"Be Bold, Be Bold"

Lord Vernon, no doubt, would have spoken with less acerbity but for the fact that his nerves were jangling badly. The lift was started promptly, but it required all his self-control to remain seated in his chair during the slow progress upward of the great machine of which Monsieur Pelletan was so proud. Scarcely had the door of his apartment closed behind him, when he threw aside the invalid wrappings with a perfect fury, sprang from his chair, and hastened into the inner room. Collins and Blake were seated at a table there, labouring with a telegram in cipher.

"What's the matter now?" demanded Collins, sharply, as he looked up and saw Vernon's disordered face.

For answer, Vernon took from his pocket a folded paper and tossed it on the table.

Collins picked it up, opened it, and read its contents.

"Well?" he said, looking up with a sigh of relief. "If this is the note you wrote those Rushford girls, I must say I think you've done a mighty wise thing to get it back. It was a dangerous thing to have lying around. Have you had a quarrel?" and he grinned a little maliciously.

"Collins," said Vernon, coldly, "you have the poorest conception of good taste of any man I know, and I know some awful bounders. But I won't quarrel with you now, for you'll be grinning on the other side of that ugly mouth of yours anyway in about a minute. Will you kindly examine this piece of paper?" and he tore a leaf from his notebook.

"Be Bold, Be Bold"

Collins, biting his lips until they bled, took it and looked it over with frowning and puzzled countenance.

"Well?" he asked, at last.

"The note I sent the Misses Rushford," said Vernon, quietly, "was written on a leaf from the notebook, which I tore out just as I did that one you have in your hand," and he sat down and stared out the window, across the gray dunes and the gray sea to the gray horizon.

Collins, with compressed lips, held the two pieces of paper up to the light and compared their texture. Then he got out a small pocket magnifying glass and examined through it the writing on the note.

"It's a tracing," he said, at last, "and a mighty clever piece of work.
The paper, too, is very like."

"But it's not the same," put in Vernon.

"Oh, no, it's not the same."

"Do you mean this is a forgery?" burst out Blake, hoarsely, snatching up the note and staring at it.

"Undoubtedly," answered Collins, coolly, but his face was very dark. "The forger, clever as he was, could scarcely expect to be so fortunate as to duplicate the paper. And then, of course, he couldn't foresee that it would be turned over to you. But he did very well. Now let's have the story."

"Miss Rushford had the note in her desk," said Vernon, shortly. "She missed it last night and went to tell her sister of the theft. When she returned to her room and began a systematic search, she found it slipped among some note-paper in the drawer where she had placed it. She returned it to me this morning."

"Without suspecting that it was a forgery?"

"Certainly."

"And you didn't tell her?"

"No."

Collins sat for a moment staring down at the note.

"Which reminds me," he remarked, at last, "that Markeld spent the evening with the Rushfords."

"Well, what of it?" demanded Vernon, sharply, wheeling around. "What is it you mean to insinuate?"

"My dear sir," answered Collins, suavely, "I insinuate nothing. I was merely remarking upon the coincidence. If I did not happen to know all the circumstances, I might have been led to suggest that, as only one Miss Rushford is devoted to you—"

Vernon sprang to his feet with such wrath in his face that Collins stopped abruptly.

"It was well you stopped," said Vernon, savagely. "Another word, and by heaven—"

"Don't be a fool!" Collins broke in. "I'm not afraid of you nor your threats. This forgery, of course, is the work of that French spy—"

A servant tapped at the door and handed in a card.

Collins took it, glanced at it, and looked up with a little smile of satisfaction.

"It's Tellier," he said. "I was expecting him; he was certain to come to us. Leave him to me," and he went out, closing the door behind him.

Monsieur Tellier was even more effulgent than usual. There was upon his face a smile of supreme self-satisfaction. He had reason to believe that he had achieved a good stroke, and he was resolved to make the most of it. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions—one vision in particular which included within the same circumference himself and a certain frail fairy of the RobiniÈre who had always regarded him with disdain. Now all that was to be changed! So he greeted Collins with a self-assurance and aplomb quite removed from his ordinary manner.

