[Frontispiece: The pretty spy, watching from the bridge of the yacht, was greatly perplexed by the flares of distress hurtling through the night.]
THE DANGEROUS GAME
By WILLIAM LE QUEUX _AUTHOR OF “THE CRYSTAL CLAW,” “MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO,” ETC._
Frontispiece by HENRY C. MURPHY, Jr.
NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY
[COPYRIGHT]
Published in England Under the Title “Hidden Hands.”
Copyright, 1926 By THE MACAULAY COMPANY
CONTENTS
I. THE WATCHER II. LOVE AND CURIOSITY III. THE ELUSIVE JOAN IV. THE GREAT SECRET V. CONCERNS SOME FACTS VI. THE HOUSE OF SUSPICION VII. THE SPECIAL BRANCH VIII. A DELICATE ERRAND IX. ON DANGEROUS GROUND X. THE GIRL OF THE SNOWS XI. SOWING THE WIND XII. IN CONFIDENCE XIII. IN THE PAPERS XIV. THE WEEK-END XV. THE SECRET OUT XVI. REVEALS THE BARRIER XVII. BESIDE THE SEA XVIII. STOLEN SWEETS XIX. ’MID SNOW AND SUNSHINE XX. THE REFUGE HUT XXI. HOW THE SCALES FELL XXII. THE VALLEY OF LIES XXIII. DEPTHS OF DECEIT XXIV. A DANCE AT CLARIDGE’S XXV. DOUBLE CUNNING XXVI. REMORSE XXVII. THE TRAP XXVIII. CONCLUSION
THE DANGEROUS GAME
CHAPTER I. THE WATCHER
A stout, thick-set, clean-shaven Englishman, with round face, iron-gray hair, wide jaws and a pair of shrewd, dark eyes behind a pair of rimless pince-nez, was standing in the pretty lounge of the Hotel St. George, at Corfu, idly smoking a cigarette, and chatting with a good-looking, dark-haired young woman of about thirty, who was also spending some weeks on the beautiful island in the Adriatic.
They had already been there nearly two months, and a friendship had sprung up between them. Both were there for the winter warmth and sunshine. The man was a bachelor and a thorough-going cosmopolitan, who spent his whole life in continuous travel, while the woman was married to a rather good-looking man about five years her senior, whose actual nationality was somewhat obscure, but who was probably a Greek, though he spoke English almost perfectly, as so many educated Greeks do.
The thick-set Englishman, smiling and care-free, was one of the most popular of English novelists, whose name was known in every country throughout the world, Charles Seton Darville. In every bookshop and bookstall on the five continents his works were sold, for they were translated into many languages, even into Arabic and Chinese. In order to obtain the correct local color for his books he was a constant wanderer to and fro across Europe, meeting many people and having many adventures in all sorts of odd corners of the Continent.
The British Prime Minister had once said of him that he knew more of the underworld of Europe than any living Englishman. Certainly Seton Darville turned his unique knowledge of men and matters to good account, as witness the high pitch of excitement with which his books were always written and his descriptions of places and peoples. Hence they sold by the hundred thousand, and brought him in a very considerable income.
He was, however, a very lonely man. Though merry and easy-going to a fault, a careless wanderer who journeyed to and fro with scarcely a single care, he was possessed of a certain little idiosyncrasy which his friends never suspected, for there was another more serious and more strenuous side of his life that he never revealed. The public regarded him as a popular and prosperous novelist--hence he was ever welcome in London society, and hostesses were constantly seeking him out and begging him to grace their tables and their dances.
Because of his awful loneliness amid the vortex of society he had, years before, adopted as his daughter, Rene, a little girl left penniless and alone. Upon her the strong, self-willed man had showered all his affections, and petted her as his own child. But now, ungrateful perhaps for all he had done for her, she had married, and left him again with that terrible loneliness which his friends never suspected.
In such a mood, he was that morning killing time by chatting with little Mrs. Caborn, who, dressed ready to go out, was awaiting her husband. There had been a ball at the Casino on the previous night, and they were discussing it. From where they stood there was presented through the long windows a fine view of the harbor and the azure sea sparkling in the morning sun. Of all the islands in the Adriatic, Corfu is the most picturesque and beautiful, calm and glorious, with its riot of flowers, a veritable paradise for those seeking sunshine and peace.
