In point of fact Dunn had not been asleep when Deede Dawson came listening at his door. Of late he had slept little and that little had been much disturbed by evil, haunting dreams in which perpetually he saw his dead friend, Charley Wright, and dead John Clive always together, while behind them floated the pale and lovely face of Ella, at whom the two dead men looked and whispered to each other.
In the day such thoughts troubled him less, for when he was under the influence of Ella's gentle presence, and when he could watch her clear and candid eyes, he found all doubt and suspicion melting away like snow beneath warm sunshine.
But in the silence of the night they returned, returned very dreadfully, so dreadfully that often as he lay awake in the darkness beads of sweat stood upon his forehead and he would drive his great hands one against the other in his passionate effort to still the thoughts that tormented him. Then, in the morning again, the sound of Ella's voice, the merest glimpse of her grave and gracious personality, would bring back once more his instinctive belief in her.
The morning after Deede Dawson had paid his visit to the attic there was news, however, that disturbed him greatly, for Mrs. Barker, the charwoman who came each morning to Bittermeads, told them that two men in the village—notorious poachers—had been arrested by the police on a charge of being concerned in Mr. Clive's death.
The news was a great shock to Dunn, for, knowing as he thought he did, that the police were working on an entirely wrong idea, he had not supposed they would ever find themselves able to make any arrest. As a matter of fact, these arrests they had made were the result of desperation on the part of the police, who unable to discover anything and entirely absorbed by their preconceived idea that the crime was the work of poachers, had arrested men they knew were poachers in the vague hope of somehow discovering something or of somehow getting hold of some useful clue.
But that Dunn did not know, and feared unlucky chance or undesigned coincidence must have appeared to suggest the guilt of the men and that they were really in actual danger of trial and conviction. He had, too, received that morning, through the secret means of communication he kept open with an agent in London, conclusive proof that at the moment of Clive's death Deede Dawson was in town on business that seemed obscure enough, but none the less in town, and therefore undoubtedly innocent of the actual perpetration of the murder.
Who, then, was left who could have fired the fatal shot?
It was a question Dunn dared not even ask himself but he saw very plainly that if the proceedings against the two arrested men were to be pressed, he would be forced to come forward before his preparations were ready and tell all he knew, no matter at what cost.
All the morning he waited and watched for his opportunity to speak to Ella, who was in a brighter and gayer mood than he had ever seen her in before.
At breakfast Deede Dawson had assured her that he could not conceive what were the suspicions she had referred to the night previously, and while he would certainly have no objection to her mentioning them at any time, in any quarter she thought fit if anything happened at Wreste Abbey—and would indeed be the first to urge her to do so—he, for his part, considered it most unlikely that anything of the sort she seemed to dread would in fact occur.
“Not at all likely,” he said with his happy, beaming smile that never reached those cold eyes of his. “I should say myself that nothing ever did happen at Wreste Abbey, not since the Flood, anyhow. It strikes me as the most peaceful, secluded spot in all England.”
“I'm very glad you think so,” said Ella, tremendously relieved and glad to hear him say so, and supposing, though his smooth words and smiles and protestations deceived her very little, that, at any rate, what she had said had forced him to abandon whatever plans he had been forming in that direction.
Her victory, as it seemed to her, won so easily and containing good promise of further success in the future, cheered her immensely, and it was in almost a happy mood that she went unto the garden after lunch and met Dunn in a quiet, well-hidden corner, where he had been waiting and watching for long.
His appearance startled her—his eyes were so wild, his whole manner so strained and restless, and she gave a little dismayed exclamation as she saw him.
“Oh, what's the matter?” she asked. “Aren't you well? You look—”
She paused for she did not know exactly how it was he did look; and he said in his harshest, most abrupt manner,
“Do you remember Charley Wright?”
“Why do you ask?” she said, puzzled. “Is anything wrong?”
“Do you remember John Clive?” he asked, disregarding this. “Have you heard two men have been arrested for his murder?”
“Mrs. Barker told me so,” she answered gravely. He came a little nearer, almost threateningly nearer.
“What do you think of that?” he asked.
She lifted one hand and put it gently on his arm. The touch of it thrilled him through and through, and he felt a little dazed as he watched it resting on his coat sleeve. She had become very pale also and her voice was low and strained as she said,
“Have you had suspicions too?”
He looked at her as if fascinated for a moment, and then nodded twice and very slowly.
“So have I,” she sighed in tones so low he could scarcely hear them.
“Oh, you, you also,” he muttered, almost suffocating.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes—perhaps the same as yours. My stepfather,” she breathed, “Mr. Deede Dawson.”
He watched her closely and moodily, but he did not speak.
“I was afraid—at first,” she whispered. “But I was wrong—quite wrong. It is as certain as it can be that he was in London at the time.”
