Bert offered no resistance to the officers of the law. Indeed, after the first moment, he showed a kind of relief at his arrest, and went with his captors almost gladly.

“I knew you’d get me sooner or later,” he said, although warned that his words would be used against him, “and it’s best to get it over. Julie won’t ever forgive me, let alone have anything to do with me, so what have I got to live for? I can’t go on like this; no one could. Still, mind you, I’m not so much to blame as you think, and it’s my belief any one of you chaps would have done the same as I did, in my place.”

Bert had always been ready to justify himself.

He was willing enough to confess, to the police, to the prison chaplain, to anyone. He showed, indeed, considerable satisfaction, not to say pride, in the interest his story excited, and was not a little annoyed with Gimblet when he found there was practically nothing he could tell the detective of which he was not already aware. Bert did not dilate so much on his love for Julie, the one real thing about him and the innocent incentive of all his crimes.

It is perhaps best not to give the exact words in which he poured forth the history of the dark deeds in which he had been concerned, but to offer to the reader a rÉsumÉ of his tale in so far as it was corroborated by the evidence.

Albert Tremmel’s father was a West End dairyman who had the misfortune to marry above him, as the saying is. He had a small shop in Hanover Street and carried on a profitable business, but his wife despised it from the first, and refused to allow their only child to assist her husband when he became old enough to do so. She wished him to be a clerk, and, as she had a way of getting what she wanted, young Bert at the age of eighteen had entered, in that capacity, the office of Messrs. Ennidge and Pring, house and estate agents. He was then, as later, a cadaverous, unpleasant-looking youth, with a surly, combative temper and a strongly marked tendency to look on most people as his natural enemies. This in itself did not bring him friends, and he made matters worse as often as he could by adopting a dictatorial manner of speech and the habit of pointing out to comparative strangers his opinion that they erred in thinking they knew their own business. He would also mention their duty as another thing they were ignorant of. This line of conversation he varied by assuring them that if it were true, as they would have him believe, that they knew both better in any case than he did, it was still more to be regretted that they should mismanage the one and fail to do the other.

Boys of his own age frankly refused to have anything to do with him, and he found his most congenial surroundings at a Socialistic Club, where all the members shared his disapproval of the world in general, and descanted as much as they pleased on the shameful conduct and character of those who were not of their own way of thinking. Here all ranks and parts of the community were equally denounced, and if one could hardly find words strong enough to censure the attitude of the rich who wished to retain control of their own wealth, neither could one sufficiently display one’s anger and disgust at the behaviour of the poor who showed themselves so regardless of the socialistic movement as to take benefits from the capitalist classes. Fond as these young men were of employing the words “give” and “take,” the meaning generally conveyed by their joint use was peculiarly repugnant to them. Take, in their view, should always come first in any case, and a thing taken lost half its value in their eyes if it came as a gift. They would have abolished both generosity and gratitude from a world that can ill afford the loss of those virtues.

Bert drank in every tenet of this creed, and revelled in the discussions and execrations as much as he delighted in the wishy-washy sentimentalism. He was an unhealthy, discontented, miserable boy, his hand against every one; and his club was the only place where he felt himself more or less at his ease.

There was, however, one spot which he liked better to be in, and that was the household of the Querterots.

He had gone to school with Julie Querterot, for it so happened that Bert’s father was a Lancashire man and a Roman Catholic. It is true that when he died, as he did when Bert was only thirteen, the boy’s mother immediately removed him to another school and saw to it that he imbibed her hatred of Rome; but he did not take any more kindly to her own church, and when she herself died five or six years later he was going pretty much his own way, which was a way devoid of religious belief of any kind. In spite of this, he never lost touch with his little schoolfellow; and, as the Querterots dealt at Tremmels’ shop and the children were always together, the two families became acquainted, and a certain friendship even sprang up between Madame Querterot and Mrs. Tremmels. These ladies drank tea together, and smiled over the devotion of Bert for little Julie. This was in the days when prosperity reigned in both houses.

