Captain Francis Newcombe stared at her from narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded sharply.
But Mrs. Wickes had fallen back upon her pillow in utter exhaustion. She lay fighting painfully, pitifully now for every breath.
"What do you mean by that?" repeated Captain Francis Newcombe still more sharply.
And then suddenly, as though some strange premonition were at work, all fight gone from her, the woman threw out her arms in a broken gesture of supplication.
"I'm a wicked woman, a bloody wicked 'un I've been. Gawd forgive me for it!" she whispered. "Polly ain't no blood of mine."
Captain Francis Newcombe rested his elbows on the back of the chair, and smiled coolly.
"I think," he said evenly, "it's my turn now to ask what the game is? That's a bit thick, isn't it—after three years?"
The hectic spots had faded from the woman's face, and an ominous greyness was taking their place. She was crying now.
"It's Gawd's truth," she said. "I was afraid yer wouldn't 'ave give me the two quid a week hif yer'd known I 'adn't no 'old on 'er. Polly don't know. No one knows but me, an'—" Her voice trailed off through weakness.
Captain Francis Newcombe, save that his eyes had narrowed a little more, made no movement. He watched her without comment as she struggled for her breath again.
"I didn't mean to 'ave no fight wiv yer, Gawd knows I didn't. Gawd knows I didn't send for yer for that. I only wanted to ask yer wot abaht Polly, an' to ask yer to be good to 'er, an'—an' tell yer wot I'm tellin' yer now afore it's too late. An'—an'—" She raised herself with a sudden convulsive effort to her elbow. "Gawd, I—I'm goin' now."
With a swift movement Captain Francis Newcombe whipped a flask from his pocket, and held it to the woman's lips.
She swallowed a few drops with difficulty, and lay still.
Presently Mrs. Wickes' lips moved.
Captain Francis Newcombe, close beside the bed now, leaned over her.
"A lydy 'er mother was, an' 'er father 'e was a gentleman born 'e was. I—I don't know nothin' abaht 'em except she was a guverness an' 'e 'adn't much money. Neither of 'em 'adn't no family accordin' to 'er, an' countin' wot 'appened she told the truth, poor soul."
Again Mrs. Wickes lay silent. Her lips continued to move, but they were soundless. She seemed suddenly to become conscious of this, and motioned weakly for the flask. And again with difficulty she swallowed a few drops.
"Years ago this was." Mrs. Wickes forced the words with long pauses between. "'Ard times came on 'em. 'E got killed in a haccident. An' she took sick after Polly came, an' the money went, an' she wouldn't 'ave charity, an' she got down to this, like us 'uns 'ere, tryin' to keep body an' soul together on the bit she 'ad left. An' she died, an' I took Polly. Two years old Polly was then. There wasn't no good of tellin' Polly an' 'ave 'er give 'erself airs when she 'ad to go out an' do 'er bit an' earn something. An', wot's more, if she'd known I wasn't 'er mother she might 'ave stopped workin' for me—an' I couldn't 'ave made 'er, 'avin' lost my hold on 'er—an' I wasn't goin' to 'ave anything like that. Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—the flower girl. Flowers—posies—pretty posies—that's where yer saw 'er—"
The woman's voice had thickened; her words, in snatches, were incoherent:
"Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—Polly Gray—Polly Gray 'er name is—Polly Gray. I got the lines an' the birth paper. I kept 'em all these years. 'Ere! I got 'em 'ere."
"Where?" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.
"'Ere!" Mrs. Wickes plucked feebly at the edge of the bed clothing. "'Ere!"
Captain Francis Newcombe thrust his hand quickly in under the mattress. After a moment's search he brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a faded superscription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle from the chair and read it:
"Polly's papers which is God's truth,
Mrs. Wickes X her mark."
He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the end. It contained two papers that were turned a little yellow with age. Yes, it was quite true! His eyes travelled swiftly over the names:
"Harold Morton Gray.... Elizabeth Pauline Forbes. Pauline Gray...."
There was a sudden sound from the bed—like a long, fluttering sigh. Captain Francis Newcombe swung sharply about. The woman's arm was stretched out toward him; dulled eyes seemed to be striving desperately in their fading vision to search his face.
"Polly!" Mrs. Wickes whispered. "For—for for Christ's sake—be—be good to Polly—be good to—"
The outstretched arm fell to the bed covering—and Mrs. Wickes lay still.
Captain Francis Newcombe leaned forward, holding the candle, searching the form on the bed critically with his eyes. After a moment he straightened up.
Mrs. Wickes was dead.
Captain Francis Newcombe replaced the papers in the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket. He set the candle back on the chair, blew it out, and walked across the room to the door.
"Gray, eh?" said Captain Francis Newcombe under his breath, as he closed the door behind him. "Polly Gray, eh? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? It's just as good an iron in the fire whether it's—Wickes or Gray!"
III.
Three of Them
Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Francis Newcombe stood at the door of his apartment. Runnells admitted him.
"Paul Cremarre here yet?" demanded the ex-captain of territorials briskly.
"Yes," said Runnells. "Been here half an hour."
With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis Newcombe entered the living room of the apartment. A tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantel.
"Ah, monsieur!" He waved his arm in greeting. "Salut!"
"Back, eh, Paul?" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe, flinging himself into a lounge chair. "Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's the news? How's the fishing smack?"
Paul Cremarre smiled faintly.
"Ah, the poor Marianne!" he said. "Such bad weather! It is always the bilge. If it did not leak so furiously!" He lifted his shoulders, and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward.
"So!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Been searched again, eh?"
The Frenchman laughed softly.
"Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French coast, and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard? But, why not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children they looked—not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the Préfecture!"
"One more sign of the times!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe a little shortly. "And Père Mouche?"
"Ah!" murmured the Frenchman. "That is another story! I am afraid it is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed him too well."
Captain Francis Newcombe frowned.
"Well, he's right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, eh? I don't like it! If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here. There is to-morrow night's affair, of course,