“You did not tell me about that,” said T. B.
“There is little to tell,” she said, with a weary gesture; “it was this mysterious blackmailer who terrified me, and to whose machinations I ascribe George Doughton’s discovery, for now I know that he was told of my past, and was told by Montague Fallock. He demanded impossible sums. I gave him as much as I could, almost ruined myself to keep this blackmailer at bay, but all to no purpose.”
She rose and paced the room.
“I have not finished with Montague Fallock,” she said.
She turned her white face to the detective, and he saw a hard gleam in her eye.
“There is much that I could tell you, Mr. Smith, which would enable you perhaps to bring to justice the most dastardly villain that has ever walked the earth.”
“May I suggest,” said T. B. gently, “that you place me in possession of those facts?”
She smiled, implying a negative.
“I have my own plans for avenging the murder of my lover and the ruin of my life,” she said hardly. “When Montague Fallock dies, I would rather he died by my hand.”
X
Count Poltavo, a busy man of affairs in these days, walked up the stairs of the big block of flats in which he had his modest dwelling with a little smile upon his lips and a sense of cheer in his heart. There were many reasons why this broken adventurer, who had arrived in London only a few months before with little more than his magnificent wardrobe, should feel happy. He had been admitted suddenly into the circle of the elect. Introductions had been found which paved a way for further introductions. He was the confidential adviser of the most beautiful woman in London, was the trusted of aristocrats. If there was a wrathful and suspicious young newspaper man obviously and undisguisedly thirsting for his blood that was not a matter which greatly affected the Count. It had been his good fortune to surprise the secret of the late Mr. Farrington; by the merest of chances he had happened upon the true financial position of this alleged millionaire; had discovered him to be a swindler and in league, so he guessed, with the mysterious Montague Fallock. All this fine position which Farrington had built up was a veritable house of cards. It remained now for the Count to discover how far Farrington’s affection for his niece had stayed his hand in his predatory raid upon the cash balances of his friends and relatives. Anyway, the Count thought, as he fitted a tiny key into the lock of his flat, he was in a commanding position. He had all the winning cards in his hand, and if the prizes included so delectable a reward as Doris Gray might be, the Count, a sentimental if unscrupulous man, was perfectly satisfied. He walked through his sitting-room to the bedroom beyond and stood for a moment before the long mirror. It was a trick of Count Poltavo to commune with himself, and when he was rallied on this practice, suggestive of vanity to the uninitiated, he confirmed rather than disabused that criticism by protesting that there was none whom he could trust with such absence of fear of consequence as his own bright worthy image.
He had reason for the smile which curved his thin lips. Every day he was making progress which placed Doris Gray more and more, if not in his power, at least under his influence.
He lived alone without any servants save for the old woman who came every morning to tidy his flat, and when the bell rang as he stood before the mirror, he answered it himself without any thought as to the importance of the summons. For Count Poltavo was not above taking in the milk or chaffering with tradesmen over the quality of a cabbage. It was necessary that he must jealously husband his slender resources until fate placed him in possession of a larger and a more generous fortune than that which he now possessed. He opened the door, and took a step back, then with a little bow:
“Come in, Mr. Doughton,” he said.
Frank Doughton strode across the tiny hall, waited until the Count had closed the door, and opened another, ushering the visitor into his study.
“To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?” asked Poltavo, as he pushed forward a chair.
“I wanted to see you on a matter which deeply affects you and me,” said the young man briskly, even rudely.
Count Poltavo inclined his head. He recognized all the disagreeable portents, but he was not in any way abashed or afraid. He had had experience of many situations less pleasant than this threatened to be and had played his part worthily.
“I can give you exactly a quarter of an hour,” he said, looking at his watch; “at the end of that period I must leave for Brakely Square. You understand there is to be a reading of the will of our departed friend, and—”
“I know all about that,” interrupted Frank, roughly; “you are not the only person who has been invited to that pleasant function.”
“You also?” The Count was a little surprised. He himself went as friend and adviser to the bereaved girl, a position which a certain letter had secured for him. That letter in three brief lines had told the girl to trust Poltavo. It was about this letter that Frank had come, and he came straight to the point.
“Count Poltavo,” he said, “the day after Mr. Farrington’s disappearance a messenger brought a letter for Miss Gray.”
Poltavo nodded.
“So I understand,” he said, smoothly.
“So you know,” challenged the other, “because it concerned you. It was a letter in which Doris was told to trust you absolutely; it was a letter also which gave her hope that the man whose body was found in the Thames was