From his pocket Dunn took out the handkerchief of hers that he had found near the body of the dead man.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, where did you get it?”
He did not answer, but he lifted his hands one after the other, and put them on her shoulder, with the fingers outspread to encircle her throat. It seemed to him that when she acknowledged the ownership of the handkerchief she acknowledged also the perpetration of the deed, and he became a little mad, and he had it in his mind that the slightest, the very slightest, pressure of his fingers on that soft, round throat would put it for ever out of her power to do such things again. Then for himself death would be easy and welcome, and there would be an end to all these doubts and fears that racked him with anguish beyond bearing.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, making no attempt to resist or escape.
Ever so slightly the pressure of his hands upon her throat strengthened and increased. A very little more and the lovely thing of life he watched would be broken and cold for ever. Her eyes were steady, she showed no sign of fear, she stood perfectly still, her hands loosely clasped together before her. He groaned, and his arms fell to his side, helpless. Without the slightest change of expression, she said:
“What were you going to do?”
“I don't know,” he answered. “Do you ever go mad? I do, I think. Perhaps you do too, and that explains it. Do you know where Charley Wright is?”
“Yes,” she answered directly. “Why? Did you know him, then?”
“You know where he is now?” Dunn repeated.
She nodded quietly.
“I heard from him only last week,” she said.
“I am certainly mad or you are,” he muttered, staring at her with eyes in which such wonder and horror showed that it seemed there really was a touch of madness there.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“You heard from him last week,” he said again, and again she answered:
“Yes—last week. Why not?”
He leaned forward, and before she knew what he intended to do he kissed her pale, cool cheek.
Once more she stood still and immobile, her hands loosely clasped before her. It might have been that he had kissed a statue, and her perfect stillness made him afraid.
“Ella,” he said. “Ella.”
“Why did you do that?” she said, a little wildly now in her turn. “It was not that you were going to do to me before.”
“I love you,” he muttered excusingly.
She shook her head.
“You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears,” she said. “You do not love me, you do not even trust me.”
“I love you all the same,” he asserted positively and roughly. “I loved you—it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night and you looked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt proud. That stung, that stung. I loved you then.”
“You see,” she said sadly, “you do not even pretend to trust me. I don't know why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised with all that growth of hair? There is something you are preparing, planning. I know it. I feel it. What is it?”
“I told you once before,” he answered, “that the end of this will be Deede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing.”
“He is very cunning, very clever,” she said. “Do you think he suspects you?”
“He suspects every one always,” answered Dunn. “I've been trying to get proof to act on. I haven't succeeded. Not yet. Nothing definite. If I can't, I shall act without. That's all.”
“If I told him even half of what you just said,” she said, looking at him. “What would happen?”
“You see, I trust you,” he answered bitterly.
She shook her head, but her eyes were soft and tender as she said:
“It wasn't trust in me made you say all that, it was because you didn't care what happened after.”
“No,” he said. “But when I see you, I forget everything. Do you love me?”
“Why, I've never even seen you yet,” she exclaimed with something like a smile. “I only know you as two eyes over a tangle of hair that I don't believe you ever either brush or comb. Do you know, sometimes I am curious.”
He took her hand and drew her to sit beside him on the bench under a tree near by. All his doubts and fears and suspicions he set far from him, and remembered nothing save that she was the woman for whom yearned all the depths of his soul as by pre-ordained decree. And she, too, for man, to her strange, aloof, mysterious, but dominating all her life as though by primal necessity.
When they parted, it was with an agreement to meet again that evening, and in the twilight they spent a halcyon hour together, saying little, feeling much.
It was only when at last she had left him that he remembered all that had passed, that had happened, that he knew, suspected, dreaded, all that he planned and intended and would be soon called upon to put into action.
“She's made me mad,” he said to himself, and for a long time he sat there in the darkness, in the stillness of the evening, motionless as the tree in whose shade he sat, plunged in the most profound and strange reverie, from which presently his quick ear, alert and keen even when his mind was deep in thought, caught the light and careful sound of an approaching footstep.
In a moment he was up and gliding through the darkness to meet who was coming, and almost at once a voice hailed him cautiously.
“There you are, Dunn,” Deede Dawson said. “I've been looking for you everywhere. Tomorrow or next day we shall be able to strike; everything is ready at last, and I'll tell you now exactly what we are going to do.”
“That's good news,” said Dunn softly.
“Come this way,” Deede Dawson said, and led Dunn through the darkness to the gate that admitted to the Bittermeads grounds from the high road.
Here he paused, and stood for a long time in silence, leaning on the gate and looking out across the road to the common beyond. Close beside him stood Dunn, controlling his impatience as best he could, and wondering if at last the secret springs of all these happenings was to be laid bare to him.
But Deede Dawson seemed in no hurry to begin. For a long time he remained in the same attitude, silent and sombre in the darkness, and when at last he spoke it was to utter a remark that quite took Dunn by surprise.
