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Sign of Silence, The

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<h2 class="gap3">CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> <h3>THE SELLER OF SHAWLS.</h3> After much eloquent persuasion on my part, and much straight talking on the part of the spectacled family doctor, and of Mrs. Shand, Phrida at last, towards the last days of June, allowed us to take her to Dinard, where, at the Hotel Royal, we spent three pleasant weeks, making many automobile excursions to Trouville, to Dinan, and other places in the neighbourhood. The season had scarcely commenced, nevertheless the weather was perfect, and gradually I had the satisfaction of seeing the colour return to the soft cheeks of my well-beloved. Before leaving London I had, of course, seen Edwards, and, knowing that watch was being kept upon her, I accepted the responsibility of reporting daily upon my love's movements, she being still under suspicion. "I ought not to do this, Mr. Royle," he had said, "but the circumstances are so unusual that I feel I may stretch a point in the young lady's favour without neglecting my duty. And after all," he added, "we have no direct evidence—at least not sufficient to justify an arrest." "Why doesn't that woman Petre come forward and boldly make her statement personally?" I had queried. "Well, she may know that you are still alive"—he laughed—"and if so—she's afraid to go further." I questioned him regarding his inquiries concerning the actual identity of Marie Bracq, but he only raised his eyebrows and replied: "My dear Mr. Royle, I know nothing more than you do. They no doubt possess some information in Brussels, but they are careful to keep it there." And so I had accompanied Phrida and her mother, hoping that the change of air and scenery might cause her to forget the shadow of guilt which now seemed to rest upon her and to crush all life and hope from her young heart. Tiring of Dinard, Mrs. Shand hired a big, grey touring-car, and together we went first through Brittany, then to Vannes, Nantes, and up to Tours, afterwards visiting the famous chateaux of Touraine, Amboise Loches, and the rest, the weather being warm and delightful, and the journey one of the pleasantest and most picturesque in Europe. When July came, Phrida appeared greatly improved in both health and spirits. Yet was it only pretence? Did she in the lonely watches of the night still suffer that mental torture which I knew, alas! she had suffered, for her own deep-set eyes, and pale, sunken cheeks had revealed to me the truth. Each time I sat down and wrote that confidential note to Edwards, I hated myself—that I was set to spy upon the woman I loved with all my heart and soul. Would the truth never be told? Would the mystery of that tragic January night in South Kensington never be elucidated? One evening in the busy but pleasant town of Tours, Mrs. Shand having complained of headache after a long, all-day excursion in the car, Phrida and I sauntered out after dinner, and after a brief walk sat down outside one of those big cafés where the tables are placed out beneath the leafy chestnut trees of the boulevard. The night was hot and stifling, and as we sat there chatting over our coffee amid a crowd of people enjoying the air after the heat of the day, a dark-faced, narrow-eyed Oriental in a fez, with a number of Oriental rugs and cheap shawls, came and stood before us, in the manner of those itinerant vendors who haunt Continental cafés. He said nothing, but, standing like a bronze statue, he looked hard at me and pointed solemnly at a quantity of lace which he held in his left hand. "No, I want nothing," I replied in French, shaking my head. "Ve-ry cheep, sare!" he exclaimed in broken English at last. "You no buy for laidee?" and he showed his white teeth with a pleasant grin. I again replied in the negative, perhaps a little impatiently, when suddenly Phrida whispered to me: "Why, we saw this same man in Dinard, and in another place—I forget where. He haunts us!" "These men go from town to town," I explained. "They make a complete round of France." Then I suddenly recollected that the man's face was familiar. I had seen him outside the Piccadilly Tube Station on the night of my tryst with Mrs. Petre! "Yes, laidee!" exclaimed the man, who had overheard Phrida's words. "I see you Dinard—Hotel Royal—eh?" he said with a smile. "Will you buy my lace—seelk lace; ve-ry cheep?" "I know it's cheap," I laughed; "but we don't want it." Nevertheless, he placed it upon the little marble-topped table for our inspection, and then bending, he whispered into my ear a question: "Mee-ster Royle you—eh?" "Yes," I said, starting. "I want see you, to-night, alone. Say no-ting to laidee till I see you—outside your hotel eleven o'clock, sare—eh?" I sat staring at him in blank surprise, but in a low voice I consented. Then, very cleverly he asked in his normal voice, looking at me with his narrow eyes, with dark brows meeting: "You no buy at that price—eh? Ah!" and he sighed as he gathered up his wares: "Cheep, laidee—very goot and cheep!" And bowing, he slung them upon the heavy pile already on his shoulder and stalked away. "What did he say?" Phrida asked when he had gone. "Oh, only wanted me to buy the lot for five francs!" I replied, for he had enjoined secrecy, and I knew not but he might be an emissary of Frémy or of Edwards. Therefore I deemed it best for the time to evade her question. Still, both excited and puzzled, I eagerly kept the appointment. When I emerged from the hotel on the stroke of eleven I saw the man without his pile of merchandise standing in the shadow beneath a tree, on the opposite side of the boulevard, awaiting me. Quickly I crossed to him, and asked: "Well, what do you want with me?" "Ah, Mee-ster Royle! I have watched you and the young laidee a long time. You travel so quickly, and I go by train from town to town—slowly." "Yes, but why?" I asked, as we strolled together under the trees. "I want to tell you some-zing, mee-ster. I no Arabe—I Senos, from Huacho." "From