Her Majesty's Minister. Le Queux William
daughter now that her husband was dead. I well knew how deep was her affection for Yolande, and how tender was her maternal love.
The room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the light. As I entered I did so with her permission, saying quietly:
“Madame, I come to you with a message.”
“From whom?” she asked in a hard mechanical voice.
“From my friend Deane, the English doctor whom I have summoned. Yolande still lives!”
“She lives!” she cried, springing to her feet in an instant. “You are deceiving me!”
“I am not, madame,” I reassured her, smiling. “Your daughter is still breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly. The doctors say that she will probably recover.”
“Thank God!” she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her. “I pray that He may give her back to me. I will go to her.”
But I held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed a wish to remain there alone.
“But what caused that appearance so akin to death?” she asked quickly.
“At present they cannot tell,” I responded. “Some deleterious substance is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing.”
“But she will recover, m’sieur?” the Countess asked. “Are you certain?”
“The chances are in her favour, the doctors say. They have given her a drug to counteract the effect of the poison.”
“Poison! Was she poisoned?” gasped the Countess.
“Poison is suspected,” I answered quietly. “But calm yourself, madame. The truth will be discovered in due course.”
“I care nothing so long as Yolande is given back to me!” the distressed woman cried. “Was it your English friend who discovered the truth?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He is one of the cleverest men in Paris.”
“And to him my poor Yolande will owe her life?”
“Yes, to him.”
“And to you also, m’sieur? You have done your utmost for us, and I thank you warmly for it all.”
“Madame,” I said earnestly, “I have done only what a man should do. You sought my assistance, and I have given it, because – ”
“Because of what?” she inquired sharply the instant I paused.
“Because I once loved her,” I responded with perfect frankness.
A sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.
“I was young once, m’sieur,” she said in that calm, refined voice which had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead mother. “I understand your feeling – I understand perfectly. It is only my poor daughter who does not understand. She knows that you have forsaken her – that is all.”
It was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart’s longings, yet I hesitated. I remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced woman on the other side of the English Channel, far from the glare and glitter of life as I knew it – the fevered life which the diplomat in Paris is forced to lead. I remembered my troth to Edith, and my conscience pricked me.
“Could it be possible,” I reflected, “that Yolande was really in the pay of a Government hostile to England?” Kaye was already nearing Berlin with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a spy, while Anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from Berlin to Downing Street.
With a mother’s solicitude the Countess could for some time only speak of Yolande’s mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my inquiries further, I observed, during a lull in the conversation:
“At the Baroness de Chalencon’s last night a friend of yours inquired about you, madame.”
“A friend? Who?”
“A man named Wolf – Rodolphe Wolf.”
The next instant I saw that the mention of that name affected the mother no less markedly than it had affected the daughter. Her face blanched; her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment suspicious. With marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended ignorance.
“Wolf?” she repeated. “I do not remember the name. Possibly he is some person we have met while travelling.”
“Yolande knew him, I believe, in Brussels,” I remarked. “He appeared to be acquainted with you.”
“My daughter’s friends are not always mine,” she remarked coldly, with that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once returned to the discussion of Yolande and the probability of her recovery.
This puzzled me. I felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. She had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. What it was, however, I could not determine.
She was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, Dick opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:
“Can I speak with you a moment, Ingram?” She dashed to the door in eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her that Yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.
“Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame,” he urged. “Your daughter, I am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept absolutely quiet. I cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext whatsoever.”
“She will not die, will she?” the woman implored distractedly.
“No,” he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, I thought, “she will not die. Of that you may rest assured.”
Then turning to me, he beckoned, and I followed him out of the room.
Chapter Eight
The Old Love
“I don’t like that woman, old fellow,” were the first words Dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.
“Why not?” I asked, rather surprised. “The Countess de Foville is always charming.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. This is one of mine.”
“And Yolande,” I asked, “what of her?”
“She’s better. But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I did, or she would no doubt have passed away. I never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I’d have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life.”
“But what was the cause of it all?” I demanded. “You surely know the reason?”
“No, we cannot yet tell,” he answered. “The marks puzzle us. That mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. At present we can say nothing.”
“Then why did you call me out?”
“Because I want to consult you,” he replied. “The fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which I don’t like at all. And, moreover, the few seconds during which I’ve seen the Countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth.”
I nodded. This was exactly my own theory. “Do you think Yolande has been the victim of foul play?” I inquired a moment later.
“That’s my suspicion,” he responded. “But only she herself can tell us the truth.”
“You really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?” I cried incredulously.
“Personally,