AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

Among the passengers on board the Cunard steamer which made its way up to its moorings in the Mersey on a misty and stormy morning three months after the tragedy which had taken place at Niagara Falls were Count Frederick de Vaugelade and his two English fellow-travelers, Mr. Harcourt and Lord Arthur Fitzjames. The intimacy between the three young men had become very much closer, and Frederick was under promise to visit each of them at his father's country-seat as soon as the London season was over.

On the day after their arrival in London Lord Arthur called at Frederick's hotel in Piccadilly, and after taking him for a lounge in the Row, and thence to lunch at his club, proceeded to his father's house in Park lane and introduced his friend to his mother and sisters. From that time forth Frederick became almost a daily visitor at the Marquis of Kingsbury's house.

His great attraction there was Lady Margaret, familiarly called “Pearl” in the family, a charming little brunette, with large, mischievous gray eyes and a joyful, light-hearted disposition which made her a general favorite. She set up a desperate flirtation with Frederick, and the latter began to believe that luck was decidedly with him, and that it only depended on himself to become a member of one of the greatest families of the United Kingdom.

Lady Margaret's elder sister, Lady Alice, appeared, however, from the first to be prejudiced against the young man, and showed him by her marked coldness that she at least was not following the general example of admiring everything that he did or said. Indeed, he soon realized that she might become in an emergency a very serious obstacle to his matrimonial projects.

The marquis himself took an immense fancy to Frederick, and introduced him everywhere with such marked favor that the hopes of the young man began to grow into certitude.

One evening Frederick called toward 10 o'clock at the mansion in Park lane, and was ushered by the groom of the chambers into the drawing-room. The ladies had not yet left the dining-room, and he sat down on an ottoman to wait for them, taking up an album to while away the time.

As he was idly turning over the leaves he suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise as he caught sight of a portrait of his old enemy, Capt. Clery.

“By Jove, this is unfortunate,” muttered he. “I hope the man is not in London, for if he is we may meet any day here and I shall be in a fine hole.”

He was so absorbed in the contemplation of the pictures that he did not hear the door open. A tall, soldierly figure entered the room and walked slowly toward where Frederick was sitting. As he laid his opera hat down on the table Frederick looked up, and could not help starting to his feet as he saw the original of the picture standing before him.

Frederick's first thought was to effect his escape without delay. But while he hesitated for a moment as to the means of doing so without attracting Captain Clery's attention, the drawing-room doors were thrown open, and Lady Kingsbury, followed by her daughters and two other ladies in full evening dress, entered the room. Baffled in his purpose, Frederick now determined to put the best face on the matter that he could. Of one thing he was certain, namely, that there had been no gleam of recognition in Clery's eye when the latter had cursorily glanced at him on entering. The drawing-rooms were but dimly lighted by several shaded lamps, and the great change which had taken place in Frederick's appearance during the years which had elapsed since he left India encouraged him to hope that he might possibly escape detection, even on closer inspection. He therefore advanced toward the lady of the house, and, bowing low, kissed her outstretched hand with the graceful and never-failing courtesy that was habitual to him in his relations with the fair sex.

“How are you, my dear count? so glad to see you!” exclaimed the marchioness; then, as she caught sight of Captain Clery, who had meanwhile approached, she added: “Why, Charlie, is that you? I did not know you were back in town. Let me introduce you to the Comte de Vaugelade, a new but already very dear friend of ours.”

The two men bowed to each other, and Frederick began to feel more sure of his ground as Clery gave no token of ever having met him before.

The conversation soon became general, and Frederick, always a brilliant talker, surpassed himself that evening and kept them all interested and amused by his witty sallies and repartees until a late hour.

He noticed that on two or three occasions the colonel—for such Clery had now become—fixed his piercing blue eyes somewhat inquiringly on him, as if trying to place him. It was evident that he was rather puzzled.

At midnight they left the house together and strolled toward Piccadilly, chatting rather pleasantly on various topics. As they were about to take leave of each other, Colonel Clery suddenly exclaimed:

“I don't know why, but I have an impression that I have had the pleasure of meeting you once before, count. Your face seems familiar, although your name was until to-night unknown to me.”