It was different after Mrs. Tremmels’ death, when Bert discovered that the business, of which he had never been allowed to learn the details, was on the verge of bankruptcy, Mrs. Tremmels having conducted it since her husband’s death with an eye more to her own aggrandisement than to profit. She had opened two large branches and started milk carts drawn by Shetland ponies; and, having no capital, had borrowed money to do it. Custom under her management had fallen off; the branches had had to be closed; the smart ponies sold; and, at the time of her death, she could no longer find the interest on the borrowed money and the mortgagees were at the point of foreclosing.

Bert, who spent half his evenings in advocating the redistribution of wealth, did not at all enter into the spirit of the thing when he found himself quietly set on one side while his own wealth, that is to say, the competency to which he had always believed himself heir, was redistributed without anyone consulting him. He took it very ill indeed, and said things about his dead mother which would have brought him his dismissal from the office if they had come to the ears of either Mr. Ennidge or Mr. Pring. He had been in their employment about a year when she died, and had done fairly well in it, for he was not a bad worker, nor even without intelligence of a kind. Still, he only kept his post by the skin of his teeth, for he had been in the office more than long enough for Mr. Pring to take a violent dislike to him, and if it had not been for the extremely kind heart of Mr. Ennidge, who argued that he could not dismiss the youth to whom Fortune had already dealt so severe a blow, Bert would have been sacked a dozen times a week. He had, however, no idea of this, and considered himself indispensable and miserably underpaid.

He certainly was not paid a great deal, though more than he was worth to Mr. Pring, at all events, and Madame Querterot ceased abruptly to invite him to her house. He continued, however, to visit it from time to time, and a couple more years went by without further event. Then came the sudden and tragic failure of the Querterots. EugÈne Querterot shot himself; and in the fallen state of their fortunes the two impoverished women he left behind him were glad of any friend who stood by them. The sudden dropping off of their old acquaintances created a new bond of sympathy between them and the young man, and when they moved to Pimlico and he was the only person who ever went to see them, he received a much warmer welcome, at all events from the mother, than he had lately grown to expect.

Gradually he went more and more often, until he formed the habit of dropping in at least every other evening. He had always been fond of Julie, and perhaps of no one else in the world, since he had shown little affection for his parents; now, as he saw her with increasing frequency, his feelings for her became more intense, till every day he seemed to see in her new and more entrancing perfections, and even his enthusiasms for Socialism faded under the continual protest of her aversion to it. He admitted to himself with a kind of thrill of self-defiance that Julie was so clever, so sensible, so wonderfully reasonable and clear-sighted, that her opinion on any subject could not be despised, and it became more and more plain to him that if she thought badly of Socialism that doctrine would find difficulty in retaining his complete loyalty. To be short, by the time she reached her eighteenth birthday Bert was head over ears in love with the girl, and had scarcely a thought in which she did not predominate. Madame Querterot watched it all from beneath her heavy eyelids. She said nothing, but the idea that here was one who in time might be useful to her crept into her brain and took deep root there as the weeks went by.

Julie was pious and devout. It was about this time that she began to speak about entering a religious sisterhood, but the storm of reproach and upbraiding that this desire provoked in her mother caused her to relinquish the idea for the time being, and, more particularly, not to talk of it any more. The only visible effect of the suggestion was that Madame Querterot welcomed Bert more effusively than usual, and now often invited him to stay to supper.

It may be judged how readily he accepted, and these evenings were certainly the happiest hours in his life. He used to come early and help Julie to lay the table, and sometimes even to prepare the meal; and if her sleeve chanced to brush against his shoulder as she stooped over the fire or reached up to a shelf he would be reduced to a state of speechless ecstasy, which Madame Querterot found a pleasant change from the usual aggressive torrent of his talk.

In spite of her quiet and demure ways, Julie had a girlish fondness for dress and finery, and the offerings that from time to time Bert laid at her feet, of gloves and trinkets, were a great source of innocent pleasure to her. There was a time when he sallied forth from his lodgings armed with the savings of months, and the intention of buying a ring, which he should present to her accompanied by a speech he prepared for the occasion, in which the secret of his heart was to be imparted, together with the request that the ring should be a token of their engagement. But his courage failed him at the jeweller’s counter; he felt suddenly a conviction, amounting to a certainty, that Julie would refuse; and, rather than risk knowing the worst, he abandoned his project and spent his hoardings on a brooch which he himself did not really admire, and which Julie, when she received it, thought hideous. The only person who was pleased was the jeweller, who had had the thing in his shop two years and simply loathed the sight of it.