“What a lovely night,” he said in low and pensive tones, very unlike those he generally used. “I remember when I was a boy—that's a long time ago.”
Dunn was too surprised by this sudden and very unexpected lapse into sentiment to answer. Deede Dawson went on as if thinking to himself:
“A long time—I've done a lot—seen a lot since then—too much, perhaps—I remember mother told me once—poor soul, I believe she used to be rather proud of me—”
“Your mother?” Dunn said wondering greatly to think this man should still have such memories.
But Deede Dawson seemed either to resent his tone or else to be angry with himself for giving way to such weakness. In a voice more like his usual one, he said harshly and sneeringly:
“Oh, yes, I had a mother once, just like everybody else. Why not? Most people have their mothers, though it's not an arrangement I should care to defend. Now then, Ella was with you tonight; you and she were alone together a long time.”
“Well,” growled Dunn, “what of it?”
“Fine girl, isn't she?” asked Deede Dawson, and laughed.
Dunn did not speak. It filled him with such loathing to hear this man so much as utter Ella's name, it was all he could do to keep his hands motionless by his side and not make use of them about the other's throat.
“She's been useful, very useful,” Deede Dawson went on meditatively. “Her mother had some money when I married her. I don't mind telling you it's all spent now, but Ella's a little fortune in herself.”
“I didn't know we came to talk about her,” said Dunn slowly. “I thought you had something else to say to me.”
“So I have,” Deede Dawson answered. “That's why I brought you here. We are safe from eavesdroppers here, in a house you can never tell who is behind a curtain or a door. But then, Ella is a part of my plans, a very important part. Do you remember I told you I might want you to take a second packing-case away from here in the car one night?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Dunn slowly. “I remember. What would be in it? The same sort of thing that was in—that other?”
“Yes,” answered Deede Dawson. “Much the same.”
“I shall want to see for myself,” said Dunn. “I'm a trustful sort of person, but I don't go driving about the country with packing-cases late at night unless I've seen for myself what's inside.”
“Very wise of you,” yawned Deede Dawson. “That's just what Ella said—what's that?”
For instinctively Dunn had raised his hand, but he lowered it again at once.
“Oh, cut the cackle,” he said impatiently. “Tell me what you want me to do, and make it plain, very plain, for I can tell you there's a good deal about all this I don't understand, and I'm not inclined to trust you far. For one thing, what are you after yourself? Where do you come in? What are you going to get? And there's another thing I want to say. If you are thinking of playing any tricks on me don't do it, unless you are ready to take big risks. There's only one man alive who ever made a fool of me, and his name is Rupert Dunsmore, and I don't think he's today what insurance companies call a good risk. Not by any manner of means.” He paused to laugh harshly. “Let's get to business,” he said. “Look here, how do I know you mean all you say about Rupert Dunsmore? What's he to you?”
“Nothing,” answered Deede Dawson promptly. “Nothing. But there's some one I'm acting for to whom he is a good deal.”
“Who is that?” Dunn asked sharply.
“Do you think I'm going to tell you?” retorted the other, and laughed in his cold, mirthless manner. “Perhaps you aren't the only one who owes him a grudge.”
“That's likely enough, but I want to know where I'm standing,” said Dunn. “Is this unknown person you say you are acting for anxious to bring about Rupert Dunsmore's death?”
“I'm not answering any questions, so you needn't ask them,” replied Deede Dawson.
“But I will tell you that there's something big going on. Or I shouldn't be in it, I don't use my brains on small things, you know. If it comes off all right, I—” He paused, and for once a thrill of genuine emotion sounded in his voice. “Thousands,” he said abruptly. “Yes, and more—more. But there's an obstacle—Rupert Dunsmore. It's your place to remove him. That'll suit you, and it'll mean good pay, as much as you like to ask for in reason. And Ella, if you want her. The girl won't be any use to me when this is over, and you can have her if you like. I don't think she'll object from what I can see—not that it would matter if she did. So there you are. Put Rupert Dunsmore out of the way and it'll be the best day's work you've ever done, and you shall have Ella into the bargain—if you claim her. Makeweight.”
He began to laugh again and Dunn laughed, too, for while he was not sure what it was that amused Deede Dawson, there were certain aspects of all this that bore for him a very curious and ironic humour.
“All right,” he said. “You bring me face to face with Rupert Dunsmore and you won't have to grumble about the result, for I swear only one of us will go away alive. But how are you going to do it?”
“I've my plan, and it's simple enough,” answered Deede Dawson. “Though I can tell you it took some working out. But the simplest problem is always the best, whether in life or in chess.” Again he indulged in a low and guarded outburst of his thin, mirthless laughter before he continued: “I suppose you know Rupert Dunsmore is one of those restless people who are never content except when wandering about in some out of the way place or another, as often as not no one having the least idea of his whereabouts. Then he turns up unexpectedly, only to disappear again when the whim takes him. Lately he has been away on one of these trips, but I happen to know he is coming back almost at once—what's the matter?”
