The Lost Ambassador written by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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"I do not understand at all," she said. "You mean to tell me, then,
that you know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_, that
you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?"

"Absolutely," I answered.

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In
her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in
the Cafe des Deux Epingles.

"How can I believe you?" she exclaimed. "Remember that I saw you
strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it!
You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly
hurt. Is it true?"

"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."

"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one
who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of
those--those--"

"Those what?" I asked eagerly.

"Those who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles," she said
slowly,--"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which
some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their
friends."

I shook my head.

"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I
know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_ in my favorite
restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Cafe des
Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added,
"were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to
that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person
whom I did meet."

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.

I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man
opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up
in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in
thought.

"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.

"Decidedly!" I answered.

"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in
the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very
certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was
looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you
rise to strike him."

She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.

"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You
sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a
sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor,
that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."

"From you?" she asked.

"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter,
but I have a brother,--listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a
cripple. He was thrown from his horse--he was master of hounds in
those days--and he has never been able to walk since. He was married
to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to
whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was
content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man
came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no
chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her
heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that
she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the
time,--was his guest from the beginning of the affair."

The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark
blue fire in them.

"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who
wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand
this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Cafe
des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of
them,--when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very
slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or
other you will have to pay the price!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of
them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be
very sure that I shall grant it."

"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure,
quite sure of that?"

"In what way?" I asked.

"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted
you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been
suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us--my uncle and
me?"

"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.

She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to
have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man
thoughtfully, and then once more at me.

"Tell me," she said,--"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive,
but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we
need fear,--is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"

"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply the _maitre
d'hotel_ at a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen
him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera
I did not for some time recognize him."

She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was
silent.

"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my
turn now to ask a few questions?"

She seemed surprised.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet
you speak English so well."

She smiled.

"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I
was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and
have lived in France always. My people"--she looked towards the
sleeping man as though to include him--"are all coffee planters."

"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.

"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has
finished his business we move on."

"Will you tell me, then," I asked, "why you, too, were at the Cafe des
Deux Epingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious
habits. What place had you there?"

She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert
her, perhaps by reason of its directness.

"Well," she said, "my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He
knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a
taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are
interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two
or three times, and he is always welcome."

"From what I have heard," I remarked, "I should imagine that you and I
are the only people who have been allowed to go there without
qualifications."

She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then,
as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in
her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had
died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more
that she must be quite young.

"Perhaps," she answered. "I do not understand the place or its
habitues. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful."

"Tell me," I asked, "what are you going to do in London while your
uncle looks after his business?"

"Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose," she answered
carelessly. "There are always the shops, and the theatres in the
evening."

"Where are you going to stay?" I inquired.

"At the Milan, I think," she answered.

Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan,
of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be
innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but
could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively.
In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.

"I may come across you, then," I ventured.

She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made
in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.

"It would be very pleasant," she said. "I know no one in London. I
expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?" she asked.

"As much there as anywhere," I answered. "I have never settled down
since I sent in my papers."

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith," I answered, "and I could not
get round in time. I haven't altogether finished soldiering, though,"
I added. "At least, I hope not."

"But where do you call your home, then?" she asked timidly.

"I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one," I
answered. "I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother,
and I have just a couple of rooms in town."

The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc
of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The
little current of air which came in through the half-open window was
already murky and depressing.

"It is London?" she asked.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," I answered, looking out.

She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.

"We shall be there in ten minutes," she said.

"So soon!" he answered. "Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?" he
asked me.

"On your side," I answered.

He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.

"You will be smothered," the girl remarked.

"I am cold," he answered, in a low tone. "I am always cold after I
have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will
find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful."

Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could
not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was
responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert
fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he
seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!

The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed
that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform,
and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.

"Can I be of any service to you?" I asked the girl, as I collected my
small belongings. "I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the
journey."

She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his
appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than
physical sickness.

"I thank you, sir," he said rapidly. "You could, if you would, be of
immense service."

"I should be delighted," I answered. "Tell me in what way?"

