T was toward the close of a dinner-party at Kindersley Court, in Devonshire, where Janet and I were spending a fortnight, that our host suddenly directed the conversation to me.
“One has heard a great deal of your successes Greyes, especially during your last few years at Scotland Yard. What do you count your greatest failure?”
“My inability to bring to justice the greatest criminal in Europe.” I replied after a moment's hesitation. “I had him on my book for three years, but when I retired, he was still very much at large. We have been up against one another continually. Sometimes he has had the better of it, sometimes I. But the fact remains that though there have been at least a dozen misdemeanors which might have been brought home to him, he has slipped out of our hands every time we have formulated even a nominal charge.”
“Has he ever been in prison?” some one asked.
“Never,” I replied. “Not only that, but he has never even been apprehended, never even brought before a magistrate.”
“What is his name?” Lord Kindersley asked with some interest.
I smiled.
“A name, with him, I suspect, is an affair of the moment. I have known him under a dozen different pseudonyms: but his real name is, I believe, Michael. He did me the honor to attend my wedding reception as Colonel Escombe.”
I happened to meet the glance of Beatrice Kindersley as I looked across the table. She drew herself up for a moment, and I fancied that there was a steely glint in her beautiful eyes.
“I met a Colonel Escombe there, whom I thought charming,” she said coldly.
“It was probably our friend,” I assured her. “He is quite the most accomplished scoundrel in Europe.”
“Sometimes,” she remarked, “I think it would be interesting to hear how the goats talk of the sheep. I expect they would be able to find faults in the lives of the most perfect of us law-abiders.”
“But tell us about this man Michael?” Lord Kindersley intervened. “I remember, seven or eight years ago, hearing something about the duel between you fellows at Scotland Yard and a wonderfully led criminal gang. Where is the fellow now?”
“The answer to that question,” I told him, “would bring you in about five thousand pounds in rewards, and possibly a bullet through your heart as an informer.”
“You really couldn't lay your hand upon him at the present moment if you wanted to?”
I shook my head.
“I shouldn't have the faintest idea where to look for him. If he comes into the limelight again, my friend Rimmington at Scotland Yard will certainly send for me.”
“And you would join in the hunt?” our host persisted.
“I am not sure,” I admitted.
“You would do nothing of the sort,” Janet intervened, looking across at me. “That is a promise.”
I smiled back at her reassuringly. Prosperity and peace of mind had agreed with Janet. The dignity of wifehood sat well upon her. Her complexion seemed to have grown more creamy, her beautiful eyes softer, her carriage, always graceful, more assured. There was no woman in the county more admired than she—certainly no one less spoiled. She was absolutely and entirely contented with our simple country life. I sometimes think that if she had had her way, she would never have wandered at all outside our little domain. More than once, when I broached the subject, she had evaded the question of a visit to London or Paris; but curiously enough, it was only at that moment that I realized the truth. She still feared Michael.
“There is just the one possibility,” I remarked, “that I might not be able to evade the challenge. If I do not go after Michael, he may come after me.”
It was precisely at this moment that the amazing event happened. We were a party of twelve at dinner, seated at a round table in the center of the large banqueting hall of Kindersley Court. The room was rather dimly lighted, except for the heavily shaded for table lamps and the shaded electrics over some on during the meal at the request of one of the guests. The two footmen had left the room, presumably to fetch the coffee, and the butler standing behind Lord Kindersley's chair was the only servant in attendance. Suddenly every light in the place went out, and we were plunged into the most complete darkness. Conversation was broken off for a moment; then there was the usual little medley of confused exclamations.
“Never knew such a thing to happen before,” our host declared in an annoyed tone. “Somebody must have been tinkering with the power-house. Fetch some candles, Searle.”