Chapter XXVII: The Book

Suspense and anxiety were wearing away Wallace’s nerves. Despite Fouchard’s belief that Yolande was still alive, he found himself taking a pessimistic view. Fallières had been murdered, then Severin. A similar attempt had been made upon Fouchard. Why should Yolande be any more immune than these?

In any case the alternative was equally appalling. He imagined her in all the sweetness and charm of her youth--in the clutches of that abysmal Monster. And here he was as helpless as a kitten to intervene. He paced up and down the sick-room, utterly unable to concentrate his mind on anything. Niels and the others now were reduced to negligible proportions. They at least were human in their actions.

He wondered where they were, what they were doing? Whether the knowledge of Conrad’s yet unrevealed discovery had caused them to abandon their quest? But again and again his mind reverted to the dominating factor--the Monster. Seeing Conrad lying quiet with his eyes closed, he decided to start investigations anew. Beyond the château proper there were outbuildings--potting-sheds, hot-houses, and so forth. No place was too trivial to be left unexplored. He found the gardener, who had heard the news, and went with him to various sheds and corners. But these places yielded no more information than the others.

“It is terrible, m’sieur,” said the man. “None of us is safe here. That is no human shape that walks and slays. I remembered poor M’sieur Severin saying the same thing a month ago, when the master was murdered. And always the worst happens when the moon is at the full.”

“There is nothing in that, André.”

“There is much, m’sieur. I would not leave my wife alone at nights when the moon is full--here.”

Wallace did not feel in the mood to rebuke him for his superstition, for at least he was basing his remark upon apparent facts.

“She was so sweet,” mused the old gardener, his eyes filling with tears. “Always a kind word for us poor folk, and a gift of clothing when the winter came in. What shall we do now?”

“You must not rush to conclusions, André. Your mistress may yet come back.”

But André had no such hope. To him the thing was sun-clear. The Monster had made another sacrifice to the devil at the full moon. Even if Wallace had been in the mood for argument it would have made no difference. André was only saying what all the peasants were whispering.

“And I had gathered these figs for her,” he said, holding up a basket full of purple fruit. “The first this season, m’sieur, and a splendid lot. She loved figs.”

“You have never seen this creature, André?”

“God be praised--no! But if I should, m’sieur--if I should--then--” He picked up a mattock and balanced it in his hand, while his kindly eyes blazed with hate. “I am getting old, but my arms are yet strong.”

“I believe you.”

“And the m’sieur who had the accident--is he recovering?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad. M’sieur, I should tell you that I saw that woman Bertha this morning.”

“Bertha!”

“She was in the forest alone, as I came towards the château. I always liked her because she took such an interest in the garden. But somehow I have felt that she was not what she pretended to be.”

“You are right.”

“She tried to hide when she saw me, but I let her see that it was too late. Then she came to me, with a face that was very, very pale, and begged me to say nothing about having seen her. I did not promise that, for if the mistress had asked me about her I should have to tell her. _Mon Dieu!_ I did not know then that she--she too had gone.”

“Where did you see Bertha?”

“It was between my cottage and the château. She was not doing anything--just sitting on a fallen tree deep in thought.”

“You did not see any men--strangers?”

“No.”

Wallace reflected on this as he walked into the château. It certainly looked as if the gang had not yet given up all hope. They might have heard what had happened to Conrad, and still believed it was possible to make a coup before Conrad was able to reveal what he had discovered. But Wallace’s interest in that direction had waned a little. What matter hidden treasure when Yolande’s life was in jeopardy--or worse?

He found Conrad looking considerably better, and he greeted Wallace in almost his normal style. The latter adjusted the bandage about his head, for it had slipped and become a trifle loose.

“Thanks, old man! I’m feeling heaps better. Any news?”

“None.”

“You’re worrying a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Connie, there’s something I want to tell you. It was only last night that I told her--Yolande--what I had been aching to tell her almost since I first met her.”

“You--you mean you----”

“I love her. That’s the plain truth.” He clenched his fists. “That makes it all the more terrible. She was happy--I swear she was happier than she has been for as long as I’ve known her. On top of that comes this awful bolt. I’ve hunted everywhere--everywhere.”

“I--I understand. Where is Fouchard?”

“Gone to that place where I found you--Mont Rouge. He hopes to find the book you mentioned. Your bag may be there--somewhere.”

“The book! My mind is still all sixes and sevens. This concussion business plays the weirdest tricks. It was a book written by a man--what was his name?”

“Steinbech.”

“That’s it. I saw it somewhere--in a foreign bookseller’s shop in Manchester.”

“Good! You’re getting it now.”

Conrad passed his hand across his brow several times. Then suddenly his eyes lighted up, and he dragged himself into a sitting position.

“I was reading it in the train--on my way to Arveyes. Those cunning devils boarded the train at a wayside station. They doped me, and must have got me out at the next station--pretended I was taken ill. But the book! I was reading it when-- Great Scott! I remember. I slipped it into my pocket!”

“Eh?”

“That’s it--I’m positive. I saw Niels’s ugly face in the corridor--and Walther. I was expecting trouble, for the train was nearly empty. I slipped-- Is that my coat over there?”

But Wallace was already making for the garment. He felt in all the pockets and produced a pipe, tobacco-pouch, and various oddments, but there was no book.

“Of course they have taken it,” he said gloomily. “No doubt they have destroyed it by now. But I might get a copy in Paris and----”

Conrad suddenly laughed and beckoned Wallace to him. From the things which the latter held in his hands Conrad selected a travel-ticket case bearing Cook’s name.

