"Harry Bellairswas an old friend of mine," Trendall went on, leaning back in his padded writing-chair and turning towards where the novelist was standing. "His curious end was a problem which, of course, attracted you as a writer of fiction. The world believed his death to be due to natural causes, in view of the failure of Professors Dale and Boyd, the Home Office analysts, to find a trace of poison or of foul play."
"You believe, then, that he was poisoned?" asked Fetherston quickly.
The other shrugged his shoulders, saying: "How can that point be cleared up? There was no evidence of it."
"It is curious that, though we are both so intensely interested in the problem, we have never before discussed it," remarked Walter. "I am so anxious to hear your views upon one or two points. What, for instance, do you think of Barker, the dead man's valet?"
Herbert Trendall hesitated, and for a moment twisted his moustache. He was a marvellously alert man, an unusually good linguist, and a cosmopolitan to his finger-tips. He had been a detective-sergeant in the T Division of Metropolitan Police for years before his appointment as director of that section. He knew more of the criminal undercurrents on the Continent than any living Englishman, and it was he who furnished accurate information to the Sûreté in Paris concerning the great Humbert swindle.
"Well," he said, "if I recollect aright, the inquiries regarding him were not altogether satisfactory. Previous to his engagement by Harry he had, it seems, been valet to a man named Mitchell, a horse-trainer of rather shady repute."
"Where is he now?"
"I really don't know, but I can easily find out—I gave orders that he was not to be lost sight of." And, scribbling a hasty memorandum, he pressed the electric button upon the arm of his chair.
His secretary, a tall, thin, deep-eyed man, entered, and to him he gave the note.
"Well, let us proceed while they are looking up the information," the chief went on. "Harry Bellairs, as you know, was on the staffof Sir Hugh Elcombe, that dear, harmless old friend of yours who inspects troops and seems to do odd jobs for Whitehall. I knew Harry before he went to Sandhurst; his people, who lived up near Durham, were very civil to me once or twice and gave me some excellent pheasant-shooting. It seems that on that day in September he came up to town from Salisbury—but you know all the facts, of course?"
"I know all the facts as far as they were related in the papers," Walter said. He did not reveal the results of the close independent inquiries he had already made—results which had utterly astounded, and at the same time mystified, him.
"Well," said Trendall, "what the Press published was mostly fiction. Even the evidence given before the coroner was utterly unreliable. It was mainly given in order to mislead the jury and prevent public suspicion that there had been a sensational tragedy—I arranged it so."
"And there had been a tragedy, no doubt?"
"Of course," declared the other, leaning both elbows upon the table before him and looking straight into the novelist's pale face. "Harry came up from Salisbury, the bearer of some papers from Sir Hugh. He duly arrived at Waterloo, discharged his duty, and went to hisrooms in Half Moon Street. Now, according to Barker's story, his master arrived home early in the afternoon, and sent him out on a message to Richmond. He returned a little after five, when he found his master absent."
"That was the account he gave at the inquest," remarked Fetherston.
"Yes; but it was not the truth. On testing the man's story I discovered that at three-eighteen he was in the Leicester Lounge, in Leicester Square, with an ill-dressed old man, who was described as being short and wearing a rusty, old silk hat. They sat at a table near the window drinking ginger-ale, so that the barmaid could not overhear, and held a long and confidential chat."
"He may afterwards have gone down to Richmond," his friend suggested.
"No; he remained there until past four, and then went round to the Café Royal, where he met another man, a foreigner, of about his own age, believed to have been a Swiss, with whom he took a cup of coffee. The man was a stranger at the café, probably a stranger in London. Barker was in the habit of doing a little betting, and I believe the men he met were some of his betting friends."
"Then you disbelieve the Richmond story?"
"Entirely. What seems more than probable is that Harry gave his man the afternoon off because he wished to entertain somebody clandestinely at his rooms—a woman, perhaps. Yet, as far as I've been able to discover, no one in Half Moon Street saw any stranger of either sex go to his chambers that afternoon."
"You said that you believed the motive of the crime—if crime it really was—was jealousy," remarked Fetherston, thoughtfully rubbing his shaven chin.
"And I certainly do. Harry was essentially a lady's man. He was tall, and an extremely handsome fellow, a thorough-going sportsman, an excellent polo player, a perfect dancer, and a splendid rider to hounds. Little wonder was it that he was about to make a very fine match, for only a month before his death he confided to me in secret the fact—a fact known to me alone—that he was engaged to pretty little Lady Blanche Herbert, eldest daughter of the Earl of Warsborough."
"Engaged to Lady Blanche!" echoed the novelist in surprise, for the girl in question was the prettiest of that year's débutantes as well as a great heiress in her own right.
"Yes. Harry was a lucky dog, poor fellow. The engagement, known only to the Warsboroughs and myself, was to have been kept secret for a year. Now, it is my firm opinion, Fetherston, that some other woman, one of Harry's many female friends, had got wind of it, and very cleverly had her revenge."
"Upon what grounds do you suspect that?" asked the other eagerly—for surely the problem was becoming more inscrutable than any of those in the remarkable romances which he penned.
"Well, my conclusions are drawn from several very startling facts—facts which, of course, have never leaked out to the public. But before I reveal them to you I'd like to hear what opinion you've formed yourself."
"I'm convinced that Harry Bellairs met with foul play, and I'm equally certain that the man Barker lied in his depositions before the coroner. He knows the whole story, and has been paid to keep a still tongue."
"There I entirely agree with you," Trendall declared quickly; while at that moment the secretary returned with a slip of paper attached to the query which his chief had written. "Ah!" he exclaimed, glancing at the paper, "I see that the fellow Barker, who was a chauffeur before he entered Harry's service, has set up a motor-car business in Southampton."
"You believe him to have been an accessory, eh?"