"I am exceedingly ill," the man said, with a groan. "I suffer from
heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could
remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her
afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick
man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment,
and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good."

I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with
distressed face.

"If you will allow me," I said, "it will give me very great pleasure
to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have
luggage to be examined."

"It is very kind of you," she said hesitatingly. "Don't you think,
though," she added, turning to her uncle, "that I had better go with
you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards."

"No, no!" he objected impatiently. "I shall call at the chemist's. I
shall get something that will put me right quickly."

"It is settled, then," I declared.

Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a
standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he
crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of
cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary
haste.

"We will have our small things put into an omnibus," I said. "There
will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our
registered luggage."

"You are very kind," she murmured absently.

Her eyes were still watching the spot where her companion had
disappeared.

CHAPTER X

DELORA DISAPPEARS

I was fortunate enough to find a disengaged omnibus, and filled it
with our rugs and smaller belongings. Then we made our way slowly back
to the little space prepared for the reception of the heavier baggage,
and around which a barrier had already been erected. There was a
slight nervousness in my companion's manner which made conversation
difficult. I, too, could not help feeling that the situation was a
difficult one for her.

"I am afraid," I remarked, "that you are worried about your uncle. Is
his health really bad, or is this just a temporary attack? I thought
he looked well enough in the train on the other side."

"He suffers sometimes," she answered, "but I do not think it is
anything really serious."

"He will be all right by the time we get to the hotel," I declared.

"Very likely," she answered. "For myself, I think that I always feel a
little nervous when I arrive at a strange place. I have never been
here before, you know, and I could not help wondering, for a moment,
what would become of me if my uncle were really taken ill. Everyone
says that London is so big and cold and heartless."

"You would have nothing to fear," I assured her. "You forget, too,
that your uncle has friends here."

We leaned over the barrier and watched the luggage being handed out of
the vans and thrown on to the low wooden platforms. By my side a dark
young man, with sallow features and _pince nez_, was apparently
passing his time in the same manner. My companion, who was restless
all the time, glanced at him frequently, or I should scarcely have
noticed his existence. In dress and appearance he resembled very much
the ordinary valet in private service, except for his eye-glasses, and
that his face lacked the smooth pastiness of the class. For some
reason or other my companion seemed to take a dislike to him.

"Come," she said to me, "we will move over to the other side. I think
we shall get in quicker."

I followed her lead, and I saw her glance back over her shoulder at
the young man, who seemed unaware, even, of her departure.

"I do hate being listened to," she said, "even when one is talking
about nothing in particular!"

"Who was listening to us?" I asked.

"The young man next to you," she answered. "I could see him look up in
that horrid stealthy way from under his eyelids."

I laughed.

"You are a very observant person," I remarked.

She drew a little closer to me. Somehow or other I found the sense of
her near presence a delightful thing. All her garment seemed imbued
with a faint perfume, as though of violets.

"I think that I have only become so quite lately," she said. "Perhaps
it is because I have lived such a quiet life, and now things are so
different. My uncle has been so mysterious, especially during the last
few days, and I suppose it has made me suspicious. Wherever we go, I
always seem to fancy that some one is watching us. Besides, I am sure
that that young man was a South American, and I hate South Americans!"

"I fancy," I said, "that the attention he bestowed upon us was due to
a more obvious cause."

"Please do not talk like that," she begged. "I do not wish for
compliments from you. I have been told always that Englishmen are so
truthful. One has compliments from Frenchmen, from Spaniards, and from
South Americans. They fall like froth from their lips, and one knows
all the time that it means nothing, and less than nothing. It is such
a pity!"

"Why a pity?" I asked, more for the sake of keeping her talking than
anything. "Certainly it is a picturesque habit of speech."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not like it," she said quietly. "By degrees, one comes to
believe nothing that any man says, even when he is in earnest.
Remember, Capitaine Rotherby, I hope that I shall never hear a
compliment from you."

"I will be careful," I promised her, "but you must remember that there
is sometimes a very fine distinction. I may be driven to say
something which sounds quite nice, because it is the truth."

