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  Chapter XVII

  On the Track

  "Le vrai moyen d'etre trompe c'est de se croire plus fin que les autres."

  I stole out of the house before daybreak the next morning, and ridingto Yarmouth, took a very early and (with perhaps a subtleappropriateness) a very fishy train to London.

  So ill equipped was I to contend with a financier of Miste's forcethat I did not even know the hour at which the London banks opened forbusiness. A general idea, however, that half-past ten would make quitea long enough day for such work made me hope to be in time tofrustrate or perchance to catch red-handed this clever miscreant.

  The train was due to arrive at Liverpool Street station at teno'clock, and ten minutes after that hour I stepped from a cab at thedoor of the great bank in Lombard Street.

  "The manager," I said, hurriedly, to an individual in brass buttonsand greased hair, whose presence in the building was evidently for apurely ornamental purpose. I was shown into a small glass room like agreen-house, where sat two managers, as under a microscope--a livingexample of frock-coated respectability and industry to half a hundredclerks who were ever peeping that way as they turned the pages oftheir ledgers and circulated in an undertone the latest chop-housetale.

  "Mr. Howard," said the manager, with his watch in his hand. "I waswaiting for you."

  "Have you cashed the draft?"

  "Yes--at ten o'clock. The payee was waiting on the doorstep for us toopen. The clerk delayed as long as possible, but we could not refusepayment. Hundred-pound notes as usual. Never trust a man who takes itin hundred-pound notes. Here are the numbers. As hard as you can tothe Bank of England and stop them! You may catch him there."

  He pushed me out of the room, sending with me the impression thatinside the frock-coat, behind the bland gold-rimmed spectacles, therewas yet something left of manhood and that vague quality called fight,which is surely hard put to live long between four glass walls.

  The cabman, who perhaps scented sport, was waiting for me though I hadpaid him, and as I drove along Lombard Street I thought affectionatelyof Miste's long thin neck, and wondered whether there would be roomfor the two of us in the Bank of England.

  The high-born reader doubtless has money in the Funds, and knowswithout the advice of a penniless country squire that the approach tothe Bank of England consists of a porch through which may be discerneda small courtyard. Opening on this yard are three doors, and thatimmediately opposite to the porch gives entrance to the departmentwhere gold and silver are exchanged for notes.

  As I descended from the cab I looked through the porch, and there,across the courtyard, I saw the back of a man who was pushing his waythrough the swing doors. Charles Miste again! I paid the cabman, andnoting the inches of the two porters in their gorgeous livery,reflected with some satisfaction that Monsieur Miste would have toreckon with three fairly heavy men before he got out of the courtyard.

  There are two swing doors leading into the bank, and the man passingin there glanced back as he crossed the second threshold, giving me,however, naught but the momentary gleam of a white face. Arrived inthe large room I looked quickly around it. Two men were changingmoney, a third bent over the table to sign a note. None of these couldbe Charles Miste. There was another exit leading to the body of thebuilding.

  "Has a gentleman passed through here?" I asked a clerk, whoseoccupation seemed to consist in piling sovereigns one upon another.

  "Yes," he said, through his counting.

  "Ah!" thought I. "Now I have him like a rat in a trap."

  "He cannot get through?" I said.

  "Can't he--you bet," said the young man with much humour.

  I hurried on, and at last found the exit to Lothbury.

  "Has a gentleman just passed out this way?" I inquired of a porter,who looked sleepy and dignified.

  "Three have passed out this five minutes--old gent with a squint,belongs to Coutts's--tall fair man--tall dark man."

  "The dark one is mine," I said. "Which way?"

  "Turned to the left."

