“Isn’t it a horrid nuisance, Geoffrey, Lord Hendlewycke has arrived!” exclaimed Sylvia Beverley as she stood with her lover on the terrace before the luxurious HÔtel Royal, at Dinard.

“Hendlewycke here!” exclaimed the young Marconi engineer in surprise. “Then I suppose it means that I’d better get back to London,” he said rather grimly.

“Isn’t it too bad of mother? She’s just told me that she wrote to the fellow asking him to join us on our motor trip to Touraine,” the pretty, dark-haired girl said petulantly. “I shall decline to go.”

“But you know the reason, dearest, just as I do,” said Falconer. “Your mother disapproves of us being so much together, and intends that you shall become Lady Hendlewycke.”

“I obey mother in all things—but I won’t marry Hendlewycke,” declared the girl decisively. “Of course he’s awfully useful to us socially. Through him we’ve got to know some of the very best people in London. Mother likes all that sort of thing, but personally he bores me.”

After Mrs. Beverley’s stay at Poldhu she had taken Sylvia on a motor tour. They had landed at Boulogne from Folkestone, and had had a beautiful run to Dinard, where Geoffrey, with three weeks’ leave due to him, had joined them a few days before.Both mother and daughter were delighted with Dinard. It is a place which in summer appeals to the wealthy, with its luxurious hotels and gay casino, its smart world of bathing and dancing, and its expensive shops, most of them branches of the best establishments in Paris. There, in the Casino, on the plage or in the hotels, the haut-monde loves to rub shoulders with the demi-monde, and in these days it is, par excellence, the resort of the blatant war-profiteer and his fat, uncouth wife.

It was noon. The gay, cosmopolitan idlers of both sexes were either bathing or taking their apÉratif, or else wandering about the scrupulously clean streets and inspecting the shops.

Sylvia, in her cream summer gown and large hat, presented a delightful figure as, at her lover’s side, she wandered presently along the Rue du Casino, in order to buy some flowers for the table of their private sitting-room at the hotel.

The weather was glorious. It was warmer on what the French term the Emerald Coast than it had been in Cornwall, while the life and society was, indeed, a change from the rural quietude of Poldhu Cove.

Just as the pair were passing the entrance to the Casino, a stout, middle-aged, very smartly-dressed woman halted and spoke to Sylvia.

“Well, Madame Claudet!” the girl cried. “Why—how long have you been over in Europe?”

“About four months,” she replied, speaking broken English with a strong French accent. “My husband died, you know.”

“What?” exclaimed Sylvia. “Mr. Claudet dead!”

And for the first time she noticed that the lady was in mourning.

“He died of heart failure, suddenly—in the street in New York,” the rather handsome widow said. Then when Sylvia had expressed her condolence, she turned and introduced Geoffrey.

“I’m at the HÔtel des Terrasses,” Madame Claudet said to the girl. “Where are you staying?”Sylvia told her, and begged her to call upon her mother that afternoon.

“We shall be so very delighted to see you again,” she added. “Mother has often spoken of you, and recalled our gay days together at Palm Beach.”

Madame promised to call, and then, when Sylvia and Geoffrey walked on, the girl said:

“Poor Madame Claudet! I’m so sorry! Her husband was a very wealthy man. They had a lot of valuable property, I believe, in Brazil. We knew her in Florida. I’m so glad we’ve come across her. I shall ask mother to invite her to go with us to Touraine.”

At luncheon Geoffrey met Lord Hendlewycke, whom, of course, he had known in London. All the men who went up and down St. James’s Street knew Hendlewycke as a very hard-up peer, who was glad to get dinners and luncheons at other people’s expense. How he lived nobody exactly knew, for he was believed not to possess the proverbial “bean.” Yet he was a bright optimist, with a fund of amusing anecdotes, and very popular with hostesses of all sorts.

