# Rogues & Company/Chapter 17

pp. 222–232.

### CHAPTER XVII

They stared at each other for a full minute in frankly aghast silence. The Countess's face was whiter than marble; the perspiration stood out in beads on the Count's forehead. Thrice he essayed to speak and twice failed. The third time he managed to bring out her name.
"Theodora!"
"Louis!"
"What in the world are you doing here?"
She drew herself up defiantly.
"I'm running away."
"From me—? Ah, I understand!" He put his shaking hand to his collar. "You have read my letter—you know everything?"
"Your letter? I have it here. I found it on your table—but I have not read it."
"Not read it? Then why are you here? Why are you running away? Ah—it is that Saunders—that scoundrel—"
"Louis—don't you understand? What are you talking about? Haven't you got my note?"
"Your note?"
His jaw dropped. Mechanically he took the crumpled envelope from his pocket and considered it as though it might have been a bomb.
"I hadn't time," he stammered. "I don't understand anything at all."
"Then why are you here? Why have you come after me? How did you know I was in this train?"
"Know?" William Brown clasped his hands in mute appeal to the unseen powers. "I didn't know. Otherwise I'd rather have been hanged, drawn and quartered than have got into this carriage."
"Then—" She endeavoured to steady the trembling of her lips. "I really think it would be simpler if we both read our letters," she said desperately.
"It seems like it," Brown admitted.
In silence they tore open their respective envelopes. For a minute the Rogue's dazed consciousness that she was reading the confession of his villainy blinded him—then he forced himself to read the hastily scrawled lines.
"My husband, I am leaving you because I am unworthy of you. I am a wicked woman. I have deceived you. I have misused your chivalry and goodness. I have taken advantage of your misfortune, I am not Theodora de Melville—I never was. My name—my maiden name—was Theodora Saunders. My people are poor, but, incredible as it may seem, honourable. Two years ago, to help them, I became the Countess de Melville's companion and afterwards her intimate friend. With her I learnt to speak French sufficiently well to deceive you—thanks to our arrangement to speak English in England my knowledge was never put severely to the test—and it was I who fled with her when she came to England to marry you. We waited for you at the appointed meeting place but you never came. We knew nothing of the shipwreck and the Countess believed that she had been betrayed. She dared not return to her people and decided to take refuge with a rich aunt in America. Before she left she gave me all your letters and presents and bade me find you out and give them back to you. I did so—as soon as I heard where you were. Naturally I heard also that you had lost your memory. About that time my family was in desperate straits. My brother, Cecil, whom you met, had made debts of honour which he could not meet and dared not confess to his father. It was he who suggested to me that I should play the part of the Countess Theodora. Our Christian names were the same and I had your letters to help me. Louis—all the same I did not mean to go through with it—but the trick was so horribly, painfully successful. I was driven on and on. Cecil pointed out to me that even if I was found out it wouldn't be so bad. I could have concealed my own identity and my father and mother would have been spared the disgrace of a dishonoured son. You see—it was a choice between the son and the daughter—and it is always better for the daughter to go under, isn't it? Of course my people knew nothing—they believe I am still earning my bread honourably. Cecil helped me to deceive them, but now that he is on his way to South Africa there is no reason why I should go on with the cruel farce. Further deceit is useless and discovery imminent. In any case I could not have borne it any longer. I have acted wickedly, shamelessly, criminally, but I have suffered! Oh, I have suffered terribly. When I think of that dreadful woman—that Mrs. Pagot-Chump—! Of course you had no reason to care for me—I had deceived you and your instinct knew it—but it hurt all the same. And now comes the worst part of my punishment: I must leave you and you must know who I really am. I can hardly bear it. Oh, Louis, Fate has played me such a cruel trick! She has made me care for the man I have treated so badly—she has made me love him. Oh, Louis, if you only knew how miserable I have been you would forgive as I hope you will forget—
"Your loving and unhappy "Theodora."
William Brown looked up. His wife looked up at the same moment. Simultaneously they broke out into an hysterical peal of laughter.
"Louis—you humbug!"
"Theodora—my darling adventuress!"
"Then you're not the Count?"
"No—you're sure you're not the Countess?"
"Positive!"
"Thank Heaven!"
He caught her in a wild joyful embrace and for a full two minutes detectives, pursuing policemen and deeply injured French noblemen were forgotten in a tumult of happiness. Then William Brown gently released himself.
"You don't know what I've done, Theodora," he said. "I've robbed and forged—perhaps murdered. It's a lifer at least if I get caught."
"I don't care—I'll wait for you—I'll hang with you—I'll stand by you whatever happens—whatever you've done!"
"Theodora—angel!"
"My dear, dear Rogue!"
It was at that precise and beautiful moment that the Express went off the rails. The accident has always been one of the mysteries of that particular line for the train was not travelling at a great speed. The shock was nevertheless sufficient to separate the newly united couple and send the Rogue flying across the compartment, where the back of his head encountered the door handle. He was briefly aware of a magnificent display of celestial fireworks and of somebody calling to him from a long way off—then everything rolled away into velvety darkness and peaceful silence.
When the velvety darkness began to thin the Rogue made no attempt to hasten the process. He was feeling very comfortable, very happy, entirely disinclined to exert himself. He was vaguely aware that a change had come over him but what the change was he could not be bothered to think and, when he opened his eyes at last, the sight of his hotel bed-room and a white-haired man seated beside him caused him no particular surprise.