Darville always rose early. Since the first flush of dawn across the sea he had been writing in his room, busy upon a new romance which he had contracted to write five years before. The popular novelist is always full up with contracts from eager publishers who vie with one another in the matter of increased royalties and who give him commissions years ahead. The scenes of this forthcoming book were laid in Italy, but he had resolved to write it in that sea-girt paradise, away from the bustle of modern life and the distractions of his friends.
After a few moments a rather tall, thin-faced man, with a small, dark mustache, a pair of beady eyes and features unmistakably foreign, joined them. He was George Caborn, the woman’s husband. Though he bore an English name he was undoubtedly a Southerner, but that was explained by the fact that his grandfather had been an English merchant who had settled in Athens.
“Hulloa, Darville!” he exclaimed merrily. “You’re up early!”
“Yes,” laughed the novelist. “I went to bed at four, and up at six. I’ve been busy writing ever since.”
“We’re going for a stroll; will you join us?”
Darville accepted the invitation, and for an hour the trio strolled along the sea road, with its wonderful profusion of palms, aloes, oranges, wild geraniums and other flowers in full blossom, even though it was winter.
After lunch the novelist, as was his habit, ascended to his room with his five-day-old English newspaper, and, throwing himself into a deep arm-chair, lit a cigarette. But, instead of reading, he lay back with his eyes fixed upon the blue sea, engrossed in thought.
He was puzzled by Joan Caborn, whom he had first met at winter sports at Wengen, in Switzerland, the previous winter. At the same time he held her foreign-born husband, whom he had not seen before this winter, in considerable contempt. The Anglo-Greek seemed to neglect his wife in favor of a stout, flashily-dressed widow named Madame Texardis, hence he and Joan Caborn had been thrown much together, and frequently went for walks alone.
Darville, constant traveler that he was, had had many adventures with women. He was of a type that appealed to them, and yet actual affection he had never experienced. He who wrote so constantly about Love jeered at it, and in his own heart declared that, because he had never experienced the symptoms, it was a non-existent disease. He had declared one day in the Savage Club that Love was only the bacillus of Lust.
That afternoon, examining his own heart and analyzing his feelings, visions of the past arose of a pretty young society woman in London who had been his friend ever since her schooldays, and who now had married a wealthy peer and was one of the leaders of an exclusive and somewhat go-ahead set. On her marriage, a year before, their many years of intimate friendship had ended, and that was the secret of his terrible loneliness and why he drifted hither and thither caring for nothing and for nobody.
He was aroused from his reverie by a page-boy who brought his letters, which had arrived by that day’s mail-boat from the mainland at Brindisi. They were in one large registered envelope, having been forwarded by his secretary in London. He drew a sigh when he saw the bulk of the packet. His trusted secretary had already dealt with all he could, and had sent on the remainder for him to see himself.
As he drew them out, he found the usual budget that every popular novelist daily receives. Invitations, piteous begging letters, polite applications for autographs, flattering letters from unknown readers, bundles of press-cuttings, requests to send autographed books for bazaars, and copious effusions from cranks of all sorts and both sexes. One by one he glanced at them and cast them on the floor beside him.
Suddenly he came to one unopened. The envelope, in an unusually bold feminine hand, was addressed to his club in London. He tore it open eagerly and read its contents. The letter was signed “Edris Temperley.” It began, “Dear Mr. Darville,” and stated that she was leaving London for winter sports in Switzerland as usual, and expressed a hope that they would meet at the Palace Hotel at Wengen as before, and she also expressed a hope that they would all have as good a time as last season, and that Mrs. Caborn would be there again.
He read it through twice, and then slowly tore it up. Afterwards he sat pale and motionless for some minutes.
“No!” he muttered. “True, I love Switzerland, but I can’t go to Wengen again. If she were not there, I’d go. But what is the use? It would only be painful to me--far too painful. I won’t reply. It is best so.”