over her face. Taken utterly by surprise, the girl was too firmly held to do more than struggle convulsively, and in a few moments, as the drug took effect, she lay a limp heap in Dick’s arms.
Snatching from a valise a chambermaid’s costume and cap, Yvette swiftly transformed herself into a replica of the unconscious girl. Then picking up the tray and its contents she silently left the room, having poured a few drops of colourless liquid into each of the glasses of brandy.
Kranzler was evidently in a bad temper.
“I tell you,” he said to his companion, “there must be a way out. That infernal – ”
There was a knock at the door, and a chambermaid entered with coffee and liqueurs. It was Yvette!
“Would the messieurs require anything further?” she asked as she set down the tray.
“No, that’s all for to-night,” said Kranzler in a surly tone, as he picked up the brandy and drained it with obvious relish. His companion followed suit.
Dick was sitting beside the unconscious girl as Yvette re-entered the room.
“She’s quite all right,” he said, as he watched her narrowly for signs of returning consciousness, “but I must give her a little more just as we are leaving. How did you get on?”
“Splendidly,” said Yvette; “they noticed nothing, and I saw them both drink the brandy as I left the room.”
Ten minutes later Yvette re-entered Kranzler’s room. The two men had collapsed into chairs. Both were sleeping heavily.
Without losing a second Yvette tore open Kranzler’s waistcoat and passed her hand rapidly over his body. A moment later she had slit open the unconscious man’s shirt, and from a belt of webbing which ran round his shoulders cut away a flat leather pouch.
From her pocket she took a reel of strong black thread. To one end of this she fastened the pouch, and, crouching by the open window, pushed the pouch over the sill and swiftly lowered it into the darkness.
A moment later came a sort of tug at the line, the thread snapped, and Yvette let the end fall. Then, with a glance at her drugged victims, she snatched up the tray and returned with it to her own room.
Lying on the sofa, the chambermaid stirred uneasily. She was evidently recovering. While Yvette swiftly discarded her disguise Dick again pressed the chloroform to the girl’s face.
A few moments later “Mr and Mrs Wilson, of London,” were being escorted by the hotel porter to a waiting taxi-cab.
They never returned.
In the semi-darkness of the courtyard the drunken coachman had stiffened and leant back against the wall as a small, dark object lightly touched his shoulder. His arm, twisted behind him, felt for and found a slender thread. Held against the wall behind him was the flat leather pouch which Yvette had lowered. A moment later it was transferred to a capacious pocket, and the coachman, staggering uncertainly to his horse, mounted the carriage and drove noisily out of the yard. No one paid the slightest attention to him; no one realised that that uncouth exterior concealed the slim form of Jules Pasquet, his nerves quivering with excitement at the success of the Gay Triangle’s first daring coup.
An hour later the Paris police took charge of an old horse found aimlessly dragging an empty carriage along one of the boulevards. About the same time, from a forest clearing fifteen miles away from Paris, a tiny monoplane rose silently into the air and sped away in the direction of the French coast.
Kranzler left Paris the following day and returned to Germany. He was strictly searched at the frontier, of course without result, and the puzzled French police never solved the problem of how, as they thought, he had beaten them. He had not dared to complain. “Mr and Mrs Wilson” were never even suspected, for by a strange coincidence some articles of jewellery were stolen from another room that same night, and when the drugged chambermaid told her story it was assumed that the Wilsons were hotel thieves of the ordinary type.
A month later the Petit Parisien announced in black type with a flaring headline:
“An anonymous gift of one million francs has been received by the French Government, to be devoted to the relief of the devastated regions of France.”
Chapter Two
A Race for a Throne
Paris, keenly sensitive to political vibrations which left less emotional centres relatively unmoved, was rippling with excitement.
The death of the aged King John of Galdavia had been followed by the sudden appearance of a second claimant to the stormy throne of the latter principality in the Middle East, and the stormy petrels of politics, to whom international political complications are as the breath of life, had scented trouble from afar, and were flocking to the gay city. For the moment, however, the rest of the world seemed to take but little interest in the new problem. It was generally felt that the succession to the Throne of Galdavia was a matter for the Galdavians alone, and only a few long-sighted individuals perceived the small cloud, “no bigger than a man’s hand,” which threatened to darken the entire political firmament.
Back in his quiet Norfolk home, Dick Manton had dropped into a state of profound dejection. The adventure of the Russian Jewels, with its wild plunge into the thrills of the old life, had awakened an irrepressible desire for action and movement which had lain dormant while his shattered health was being slowly re-established.
Now, fully recovered, and in the perfection of physical condition, he could only contemplate with distaste and aversion continued existence in the humdrum surroundings of East Anglia.
But what was he to do? Like thousands of others he felt that the ordered life of civilisation, with every daily action laid out according to plan, was for him impossible. His was essentially one of the restless spirits, stirred into life by the war, which craved action, difficulty, and even danger. Moreover his growing affection for Yvette troubled him.
Yvette had been delicately brought up. She was accustomed to luxury, and Dick could only realise that his present prospects were such that, even if he were sure she cared for him, a marriage between them must entail such sacrifice on her part as he could not contemplate with equanimity.
But, though dull, he had not been idle. The brilliant initial test of the new motor-plane, which he had fancifully christened “The Mohawk” had stirred his ambition, and every moment he could snatch from business had been devoted to thinking out and applying improvements. Some of these had been of real importance, and the machine had gained substantially in strength and lifting power, as well as in speed both on the ground and in the air. He was also making experiments in gliding.
For some months he had heard little of Yvette. A few brief notes had told him she was well. But that was all, and he felt a little hurt. He never dreamed that Yvette’s feelings were singularly like his own; that she, too, was the prey of emotions which sometimes alarmed her. They were, in fact, kept apart by Dick’s shyness and poverty, and by the French girl’s profound pride and reserve.
Matters were in this stage when Dick, to his great surprise, received a brief telegram from Yvette.
“Can you come to Paris? very urgent – Yvette,” the message ran.
Dick left at once and next evening found him with Yvette and Jules at a small hotel near the Gare du Nord. After a cordial greeting Yvette, as usual, plunged direct into the business in hand.
“Now,
