Mademoiselle Of Monte Carlo - free ebook by William Le Queux

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Mademoiselle Of Monte Carlo

William Le Queux

30 chapters

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30 chapters

FIRST CHAPTER

FIRST CHAPTER

“Yes! I’m not mistaken at all! It’s the same woman! ” whispered the tall, good-looking young Englishman in a well-cut navy suit as he stood with his friend, a man some ten years older than himself, at one of the roulette tables at Monte Carlo, the first on the right on entering the room—that one known to habitual gamblers as “The Suicide’s Table.” “Are you quite certain?” asked his friend. “Positive. I should know her again anywhere.” “She’s very handsome. And look, too, by Jove!—how she is winn

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SECOND CHAPTER

SECOND CHAPTER

Just after seven o’clock that same evening young Henfrey and his friend Brock met in the small lounge of the Hotel des Palmiers, a rather obscure little establishment in the Avenue de la Costa, behind the Gardens, much frequented by the habitues of the Rooms who know Monte Carlo and prefer the little place to life at the Paris, the Hermitage, and the Riviera Palace, or the Gallia, up at Beausoleil. The Palmiers was a place where one met a merry cosmopolitan crowd, but where the cocotte in her br

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THIRD CHAPTER

THIRD CHAPTER

Hugh Henfrey, startled by the sudden shot, shouted for assistance, and then threw himself upon his knees beside the prostrate woman. From a bullet wound over the right ear blood was slowly oozing and trickling over her white cheek. “Help! Help!” he shouted loudly. “Mademoiselle has been shot from outside! Help! ” In a few seconds the elderly manservant burst into the room in a state of intense excitement. “Quick!” cried Hugh. “Telephone for a doctor at once. I fear your mistress is dying!” Henfr

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FOURTH CHAPTER

FOURTH CHAPTER

Walter Brock was awakened at four o’clock that morning by Hugh touching him upon the shoulder. He started up in bed and staring at his friend’s pale, haggard face exclaimed: “Good Heavens!—why, what’s the matter?” “Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo has been shot!” the other replied in a hard voice. “Shot!” gasped Brock, startled. “What do you mean?” Briefly Hugh who had only just entered the hotel, explained the curious circumstances—how, just at the moment she had been about to reveal the secret of h

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FIFTH CHAPTER

FIFTH CHAPTER

Three days later. On a cold afternoon just as the wintry light was fading a tall, dark, middle-aged, rather handsome man with black hair and moustache, and wearing a well-cut, dark-grey overcoat and green velour hat, alighted from the train at the wayside station of Wanborough, in Surrey, and inquired of the porter the way to Shapley Manor. “Shapley, sir? Why, take the road there yonder up the hill till you get to the main road which runs along the Hog’s Back from Guildford to Farnborough. When

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SIXTH CHAPTER

SIXTH CHAPTER

That the police were convinced that Hugh Henfrey had shot Mademoiselle was plain. Wherever he went an agent of detective police followed him. At the Cafe de Paris as he took his aperitif on the terrasse the man sat at a table near, idly smoking a cigarette and glancing at an illustrated paper on a wooden holder. In the gardens, in the Rooms, in the Galerie, everywhere the same insignificant little man haunted him. Soon after luncheon he met Dorise and her mother in the Rooms. With them were the

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SEVENTH CHAPTER

SEVENTH CHAPTER

In the darkness the car went swiftly through Mentone and along the steep winding road which leads around the rugged coast close to the sea—the road over the yellow rocks which Napoleon made into Italy. Presently they began to ascend a hill, a lonely, wind-swept highway with the sea plashing deep below, when, after a sudden bend, some lights came into view. It was the wayside Italian Customs House. They had arrived at the frontier. Hugh, by the aid of a flash-lamp, had put on a grey moustache and

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EIGHTH CHAPTER

EIGHTH CHAPTER

While Hugh Henfrey was travelling along that winding road over high headlands and down steep gradients to the sea which stretched the whole length of the Italian Riviera, Dorise Ranscomb in a white silk domino and black velvet mask was pretending to enjoy herself amid the mad gaiety at the Casino in Nice. The great bal blanc is always one of the most important events of the Nice season, and everyone of note wintering on the Riviera was there, yet all carefully masked, both men and women. “I wond

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NINTH CHAPTER

NINTH CHAPTER

With the rosy dawn rising behind them the big dusty car tore along over the white road which led through Pegli and Cornigliano, with their wealth of olives and palms, into the industrial suburbs of old-world Genoa. Then, passing around by the port, the driver turned the car up past Palazzo Doria and along that street of fifteenth-century palaces, the Via Garibaldi, into the little piazza in front of the Annunziata Church. There he pulled up after a run of two hours from the last of the many rail