Collins confronted him with the card still between his fingers, and returned his greeting with the utmost coldness.

"You wished to see me?" he asked.

"Pardon," corrected Tellier, "it is Lord Vernon I wish to see."

"Lord Vernon is ill and sees no one."

Tellier gave his mustachios a supercilious twirl.

"You still maintain that farce?" he queried. "I assure you that for me it has long since lost its novelty."

Collins took a step toward the door.

"Shall I show you out?" he asked.

"No—not yet," and Tellier smiled provokingly.

"You would really better let me show you out," said Collins, quietly.
"In another moment, I shall probably kick you out."

Tellier's face turned a deep purple and his white teeth gleamed behind his moustache.

"Have a care!" he said, hoarsely. "That expression will cost you dear!"

Collins smiled contemptuously.

"Oh," he retorted; "so it's blackmail! I might have known from your appearance. Well, my dear sir, you have mistaken your men. You have nothing which we care to buy. You would better go."

A purple vein stood out across Tellier's forehead, as he came a step nearer.

"Do not be too sure, monsieur," he said. "You play a bold game, but it does not for an instant deceive me. Lord Vernon is no more ill than I. It is useless to deny it—I have that here which proves it—written with his own hand—yes, pardie, written in my presence!" and with trembling fingers he took from his pocketbook a folded slip of paper.

"Indeed?" said Collins, with mild curiosity. "This is truly wonderful," and he held out his hand.

But Tellier drew back a step, unfolded the note and held it open between his fingers.

"You may read it," he said, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But come no nearer."

Collins leisurely got out his monocle, polished it with his handkerchief, adjusted it, and scanned the note.

"Really," he said, "unless you can hold it a little steadier, I fear I can't read it."

Tellier steadied his hand by a mighty effort, and watched him, his eyes shining. But the face of the Englishman did not change—not in a single line, not by the merest shadow.

"Very interesting, no doubt," said Collins, dropping his glass, "to those who care for backstairs intrigue. Is it this note that you wish to sell?"

"Oh, not that," corrected Tellier, with a little offended gesture, his self-assurance back in an instant. "You mistake me—I am not of that sort at all. On the other hand, it is friendship for you which has brought me here. I have no wish to injure you, monsieur, and you yourself, of course, perceive fully what a disaster it would be should this note be placed in certain hands."

"To what adventure does the note refer?" queried Collins.

"It refers to the adventure of Lord Vernon with the two Americans on the afternoon of his arrival. He has, no doubt, mentioned it to you."

"Lord Vernon has had no adventure since his arrival here," retorted
Collins, coldly. "But go ahead with your story."

"As I was saying," continued Tellier, "I am a poor man. I have my future to consider—I cannot afford to throw away this opportunity which chance has placed in my hands. I will be reasonable, however—I will not ask too much—a hundred thousand francs—"

"Tellier," Collins interrupted, with a gesture of weariness, "I have not the least idea what you mean. But I do know that you have been hoaxed, that you are the victim of some deception, that somebody is making a fool of you. A hundred thousand francs! And for that note! Why, man, you are mad or very, very drunk! We don't want the note. We have no concern in it!"

"No concern in it!" shrieked Tellier. "When it is written by Lord
Vernon!"

"Lord Vernon did not write it," retorted Collins, coolly.

"I saw it—with my own eyes I saw it!"

"Then your eyes deceived you. Evidently you are not acquainted with Lord
Vernon's writing, my friend. Shall I show you a sample? Wait."

He went to a desk, got out a despatch-box, unlocked it, and ran rapidly through its contents, while Tellier watched him with bloodshot eyes.

"This will do," Collins said, at last. "A note to Monsieur DelcassÉ, with which you are perhaps familiar, since it has recently been made public. Look at it."