“I fear that you must be mistaken, colonel,” quietly rejoined Frederick, taking out his match-box to light a cigarette. “I am quite sure that I have never had the honor of an introduction to you before—a circumstance which I certainly could not have forgotten had it taken place,” added he, with a bow.

Thereupon the two men shook hands cordially, and Frederick made his way back to his hotel, leaving Colonel Clery to hail a passing hansom and to drive home.

As the cab rattled up Piccadilly toward St. James, the colonel thoughtfully twirled his mustache as he muttered to himself:

“Dashed if I can make it out! Where on earth did I meet that French fellow before? It seems to me as if he were connected with some disagreeable incident of my past life, but I will be blessed if I can remember when or how. I must try to find it out, however. The Kingsburys are making such a friend of him; and I am afraid that little Pearl is fast losing her heart to him. I must have a talk with Alice about the matter, and ask her where Arthur picked him up.”

On the following day, meeting Lord Arthur in the Row, Colonel Clery questioned him about Frederick.

“Oh, Vaugelade is a capital fellow!” exclaimed the young lord. “Tommy Harcourt and I traveled with him all over America. Lots of money, you know; good form and all that. The girls at Ottawa and New York were all crazy about him. We thought we should never be able to get him away. Awfully good fellow, and the most agreeable traveling companion I have ever met!”

“Well, but, my dear boy, do you know anything more definite about him? You see, one can never know too much about these blasted foreigners. Wasn't it somewhat imprudent to introduce him to your mother and sisters? I am afraid that Pearl is becoming rather infatuated with him.”

“Oh, hang it, Clery, you croak like an old parson. Pearl is a desperate flirt, and is always going it with some fellow or other. What would be the harm anyhow? I don't think the pater would object very much. Vaugelade has fortune, birth, position, good looks, talents.”

“What on earth do you know about his birth, position, or fortune beyond what he tells you himself?” remonstrated the colonel.

A look of real annoyance passed over Lord Arthur's good-humored face, as he exclaimed, with unusual asperity:

“Now, see here, Charlie, I think you have said enough. Vaugelade is a friend of mine, and I won't hear another word against him. Why, man alive, he is not poaching on your preserves. On the contrary, I am rather inclined to believe that he and Alice don't hit it off well together.”

“Shows her good sense,” interrupted Colonel Clery.

“Well, that is neither here nor there. Don't let us quarrel about it, there's a good fellow. By Jove, when you and Alice are married your house will be difficult of approach. I have never seen such people as you both are for always picking holes in everybody.”

Nothing more was said about the matter, and Colonel Clery decided to keep his own counsel in future.

A week later the colonel and Frederick both dined in Park lane, and as nobody was going out that night, the party assembled after dinner in Lady Kingsbury's boudoir and began looking over some magnificent photographs which Clery had given to Lady Alice on his return from India.

“Oh, by the by, my dear count,” said Lady Kingsbury to Frederick, who was sitting near her, “you must tell me all about that horrible story of the elephant execution which you told Pearl the other day. She has been talking so much to me about it that I am quite anxious to hear from you if it is really true. Surely it is impossible that such barbarous cruelty should still be practiced in a country over which her majesty's power extends!”

“I don't believe a word of it!” exclaimed Lady Alice, in very decided tones. “The count, as we all know, is a great hand at oriental embroidery, no matter how flimsy the fabric on which it reposes.”

“My dear,” remonstrated her mother, “how can you say such a rude thing when Monsieur de Vaugelade has assured your sister that he himself has witnessed the ghastly scene with his own eyes!”

Colonel Clery, who was turning over the photographs, quickly looked up at this moment and cast a searching look on Frederick.