"Yes, a dupe in the hands of a clever woman."
"Of what woman?" asked Walter, holding his breath.
"As you know, Harry was secretary to your friend Elcombe. Well, I happen to know that his pretty stepdaughter, Enid Orlebar, was over head and ears in love with him. My daughter Ethel and she are friends, and she confided this fact to Ethel only a month before the tragedy."
"Then you actually suggest that a—a certain woman murdered him?" gasped Fetherston.
"Well—there is no actual proof—only strong suspicion!"
Walter Fetherston held his breath. Did the suspicions of this man, from whom no secret was safe, run in the same direction as his own?
"There was in the evidence given before the coroner a suggestion that the captain had dined somewhere in secret," he said.
"I know. But we have since cleared up that point. He was not given poison while he sat at dinner, for we know that he dined at the Bachelors' with a man named Friend. They had a hurried meal, because Friend had to catch a train to the west of England."
"And afterwards?"
"He left the club in a taxi at eight. But what his movements exactly were we cannot ascertain. He returned to his chambers at a quarter past nine in order to change his clothes and go back to Salisbury, but he was almost immediately taken ill. Barker declares that his master sent him out on an errand instantly on his return, and that when he came in he found him dying."
"Did he not explain what the errand was?"
"No; he refused to say."
In that refusal Fetherston saw that the valet, whatever might be his fault, was loyal to his dead master and to Enid Orlebar. He had not told how Bellairs had sent to Hill Street that scribbled note, and how the distressed girl had torn along to Half Moon Street to arrive too late to speak for the last time with the man she loved. Was Barker an enemy, or was he a friend?
"That refusal arouses distinct suspicion, eh?"
"Barker has very cleverly concealed some important fact," replied the keen-faced man who controlled that section of Scotland Yard. "Bellairs, feeling deadly ill, and knowing that he had fallen a victim to some enemy, sent Barker out for somebody in whom to confide.The man claimed that the errand that his master sent him upon was one of confidence."
"And to whom do you think he was sent?"
"To a woman," was Trendall's slow and serious reply. "To the woman who murdered him!"
"But if she had poisoned him, surely he would not send for her?" exclaimed Fetherston.
"At the moment he was not aware of the woman's jealousy, or of the subtle means used to cause his untimely end. He was unsuspicious of that cruel, deadly hatred lying so deep in the woman's breast. Lady Blanche, on hearing of the death of her lover, was terribly grieved, and is still abroad. She, of course, made all sorts of wild allegations, but in none of them did we find any basis of fact. Yet, curiously enough, her views were exactly the same as my own—that one of poor Harry's lady friends had been responsible for his fatal seizure."
"Then, after all the inquiries you instituted, you were really unable to point to the actual assassin?" asked Fetherston rather more calmly.
"Not exactly unable—unwilling, rather."
"How do you mean unwilling? You were Bellairs' friend!"
"Yes, I was. He was one of the best andmost noble fellows who ever wore the King's uniform, and he died by the treacherous hand of a jealous woman—a clever woman who had paid Barker to maintain silence."
"But, if the dying man wished to make a statement, he surely would not have sent for the very person by whose hand he had fallen," Fetherston protested. "Surely that is not a logical conclusion!"
"Bellairs was not certain that his sudden seizure was not due to something he had eaten at the club—remember he was not certain that her hand had administered the fatal drug," replied Trendall. A hard, serious expression rested upon his face. "He had, no doubt, seen her between the moment when he left the Bachelors' and his arrival, a little over an hour afterwards, at Half Moon Street—where, or how, we know not. Perhaps he drove to her house, and there, at her invitation, drank something. Yet, however it happened, the result was the same; she killed him, even though she was the first friend to whom he sent in his distress—killed him because she had somehow learnt of his secret engagement to Lady Blanche Herbert."
"Yours is certainly a remarkable theory," admitted Walter Fetherston. "May I ask thename of the woman to whom you refer?"
"Yes; she was the woman who loved him so passionately," replied Trendall—"Enid Orlebar."
"Then you really suspecther?" asked Fetherston breathlessly.
"Only as far as certain facts are concerned; and that since Harry's death she has been unceasingly interested in the career of the man Barker."
"Are you quite certain of this?" gasped Fetherston.
"Quite; it is proved beyond the shadow of a doubt."
"Then Enid Orlebar killed him?"
"That if she actually did not kill him with her own hand, she at least knew well who did," was the other's cold, hard reply. "She killed him for two reasons; first, because by poor Harry's death she prevented the exposure of some great secret!"
Walter Fetherston made no reply.
Those inquiries, instituted by Scotland Yard, had resulted in exactly the same theory as his own independent efforts—that Harry Bellairs had been secretly done to death by the woman, who, upon her own admission to him, had been summoned to the young officer's side.
Itwas news to Fetherston that Bellairs had dined at his club on that fateful night.
He had believed that Enid had dined with him. He had proved beyond all doubt that she had been to his rooms that afternoon during Barker's absence. That feather from the boa, and the perfume, were sufficient evidence of her visit.
Yet why had Barker remained in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus if sent by his master with a message to Richmond? He could not doubt a single word that Trendall had told him, for the latter's information was beyond question. Well he knew with what care and cunning such an inquiry would have been made, and how every point would have been proved before being reported to that ever active man who was head of that Department of the Home Office that never sleeps.
"What secret do you suggest might have been divulged?" he asked at last after a long pause.
The big room—the Room of Secrets—was silent, for the double windows prevented the noise of the traffic and the "honk" of the taxi horns from penetrating there. Only the low ticking of the clock broke the quiet.
"I scarcely have any suggestion to offer in that direction," was Trendall's slow reply. "That feature of the affair still remains a mystery."
"But cannot this man Barker be induced to make some statement?" he queried.