  I hurried on with a mental note that sleepy men may see more than theyappear to do. Standing on the crowded pavement of Lothbury, I realisedthat Madame de Clericy was right, and I little better than a fool. Forit was evident that I had been tricked, and that quite easily byCharles Miste. To seek him in the throng of the city was futile, andan attempt predestined to failure. I went back, however, to the bank,and handed in the numbers of the stolen notes. Here again I learntthat to refuse payment was impossible, and that all I could hope wasthat each note changed would give me a clue as to the whereabouts ofthe thief. Each forward step in the matter showed me more plainly thedifficulties of the task I had undertaken, and my own incapacity forsuch work. Nothing is so good for a man's vanity as contact with aclever scoundrel.

  I resolved to engage the entire services of some one who, withoutbeing a professed thief-catcher, could at all events meet CharlesMiste on his own slippery ground. With the help of the bank manager, Ifound one, named Sander, an accountant, who made an especial study ofthe shadier walks of finance, and this man set to work the sameafternoon. It was his opinion that Miste had been confined in Paris bythe siege, and had only just effected his escape, probably with one ofthe many permits obtained from the American Minister at this time bypersons passing themselves as foreigners.

  The same evening I received information from an official source that aman answering to my description of Miste had taken a ticket atWaterloo station for Southampton. The temptation was again too strongfor one who had been brought up in an atmosphere and culture of sport.I set off by the mail train for Southampton, and amused myself bystudying the faces of the passengers on the Jersey and Cherbourgboats. There was no sailing for Havre that night. At Radley's Hotel,where I had secured a room, I learnt that an old gentleman and ladywith their daughter had arrived by the earlier train, and no one else.At the railway station I could hear of none answering to mydescription.

  If Charles Miste had entered the train at Waterloo station, he haddisappeared in his shadowy way en route.

  During the stirring months of the close of 1870, men awoke eachmorning with a certain glad expectancy. For myself--even in mydeclining years--the stir of events in the outer world and near athome is preferable to a life of that monotony which I am sure agesquickly those that live it. Circumstances over which I exercised but anominal control--a description of human life it appears to me--hadthrown my lot into close connection with France, that "light-heartedheroine of tragic story"; and at this time I watched with even agreater eagerness than other Englishmen the grim tragedy slowlyworking to its close in Paris.

  It makes an old man of me to think that some of those who watched thestupendous events of '70 are now getting almost too old to preservethe keenest remembrance of their emotions, while many of the actorson that great stage have passed beyond earthly shame or glory. Keenenough is my own memory of the thrill with which I opened mynewspaper, morning after morning, and read that Paris still held out.

  Before quitting London, I had heard that the French had recaptured thesmall town of Le Bourget, in the neighborhood of Paris, and wereholding it successfully against the Prussian attack. Telegraphiccommunication with Paris itself had long been suspended, and we,watchers on the hither side, only heard vague rumours of the doingswithin the ramparts. It appeared that each day saw an advance in theorganisation of the defence. The distribution of food was now carriedout with more system, and the defenders of the capital were confidentalike of being able to repel assault and withstand a siege.

  The Empress had long been in England, whither, indeed, she had fled,with the assistance of a worthy and courageous gentleman, her Americandentist, within a few hours of our departure from Fecamp. The Emperor,a broken man bearing the seed of death, had been allowed to join herat Chiselhurst, thus returning to the land where he had found asylumin his early adversity. It is strange how the Buonapartes, from thebeginning to the close of their wondrous dynasty, had to deal withEng
land.

  The first of that great line died a captive to English arms, the lastperished fighting our foes.

  "Paris has not fallen yet, has it, sir?" the waiter asked me when hebrought my breakfast on the following day--and I think the worldtalked of little else than Paris that rainy morning. For the siege hadnow lasted six weeks, and the ring of steel and iron was closingaround the doomed city.

  The London newspapers had not arrived, so the morning news was passedfrom mouth to mouth with that eagerness which is no respecter ofpersons. Strangers spoke to each other in the coffee-room, and no manhesitated to ask a question of his neighbour--the whole world seemedakin. In those days Southampton was the port of discharge for theIndian liners, and the hotel was full, every table being occupied. Ilooked over the bronzed faces of these administrators, by sword andpen, of our great empire, and soon decided that Charles Miste was notamong them. The wisdom that cometh in the morning had, in fact, forcedme to conclude that the search for the miscreant was better left inthe hands of Mr. Sander and his professional assistants.