In the afternoon the French widow called upon Mrs. Beverley, and was received with great enthusiasm. At tea Geoffrey met her again, and afterwards agreed with Sylvia that she was a most charming person. She had been born in the Alpes Maritimes, but had been taken to America by her parents when she was about eighteen, and had married a Mr. Claudet, an American, whose father had been French. Hence she possessed all the natural chic of the Frenchwoman, combined with the go-ahead characteristics of the American.

Next day, notwithstanding Sylvia’s appeal, Geoffrey left Dinard for London in response to a telegram he pretended had come from Marconi House. Mrs. Beverley, at heart, did not regret his departure, because she hoped that during the motor tour through the CÔtes du Nord, Morbihan, and the Maine-et-Loire, which she had arranged, his lordship might propose to Sylvia.Back again at the Marconi Works at Chelmsford, Geoffrey became immersed in his patient research into further wonders of wireless. He was engaged with others upon a new idea.

One day he had occasion to go from Chelmsford over to Witham, where there had just been established the new wireless station in direct communication with Paris. Witham is nine miles from Chelmsford, and, although messages from France are received upon the aerial wires there, the transmission is effected from the great aerial at the Chelmsford Works.

On that particular morning he had been in the transmission room at Chelmsford, watching the huge panel with its big array of great illuminated globes—the transmission-valves for continuous waves—and chatting with Mr. Drew, the shrewd, dark-haired engineer in grey tweeds, who was, perhaps, the world’s greatest expert in wireless telephony. In the big hall, full of wonderful apparatus and huge condensers—the result of many scientific brains—the pair had been watching the relay work, the rapid dots and dashes from the key at Witham, and then, in consultation, they had agreed upon a still further diagram that might perhaps give better results.

In consequence, Falconer had gone over to Witham, leaving the ever-watchful Mr. Drew with his powerful transmission-set, with which he had a short time before spoken across the Atlantic, and to Senatore Marconi while on board his yacht in the Mediterranean—the set which he regarded with as much tenderness as though it were his own child—as, indeed, it really was.

That wonderful display of apparatus was but the germ of a revolution in the transmission of speech. It was purely experimental, and was now being used, not for long-distance telephony, but for the exchange of Morse signals with Paris—sent automatically at such a speed as to be unreadable by any listener.

The inner room was a hive of industry. Upon the operating bench was a “siphon recorder”—a delicate instrument which was actually writing, by means of a kind of fountain pen, upon the paper “tape” the dots and dashes sent automatically at a speed of one hundred words a minute. The pen never left the paper, but rose up and down, making short or long strokes in violet ink on the upper side of the paper, and was one of the latest marvels of delicate wireless instruments.

Geoffrey glanced at it casually. It clicked on continuously night and day in response to the automatic hand of the transmitter in Paris tapping his key.

“The Frenchmen are keeping us very busy,” Graham remarked. “Look! We’re overwhelmed, but up at the Fenchurch Street office it must be worse.”

Geoffrey nodded For some seconds he watched the “recorder” at work, and then presently he and Graham sat down at the receiving set and began to discuss where an improvement would possibly be made. They were seated close to the “recorder,” when presently, through mere force of habit, Geoffrey, even while chatting with Graham, found himself reading the incoming messages. Suddenly there became recorded on the tape in that curious crooked writing the words, “Marguerite Claudet.”

Claudet? In a moment he recollected that it was the name of the wealthy widow to whom Sylvia had introduced him in Dinard. He took the tape, and reading back, found that the message, which had been dispatched from Paris half an hour before, was addressed to a person named Mildmay, apparently living in chambers in Ryder Street, London, and that it was in code—a jumble of figures and letters.

At first, the origin of the message being Paris, Geoffrey merely smiled within himself at the similarity of the name, and recollected the seal of secrecy regarding all messages. But a few moments later, he recollected that Mrs. Beverley had addressed her friend as “dear Margot.” For aught he knew the lady was motoring with Mrs. Beverley on their trip to the ancient chÂteaux on the Loire.Before leaving Dinard, Sylvia had given him the HÔtel de l’Univers, at Tours, as their central address while in Touraine. At that time Madame Claudet, though invited to join the motoring party, had not decided whether to accept. In Falconer’s presence she had declared that she would be compelled to go to Paris to see her bankers upon some matter of business from South America.