“I was only wondering how you knew that,” answered Dunn, who had given a sudden start.
“Oh, I know, never mind how,” Deede Dawson said. “I know that tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock he will be waiting by the side of Brook Bourne Spring in Ottom's Wood, near General Dunsmore's place. Which is as out of the way and quiet and lonely a spot as you could wish for.”
“And you have information that he will be there?” Dunn said incredulously. “How can you possibly be sure of that?”
“Never mind how,” answered Deede Dawson. “I am sure. That's enough. My information is certain.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” Dunn muttered. “You are a wonderful man, Mr. Dawson. You know everything—or nearly everything. You are sure of everything—or nearly everything—but suppose he changes his mind at the last moment and doesn't come after all?”
“He won't,” answered Deede Dawson. “You be there and you'll find him there all right.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Dunn slowly. “But what I want to know is why you are so sure? There's a good deal hangs on your being right, you know.”
“I only wish I was as certain of everything else,” Deede Dawson said.
“Oh, all right,” exclaimed Dunn. “I suppose you know and you may be right.”
“I am,” Deede Dawson assured him. “Listen carefully now, there mustn't be any blunders. You are to make an early start tomorrow. I don't want you to take the car for fear of its being seen and identified. You must take the train to London and then another train back immediately to Delsby. From Delsby you'll have an eighteen-mile walk through lonely country where you aren't likely to meet any one, and must try not to. The less you are seen the better. You know that for yourself, and for your own sake you'll be careful. You'll have no time to spare, but you will be able to get to the place I told you of by four all right—no earlier, no later. You must arrange to be there at four exactly. You may spoil all if you are too early. Almost as soon as you get there, Rupert Dunsmore will arrive. You must do the rest for yourself, and then you must strike straight across country for here. You can look up your routes on the map. There will be less risk of attracting attention if you come and go by different ways. You ought to be here again some time in the small hours. I'll let you in, and you'll have cleared your own score with Rupert Dunsmore and earned more money than you ever have had in all your life before. Now, can I depend on you?”
“Yes—yes,” answered Dunn, over whom there had come a new and strange sense of unreality as he stood and listened to cold-blooded murder being thus calmly, coolly planned, as though it were some afternoon's pleasure trip that was being arranged, so that he hardly knew whether he did, in fact, hear this smooth, low, unceasing voice that from the darkness at his side laid down such a bloody road for his feet to travel.
“Oh, yes, you can depend on me,” he said. “But can I depend on you, when you say Rupert Dunsmore will be there at that time and that place?”
It was a moment or two before Deede Dawson answered, and then his voice was very low and soft and confident as he said:
“Yes, you can—absolutely. You see, I know his plans.”
“Oh, do you?” Dunn said as though satisfied. “Oh, well then, it's no wonder you're so sure.”
“No wonder at all,” agreed Deede Dawson. “There's just one other thing I can tell you. Some one else will be there, too, at Brook Bourne Spring in Ottam's Wood.”
“Who's that?” asked Dunn sharply.
“The man,” said Deede Dawson, “who is behind all this—the man you and I are working for—the man who's going to pay us, even better than he thinks.”
“He—he will be there?” repeated Dunn, drawing a deep, breath.
“Yes, but you won't see him, and it wouldn't help you if you did,” Deede Dawson told him. “Most likely he'll be disguised—a mask, perhaps; I don't know. Anyhow, he'll be there. Watching. I'm not suggesting you would do such a thing as never go near the place, loaf around a bit, then come back and report Rupert Dunsmore out of the way for good, draw your pay and vanish, and leave us to find out he was as lively and troublesome as ever. I don't think you would do that, because you sounded as if you meant what you said when you told me he was your worst enemy. But it's just as well to be sure, and so we mean to have a witness; and as it's what you might call a delicate matter, that witness will most likely be our employer himself. So you had better do the job thoroughly if you want your pay.”
“I see you take your precautions,” remarked Dunn. “Well, that's all right, I don't mind.”
“You understand exactly what you've got to do?” Deede Dawson asked.
Dunn nodded.
“What about Allen?” he asked. “Does he take any part in this show?”
“He and I are planning a little visit to Wreste Abbey rather early the same night, during the dinner-hour most likely,” answered Deede Dawson carelessly. “We can get in at one of the long gallery windows quite easily, Allen says. He kept his eyes open that day you all went there. It may be helpful to give the police two problems to work on at once; and besides, big as this thing is, there's a shortage of ready money at present. But our little affair at Wreste Abbey will have nothing to do with you. You mind what you've got to do, and don't trouble about anything else. See?”
