at last, "the copy they have in Athens is exact—word for word." "They may have obtained it from Vienna." "No; it came from here. There are some pencilled comments in your daughter's handwriting." "They were dictated by me." "Exactly. And they appear in the copy now in the hands of the people in Athens! Thus it is doubly proved that it was this actual document which was copied. But by whom?" "Ah!" sighed the helpless man, his face drawn and paler than usual, "Gabrielle is the only person who has had sight of it." "Mademoiselle surely could not have copied it," remarked the Frenchman. "Has she a lover?" "Yes; the son of a neighbour of mine, a very worthy young fellow." Goslin grunted dubiously. It was apparent that he suspected her of trickery. Information such as had been supplied to the Greek Government would, he knew, be paid for, and at a high price. Had mademoiselle's lover had a hand in that revelation? "I would not suggest for a single moment, Sir Henry, that mademoiselle your daughter would act in any way against your personal interests; but—" "But what?" demanded the blind man fiercely, turning towards his visitor. "Well, it is peculiar—very peculiar—to say the least." Sir Henry was silent. Within himself he was compelled to admit that certain suspicion attached to Gabrielle. And yet was she not his most devoted—nay, his only—friend? "Some one has copied the report—that's evident," he said in a low, hard voice, reflecting deeply. "And by so doing has placed us in a position of grave peril, Sir Henry—imminent peril," remarked the visitor. "I see in this an attempt to obtain further knowledge of our affairs. We have a secret enemy, who, it seems, has found a vulnerable point in our armour." "Surely my own daughter cannot be my enemy?" cried the blind man in dismay. "You say she has a lover," remarked the Frenchman, speaking slowly and with deliberation. "May not he be the instigator?" "Walter Murie is upright and honourable," replied the blind man. "And yet—" A long-drawn sigh prevented the conclusion of that sentence. "Ah, I know!" exclaimed the mysterious visitor in a tone of sympathy. "You are uncertain in your conclusions because of your terrible affliction. Sometimes, alas! my dear friend, you are imposed upon, because you are blind." "Yes," responded the other, bitterly. "That is the truth, Goslin. Because I cannot see like other men, I have been deceived—foully and grossly deceived and betrayed! But—but," he cried, "they thought to ruin me, and I've tricked them, Goslin—yes, tricked them! Have no fear. For the present our secrets are our own!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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