The message to Mildmay was evidently a private prearranged jumble of figures and letters, the whole perhaps meaning but one word, “yes” or “no.” Such codes are by far the most difficult to decipher.

Next day, so interested did he become in the message through space, which had, of course, been delivered to the addressee, that he telegraphed to Sylvia at Tours asking whether Madame Claudet was with them, but begging that she should not be told of his inquiry.

The reply came in due course. Madame Claudet had been on business to Paris, and had just rejoined them at Tours. Naturally, Sylvia asked the reason of his inquiry, to which he replied by wire that he would tell her when next they met.

He had, however, established the fact that the rich widow had been in Paris, and it certainly seemed as if the message he had noticed upon the green recording tape was really from her.

For the next few days he was extremely busy over at Witham, assisting in getting the London-Paris service going more smoothly. The most delicate adjustment of the instruments is necessary in wireless stations when at first fitted, for the apparatus is so often liable to unaccountable freaks and interruptions, each of which must be methodically overcome until the service is brought to perfection.

The apparatus at Witham, having at last been tuned up to the highest pitch, Geoffrey suddenly received orders to go down and make some adjustments at the big transatlantic station high up above Carnarvon, in North Wales.

For two days he remained there, and then returned to Warley, where the Professor was still busy upon his monumental book.

Alone with his private wireless set at one o’clock in the morning, the puzzle of that curious cipher message from the widow obsessed him. He wore the low-resistance telephones over his ears, and was listening to Poldhu sending out the day’s news to ships at sea. It was better than reading the evening papers, for here one had news in tabloid form, the news which was printed next morning upon all the transatlantic liners.

“By Jove, I will!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, after listening to a declaration made by Mr. Lloyd George to M. Briand, and reported by the Paris Matin. He removed the head-’phones, and then muttered to himself:

“I wonder who this man Mildmay can be? I’ll find out. It will be interesting—if nothing else. Yet somehow—why, I don’t know—I took an instinctive dislike to Madame Claudet. Yet there was really no reason for it as far as I could see, and she appeared to be quite charming.”

And he switched off, and retired to bed.

Two days later, having occasion to go up to Marconi House, he snatched an hour and went to Ryder Street. As he anticipated, the place was a set of bachelor’s chambers. The liftman became communicative after a ten-shilling note had been pressed into his hand.

“Well, sir,” he said in a low voice, “the fact is that I don’t know very much about Mr. Mildmay. Lord Bamford let his rooms to him about six months ago, and he seems to be away quite a lot. I forward his letters to Paris, Vienna, Rome, and other places. He is a constant traveller. He must have business abroad, I think.”

“Does he have any lady friends calling upon him?”

“No. Never to my knowledge, sir. He’s simply a gay, irresponsible sort of man. Dines out every night either with people in smart society or at one of the expensive restaurants. A bit of a mystery, I think.”“Why a mystery? What do you suspect?” asked Geoffrey eagerly as they stood together conversing in low tones against the lift.

“Well, about a week ago a little old man—a foreigner with a grey beard—came here and questioned me closely. At first I refused to tell him anything. He went away. Later in the evening he called again, and together we went round into the Haymarket and we had a drink or two. I told him what I knew, and—well!—he seemed much interested—very much interested.”

“In what way?” asked Falconer.

“Well, I may as well be frank with you. He offered me twenty pounds if I would loan him the duplicate key of the flat which my wife has in order to go in and out to see to things for him. He has no meals here, but his bedroom has to be seen to each day.”

“Twenty pounds! Then the little old foreigner was very eager to see inside. I wonder why?”

“Yes. That’s in my mind. I haven’t accepted the money, and I don’t know that I shall. Mr. Mildmay treats me as a gentleman, and I don’t see why I should go behind his back—especially with a foreigner. He must be a gentleman, or Lord Bamford would never have let his rooms to him.”