“I see,” answered Dunn slowly. “And if you can arrange for Rupert Dunsmore to be there at that time all right, I'll answer for the rest.”
“You needn't be uneasy about that,” Deede Dawson said, and laughed. “You see, I know his plans,” he repeated, and laughed again; and still laughing that chill, mirthless way of his, he turned and walked back towards the house.
Dunn watched him go through the darkness, and to himself he muttered:
“Yes, but I wonder if you do.”
The hour was late by now, but Dunn felt no inclination for sleep, and there was no need for him to return indoors as yet, since Deede Dawson, who always locked up the house himself, never did so till past midnight. Till the small hours, very often he was accustomed to sit up absorbed in those chess problems, the composing and solving of which were his great passion, so that, indeed, it is probable that under other circumstances he might have passed a perfectly harmless and peaceful existence, known to wide circles as an extraordinarily clever problemist and utterly unknown elsewhere.
But the Fate that is, after all, but man's own character writ large, had decreed otherwise. And the little, fat, smiling man bending over his travelling chess board on which he moved delicately to and fro the tiny red and white men of carved ivory, now and again removing a piece and laying it aside, had done as much with as little concern to his fellow creatures from the very beginning of his terrible career.
Outside, leaning on the gate where Deede Dawson had left him, Dunn was deep in thought that was not always very comforting, for there was very much in all this laid out for him to accomplish that he did not understand and that disturbed him a good deal.
A careful, cautious “Hist!” broke in upon his thoughts, and in an instant he stiffened to close attention, every nerve on the alert.
The sound was repeated, a faint and wary footstep sounded, and in the darkness a form appeared and stole slowly nearer.
Dunn poised for a moment, ready for attack or retreat, and then all at once his tense attitude relaxed.
“You, Walter,” he exclaimed. “That's good! But how did you get here? And how did you know where I was?”
The new-comer drew a little nearer and showed the tall, thin form of Walter Dunsmore to whom Dunn had spoken at Wreste Abbey.
“I had to come,” he murmured. “I couldn't rest without seeing you. You upset me the other day, saying what you did. Isn't it very dangerous your being here? Suppose Deede Dawson—”
“Oh, if he suspected, there would soon be an end of me,” answered Dunn grimly. “But I think I'm going to win—at least, I did till tonight.”
“What's happened?” the other asked sharply and anxiously.
“He has been telling me his plans,” answered Dunn. “He has told me everything—he has put himself entirely in my power—he has done what I have been waiting and hoping for ever since I came here. He has given me his full confidence at last, and I never felt more uneasy or less certain of success than I do at this moment.”
“He has told you—everything?” Walter Dunsmore asked. “Everything, except who is behind it all,” answered Dunn. “I asked him who he was acting for, and he refused to say. But we shall know that tomorrow, for he told me something almost as good—he told me where this employer would be at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. So then we shall have him, unless Deede Dawson was lying.”
“Of course, it all depends on finding that out,” remarked Walter thoughtfully. “Finding out his identity.”
“Yes, that's the key move to the problem,” Dunn said. “And tomorrow we shall know it, if Deede Dawson was speaking the truth just now.”
“I should think he was,” said Walter slowly. “I should think it is certain he was. You may depend on that, I think.”
“I think so, too,” agreed Dunn. “But how did you find out where I was?”
“You know that day you came to Wreste Abbey? There was some fellow you had with you who told the landlord of the Chobham Arms, so I easily found out from him,” answered Walter.
“Anyhow, I'm glad you're here,” Dunn said. “I was wondering how to get in touch with you. Well, this is Deede Dawson's plan in brief. Tomorrow, at four in the afternoon, Rupert Dunsmore is to be killed—and I've undertaken to do the deed.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Walter, starting.
“I've promised that if Deede Dawson will bring me face to face with Rupert Dunsmore, I'll murder him,” answered Dunn, laughing softly.
“A fairly safe offer on your part, isn't it?” observed Walter. “At least, unless there's any saving clause about mirrors.”
“Oh, none,” answered Dunn. “I told Deede Dawson Rupert Dunsmore was my worst enemy, and that's true enough, for I think every man's worst enemy is himself.”
“I wish I had none worse,” muttered Walter.
“I think you haven't, old chap,” Dunn said smilingly. “But come across the road. It'll be safer on the common. Deede Dawson is so cunning one is never safe from him. One can never be sure he isn't creeping up behind.”
“Well, I daresay it's wise to take every precaution,” observed Walter. “But I can't imagine either him or any one else getting near you without your knowledge.”
Robert Dunn,—or rather, Rupert Dunsmore, as was his name by right of birth—laughed again to himself, very softly in the darkness.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “But I take no chances I can avoid with Deede Dawson. Come along.”
They crossed the road together and sat down on the common at an open spot, where none could well approach them unheard or unseen. Dunn laid his hand affectionately on Walter's shoulder as they settled themselves.