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TENTH CHAPTER

TENTH CHAPTER

Late one evening the dainty girl thief, Lisette, went out for a stroll with Hugh, but in the Via Roma they met an agent of police. “Look!” whispered the girl in French, “there’s a pince sans rire ! Be careful!” She constantly used the argot of French thieves, which was often difficult for the young Englishman to understand. And the dark-haired girl would laugh, apologize, and explain the meaning of her strange expressions. Outside the city they were soon upon the high road which wound up the dee

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ELEVENTH CHAPTER

ELEVENTH CHAPTER

A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by. Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason. It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the newspapers. The evening after Hugh’s d

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TWELFTH CHAPTER

TWELFTH CHAPTER

As Dorise walked up Bond Street, smartly dressed, next afternoon, on her way to her dressmaker’s, she was followed by a well-dressed young girl in black, dark-eyed, with well-cut, refined features, and apparently a lady. From Piccadilly the stranger had followed Dorise unseen, until at the corner of Maddox Street she overtook her, and smiling, uttered her name. “Yes,” responded Doris in surprise. “But I regret—you have the advantage of me?” “Probably,” replied the stranger. “Do you recollect the

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THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

Week after week passed. Spring was slowly developing into summer and the woods around Blairglas, the fine estate in Perthshire which old Sir Richard Ranscomb had left to his wife, were delightful. Blairglas Castle, a grand old turreted pile, was perched on the edge of a wooded glen through which flowed a picturesque burn well known to tourists in Scotland. Once Blairglas Burn had been a mighty river which had, in the bygone ages, worn its way deep through the grey granite down to the broad Tay a

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FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

That night when Dorise, in a pretty, pale-blue evening gown, entered the great, old panelled dining-room rather late for dinner, her mother exclaimed petulantly: “How late you are, dear! Mr. Sherrard has had a telegram recalling him to London. He has to catch the nine-something train from Perth.” “Have you?” she asked the man who was odious to her. “I’m so sorry I’m late, but that Mackenzie girl called. They are getting up a bazaar for the old people down in the village, and we have to help it,

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FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

“Who is this gentleman, Dorise?” asked Hugh, when a moment later the girl and her companion had recovered from their surprise. “I cannot introduce you,” was her reply. “He refuses to give his name.” The tall man laughed, and said: “I have already told you that my name is X.” Hugh regarded the stranger with distinct suspicion. It was curious that he should discover them together, yet he made but little comment. “We were just speaking about you, Mr. Henfrey,” the tall man went on. “I believed that

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SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

For ten weary days Hugh Henfrey had lived in the close, frowsy-smelling house in Abingdon Road, Kensington, a small, old-fashioned place, once a residence of well-to-do persons, but now sadly out of repair. Its occupier was a worthy, and somewhat wizened, widow named Mason, who was supposed to be the relict of an army surgeon who had been killed at the Battle of the Marne. She was about sixty, and suffered badly from asthma. Her house was too large for one maid, a stout, matronly person called E

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SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

On the following morning, about twelve o’clock, Emily, Mrs. Mason’s stout maid-of-all-work, showed a tall, well-dressed man into Hugh’s frowsy little sitting-room where he sat reading. He sprang to his feet when he recognized his visitor to be Charles Benton. “Well my boy!” cried his visitor cheerily. “So I’ve found you at last! We all thought you were on the Continent, lying low somewhere.” “So I have been,” replied the young man faintly. “You’ve heard of that affair at Monte Carlo?” “Of course

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EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

On his way out of London, Hugh had made excuse and stopped the car at a post office in Putney, whence he sent an express note to Dorise, telling her his change of address. He though it wiser not to post it. Hence it was on the morning following Louise’s arrival at Shapley, he received a letter from Dorise, enclosing one she had received under cover for him. He had told Dorise to address him as “Mr. Carlton Symes.” It was on dark-blue paper, such as is usually associated with the law or officiald

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NINETEENTH CHAPTER

NINETEENTH CHAPTER

Hugh Henfrey was at last face to face with the most notorious criminal in Europe! The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired old man was the hand that controlled a great organization spread all over Europe—an organization which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never seen him in the flesh. Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old gentleman, who lived at ease in an exclusive West End street, and was entirely unsuspected! When “Mr. Peters” admitted his identity, Hugh drew

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TWENTIETH CHAPTER

TWENTIETH CHAPTER

Late on Thursday night Dorise and her mother were driving home from Lady Strathbayne’s, in Grosvenor Square, where they had been dining. It was a bright starlight night, and the myriad lamps of the London traffic flashed past the windows as Dorise sat back in silence. She was tired. The dinner had been followed by a small dance, and she had greatly enjoyed it. For once, George Sherrard, her mother’s friend, had not accompanied them. As a matter of fact, Lady Strathbayne disliked the man, hence h