It was soon after this that the great plan, of which Madame Querterot had had the elements incubating in her mind for a long while, was hatched, and presented itself to her in a complete and material form. She knew from the first that she could not carry it out alone; and, casting over in her thoughts for the help she required, saw in Bert a tool made ready to her hand. When she broached her idea to him she had her design prepared, down to every detail.

It was on the night when he had treated the two women to the theatre, as has been related in an early page of this narrative. Madame Querterot began by telling the young man that she would never allow her daughter to marry one so poor as himself, and added quickly that she knew of a way by which he could attain both money and the assistance of her influence exerted on his behalf with Julie. Having excited his curiosity and his hopes she bound him to secrecy and disclosed her purpose to him.

“It is yourself who gave me the good idea,” she assured him. “It is your socialistic teaching, is it not, to take from the rich? they have more than is reasonable, those others!”

They were walking up and down before the little house in Pimlico where the Querterots lived in these days of poverty; Julie had left them and gone to bed; the glimmer of a candle came from behind a blind in the room upstairs.

“Of course they have,” Bert grunted. “But it’s no use your thinking you can take their money from them without further legislation. What price the police?”

“Ah, the police,” sighed Madame Querterot, “if only they would not meddle in what is not their affair! But, look you, there are cases which are exceptional. There are cases which ought to receive immediate attention, which cry out for treatment of the most drastic. If the law is slow—and I grant you that the law has great need of alteration—when a matter is exceptionally urgent, I say, the good citizen must take it in his own hands to see justice done. And if while we render a service to humanity we do so with profit to ourselves, it is clear that the ends of justice are doubly served.”

Bert could not help agreeing with these excellent precepts. Indeed, Madame Querterot’s air of supernatural wisdom would have impressed the most sceptical.

“It is not enough to talk, one must demonstrate one’s faith in a theory. By the means I shall propose you can prove how well Socialism will work in practice; for here will the poor, as represented by us, be made richer, and yet the rich person who will have changed our fortunes need scarcely feel any deprivation. You remember my talking to you at supper-time about a lady, a very wealthy lady, one of my clientele?”

“Yes,” said Bert. “A Jewess, wasn’t it?”

“It is true. A Jewess! And have not the Jews for centuries ground the bones of the poor? Who more fitted to be the first to contribute some of their ill-gotten gains in return? Should they not be obliged to restore some of that money which they never earned?”

“I daresay,” assented Bert; “but I wish you’d hurry up and let’s see what you’re getting at, that’s all.”

“Eh bien! This woman, this Jewess, is enormously rich, as I tell you. And what does she do with her money? My friend, she covers herself with diamonds! It is those diamonds which I propose to myself to deprive her of.”

“What, steal them?” Bert’s tone was troubled, although in his heart he had known from the first whither her talk drifted.

“Steal! What a word.” Impossible to convey the contempt of Madame Querterot’s tone. “Is it right then, that she should be permitted to have so much when others starve? Is it right that she should flaunt her jewels in the face of the hungry poor?”

Madame Querterot, who had a good memory, went on to quote phrase after phrase she had at various times heard fall from Bert’s own lips. She poured his favourite catchwords into his ears, and strengthened them with arguments of her own. She painted the robbery she designed in such glowing colours that you would have thought, to hear her, that it was a sacrifice she was going to make for the good of humanity. She passed imperceptibly to picturing the delight of Julie when she should be presented with one of the less easily identified jewels, to the readiness with which, at the advice and with the glad consent of her mother, she would accept the heart and hand of the prosperous and enriched Albert, to the happiness of the young couple ensconced in their charming house, surrounded by motors, gramophones, champagne; in fine, all the luxuries due to a girl of Julie’s perfections. Madame Querterot did not stop till she came to her own prospective joys, her grandchildren climbing on her knee. It was enough for the blushing and intoxicated Bert. He surrendered, agreed to all she proposed, put himself entirely under her directions, and these his prospective mother-in-law willingly proceeded to give him.