  "IT IS THE LADY WHO ARRIVED YESTERDAY," ANSWERED THEWAITER.]

  At the breakfast table I received a telegram from Sander informing methat Paris still held out. He wired me this advice according toarrangement; for he had decided that Miste, feeling, like allFrenchmen, ill at ease abroad, was only awaiting the surrender toreturn to Paris, and there begin more active measures to realise hiswealth. As soon, therefore, as the city fell I was to hasten thitherand there meet Sander.

  The arrival of my message occasioned a small stir in the room, andmany keen glances were directed towards me as I read it. I handed itto my nearest neighbour, explaining that he in turn was at liberty topass the paper on. It was not long before the waiter came to me withthe request that he might make known to a young French lady travellingalone any news that would interest one of her nationality.

  "Certainly," answered I. "Take the telegram to her that she may readit for herself."

  "But, sir, she knows no English, and although I understand a littleFrench, I cannot speak it."

  "Then bring me the telegram, and point out to me the lady."

  "It is the lady who arrived yesterday," answered the waiter. "Shecame, as I understand, with an old lady and gentleman, but they haveleft this morning for the Isle of Wight, and she remains alone."

  He indicated the fair traveller, and I might have guessed hernationality from the fact that, unlike the Englishwomen present, shewas breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty woman--no longer quiteyoung--with a pale oval face and deep brown hair. As I approached she,having breakfasted, was drawing her veil down over her face, andsubsequently attended to her hat with pretty, studied movements of thehands and arms which were essentially French.

  She returned my bow with quiet self-possession, and graciously lookedto me to speak.

  "The waiter tells me," I said in French, "that I am fortunate enoughto possess some news which may be of interest to you."

  "If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am _sur des epingles_ until Ihear it."

  I laid the telegram before her, and she looked at it with a prettyshake of the head which wafted to me some faint and pleasant scent.

  "Translate, if you please," she said. "I blush for an ignorance ofwhich you might have spared me the confession."

  It was a pretty profile that bent over the telegram, and I wished thatI had arrived sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She followed mytranslation with a nod of the head, but did not raise her eyes.

  "And this word?" pointing out the name of my agent with so keen aninterest that she touched my hand with her gloved fingers. "This word'Sander,' what is that?"

  "That," I answered, "is the name of my agent, 'Sander,' the sender ofthe telegram."

  "Ah--yes, and he is in London? Yes."

  "And is he reliable?--excuse my pertinacity, Monsieur--you know, for aFrenchwoman--who has friends at the front--" she gave a little shiver."Mon Dieu! it is killing."

  She gave a momentary glance with wonderful eyes, which made me wishshe would look up again. I wondered whom she had at the front.

  "Yes, he is reliable," I answered. "You may take this news,Mademoiselle, as absolutely true."

  And then, seeing that she was traveling alone, I made so bold as toplace my poor services at her disposal. She answered very prettily, ina low voice, and declined with infinite tact. She had no reason, shesaid, at the moment to trespass on my valuable time, but if I wouldtell my name she would not fail to avail herself of my offer shouldoccasion arise during her stay in England. I gave her my card, and asher attitude betokened dismissal, returned to my table, accompaniedthither by the scowls of some of the young military gentlemen present.

  Had I been a younger fellow, open to the fire of any dark eyes, Imight have surrendered at discretion to the glance that accompaniedher parting bow. As it was, I left her, desiring strongly that shemight have need of my service. For reasons which the reader knows, allFrenchwomen were of special interest in my eyes, and this young ladywielded a strong and lively charm, to which I was fully alive so soonas she raised her deep eyes to mine.