Chapter XIX: A Very Treacherous Villain

A stranger entering the cave-like room at that moment and seeing the three men standing there, the one smiling, debonair, the other two grimly frowning, might have mistaken the first for the captor and the others for his scowling captives, and not, as it was in fact, the other way about. It would have been indeed difficult to connect the happy-looking young man with his position as captured criminal, uncertain as to his fate, liable to condign punishment.

One reason for the marked contrast in the demeanour of captive and captors was the fact that the former, though he also had just come in from a fast drive in the cold air, into the almost colder atmosphere of a damp cave, was clad in a fur-lined leather coat, and was, in consequence, feeling comparatively warm and comfortable; whereas, the other two, seated there for over half an hour in ordinary overcoats, were chilled to the bone. That alone was sufficient to make them gloomy and unhappy; the other factor was the uncertainty of the result of this interview and the fear of interruption from the inmates of Ardenmore House.

Crosby, less able to restrain his feelings than his companion, was the first to give vent to them.

"Look here," he said. "Can't we, as this fellow says, get down to bed-rock and finish the business before it finishes us. I'm stone cold in this damned cellar, and we don't want to waste time, neither."

"It would be warmer, messieurs, in the upper room," suggested the captive, with a wave of the hand towards the steps. "May I suggest--"

"You have done quite enough suggesting, thanks," snapped Bessington. "Remember that I'm in command of this situation, not you. I have no intention of going into the upper room, as we might be seen by some of your men who may be on the prowl--no doubt much to be desired by you, but not by us--We'll get through our business where we are. I suppose, by the way, that it's useless to expect you to give your name?"

"_Mais oui_, but why not? I am not ashamed of my name. Antoine Dubosc it is. Allow me to present my card," and taking a leather case from his breast pocket, he extracted a card and held it out to Bessington, who took it, glanced at the name and looked up.

"And your address, Monsieur Dubosc?"

The other shook his head. "I think not, monsieur, with all due respect. At least, not at present. It is, of course, somewhere in France. Unless, _par exemple_, you propose to alter it for me to the address of one of your gaols, which I sincerely hope is not the case."

"That will depend entirely on yourself," replied Bessington. "Hand over that leather case of yours, I'll have a look at it."

The young man flushed angrily at the tone, and for a moment appeared as though he were going to refuse. But a glance at the steady hand holding the automatic, which was pointing uncomfortably at his middle, decided him otherwise.

"There is nothing in that, monsieur, but my private papers. I ask as a favour that you leave it."

"Hand it over," snapped Bessington, and Dubosc obeyed, with a muttered oath and an evil look in his eyes.

The elder man glanced through the papers it contained and found nothing but some old letters in a woman's handwriting, but without the address for which he was looking. He did not read them and neither did he but more than glance at a photograph--also of a woman. Then he handed it back.

"This is of no use to me," he said, "but in any case I may say that I know several things about you already. I know, for instance, that you receive messages from a woman here named Betty MacIvor by carrier pigeon. That you were here some nights ago landing a cargo of silken goods which you took away in a car--this car here--having previously set upon, tied up, and drugged a friend of mine who came here by accident that night."

"_Ah, milles pardons, monsieur_," exclaimed the Frenchman who appeared to have recovered his good temper once more. "Was he, then, a friend of yours? That was indeed unfortunate, but what I did to him, I fear was unhappily unavoidable. I trust that the gentleman recovered from the effects of the drug, which I assure you, monsieur, was of the most harmless."

"He did, luckily for you. And he told me his experiences that night, and from certain information he gave me I gathered that you were in league with another man whose name I know well, and who was supposed to have been killed in the War in '17. In short, I refer to one, Dominic Arden, former owner of this place and now living somewhere--so I gather--in France. Be good enough to tell me if this is so or not."

The Frenchman looked sharply at his questioner, and Crosby, watching him keenly, became suddenly aware of the fact that he himself had been relegated to the position of an onlooker--that his friend Bessington was taking matters with a very high hand--and that there might be the possibility of an ulterior motive in all this. He found himself curiously hoping that Dominic Arden _had_ been killed, and that this young man knew nothing about him, or that, if he did know him, he would deny all knowledge of him. He waited eagerly for the reply and noted the ugly glitter in the Frenchman's eyes as he looked at Bessington.

"Come, come, M'sieur le Boss," exclaimed Dubosc. "What is this you ask me? Do I know someone named Dominic Arden? Be good enough to explain, if you please."

