The White Lie. Le Queux William

in Norwich, twenty miles away, and his constant journeys over the roads between the Norfolk capital and the sea were certainly not without some definite motive.

      That Strantz should have recognised Harborne’s fair companion was also remarkable. What could she have been doing in Bremen? he wondered.

      Noel Barclay looked around him anxiously. The wind, which had risen for the past couple of hours while he had been in Mundesley, was now dropping. With the sunset he would have a nice flight back to the hangars standing on the shore beyond Yarmouth. The “old bus,” as the fine Bleriot monoplane was affectionately termed by the four flying-officers at the air station, had been running like a clock. Indeed he had flown her from Eastchurch two days previously, and intended, on the morrow, to make a flight to inspect the station up at Scarborough.

      He lit another cigarette and sat down upon a boat to think, the white surf rolling almost to his feet.

      During the time the naval aviator had been watching the testing of the cable, a tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, clean-shaven, broad-browed young man in a drab tweed golf suit and cap, a man whose great, dark, deep-set eyes wore a keen, intense look, and whose countenance was one which once seen would be easily remembered, lounged into the Old Ship Hotel. He was accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired girl in a summer gown of cream serge and wearing a neat little hat of pale blue silk. The girl’s skirt displayed small, well-shaped ankles, yet her shoes were stout and serviceable, and there was a cheapness about her dress and an independent air which stamped her as a girl accustomed to earn her own living.

      Both were foreigners – French, apparently, for they spoke that language together. His clothes were English, evidently from a smart tailor, and he wore them with that easy nonchalance of the English golfer, while his pretty, dark-eyed companion, although her gown was of cheap material, it was nevertheless cut well, and both in figure and in gait she had all the chic of the true Parisienne.

      “Yes, dearest,” the young man exclaimed in French, as he rose and looked out into the village street, “this is a very interesting little place, I believe. We will have a stroll along the plage and see it after our tea. How quiet, how charming it is, after London – eh?”

      “Ah! I always love the country, Ralph,” was her reply in English, and as she sat composedly in her chair, after walking from Overstrand, where they had been to see that lonely, crumbling old church tower which the late Clement Scott has called “the Garden of Sleep,” she gave him a look which was unmistakable – a look of true, passionate affection.

      Indeed, upon her finger, now that she had removed her glove, was a diamond engagement ring, an ornament which meant so very much to her – as it does to all girls in all stations of life who are beloved.

      The man turned from the window, his big, deep-set eyes upon her, and, bending, kissed her fondly. But the expression upon his hard, aquiline face as he turned away was a strange, unusual one, though, perhaps unfortunately for her, she was unable to see it. The look was not one of love – nay, rather of world-weariness and of deep anxiety.

      “I wish my holiday was not yet at an end, Ralph,” she sighed, wistfully, after a brief pause. “But father is inexorable, and says he must get back to business, while, as you know, I am due back at the Maison Collette on Monday morning. I’ve already had three days longer than the other girls – three delightful sunny days.”

      “Yes,” sighed the young man. “I suppose, dearest, you will be compelled to go back for a time to your modes and your hat-making and your workroom friends. But only until November – until you become my wife.” He spoke English with only a slight trace of accent.

      “Ah! What supreme happiness!” cried the girl, in ecstasy, again speaking in French, as he bent until his lips touched hers. “I will remain patient, Ralph, till then, even though all the girls may envy me. They are all English, and just because I happen to be French, they are never too friendly.”

      The young man was silent for a few moments; then he sprang from her side as the waiter entered with the tea.

      After he had swallowed a cup of tea he suddenly exclaimed in perfect French:

      “Ah! I quite forgot, dearest. I wonder if you would excuse me if I leave you here for ten minutes or so? I want to send a telegram.”

      “Certainement,” she laughed happily. “I shall be quite all right, Ralph. There are papers here to amuse me.”

      “Very well,” he said; “I won’t be a minute longer than possible,” and, taking up his cap, he went out and closed the door behind him.

      It was then about half-past five o’clock.

      But the instant he had gone she sprang to her feet. Her face changed. A haunted, wild look shone in her dark, terrified eyes, and she stood rigid, her hands clenched, her face pale to the lips.

      “Dieu!” she whispered aloud, to herself, startled at the sound of her own voice, and staring straight before her. “I was a fool – a great fool to return here to-day! Someone may recognise me, though it was to the other hotel I went with M. Harborne. Ah! No, I cannot – I dare not go down on the beach,” she went on in French. “I must get away from this accursed place as soon as ever Ralph returns. What if he is suspected? Besides, the police may be looking for me, as it must now be known that I was here with him in Mundesley yesterday. Ah, yes! I was a fool to dare to return like this, even in different clothes. As soon as Ralph comes back I must feign serious illness, and he will take me back to Cromer, and on to London to-morrow. What evil fate it was that he should bring me here – here, to the one place on all the earth that I desired never again in my life to see!”

      And the girl sank back inertly into the horsehair arm-chair in the old-fashioned room, and sat, white-faced and breathlessly anxious, staring straight before her.

      Meanwhile Ralph Ansell – who, although actually a Frenchman, bore an English name – walked quickly up the village street and out upon the high road towards Parton. From time to time he turned, as though he feared that he might be followed, but there being nobody in the vicinity, he suddenly, when about half a mile from the village, struggled through a hedge into a grass-field where, in the corner, sheltered from the wind, stood Noel Barclay’s naval monoplane, with its star-like Gnome engine and wide planes of pale yellow.

      The spot was a lonely one. Before him stretched a wide heath covered with gorse, and the Norfolk Broads beyond. Nobody was nigh.

      Bending, he crept swiftly along the high hedge, until he reached the machine. His attitude was that of an evil-doer. From his pocket he produced a small bolt of wood painted to resemble steel. He advanced to the left wing-spar of the monoplane and, apparently possessing expert knowledge of the point where it was the most vulnerable, he swiftly drew out a split pin, removed a small steel bolt at the end of the main-stay cable, and replaced it with the imitation bolt.

      The dastardly, murderous action was only the work of a couple of minutes, when, placing the bolt in his pocket, he crept back again beneath the hedge, and ten minutes later reached the Old Ship unnoticed, having taken a certain route with which he seemed well acquainted.

      As he approached the hotel he came face to face with Noel Barclay, who, cigarette in mouth, strode at an easy pace along the road towards the spot where he had left his machine. He passed the young foreigner without recognition. The man in the golf suit was a mere summer visitor, and to his knowledge he had never seen him before. Unsuspicious of what had been done, he went forward, eager to rise in the air again and return to his headquarters.

      But when he had passed Ralph Ansell turned and, glancing covertly after him, an evil expression upon his strong, clean-shaven face, muttered a fierce imprecation in French beneath his breath.

      The officer, however, strolled forward in ignorance of the stranger’s sinister glance or his malediction, while the foreigner, with a crafty smile of triumph, entered the hotel, to find, to his alarm, that Jean had been taken very unwell.

      In a moment he expressed the greatest consternation, and at once rang and ordered a cab in which to drive her back to Cromer.

      A quarter of an hour later Jean Libert – whose feigned illness had now almost passed –