About ten days afterwards I one morning received by post a brief note from Guertin, written from the PrÉfecture in Paris, urging me to go at once to the Victoria Hotel at Varenna, on the Lake of Como, where, if I waited in the name of Brown, my patience would be rewarded.

And there, sure enough, six days later, as I sat one evening in my private sitting-room, the door suddenly opened and my well-beloved, in a dark travelling gown, sprang forward and embraced me, sobbing for very joy.

Can I adequately describe the happiness of that reunion. Of what I uttered I have no recollection, for I held her closely in my arms as I kissed her hot tears away.

A man stood by—a tall, silent, gentlemanly man, whose hair was grey, and whose face as he advanced beneath the strong light showed traces of disguise.

“I am Philip Poland—Sonia’s father,” he exclaimed in a low voice. Whereupon I took the hand of the escaped prisoner, and expressed the utmost satisfaction at that meeting, for he had risked his liberty to come there to me.

“Sonia has told me everything,” he said; “and I can only regret that those blackguards have treated you and her as they have. But Guertin, who is a humane man, even though he be a detective, has tracked them down, and only yesterday I heard Du Cane—the man who made that false charge against myself, and stepped into my shoes; the man who intended that my poor girl should marry that young scoundrel Forbes—has been discovered in Breslau, and is being extradited to England.”

“On the night of your arrest, Mr. Poland, a mystery occurred,” I said presently, as we sat together exchanging many confidences, as I held my dear wife’s soft little hand in mine.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was only while I was out at Devil’s Island that I learnt the truth. Du Cane, intending to get me out of the way, hit upon a very ingenious plan of sending a man made up as Guertin—whom I only knew by sight—to see me and suggest suicide rather than arrest. This man—a person named Lefevre—came and made the suggestion. He did not know that Du Cane had written anonymously to the PrÉfecture, and never dreamed that Guertin himself would follow him so quickly. On leaving, he apparently hung about watching the result of his dastardly mission, when Harriman—or Bell as we knew him—walked up the drive, in order to call in secret upon me. He espied a man whom he recognized as Guertin peering in at the window, and, creeping up behind him, struck him down before he could utter a word. Afterwards he slipped away, believing that he had killed our arch-enemy, the chief of the sÛretÉ. Presently, however, the body of the unfortunate Lefevre was found by Guertin himself, who had come to arrest me.”

“And Harriman admitted this!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. He admitted it to me upon his death-bed. He died of fever a week before I made my dash for liberty. But,” he added, “Sonia has told me of that dastardly attempt which those hell-fiends Reckitt and Forbes made upon you in Porchester Terrace, and how they also tortured her. But they were fortunately alarmed and fled precipitately, leaving Sonia unconscious.”

“Yes,” declared my sweet wife. “When I came to myself I recollected, in horror, what they had told me concerning the fate to which they had abandoned you in the adjoining room, and with a great effort managed to free myself and seek you. I cut the straps which bound you, and succeeded in killing the snake just in time to save you. Then I stole away and left, fearing that you might suspect me of having had some hand in the affair.”

“And you saved my life, darling!” I exclaimed, kissing her fondly on the lips.

Then, turning to Poland, I said—

“The police are hunting for you everywhere. Cannot you get to some place where you are not liable to be taken back to France?”

“To-morrow, if I am fortunate,” he said, with a faint smile, “I return to the modest little villa I have rented on the hill-side outside Athens. In Greece one is still immune from arrest for offences abroad.”

“And I shall return to London with you, Owen. Father and I have travelled to Trieste, and thence here, in order that I should rejoin you, now that the danger is past.”

“Ah! darling,” I cried. “I never for one moment doubted you! Yet I admit that the circumstances once or twice looked very black and suspicious.”

“Alas! I could not prevent it,” she declared; “I left you and joined Dad at the Coliseum, because I went in fear of some further attempt being made upon us, and I felt you and I would be safe if I were with him. He had no idea when he met the others at Stamford that Forbes and Reckitt and Du Cane had effected that coup with the Archduchess’s jewels.”