“Now, Charlie,” said Lady Alice, crossing over to him, “you have been in India. Do tell us if you have ever heard of this mode of execution?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, slowly, “I have. It is, however, a very rare occurrence, and during the whole of my long stay in the East I have only known it to be applied on two occasions, both of which, as far as I can remember, took place at Baroda, a God-forsaken spot, ruled by a cruel and tyrannical man, who snaps his fingers at English laws. I particularly remember the last of these two executions, for the victim was a poor devil whose innocence was discovered some weeks after his having been put to death.”

“Oh, now, you must tell us all about it,” cried Lady Margaret, whose love of the horrible was a standing joke in the family. “It positively sounds like a story out of a novel.”

Colonel Clery, who had risen and was now standing before the fire-place, turned his eyes full upon Frederick and remarked:

“You really ought to ask Count de Vaugelade to tell you all about it, instead of me. Having been present on one of these occasions, he is certainly in a better position to satisfy your curiosity than I am.”

“Not at all, my dear colonel. If the ladies insist on hearing about this vilaine affaire, I had much rather that you would tell them. But,” he added, in a somewhat agitated voice, “is it not rather a dismal subject to discuss? Let us talk of something else.”

“No, no,” urged Lady Margaret. “We are in for the horrible! Don't disappoint us, I beg of you.”

“Well, then, as the count is so modest and declines to give us another proof of his talents as a narrator, I will tell you what I know about the matter,” said Colonel Clery, as he resumed his seat.

“It was about eight or nine years ago, and I had only recently returned to India from a long furlough in England, when all Baroda and Bombay society were startled by the announcement of the murder of a very prominent and well-known Hindoo widow, whose body had been discovered among the ruins of a temple in the outskirts of Baroda. A poor, half-witted beggar had been found removing some jewels from the corpse as it lay in the long grass, and it was immediately taken for granted that it was he who had killed her. He was immediately seized and dragged before the guicowar or king, who lost no time in sentencing him to suffer death by the elephant. This most atrocious punishment, as Monsieur de Vaugelade will doubtless have informed you, consists in tying the culprit, who is securely bound hand and foot and unable to stir, by a long rope to the hind leg of the monster. The latter is then urged to a sharp trot, and at each movement of its leg the helpless body of the victim is jerked with a bound over the stone pavement. This is kept up for about the space of half a mile or so, after which the poor wretch's sufferings are brought to a close, his head being placed on a stone block and crushed flat by the ponderous foot of the elephant.”

There was a murmur of horror among those present, in which even Lord Arthur joined, and Frederick, who had been sitting motionless on the sofa with Lady Kingsbury's toy terrier lying across his knees, unconsciously twisted the little dog's ear so violently that it gave a suppressed howl, and, reproachfully looking at him, retired to its mistress' skirts in high dudgeon.

“Remember, please,” remarked the colonel, “that you insisted that I should tell you all this, and that I did so against my own inclination.”

“Yes, of course, of course, my dear Charlie. But do go on, please,” exclaimed Lady Margaret, impatiently.

“All right, Pearl. You are really the most blood-thirsty little woman I have ever met. I suppose I shall have to spin you the remainder of the yarn,” replied the colonel, as he laughed somewhat constrainedly.

“I forgot to tell you that a man of the name of Count von Waldberg, a Prussian nobleman, with whom we had become acquainted on our passage out to Bombay, was at the time staying at Baroda with a Colonel Fitzpatrick. This young man never took my fancy, and I had had occasion to believe him to be a rather shady character.”

“Just like you. You always manage to see the dark side of everybody,” interrupted Lord Arthur, who was lounging on a pile of cushions.

“Please, Arthur, spare us your remarks. Do, there's a good fellow,” cried the irrepressible Pearl.

“When you have quite finished fighting there I will resume my story,” exclaimed Colonel Clery.

“Don't mind them, Charlie. We are all very anxious to hear the end,” rejoined Lady Kingsbury, smiling.