“Old chap,” he said. “It was good of you to come here. You've run some risk. It's none too safe near Bittermeads. But I'm glad to see you, Walter. It's a tremendous relief after all this strain of doubt and watching and suspicion to be with some one I know—some one I can trust—some one like you, Walter.”
In the darkness, Walter put out his hand and took Dunn's and held it for a moment.
“I have been anxious about you,” he said. Dunn returned the pressure warmly.
“I know,” he said. “Jove, old chap, it's good to see you again. You don't know what it's like after all this long time, feeling that every step was a step in the dark, to be at last with a real friend again.”
“I think I can guess,” Walter said softly.
Dunn shook his head.
“No one could,” he said. “I tell you I've doubted, distrusted, suspected till I wasn't sure of my own shadow. Well, that's all over now. Tomorrow we can act.”
“Tell me what I'm to do,” Walter Dunsmore said.
“There's a whole lot I don't understand yet,” Dunn continued slowly. “I suppose it was that that was making me feel so jolly down before you came. I don't feel sure somehow—not sure. Deede Dawson is such a cunning brute. He seems to have laid his whole hand bare, and yet there may be cards up his sleeve still. Besides, his plan he told me about seems so bald. And I don't understand why he should think he is so sure of what I—I mean, of what Rupert—it's a bit confusing to have a double identity—is going to do. He says he is sure Rupert Dunsmore is to be at the Brook Bourne Spring tomorrow at four. He says his information is certain, and that he has full knowledge of what Rupert Dunsmore is going to do, which is more than I have. But what can it be that's making him so sure?”
“That's probably simple enough,” said Walter. “You said you suspected there was a leakage from Burns & Swift's office, and you told Burns to make misleading statements about your movements occasionally when he was dictating his letters. Well, I expect this is one.”
“That may be; only Deede Dawson seems so very sure,” answered Dunn. “But what's specially important is his saying that his employer, whoever it is, who is behind all this, will be there too.”
“A meeting? Is that it?” exclaimed Walter.
“No, that's not the idea,” answered Dunn. “You see, the idea is that Rupert Dunsmore will be there at four, and that I'm to be there in ambush to murder myself. Whoever is behind all this will be there too—to see I carry out my work properly. And that gives us our chance.”
“Oh, that's good,” exclaimed Walter. “We shall have him for certain.”
“That's what I want you to see to,” said Dunn. “I want you to have men you can trust well hidden all round, ready to collar him. And I want you to have all the roads leading to Ottam's Wood well watched and every one going along them noted. You understand?”
“That's quite easy,” declared Walter. “I can promise not a soul will get into Ottam's Wood without being seen, and I'll make very sure indeed of getting hold of any one hiding anywhere near Brook Bourne Spring. And once we've done that—once we know who it is—”
“Yes,” agreed Dunn. “We shall be all right then. That is the one thing necessary to know—the key move to the problem—the identity of who it is pulling the strings. He must be a clever beggar; anyhow, I mean to see him hang for it yet.”
“I daresay he's clever,” agreed Walter. “He is playing for big stakes. Anyhow, we'll have him tomorrow all right; that seems certain—at last.”
“At last,” agreed Dunn, with a long-drawn sigh. “Ugh! it's all been such a nightmare. It's been pretty awful, knowing there was some one—not able to guess who. Ever since you discovered that first attempt, ever since we became certain there was a plot going on to clear out every one in succession to the Chobham estates—and that was jolly plain, though the fools of police did babble about no evidence, as if pistol bullets come from nowhere and poisoned cups of tea—”
“Ah, I was to blame there, that was my fault,” said Walter. “You see, we had no proof about the shooting, and when I had spilt that tea, no proof of poison either. I shall always regret that.”
“A bit of bad luck,” Dunn agreed. “But accidents will happen. Anyhow, it was clear enough some one was trying to make a jolly clear sweep. It may be a madman; it may be some one with a grudge against us; it may be, as poor Charley thought, some one in the line of succession, who is just clearing the way to inherit the title and estates himself. I wish I knew what made Charley suspicious of Deede Dawson in the first place.”
“You don't know that?” Walter asked.
“No, he never told me,” answered Dunn. “Poor Charley, it cost him his life. That's another thing we must find out—where they've hidden his body.”
“He was sure from the first,” remarked Walter, “that it was a conspiracy on the part of some one in the line of succession?”
“Yes,” agreed Dunn. “It's likely enough, too. You see, ever since that big family row and dispersion eighty years ago, a whole branch of the family has been entirely lost sight of. There may be half a dozen possible heirs we know nothing about. Like poor John Clive. I daresay if we had known of his existence we should have begun by suspecting him.”
