



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Whoso Findeth a Wife, by William Le Queux.

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WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

A STATE SECRET.

"_Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the
Lord_."--Proverbs xviii, 22.

"Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?"

"Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived," I answered.

"Eleven o'clock!  Tut, tut!  Every moment's delay means greater risk,"
and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still
on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to
him.

"Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving," I
observed, taking a telegram from the table before me.

"In cipher?"

"Yes."

"No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?"

"Nothing in the _Times_," I replied.

"Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue," the Earl
said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into
space.

I resumed my writing, puzzled at the cause of the chief's excited
demeanour, but a few moments later sharp footsteps sounded outside in
the corridor, followed by a loud rapping, and there entered the
messenger, clad in his heavy fur-lined travelling coat, although a July
morning, and carrying a well-worn leather dispatch-box, which he placed
upon my table.

"Late, Hammerton.  Very late," snapped the Earl, glancing at his watch.

"There's a dense fog in the Channel, your Lordship, and we were
compelled to come across dead slow the whole distance.  I've driven
straight from the station," the Captain answered good-humouredly,
looking so spruce and well-groomed that few would credit he had been
travelling for nearly twenty-four hours.

"Go and rest.  You must return to-night," his Lordship said testily.

"At seven-thirty?"

"Yes, at my house in Berkeley Square."

Then, taking up the receipt I had signed for the dispatch-box, the
messenger, to whom a journey to Constantinople or St Petersburg was
about as fatiguing as a ride on the Underground Railway is to ordinary
persons, walked jauntily out, wishing us both good-day.

When the door had closed, Lord Warnham quickly opened the outer case
with his key, and drew forth a second box, covered with red morocco, and
securely sealed.  This he also opened, and, after rummaging for some
moments among a quantity of papers, exclaimed, in a tone of
satisfaction,--

"Ah!  Here it is.  Good!  Seals not tampered with."

Withdrawing from the box a large official envelope, doubly secured with
the seal of the British Embassy at Berlin, and endorsed by Sir Philip
Emden, our Ambassador, he walked hastily to one of the long windows
overlooking the paved courtyard of the Foreign Office, and for some
moments closely scrutinised both seals and signature.

"Did you fear that the papers might have been examined in transit?"  I
inquired of my grave-faced chief in surprise.

"No, Deedes, no.  Not at all," he answered, returning to his table,
cutting open the envelope, and giving a rapid glance at its contents to
assure himself that it was the same document he had sent to the German
capital a week before.  "Hammerton is trustworthy, and while dispatches
are in his care I have no fear.  The only apprehension I had was that an
attempt might possibly have been made to ascertain the nature of this
treaty," the great statesman added, indicating the document beneath his
hand.

"The result would be detrimental?"  I hazarded.

"Detrimental!" he cried.  "If the clauses of this secret defensive
alliance became known to our enemies war would be inevitable.  Russia
and France would combine, and the whole of the Powers would become
embroiled within a week.  Exposure of these secret negotiations would be
absolutely disastrous.  It would, I verily believe, mean irretrievable
ruin to England's prestige and perhaps to her power."

He uttered the ominous words slowly and distinctly, then carefully
refolding the precious document, with its string of sprawly signatures,
he placed it in another envelope, sealing it with his own private seal.

The great statesman, the greatest Foreign Minister of his time, upon
whose tact, judgment and forethought the peace and prosperity of England
mainly depended, was tall and thin, with scanty, white hair, a pale,
refined face, slightly wizened by age, deep-sunken, steely eyes, shaggy
brows, a sharp, straight nose, and a breadth of forehead indicating
indomitable perseverance and an iron will.  His reputation as brilliant
orator and shrewd and skilful diplomat was a household word throughout
the civilised world, whilst in our own land confidence always increased
when he was at the head of Foreign Affairs.  As his confidential private
secretary, I, Geoffrey Deedes, had daily opportunities of observing how
conscientiously he served his Sovereign and his country, and how amazing
was his capacity for work.  With him, duty was always of paramount
consideration; he worked night and day to sustain England's honour and
welfare, for times without number I had gone to his great gloomy house
in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night and roused him from his
bed to attend to urgent dispatches.

Although a perfect martinet towards many in the various departments of
the Foreign Office, he was to me always kind and generous.  My father,
Sir Reginald Deedes, had, as many will doubtless remember, represented
Her Majesty at the Netherlands Court for fifteen years until his death.
He was thus an old friend of the Earl, and it was this friendship that
caused him to appoint me five years ago his private secretary, and, much
to the chagrin of young Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, repose such
implicit confidence in me that very frequently he entrusted to my care
the keys of the ponderous safe wherein were deposited the State secrets
of the nation.

