CHAPTER XX.

REVEALS TREACHERY

Having crossed Westminster Bridge and traversed Victoria Street, the cab halted at the Brighton Station at Victoria, where old Ambrose alighted, his small bag in hand.

Hardly had he paid the driver when a taxi drew up a little distance away, and a thin, wiry, elderly man, with deep-set eyes and a yellow complexion, and dressed in dark clothes, got out and walked into the booking-hall, closely following John Ambrose. It was Don Mario Mellini--the friend of the dead Richard Goodrick.

Ambrose went to the booking-office and obtained a second-class ticket to Hayward’s Heath. Afterwards he made inquiry regarding the trains, and finding he had half an hour to wait, he bought an evening paper and leisurely read it.

At some distance away the man who was watching while pretending to be interested in the bookstall, kept his quarry under strict observation, having already ascertained which train he was about to take and his destination. As usual, there was much noise, bustle and confusion, for trains were arriving and departing every few minutes, and, in order to avoid the stream of people, old Ambrose moved further towards the refreshment room.

Of a sudden he apparently made up his mind to enter there and wait, so he turned and disappeared within the door.

Swift as lightning the mysterious watcher hurried across and looked into the bar. But he was not there!

The man entered and looked around, utterly confounded.

Not until a few minutes later did he realise that the cunning old gentleman had played a trick upon him. He had entered the next door, leading into the Grosvenor Hotel, passed through the hall and out into the darkness of the Grosvenor Road.

Ere the man who had been keeping such strict observation could realise the truth, the old fellow had crossed the road and was lost in the night.

Not before three minutes had elapsed did the priest enter the hotel breathlessly and make inquiry of the hall-porter.

“Yes,” replied the latter, “an old gentleman walked through a minute or two ago. He isn’t stopping at the hotel, I think.”

“Perhaps he took a cab outside,” said the yellow-faced man.

But the outside porter declared that he had not. The old fellow, carrying his bag, had simply walked out in the direction of Buckingham Palace Road.

The priest was beside himself with chagrin, for the action of Ambrose told him that he had suspected the presence of a watcher. For half an hour he continued to make inquiries, and he was present when the train left for Hayward’s Heath.

When it moved out without the old man, he cried aloud in Italian:

“_Madonna mia!_ I ought to have known that it was only a ruse--that the old blackguard is as artful as Satan himself!”

Truth to tell, however, old Ambrose was quite unaware of being watched. He had simply adopted that course in order that, if anybody should discover him, he would be put off the scent. He was far too wary to go straight into hiding, and thus leave a trail behind.

So he had just slipped through the hotel and down the steps. Then crossing the road swiftly, he had gone up Ebury Street, and, walking until he found a taxi, had driven to Liverpool Street Station, arriving there at about a quarter to nine.

There he bought a first-class ticket to Brussels, and, entering the Continental train, got safely away down to Parkeston.

The night was dark and wet, with the wind howling dismally, when he, with a small crowd of fellow-passengers, stepped upon the quay and made off towards the Antwerp boat, lying alongside, with the Hook of Holland boat a little farther up.

One by one the passengers for the Continent went up the gangway, and Ambrose, without fear of recognition, gained the steamer’s deck, and at once sought the steward to arrange for a berth.

He was unaware that a dark-eyed man, dressed in semi-nautical uniform, standing near the gangway, was watching, as he does every night, each departing passenger as he or she came up from the quay beneath the glare of the electric lamp on deck. And he, the port-watcher of the police, suddenly became interested in the old fellow. He left his coign of vantage, and strolling across the deck, managed to get a good look at his prominent, clean-shaven features.

“Isn’t old enough,” he remarked to himself; “and yet the description tallies.”

Then he turned and made his way ashore quickly and to the telephone. Without much delay he was on to London, asking for instructions. But what he received was apparently not very definite, for presently he hung up the receiver, and on coming out of the telephone-box, walked across to his own little office, which he unlocked. Then, switching on the light, he drew out a large photograph album, in which were preserved portraits of many hundreds of persons who had absconded and were wanted by the police in various towns in England for all sorts of offences, from the non-payment of income-tax to murder.

He ran rapidly through them, but found nothing which tallied with the person he suspected.

For a few moments he stood puzzled. Outside, the mails and luggage were being carried on board, and in ten minutes the steamer would leave.

So again he returned on board and obtained another good look at the fugitive, who, however, displayed no sign of anxiety. Indeed, he was standing in the saloon taking a glass of whisky and soda and changing a five-pound note with the steward into Belgian money.

Being winter, and bad weather in the North Sea, there were few passengers.

The detective went up to the steward and ordered a drink. Then, while taking it, he remarked to Ambrose:

“Rather rough night outside, I’m afraid.”

“I believe so,” replied the old man, speaking with a very pronounced Italian accent. “But these steamers are very good sea-boats.”

The man in semi-nautical attire drained his glass, and wishing the traveller good-night, ascended to the deck again, cursing himself as a fool.

“The man wanted is an Englishman--whereas he is a foreigner,” he said aloud to himself as he walked towards the gangway. “And yet there is a likeness, I’m sure--a very striking likeness. I recollect now that I left the photograph in my other pocket at home. I was wearing my grey coat this morning when I received it from London.”

He stood on deck undecided. There was no time for him to go to his home over in Harwich. Again, the fact that the man he suspected was a foreigner was not convincing.

The siren shrieked, announcing the sailing of the ship. Porters and others going ashore were returning, and the men were ready to withdraw the gangway and cast off.

He was half inclined to remain and cross to Antwerp. But the thought that the man was undoubtedly an Italian decided him, so just as the gangway was withdrawn he slipped lightly across it and returned ashore, little dreaming that from behind one of the funnels a pair of shrewd eyes were watching him--the eyes of the wary fugitive.