She laughed at me with her eyes, a habit of hers which from the first
I had admired. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten her
anxieties.

"You are worse than these others," she murmured. "I believe--no, I am
quite sure, that you are more dangerous! Come, they are ready for us."

The barriers were thrown open, and a little stream of people entered
the enclosed space. My companion's trunks were all together, and
easily found. The officer bent over, chalk in hand, and asked a few
courteous questions. At that moment I became aware that the young man
in eye-glasses was standing once more by my side. Her trunks were
promptly marked, and I directed the porter to take them to our
omnibus. Then we moved on a little to where my things were. The young
man sauntered behind us, and stopped to light a cigarette. My
companion's fingers fell upon my arm.

"He is everywhere!" she murmured. "What does he want?"

I turned round sharply and caught him in the act of inspecting my
labels. I was beginning now to lose my temper.

"May I ask," I said, standing in his way, "to what we owe--this young
lady and I--your interest in us and our concerns?"

He stared at me blankly.

"I do not understand you, sir," he said.

I was foolish enough to lose my temper. A policeman was standing
within a few feet of us, and I appealed to him.

"This person annoys us," I said, pointing him out, "by following us
everywhere we go. The young lady is carrying a jewel-case, and I have
papers of some importance myself. Will you kindly ask him to move on,
or ascertain whether he is a _bona fide_ traveller?"

The young man smiled faintly. The policeman answered me civilly, but I
knew at once that I had made a mistake.

"This gentleman is well known to us, sir," he said. "I do not think
you will find him causing you any trouble."

"I hope, at any rate," I said, turning away, "that we have seen the
last of him."

Apparently we had,--for the moment, at any rate. I claimed my own
belongings, and had them sent down to the omnibus. Then I handed my
companion in and was on the point of joining her, when I saw walking
along the platform, within a few feet of us, the policeman to whom I
had appealed. I turned back to him.

"I wonder," I said, drawing him a little on one side, "if you would
care to earn a sovereign without committing a breach of duty?"

He looked at me stolidly. Apparently he thought that silence was
wisest.

"You said that that young man who followed us about here was well
known to you," I said. "Who is he?"

"It is not my place to tell you, sir," the man answered, and passed
on.

I stepped into the 'bus and we drove off. As we turned out of the
station I caught a last glimpse of our shadower. He was standing
close to the main exit with his hands behind him, looking up to the
sky as though anxious to discover whether it were still raining. He
looked into our 'bus as it clattered by, and my companion, who caught
sight of him, leaned back in her seat.

"I am sure," she declared firmly, "that that is a detective."

I was equally certain of it, but I only laughed.

"If he is," I said, "it is certainly not you who needs to be anxious.
There can be no question as to whom he is watching. You must remember
that although those mysterious people up at the Place d'Anjou may be
powerful in their way, they would have to be very clever indeed to
protect me absolutely. It is pretty well known over here that I had
threatened to kill Tapilow wherever I met him."

She looked at me for a moment, doubtfully, and then she shook her
head.

"It is not you whom they are watching," she said.

"Who, then?" I asked.

"My uncle and me," she answered.

I looked at her curiously.

"Tell me," I said, "why you think that? Your uncle is a man of
position, and has legitimate business here. Why should he be watched
by detectives?"

She shook her head.

"I suppose it is because we are foreigners," she said, "but ever since
my uncle fetched me from Bordeaux we seem to have been watched by some
one wherever we go."

"You will not suffer much from that sort of thing over here," I
remarked cheerfully. "England is not a police-ridden country like
Germany, or even France."

"I know," she answered, "and yet I have told you before how I feel
about arriving in England. There seems something unfriendly in the
very atmosphere, something which depresses me, which makes me feel as
though there were evil times coming."

I laughed reassuringly.

"You are giving way to fancies," I said. "I am sure that London is
doing its best for you. See, the rain is all over. We have even
continental weather to welcome you. Look at the moon. For London,
too," I added, "the streets seem almost gay."