"You'd better register this, and we'll lock it away from prying eyes at
once," Lord Warnham said a few moments later, handing me the envelope
after he had sealed it.  Taking it, I went straight to my own room
across the corridor at the head of the fine central staircase.  It was
part of my duty to receive the more important dispatches, number those
which were sealed, and prior to depositing them in the safe, register
the number in my book, stating the source whence they came, the date
received, and the name of the messenger who brought them.

Alone in my room, I closed the door, took the register from my own small
safe, numbered the precious envelope with the designation "B27,893," and
carefully made an entry in the book.  Having finished, a clerk brought
me two letters from other Departments, both of which needed immediate
replies, therefore I sat down and scribbled them while he waited.  Then,
having been absent from the Chief's room nearly a quarter of an hour, I
went back with the dispatch in my hand.  In the room I found Lord
Gaysford, who, in reply to my question, stated that the Earl had been
compelled to leave in order to attend a meeting of the Cabinet, which he
believed would be a protracted one.

To me this was provoking, for the great statesman had taken with him the
key of the safe; thus was I left with this important document in my
possession.  But I said nothing of the matter to the Under Secretary,
and returning to my room placed the dispatch in my inner pocket for
greater security, determined to keep it there until his Lordship
returned.  I feared to lock it away in my own safe lest anyone else
might possess a key, and felt that in the circumstances my own pocket
was the safest place.

For nearly two hours I continued my work, it being Friday, an unusually
busy day, until, just as the clock at the Horse Guards chimed one
o'clock, a clerk entered with the card of Dudley Ogle, my college chum,
with whom I was now sharing, during the summer months, a cottage close
to the Thames at Shepperton.  On the card was the pencilled query, "Can
you come and lunch with me?"

For a few moments I hesitated.  I was busy, and I was compelled to
deliver the dispatch in my pocket to Lord Warnham before he left for
home.  I knew, however, that the meeting of the Cabinet must be a long
one, and recognising the fact that I must lunch somewhere, I gave the
clerk a message that I would join Mr Ogle in the waiting-room in a few
moments.  Then, locking my safe, I assured myself that the dispatch was
still in my pocket, brushed my hat, and joined my friend.

Dudley Ogle was the best of good fellows.  After a rather wild college
career, it had been his fancy to roam for about two years on the
Continent, and on his return, his father, with whom he was not on the
best of terms, conveniently died, leaving him possessor of about twenty
thousand pounds.  By this time he had, however, sown his wild oats, and
instead of spending his money as most young men of his age would have
done, he invested it, and now lived a careless, indolent existence,
travelling where he pleased, and getting as much enjoyment out of life
as was possible.  He was about my own age--twenty-eight, well set-up,
smart-looking, with rather aquiline features, dark hair, and a pair of
merry eyes that were an index to a contented mind.

"Didn't expect me, I suppose, old fellow?" he exclaimed breezily, when
we met.  "I found after you'd left this morning that I was compelled to
come up to town, and having nothing to do for an hour or so, it occurred
to me that we might lunch together."

"I thought you intended to pull up as far as `The Nook,'" I said,
laughing.

"So I did, but I received a wire calling me to town on some rather
urgent business.  Where shall we lunch?"

In descending the stairs and turning into Downing Street we discussed
the merits of various restaurants, and finally decided upon a small,
old-fashioned, unpretentious, but well-known place a few doors from
Charing Cross, in the direction of Whitehall, known as "The Ship."  Here
we ate our meal, spent an hour together, and then parted, he leaving to
return to Shepperton, I to finish my work and rejoin him later at our
riparian cottage.

On my return to the Foreign Office the Earl had, I found, just come in,
and I handed him the secret document which some day, sooner or later,
would control the destiny of an empire.

"This has, of course, not been out of your possession, Deedes?" inquired
his Lordship, looking keenly at me with his grey eyes, as he stood
before the open door of the great safe.

"Not for a single instant," I replied.

"Good.  I trust you," he said, carefully placing the sealed envelope in
a pigeon-hole to itself, and closing the door with a loud clang, locked
it.

"I think," he said, his ascetic features relaxing into a self-satisfied
smile, "I think we have once again checkmated our enemies, and swiftly
too.  The whole thing has been arranged and concluded within a week,
thanks to the clever diplomacy of Emden at Berlin."

"And to your own forethought," I added, laughing.

"No, no.  To Emden all credit is due, none to me, none," he answered
modestly; then, turning, he gave me some instructions, and a few minutes
later put on his hat and left for home.  At four o'clock I also left,
and driving to Waterloo, caught my train to Shepperton, where I found
Dudley Ogle awaiting me.  Ours was a pretty cottage.  Facing the river,
it was covered with creepers, sweet-smelling jasmine and roses, with a
rustic porch in front, and a large old-world garden around.  Life was
delightful there after the stuffiness of London chambers, and as we both
had with us our men, in addition to Mrs Franks, my trusty housekeeper,
we were prevented from being troubled by the minor worries of life.