“There's one thing pretty sure,” remarked Walter. “If these pleasant little arrangements did succeed, it would be a fairly safe guess that the inheritor of the title and estates was the guilty person. It might be brought home to him, too.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Dunn dryly. “But just a trifle too late to interest me for one. And I don't mean to let the dad or uncle be sacrificed if I can help it. I failed with Clive, poor fellow, but I don't mean to again, and I don't see how we can. Deede Dawson has exposed his hand. Now we can play ours.”
“But what are you going to do?” Walter asked. “Are you going to follow out his instructions?”
“To the letter,” Dunn answered. “We are dealing with very wary, suspicious people, and the least thing might make them take alarm. The important point, of course, is the promise that Deede Dawson's employer will be at Brook Bourne Spring tomorrow afternoon. That's our trump card. Everything hangs on that. And to make sure there's no hitch, I shall do exactly what I've been told to do. I expect I shall be watched. I shall be there at four o'clock, and ten minutes after I hope we shall have laid hands on—whoever it is.”
Walter nodded.
“I don't see how we can fail,” he said.
“No,” Dunn agreed after a long pause. “No, I don't see myself how failure is possible; I don't see what there is to go wrong. All the same, I shan't be sorry when it's all over; I suppose I'm nervous, that's the truth of it. But Deede Dawson's hardly the sort of man I should have expected to lay all his cards on the table so openly.”
“Oh, I think that's natural enough,” answered Walter. “Quite natural—he thinks you are in with him and he tells you what he wants you to do. But I don't quite see the object of your visit to the Abbey the other day. You gave me the shock of my life, I think. I hadn't the least idea who you were—that beard makes a wonderful difference.”
Dunn laughed quietly.
“It's a good disguise,” he admitted. “I didn't quite know myself first time I looked in a mirror. We went to the Abbey to prepare for a burglary there.”
“Oh, is that on the cards, too?” exclaimed Walter. “I didn't expect that.”
“Yes,” answered Dunn. “My own idea is that Deede Dawson sees an opportunity for making a bit on his own. After all of us are disposed of and his friend has got the title and estates, he won't dare to prosecute of course, and so Deede Dawson thinks it a good opportunity to visit the Abbey and pick up any pictures or heirlooms or so-so he can that it would be almost impossible to dispose of in the ordinary way, but that he expects he will be able to sell back at a good price to the new owner of the property. I think he calculates that that gentleman will be ready to pay as much as he is asked. I don't know, but I think that's his idea from something he said the other day about the uselessness of even good stuff from a big house unless you knew of a sure market, or could sell it back again to the owner.”
“Jolly clever idea if it works all right,” said Walter slowly. “I can see Mr. Deede Dawson is a man who needs watching. And I suppose we had better be on the look-out at the Abbey tomorrow night?”
“Evening,” corrected Dunn. “It's planned for the dinner-hour.”
“Right,” said Walter. “We shall see some crowded hours tomorrow, I expect. Well, it's like this, as I understand it—we had better be sure everything is quite clear. Their idea is that you will meet and murder Rupert Dunsmore, who they have no notion is really your own self, at Brook Bourne Spring at four tomorrow afternoon, and the unknown somebody who is behind all this business will be in hiding there to make sure you do your work properly. Our idea is to watch all the roads leading to Ottam's Wood and to have men in ambush near the spring to seize any one hiding there at that time. Then we shall know who is at the bottom of all these plots and shall be able to smash the whole conspiracy. In addition, Deede Dawson and this other man you speak of, Allen, are going to break into the Abbey tomorrow evening and we are to be ready for them and catch them in the act?”
“Yes,” said Dunn, “that's the idea; you can manage all right?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Walter. “It's all simple enough—you've planned it out so jolly well there's nothing much left for me to do. And I don't see what you're nervous about; there's nothing that can go wrong very well—your plans are perfect, I think.”
“It's easy enough to make plans when you know just what the other side are going to do,” observed Dunn. “There's one point more. Miss Cayley—I mentioned her in one of the notes I sent you through Burns.”
“Yes, I remember—Deede Dawson's step-daughter,” said Walter. “I suppose she is in it?”
“She is not; she knows nothing,” declared Dunn vehemently.
“But it was she who took away poor Charley's body, wasn't it?” asked Walter. “But for that you would have had evidence enough to act on at once, wouldn't you?”
“She did not know what she was doing,” Dunn replied. “And now she is in danger herself. I am convinced Deede Dawson is growing afraid of her, he dropped hints; I'm sure he is planning something, perhaps he means to murder her as well. So besides these other arrangements I want to see that there's a trustworthy man watching here. I don't anticipate that there's any immediate danger—it's almost certain that if he means anything he will wait till he sees how this other business is turning out. But I want some one trustworthy to be at hand in case of need. You will see to that?”
“Oh, yes, I can spare Simmonds; I'll send him,” answered Walter. “Though, I must say, my dear chap, I don't think I should trouble much about that young lady. But it can be easily managed, in fact everything you want me to do is easy enough; I only wish some of it was a bit difficult or dangerous.”