"That is quite unnecessary," snapped the other. "There is only one man who knew the secret of this tower--young Arden--and you must have learnt it from him. It's of no use attempting to fool me, so I advise you not to try. Also, it will be the worse for you. Come, Monsieur Dubosc, I'll be frank with you, tell me what you know about this man and I will see what I can do about letting you go. Deny all knowledge of him and you go with me to Locharbie police station."

"Ah, I see." A smile crossed the Frenchman's face, an ugly smile--so Crosby thought, who watched him keenly. "You ask for information which I am to give you--if I have it, _bien entendu_--on a condition. If I have it not, or give it not--which is the same thing--you take me off to gaol?"

"That is the position," replied Bessington. "You had better decide quickly what you intend to do. Be sure that I know exactly what I shall do."

Dubosc was silent for an instant, looked at the two revolvers steadily pointing towards him, and shrugged.

"_Enfin_," he said, "you have me, messieurs, in a cleft stick. I have no desire to become an inmate of your hospitals, and still less a desire to see the inside of your gaols. If I tell you what I know, you permit that I go back to France? This is a bargain, is it not? You give me your word--I as a gentleman trust you. I give you my information--you as another gentleman may believe me. How about it?"

Crosby, at these words, felt a queer sense of disappointment. The young man whom he had at first thought rather a nice fellow--in spite of his calling--was, in fact, no better than any other criminal of his class; a mean, cowardly skunk, where his own personal liberty was concerned. He did know young Arden, then, and he was going to betray him to save his own skin. Crosby also began to dislike Bessington's part in the proceedings--the fact that he was making it possible for Dubosc to play this low-down game. Of course, nothing might come of it, and yet it looked as though there could be but one ending to it, and he began to wish most heartily that he had never had anything to do with it at all.

"That is the bargain, Monsieur Dubosc," replied Bessington, calmly.

"Very well, monsieur, then now I answer your question. I do know this man of whom you speak. He is my very best friend and we have been what you call pals ever since we met in a German prison camp in '17. When over a year later, we were released--that is, what was left of us--I took him, a semi-invalid through ill-treatment and starvation, to my poor home, such as it was. This monsieur, because he was too ill to be sent back to his own country. And when, a year later, he recovered, or at least was in better health, _enfin_, he begged me to let him stay, and I--I had not the heart nor yet the desire to do otherwise. For there was a reason which prevented him returning to his own country, though he has not informed me of the exact nature of that reason. There, monsieur, you have the little nutshell of facts."

"By gad!" ejaculated Crosby. "Poor beggar!" and in his eyes there was a look of utter disgust as he regarded the Frenchman.

"He was, as you say, monsieur, a poor beggar. But he is a rich one now, for he is a writer of distinction, both in his own language and mine. And as for me--" here he shrugged--"I am, what God made me, a crook, I believe you call it, but a clever one. _Mon Dieu_! I have coin money, and now I live in a large Chateau on the coast, and I engage in smuggling. I purchased a motor-boat and--I tell you, things march for me, thanks be to the good God," and here he burst into a most infectious laugh, in which Crosby joined in spite of himself. But Bessington's face was grim.

"And this man, Arden, is he also in your smuggling enterprise?"

"Ah! _Mais non_. I should say no. He does not even know what I do. One day he told me of this old tower and of the secret of the clock, and he came over and helped to show me how it worked, that was over a year ago. But he came again just lately, for hearing that his old home was to be sold once more he wished to become possessed of some pictures and books, and so I, who am clever at these things--you understand--I obtained them for him. Not, I ask you to believe, by ringing at the front-door bell and asking for them. _Non, mon brave_! I took them, as I prefer to take everything else where possible--without asking and without paying," and once more he broke into irresistible laughter in which this time Crosby did not join.

"And now, perhaps," went on Dubosc, lighting another cigarette from the stub of the old one, "since I have been so obliging as to tell you all this, you will enlighten me as to the reason for which you desire to find my friend. I have not heard him speak of knowing anyone in England. His parents, also, are dead, I believe."

"Quite true," said Bessington. "And his wife is living alone, waiting for him to return, which he dare not do seeing that, did he land in this country, he would be taken and hanged for murder. That, Monsieur Dubosc, is why your friend remains in your country, and why he says nothing to you of his past life."