"He will scarcely betray the woman to whom he owes his present prosperity, for he is prosperous and has a snug little balance at his bank. Besides, even though we took the matter in hand, what could we do? There is no evidence against him or against the woman. The farcical proceedings in the coroner's court had tied their hands."
"An open verdict was returned?"
"Yes, at our suggestion. But Professors Dale and Boyd failed to find any traces of poison or of foul play."
"And yet therewasfoul play—that is absolutely certain!" declared the novelist.
"Unfortunately, yes. Poor Bellairs was a brilliant and promising officer, a man destined to make a distinct mark in the world. It wasa pity, perhaps, that he was such a lady-killer."
"A pity that he fell victim to what was evidently a clever plot, and yet—yet—I cannot bring myself to believe that your surmise can be actually correct. He surely would never have sent for the very person who was his enemy and who had plotted to kill him—it doesn't seem feasible, does it?"
"Quite as feasible as any of the strange and crooked circumstances which one finds every day in life's undercurrents," was the quiet rejoinder. "Remember, he was very fond of her—fascinated by her remarkable beauty."
"But he was engaged to Lady Blanche?"
"He intended to marry her, probably for wealth and position. The woman a man of Harry's stamp marries is seldom, if ever, the woman he loves," added the chief with a somewhat cynical smile, for he was essentially a man of the world.
"But what secret could Enid Orlebar desire to hide?" exclaimed Fetherston wonderingly. "If he loved her, he certainly would never have threatened exposure."
"My dear fellow, I've told you briefly my own theory—a theory formed upon all the evidence I could collect," replied the tall, dark-eyed man, as he thrust his hands deeply into histrousers pockets and looked straight into the eyes of his friend.
"If you are so certain that Enid Orlebar is implicated in the affair, if not the actual assassin, why don't you interrogate her?" asked Walter boldly.
"Well—well, to tell the truth, our inquiries are not yet complete. When they are, we may be in a better position—we probably shall be—to put to her certain pointed questions. But," he added quickly, "perhaps I ought not to say this, for I know she is a friend of yours."
"What you tell me is in confidence, as always, Trendall," he replied quickly. "I knew long ago that Enid was deeply attached to Bellairs. But much that you have just told me is entirely fresh to me. I must find Barker and question him."
"I don't think I'd do that. Wait until we have completed our inquiries," urged the other. "If Bellairs was killed in so secret and scientific a manner that no trace was left, he was killed with a cunning and craftiness which betrays a jealous woman rather than a man. Besides, there are other facts we have gathered which go further to prove that Enid Orlebar is the actual culprit."
"What are they? Tell me, Trendall."
"No, my dear chap; you are the lady's friend—it is really unfair to ask me," he protested. "Where the usual mysteries are concerned, I'm always open and above-board with you. But in private investigations like this you must allow me to retain certain knowledge to myself."
"But I beg of you to tell me everything," demanded the other. "I have taken an intense interest in the matter, as you have, even though my motive has been of an entirely different character."
"You have no suspicion that Bellairs was in possession of any great secret—a secret which it was to Miss Orlebar's advantage should be kept?"
"No," was the novelist's prompt response. "But I can't see the drift of your question," he added.
"Well," replied the keen, alert man, who, again seated in his writing-chair, bent slightly towards his visitor, "well, as you've asked me to reveal all I know, Fetherston, I will do so, even though I feel some reluctance, in face of the fact that Miss Orlebar is your friend."
"That makes no difference," declared the other firmly. "I am anxious to clear up the mystery of Bellairs' death."
"Then I think that you need seek no fartherfor the correct solution," replied Trendall quietly, looking into the other's pale countenance. "Your lady friend killed him—in order to preserve her own secret."
"But what was her secret?"
"We have that yet to establish. It must have been a serious one for her to close his lips in such a manner."
"But they were good friends," declared Fetherston. "He surely had not threatened to expose her?"
"I do not think he had. My own belief is that she became madly jealous of Lady Blanche, and at the same time, fearing the exposure of her secret to the woman to whom her lover had become engaged, she took the subtle means of silencing him. Besides——" And he paused without concluding his sentence.
"Besides what?"
"From the first you suspected Sir Hugh's stepdaughter, eh?"
Fetherston hesitated. Then afterwards he nodded slowly in the affirmative.
"Yes," went on Trendall, "I knew all along that you were suspicious. You made a certain remarkable discovery, eh, Fetherston?"
The novelist started. At what did his friend hint? Was it possible that the inquiries had ledto a suspicion of Sir Hugh's criminal conduct? The very thought appalled him.
"I—well, in the course of the inquiries I made I found that the lady in question was greatly attached to the dead man," replied Fetherston rather lamely.
Trendall smiled. "It was to Enid Orlebar that Harry sent when he felt his fatal seizure. Instead of sending for a doctor, he sent Barker to her, and she at once flew to his side, but, alas! too late to remedy the harm she had already caused. When she arrived he was dead!"
Fetherston was silent. He saw that the inquiries made by the Criminal Investigation Department had led to exactly the same conclusion that he himself had formed.
"This is a most distressing thought—that Enid Orlebar is a murderess!" he declared after a moment's pause.
"It is—I admit. Yet we cannot close our eyes to such outstanding facts, my dear chap. Depend upon it that there is something behind the poor fellow's death of which we have no knowledge. In his death your friend Miss Orlebar sought safety. The letter he wrote to her a week before his assassination is sufficient evidence of that."
"A letter!" gasped Fetherston. "Is there one in existence?"
"Yes; it is in our possession; it reveals the existence of the secret."
"But what was its nature?" cried Fetherston in dismay. "What terrible secret could there possibly be that could only be preserved by Bellairs' silence?"
"That's just the puzzle we have to solve—just the very point which has mystified us all along."
And then he turned to his correspondence again, opening his letters one after the other—letters which, addressed to a box at the General Post Office in the City, contained secret information from various unsuspected quarters at home and abroad.