She explained to him first at some length the character of Mrs. Vanderstein, and the means by which she hoped to play upon her weakness.

“There is,” said she, “a young Prince—the Prince Felipe of Targona—now in London and staying at Fianti’s Hotel in Grosvenor Street, which is situated just opposite to the house of this Jewess. It so happened to-day, as I was in the midst of my massaging, that she jumped up and ran to the window to see this young man pass, and I also looked out. Now by some chance the Prince, as he drove by, happened to lift his head and look straight into Mrs. Vanderstein’s face. It was a most lucky occurrence, and I could not have hoped for anything so providential to arrive. One would say, indeed, that it is an omen for me, a mandate to carry out my plan. Mrs. Vanderstein was delighted at this encounter of the eyes, and did not disguise her pleasure. Well, see how simple is now my part. I have in the shop some tortoise-shell combs, purchased at a ridiculous price by that poor EugÈne when we first started in business here in London. They are very beautiful, of the finest workmanship, exquisitely and intricately carved, but of a pattern antiquated and dÉmodÉ. We have never been able to sell them.

“Now see, I shall take those combs, and present myself at Fianti’s with a petition that I may see the Princess of Targona, mother of Prince Felipe. For her I have a story that my husband was of Targona, and that the combs also come from that country. I shall offer them to Her Highness as a present from a humble and expatriated subject, and say that my late husband refused to part with them out of patriotism, and, when everything else he possessed had to be sold, clung always to the only objects he had left to remind him of his beloved Targona. It is quite probable that the Princess will be affected by this touching history. She may even make me a present; but that is by the way. What is really of importance is that I should be left alone in one of the apartments occupied by the Royal party for a few minutes. If I can manage that—and I think you may have confidence that I will do so—I shall obtain some pieces of the Prince’s notepaper on which his royal device or monogram is certainly engraved; at all events it will bear some distinguishing mark, and it will go hard if a few sheets of it do not find their way into my bag.

“The next step will be easy. I shall issue from the hotel at a moment when I have ascertained, by peeping from a window, that Mrs. Vanderstein is on her balcony, where at a certain hour she very often goes to water some flowers she has there. She will see me pass; and, as she is very curious about all that goes on at Fianti’s, she will remark on the incident. I shall tell her that I have been called by the Prince of Targona, who has fallen madly in love with her at first sight. You may think she will not believe this, but trust me to make it plausible; and she will be readier to credit such an idea than you imagine, for in the first place all beautiful women are ready to believe that their attractions are irresistible—and she is beautiful, this Jewess, not unlike what I was myself when I was younger—and in the second place, Mrs. Vanderstein is of a nature romantic to the point of ridicule, and is always, I am convinced, fabricating for herself stories of heroes and princes, with herself for the heroine of these fables.

“How do I know, you ask me? I tell you I know. I am a judge of character; I have an aptitude for that. Eh bien! I shall convince the Jewess that she is adored by a reigning Prince, with frenzy, with devotion, with passion; that he thinks of nothing but her; that he would put his hand in the fire for her sake, that he is ready to abdicate his throne, to give up the government of his country. In short, that he wishes to marry her, and that if she will not listen to his addresses he has nothing further to live for in this world. What is perhaps the weak point in my tale is the idea that Prince Felipe should have chosen to make a confidante of myself, but, believe me, my dear Bert, I shall make even that appear not unnatural, and, as a matter of fact, stranger things are done every day. All this will take time, I do not know how long—days, perhaps weeks. I must find out how long the Prince stays in London,” added Madame Querterot, more to herself than to her companion.

It was the one thing she had forgotten.

“I shall write her letters on the Royal notepaper, and as she will send the answers by my hand, I shall know their contents and be able to reply to them without arousing any suspicions on her part. In his impassioned epistles the Prince will beg for an interview; he will lament the obstacles that prevent his seeing her either at the hotel or in her own residence, and he will finally, I am sure, persuade her to meet him for the purpose of making his acquaintance, in a house which he will indicate.