"Hulloa, old chap!" cried Dudley, hastily rousing himself from a lazy
attitude on the couch in our sitting-room as I entered.  "Stifling hot,
isn't it?  There's a wire from the Laings.  They want us to dine with
them to-night.  Going?"

I hesitated, and my reluctance did not escape him.

"Isn't Ella's company sufficient inducement?" he asked chaffingly.

"Going?  Of course I am," I answered quickly, glancing at my watch.  "We
have a full hour before dressing.  Let's go for a row.  It'll improve
our appetites."

Within a few minutes I had exchanged the frock coat of officialdom for
flannels, and very soon we were pulling upstream towards a delightful
backwater that was our goal.  As we rowed, the silence being broken only
by the sound of the oars in the row-locks, I calmly reviewed the
situation.  Why the Laings invited me that night puzzled me.  Truth to
tell, I loved Ella Laing with all the strength of my being, and had
foolishly believed she reciprocated my affection until two nights ago,
when I had called at the house near Staines, where she lived with her
mother during the summer months.  I had discovered her in the garden
walking in lover-like attitude with Andrew Beck, a retired silk
manufacturer, who had lived in France so long that he had become
something of a cosmopolitan, and who had lately entered Parliament at a
bye-election as representative of West Rutlandshire.  I confess to
having conceived an instinctive dislike to this man from the very first
moment we had been introduced by a mutual friend in the Lobby of the
House of Commons, for he was a parvenu of the most pronounced type,
while his grey, beetling brows and flat, broad nose gave his face an
expression anything but pleasing.

Nevertheless he walked jauntily, spoke loudly in bluff good-natured
tones, gave excellent dinners, and, strangely enough, was voted a good
fellow wherever he went.  Yet there was an ostentatiousness about his
actions that was sickening; his arrogant, self-assertive manner was, to
me, extremely distasteful.  The discovery that he was endeavouring to
supplant me in Ella's affections filled my cup of indignation to the
full.

I had left the garden unobserved on that fateful night, returned at once
to our riverside cottage, and written her an angry letter, charging her
in plain terms with having played me false.  In reply, next morning she
sent by the gardener a long letter full of mild reproach, in which she
asserted that she had no thought of love for anyone beside myself, and
that I had entirely misconstrued her relations with Mr Beck.  "Strange,
indeed, it is that you, of all men, should declare that I love him," she
wrote.  "Love!  If you knew all, you would neither write nor utter that
sacred word to me; and even though you are the only man for whom I have
a thought, it may, after all, be best if we never again meet.  You say
you cannot trust me further.  Well, I can only reply that my future
happiness is in your hands.  I am yours."

Deeply had I pondered over this curious, half-hysterical,
half-reproachful letter, re-reading it many many times, and becoming
more and more puzzled over its vague, mysterious meaning.  On several
occasions I had been upon the point of calling and questioning her, but
had refrained.  Now, however, this formal invitation to dine had come no
doubt through Ella, and I saw in it her desire to personally explain
away my jealousy.  So I accepted.

CHAPTER TWO.

"THE NOOK."

When, a couple of hours later, we entered Mrs Laing's garden, the first
person we encountered was the man I hated, Andrew Beck, in his
ill-fitting dress clothes and broad, crumpled shirt-front, with its
great diamond solitaire, lounging in a wicker chair at the river's
brink, smoking, and in solitude enjoying the glorious sunset that,
reflecting upon the water, transformed it into a stream of rippling
gold.  "The Nook," as Mrs Laing's house was called, was a charming old
place facing the river at a little distance above Staines Bridge--long,
low, completely covered with ivy and surrounded by a wide sweep of lawn
that sloped down to the water's edge, and a belt of old elms beneath the
cool shade of which I had spent many delightfully lazy afternoons by the
side of my well-beloved.

"Ah!  Deedes," exclaimed Beck, gaily, rising as we approached, "I was
waiting for somebody to come.  The ladies haven't come down yet."

"Have you seen them?"  I asked.

"Not yet," he replied; then turning to my friend Dudley, he began
chaffing him about a young and wealthy widow he had rowed up to Windsor
in our boat a few days before.

"We saw you, my boy.  We saw you?" he laughed.  "You were talking so
confidentially as you passed, that Ella remarked that you were
contemplating stepping into the dead man's shoes."

"No, no," Dudley retorted good-humouredly.  "No widows for me.  She was
merely left under my care for an hour or so, and I had to do the
amicable.  It's really too bad of you all to jump to such rash
conclusions."

At that instant a soft, musical voice behind me uttered my name, and,
turning, I met Ella, with a light wrap thrown about her shoulders,
coming forward to me with outstretched hand.  "Ah!  Geoffrey, how are
you?" she cried gaily, with joy in her brilliant, sparkling eyes.  Then,
as our hands clasped, she added in an undertone, "I knew you would come;
I knew you would forgive."