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TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

At the moment he had read the letter Mrs. Bond entered the room. “Hallo! You’re down early,” she remarked. “And already had your letters, I see! They don’t generally come so early. The postman has to walk over from Puttenham.” Then she took up her own and carelessly placed them aside. They consisted mostly of circulars and the accounts of Guildford tradesmen. “Yes,” he said, “I was down early. Lately I’ve acquired the habit of early rising.” “An excellent habit in a young man,” she laughed. “All

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TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER

“Well—recollect how much the girl knows!” Howell remarked as he stood before The Sparrow in the latter’s room. “I have not forgotten,” said the other. “The whole circumstances of old Henfrey’s death are not known to me. That it was an unfortunate affair has long ago been proved.” “Yvonne was the culprit, of course,” said Howell. “That was apparent from the first.” “I suppose she was,” remarked The Sparrow reflectively. “But that attempt upon her life puzzles me.” “Who could have greater motive i

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TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER

A fortnight had gone by. Ten o’clock in the morning in the Puerta del Sol, that great plaza in Madrid—the fine square which, like the similarly-named gates at Toledo and Segovia, commands a view of the rising sun, as does the ancient Temple of Abu Simbel on the Nile. Hugh Henfrey—a smart, lithe figure in blue serge—had been lounging for ten minutes before the long facade of the Ministerio de la Gobernacion (or Ministry of the Interior) smoking a cigarette and looking eagerly across the great squ

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TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

“You need not worry,” said the stranger to Hugh. “I am not your enemy, but a friend. I warn you that Marseilles is unsafe for you. Get away as soon as possible. The Spanish police have learnt that you have come here,” he went on as he strolled at his side. Hugh was amazed. “How did you know my identity?” he asked eagerly. “I was instructed to watch for your arrival—and to warn you.” “Who instructed you?” “A friend of yours—and mine—The Sparrow.” “Has he been here?” “No. He spoke to me on the tel

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TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER

On the day that Hugh was travelling in hot haste to Paris, Charles Benton arrived in Nice early in the afternoon. Leaving the station it was apparent he knew his way about the town, for passing down the Avenue de la Gare, with its row of high eucalyptus trees, to the Place Massena, he plunged into the narrow, rather evil-smelling streets of the old quarter. Before a house in the Rue Rossette he paused, and ascending to a flat on the third floor, rang the bell. The door was slowly opened by an el

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TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

At ten o’clock on the morning that Hugh Henfrey left Avignon for Paris, The Sparrow stood at the window of his cozy little flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, where he was known to his elderly housekeeper—a worthy old soul from Yvetot, in the north—as Guillaume Gautier. The house was one of those great old ones built in the days of the First Empire, with a narrow entrance and square courtyard into which the stage coaches with postilions rumbled before the days of the P.L.M. and aircraft. In the N

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TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

An hour later Hugh stood in The Sparrow’s room, and related his exciting adventure in Marseilles and on the high road. “H’m!” remarked the man with the gloved hand. “A very pretty piece of business. The police endeavoured to mislead you, and you, by a very fortunate circumstance, suspected. That cigarette, my dear young friend, stood you in very good stead. It was fortunate that I gave it to you.” “By this time the driver of the car has, of course, recovered and told his story,” Hugh remarked. “

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TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

Mademoiselle Lisette met her two guests at Vian’s small but exclusive restaurant in the Rue Daunou, and all three had a merry meal together. Afterwards The Sparrow smoked a good cigar and became amused at the young girl’s chatter. She was a sprightly little person, and had effectively brought off several highly successful coups. Before leaving his cosy flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, The Sparrow had sat for an hour calmly reviewing the situation in the light of what Lisette had told him and o

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TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

Both men turned and before them they saw the plainly dressed figure of a beautiful woman, and behind her an elderly, grey-faced man. For a few seconds the woman stared at The Sparrow blankly. Then she turned her gaze upon Hugh. Her lips parted. Suddenly she gave vent to a loud cry, almost of pain, and placing both hands to her head, gasped: “Dieu!” It was Yvonne Ferad. And the cry was one of recognition. Hugh dashed forward with the doctor, for she was on the point of collapse at recognizing the

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CONCLUSION

CONCLUSION

The foregoing is perhaps one of the most remarkable stories of the underworld of Europe. Its details are set down in full in three big portfolios in the archives of the Surete in Paris—where the present writer has had access to them. In that bald official narrative which is docketed under the heading “No. 23489/263—Henfrey” there is no mention of the love affair between Dorise Ranscomb and Hugh Henfrey of Woodthorpe. But the true facts are that within three days of Mademoiselle’s recovery of her

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