Suddenly, in order to change the topic of conversation, which he knew was painful to Walter Fetherston, he mentioned the excellence of the opera at Covent Garden on the previous night. And afterwards he referred to an article in that day's paper which dealt with the idea of obtaining exclusive political intelligence through spirit-bureaux. Then, speaking of the labour unrest, Trendall pronounced his opinion as follows:
"The whole situation would be ludicrouswere it not urged so persistently as to be a menace not so much in this country, where we know too well the temperaments of its sponsors, but abroad, where public opinion, imperfectly instructed, may imagine it represents a serious national feeling. The continuance of it is an intolerable negation of civilisation; it is supported by no public men of credit; it has been disproved again and again. Ridicule may be left to give the menace thecoup de grâce! And this," he laughed, "in face of what you and I know, eh? Ah! how long will the British public be lulled to sleep by anonymous scribblers?"
"One day they'll have a rude awakening," declared Fetherston, still thinking, however, of that letter of the dead man to Enid. "I wonder," he added, "I wonder who inspires these denials? We know, of course, that each time anything against enemy interests appears in a certain section of the Press there arises a ready army of letter-writers who rush into print and append their names to assurances that the enemy is nowadays our best friend. Those 'patriotic Englishmen' are, many of them, in high positions.
"When responsible papers wilfully mislead the public, what can be expected?" Walter went on. "But," he added after a pause, "we did notarrive at any definite conclusion regarding the tragic death of Bellairs. What about that letter of his?"
Trendall was thoughtful for a few minutes.
"My conclusion—the only one that can be formed," he answered at last, disregarding his friend's question—"is that Enid Orlebar is the guilty person; and before long I hope to be in possession of that secret which she strove by her crime to suppress—a secret which I feel convinced we shall discover to be one of an amazing character."
Walter stood motionless as a statue.
Surely Bellairs had not died by Enid's hand!
Itwas in the early days of January—damp and foggy in England.
Walter Fetherston sat idling on theterrasseof the Café de Paris in Monte Carlo sipping a "mazagran," basking in the afternoon sunshine, and listening to the music of the Rumanian Orchestra.
Around him everywhere was the gay cosmopolitan world of the tables—that giddy little after-the-war financier and profiteer world which amuses itself on the Côte d'Azur, and in which he was such a well-known figure.
So many successive seasons had he passed there before 1914 that across at the rooms the attendants and croupiers knew him as an habitué, and he was always granted thecarte blanche—the white card of the professional gambler. With nearly half the people he met he had a nodding acquaintance, for friendships are easily formed over thetapis vert—and as easily dropped.
Preferring the fresher air of Nice, he madehis headquarters at the Hôtel Royal on the world-famed promenade, and came over to "Monte" daily by therapide.
Much had occurred since that autumn morning when he had stood with Herbert Trendall in the big room at New Scotland Yard, much that had puzzled him, much that had held him in fear lest the ghastly truth concerning Sir Hugh should be revealed.
His own activity had been, perhaps, unparalleled. The strain of such constant travel and continual excitement would have broken most men; but he possessed an iron constitution, and though he spent weeks on end in trains and steamboats, it never affected him in the least. He could snatch sleep at any time, and he could write anywhere.
Whether or not Enid had guessed the reason of his urgent appeal to her not to pass through France, she had nevertheless managed to excuse herself; but a week after Mrs. Caldwell's departure she had travelled alone by the Harwich-Antwerp route, evidently much to the annoyance of the alert doctor of Pimlico.
Walter had impressed upon her the desirability of not entering France—without, however, giving any plain reason. He left her to guess.
Through secret sources in Paris he had learnt how poor Paul Le Pontois was still awaiting trial. In order not to excite public opinion, the matter was being kept secret by the French authorities, and it had been decided that the inquiry should be held with closed doors.
A week after his arrest the French police received additional evidence against him in the form of a cryptic telegram addressed to the Château, an infamous and easily deciphered message which, no doubt, had been sent with the distinct purpose of strengthening the amazing charge against him. He protested entire ignorance of the sender and of the meaning of the message, but his accusers would not accept any disclaimer. So cleverly, indeed, had the message been worded that at the Sûreté it was believed to refer to the price he had received for certain bundles of spurious notes.
Without a doubt the scandalous telegram had been sent at Weirmarsh's instigation by one of his friends in order to influence the authorities in Paris.
So far as the doctor was concerned he was ever active in receiving reports from his cosmopolitan friends abroad. But since his quarrel with Sir Hugh he had ceased to visit HillStreet, and had, apparently, dropped the old general's acquaintance.
Sir Hugh was congratulating himself at the easy solution of the difficulty, but Walter, seated at that little marble-topped table in the winter sunshine, knowing Weirmarsh's character, remained in daily apprehension.
The exciting life he led in assisting to watch those whom Scotland Yard suspected was as nothing compared with the constant fear of the unmasking of Sir Hugh Elcombe. Doctor Weirmarsh was an enemy, and a formidable one.
The mystery concerning the death of Bellairs had increased rather than diminished. Each step he had taken in the inquiry only plunged him deeper and deeper into an inscrutable problem. He had devoted weeks to endeavouring to solve the mystery, but it remained, alas! inscrutable.
Enid and Mrs. Caldwell had altered their plans, and had gone to Sicily instead of to Egypt, first visiting Palermo and Syracuse, and were at the moment staying at the popular "San Domenico" at Taormina, amid that gem of Mediterranean scenery. Sir Hugh and his wife, much upset by Blanche's sudden arrival in London, had not gone abroad that winter, but hadremained at Hill Street to comfort Paul's wife and child.