“Does Mr. Mildmay have many visitors?”

“Only two or three men who are intimate friends. I think he may be an inventor—or an electrical engineer.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because sometimes when I go past the door at night, I hear the whirr of the little motor in the flat.”

“Oh! There’s an electric motor there—is there?”

“Yes, in the scullery—it’s run off the electric light current.”

“Do you ever hear any metallic clicks or sharp fizzles and noises?” Falconer asked.

“No. Nothing—only the motor. A little half-horse affair run off the house current. When I was in the army I had a lot to do with small dynamos.”“What can it be used for?”

“Ah! I can’t tell. He keeps his sitting-room always closed. He’s put a Yale lock on it. And my missus is always wondering why.”

Geoffrey Falconer scented mystery.

“What does he want a motor in his flat for?”

“That I can’t tell you. He’s a generous man. I’ll give him credit for that. But somehow I don’t like his mysterious electric plant.”

Half an hour later the liftman’s wife, on pretence of going to Mildmay’s room to see that all was straight, admitted Falconer, who had a good look round. He examined the half-horse electric motor, and found to it attached two high-tension wires through the wall into the locked room.

“That’s his lordship’s dining-room,” said the stout, youngish woman. “I can’t think why Mr. Mildmay keeps it locked up so securely. Sometimes I think I smell a funny smell, like paint, but I’m not quite certain. It may be my fancy. Mr. Mildmay is out golfing at Berkhampstead to-day.”

Falconer passed into the sitting-room, when the first object that greeted him was a cabinet photograph of Madame Claudet!

He had not been mistaken. What connection could the rich Chicago widow have with the man who kept his dining-room locked with a Yale latch?

The mystery deepened. A problem was presented which to Geoffrey Falconer was fascinating. Madame was rich and well known in society. What possible connection could she have with that man in England—the man to whom she had sent a message in cipher. Cipher telegrams are quite admissible in official correspondence, and also in business, but when used for private communication are always suspect—except perhaps between lovers.

“I’d like to see Mr. Mildmay,” Geoffrey told the porter, who, in reply, declared that the gentleman usually came home about six o’clock, dressed, and then went out to his club for dinner.So just before six o’clock Falconer returned to Ryder Street and watched the entrance of the chambers. He had waited for ten minutes or so when a well-dressed fair-haired man of about forty, in golf clothes, alighted from a taxi and, carrying his clubs, went inside. Then, a second later, the liftman appeared in the doorway, and gave the arranged signal that he was the person Falconer desired to see.

There was certainly nothing suspicious about Mr. Mildmay’s appearance. He was an ordinary man of leisure, who had been out in the country golfing.

Day by day, Geoffrey’s work taking him to Witham, he was able from time to time to glance at the rapidly moving pen of the “recorder.” He was wondering if any more messages of mystery would come through from the American widow. Each day he looked at the register of wireless messages received from Paris, but the name of Mildmay did not appear. He told nobody of the suspicion which had arisen in his mind. As a servant of the Marconi Company, he, like servants of the Post-Office, was sworn to preserve the secrecy of messages, and this he did. He merely watched and waited, even without telling his father.

Yet somehow—why, he could not himself tell—he felt that he would like to see more of the widow’s mysterious friend. With that object he one night put on his dinner clothes, and waited in Ryder Street until Mildmay appeared, when he followed him unseen to a small and cosy restaurant in Jermyn Street. Scarcely had Mildmay taken his seat at a table against the wall when Geoffrey also entered and took a seat near him, pretending, of course, to take no interest in anything further than the menu which the waiter handed him.

Mildmay apparently told the waiter that he was expecting friends, for the man swiftly laid two extra places, and he had hardly finished when two middle-aged men entered, greeted their friend, and took their seats. Their appearance surprised Falconer, for they were flashily-attired, and evidently not of the same class as himself.

