Fred M. White

A Secret Service

Warsaw 2018

Contents

Alone In London

Valerie Brune

In High Places

The Argus Eye

On With The Dance—

The Princess’ Diamonds

The Fawn Coat

The Treasure Trove

Following The Track

Diamonds Of Paste

The Money-Spinner

The Supper Box

In The Dark

A Friend In Need

Glasgow Is Magnanimous

Hide And Seek

A Berlin

The Photograph

Enter The Princess

An Importunate Creditor

A Rash Resolve

On The Threshold

Ruperra’s Next Move

A Prisoner Of War

The Secret Way

The One Alternative

One Way Out

Glasgow To The Rescue

Rogues In Council

The Diamonds Again

Behind The Bars

The Wings Of The Wind

The Waiting Game

All That Glitters—

When Thieves Fall Out—

The Fawn Coat Again

The Letters

Repaid In Full

I. ALONE IN LONDON

Ida Vanstone looked out over the dismal array of chimney pots, saw the drifting pall of smoke like the shadow of her own hopes and fears, and, for the first time in her life, was afraid. And yet she could have ended it all had she liked; a sheet of notepaper and a penny stamp would have finished this struggle and privation. Ah, anything but that! She thought as she watched the smoke-wreaths whirling under the leaden March sky. It was a strange position for a girl, well bred and well nurtured as she was. Still, the fact remained that she had parted with her last coin and there was no prospect of another penny. And, to add to the rest of her troubles, she was several weeks in arrears with her rent, and unless it was forthcoming on the morrow she would be turned out into the street. The position had been hopeless from the first. She had left home with her eyes open–she had not underrated the struggle that lay before her. But anything seemed better to her than the loveless marriage into which her father was attempting to force her. She had fought against it with the courage of despair.

“Nothing will induce me to marry him,” she had assured her father. “I will rather go out and earn my living.”

Robert Vanstone placidly sipped his port. There was a peculiar smile on his handsome, cynical face.

“Very well, my child,” he answered. “You can’t say that I prevented you. I have told you exactly how matters stand; if you don’t marry Wilfred Avis I am a ruined man. I shall have to part with all my luxuries, sell this beautiful, old house, and end my days in some shabby foreign watering-place. But, of course, that gives you no concern. You have had everything you have asked for during the last twenty years, and when I beg for a little return like this you refuse. Avis declared last night that he would release me the moment you consented to be engaged to him. Upon my word, I don’t see why you shouldn’t humor him to this extent.”

“And break my word afterwards, father?”

“Why not?” Vanstone retorted, coolly. “My dear girl, what does it matter? Isn’t it the privilege of your charming sex to change your mind? Avis is a hard man, and he’s got me into a tight place–but I don’t feel in the least melodramatic about it. With a bit of luck I should have had him in a tight place. It’s all part of the game, as you would know if you had been venturing in the city as long as I have. But what’s wrong with Avis? He’s a fine looking chap, enormously rich, and half the girls of your acquaintance would be only too glad of your chance. And let me tell you this–Avis can have a title whenever he wants it. No man knows more of the working of the Secret Service than he does–but perhaps I’m saying more than I ought to. Now, do be sensible, Ida.”

“I don’t love him,” the girl replied quietly. “I might go further, and say I don’t like him. Oh, perhaps I shall learn your worldly cynicism in time, and come to believe that money is everything, and honor and honesty of no account. We shall see, father. You have thrown down a challenge, and I accept it. I’m going to earn my own living, to try to turn my sketching to account.”

“In that case you must look to me for nothing.”

“So I understand,” Ida went on. “I may succeed or I may fail, and if I do utterly fail, and have to ask your assistant then I will return home, and, if Wilfred Avis is still in the same mind, become his wife.”

“Vanstone smiled as he helped himself to another glass of port. He glanced complacently around the dining-room with its mellowed oak walls and the velvety mez-zo-tints upon them, on the silver and glass and the litter of dessert on the table. Comfort and luxury and artistic surroundings were to him as the very breath of life. For them he was prepared to sacrifice everything that the man of honor holds most dear. With all his cleverness, however, he had that certain vein of indolence which always stands in the way of victory. No one could plan a finer coup than Vanstone and no financial adventurer could carry it so far. Then perhaps a day’s pleasure would lure him from his post just when his presence was most essential. He had, too, that contempt for other people’s ability which so often is fatal to success. But as regarded his worldly knowledge and cynicism, there was no question.

“I’m infinitely obliged to you, my dear child,” he said. “To put it brutally, I look upon the thing as done. It will only mean a little patience on Avis’ part and when you marry him you will do so gladly instead of–well, against the grain. Your poor mother was the same at one time, and yet she was happy enough.”

“I suppose she was,” Ida remarked doubtfully.

“Of course, she was. Now, don’t let’s pursue this unpleasant subject any further. And, please don’t make a scene. You are going away to earn your own living, but when you want me, send me the inevitable letter, and I shall be pleased to come and, er, er, take you out of pawn.”

“And if I succeed, father?”

“My dear child, that contingency is too remote to be considered. Kindly pass me the cigarettes.”

