Swirling Waters | Page 6

deep in thought, with shoulders drooping.
Beyond the clamorous glitter of the Place Pigalle, with its garish
entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow,
winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on
the heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his
shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the
situation. Out of a ruelle crept two apaches with the stealthy glide of
their class. One followed close behind Clifford Matheson, while the
other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an agent
de police.
The young man who had followed from the Rue Laffitte paused
irresolute. On the one hand were his orders to shadow Matheson
wherever he might go that night; on the other hand was his personal
safety. He was keenly alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian

apache, and he was unarmed. The wicked curved knife doubtless
concealed under the belt of the apache turned the scale decisively in the
mind of the shadower. He saw no call to risk his own life.
He gave up and retraced his steps, leaving Matheson to his fate.
CHAPTER IV
ON THE SCENT OF A MYSTERY
The name of the young man who had shadowed Matheson was Arthur
Dean, and his position in life was that of a clerk in the Leadenhall
Street office of Lars Larssen. The latter had brought him over to Paris
as temporary secretary because the confidential secretary had happened
to be ill and away from business at the moment when Matheson's letter
arrived.
Young Dean bitterly repented his cowardice before he was five minutes
distant from the narrow lane on the heights of Montmartre.
Not only had he left a fellow-countryman to possible violence and
robbery, but his action would inevitably recoil on himself. To be even a
temporary secretary to the great shipowner was a chance, an
opportunity that most young business men of twenty-four would
eagerly grasp at. He was throwing away his chance by this cowardly
disobedience to orders--Lars Larssen was not the man to forgive an
offence of that kind.
Dean turned on his tracks and again crossed the Place Pigalle. The lane
behind was deserted. He mounted it and searched eagerly. His search
was fruitless. Matheson was nowhere visible--nor the two apaches. To
what had happened in that interval of ten minutes there was no clue.
The young fellow did not dare to go back to the Grand Hotel and report
his failure. He wandered about aimlessly and miserably, until a
flaunting poster outside an all-night café chantant caught his eye and
decided him to enter and kill time until some plan for retrieving his
failure might occur to him.

As he entered the swinging doors a cheery hand was laid on his
shoulders. "Hullo, old man! Hail and thrice hail!"
"Jimmy!" There was a note of pleasure in the young man's voice.
"The same," confirmed Jimmy Martin. He was a tubby, clean-shaven,
rosy-faced little fellow of thirty odd, with an inexhaustible fund of
good spirits. Everyone called him "Jimmy." Dean had known him as a
reporter on a London daily paper and a fellow-member of a local
dramatic society in Streatham.
"Why are you here?" asked Dean.
"Strictly on business, my gay young spark. My present owners, the
Europe Chronicle, bless their dear hearts, want to know if La Belle
Ariola"--he waved his hand towards a poster which showed chiefly a
toreador hat, a pair of flashing eyes, and a whirl of white draperies--"is
engaged or no to the Prince of Sardinia. I find the maiden coy, not to
say secretive----"
"I wish you could help me," interrupted Dean eagerly.
"If four francs seventy will do it--my worldly possessions until next
pay-day----"
"No, no, this is quite different." He drew Martin outside into the street
and whispered. "To-night, as I happen to know, an Englishman walking
along a back street by the Place Pigalle was followed by two apaches."
"A week-end tripper, or somebody with a flourish at each end of his
name?"
"Somebody worth while. Now I want to know particularly if anything
happened."
Martin nodded in full understanding. "Come along to the office about
ten to-morrow morning, and I'll tell you if anything's been fired in from
the gendarmeries or the hospitals. What did you say the man's name

was?"
Dean shook his head.
"Imitaciong oyster?" commented Martin cheerfully. "Very well, see
you to-morrow. Meanwhile, be good. Flee the giddy lure. Go home to
your little bed and sleep sweet." There was seriousness under his
good-natured banter. "Come along and I'll see you as far as the
bullyvards."
Arthur Dean went with him, but did not return to the Grand Hotel. He
found a small hotel for the night, and next morning at