As for Walter, he had of late been wandering far afield, in Petrograd, Geneva, Rome, Florence, Málaga, and for the past week had been at Monte Carlo. He was not there wholly for pleasure, for, if the truth be told, there were seated at the farther end of theterrassea smartly dressed man and a woman in whom he had for the past month been taking a very keen interest.
This pair, of Swiss nationality, he had watched in half a dozen Continental cities, gradually establishing his suspicions as to their real occupation.
They had come to Monte Carlo for neither health nor pleasure, but in order to meet a grey-haired man in spectacles, whom they received twice in private at the Métropole, where they were staying.
The Englishman had first seen them sitting together one evening at one of the marble-topped tables at the Café Royal in Regent Street, while he had been idly playing a game of dominoes at the next table with an American friend. The face of the man was to him somehow familiar. He felt that he had seen it somewhere, but whether in a photograph in his bigalbum down at Idsworth or in the flesh he could not decide.
Yet from that moment he had hardly lost sight of them. With that astuteness which was Fetherston's chief characteristic, he had watched vigilantly and patiently, establishing the fact that the pair were in England for some sinister purpose. His powers were little short of marvellous. He really seemed, as Trendall once put it, to scent the presence of criminals as pigs scent truffles.
They suddenly left the Midland Hotel at St. Pancras, where they were staying, and crossed the Channel. But the same boat carried Walter Fetherston, who took infinite care not to obtrude himself upon their attention.
Monte Carlo, being in the principality of Monaco, and being peopled by the most cosmopolitan crowd in the whole world, is in winter the recognised meeting-place ofchevaliers d'industrieand those who finance and control great crimes.
In the big atrium of those stifling rooms many an assassin has met his hirer, and in many of those fine hotels have bribes been handed over to those who will do "dirty work." It is the European exchange of criminality, for both sexes know it to be a safe place where they may"accidentally" meet the person controlling them.
It is safe to say that in every code used by the criminal plotters of every country in Europe there is a cryptic word which signifies a meeting at Monte Carlo. For that reason was Walter Fetherston much given to idling on the sunnyterrasseof the café at a point where he could see every person who ascended or descended that flight of red-carpeted stairs which gives entrance to the rooms.
The pair whom he was engaged in watching had been playing at roulette with five-franc pieces, and the woman was now counting her gains and laughing gaily with her husband as she slowly sipped her tea flavoured with orange-flower water. They were in ignorance of the presence of that lynx-eyed man in grey flannels and straw hat who smoked his cigarette leisurely and appeared to be so intensely bored.
No second glance at Fetherston was needed to ascertain that he was a most thorough-going cosmopolitan. He usually wore his pale-grey felt hat at a slight angle, and had the air of the easy-going adventurer, debonair and unscrupulous. But in his case his appearance was not a true index to his character, for in reality he was a steady, hard-headed, intelligent man, the verysoul of honour, and, above all, a man of intense patriotism—an Englishman to the backbone. Still, he cultivated his easy-going cosmopolitanism to pose as a careless adventurer.
Presently the pair rose, and, crossing the palm-lined place, entered the casino; while Walter, finishing his "mazagran," lit a fresh cigarette, and took a turn along the front of the casino in order to watch the pigeon-shooting.
The winter sun was sinking into the tideless sea in all its gold-and-orange glory as he stood leaning over the stone balustrade watching the splendid marksmanship of one of the crack shots of Europe. He waited until the contest had ended, then he descended and took therapideback to Nice for dinner.
At nine o'clock he returned to Monte Carlo, and again ascended the station lift, as was his habit, for a stroll through the rooms and a chat and drink with one or other of his many friends. He looked everywhere for the Swiss pair in whom he was so interested, but in vain. Probably they had gone over to Nice to spend the evening, he thought. But as the night wore on and they did not return by the midnight train—the arrival of which he watched—he strolled back to the Métropole and inquired for them at the bureau of the hotel.
"M'sieur and Madame Granier left by the Mediterranean express for Paris at seven-fifteen this evening," replied the clerk, who knew Walter very well.
"What address did they leave?" he inquired, annoyed at the neat manner in which they had escaped his vigilance.
"They left no address, m'sieur. They received a telegram just after six o'clock recalling them to Paris immediately. Fortunately, there was one two-berth compartment vacant on the train."
Walter turned away full of chagrin. He had been foolish to lose sight of them. His only course was to return to Nice, pack his traps, and follow to Paris in the ordinaryrapideat eight o'clock next morning. And this was the course he pursued.
But Paris is a big place, and though he searched for two whole weeks, going hither and thither to all places where the foreign visitors mostly congregate, he saw nothing of the interesting pair. Therefore, full of disappointment, he crossed one afternoon to Folkestone, and that night again found himself in his dingy chambers in Holles Street.
Next day he called upon Sir Hugh, and found him in much better spirits. Lady Elcombe told him that Enid had written expressing herself delighted with her season in Sicily, and saying that both she and Mrs. Caldwell were very pleased that they had adopted his suggestion of going there instead of to overcrowded Cairo.
As he sat with Sir Hugh and his wife in that pretty drawing-room he knew so well the old general suddenly said: "I suppose, Fetherston, you are still taking as keen an interest in the latest mysteries of crime—eh?"
"Yes, Sir Hugh. As you know, I've written a good deal upon the subject."
"I've read a good many of your books and articles, of course," exclaimed the old officer. "Upon many points I entirely agree with you," he said. "There is a curious case in the papers to-day. Have you seen it? A young girl found mysteriously shot dead near Hitchin."
"No, I haven't," was Walter's reply. He was not at all interested. He was thinking of something of far greater interest.
Ateleven o'clock next morning Fetherston stood in Trendall's room at Scotland Yard reporting to him the suspicious movements of Monsieur and Madame Granier.
His friend leaned back in his padded chair listening while the keen-faced man in pince-nez related all the facts, and in doing so showed how shrewd and astute he had been.