“Very well. I was just telling you about this man Waldberg. He was invited by the Guicowar of Baroda to be present at the execution which I have just described, and created quite a sensation by fainting away at the most crucial moment thereof. Some days later he disappeared from Baroda, leaving a letter for Colonel Fitzpatrick, in which he stated that he had been called away on pressing business, and he has never been heard of since. However, it was ascertained soon after his departure that he was the last person who had been seen with the murdered woman before her death, and that he had been noticed within a short time of the crime near the very spot where the body was found. It was also discovered that he had been on terms of considerable intimacy with her, and that half an hour before the body was found he had called at the house, and, under pretext of waiting for her, had spent some time alone in her boudoir. As a considerable sum of money and some very valuable jewels were afterward found by the widow's executors to be missing from a desk in this particular room, the theft, as well as the murder, was immediately laid at Count von Waldberg's door. It was too late, however, for the bird had flown, and all efforts of the police were powerless even to trace him out of India. I must add that there were some very distressing circumstances with regard to Colonel Fitzpatrick's lovely daughter, who, on hearing of the count's sudden departure, committed suicide by drowning herself in the river.”

“How horrible!” exclaimed Lady Margaret. “Why, the man must have been a perfect monster!”

“Not in appearance, at any rate. He was a very good-looking fellow—remarkably handsome—not very tall, but of aristocratic bearing, with small hands and feet, large, soft black eyes, and a black mustache. Yes, I remember him perfectly now!”

At this juncture Frederick, who had risen, glanced at the clock, and, addressing Lady Kingsbury, said, apologetically:

“I am afraid that this interesting story has made me forget how late the hour is. I must pray you to excuse me and to permit me to take my leave.”

“Why, it is actually 2 o'clock!” exclaimed the marchioness. “I had no idea it was so late. Good-night, my dear count. Do come to luncheon to-morrow. You know that you promised to accompany us to the exhibition of water-colors in the afternoon. I am so anxious to hear your opinion about our English pictures.”

After duly expressing his thanks and acceptance of the invitation, and, after bidding adieu, Frederick was moving toward the door, accompanied by Lord Arthur, when Colonel Clery called out to him:

“Wait a moment for me, count. I will walk part of the way with you, if you will allow it. I have got to go, too.”

Frederick bowed his assent, and the two men went down stairs together, Lord Arthur calling after them over the balustrades.

“Dolce repose, Charlie; don't dream of all these blood-and-thunder stories, and don't treat poor Vaugelade to any more of them on his way home. You are enough to give a fellow the creeps.”

For a minute after they had left the house Colonel Clery and Frederick walked on in silence. The night was very dark, and a fine drizzling rain was beginning to fall.

Suddenly Colonel Clery stopped short in front of Frederick, and laying his hand on the latter's arm said, quietly:

“I know you now—you are Count von Waldberg!”

The light of a street lamp was shining full on Frederick's face, and Colonel Clery remarked, with surprise, that not a muscle of his features moved.

“May I inquire, Colonel Clery, what on earth you mean by this astounding piece of insolence; for I can scarcely regard it in any other light after what you have told us to-night about the gentleman whose name you are attempting to father on me in such a preposterous fashion. Had I not spent the entire evening in your company I should be tempted to believe that you had been drinking.”

“I am perfectly aware of what I am saying,” replied the colonel, “and I should not have ventured to make such an assertion had I not been sure of my ground. Ever since I first met you here in London I have been seeking to recall your face. I knew that I had seen you before, but could not remember where. To-night, however, the conversation about the Baroda executions has brought the whole thing back to me, and I recognize you perfectly now. I cannot be mistaken.”

“It is to be regretted, for your own sake, that you are,” replied Frederick, “and very much so, too. I will hold you accountable for this deliberate calumny, Colonel Clery. A man should have proper proof before daring to accuse a gentleman of such crimes as those which your Count Waldberg or Walderburg seems, according to your story, to have committed.”

Colonel Clery was fairly staggered by Frederick's extraordinary coolness and self-possession. He began to ask himself whether he had not been committing some awful blunder in asserting that M. de Vaugelade and Count Waldberg were one and the same person.

“Of course,” faltered he, at length, “if you can give me any proof to show that you are not the man I believe you to be, I shall be only too happy to beg your pardon for what I have said, and attribute it all to a most remarkable resemblance.