Next morning John Ambrose, his old self, with patriarchal white beard, and wearing heavy-rimmed glasses and minus his bag, alighted from a cab before the Grand Hotel in Brussels, and at the bureau asked for the room reserved for Mr. Grieg, of Glasgow. He was at once shown to one on the second floor, to which, a few moments later, a well-worn leather trunk, bearing the initials “J.F.G.,” was brought in, having arrived from a luggage depository an hour before, and presently a page brought up a letter which had been awaiting his arrival several days.

Unlocking the trunk, the old fellow took out a fresh and rather smart suit, consisting of black morning coat and grey check trousers, as well as a soft grey hat, and quickly he changed his dress. Thus was his shabbiness transformed into smartness, all being completely in keeping with his gold albert and diamond ring.

Presently he descended and passed out to take a stroll along the busy boulevard as far as the Bourse, and afterwards up the Montagne de la Cour, where he idled, looking into shops and gazing through his monocle at the smart ladies out shopping.

During his absence, however, a little, undersized, ferret-eyed man of typical Belgian aspect, and somewhat seedily dressed, entered the big hotel, and, passing into the bureau, asked in French:

“Has there arrived to-day a thin-faced, clean-shaven Englishman, whose only luggage was a little brown leather bag? His name is Ambrose, and he is from London.”

“I regret, m’sieur,” replied the clerk politely, for he knew the inquirer, “but we have nobody of that name. We have had several English arrivals to-day, but nobody corresponding to the description.”

“No Englishman with a small brown bag--eh?” inquired the detective, adding: “The English police are very anxious that he should be detained upon a serious charge.” And then he gave a further and more detailed description, reading from the telegram of inquiry received at the Central Bureau of Police that morning from Scotland Yard.

The truth was, that the detective at Parkeston, on returning home to Harwich, had looked at the photograph, and becoming convinced that the wanted man had actually sailed, he again telephoned to London, and Scotland Yard had, in turn, lost no time in communicating with the Belgian Police.

“We have a Monsieur Grieg from Glasgow,” replied the chef de réception, “an old man with a full white beard, like King Leopold’s, and wearing a monocle. He walks with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon his stick.”

“Did he pretend to be an Italian?”

“Not in the least. He spoke in English. His luggage and letters were awaiting him.”

“Had he previously engaged a room?”

“Certainly.”

“And he has a beard, and is lame--eh?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! Then I fear it cannot be the individual for whom the London police are searching,” replied the undersized Belgian.

“Look!” whispered the clerk in French; “see over there! That is he!”

And he indicated the fugitive leaning heavily upon his stick, though well dressed and very prosperous-looking.

“No, no,” exclaimed the detective. “It can’t be the person. He is described in this despatch as clean-shaven, decrepit, rather slovenly in attire, often affects to be an Italian, is in possession of funds, and is fond of purchasing curios.”

“No,” declared the hotel clerk, looking across the vestibule at the inoffensive and highly respectable old man who, leaning upon his stick, was making his way towards the lift. “That is most certainly not the man you are seeking, _mon cher ami_. He has probably gone to some other hotel. He is not with us.”

“No doubt,” the detective replied. “Not a single point in the description corresponds. Height, size, face, clothes, gait, manner--everything differs. Bah! those English police are droll fellows!”

And then the detective laughed, and soon afterwards raised his hat to the clerk in the bureau and left.

Such a past-master was old John Ambrose in the art of disguise that he was passing unsuspected beneath the very eyes of the watchful police. A man of marvellous memory, of exquisite tact and of deep cunning, he was at one hour kind, sympathetic, and tender-hearted as a child--at another hard, bitter, unscrupulous--even criminal--a man of strange, complex nature, who seemed to possess the power of completely changing his facial expression at will.

That same night, just before ten o’clock, while Ambrose was secure in Brussels, Maidee Lambton was standing before the mirror in her room preparing to slip out in secret. Her suspicions being again aroused, she was nervous and anxious, and had resolved to watch Gordon’s movements after he left the House that night.

Lady Ravenscourt had already retired, and Mrs. Beresford was reading a novel in the drawing-room; therefore, with the assistance of the faithful Rayner, her absence was not very difficult to arrange.

The maid, with her dark, smooth hair and white apron, stood beside Maidee as she was in the act of pinning on her neat black hat, when suddenly, in trying to fix it firmly, one of the long pins accidentally grazed the top of her head.

It was no unusual occurrence, therefore she took no notice of it until, a few moments later, as she was pulling on her long suède gloves, she exclaimed:

“Oh, Rayner! I--I do feel so faint--so queer! I--I wonder what’s the matter with me!”

“You do look pale, miss!” cried the girl in alarm. “I’ll get the smelling-salts from the dressing-room.”

Next second, however, Rayner saw that her mistress had become short of breath. She was gasping. Her hand clutched at her breast, and she reeled sidelong against the big, handsome dressing-table, while the maid just succeeded in preventing her falling to the floor.

“I can’t make it out!” her mistress gasped, her eyes staring from her head wildly, her jaws seeming as though they had become fixed. “Why--ah!--I--I can hardly move my mouth! It was that scratch! It burns like fire!”

Rayner, too alarmed to make any comment, took up the two other silver hatpins lying upon the tray on the dressing-table, and saw, to her great surprise, that upon both there had been smeared some dark brown substance that had now dried.

“Why--what’s that?” shrieked Maidee, her quick eyes detecting it. “What’s that on my hatpins? Some stuff has been placed upon them purposely. Ah! I see it all! Heaven help me--I--_I’ve been poisoned_!”

Next second the poor girl, haggard and terrified, tetanic convulsions showing at her white jaws, collapsed senseless into her maid’s arms.

Thus had a secret enemy triumphed!