“No. I had no idea of it,” said Poland. “My meeting with them was one of farewell. I had already severed my connection with them three years ago, before my arrest.”

And then, after some further explanations, I clasped my loved one in my arms and openly repeated my declaration of fervent love and fond affection.

Of the rest, what need be said?

Sonia is now very happy, either down at Carrington or at Wilton Street, for the black clouds which overshadowed the earlier days of our marriage have rent asunder, and given place to all the sunshine and brightness of life and hope.

No pair could be happier than we.

Twice we have been to Athens as the guest of the tall, grey-haired Englishman who is such a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and who lives in Greece for the sake of the even climate and the study of its antiquities. No one in the Greek capital recognizes Mr. Wilfrid Marsh as the once-famous Louis Lessar.

And dear old Jack Marlowe, still our firm and devoted friend, is as full of good-humoured philosophy as ever, and frequently our visitor. He still leads his careless existence, and is often to be seen idling in the window of White’s, smoking and watching the passers-by in St. James’s Street.

You who read the newspapers probably know how Arnold Du Cane, alias Pennington, alias Winton, was recently sentenced at the Old Bailey to fifteen years, and the two young Frenchmen, Terassier and Brault, to seven years each, for complicity in the robbery on the Scotch express.

And probably you also read the account of how two mysterious Englishmen named Reckitt and Forbes, who had been arrested in Paris, had, somehow, prior to their extradition to England, managed to obtain possession of blades of safety-razors, and with them had both committed suicide.

In consequence of this there was no trial of the perpetrators of those brutal crimes in Porchester Terrace.

The whole affair was but a nine days’ horror, and as the authorities saw that no good could accrue from alarming the public by further publicity or inquiry, it was quickly “Hushed up.”

THE END

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay.

“THE MASTER OF MYSTERY”

WILLIAM LE QUEUX’S NOVELS

Opinions in 1911

“Mr. William Le Queux retains his position as ‘The Master of Mystery.’ ... He is far too skilful to allow pause for thought: he whirls his readers from incident to incident, holding their attention from the first page to the close of the book.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

“Mr. Le Queux is the master of mystery. He never fails to produce the correct illusion. He always leaves us panting for more—a brilliant feat.”—Daily Graphic.

“Mr. Le Queux is still ‘The Master of Mystery.’”—Madame.

“Mr. Le Queux is a most experienced hand in writing sensational fiction. He never loses the grip of his readers.”—Publishers’ Circular.

“Mr. Le Queux always grips his reader, and holds him to the last page.”—Bristol Times and Mirror.

“Mr. Le Queux’s books once begun must be read to the end.”—Evening News.

“There is no better companion on a railway journey than Mr. William Le Queux.”—Daily Mail.

“Mr. Le Queux knows his business, and carries it on vigorously and prosperously. His stories are always fantastic and thrilling.”—Daily Telegraph.

“Mr. Le Queux is an adept at the semi-detective story. His work is always excellent.”—Review of Reviews.

“Mr. Le Queux is always so refreshing in his stories of adventure that one knows on taking up a new book of his that one will be amused.”—Birmingham Post.

“Mr. Le Queux’s books are delightfully convincing.”—Scotsman.

“Mr. Le Queux’s books are always exciting and absorbing. His mysteries are enthralling and his skill is world-famous.”—Liverpool Daily Post.

“Mr. Le Queux has brought the art of the sensational novel to high perfection.”—Northern Whig.

“Mr. Le Queux is so true to his own style that any one familiar with his books would certainly guess him to be the author, even if his name were not given.”—Methodist Recorder.

“‘As good wine needs no bush’ so no mystery story by Mr. Le Queux, the popular weaver of tales of crime, needs praise for its skill. Any novel with this author’s name appended is sure to be ingenious in design and cleverly worked out.”—Bookseller.

“Mr. Le Queux is always reliable. The reader who picks up any of his latest novels knows what to expect.”—Bookman.

“Mr. Le Queux’s admirers are legion, and the issue of a new novel is to them one of the most felicitous events that can happen.”—Newcastle Daily Chronicle.

“Mr. Le Queux is the master of the art of mystery-creating.”—Liverpool Daily Post.