In a few moments all three were bending towards each other. One of the new-comers was apparently relating something in a low, confidential tone, and when he had finished, the trio burst into loud, triumphant laughter. Then it did not take long to realise that they were celebrating some occasion, for champagne was soon upon the table and they commenced an expensive meal.

Time after time Falconer endeavoured to catch some word of the conversation, but failed. Yet, whoever the men were, he felt instinctively that they were West End undesirables. After their dinner, they strolled together into St. James’s Street, where Mildmay parted from them and turned towards Pall Mall, while the pair went on into Piccadilly. After walking some distance they entered a bar in Vine Street; yet Geoffrey dare not go in after them for fear of being recognised. Nevertheless, he had ascertained that Mr. Mildmay kept rather curious company.

A couple of days later Falconer, glancing at the register of messages passing between Paris and London, saw that during the night another message for Mildmay had been received. He referred to the tape record, and found that it was in code, as before, rather longer, that it had been dispatched from Tours, and was signed by the initials “M. C.”

That same evening he called again upon the liftman in Ryder Street, and inquired if the electric motor had been running.

“I haven’t heard it for quite a fortnight now, sir,” replied the man. “Last night Mr. Mildmay had two friends here: one man in grey, and the other in a blue suit. Both were middle-aged.”

Geoffrey at once described the two men who had dined with Mildmay in Jermyn Street.

“Yes. That’s them, sir. Shady customers, I should take ’em to be.”

“Just my own opinion,” declared Falconer. “But I’d dearly love to know why the dining-room is kept locked, and the reason that half-horse power motor is there.”

“So would I, sir,” laughed the man. “But, after all, I expect the explanation would be quite simple. I’ve wondered whether he’s experimenting with something or other. At one place I was at we had the same mysteriously locked room. But it turned out that the tenant was a doctor, and was experimenting with the culture of the bacteria of deadly diseases. And that was why he kept the door locked.”

“This case we shall find different,” Falconer remarked. “I don’t at all like the appearance of Mr. Mildmay’s friends. I shall probably come and see you again very soon,” he added, as, pressing a Treasury note into the man’s hand, he turned and left.

On the following Friday, in response to a letter he received from Sylvia saying that Lord Hendlewycke had gone suddenly to Switzerland, and telling him her mother would much like to see him to accompany them in the car on their return journey across France to Boulogne, he obtained a week’s leave, and duly arrived at the HÔtel de l’Univers, at Tours.

On alighting the concierge informed him that the ladies were out motoring, but an hour later he met them on their return, and received a warm welcome. His main object in travelling to Touraine was to meet again Madame Claudet.

“Ah, Mr. Falconer!” she exclaimed, with her pretty French accent, as they shook hands. “Sylvia expected you yesterday. We’ve been having, oh!—such a delightful time.”

“Yes. It has been real interesting,” said Mrs. Beverley. “We’ve been all over Brittany, and now we’ve seen nearly everyone of the chÂteaux of the Loire.” Then turning to Madame, she said: “Come on, Margot, dear. It’s time we got upstairs to dress.”

From the first Geoffrey realised that the two ladies were on most affectionate terms. They, indeed, addressed each other by their Christian names. And he wondered.Madame Claudet looked strikingly handsome as she sat that night at dinner, dressed in a very smart, low-cut black gown trimmed with silver, with a silver ornament in her hair. Sylvia, too, looked charming, in a flimsy dance frock of pale-grey.

As they sat together Mrs. Beverley explained their programme, namely, to return by way of Blois, Orleans and Fontainebleau, to see the forest and the chÂteau, and thence skirting Paris by Versailles, Beauvais, Abbeville, and Boulogne. That was agreed upon, and later in the evening Geoffrey went out with Sylvia for a stroll beneath the trees in the pleasant Boulevard Heurteloup.

“I had a dreadful time with Hendlewycke,” the girl said as they strolled together. “He bored me to death, and I fear I became very rude to him in the end. That’s why he made an excuse and went off in a huff to Switzerland. Of course,” she added, “mother was furious, but now she’s getting over it. I believe we shall never see him again.”