“She will consent to all he proposes, or I am much mistaken. It is at this point, my dear Bert, that your assistance becomes so indispensable. You are a house agent’s clerk. I shall require a house; and it is you who must take it for me, in an assumed name, of course, and without the knowledge of your employers.”

“I don’t see how that can ever be done,” Bert objected.

They were still pacing slowly up and down the dingy street. A policeman at the corner of the road looked at them once or twice, decided they were harmless, and ceased his attentions. The light in Julie’s bedroom was long since extinguished.

Madame Querterot cleared her throat and began again.

“There will be a gentleman from India, let us say,” she resumed, “who will call at the office at an hour when the two partners are out. No one will regret this more than yourself, but in their absence you will do your best to attend to the requirements of the gentleman from India. He will want a house, and he will want it immediately. He will desire to take it by the week and he will be ready to pay a large rent. He is somewhat eccentric, this gentleman, and dislikes meeting strangers. He will tell you to see about getting a charwoman to make the house ready for him, and he will settle then and there on the terms, on the day he is to take possession, and upon every necessary detail. Then, having signed the agreement, he will pay you the first week’s rent in advance—for which I will provide the money—and he will walk out of the office. You will tell Mr. Ennidge and Mr. Pring, when they return, about the eccentric gentleman from India, and they will not be suspicious about him since there will be the money for the rent.”

“Are you going to act being this gentleman you’re talking about?” asked Bert.

“No,” replied Madame Querterot. “He will not exist at all; it is not necessary that he should ever appear. But it may be very useful that he should be thought to exist.”

“Then who is to sign the lease?”

“You will do that,” said the Frenchwoman, “you must begin at once to practise writing with your left hand. Choose a short name—we will call him Mr. West—and write it over and over again many times on a sheet of foolscap, which you will always burn when you have covered it. Never forget to burn it, Bert. You will find it quite easy in a few days, and it will not in the least resemble your own hand.”

“I don’t half like it,” Bert commented.

“I promise you it will be all that is most simple. The Indian gentleman will ask you personally to meet him at the house on the day he takes possession, and he will tell you to be sure to come yourself, as he dislikes strangers and prefers not to do business with more than one person. So you will get the house ready for him and hand him the key and leave him in it. That is all the trouble there will be about the house. Not much to take, for the sake of gaining a fortune and a charming wife, you must admit? The Vanderstein will come to the house to meet Prince Felipe. She will find us there, masked and unknown to her. We shall relieve her of her jewels, which I shall have arranged that she will wear; Prince Felipe is so fond of jewellery, it is a perfect passion with him to see women so adorned! So I shall tell her, and she will not fail to bedeck herself with them. When all is done she may return home; disappointed, I fear; but life is full of disillusions, and the blame will rest on the eccentric Mr. West from India.”

It was all very plausible. Bert could pick no holes in the plan. He tried to offer one or two objections, but was quickly overruled, and finally said good night and went home to bed committed to aid and abet Madame Querterot in her purpose to the best of his power.

All went well. Madame Querterot succeeded even beyond her expectations. The Vanderstein, as she called her, was all a flutter of excitement and delight, and Madame Querterot related to Bert at great length and with huge enjoyment the scene in which she had embarked upon the hoax, and the easy gullibility of “la Juive.”

“‘Figure to yourself,’ I said to her, ‘that this morning I receive a summons to Fianti’s from a lady in waiting on the Princess of Targona! What an honour! You can imagine my excitement! This lady used formerly to stay much at her country’s legation here, in London, and she was in the habit of making herself coiffÉe by that poor EugÈne. So it appears that yesterday she sent for him; but, when they told her that the poor dear was no longer on this earth, she had the amiability to seek me out, having heard of all our cruel misfortune, and asked that I should present myself in his place. To-day, therefore, I attended at the hotel, and had the pleasure of making the coiffure of a charming lady. Mais elle est charmante, cette dame-lÀ! But—and here follows the affair that is of interest to you, madame—as I left the apartment of the lady in waiting and was about to descend the staircase, a voice called me back, and, looking round, what was my surprise to perceive no less a person than His Highness, Prince Felipe, who appeared to be beckoning to me to join him in a dark part of the passage.’