"Then they are just what we thought," remarked the chief.
"Without a doubt. In Monte Carlo they received further instructions from somebody. They went to Paris, and there I lost them."
Trendall smiled, for he saw how annoyed his friend was at their escape.
"Well, you certainly clung on to them," he said. "When you first told me your suspicions I confess I was inclined to disagree with you. You merely met them casually in Regent Street. What made you suspicious?"
"One very important incident—Weirmarshcame in with another man, and, in passing, nodded to Granier. That set me thinking."
"But you do not know of any actual dealings with the doctor?"
"I know of none," replied Walter. "Still, I'm very sick that, after all my pains, they should have escaped to Paris so suddenly."
"Never mind," said Trendall. "If they are what we suspect we shall pick them up again before long, no doubt. Now look here," he added. "Read that! It's just come in. As you know, any foreigner who takes a house in certain districts nowadays is reported to us by the local police."
Fetherston took the big sheet of blue official paper which the police official handed to him, and found that it was the copy of a confidential report made by the Superintendent of Police at Maldon, in Essex, and read as follows:
"I, William Warden, Superintendent of Police for the Borough of Maldon, desire to report to the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police the following statement from Sergeant S. Deacon, Essex Constabulary, stationed at Southminster, which is as below:
"'On Friday, the thirteenth of September last, a gentleman, evidently a foreigner, was sent by Messrs. Hare and James, estate agents,of Malden, to view the house known as The Yews, at Asheldham, in the vicinity of Southminster, and agreed to take it for three years in order to start a poultry farm. The tenant entered into possession a week later, when one vanload of furniture arrived from London. Two days later three other vanloads arrived late in the evening, and were unpacked in the stable-yard at dawn. The tenant, whose name is Bailey—but whose letters come addressed "Baily," and are mostly from Belgium—lived there alone for a fortnight, and was afterwards joined by a foreign man-servant named Pietro, who is believed to be an Italian. Though more than three months have elapsed, and I have kept observation upon the house—a large one, standing in its own grounds—I have seen no sign of poultry farming, and therefore deem it a matter for a report.—Samuel Deacon, Sergeant, Essex Constabulary.'"
"Curious!" remarked Walter, when he had finished reading it.
"Yes," said Trendall. "There may be nothing in it."
"It should be inquired into!" declared Walter. "I'll take Summers and go down there to have a look round, if you like."
"I wish you would," said the chief. "I'll'phone Summers to meet you at Liverpool Street Station," he added, turning to the railway guide. "There's a train at one forty-five. Will that suit you?"
"Yes. Tell him to meet me at Liverpool Street—and we'll see who this 'Mr. Baily' really is."
When, shortly after half-past one, the novelist walked on to the platform at Liverpool Street he was approached by a narrow-faced, middle-aged man in a blue serge suit who presented the appearance of a ship's engineer on leave.
As they sat together in a first-class compartment Fetherston explained to his friend the report made by the police officer at Southminster—the next station to Burnham-on-Crouch—whereupon Summers remarked: "The doctor has been down this way once or twice of late. I wonder if he goes to pay this Mr. Baily, or Bailey, a visit?"
"Perhaps," laughed Walter. "We shall see."
The railway ended at Southminster, but on alighting they had little difficulty in finding the small police station, where the local sergeant of police awaited them, having been warned by telephone.
"Well, gentlemen," said the red-faced man, spreading his big hands on his knees as they sat together in a back room, "Mr. Bailey ain't at home just now. He's away a lot. The house is a big one—not too big for the four vanloads of furniture wot came down from London."
"Has he made any friends in the district, do you know?"
"No, not exactly. 'E often goes and 'as a drink at the Bridgewick Arms at Burnham, close by the coastguard station."
Walter exchanged a meaning glance with his assistant.
"Does he receive any visitors?"
"Very few—he's away such a lot. A woman comes down to see him sometimes—his sister, they say she is."
"What kind of a woman?"
"Oh, she's a lady about thirty-five—beautifully dressed always. She generally comes in a dark-green motor-car, which she drives herself. She was a lady driver during the war."
"Do you know her name?"
"Miss Bailey. She's a foreigner, of course."
"Any other visitors?" asked Fetherston, in his quick, impetuous way, as he polished his pince-nez.
"One day, very soon after Mr. Bailey tookthe house, I was on duty at Southminster Station in the forenoon, and a gentleman and lady arrived and asked how far it was to The Yews, at Asheldham. I directed them the way to walk over by Newmoor and across the brook. Then I slipped 'ome, got into plain clothes, and went along after them by the footpath."
"Why did you do that?" asked Summers.
"Because I wanted to find out something about this foreigner's visitors. I read at headquarters at Maldon the new instructions about reporting all foreigners who took houses, and I wanted to——"
"To show that you were on the alert, eh, Deacon?" laughed the novelist good-humouredly, and he lit a cigarette.
"That's so, sir," replied the big, red-faced man. "Well, I took a short cut over to The Yews, and got there ten minutes before they did. I hid in the hedge on the north side of the house, and saw that as soon as they walked up the drive Mr. Bailey rushed out to welcome them. The lady seemed very nervous, I thought. I know she was an English lady, because she spoke to me at the station."
"What were they like?" inquired Summers. "Describe both of them."
"Well, the man, as far as I can recollect,was about fifty or so, grey-faced, dark-eyed, wearin' a heavy overcoat with astrachan collar and cuffs. He had light grey suède gloves, and carried a gold-mounted malacca cane with a curved handle. The woman was quite young—not more'n twenty, I should think—and very good-lookin'. She wore a neat tailor-made dress of brown cloth, and a small black velvet hat with a big gold buckle. She had a greyish fur around her neck, with a muff to match, and carried a small, dark green leather bag."