Tellier almost snatched it—one glance was enough. There was absolutely no resemblance between that tall, angular hand and the writing of the note. He looked at the signature, at the seal—there could be no doubting them. His lips were quivering, his fat cheeks hanging flaccid, as he handed the paper back.

"You are playing with me," he said, thickly. "What I have seen, I have seen. What I know, I know. You cannot trick me. I will go to the Prince of Markeld—to Prince Ferdinand himself—"

"To whomever you please," interrupted Collins, "only go at once," and he snatched open the door.

Tellier hesitated an instant, glanced at the other's face, and went.

And Collins, closing the door behind him, mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Well done, my friend," he said; "exceedingly well done!"

And with that, he turned back to the inner room.

* * * * *

"Dad," began Susie Rushford, that evening, gently but firmly taking away the paper over which her father was engaged, "I wish you would devote that massive brain of yours to this Schloshold-Markheim muddle for a few moments, and give me the benefit. It's quite beyond me, and I'm nearly worried to death over it. I want your advice. Now, in the first place, why should Lord Vernon play off sick? It seems such a little thing to do."

"'Tall oaks from little acorns grow,'" quoted her father. "This little thing may have big consequences."

"I didn't mean little that way," explained Susie. "I meant little in a moral way."

"Well, my dear," said her father, reflectively, "everything is fair in love, war, and diplomacy. Your diplomat, when he is busy at his trade, seems to lose sight of fine moral distinctions. Even the greatest of them have sometimes stooped to acts decidedly small, and yet in private life they were doubtless honourable men. It's a good deal like a political campaign in the United States, where men who are usually honest will lie about the other side, without any twinges of conscience—there's even a loop-hole in the libel law for them to crawl through, made, it would seem, especially for their benefit. So, I think, we may pass up the moral objection."

"But what does he hope to accomplish, dad?" persisted Susie. "What can he accomplish by merely sitting still?"

"A great many things may be accomplished by sitting still," said her father, puffing his cigar reflectively. "It is one of those simple things which are sometimes very difficult to do. I've found that out, more than once, in the course of my checkered career."

"Now that we are through with precept, let us pass on to example, you dear old philosophical thing!" laughed Susie. "What should you say Lord Vernon hoped to accomplish in this instance?"

"It seems very plain," said Rushford, "though, of course, I may be mistaken. But I fancy he believes that while he is playing 'possum here, Emperor William, who is not especially renowned for patience, will settle the question of the succession without asking any one's advice—as, I must say, he seems to have a perfect right to do. In that case, it would, of course, be too late for England to interfere; she could only express her regrets to Prince Ferdinand, and send her congratulations to Prince George. So if Markeld doesn't get a chance to say his little speech within the next two or three days, I don't believe he'll ever get a chance."

Susie nodded thoughtfully.

"The Prince ought to be able to reason that out for himself, oughtn't he?"

"I should think so, if he can see farther than his own nose. Were you thinking of going to his assistance? Take my advice, my dear, and refrain. You and Nell are altogether too deep in it, as it is."

Again Susie nodded.

"Thank you, dear," she said, and taking him by either ear, she kissed him between the eyes. "Now, I think I'll go to bed. I've a mighty knotty problem on hand and I've got to work it out right away."

"Can I help any more?"

"No," and she shook her head decidedly. "This is one of those odious problems which a person has to work out alone. It reminds me of our school examinations, where we were on honour not to ask any help. Only," she added, with a sigh, "this is far more serious. Good-night."

"Good-night," said her father, and watched her until the door closed behind her. Then he turned again to his paper.

Susie, alone in her own room, sat with her head in her hands, staring out across the moonlit beach. Away in the distance, she could see the little breakers washing white upon the sand; to the left stretched the long, brilliant promenade of the Digue, ending in the glare of light which marked the Casino.

"The peace of Europe!" she murmured.

"The peace of Europe! I wonder if he was merely trying to frighten me?"

And she shivered a little at the remembrance of Lord Vernon's words, as she arose to go to bed.