Carson withdrew.
Mansel rose to his feet and handed the telegram to me:
Return Adèle disappeared shall I call in police Pleydell.
“Good God,” I cried, rising.
Hanbury snatched the form from my hand.
“You were quite right, Chandos,” said Mansel. “Rose Noble has a way of making himself painfully clear.”
I could only stare, and Mansel gave a short laugh.
“Let me do the same,” he said. “The letters he took had been written to me by Adèle.”
“Oh, my God,” said Hanbury.
“And, when he says ‘stolen goods,’ he’s not referring to the letters, but to something more—more valuable, something which ‘disappeared’ a few hours ago.”
Not until then did the scales fall from my eyes: but though I would have spoken, I could not utter a word.
I watched Mansel pick up the letter and read it through.
“ ‘Perishable goods,’ ” he said quietly, speaking as though he were alone. “Yes. I suppose you might call Adèle in Rose Noble’s hands—‘perishable goods.’ ”
There was champagne on ice on a sideboard, and Mansel opened a bottle and poured the wine.
When we had drunk, he sat down and wrote his reply:
Pleydell Poganec St. Martin Carinthia
On no account Mansel.
And when this had been dispatched, he picked up Rose Noble’s letter and lighted a cigarette.
His agitation cannot have been over, but all sign of it was gone; and from this time on until the end, he was, as always, the coolest and most patient of us all. Few men, I think could have maintained such mastery of themselves; but Mansel’s self-control was absolute, and, though it was now to be proved as surely no man’s has ever been proved before, it never failed and seldom enough gave any sign of strain. Indeed, I often think that the flash of feeling he showed, when the telegram was brought in, was because when he read it, he knew that his secret was ours. Had Rose Noble’s letter followed instead of preceding the telegram, he never would have told us the nature of the papers which had lain in his safe, and I am sure that neither George Hanbury nor I would ever have suspected the truth. Yet I am glad we knew it and I think that, now it was done, Mansel was glad also; for, be a man never so reserved, there is a pitch of trouble which he is thankful to share.
After a little, Mansel folded the letter and held it up.
“I am not going to act,” said he, “upon the suggestion here made, because, for one thing, such a sum is ruinous, and, for another, I do not trust Rose Noble.”
I got to my feet.
“We’re all three in this,” I said. “That’s abundantly clear. If he’d drawn blank in this flat he’d have started on George or on me. But, whichever of us he’d attacked, his price would have been the same.”
“That’s beyond doubt,” said Hanbury. “He’s out to recover the fortune: and, not knowing how much it came to, he’s put it as high as he dares.”
“Exactly,” said I. “Very well. My share was two hundred thousand: in two days’ time you shall have three fourths of that back.”
“Same here,” said Hanbury.
“I know that,” said Mansel. “Thank you. But it would break her heart. Sooner or later she would most surely find out, and then—well, you can’t lay anyone under a debt like that. It’s not to be thought of. And, since, as I say, I do not trust Rose Noble, I think it will be convenient to count this document out.”
With that, he put the letter towards a candle’s flame, but after a moment, withdrew it and put it away in his case.
“So all that we know,” he continued, “is that Adèle has disappeared: and, since my cousin, her husband, is out of action and we three know Carinthia as the palm of our hand, we are naturally going to seek her with all our might. Of course we suspect abduction: I think anyone would. But that is all. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Good,” said Mansel. “And now please don’t talk for a minute. I want to think.”
I was glad to sit still, with my head in my hands, for the turn of events had shocked me, and I felt as though I were dreaming some disagreeable dream.
The disclosure of Mansel’s secret, the unconscionable daring of Rose Noble, the horror of the plight of Adèle had dealt me three swingeing blows; but what had hit me still harder was the sudden appreciation that, thanks to our talk in the forest, Adèle herself must now know that she was the very lady that Mansel loved.
What Mansel would have said, had he known this, I dared not think: but I was quite certain that, when he found it out, as he most surely would, he would be most particular never to see her again.
This was no conjecture, for I knew the man.
Full measure he gave in all things, though it were to his own beggary; and that he would palter where a girl’s heart was concerned was unimaginable.
Adèle was his cousin’s wife, at once his liege lady and his familiar friend: that much I had seen with my eyes: there never was, I believe, so gentle a relation. That the one valued this was patent: it was, I suppose, the light of the other’s life. And now it was soon to founder, sunk by Mansel’s own hand, rather than let come into the shallows of embarrassment.
The thought that my tongue would be to blame for this most bitter upshot haunted me for days, although, as I shall show, I need have had no concern. Indeed, throughout our venture Mansel bore himself with such exalted gallantry that I have often thought since that, though he could not have known of the speech I had had with Adèle, yet he knew in his heart that she would know why she had been taken and that he was carrying her colours for the first and