“Don’t make too sure, dearest,” her lover said. “Remember, he’s after money, and he thinks he’ll get it through you. Lady Hendlewycke! How very nice it would sound!” he added tantalisingly.

“Geoff, you’re horrid!” declared the girl, pouting.

“I suppose you find Madame Claudet a very pleasant companion?” Falconer went on, walking slowly, for the evening was bright, and under the trees many people were enjoying the cool air after the heat of an oppressive day.

“Yes. She’s so awfully jolly.”

“Has she been with you all the time since I left you?”

“Except when she went to Paris. She left Dinard suddenly, and was only away about fifteen hours. She’s such a rapid traveller. I fancy I should have been half dead with fatigue if I had done such a journey in that time. She could have had only about a couple of hours in Paris to do the business.”

“With her bankers—was it not?”“Yes—with the Paris agent of her bank. She’s been selling some property in Brazil. She’s such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan—and mother is charmed with her. She is coming to stay with us in London.”

“Excellent!” the young man exclaimed, reflecting, however, upon those strange messages to that mysterious man in Ryder Street. “Your mother seems devoted to madame,” he went on.

“Yes. But she’s really awfully good fun. Besides, speaking French as she does, she’s been most useful to us on our tour. I really don’t know what we should have done without her.”

“And yet you only knew her slightly.”

“Yes. But we knew a lot about her. Wasn’t it strange that we met her at Dinard? We shall have a lovely run across to Boulogne. I suppose it will take us a week or more,” the girl went on. “To-morrow we are going to take you to see the ChÂteau of Chinon. You recollect in one of your letters you said you would like to see it. We were there last Wednesday week. So we’re going again to-morrow.”

She went on to ask him the reason he had wired about Madame Claudet, but Falconer successfully evaded her many inquiries.

On the following morning, with the three ladies, Geoffrey was driven along the thirty miles or so of delightful road to the ancient and obscure little town, with its narrow crooked streets, the pretty Vienne river, the historic, old-world place dominated by its three wonderful chÂteaux: that of St. Georges, built by Henry II of England, the Milieu, and the Coudray, in which lived Joan of Arc—the three forming one great fortress.

The guardian took them around the three castles, to the three towers of Boissy, with its fine Salle des Gardes, and lastly to the three-storeyed prison tower, of which so many terrible stories of mediÆval tortures are told. Afterwards they lunched at the old Boule d’Or, down on the Quai Jeanne d’Arc, and then drove to Chenonceux on the road back to Tours, to visit the charming little chÂteau—one of the most unique of all Touraine, and which at that moment was in the possession of a well-known American who had bought it from the French Government.

Next day the four set out on the return journey to London. Before leaving the Univers, however, a very unpleasant incident occurred. Geoffrey had paid his bill with a thousand-franc note which he had obtained from the bank in London before his departure and had received the change. Just, however, as he was entering the car to leave, the manager came to him hurriedly and asked him to step into the bureau for a moment. There the note he had given was shown him, and declared to be counterfeit!

Geoffrey stood stupefied, while the manager waxed very angry, declaring that since the war France had been flooded by spurious money brought there and changed by foreigners. Falconer declared his innocence, apologised, and was about to take back the note, when the manager in fury retained it to forward to the Bank of France for destruction. So he was compelled to pay his bill a second time, and also to lose forty pounds or so.

Then, feeling very crestfallen, he rejoined the ladies, without, however, letting them know what had occurred.

That night they stopped at the HÔtel Moderne, at Orleans, and after dinner Geoffrey, without telling them of the incident at Tours, warned them to be on their guard against spurious French bank notes.

“Oh, yes,” said Madame Claudet. “I have heard that recently great quantities of forged notes have been passed all over France. Somebody told me they are being made in Spain. One has to be always on the look-out for them. It would be so annoying to pass one in innocence.”