For a moment there was complete silence in the gloomy vault while the young Frenchman looked at Bessington, first with a curious smile on his face and then with a sudden frown.

"And so, monsieur, it is for this that you wish to find him, that you may drag him back to a felon's death. For this that you offer me my liberty. My God! But it would be dearly bought at such a price. And yet--" here once more he smiled--"tell me, monsieur, you have witnesses of this crime--murder, I suppose, if he is to hang. You can prove what you say?"

"The man whom you drugged that night is one of the witnesses. Two soldiers who overheard his words, admitting that he meant to kill his victim, are only waiting to be called."

"I see. And you say he has a wife?"

"Who believed him dead until a short time ago, when, having bought this place and come here to live, she is shown a bit of paper which you dropped, Monsieur Dubosc, and on which was written the date on which Dominic Arden went out to his death. Then she began to wonder."

"Ah yes. That was a bad blunder, and it seems I am to pay for it. But his wife, she loves him, I presume, monsieur?"

"She thinks so, but she will cease to love a man whom she knows fears to come to her in case he should be taken and punished for his crime."

"Ah, again I see. And in all this--pardon me for the question--where do you come in, monsieur?"

"The man he murdered was my greatest friend, but that does not come into it. I want to know if he still cares for his wife, if he is ready to risk his life to go to her."

"I see, again. You are not out for blood, monsieur. And the wife, she wishes this? She perhaps would like to be free, to marry again?"

"She would like to be certain that he no longer cares for her, any woman would."

"That is so, monsieur, any woman would. Well, as I understand it, though you, monsieur, are not out for blood, it amounts almost to the same thing, did my friend return. It therefore remains, that in return for my liberty, I am to hand over my friend to justice."

"More or less, that is the situation, though the choice will rest entirely with Arden," replied Bessington. "In any case, I am but doing my duty."

"And it is the only condition on which you will give me my liberty, monsieur, that I tell you where to find my friend?" The Frenchman's lips quivered a little as he spoke, and a look of abject fear, the fear of a trapped animal, came to his eyes.

Crosby found himself hoping that he would refuse, that he would prefer gaol to the betrayal of a friend. But even as he hoped he felt it was useless.

"Absolutely the only condition," said Bessington, uncompromisingly.

"You are hard, monsieur. My liberty is everything to me. Is there nothing else that--"

"Nothing," snapped the other. "Agree to this or--you know the alternative. I have nothing more to say. Except that I will give you two minutes in which to make your choice."

He glanced at his wrist-watch.

But at this Alec Crosby broke in.

"Here, I say," he said. "That's too much of a good thing, Bessington. You can't force a chap to betray a pal--to earn his liberty at such a price. Come now, it's not playing the game. Dammit, it's not British."

"I agree, monsieur, it is not," replied Dubosc, dryly. "It is rather--very French, eh? _tout ce qu'il y a de plus francais_. Because, as it happens, I agree, M'sieur le Boss, to your terms. I agree because my liberty is of so much value to me that I regard it more even than my honor."

"What?" exclaimed Crosby aghast. "You agree to sell a pal? To--to--to--Gosh! You make me sick."

"Shut up, Crosby, this is my affair. You are only in this to help me, not to put your oar in," said Bessington. "Then you agree?" he went on, turning to the Frenchman, who spread out his hands in an eloquent shrug.

"What choice have I, monsieur?" he asked.

"Tcha!" Crosby turned away and stared into the darkness, too disgusted for further words.

"Very good," said Bessington. "It is agreed then, that I am to see him? To ask him if he wishes to return to his wife and, if not, to conduct him myself back to England. Those are the terms, I think?"

"It is the choice of the devil or the deep sea, monsieur," replied Dubosc, with a shrug. "But since I cannot help myself, I agree."

"How, then, is it to be arrived at?" asked Bessington. "Where is he?"

"He is at my Chateau," was the reply. "And since he refuses to come to England--"

"Ah, he does refuse then?" snapped Bessington.

"Of a surety yes, _ma foi_! And I think, too, that he has good reason, M'sieur le Boss."

"You hear that, Crosby?" The colonel looked at his friend, who turned and nodded.

"Yes, I hear," he replied. "And I wish to God I didn't."

"Nonsense, man! you remember what I said to you about that?"

"Yes, yes, and I wish I hadn't listened." Bessington smiled at him, shrugged, and turned to the Frenchman.

"Well, Monsieur Dubosc. Since he refuses, what then?"