Walter stood staring at the speaker. The description was exactly that of Weirmarsh and Enid Orlebar. The doctor often wore an astrachan-trimmed overcoat, while both dress and hat were the same which Enid had worn three months ago!
He made a few quick inquiries of the red-faced sergeant, but the man's replies only served to convince him that Enid had actually been a visitor at the mysterious house.
"You did not discover their names?"
"The young lady addressed her companion as 'Doctor.' That's all I know," was the officer's reply. "For that reason I was rather inclined to think that I was on the wrong scent. The man was perhaps, after all, only a doctor who had come down to see his patient."
"Perhaps so," remarked Walter mechanically. "You say Mr. Bailey is not at home to-day, so we'll just run over and have a look round. You'd better come with us, sergeant."
"Very well, sir. But I 'ear as how Mr. Bailey is comin' home this evenin'. I met Pietro in the Railway Inn at Southminster the night before last, and casually asked when his master was comin' home, as I wanted to see 'im for a subscription for our police concert, and 'e told me that the signore—that's what 'e called him—was comin' home to-night."
"Good! Then, after a look round the place, we hope to have the pleasure of seeing this mysterious foreigner who comes here to the Dengie Marshes to make a living out of fowl-keeping." And Walter smiled meaningly at his companion.
Ten minutes later, after the sergeant had changed into plain clothes, the trio set out along the flat, muddy road for Asheldham.
But as they were walking together, after passing Northend, a curious thing happened.
Summers started back suddenly and nudged the novelist's arm without a word.
Fetherston, looking in the direction indicated, halted, utterly staggered by what met his gaze.
It was inexplicable—incredible! He looked again, scarcely believing his own eyes, for what he saw made plain a ghastly truth.
He stood rigid, staring straight before him.
Was it possible that at last he was actually within measurable distance of the solution of the mystery?
Asthe expectant trio had come round the bend in the road they saw in front of them, walking alone, a young lady in a short tweed suit with hat to match.
The gown was of a peculiar shade of grey, and by her easy, swinging gait and the graceful carriage of her head Walter Fetherston instantly recognised that there before him, all unconscious of his presence, was the girl he believed to be still in Sicily—Enid Orlebar!
He looked again, to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken. Then, drawing back, lest her attention should be attracted by their footsteps, he motioned to his companions to retreat around the bend and thus out of her sight.
"Now," he said, addressing them, "there is some deep mystery here. That lady must not know we are here."
"You've recognised her, sir?" asked Summers, who had on several previous occasions assisted him.
"Yes," was the novelist's hard reply. "She is here with some mysterious object. You mustn't approach The Yews till dark."
"Mr. Bailey will then be at home, sir," remarked the sergeant. "I thought you wished to explore the place before he arrived?"
Walter paused. He saw that Enid could not be on her way to visit Bailey, if he were not at home. So he suggested that Summers, whom she did not know, should go forward and watch her movements, while he and the sergeant should proceed to the house of suspicion.
Arranging to meet later, the officer from Scotland Yard lit his pipe and strolled quickly forward around the bend to follow the girl in grey, while the other two halted to allow them to get on ahead.
"Have you ever seen that lady down here before, sergeant?" asked Walter presently.
"Yes, sir. If I don't make a mistake, it is the same lady who asked me the way to The Yews soon after Mr. Bailey took the house—the lady who came with the man whom she addressed as 'Doctor'!"
"Are you quite certain of this?"
"Not quite certain. She was dressed differently, in brown—with a different hat and a veil."
"They came only on that one occasion, eh?"
"Only that once, sir."
"But why, I wonder, is she going to The Yews? Pietro, you say, went up to London this morning?"
"Yes, sir, by the nine-five. And the house is locked up—she's evidently unaware of that."
"No doubt. She'll go there, and, finding nobody at home, turn away disappointed. She must not see us."
"We'll take good care of that, sir," laughed the local sergeant breezily, as he left his companion's side and crossed the road so that he could see the bend. "Why!" he exclaimed, "she ain't goin' to Asheldham after all! She's taken the footpath to the left that leads into Steeple! Evidently she knows the road!"
"Then we are free to go straight along to The Yews, eh? She's making a call in the vicinity. I wonder where she's going?"
"Your friend will ascertain that," said the sergeant. "Let's get along to The Yews and 'ave a peep round."
Therefore the pair, now that Enid was sufficiently far ahead along a footpath which led under a high, bare hedge, went forth again down the high road until, after crossing the brook,they turned to the right into Asheldham village, where, half-way between that place and New Hall, they turned up a short by-road, a cul-de-sac, at the end of which a big, old-fashioned, red-brick house of the days of Queen Anne, half hidden by a belt of high Scotch firs, came into view.
Shut off from the by-road by a high, time-mellowed brick wall, it stood back lonely and secluded in about a couple of acres of well wooded ground. From a big, rusty iron gate the ill-kept, gravelled drive took a broad sweep up to the front of the house, a large, roomy one with square, inartistic windows and plain front, the ugliness of which the ivy strove to hide.
In the grey light of that wintry afternoon the place looked inexpressibly dismal and neglected. Years ago it had, no doubt, been the residence of some well-to-do county family; but in these twentieth-century post-war days, having been empty for nearly ten years, it had gone sadly to rack and ruin.
The lawns had become weedy, the carriage-drive was, in places, green with moss, like the sills of the windows and the high-pitched, tiled roof itself. In the centre of the lawn, before the house, stood four great ancient yews, while all round were high box hedges, now, alas! neglected, untrimmed and full of holes.
The curtains were of the commonest kind, while the very steps leading to the front door were grey with lichen and strewn with wisps of straw. The whole aspect was one of neglect, of decay, of mystery.
The two men, opening the creaking iron gate, advanced boldly to the door, an excuse ready in case Pietro opened it.
