The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (books to read now .TXT) 📕

With Mr. Stephens’ morning coffee there appeared an envelope bearing his name and a French stamp, as well of course as the address of the obscure little hotel where the Burtons had found him a room.

The lawyer looked down at the envelope with great surprise. The address was written in a round, copybook hand, and it was clear his name must have been copied out of an English law list.

Who in Paris could be writing to him—who, for the matter of that, knew where he was staying, apart from his own family and his London office?

He broke the seal and saw that the sheet of notepaper he took from the envelope was headed “Préfecture de Police.” Hitherto the police had addressed all their communications to the Hôtel Saint Ange.

The letter ran as follows:

Dear Sir, I am requested by the official who has the Dampier affair in hand to ask you if you will come here this afternoon at three o’clock. As I shall be present and can act as interpreter, it will not be necessary for you to be accompanied as you were before.

Yours faithfully, Ivan Baroff.

What an extraordinary thing! Up to the present time Mr. Stephens had not communicated with a single police official able to speak colloquial English; it was that fact which had made him find Gerald Burton so invaluable an auxiliary. But this letter might have been written by an Englishman, though the signature showed it to be from a foreigner, and from a Pole, or possibly a Russian.

Were the police at last on the trail of the missing man? Mr. Stephens’ well-regulated heart began to beat quicker at the thought. But if so, how strange that the Prefect of Police had not communicated with the Hôtel Saint Ange last night! Monsieur Beaucourt had promised that the smallest scrap of news should be at once transmitted to John Dampier’s wife.

Well, there was evidently nothing for it but to wait with what patience he could muster till the afternoon; and it was characteristic of Nancy’s legal friend that he said nothing of his mysterious appointment to either the Burtons or to Mrs. Dampier. It was useless to raise hopes which might so easily be disappointed.

Three o’clock found Mr. Stephens at the Prefecture of Police.

“Ivan Baroff” turned out to be a polished and agreeable person who at once frankly explained that he belonged to the International Police. Indeed while shaking hands with his visitor he observed pleasantly, “This is not the kind of work with which I have, as a rule, anything to do, but my colleagues have asked me to see you, Mr. Stephens, because I have lived in England, and am familiar with your difficult language. I wish to entertain you on a rather delicate matter. I am sure I may count on your discretion, and, may I add, your sympathy?”

The English lawyer looked straight at the suave-spoken detective. What the devil did the man mean? “Certainly,” said he, “certainly you can count on my discretion, Monsieur Baroff, and—and my sympathy. I hope I am not unreasonable in hoping that at last the police have obtained some kind of due to Mr. Dampier’s whereabouts.”

“No,” said the other indifferently. “That I regret to tell you is not the case; they are, however, prosecuting their enquiries with the greatest zeal—of hat you may rest assured.”

“So I have been told again and again,” Mr. Stephens spoke rather impatiently. “It seems strange—I think I may say so to you who are, like myself, a foreigner—it seems strange, I say, that the French police, who are supposed to be so extraordinarily clever, should have failed to find even a trace of this missing man. Mr. John Dampier can’t have vanished from the face of the earth: dead or alive, he must be somewhere!”

“There is of course no proof at all that Mr. Dampier ever arrived in Paris,” observed the detective significantly.

“No, there is no actual proof that he did so,” replied the English solicitor frankly. “There I agree! But there is ample proof that he was coming to Paris. And, as I suppose you know, the Paris police have satisfied themselves that Mr. and Mrs. Dampier stayed both in Marseilles and in Lyons.”

“Yes, I am aware of that; as also—” he checked himself. “But what I have to say to you to-day, my dear sir, is only indirectly concerned with Mr. Dampier’s disappearance. I am really here to ask if you cannot exert your influence with the Burton family, with the American Senator, that is, and more particularly with his son, to behave in a reasonable manner.”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“Well, it is not so very easy to explain! All I can say is that young Mr. Burton is making himself very officious, and very disagreeable. He has adopted a profession which here, at the Prefecture of Police, we naturally detest”—the Russian smiled, but not at all pleasantly—“I mean that of the amateur detective! He is determined to find Mr. Dampier—or perhaps it would be more true to say”—he shrugged his shoulders—“that he wishes—the wish perhaps being, as you so cleverly say in England, father to the thought—to be quite convinced of that unfortunate gentleman’s obliteration from life. He has brought himself to believe—but perhaps he has already told you what he thinks—?”