This incident rose painfully and clearly before Ida’s eyes as she sat in the gathering darkness, gazing with despairing eyes across London. For six months she had been struggling on, hoping against hope, and getting each day deeper and deeper into the mire of despair. It had not taken her long to discover the cruel difference between the work of a talented amateur and the slick smoothness of even a second-rate professional artist. She tried her hand at nearly everything, and always with the same result. At first editors had been kind, but the time came when Ida found it impossible to pass beyond the office-boy. In the six months she had not earned as many pounds; she had learnt the dire straits of poverty; she could enter the swinging doors of a pawnshop without a blush. The end had arrived. She had literally nothing except the clothes she stood up in, nothing but her youth and her beauty and her fine courage, which as yet was not entirely broken.

“I won’t go back,” she determined. “I’ll try something else. Why has it taken me six months to find out that my artistic work is worthless? I’ll go into service; I’ll scrub floors before I own myself defeated. I wonder if I went to a registry office–” She put on her hat and jacket and went down the dingy stairs, and paused outside a room, and listened. She heard someone moving about and caught the whirr of a sewing machine. She hesitated for a moment and then opened the door and looked in.

“Are you very busy?” she asked.

A pair of pathetic brown eyes were lifted from the sewing machines and a wan, beautiful, pallid face smiled.

“Well, I am,” the seamstress said. “I wonder if you would help me a bit. I have been doing pretty well nothing for the last week and now everything comes with a rush. I’ve been in bed for about three days with that dreadful rheumatism and my fingers have grown terribly stiff.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Ida said. “I ought to have come and seen you before. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

The slim, pale girl smiled again. Elsie Harness was not much older than Ida, but she had seen a great deal more of the world’s misery and distress. There was a tragedy hidden, somewhere, but concerning her past Elsie had said nothing. The girls had drifted together, and there was a bond of sympathy between them, but they had not yet reached the stage when confidences are exchanged.

“Would you be angry if I spoke plainly?” Elsie asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ida smiled. “I’d rather be scolded than left alone with my own troubles. What is it?”

“Well, then, you didn’t come to see me because you are too proud. Oh, I respect your pride, my dear! It’s about the only thing I have left. You can’t keep these things secret, especially when we have a coarse-minded, hard-hearted landlady who does not keep her lodgers’ affairs to herself. I know all about it. If nothing turns up before to-morrow, Mrs. Preece will turn you out. You need not blush!–I’ve been on the verge of a like catastrophe many a time. Now, do let me help you. Because, if you do, you can help me. Let me pay that horrible old woman the rent you owe. You can work it out, and, besides, if I don’t have you. I must ask somebody else. I would much rather have a lady like yourself than a girl who has been in some factory. Because, you see, I am a lady, too.”

“I knew, that from the first,” Ida said. “But, my dear girl, how can I take the money that you earn so hardly?”

“Nonsense! Didn’t I tell you that I must have an assistant? The doctor says it is positively dangerous to go out in these east winds and I am actually losing work because I cannot fetch it. I could easily earn three times as much if I had some help with the machine. You see, I am a dress designer. Some of the big houses in the West-End send me a mass of beautiful materials and I blend them together. I suppose I have an eye for that sort of thing. It makes such a wonderful difference just how a piece of embroidery is inserted here or a splash of color sewn on there. I want someone who will save my poor fingers and fetch and carry for me. Now, will you do it?”

Ida bent over the table and covered her face with her hands. The blessed relief moved her to tears. It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, as if somebody had removed the iron hand winch had been gripping at her heart for weeks. The night and the fog and the dread thought of the Embankment no longer oppressed. For she intended to accept Elsie’s offer, and was grateful for an opportunity which a while ago she would have spurned.

“You are very good to me,” she whispered. “You will never know how thankful I am. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will put heart and soul into it. I wish you to feel you have made no mistake to-night.”

II. VALERIE BRUNE

“The obligation is all on one side,” Elsie retorted. “Just look at this. Here is a costume I am finishing of a lady who is going to a charity ball to-night. It was made for her by one of the best houses, and when it was done she didn’t care about it. It did not convey the distinctive note she required, and the stupid man milliner confessed he did not understand what she meant. He said it was one of the most beautiful gowns they had ever turned out, and so it is. Nine out of every ten Society women would only be too pleased to be seen in it. It is a wonderful black Grecian drapery, but, to my mind, a little bit too sombre. It needs a red woman to wear that costume, and I understand that Miss Valerie Brune is very dark–but I’ll put on the dress and you shall see. I should like your opinion.”

Elsie wreathed herself in the soft folds and stood where the light fell fully upon her. Her lithe, slim figure showed to great advantage; she seemed to be transformed, to have become another creature altogether.

“Oh, it is exquisite!” Ida cried. “My dear Elsie, how beautiful you are. I never realised–”

“Would it had been otherwise!” Elsie said quietly. “But we won’t go into that. You see, I am fair, and that is why the dress suits me. Let me put it on you, and if you look at yourself in the cheval glass there you will appreciate what I am saying. You are a dark beauty, with something of the South about you.”

“My mother was an Italian,” Ida explained.

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