"This is Inspector Fremy--Monsieur Edouard Royle, of Londres," exclaimed the _Chef du Surete_, introducing us.

The detective, the most famous police officer in Belgium, who had been for years under Monsieur Hennion, in Paris, and had now transferred his services to Belgium, bowed and looked at me with his small, inquisitive eyes.

"Monsieur Fremy. This gentleman has called with regard to the case of Marie Bracq," said Van Huffel in French.

The detective was quickly interested.

"She is dead--been a.s.sa.s.sinated in London," his chief went on.

Fremy stared at the speaker in surprise, and the two men exchanged strange glances.

"Monsieur tells me that the man, Sir Digby Kemsley, wanted by Scotland Yard, is accused of the murder of Marie Bracq--and, further," added Van Huffel, "the accused has been here in Brussels quite recently."

"In Brussels?" echoed the round-faced man.

"Yes," I said. "He has letters addressed to the Poste Restante in the name of Bryant." And I spelt it as the detective carefully wrote down the name.

"He will not be difficult to find if he is still in Brussels," declared the inspector. "We had an inquiry from Scotland Yard asking if we had any report concerning Marie Bracq only this morning," he added.

"It was sent to you by my friend, Inspector Edwards, and whom I am a.s.sisting in this inquiry," I explained.

"You said that Marie Bracq was a friend of a lady friend of yours, M'sieur Royle," continued the _Chef du Surete_. "Will you do us the favour and tell us all you know concerning the tragedy--how the young lady lost her life?"

"Ah! m'sieur," I replied, "I fear I cannot do that. How she was killed is still a mystery. Only within the past few hours have I been able to establish the dead girl's ident.i.ty, and only then after narrowly escaping falling the victim of a most dastardly plot."

"Perhaps you will be good enough to make a statement of all you know, M'sieur Royle," urged the grey-haired little man; "and if we can be of any service in bringing the culprit to justice, you may rely upon us."

"But first, m'sieur, allow me to put observation upon the Poste Restante?" asked Fremy, rising and going to the telephone, where he got on to one of his subordinates, and gave him instructions in Flemish, a language I do not understand.

Then, when he returned to his chair, I began to briefly relate what I knew concerning Sir Digby, and what had occurred, as far as I knew, on that fatal night of the sixth of January.

I, of course, made no mention of the black suspicion cast upon the woman I loved, nor of the delivery of Digby's letter, my meeting with the woman Petre and its exciting results.

Yet had I not met that woman I should still have been in ignorance of the ident.i.ty of the dead girl, and, besides, I would not have met the sallow-faced Ali, or been aware of his methods--those methods so strangely similar to that adopted when Sir Digby Kemsley lost his life in Peru.

The two police functionaries listened very attentively to my story without uttering a word.

I had spoken of the woman Petre as being an accomplice of the man who was a fugitive, whereupon Fremy asked:

"Do you suppose that the woman is with him?"

"She has, I believe, left England, and, therefore, in all probability, is with him."

"Are there any others of the gang--for there is, of course, a gang? Such people never act singly."

"Two other men, as far as I know. One, a young man, who acts as servant, and the other, a tall, copper-faced man with sleek black hair--probably a Peruvian native. They call him Ali, and he pretends he is a Hindu."

"A Hindu!" gasped the detective. "Why, I saw one talking to a rather stout Englishwoman at the Gare du Nord yesterday evening, just before the Orient Express left for the East!" He gave a quick description of both the man and the woman, and I at once said:

"Yes, that was certainly Ali, and the woman was Mrs. Petre!"

"They probably left by the Orient Express!" he cried, starting up, and crossing to his chief's table s.n.a.t.c.hed up the orange-coloured official time table.

"Ah! yes," he exclaimed, after searching a few moments. "The Orient Express will reach Wels, in Austria, at 2.17, no time for a telegram to get through. No. The next stop is Vienna--the Westbahnhof--at 6. I will wire to the Commissary of Police to board the train, and if they are in it, to detain them."

"Excellent," remarked his chief, and, ringing a bell, a clerk appeared and took down the official telegram, giving the description of the woman and her accomplice.

"I suppose the fugitive Englishman is not with them?" suggested the _Chef du Surete_.

"I did not see him at the station--or, at least, I did not recognise anyone answering to the description," replied the inspector; "but we may as well add his description in the telegram and ask for an immediate reply."

Thereupon the official description of Digby, as supplied to the Belgian police by Scotland Yard, was translated into French and placed in the message.

After the clerk had left with it, Fremy, standing near the window, exclaimed:

"Dieu! Had I but known who they were last night! But we may still get them. I will see the employee at the Poste Restante. This Monsieur Bryant, if he receives letters, may have given an address for them to be forwarded."

After a slight pause, during which time the two functionaries conversed in Flemish, I turned to Van Huffel, and said:

"I have related all I know, m'sieur; therefore, I beg of you to tell me something concerning the young person Marie Bracq. Was she a lady?"

"A lady!" he echoed with a laugh. "Most certainly--the daughter of one of the princely houses of Europe."

"What?" I gasped. "Tell me all about her!"

But the dry-as-dust little man shook his grey head and replied:

"I fear, m'sieur, in my position, I am not permitted to reveal secrets entrusted to me. And her ident.i.ty is a secret--a great secret."

"But I have discovered her ident.i.ty where our English police had failed!"

I protested. "Besides, am I not a.s.sisting you?"

"Very greatly, and we are greatly indebted to you, M'sieur Royle," he replied, with exquisite politeness; "but it is not within my province as _Chef du Surete_ to tell you facts which have been revealed to me under pledge of secrecy."

"Perhaps M'sieur Fremy may be able to tell me some facts," I suggested.

"Remember, I am greatly interested in the mysterious affair."

"From mere curiosity--eh?" asked Van Huffel with a smile.

"No, m'sieur," was my earnest reply. "Because the arrest and condemnation of the a.s.sa.s.sin of Marie Bracq means all the world to me."

"How?"

I hesitated for some moments, then, hoping to enlist his sympathy, I told him the truth.

"Upon the lady who is my promised wife rests a grave suspicion," I said, in a low, hard voice. "I decline to believe ill of her, or to think that she could be guilty of a crime, or----"

"Of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Marie Bracq?" interrupted Van Huffel. "Do you suspect that? Is there any question as to the guilt of the man Kemsley?"

he asked quickly.