“Indeed, one could very easily fall into the hands of the police,” exclaimed Mrs. Beverley. “I had a most unpleasant time in Dinard. I bought that little butterfly brooch at a jeweller’s close to the casino, and paid for it, when, to my horror, the man said that one of the notes—one for five hundred francs—was a forgery.”

“What did you do, my dear?” asked madame.

“Do? Well, I felt a perfect fool. I tore the note up and gave the man another.”

“You never told me that, mother,” Sylvia remarked.

“No, dear. I felt too angry about it. So I didn’t tell anyone. It occurred four days before we left Dinard.”

It was upon the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to relate his own experience at Tours, but he hesitated.

The run next day to Fontainebleau was glorious, and indeed the whole trip across to Boulogne was in most delightful weather, and they all thoroughly enjoyed it. At Boulogne they left the car to be brought to London by the chauffeur, and caught the next boat across to Folkestone and so on to London.

Geoffrey’s leave was up, so he had to be at the Works at Chelmsford on the following day. He seized the opportunity to run over to Witham, and there discovered that during his absence Mr. Mildmay had received two further cipher telegrams, one sent from Fontainebleau, and one from Beauvais, both signed “M. C.”

Now in his many conversations with the handsome widow she had never mentioned that she had any friend in London. On the contrary, on the night they had stopped at Abbeville, while they were dining at the old TÊte de Boeuf, she had exclaimed across the table to Mrs. Beverley:

“It really is most sweet of you, dear, to put me up in London. I know nobody there nowadays. I’ve been away so long.”

She made no mention of the man who occupied those expensive chambers in Ryder Street, and as far as Geoffrey knew the pair had never met. Naturally, the young wireless engineer was often at Mrs. Beverley’s house, and his own observations, combined with what Sylvia told him, made it apparent to him that Madame Claudet was a most extravagant woman.

“We are out every night somewhere,” the girl said. “And madame will never allow us to pay a farthing. She must be very rich, for she’s ordered eight new frocks from Lucille’s.”

“She has no friends in London, has she?” Falconer asked casually.

“She didn’t have any when she arrived, but, of course, she now knows one or two people to whom we’ve introduced her.”

On the following day another curious telegram came through the wireless station at Witham. Dispatched from Marseilles, it had been sent across by wireless from Paris, and was addressed to Mildmay. It was in plain language, and read: “Urgent that Marguerite should come over. The change would do her good.—Jules.”

This puzzled Geoffrey more than ever. Why was madame wanted urgently at Marseilles, and what hidden meaning was contained in the declaration that the change would do her good? He was very anxious to ascertain if she ever met the mysterious Mildmay, and for that purpose he went to London one evening and again saw his friend the liftman.

No lady had visited Mr. Mildmay to his knowledge. She certainly might have called when he was off duty.

Hence Falconer determined to watch again, and after the lapse of several weary evenings, he one night followed Mildmay to the Savoy, where, just before supper-time, he took a seat in the lounge and idly lit a cigarette.

Ten minutes later Geoffrey saw standing at the head of the short flight of stairs the familiar figure of Madame Claudet, wearing a gorgeous theatre wrap. Her quick eye recognised Mildmay; therefore she went to take off her wrap, and a few moments later joined him.

From a distance Falconer watched them closely. Mildmay’s greeting appeared the reverse of cordial, for on his face was an angry, morose expression. After a brief conversation, they passed into the supper-room, where, in order to escape recognition, Geoffrey was forced to leave them. But he had established the fact of their secret friendship.

Next evening when he went to Upper Brook Street he found Sylvia alone, her mother having gone to the theatre with madame.

“Isn’t it a shame!” she remarked. “Madame Claudet has to go to Paris the day after to-morrow—on some of her horrid banking business again. Mother has introduced her to her bank in Pall Mall, so that she has an account in London, therefore these journeys will be avoided in future.”

Geoffrey, who had not allowed either Mrs. Beverley or her daughter to suspect his doubt concerning the handsome widow, agreed, and expressed a hope that the lady would soon return.