"I have not forgiven," I answered, rather coldly, bending over her slim
white hand.

"But I have committed no fault," she said, pouting prettily.

"You have given me no satisfactory explanation."

"Wait until after dinner.  We will come out here together, where we can
talk without being overheard," she whispered hurriedly, then left me
abruptly to greet Dudley and Andrew Beck.  There was something
significant in the swift, inquisitive glance she exchanged with the
last-named man, and turning away I strode across the lawn annoyed.  A
moment later I met Mrs Laing herself.  She was elderly and effusive;
tall, and of stately bearing.  Her hair was perfectly white but by no
means scanty, her face was clever and refined without that grossness
that too often disfigures a well-preserved woman of fifty, and in her
dark eyes, undimmed by time, there was always an expression of calm
contentment.  Her husband had been a great traveller until his death ten
years ago, and she, accompanying him on his journeys in the East, had
become a clever linguist, an accomplishment which her only daughter,
Ella, shared.

As we stood together chatting, and watching the boats full of happy
youths and maidens gliding past in the brilliant afterglow, I thought
that never had I seen Ella looking so handsome, as, standing with
Dudley, she had taken up Beck's theme, and was congratulating him upon
his trip with the skittish widow.

Hers was an oval face, perfect in its symmetry, clear cut and refined, a
trifle pale perhaps, but from her eyes of that darkest blue that
sometimes sparkled into the brightness of a sapphire, sometimes deepened
into softest grey like the sky on a summer night, there shone an inner
beauty, indicative of a purity of soul.  The mouth was mobile, short and
full, with an exquisite finish about the curve of the lips, the nose
short and straight, and the hair of darkest gold--the gold that cannot
be produced artificially, but has a slight dash of red in it, just
sufficient to enrich the brown of the shadows and give a burnish to the
ripples in the high lights.  Her eyebrows were set rather high up from
the eye itself, and were slightly drooped at the corner nearest the ear,
imparting to her face a kind of plaintive, questioning look that was
exceedingly becoming to her.  Her gown was of soft clinging silk of
palest heliotrope, that bore the unmistakable stamp of Paris, while on
her slim wrist I noticed she wore the diamond bangle I had given her six
months before.  As she chatted with Dudley, she turned and laughed at me
gaily over her shoulder from time to time, and when we entered the house
a few minutes later, it was with satisfaction that I found myself placed
beside her at table.

Dinner was always a pleasant, if slightly stately, meal at Mrs Laing's.
She was a brilliant and accomplished hostess, whose entertainments at
her house in Pont Street were always popular, and who surrounded herself
with interesting and intellectual people.  Bohemia was generally well
represented at her receptions, for the lions of the season, whether
literary, artistic, or musical, were always to be met there--a fact
which induced many of the more exclusive set to honour the merry widow
by their presence.  Wearied, however, of the eternal small talk about
new books, new plays, new pictures, and the newest fads, I was glad
when, after smoking, we were free to rejoin the ladies in the quaint,
oak-panelled drawing-room.

The moon had risen, and ere long I strolled with Ella through the French
windows, and out upon the lawn, eager to talk alone with her.

"Well," she said at length, when we were seated in the shadow beneath
one of the high rustling elms, "so you want an explanation.  What can I
give?"

"Your letter conveys the suspicion that there exists some secret between
Beck and yourself," I said, as calmly as I could.

"My letter!" she exclaimed, in a voice that seemed a little harsh and
strained.  "What did I say?  I really forget."

"It's useless to prevaricate, Ella," I said, rather impatiently.  "You
say that if I knew all I would never utter words of love to you.  What
do you mean?"

"Exactly what I wrote," she answered huskily, in a low voice.

"You mean to imply that you are unworthy of the love of an honest man?"
I observed in astonishment.

"Yes," she gasped hoarsely.  "I do not--I--cannot deceive you, Geoffrey,
because I love you."  The last sentence she uttered passionately, with a
fierce fire burning in her eyes.  "You are jealous of Andrew Beck, a man
old enough to be my father.  Well, I confess I was foolish to allow him
to walk with me here with his arm around my waist; yet at that moment
the indiscretion did not occur to me."

"But he was speaking to you--whispering into your ready ears words of
love and tenderness.  He spoke in persuasive tones, as if begging you to
become his wife," I said angrily, the very thought of the scene I had
witnessed filling me with indignation and bitter hatred.

"No, you are entirely mistaken, Geoffrey.  No word of love passed
between us," she said quietly, looking into my eyes with unwavering
glance.

I smiled incredulously.

"You will perhaps deny that here, within six yards of this very spot,
you stopped and burst forth into tears?"  I exclaimed, with cold
cynicism.

"I admit that.  The words he uttered were of sufficient significance to