They knocked loudly, but there was no response. Their summons echoed through the big hall, causing Walter to remark:
"There can't be much furniture inside, judging from the sound."
"Four motor vanloads came here," responded the sergeant. "The first was in a plain van."
"You did not discover whence it came?"
"I asked the driver down at the inn at Southminster, and he told me that they came from the Trinity Furnishing Company, Peckham. But, on making inquiries, I found that he lied; there is no such company in Peckham."
"You saw the furniture unloaded?"
"I was about here when the first lot came. When the other three vans arrived I was away on my annual leave," was the sergeant's reply.
Again they knocked, but no one came to the door. A terrier approached, but he proved friendly, therefore they proceeded to make aninspection of the empty stabling and disused outbuildings.
Three old hen-coops were the only signs of poultry-farming they could discover, and these, placed in a conspicuous position in the big, paved yard, were without feathered occupants.
There were three doors by which the house could be entered, and all of them Walter tried and found locked. Therefore, noticing in the rubbish-heap some stray pieces of paper, he at once turned his attention to what he discovered were fragments of a torn letter. It was written in French, and, apparently, had reference to certain securities held by the tenant of The Yews.
But as only a small portion of the destroyed communication could be found, its purport was not very clear, and the name and address of the writer could not be ascertained.
Yet it had already been proved without doubt that the mysterious tenant of the dismal old place—the man who posed as a poultry-farmer—had had as visitors Dr. Weirmarsh and EnidOrlebar!
For a full half-hour, while the red-faced sergeant kept watch at the gate, Walter Fetherston continued to investigate that rubbish-heap, which showed signs of having been burning quiterecently, for most of the scraps of paper were charred at their edges.
The sodden remains of many letters he withdrew and tried to read, but the scraps gave no tangible result, and he was just about to relinquish his search when his eye caught a scrap of bright blue notepaper of a familiar hue. It was half burned, and blurred by the rain, but at the corner he recognised some embossing in dark blue—familiar embossing it was—of part of the address in Hill Street!
The paper was that used habitually by Enid Orlebar, and upon it was a date, two months before, and the single word "over" in her familiar handwriting.
He took his stout walking-stick, in reality a sword-case, and frantically searched for other scraps, but could find none. One tiny portion only had been preserved from the flames—paraffin having been poured over the heap to render it the more inflammable. But that scrap in itself was sufficient proof that Enid had written to the mysterious tenant of The Yews.
"Well," he said at last, approaching the sergeant, "do you think the coast is clear enough?"
"For what?"
"To get a glimpse inside. There's a gooddeal more mystery here than we imagine, depend upon it!" Walter exclaimed.
"Master and man will return by the same train, I expect, unless they come back in a motor-car. If they come by train they won't be here till well past eight, so we'll have at least three hours by ourselves."
Walter Fetherston glanced around. Twilight was fast falling.
"It'll be dark inside, but I've brought my electric torch," he said. "There's a kitchen window with an ordinary latch."
"That's no use. There are iron bars," declared the sergeant. "I examined it the other day. The small staircase window at the side is the best means of entry." And he took the novelist round and showed him a long narrow window about five feet from the ground.
Walter's one thought was of Enid. Why had she written to that mysterious foreigner? Why had she visited there? Why, indeed, was she back in England surreptitiously, and in that neighbourhood?
The short winter's afternoon was nearly at an end as they stood contemplating the window prior to breaking in—for Walter Fetherston felt justified in breaking the law in order to examine the interior of that place.
In the dark branches of the trees the wind whistled mournfully, and the scudding clouds were precursory of rain.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Walter. "This isn't a particularly cheerful abode, is it, sergeant?"
"No, sir, if I lived 'ere I'd have the blues in a week," laughed the man. "I can't think 'ow Mr. Bailey employs 'is time."
"Poultry-farming," laughed Fetherston, as, standing on tiptoe, he examined the window-latch by flashing on the electric torch.
"No good!" he declared. "There's a shutter covered with new sheet-iron behind."
"It doesn't show through the curtain," exclaimed Deacon.
"But it's there. Our friend is evidently afraid of burglars."
From window to window they passed, but the mystery was considerably increased by the discovery that at each of those on the ground floor were iron-faced shutters, though so placed as not to be noticeable behind the windows, which were entirely covered with cheap curtain muslin.
"That's funny!" exclaimed the sergeant. "I've never examined them with a light before."
"They have all been newly strengthened,"declared Fetherston. "On the other side I expect there are strips of steel placed lattice-wise, a favourite device of foreigners. Mr. Bailey," he added, "evidently has no desire that any intruder should gain access to his residence."
"What shall we do?" asked Deacon, for it was now rapidly growing dark.
A thought had suddenly occurred to Walter that perhaps Enid's intention was to make a call there, after all.
"Our only way to obtain entrance is, I think, by one of the upper windows," replied the man whose very life was occupied by the investigation of mysteries. "In the laundry I noticed a ladder. Let us go and get it."
So the ladder, a rather rotten and insecure one, was obtained, and after some difficulty placed against the wall. It would not, however, reach to the windows, as first intended, therefore Walter mounted upon the slippery, moss-grown tiles of a wing of the house, and after a few moments' exploration discovered a skylight which proved to be over the head of the servants' staircase.
This he lifted, and, fixing around a chimney-stack a strong silk rope he had brought in his pocket ready for any emergency, he threw itdown the opening, and quickly lowered himself through.
Scarcely had he done so, and was standing on the uncarpeted stairs, when his quick ear caught the sound of Deacon's footsteps receding over the gravel around to the front of the house.
Then, a second later, he heard a loud challenge from the gloom in a man's voice that was unfamiliar:
"Who's there?"
There was no reply. Walter listened with bated breath.
"What are you doing there?" cried the new-comer in a voice in which was a marked foreign accent. "Speak!speak!or I'll shoot!"