Her Majesty's Minister Part 10

Therefore I drew out the drawer, sounded the interior at the back, and, finding it hollow, searched about for the spring by which it might be opened. At last I found it, and next moment drew forth a bundle of letters. They were bound with a blue ribbon that time had faded. I glanced at the superscription of the uppermost, and a thrill of sympathy went through me.

Those carefully preserved letters were my own--letters full of love and tenderness, which I had written in the days that were dead. I stood holding them in my hand, my heart full of the past.

In this narrative, my reader, it is my intention to conceal nothing, but to relate to you the whole, undisguised truth, even though this chapter of England's secret history presents a seemingly improbable combination of strange facts and circ.u.mstances. Therefore I will not hide from you the truth that in those moments, as I drew forth one of the letters I had written long ago and read it through, sweet and tender memories crowded upon me, and in my eyes stood blinding tears. I may be forgiven for this, I think, when it is remembered how fondly I had once loved Yolande, before that fatal day when jealousy had consumed me, and I had turned my back upon her as a woman false and worthless.

Letter after letter I read, each bringing back to me sad memories of those days, when in the calm sunset hour we had wandered by the riverside hand in hand like children, each supremely content in each other's love, fondly believing that our mad pa.s.sion would last always.

In all the world she had been, to me, incomparable. The centre of admiration at those brilliant b.a.l.l.s at the Royal Palace at Brussels, the most admired of all the trim and comely girls who rode at morning in the Bois, the merriest of those who picnicked in the forest round about the ancient chateau, the sweetest, the most tender, and the most pure of all the women I knew--Yolande in those days had been mine. There, in my hand, I held the letter which I had written from Scotland when on leave for the shooting, asking if she loved me sufficiently to become my wife.

To that letter I well remembered her reply--indeed, I knew it verbatim; a tender letter, full of honest love and straightforward admission--a letter such as only a pure and good woman could have penned. Yes, she wrote that she loved me dearly, and would be my wife.

And yet it was all of the past. All had ended.

I sighed bitterly--how bitterly, mere words cannot describe. You, reader, be you man or woman, can you fully realise how deeply I felt at that moment, how utterly desolate the world then seemed to me?

Those letters I slowly replaced in the cavity and closed it. Then, as I turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small whatnot close by the escritoire. They were of persons whom I did not know--all strangers, save one. This was a cabinet portrait in a heavy silver frame, and as I took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry involuntarily escaped my lips.

The picture was a three-quarter length representation of a black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his pockets, and smoking a cigarette. There was no mistaking those features. It was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose presence in Paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her-- Rodolphe Wolf.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

BY A THREAD.

I was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when d.i.c.k Deane was shown in.

"What's the matter, old chap? Are you the man in possession here?" he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.

He was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He had been born in Paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to Edinburgh, where he took his degree.

Then he had returned to Paris, taken his French degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fas.h.i.+onable doctors in the French capital. He was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies.

"I'm not in possession," I answered. "A very serious affair has happened here, and we want your a.s.sistance."

In an instant he became grave, for I suppose my tone showed him that I was in no humour for joking.

"What's the nature of the affair?" he asked.

"Death," I replied seriously. "A lady here--a friend of mine--has died mysteriously."

"A mystery--eh?" he exclaimed, instantly interested. "Tell me about it."

"This place," I replied, "belongs to the Countess de Foville, a lady whom I knew well when I was at the Brussels Emba.s.sy, and it is her daughter Yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening."

"Yolande de Foville!" he repeated, with knit brows. "She was a friend of yours once, if I mistake not?" he added, looking me straight in the face.

"Yes, d.i.c.k, she was," I responded. "I told you of her long ago."

"You loved her once?"

"Yes," I answered with difficulty, "I loved her once."

"And how did the unfortunate affair occur?" he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. "Tell me the whole story."

"I called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her," I said. "Then I left and returned straight to the Emba.s.sy--"

"You left her here?" he inquired, interrupting. "Yes, in this very room. But it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead."

"Curious!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Has a medical man seen her?"

"No. The Countess sent for me as being one of her daughter's most intimate friends, and I, in turn, sent for you."

"Where is the poor young lady?"

"In her room at the end of the corridor," I answered hoa.r.s.ely.

"Is there any suspicion of murder?"

"Apparently none whatever. She had no visitor after I left."

"And no suspicion of suicide?" he asked, with a sharp look. "Did you part friends?"

"Perfectly so," I responded. "As to suicide, she had no reason, as far as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life."

He gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of dissatisfaction.

"Now, be perfectly frank with me, Gerald," he said, suddenly turning to me and placing his hand upon my shoulder. "You loved her very dearly once--was that not so?"

I nodded.

"I well remember it," he went on. "I quite recollect how, on one occasion, you came over to London, and while dining together at Jimmy's you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. Do you remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?"

"Perfectly."

"And as time went on you suddenly dropped her--for what reason I know not. We are pals, but I have never attempted to pry into your affairs.

If she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she heard that you had forsaken her for Edith Austin."

"You reproach me," I said. "But you do not know the whole truth, my dear fellow. I discovered that Yolande possessed a second lover."

He nodded slowly, with pursed lips.

"And that was the reason of your parting?"

"Yes."

"The sole reason?"

"The sole reason."

"And you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because of her love for you? Such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls of a certain temperament."

"If she has committed suicide, it is not on my account," I responded in a hard voice.