The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

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      “Every instant of the day,” she responded fervently, “until I shall see my father.”

      He laughed a little ruefully, and rose. “I suppose that must content me! And now I must be off. I will find your father. ‘Trust Poltavo.’”

      “I do — completely.” She gave him her hand.

      Her face was composed, almost cheerful. “Do you leave any commands?”

      He looked significantly at the fire, where the only trace of the note was a faint black film. “You have already received them,” he said gravely.

      “Everything is as it was this morning. Your father is dead. For you nothing is left but silence — and courage.”

      She shuddered a little. “Cord told me that the — the affair was in the hands of Scotland Yard, and that a Mr. Smith had been appointed to the case.”

      The count started at the name. He opened his lips to speak, but closed them again.

      “Will he come and question me?” she continued. “Oh,” she declared half wildly, “I could not bear that!”

      “I regret that Mr. Smith has been given the case,” observed the count thoughtfully. “I know the gentleman, slightly. He is a difficult man to deceive. You may be sure, dear lady, that he will come — and come again, if he suspects anything. You must be on your guard. Aid him openly with all the information at your disposal. Make engagements with him. Write notes. Send him fresh clues — one a day! And now — how you say — goodbye!” He looked down into her eyes, smiling.

      Doris appeared to cling to him. “Oh, if you could be here to advise me!” she murmured. “I am afraid. It is all so secret — and terrible!”

      “I will return,” he assured her. “In three days I will return, or wire instructions. Courage!” he whispered. He touched his lips to her hand, pressed it, gave her a long look, and turned abruptly upon his heel.

      Doris sank upon the divan, and stared drearily into the fire.

      Half-an-hour later, Lady Dinsmore, drawing the curtains softly, found her in the same position. The older woman’s face was flushed, and showed traces of recent tears. She sat down beside the girl and drew her close into her arms.

      “Dear,” she said in a choked voice, “you must be very brave.”

      Doris shuddered inside the protecting circle. Lady Dinsmore held her tightly.

      “Your poor father has been found. Mr. Smith is below. He wishes us to go with him, to identify the — the body.” She bent down tenderly to the girl, who lay quite still in her arms, and then gave a little cry. Doris had fainted.

6. A Stranger Comes to Burgos

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      He was a slender, distinguished man, and dressed in black, which is the colour of Spain.

      Seeing him, on windy days, when bleak, icy air-streams poured down from the circling Sierras, and made life in Madrid insupportable, one might have marked him down as a Spaniard. His black felt hat and his velvet-lined cappa with its high collar would show him to be such from a distance, while nearer at hand his olive complexion, his delicateiy aquiline nose, and slightly upturned black moustache, would confirm the distant impression. He had come to Burgos from Madrid by an express, and had travelled all night, and yet he was the trimmest and most alert of the crowd which thronged the Calle de Vitoria, a crowd made up of peasants, tourists, and soldiers.

      He made a slow progress, for the crowd grew thicker in the vicinity of the Casa del Cordón, where the loyal countryfolk waited patiently for a glimpse of their young king.

      The stranger stood for a little while looking up at the expressionless windows of the Casa, innocent of curtain, but strangely clean. He speculated on the value of life — of royal life.

      “If I were to kill the king,” he mused, “Europe would dissolve into one big shudder. If, being dead, I came forward offering to restore him to life for fifty million francs the money would be instantly forthcoming on the proof of my ability. Yet were I to go now to the king’s minister saying—’It is easy for me to kill the king, but if you will give me the money you would spend on his obsequies, I will stay my hand,’ I should be kicked out, arrested, and possibly confined as a lunatic.”

      He nodded his head slowly, and as he turned away he took a little notebook from his pocket, and inscribed—” The greatest of miracles is self-restraint.” Then he rolled a cigarette and walked slowly back to the Cafe Suizo in the Espolon.

      A cleanshaven priest, with a thin, intellectual face, was stirring his coffee at one of the tables, and since this was the least occupied the stranger made for it. He raised his hat to the priest and sat down.

      “I apologise for intruding myself, father,” he said, “but the other tables—”

      The priest smiled and raised a protesting hand.

      “The table is at your disposition, my son,” he said.

      He was about the same age as the stranger, but he spoke with the assurance of years. His voice was modulated, his accent refined, his presence that of a gentleman.

      “A Jesuit,” thought the stranger, and regarded him with politely veiled curiosity. Jesuits had a fascination for him. They were clever, and they were good; but principally they were a mysterious force that rode triumphant over the prejudice of the world and the hatred in the Church.

      “If I were not an adventurer,” he said aloud, and with an air of simplicity, “I should be a Jesuit.”

      The priest smiled again, looking at him with calm interest.

      “My son,” he said, “if I were not a Jesuit priest, I should be suspicious of your well-simulated frankness.”

      Here would have come a deadlock to a man of lesser parts than the stranger, but he was a very adaptable man. None the less, he was surprised into a laugh which showed his white teeth.

      “In Spain,” he said, “no gambit to conversation is known. I might have spoken of the weather, of the crowd, of the king — I chose to voice my faults.”

      The priest shook his head, still smiling.

      “It is of no importance,” he said quietly; “ — you are a Russian, of course?”

      The stranger stared at him blankly. These Jesuits — strange stories had been told about them. A body with a secret organisation, spread over the world — it had been said that they were hand-in-hand with the police.

      “I knew you were a Russian; I lived for some time in St. Petersburg. Besides, you are only Spanish to your feet,” the Jesuit looked down at the stranger’s boots,—” they are not Spanish; they are much too short.”

      The stranger laughed again. After all, this was a confirmation of his views of Jesuits.

      “You, СКАЧАТЬ