“I am quite ready to give you any proof you may desire,” replied Frederick, very stiffly. “I may add, however, that were it not for the peculiar and privileged position which you hold with regard to the Kingsburys I should not dream of taking the trouble to exculpate myself in your eyes. It is for their sake alone that I consent to lower myself to answer your ridiculous insinuations.”

During this conversation they had walked on, and had passed Frederick's hotel without noticing it. They were now very near Colonel Clery's rooms, in St. James.

“Have you got any—any papers about you which could convince me of my mistake and prove your identity?” inquired Clery, somewhat hesitatingly.

“Well, I have my passport, which is attached to my pocket-book, and some cards and letters besides, if that will suffice,” replied Frederick with a sneer; “but I do not suppose that you wish me to sit down here on the curbstone in the rain and let you examine them by the light of the street lamps.”

“Certainly not. Come up to my room—that is, if you don't object. It will be best for both of us to have this matter settled once and for all.”

“All right; show the way. But I must acknowledge that you English are an infernally queer lot, and well deserve to be called ‘originals.’”

Colonel Clery, taking a latch-key from his pocket, opened the house door and preceded Frederick up a broad flight of steps. Opening another door on the first floor he ushered him into a large but cozy-looking sitting-room. The heavy Turkish curtains were drawn before the windows, and a reading lamp, shaded by a crimson silk screen, was burning on a low side table, leaving part of the room in semi-darkness. Here and there on the tapestried walls were trophies of remarkably fine Damascened Indian swords and inlaid matchlocks. A few good water-colors hung over the sofa, and on the chimney was a large photograph of Lady Alice, in a splendid enameled frame, standing between two old Satsuma vases filled with cut flowers.

Colonel Clery mechanically motioned Frederick to the sofa, but the latter, taking from his pocket a small portefeuille and three or four letters, handed them to him, saying:

“Look at these first, colonel, so as to convince yourself before anything else that you are not now harboring a thief and assassin under your roof.”

Colonel Clery, throwing his hat and overcoat on a chair, and taking the documents from Frederick, sat down on a low arm-chair in front of the table for the purpose of examining them by the light of the lamp.

Had he been able to glance behind his chair he would scarcely have been reassured by the expression which came over Frederick's features as soon as he felt that he was no longer observed. But the colonel was so absorbed in the perusal of one of the letters handed to him that he did not even notice that Frederick had softly approached and was bending over him as if to read over his shoulder.

Noiselessly Frederick removed from his collar a long and slender pearl-headed platinum pin with a very sharp point, which he habitually wore in the evening to keep his white tie in place. After a rapid glance at the nape of the colonel's neck, which was fully exposed to view as he bent over the latter, Frederick, with a swift downward motion of his hand, buried this novel kind of a stiletto to the very head between the first and second vertebrÆ of the spinal column. Without a cry, without a sound, the unfortunate officer fell forward on the table as if he had been struck by lightning. Death had been instantaneous, the spinal marrow having been touched by the unerring and steady prick of the tiny weapon.

This was but another instance of the dangerous knowledge which Frederick had acquired from the natives during his sojourn in Java. All the more dangerous, as when death has been brought about in this way no trace of violence remains except the minute puncture at the back of the neck produced by the pin. This is almost certain to escape observation unless specially looked for, and the death is attributed to a sudden failure of the action of the heart.

Frederick, having ascertained that the colonel was quite dead, took from his contracted hand the letter he had been reading, replaced it in the portefeuille with the others, and then restored it to his pocket. Bending once more over the lifeless form of the colonel he drew the pin from the almost invisible wound, which had not even bled, and replaced it in his tie. Then, taking the body in his arms, he dragged it to the lounge, on which he carefully laid it, closing the wide-open eyes and arranging the pillows under the head. Lowering the lamp, he went softly to the door, and, after listening intently for some minutes to hear if any one was about, he stepped out of the room, and closing the door after him, walked down stairs and into the quiet, lonely street.