“Mrs. Vanderstein interrupted me with sparkling eyes. ‘Do tell me,’ she cried, ‘the words that His Highness spoke to you! Sit down, Madame Justine, and tell me every single thing you can remember about it.’ I drew a chair close to the sofa where Mrs. Vanderstein was seated, and I continued my narrative in a confidential undertone. ‘I could not imagine what it was that Prince Felipe had to say to me, but I thought for a moment that possibly his mother required my services, and I was enchanted at the idea that perhaps I was this day to dress the hair of a Royal personage. But as soon as I drew near, the Prince began to ask me questions of which at first I could not understand the purport. Soon, however, I comprehended. “You live in this street?” he asked. “No, monsieur,” I replied; “I live far from here.” “But I saw you,” he cried, “I am convinced that it was you I saw!” “When did Your Highness see me?” I inquired. I was indeed flattered that he should condescend to recognise me. “I saw you yesterday. You were looking out of the window of a house opposite this hotel,” said he positively. “Ah yes, monsieur, it is true. I was in the house of Mrs. Vanderstein, one of my clients, and we had the good fortune to see you drive past.”

“‘I began now to see why I was receiving the honour of this interview. “Mrs. Vanderstein!” he exclaimed. “Is that then her name? But,” he added, “there were two ladies. Which was Mrs. Vanderstein?” “The elder of the two, monsieur, the one whose hair is dark.” “It is she,” he said. “Ah, how beautiful she is! In all my life I have never seen a face that so haunts my memory. It is the face I have dreamed of all these years. But stay,” cried he in a different tone and with a look of despair. “You call her Mrs. Vanderstein! Am I to understand then that she is married? No matter, her husband must perish! One of my gentlemen may engage him in a duel. These things can arrange themselves.” Such were his words. Ah, madame! one sees that His Highness is not used to opposition.’

“The Vanderstein was transformed. Her eyes flashed with unaccustomed fires. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her breath came a little quickly. I was astonished at the change. ‘She looks ten years younger,’ I said to myself. ‘Is it the massage that has had an effect after all?’ Aloud I continued my tale. ‘I explained to the Prince that Mr. Vanderstein had saved him the trouble of arranging a duel. “Then,” cried he, “there is no obstacle! Except,” he added in a different and depressed tone, “the wishes of my mother, and of the government of Targona. They are very decided that I must marry for reasons of state, but I have told them again and again that I will not do it. I will abdicate if they like, but I will never marry except in accordance with the dictates of my heart. And my heart has never before been touched; so that I am sure now that there is but one woman in the world for me. But how am I to meet her? If anyone suspects my feelings, unimaginable difficulties will be thrown in the way. And how can I ever win the affections of the beautiful and adorable Mrs. Vanderstein, if I cannot even imagine a means by which I may make her acquaintance? One thing, however, is sure. Without her I cannot live.”

“‘Ah, madame,’ I said, ‘if you could have seen the poor gentleman your heart would have ached for him. On his face so sad an expression! He had an air so miserable and disconsolate. One can see that he has a tender nature! In his despair he strode up and down the corridor, gesticulating with his hands, and rumpling his hair—which is fine like silk—by tearing at it with his fingers! Again and again he would clap his hand to his forehead, or smite himself upon the breast, and, if he abstained from bursting into actual tears, you may be sure it was because the rigorous code, which forbids any public display of feeling in persons of Royal blood, would not allow him to show his emotion even in the presence of so insignificant a person as myself. Ah, the poor young man. I, madame, I, whom he noticed as he would observe your looking-glass or your boot-lace, felt myself ready to take him in my arms and to embrace and comfort him like a mother.’