He waited a moment.

But the English lawyer made no sign of having understood what the other wished to imply. “They have all talked to me,” he said mildly, “Senator Burton, Mr. Burton, Miss Burton; every conceivable possibility has been discussed by us.”

“Indeed? Well, with so many clever people all trying together it would be strange if not one hit upon the truth!” The detective spoke with good-natured sarcasm.

“Perhaps we have hit upon it,” said Mr. Stephens suddenly. “What do you think, Monsieur Baroff?”

“I do not think at all!” he said pettishly. “I am far too absorbed in my own tiresome job—that of keeping my young Princes and Grand Dukes out of scrapes—to trouble about this peculiar affair. But to return to what I was saying. You are of course aware that Mr. Gerald Burton is convinced, and very foolishly convinced (for there is not an atom of proof, or of anything likely to lead to proof), that this Mr. Dampier was murdered, if not by the Poulains, then by some friend of theirs in the Hôtel Saint Ange. The foolish fellow has as good as said so to more than one of our officials.”

“I know such is Mr. Burton’s theory,” answered Mr. Stephens frankly, “and it is one very difficult to shake. In fact I may tell you that I have already tried to make him see the folly of the notion, and how it is almost certainly far from the truth.”

“It is not only far from the truth, it is absolutely untrue,” said the Russian impressively. “But what I now wish to convey to the young man is that should he be so ill-advised as to do what he is thinking of doing he will make it very disagreeable for the lady in whom he takes so strangely violent an interest—”

“What exactly do you mean, Monsieur Baroff?”

“This Mr. Gerald Burton is thinking of enlisting the help of the American newspaper men in Paris. He wishes them to raise the question in their journals.”

“I do not think he would do that without consulting his father or me,” said Mr. Stephens quickly. He felt dismayed by the other’s manner. Monsieur Baroff’s tone had become menacing, almost discourteous.

“Should this headstrong young man do anything of that kind,” went on the detective, “he will put an end to the efforts we are making to find Mrs. Dampier’s husband. In fact I think I may say that if the mystery is never solved, it will be thanks to his headstrong folly and belief in himself.”

With this the disagreeable interview came to an end, and though the English lawyer never confided the details of this curious conversation to any living soul, he did make an opportunity of conveying Ivan Baroff’s warning to Gerald Burton.

“Before leaving Paris,” he said earnestly, “there is one thing I want to impress upon you, Mr. Burton. Do not let any newspaper people get hold of this story; I can imagine nothing that would more distress poor Mrs. Dampier. She would be exposed to very odious happenings if this disappearance of her husband were made, in any wide sense of the word, public. And then I need not tell you that the Paris Police have a very great dislike to press publicity; they are doing their very best—of that I am convinced—to probe the mystery.”

Gerald Burton hesitated. “I should have thought,” he said, “that it would at least be worth while to offer a reward in all the Paris papers. I find that such rewards are often offered in England, Mr. Stephens.”

“Yes—they are. And very, very seldom with any good result,” answered the lawyer drily. “In fact all the best minds concerned with the question of crime have a great dislike to the reward system. Not once in a hundred cases is it of any use. In fact it is only valuable when it may induce a criminal to turn ‘King’s evidence.’ But in this case I pray you to believe me when I say that we are not seeking to discover the track of any criminal—” in his own mind he added the words, “unless we take John Dampier to be one!”

It was on the morning of Mr. Stephens’ departure from Paris, in fact when he and Senator Burton, who had gone to see him off, were actually in the station, walking up and down the Salle des Pas Perdus, that the lawyer uttered the words which finally made up the American Senator’s mind for him.

“You have been so more than good to Mrs. Dampier,” the Englishman said earnestly, “that I do not feel it would be fair, Mr. Senator, to leave you in ignorance of my personal conviction concerning this painful affair.”

The American turned and looked at his companion. “Yes?” he said with suppressed eagerness. “Yes, Mr. Stephens, I shall be sincerely grateful for your honest opinion.”

They had all three—he and Daisy and Gerald—tried to make this Englishman say what he really thought, but with a courtesy that was