"Why, it is simplicity itself, monsieur. You will therefore have to go to him. Another case of Mahomet and the mountain." The Frenchman smiled once more. "You wish to see him to ask--so I understand---if he intends to return to his wife. And if he refuses it is then for you to act, and he falls into the hands of the British Law. If he agrees, _ma foi_, he risks doing the same thing. It is very much tails I win, heads you lose, for my poor friend, is it not? And yet I have no choice but to agree. I will therefore ask you, M'sieur le Boss, to accompany me back in my boat to my home, and there I will present you to my friend."

A queer smile crossed his face as he finished speaking and for a moment there was an ugly glint in his eyes as he regarded the man who had him in his power, and was able to force the issue.

Bessington, quick-eyed, alert, saw it. Crosby was too disgusted to see anything. He had not realized, when he had undertaken to help Bessington, that the only means of arriving at a satisfactory conclusion concerning young Arden was by the betrayal of one friend of another for the paltry sake of his liberty. Also, he was beginning to distrust Bessington. Had he, too, shown any disgust, it would have proved at any rate that his motives were genuine and honourable. But it looked to Crosby as though it was a case of any means, fair or foul, in order to get hold of Dominic Arden. He wished himself heartily out of the business, and cursed himself for a fool for ever having gone into it. But at the moment he could do nothing.

"Isn't it asking rather a lot from me to trust myself alone on your boat, Monsieur Dubosc?" asked Bessington, quietly. "Better give me your address and I'll go there myself and see him."

"_Ma foi_! Yes, to be sure!" the other laughed. "And when you arrive you find that my friend has departed in my motor-boat which arrives there first. A state of affairs that would not be very pleasing to you, I think, or to me either, since you would but hand me over to my own police."

For the first time Bessington smiled. "You underrate my intelligence, Monsieur Dubosc," he said. "I need hardly tell you that at a word from me to a friend in the Secret Service your Chateau would be placed under observation and no one would be allowed to leave until my arrival, when you would instantly be arrested on a charge of smuggling, and your friend on the charge of murder, without even the option of returning to his wife. That only if you broke your contract with me in the way you suggest. On the other hand, if I go with you, what guarantee have I that I arrive at your Chateau at all?"

The young man flung up his head in a shout of laughter.

"Ah, but you are droll, you English. You cannot see when one pulls your legs. It is all taken _au grand serieux_. Have no fear, M'sieur le Boss, I break no contract. You give me my liberty, I take you to my friend, and you need have no fear that I shall murder you on the way. And for guarantee. Give me my card, monsieur, I write on it my address." He took the card from Bessington and scribbled on it with a pencil. "I now return it to the gentleman, your friend, who stays here," and he gave the card into Crosby's unwilling hand, and he read the address written across the back.

CHATEAU DE ST. MICHEL
BARDILLAC
ARTOIS

"If you have not returned, M'sieur le Boss, by a certain date which we will name, then monsieur, your friend, will go to your police, and they will get into communication with my police, and zut! It is I for the guillotine. And, _ma foi_! I have no use for Madame la Guillotine, I assure you, my friends."

Crosby laughed disagreeably.

"Good God! I wouldn't care to risk my neck on such a guarantee as that," he said. "A lot of good this fellow's guillotining will do you, Bessington, if you are feeding the fishes in the North Sea. You chuck the business, take my tip, chuck it. It's nasty, and I don't like it. It's a low-down game he's playing, and it's damned low-down on your part to play up to him. Dirty, that's what it is--dirty."

"Hang it, Crosby, will you be silent!" exclaimed the other angrily. "It's not your affair, anyhow. If I choose to take the risk, that's my funeral."

"It's uncommonly likely it will be, too," said Crosby. "And you'll damn well deserve it," he added to himself.

"I agree," said Bessington to the Frenchman. "I'll go with you, Monsieur Dubosc."

"Very well," was the reply, and once more that queer glitter came to Dubosc's eyes. "Then, with your permission, M'sieur le Boss--for you still hold the gun and I, alas, am unarmed--I will go to the top of the tower and signal for my boat which is out at sea waiting for me. And then I take you over to my home--I show you my friend--and I give you leave, Monsieur le Briton, to take him back with you to the gallows, _bien entendu_--if you wish."

And as he said those last words he looked Bessington in the eyes, and there was an expression in his own that the elder man found impossible to fathom.