Huacho!" I gasped quickly. "Yees. My dead master he English—Sir Digby Kemsley!" "Sir Digby!" I cried. "And you were his servant. You knew this man Cane—why, you were the man who heard your master curse the man who placed the deadly reptile against his face. You made a statement to the police, did you not?" I asked frantically. "Yees, Mee-ster Royle—I did! I know a lot," he replied in his slow way, stalking along in the short breeches, red velvet jacket, and fez of an Oriental. "You will tell me, Senos?" I said. "You will tell me everything?" I urged. "Tell me all that you know!" He grinned in triumph, saying: "I know a lot—I know all. Cane killed my master—killed him with the snake—he and Luis together. I know—I saw. But the Englishman is always great, and his word believed by the commissary of police—not the word of Senos. Oh, no! but I have followed; I have watched. I have been beside Cane night and day when he never dream I was near. I tell the young lady all the truth, and—ah!—she tell him after I beg her to be silent." "But where is Cane now?" I asked eagerly. "Do you know?" "The 'Red' Englishman—he with Madame Petre and Luis—he call himself Ali, the Indian." "Where? Can you take me to them?" I asked. "You know there is a warrant out for their arrest?" "I know—but——" "But what?" I cried. "No, not yet. I wait," he laughed. "I know every-ting. He kill my master; I kill him. My master be very good master." "Yes, I know he was," I said. "That man Cane—very bad man. Your poor young laidee—ah? She not know me. I know her. You no say you see me—eh? I tell every-ting later. You go Ostend; I meet you. Then we see them." "At Ostend!" I cried. "Are they there?" "You go Ostend to-morrow. Tell me your hotel. Senos come—eh? Senos see them with you. Oh! Oh!" he said in his quaint way, grinning from ear to ear. I looked at the curious figure beside me. He was the actual man who had heard the dying cries of Sir Digby Kemsley. "But, tell me," I urged, "have you been in London? Do you know that a young lady died in Cane's apartment—was killed there?" "Senos knows," he laughed grimly. "Senos has not left him—ah, no! He kill my master. I never leave him till I crush him—never!" "Then you know, of what occurred at Harrington Gardens?" I repeated. "Yes, Senos know. He tell in Ostend when we meet," he replied. "You go to-morrow, eh?" and he looked at me anxiously with those dark, rather blood-shot eyes of his. "I will go to-morrow," I answered without hesitation; and, taking out my wallet I gave him three notes of a hundred francs each, saying: "This will pay your fare. I will go straight to the Grand Hotel, on the Digue. You will meet me there." "And the laidee—eh? She must be there too." "Yes, Miss Shand will be with me," I said. "Good, sare—very good!" he replied, thrusting the notes into the inner pocket of his red velvet jacket. "I get other clothes—these only to sell things," and he smiled. I tried to induce him to tell me more, but he refused, saying: "At Ostend Senos show you. He tell you all he know—he tell the truth about the 'Red' Englishman." And presently, after he had refused the drink I offered him, the Peruvian, who was earning his living as an Arab of North Africa, bowed with politeness and left me, saying: "I meet you, Mee-ster Royle, at Grand Hotel in Ostend. But be careful neither of you seen. They are sharp, clever, alert—oh, ve-ry! We leave to-morrow—eh? Good!" And a moment later the quaint figure was lost in the darkness. An hour later, though past midnight, I despatched two long telegrams—one to Frémy in Brussels, and the other to Edwards in London. Then, two days later, by dint of an excuse that I had urgent business in Ostend, I found myself with Phrida and Mrs. Shand, duly installed, in rooms overlooking the long, sunny Digue, one of the finest sea-promenades in Europe. Ostend had begun her season, the racing season had commenced, and all the hotels had put on coats of new, white paint, and opened their doors, while in the huge Kursaal they played childish games of chance now that M. Marquet was no longer king—yet the magnificent orchestra was worth a journey to listen to. On the afternoon of our arrival, all was gay and bright; outside the blue sea, the crowd of well-dressed promenaders, and the golden sands where the bathing was so merry and so chic. But I had no eyes for the beauties or gaiety of the place. I sat closeted in my room with two friends, Frémy and Edwards, whom I introduced and who quickly fraternised. A long explanatory letter I had written to Brussels had reached Frémy before his departure from the capital. "Excellent," he was saying, his round, clean-shaven face beaming. "This Peruvian evidently knows where they are, and like all natives, wants to make a coup-de-theatre. I've brought two reliable men with me from Brussels, and we ought—if they are really here—to make a good capture." "Miss Shand knows nothing, you say?" Edwards remarked, seated on the edge of my bed. "No. This man Senos was very decided upon the point." "He has reasons, no doubt," remarked the detective. "It is just four o'clock," I remarked. "He has given me a rendezvous at the Café de la Règence, a little place at the corner of the Place d'Armes. I went round to find it as soon as I arrived. We're due there in a quarter of an hour." "Then let us go, messieurs," Frémy suggested. "And what about Miss Shand?" I asked. The two detectives held a brief discussion. Then Edwards, addressing me, said: "I really think that she ought to be present, Mr. Royle. Would you bring her? Prepare her for a scene—as there no doubt will be—and then follow us." "But Senos will not speak without I am present," I said. "Then go along to Miss Shand, give her my official compliments and ask her to accompany us upon our expedition," he replied. And upon his suggestion I at once acted. Truly those moments were breathless and exciting. I could hear my own heart beat as I went along the hotel corridor to knock at the door of her room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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