"Hullo, dad!" he said simply and cheerfully. The minute he had spoken however, he knew that something wonderful had happened—that the vaguely felt change had become definite. He sat up with his hand to his bandaged head and stared about him. "Why, what's happened?" he asked.
The old gentleman laid a soothing affectionate hand on his shoulder.
"My dear boy—you've recovered your memory—that's all," he said. "You know who I am, don't you?"
"Of course—you're my father."
"And you know who you are?"
"Why—Roger Lancaster of course!"
Dr. Frohlocken, who had been standing concealed behind the curtains of the window, appeared at this moment, like an unusual looking Deus ex machina.
"May this be a lesson to you all," he said severely. "But more than anyone I blame that idiot—that Inspector. Didn't I protest? Didn't I tell him? Circumstantial evidence! Nonsense! Rubbish! Utterly unscientific. And you yourself, No. 7 led astray by a ridiculous pig! However, let that pass. Do you remember how you came to London?"
"I came to study."
"Right! You observe Mr. Lancaster—you will note—a complete recovery. You remember how you came to lose consciousness."
"I believe I was attacked by someone."
"Probably—and afterwards—when you came round—do you remember that?"
The patient stared at his father in sudden white-faced consternation.
"Why—yes, I do!" he gasped. "Good heavens—what an awful kettle of fish! What shall I do, sir? Get me out of England before that Count and Mrs. Pagot-Chump catch me, or there'll be murder."
Mr. Lancaster chuckled.
"Don't worry, my dear boy. Everything has been explained. Thanks to an—er—slight scientific miscalculation the Count de Beaulieu was arrested yesterday on a charge of fraudulent misrepresentation, but I got him out this morning and he has accepted apologies, explanations and compensations. The Countess is at the present moment in the next room, renewing her friendship and exchanging notes with—your wife." He paused and watched his son narrowly. "It appears that the Count made his escape from the hospital in order to follow the Countess when he heard that she had gone to America. He overtook her in New York and after various explanations and reconciliations they were married out there. As to Mrs. Pagot-Chump—well, she assures me that the pleasure of making your acquaintance atones for any unpleasantness. So you see, all's well that ends well."
Roger Lancaster shook his head.
"It's all a most glorious confusion," he said. "How did you find me out, sir?"
"When I missed you I travelled all over Europe after you," the elder man answered. "Fortunately I obtained the services of this gentleman here." He indicated the small neatly attired individual who was leaning negligently against the mantel-piece. "I think you have met before."
"Washington Jones, Private Detective, at your service," the little man said with an easy bow. "Pleased to welcome you back to your right mind, sir. Thought I knew you when we met in Herbert Street, but couldn't be sure till I got your father on the spot. One of my best jobs, sir."
"I'm sure we're very grateful," Roger answered. He glanced uneasily at the door. "I say though—what about George—and—that—that Pig?"
Mr. Washington Jones' face creased itself into innumerable folds of laughter, though he made no sound.
"George and the Lucky Pig have disappeared and I don't suppose we shall see either of 'em again," he said. "This letter, addressed to the Count de Beaulieu's locum tenens, arrived at the Bunmouth Hotel this morning. I ventured to open it and here it is. If you permit me to read it to you I guess you won't need much more explaining." He took out a dirty sheet of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat.
"Dear old bird," he read out. "You are not Slippery Bill—you're merely a Silly Duffer. What else you are besides this I really don't know except that you're the fellow I dropped on that evening Dr. Frohlocken missed his silver. I changed clothes with you whilst you were dozing on the doorstep—I fear I have rather a heavy hand—and that is how you came to have my Lucky Pig, which animal, by the way, I ventured to nip off your watch-chain at parting. In exchange—I intended to return the gold watch I accepted from you at our first meeting but really we were rather pressed for time, were we not, and I am sure you will not grudge me the little souvenir. Please give my respects to Dr. Frohlocken and tell him his silver was really very much over-estimated and quite beneath my notice. Also suggest to Monsieur Bonnet that he forgive Susan as soon as he recovers his temper. She is quite a nice little thing and should make an excellent cook, if her hands are anything like as light as her brains. And now, good-bye! You were not much good in my profession, but you made an excellent Count, and I have not the slightest doubt that you are really something highly respectable. In any case I shall always bear you in affectionate remembrance as a well intentioned understudy and partner.
"Yours faithfully, "William Brown, alias Slippery Bill."
"P. S. Give my love to the police and tell them that No. 10, Herbert Street is to let—unfurnished."
"Well, upon my word, I hope they don't catch him!" the late William Brown declared delightedly.
"And you can stake your bottom dollar that they won't," said Mr. Washington Jones,—"unless he lands in the States, of course, in which case—"
But the younger Lancaster was not listening. At that moment the door had opened and he held out his hands in glad recognition.
"Theodora!" he said.
She came towards him—bravely and a little defiantly.
"I don't know, now that you have recovered your memory, if you want to see me again," she said.
"I want to see and keep you always."
"You are sure? Remember who I am and what I have done!"
"A man who has rejoiced in the name of Slippery Bill and tried to rob his own father is scarcely in the position to throw stones," observed the elder Lancaster grimly.
"In fact, since we're rather shady characters," his son suggested, "we have just got to join forces, my wife!"
"Rogues & Company!" suggested Dr. Frohlocken pleasantly. But as the two chief members of his audience were far too absorbed in each other to notice him this last stroke of genius passed without recognition.
THE END