“You're a good chap, Walter,” said Dunn, putting his hand on the other's shoulder again. “Well, I think it's all settled now. I tell you I'm looking forward a good deal to four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I feel as if I would give all I possess to know who it is.”
“Don't make that offer,” Walter said with a smile, “or the fates may accept it.”
“I feel as though there's only one thing in the world I want one half so much,” Dunn said. “As to know who this—devil is.”
“Devil?” repeated Walter. “Well, yes, devil's a word like any other.”
“I think it's justified in this case,” said Dunn sternly. “Poor Charley Wright dead! One thing I can't understand about that is how they got him back here when you saw him in London when you did. But they're a cunning lot. They must have worked it somehow. Then Clive. I feel to blame for Clive's death—as if I ought to have managed better and saved him. Now there's this other devilry they are planning. I tell you, Walter, I feel the whole world will be a sweeter place after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“At any rate,” said Walter, “I think we may be sure of one thing—after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon you will know all—all.” He paused and repeated, slightly varying the phrase: “Yes, after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon you will know everything—everything.” He added in a brisker tone: “There's nothing else to arrange?”
“No,” said Dunn, “I don't think so, and I had better go now or Deede Dawson will be suspecting something. He'll want to know what I've been stopping out so late for. Good-bye, old chap, and good luck.”
They shook hands.
“Good-bye and good luck, Rupert, old man,” Walter said. “You may depend on me—you know that.”
“Yes, I do know that,” Dunn answered.
They shook hands again, and Dunn said: “You've hurt your hand. It's tied up. Is it anything much?”
“No, no,” answered Walter with a little laugh. “A mere scratch. I scratched it on a bit of wood, a lid that didn't fit properly.”
“Well, good-bye and good luck,” Dunn said again, and they parted, Walter disappearing into the darkness and Dunn returning to the house.
Deede Dawson heard him enter, and he came to the door of the room in which he had been sitting.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “Been enjoying the night air or what? You've been a long time.”
“I've been thinking,” Dunn muttered in the heavy, sulky manner he always assumed at Bittermeads.
“Not weakening, eh?” asked Deede Dawson.
“No,” answered Dunn. “I'm not.”
“Good,” Deede Dawson exclaimed. “There's a lot to win, and no fear of failure. I don't see that failure's possible. Do you?”
“No,” answered Dunn. “I suppose not.”
“The mate's sure this time,” Deede Dawson declared. “It's our turn to move, and whatever reply the other side makes, we're sure of our mate next move. By the way, did you ever solve that problem I showed you the other day?”
“Yes, I think so,” answered Dunn. “It was a long time before I could hit on the right move, but I managed it at last, I think.”
“Come and show me, then,” said Deede Dawson, bustling back into his room and beginning to set up the pieces on his travelling chess-board. “This was the position, wasn't it? Now, what's your move?”
Dunn showed him, and Deede Dawson burst into a laugh that had in it for once a touch of honest enjoyment.
“Yes, that would do it, but for one thing you haven't noticed,” he said. “Black can push the pawn at KB7 and make it, not a queen, but a knight, giving check to your king and no mate for you next move.”
“Yes, that's so,” agreed Dunn. “I hadn't thought of that.”
“Unexpected, eh? Making the pawn a knight?” smiled Deede Dawson. “But in chess, and in life, it's the unexpected you have to look out for.”
“That's quite an aphorism,” said Dunn. “It's true, too.”
He went up to bed, but did not sleep well, and when at last he fell into a troubled slumber, it seemed to him that Charley Wright and John Clive were there, one on each side of him, and that they had come, not because they sought for vengeance, but because they wished to warn him of a doom like their own that they could see approaching but he could not.
Toward's morning he got an hour's sound rest, and he was down stairs in good time. He did not see Ella, but he heard her moving about, so knew that she was safe as yet; and Deede Dawson gave him some elaborate parting instructions, a little money, and a loaded revolver.
“I don't know that I want that,” said Dunn. “My hands will be all I need once I'm face to face with Rupert Dunsmore.”
“That's the right spirit,” said Deede Dawson approvingly. “But the pistol may be useful too. You needn't use it if you can manage without, but you may as well have it. Good-bye, and the best of luck. Take care of yourself, and don't lose your head or do anything foolish.”
“Oh, you can trust me,” said Dunn.
“I think I can,” smiled Deede Dawson. “I think I can. Good-bye. Be careful, avoid noise and fuss, don't be seen any more than you can help, and if you shoot, aim low.”
“There's a vade mecum for the intending assassin,” Dunn thought grimly to himself, but he said nothing, gave the other a sullen nod, and started off on his strange and weird mission of murdering himself. He found himself wondering if any one else had ever been in such a situation. He did not suppose so.