Next day, having to be at Marconi House, he snatched off a few hours in the afternoon, and succeeded in watching madame leave Upper Brook Street alone, and following her to Ryder Street, where she called upon Mildmay. It was very apparent, by the timid way she slipped into the doorway of the chambers, that she feared being watched. Why?

She remained there for about half an hour, when, emerging, the liftman hailed a taxi for her and she drove to Upper Brook Street.

Geoffrey was perplexed why the mysterious Jules in Marseilles should be so concerned regarding madame’s health. Hence he determined to watch her movements closely until she should leave Victoria. That night he did not return to Warley, but slept at his club, and at ten o’clock next morning idled unseen at the corner of Upper Brook Street, in case she should come forth. He had ascertained that she was leaving Victoria at midday.

At about half-past ten madame came out alone, carrying her handsome gold-mounted handbag, and in Grosvenor Square she hailed a taxi, in which she drove to a bank in Pall Mall, in order, no doubt, to obtain money for her journey.She remained within about ten minutes or so, then, re-entering the taxi, she drove back to her hostess’s house.

A quarter of an hour later Geoffrey called to wish the gay widow au revoir, and Mrs. Beverley invited him to stay to luncheon. At about half-past eleven madame left for Victoria, her hostess going in the car to the station to see her off. Hence Sylvia and her lover were left together.

Geoffrey Falconer had become disappointed and ill at ease, for the mystery concerning the widow still remained unsolved.

Mrs. Beverley returned, and they had luncheon together, the young wireless engineer remaining all the afternoon.

Just as they were seated at tea, Shaw, the footman, brought a card to his mistress, who glanced at it, and said:

“Oh! It’s Mr. Elton! I wonder why he wants to see me? Ask him in here.”

The man bowed, and a few moments later a tall, clean-shaven business man was ushered in. In a second it was plain that he was considerably perturbed.

“Mrs. Beverley,” he said, glancing at Sylvia and Geoffrey, “I am very sorry to disturb you with a most unpleasant matter. May I see you alone?”

“Unpleasant matter!” gasped the South American woman. “What do you mean? Whatever you have to say can be said right here.”

“You have a Madame Claudet staying with you. You introduced her to me, and she opened a small account at our bank,” he said. “Well—I may as well tell you that I have the police outside, and I am here to give her into custody!”

Mrs. Beverley stood open-mouthed.

“Custody!” she gasped. “For what?”

“She called at the bank this morning, and changed seventy-four thousand five-hundred francs in French notes for English notes. These were, at noon, sent along to the head office in Lombard Street, where they have been found to be marvellously clever forgeries!”

“Impossible!” declared Mrs. Beverley, utterly staggered.

“Alas! it is only too true. The bank has lost nearly three thousand pounds.”

Then Mrs. Beverley, having explained how her late guest had left for Paris that morning, refused to believe that she could be guilty of any such fraud.

Here Geoffrey interrupted, and related how he had unconsciously endeavoured to pass a forged note at Tours, and he recalled to her mind the incident at the jewellers in Dinard. Both those circumstances pointed to the fact that the woman had taken from the purses of both Geoffrey and her hostess real notes, substituting false ones, with the idea of watching whether they would be passed or not.

“I would like a word with the police,” Geoffrey added, and with the bank manager he left the ladies to recover from their sudden shock.

In the library he saw the detective-inspector, and briefly related the mysterious messages received by Mr. Mildmay, and the circumstance of the electric motor and the locked room.

Within half an hour a priority telegram had been sent by wireless by Scotland Yard to the commissary of police at the Gare du Nord, in Paris, to arrest madame on her arrival, while a visit to Mr. Mildmay’s chambers revealed in the locked room a perfect plant for the reproduction of French and Spanish bank notes of various denominations, the most scientific and complete ever found in the possession of bank-note forgers.

Two hours later, when Mildmay returned, he found himself suddenly in the hands of the police, and both he and madame—who was not a widow at all, but his wife who had been distributing forged French and Spanish notes all over Europe, and reaping a rich harvest—later on received exemplary sentences at the Old Bailey.