Various - "The Brochure Series of Architectural Illustration, Vol. 1, 1895"

Various - "Notes & Queries, No. 42, Saturday, August 17, 1850"

Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, May 16, 1891"

F. Marion Crawford - "Mr. Isaacs"

Review: Gritty debut novel 'Nowhere' follows a teen runaway to some very real places
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Clenched fists and AK-47s
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The Lost Ambassador written by E. Phillips Oppenheim

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Lost Ambassador




Louis glided away, and I saw him smilingly escorting a party of late
guests to their places. I stood where I was and watched him. To me,
the man was something amazing! I firmly believed, even at that
moment, that he had, safely hidden, part, if not the whole, of the
proceeds of this gigantic scheme of fraud. I believed, too, that his
had been the hand which had killed Delora. And there he was, within a
few minutes of the time when the tragedy had happened, waiting upon
his guests, consulted about the vintages of wines, suggesting dishes!
Upstairs Delora lay, with a little blue mark upon his temple! It was
the survival of the fittest, this, in crime as well as in the other
things of life!

I retraced my steps upstairs. The Chinese ambassador, Vanhallon, and
Lamartine were deep in conversation in the dead man's sitting-room. I
was admitted to their confidence after a few minutes' hesitation. A
draft for one hundred and sixty thousand pounds had been found upon
the dead man, but notes to the value of forty thousand pounds were
missing! They looked at me a little curiously as I entered, and
Lamartine explained the situation to me.

"We were wondering about the young lady," he said.

"Then you need wonder no longer!" I said dryly. "I give my word for it
that she is ignorant altogether of this scheme. She believed that her
uncle was honestly attempting to carry out the plans for which his
brother came to Europe, and as for searching for the money amongst her
belongings, you might as well fly!"

"Where, then," Vanhallon demanded, "has it gone to? He has had so
little time."

I opened my lips and closed them. After all, I had gained my end, and
I had realized a little the folly of meddling with things which did
not concern me. So I held my peace. I went and sat down by the side of
my lady of the turquoises.

"Tell me," I said, "how did you find him?--and where? Has he been ill,
or what is it that is the matter?"

I moved my head towards where Delora was sitting. The placid,
child-like expression still remained with him. The tragedy which had
happened only a few yards away had left him unmoved.

"I heard all about him from Henri," she said. "The scheme originally
was his. Then they tried to hurry things through without us--without
my man Henri, of whom they had made use. Henri came to London, and he
died here! That much I know. How much more there is to be told, who
can say? But I said to myself, 'I will be revenged!' I knew the
hospital to which he had been taken--a private hospital from which few
ever come out! But I went there, and I swore that I was his daughter.
I frightened them all, for I knew that he had been drugged and
poisoned till his brain had nearly given way. They thought him
harmless, and they let him come with me. I brought him to England. I
brought him here."

"And now?" I asked.

"Now I must go back," she answered, "but at least Henri is avenged!"

She leaned towards me.

"Tell whoever takes care of him," she whispered in my ear, "that he
cannot live long. The doctors have assured me. It is a matter of
weeks."

I walked with her to the door.

"It was an expensive journey for you," I remarked.

She laughed.

"Henri did leave me everything," she said. "I have no need of
money. If monsieur--"

She sighed, and looked towards the door of Felicia's room. Then she
fluttered away down the corridor, and I slowly retraced my
steps. Felicia came out in a few minutes and sat by her uncle's
side. The others had all departed, and we were left alone.

"Dear," I said, "this is no place for you any longer. You must come
with me, and bring your uncle."

She held out both her hands.

"Wherever you say, Austen!" she murmured.

A year afterwards I persuaded Felicia to lunch at the Milan. She was
no longer nervous, for we were intensely curious to know if Louis were
still there.

"There is no doubt," I reminded her, "that your Uncle Maurice received
the sum of forty thousand pounds in notes. When he was found shot,
there was in his pocket-book a draft to the amount of one hundred and
sixty thousand pounds. The notes had vanished. I wonder where!"

"I wonder!" she answered.

A waiter whom I knew came up to greet us. I asked him about Louis. He
held out his hands.

"Monsieur Louis," he declared, "had the great good-fortune. A
relative who died left him a great sum of money. The hotel of Benzoli
in St. James' Street was for sale, and Louis he has bought it. He
makes much money now."

"Lucky Louis!" I murmured. "How much was this legacy? Do you know?"

"I have heard, sir," the man said, bending down, "that it was as much
as forty thousand pounds!"

"So do the wicked flourish!" I murmured to Felicia.

"Monsieur will doubtless pay a visit to the Cafe Benzoli?" the man
continued. "The _cuisine_ is excellent, and many of Louis'
friends have followed him there."

Felicia and I exchanged smiling glances.

"Somehow or other--" she murmured.

"I think the Milan will be good enough for us!" I said decidedly.


THE END