She leaned out of the window. A full moon was shining in a cloudless
sky. The theatres were just over. The pavements were thronged with men
and women, and the streets were blocked with carriages and hansoms on
their way to the various restaurants. At the entrance to the Milan our
omnibus was stopped for several moments whilst motors and carriages of
all descriptions, with their load of men and women in evening clothes,
passed slowly by and turned in at the courtyard. We found ourselves at
last at the doors of the hotel, and I received the usual welcome from
my friend the hall-porter.

"Back again once more, you see, Ashley," I remarked. "I have brought
Miss Delora on from the station. Her uncle is here already. We came
over by the same train."

The reception clerk stepped forward and smilingly acknowledged my
greeting. He bowed, also, to my companion.

"We are very pleased to see you, Miss Delora," he said. "We were
expecting you and Mr. Delora to-night."

"My uncle came on at once from the station," she said, "He was not
feeling very well."

The clerk bowed, but seemed a little puzzled.

"Will you tell me where I can find Mr. Delora?" she asked.

"Mr. Delora has not yet arrived, madam," the clerk answered.

She looked at him for a moment, speechless.

"Not arrived?" I interrupted. "Surely you must be mistaken, Dean! He
left Charing Cross half an hour before us."

The clerk shook his head.

"I am quite sure, Captain Rotherby," he said, "that Mr. Delora has not
been here to claim his rooms. He may have entered the hotel from the
other side, and be in the smoking-room or the American bar, but he has
not been here."

There was a couch close by, and my companion sat down. I could see
that she had turned very white.

"Send a page-boy round the hotel," I told the hall-porter, "to inquire
if Mr. Delora is in any of the rooms. If I might make the
suggestion," I continued, turning towards her, "I would go upstairs at
once. You may find, after all, that Mr. Dean has made a mistake, and
that your uncle is there."

"Why, yes!" she declared, jumping up. "I will go at once. Do you
mind--will you come with me?"

"With pleasure!" I answered.

I paused for a moment to give some instructions about my own
luggage. Then I stepped into the lift with the clerk and her.

"Your uncle, I hope, is not seriously indisposed, Miss Delora?" he
asked.

"Oh, no!" she answered. "He found the crossing very rough, and he is
not very strong. But I do not think that he is really ill."

"It is a year since we last had the pleasure," the clerk continued.

She nodded.

"My uncle was over then," she remarked. "For me this is the first
time. I have never been in England before."

The lift stopped.

"What floor are we on?" the girl asked.

"The fifth," the clerk answered. "We have quite comfortable rooms for
you, and the aspect that your uncle desired."

We passed along the corridor and he opened the door, which led into a
small hall and on into a sitting-room. The clerk opened up all the
rooms.

"You will see, as I told you before, Miss Delora," he said, "that
there is no one here. Your uncle's rooms open out from the right. The
bathroom is to the left there, and beyond are your apartments."

She peered into each of the rooms. They were indeed empty.

"The apartments are very nice," she said, "but I do not understand
what has become of my uncle."

"He will be up in a few minutes, without a doubt," the clerk
remarked. "Is there anything more that I can do for you, madam? Shall
I send the chambermaid or the waiter to you?"

"Not yet," she answered. "I must wait for my uncle. Will you leave
word below that he is to please come up directly he arrives?"

"Certainly, madam!" the clerk answered, turning towards the door.

I should have followed him from the room, but she stopped me.

"Please don't go," she said. "I am very foolish, I know, but I am
afraid!"

"I will stay, of course," I answered, sitting down by her side upon
the couch, "but let me assure you that there is nothing whatever to
fear. Your uncle may have had a slight cab accident, or he may have
met with a friend and stopped to talk for a few minutes. In either
case he will be here directly. London, you know, is not the city of
mysteries that Paris is. There is very little, indeed, that can happen
to a man between Charing Cross Station and the Milan Hotel."

She leaned forward a little and buried her face in her hands.

"Please don't!" I begged. "Indeed, I mean what I say! There is no
cause to be anxious. Your uncle spoke of stopping at a chemist's. They
may be making up his prescription. A hundred trivial things may have
happened to keep him."

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