C. N. Williamson & A. N. Williamson: 30+ Murder Mysteries & Adventure Novels (Illustrated). Charles Norris Williamson
tell you how. I have brought several photographs of him, which I have always kept within reach. These I will give to you, and you can use them. If possible, I should, however, like to appear, not in the character of an enemy, but that of a friend. You may think this a low way of playing the game; but, you know, 'all is fair in love and war.' I want Miss Beverly to think I am here at this time by chance; that I have tried to soften your heart toward Dalahaide, and that I come with you, not as your ally against her, but to offer her and her cause what help I can. Of course, I shall fail in that effort, and you will win; but the little comedy will have brought me the girl's gratitude, which is worth all the world at this ticklish stage of the game. Will you aid me to play the part on these lines?"
De Letz laughed. "So, I am to be the villain of the piece? Well, I do not mind. We will stage the play realistically, and I——"
"And you will never regret your rôle in it," returned Loria.
Before the Bella Cuba left Mentone all probable contingencies of the mission had been foreseen, and as far as possible provided for, by Roger Broom, George Trent, and Virginia Beverly, in council. They had talked over what must be done in case of failure or success, and the only event which Virginia had not felt able to discuss had been the death of one or more of the three men concerned in the rescue. They knew that, if the Bella Cuba should be lucky enough to get away from New Caledonia with Max Dalahaide on board, the news of the convict's escape would certainly reach the next port at which they must touch, before they could arrive there. Virginia's hope had been, after meeting the Countess de Mattos, that the woman's confession would exculpate Maxime, and that the peace of his future would be secured by the great coup of "kidnapping" her. But now this glimpse of brightness seemed likely to prove a mirage. Virginia was as sure as ever that Manuela de Mattos was Liane Devereux; even Roger Broom's contrary opinion had been somewhat shaken by the woman's horrified shriek at sight of Max Dalahaide's white face and tragic eyes in the moonlight. But the Countess had hardened once more into marble self-control, and Maxime, after an hour or two on board the yacht, had fallen into a state of fever and delirium. For the time being he could do nothing to assist in proving her identity; indeed, even if he had kept his senses, he might not have been able to swear that she was Liane Devereux, so many were the differences of personality. Months might have to pass before the truth of the strange conjecture could be proved—if it could ever be proved—while the Countess de Mattos remained entrenched in her strong position as a much injured and innocent lady.
They could not count upon her, and were forced to rely wholly upon the plan formed before the beautiful Manuela had entered into their calculations. On reaching Samoa it was to be, as George Trent expressed it, a "game of bluff." One hope of saving Max lay in the fact that no photograph of him could have arrived from New Caledonia; there were a hundred chances to one that there would be no one at Samoa who had ever seen him; he could not, therefore, be positively identified, and as the Bella Cuba, owned by an American girl, flew the stars and stripes, it was not likely that the authorities would care to invite trouble by attempting to detain a yacht sailing under American colours. It was well known to the initiated also, that successful "evasions" from the French penal settlements were hushed up with nervous caution whenever possible and that the news of even an attempted escape was seldom printed in French papers. This was another advantage for the guilty Bella Cuba. It might be considered better to let one convict go free, than precipitate an international complication, a world-wide sensation, especially as there was no one with a personal interest to serve in recovering this particular prisoner.
They steamed boldly on toward Samoa. The morning that the island was sighted, Dr. Grayle had pronounced Max Dalahaide better. The delirium had passed. He was quiet, though still very weak.
"I suppose he wouldn't be able to confront that wicked woman and accuse her to her face?" asked Virginia of the little brown man.
Dr. Grayle shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Our motto must be forward, but not too fast. He isn't fit yet for any strong excitement, since we don't want to risk a relapse now that he's getting on so well. I was rather afraid the sight of all those souvenirs of the past in his cabin would upset him when he should be in a state of mind to recognize them, but the effect has apparently been precisely opposite. At first, before he entirely realized things, and remembered where he was and how he had got there, he seemed to think that he was at home, and was continually talking to his mother or sister, or calling for his father, sometimes in English, sometimes in French. Now he knows all, and when he heard how it was your thought and his sister's to have so many familiar objects surrounding him, to give an atmosphere of home to the cabin prepared in case of a rescue, the tears came to his eyes, and he turned away his head on the pillow to hide them from me. He believes that, even in his unconsciousness, these things must have made an impression upon his mind, and by their soothing influence drawn his thought toward home, otherwise he must have raved about the prison in his delirium, instead of returning to old, happy days. So you see, Miss Beverly, he has one more reason to thank you, this poor fellow who has suffered so much, and kept so brave and strong through all."
Virginia had been pale of late, but she flushed at these words. "You believe him innocent, Dr. Grayle!" she exclaimed. "You wouldn't speak of him like that unless it were so."
"No one could have been with him as I have these past few days, and not believe him innocent," said the little doctor in his quiet voice. "Sir Roger thinks as I do, too, now. You will be glad to hear that."
"I am glad," Virginia answered. But Roger was not glad. Above all things he was just—sometimes in spite of himself. He had helped to nurse Max Dalahaide; he had changed his opinion of him, and felt bound to say so; yet he was not glad to change. He would have preferred to go on believing Dalahaide a guilty man.
Virginia had not the key to Roger's heart, however, and she did not know that he had the key to hers—to one hidden place there into which she had hardly dared to look. She would have kept it always locked, even from herself, if she could; but because she knew that there was something there to hide, she invited Roger to go with her when Max sent word through Dr. Grayle, begging to see his hostess. She did not want Roger to be present when she talked with Maxime Dalahaide for the first time since his escape. She would have liked to be alone with him, if that had been possible; but for the very reason that the wish was so strong in her heart, she denied it. Her cousin Roger had risked his life to please her, and she had a promise to keep. She meant to keep it; and he had a right to be by her side when she went to the man whom he had so nobly helped to save.
But Roger refused. "No, dear," he said. "Soon we shall be in the harbour at Samoa. There is plenty to do. I want to be on hand with George to do it. Let Dr. Grayle take you to Maxime. He will know how long and how much it is best for him to talk."
"We will be in harbour so soon?" exclaimed Virginia. "The Countess! She will try to get away, you know."
"She'll try in vain," responded Roger. "We won't give her a boat."
"But there'll be ships and boats in the harbour. She may call for help, and make us trouble."
"I'll see to her," said Roger. "I don't think we shall get much good out of detaining her; but we've gone so far now, we may as well go a little further."
They were talking in the saloon, out of which the cabins opened, but they had spoken in low voices, guarding against being overheard. Nor could they have been overheard, unless by some one making a special effort to listen. Such an effort the Countess de Mattos was making. She had kept to her cabin since the eventful night of the escape from New Caledonia, and had demanded her meals and other attentions with the air of an insulted queen claiming her just rights. She always bent herself eagerly to listen when she heard the murmur of voices in the saloon, especially if they seemed to be suppressed. She did not now catch every word, but she heard "the harbour of Samoa"; "soon in"; "the Countess—try to get away"; "call for help—make us trouble"; "I'll see to her"; and she pressed her lips together in fierce anger, her delicate nostrils quivering.
From her porthole she had not seen the land in sight, and had had no means of knowing that the time for her to act was so near at hand. Since the night of her terrible shock, she had revolved many plans in her mind, but the only one upon which she had definitely decided