“I paused for breath, and Mrs. Vanderstein cried: ‘Oh, Madame Justine, is it really possible that he should feel like that after only seeing me once, and that at a distance?’ ‘Love at first sight,’ I replied, ‘is not a thing of which one has never heard; and assuredly he is in love, this poor Prince Felipe, or I do not know what love is. Several times again he stopped in front of me, and cried out: “How, how am I to arouse her interest, gain her respect, above all how can I win her heart, when I have no chance of making myself known to her? I cannot hope that she will be attracted by my personal appearance. With one of her mental and spiritual superiority—as I can see at a glance—my rank and position will scarcely avail; it is, then, only by learning the depth and sincerity of my passion, only by realising the fond and tender quality of my love for her, that she may in time be prevailed on to look not altogether unfavourably upon my suit.” And much more he said of the same kind. As for me, madame, I assured him I would, in a tactful way, convey to you some hints as to the state of his feelings. He insisted that they should be no more than hints, fearing that you would be offended at his making of me a messenger; so if I have, in my sympathy, overstepped the bounds of discretion, you must judge the fault entirely my own and not attribute it to any lack of manners on the part of the Prince. His intentions are of the most perfect correctness.

“‘He questioned me closely as to your way of life, your opinions and habits. “Ah,” he cried, “I see we are made for one another, she and I. You say that she likes to surround herself with pictures, flowers, jewels, and the luxurious things of life. She is fond of music and of the arts. Now remark this! I am a collector of paintings and objets d’art. I, too, adore music and roses. I, also, have a passion for precious stones and personal adornment. Wherein do we differ? Hein! It is plain that we have the same tastes, that I shall be sympathique to her. Oh, we must meet! Somehow, somewhere I will arrange, if she consents, that we should meet. Not here. Impossible! Not at her house. I should feel my mother’s eye on me. I could not escape observation if I merely crossed the road. No, neither here nor there, but in some other place of which I will consider. In the meanwhile do you, with the utmost delicacy, sound her feelings as regards myself, and prepare her for a further expression of my own.” I think, madame, that that is all that passed between us, but I am to return to Fianti’s to-morrow and report to him whether you appeared displeased.’ It seemed that Mrs. Vanderstein was not displeased. She spoke very little more, but I could see, by the happy, excited air she wore under her assumed calm, that my words were having all the effect I could wish.”

All this Madame Querterot retailed with many details to the interested and amazed Bert, and each succeeding day she had new accounts of her cleverness and success to relate. She wrote impassioned, but eminently “correct” letters on the royal notepaper she had filched in accordance with her plan, and carried them to Mrs. Vanderstein with a hidden, jeering smile at that lady’s glad and confiding acceptance of their authenticity.

The night of the gala performance at the opera was fixed on for the deed, and at their every meeting Madame Querterot repeated to Bert her instructions as to the part played by the gentleman from India. She elaborated and filled in her first sketch of his character and behaviour, till at last the young man almost believed in the real existence of Mr. West, and certainly knew far more about him than about most of the people with whom he was actually in daily contact, for, as a rule, he was unobservant to the last degree. She saw also to his learning to write with his left hand, and he was able in a couple of days to do this to her satisfaction. By now Bert was as keen about the project as she could have wished. An evening spent at his club had strengthened and confirmed his conviction that no one woman had a right to the exclusive enjoyment of so much wealth; and he was now well assured that he would deserve nothing but commendation for trying to readjust the scales. There were moments when, for the fraction of an otherwise optimistical second, he beheld a vision of Julie as she would look at him if she ever heard of what was contemplated; and it was a vision that caused in him a catching of the breath. But the idea for the most part only hovered in the background of his thoughts, so that, while he was always conscious of its neighbourhood, so to speak, he was able with an effort to turn away his mental eyes, and to avoid looking it in the face; and it was then that he would seem to Madame Querterot most eager, most impatient for the night to arrive.

The house in Scholefield Avenue was taken, and Messrs. Ennidge and Pring showed themselves only mildly interested in the mythical Mr. West, and that chiefly on account of his readiness to pay a high rent. Then a difficulty arose; and it was Bert, to his satisfaction and pride, who suggested a way out of it.

Madame Querterot met him one evening with an expression of dismay she made no attempt to conceal.

“There is after all something I have forgotten,” she cried. “Nom d’un nom! that I can have been so stupid, so idiot! Listen, it is this. The Jewess must drive from the opera to Scholefield Avenue. But in what? It is impossible that she should go in her own automobile, and if she takes a taxi we are equally betrayed. AÏe, aÏe! what to do?”