“I’ll bet they overlooked this,” he said. “Before I was doped I amused myself in the train by making a rough translation of several passages from the book in question--passages to which I believe those figures refer. Here we are--intact.”

From the case he extracted three sheets of paper, covered with somewhat shaky writing.

“Do you remember the first reference number?” he asked.

“Yes. Twenty-seven.”

“This is it. I made a note of the page on the corner; because it seemed obvious that the figures were page references. The volume was entitled _The Grammont Salient_, and it was the title which arrested my attention. Hear what our friend Steinbech has to say.”

Wallace sat down very close to the bed, and Conrad read what was written on the first sheet:

“_The pressure to the north and south of the château continued to increase daily, and it soon became evident to General von Urel that the château was in grave danger of being recaptured by the enemy, and our line forced to retreat beyond the Forêt de Grammont. The château was the key to the whole position, and it came to our knowledge that the attacking forces had instructions to spare it as much as was commensurate with safety. Foreseeing the danger that would follow a sudden strong encircling movement, our commanding officer made plans to fashion a line of retreat which could be resorted to in the event of the château falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to take the form of a tunnel leading from the vaults of the château to some point farther back in the forest which would give access to our second lines…_”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Wallace. “I am beginning to see light. But carry on.”

“There is no more here. The author goes off at a tangent. Unless I am very much mistaken, the second figure was thirty-one. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Conrad commenced to read the second excerpt:

“_It was necessary that the tunnel should run back for at least a mile, and considerable difficulty was experienced in finding terrain suitable for the work. The problem was solved by the discovery of an old mine whose extensive workings ran in an easterly direction. These would save the sappers at least a quarter of a mile of tunnelling. This site was chosen as the best possible outlet, and our second line was advanced a little in order to connect up with it. A company of sappers was detailed for the work, and, while the enemy penetrated deeper and deeper on our flanks, the work went on.… In spells of four hours’ duration the sweating, mud-begrimed crews worked, and our hearts beat easier as each day saw another long stretch added to the last. All the time the guns were…_”

“Nothing more that is informative,” said Conrad, breaking off. “We saw that old mine. Do you remember?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t say how this tunnel is approached from the château.”

“We are coming to that. Our author is inclined to ramble a lot. My next and last extract is from page thirty-six. That I know agrees with the figure.”

Wallace’s face became even more eager, for it was apparent that the last extract was the most important of the three. Conrad cleared his throat:

“_Pending the arrival of reinforcements, it was obvious that the château must fall, and it was the General’s chief concern to keep the existence of the tunnel secret, in order that it might be used again in a similar emergency, for we had every reason to believe that the withdrawal would be temporary. Means had to be devised to fashion an entrance which would render discovery unlikely. The vault was roughly comprised of five series of arches running east to west. The third series was furnished with wine-bins for almost its entire length, and the wall at the western extremity was similarly furnished. It was here that the entrance was made. The last section of bins was temporarily removed, and an opening excavated through the massive wall. By replacing the bins and hingeing them vertically, it was a simple matter to use them as a doorway. By skilful carpentry this door closed of its own accord, and the wood lining at the back of the bins made discovery extremely improbable. The metal hinges were on the inside and invisible.… It was a comfort to feel that we had this safe line of retreat, for every day…_”

“The rest is of no value to us. As you know, the château was recaptured and held ever after. It has always been a mystery how the garrison got safely away, but it is clear enough now.”

“By Jove, and all this time--” Wallace’s hands opened and closed spasmodically. “She’s there, Connie. I’ll stake my life on it. That’s where the Monster hides himself away. It accounts for many things that hitherto were difficult to explain. By some means he got to know of that secret passage. The Book--he must have seen----”

“No, that was not possible. The book has not been published more than six months, while the Monster has been here for nearly two years--according to Yolande. What is his game? What is he after?”

“Niels, too. I’ll bet he is after the same thing.”

“Everything points to that. It may be something left behind by the Germans in their hurried retreat.”

“They are welcome to it. It is Yolande that matters to me.” He rose, and his face looked very grim. “I’m going there now, Connie.”

“Wait until Fouchard----”

“I couldn’t wait if my life depended on it. If Yolande is down there she will be crazy with terror by now. But I fear----”

Conrad knew what he feared, and from his own grim expression it was evident that he too believed the worst.

“He’s big and murderous, Ralph.”

“All the more reason why I should not waste a moment. When Fouchard comes, tell----”

“If you go, I go,” said Conrad calmly. “Throw me over my pants and boots!”

“No. It is impossible!”

“Get out! You’re a first-class fighter, laddie, but you are up against something supernormal. I’m all right--for pistol-practice, anyway.”

He was already sitting on the bed, and Wallace realised that argument was useless, for Conrad could be as cantankerous as a mule when he felt disposed, and he was in that state now.

“You’ve got a second pistol in the car?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good!”

“Oh, hang! I clean forgot--Fouchard has the car. You had better take this one, and I’ll rely on a bludgeon. Fortunately I have an electric torch in my pocket. Are you sure you are fit enough to engage in this?”

“It only required this bit of excitement to complete my cure. Hadn’t we better leave a note for Fouchard?”

“Good idea! Make it short!”

A short message was left under the medicine bottle, telling Fouchard where the entrance to the tunnel lay, and then the pair sallied forth on their quest, Wallace arming himself with a hatchet en route.