The de Bercy Affair. Tracy Louis

portrait of himself than the libelous snapshot reproduced that day, in which event no very acute intelligence would be needed to connect "Osborne" or "R. G. O." with the half-tone picture. Of course, he could buy ready-made apparel, but the notion was displeasing; ultimately, he abandoned the task and summoned Jenkins.

      Jenkins was one of those admirable servants – bred to perfection in London only – worthy of a coat of arms with the blazoned motto: "Leave it to me." His sallow, almost ascetic, face brightened under the trust reposed in him.

      "It is now half-past ten, sir," he said. "Will it meet your convenience if I have everything ready by two o'clock?"

      "I suppose so," said his master ruefully.

      "What station shall I bring your luggage to, sir?"

      "Oh, any station. Let me see – say Waterloo, main line."

      "And you will be absent ten days or thereabouts, sir."

      "That is the proposition as it stands now."

      "Very well, sir. I shall want some money – not more than twenty pounds – "

      Rupert opened a door leading to the library. He rented a two-story maisonette in Mayfair, with the drawing-room, dining-room, library, billiard-room and domestic offices grouped round the hall, while the upper floor was given over to bedrooms and dressing-rooms. His secretary was not arrived as yet; but he had already glanced through a pile of letters with the practiced eye of one who receives daily a large and varied correspondence.

      He wrote a check for a hundred pounds, and stuffed the book into a breast pocket.

      "There," he said to Jenkins, "cash that, buy what you want, and bring me the balance in five-pound notes."

      "Yes, sir, but will you please remember to pack the clothes you are now wearing into a parcel, and post them to me this evening?"

      "By gad, Jenkins, I should have forgotten that my name is stitched on to the back of the coat I am wearing. How will you manage about my other things?"

      "Rip off the tabs, sir, and get you some new linen, unmarked."

      "Good. But I may as well leave my checkbook here."

      "No, sir, take it with you. You may want it. If you do, the money will be of more importance than the name."

      "Right again, Socrates. I wish I might take you along, too, but our Scotland Yard friend said 'No,' so you must remain and answer callers."

      "I have sent away more than a dozen this morning, sir."

      "Oh? Who were they?"

      "Newspaper gentlemen, sir, every one of 'em, though they tried various dodges to get in and have a word with you. If I were you, sir, I would drive openly in the motor to some big hotel, and let your car remain outside while you slip out by another door."

      "Jenkins, you seem to be up to snuff in these matters."

      "Well, sir, I had a good training with Lord Dunningham. His lordship was a very free and easy sort of gentleman, and I never did meet his equal at slipping a writter. They gave it up at last, and went in for what they call substitooted service."

      A bell rang, and they heard a servant crossing the hall.

      "That will be Miss Prout, sir," said Jenkins. "What shall I tell her?"

      "Nothing. Mr. Winter will see her in the morning. Now, let us be off out of this before she comes in."

      Rupert was most unwilling to frame any subterfuge that might help to explain his absence to his secretary. She had been so manifestly distressed in his behalf the previous day, that he decided to avoid her now, being anxious not to hurt her feelings by any display of reticence as to his movements. As soon as the library door closed behind the newcomer, he went to his dressing-room and remained there until his automobile was in readiness. He was spoken to twice and snapshotted three times while he ran down the steps and crossed the pavement; but he gave no heed to his tormentors, and his chauffeur, quick to appreciate the fact that a couple of taxicabs were following, ran into Hyde Park by the nearest gate, thus shaking off pursuit, since vehicles licensed to ply for hire are not allowed to enter London's chief pleasure-ground.

      "Yes," said Rupert to himself, "Winter is right. The solitary cliff and the deserted village for me during the next fortnight. But where are they to be found? England, with August approaching, is full to the brim."

      He decided to trust to chance, and therein lay the germ of complications which might well have given him pause, could he have peered into the future.

      Having successfully performed the trick of the cab "bilker" by leaving his motor outside a hotel, Rupert hurried away from the main stream of fashion along several narrow streets until his attention was caught by a tiny restaurant on which the day's eatables were scrawled in French. It was in Soho; an open-air market promised diversion; and he was wondering how winkles tasted, extracted from their shells with a pin, when some commotion arose at the end of an alley. A four-wheeled cab had wormed its way through a swarm of picturesque loafers, and was drawn up close to the kerb. Pavement and street were pullulating with child life, and the appearance from the interior of the cab of a couple of strongly-built, square-shouldered men seemed to send an electric wave through adults and children alike.

      Instantly there was a rush, and Rupert was pinned in the crowd between a stout Frenchwoman and a young Italian who reeked of the kitchen.

      "What is it, then?" he asked, addressing madame in her own language.

      "They are police agents, those men there," she answered.

      "Have they come to make an arrest?"

      "But no, monsieur. Two miserables who call themselves Anarchists have been sent back to France, and the police are taking their luggage. A nice thing, chasing such scarecrows and letting that bad American who killed Mademoiselle de Bercy go free. Poor lady! I saw her many times. Ah, mon Dieu, how I wept when I read of her terrible end!"

      Rupert caught his breath. So he was judged and found guilty even in the gutter!

      "Perhaps the police know that Monsieur Osborne did not kill her," he managed to say in a muffled tone.

      "Oh, là, là!" cried the woman. "He has money, ce vilain Osborne!"

      The ironic phrase was pitiless. It denounced, condemned, explained. Rupert forced a laugh.

      "Truly, money can do almost anything," he said.

      A detective came out of the passage, laden with dilapidated packages. The woman smiled broadly, saying:

      "My faith, they do not prosper, those Anarchists."

      Rupert edged his way through the crowd. On the opposite side of the street the contents bills of the early editions of the evening newspapers glared at him: "West End murder – Relatives sail from Jersey." "Portrait sketch of Osborne"; "Paris Life of Rose de Bercy"; the horror of it all suddenly stifled his finer impulses: from that hour Rupert squared his shoulders and meant to scowl at the jeering multitude.

      Probably because he was very rich, he cultivated simple tastes in the matter of food. At one o'clock he ate some fruit and a cake or two, drank a glass of milk, and noticed that the girl in the cashier's desk was actually looking at his own "portrait sketch" when he tendered her a shilling. About half-past one he took a hansom to Waterloo Station, where he bought a map and railway guide at the bookstall, and soon decided that Tormouth on the coast of Dorset offered some prospect of a quiet anchorage.

      So, when Jenkins came with a couple of new leather bags, Rupert bought a third-class ticket. Traveling in a corridor compartment, he heard the Feldisham Mansions crime discussed twice during the afternoon. Once he was described as a "reel bad lot – one of them fellers 'oo 'ad too little to do an' too much to do it on." When, at Winchester, these critics alighted, their places were taken by a couple of young women; and the train had hardly started again before the prettier of the two called her companion's attention to a page in an illustrated paper.

      "Poor thing! Wasn't she a beauty?" she asked, pointing to a print of the Academy portrait of Mademoiselle de Bercy.

      "You can never tell – them photographs are so touched up,"