Dick Faversham wiped away the beads of perspiration that stood thick upon his forehead. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by peculiar influences, that forces were at work which he could not understand. In one sense he did not at all believe in the story that Count Romanoff had told him. It appeared to him chimerical, unconvincing.
It did not seem at all likely that a man of Mr. Bidlake's experience and mental acumen could have been so deceived. This subtle-minded lawyer, who had lived in London for so many years and had been spoken of as one of the most astute and level-headed men in the profession, would not be likely to communicate news of such great importance to him without being absolutely certain of his ground. He had shown him details of everything, too, and Mr. Bidlake was absolutely certain that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was dead, that he was murdered near Melbourne. The proofs of this were demonstrated in a hundred ways. No, he did not believe in Romanoff's story.
Besides, it was absurd, on the face of it. Who was this Count Romanoff? He knew little or nothing of him. Though he owed his life to him, he knew nothing of his history or antecedents. He was afraid of him, too. He did not like his cynical way of looking at things, nor understand his mockery of current morality. And should he believe the bare word of such a man?
And yet he did believe him. At the back of his mind he felt sure that he had spoken the truth.
It came to him with ghastly force that he was not the owner of this fine old house, and of all the wealth thatduring the last few weeks he had almost gloated over. There was something in the tones of Romanoff's voice—something in his mocking yet intense way of speaking that convinced him in spite of himself.
And the fact maddened him. To be poor now after these few brief weeks of riches would drive him mad. He had not begun to enjoy yet. He had not carried out the plans which had been born in his mind. He had only just entered into possession, and had been living the life of a pattern young man. But he had meant to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to the very dregs.
His mind swept like lightning over the conversation which had taken place, and every word of it was burnt into his brain. What did the Count mean by telling him that he could retain everything? Why did he persist in urging that he had hurried from Australia to England to save him from losing everything? What did he mean by telling him that this was his hour of destiny—that on his decision would depend the future of his life?
"You mean—to say then, that—that——" he stammered, after a long, painful silence.
"That Anthony Riggleton, the legal heir of old Charles Faversham, is alive," interrupted Romanoff. "I myself have seen him, have talked with him."
"Does he know that he is—is the rightful heir?"
"Not yet," and Romanoff smiled. "I took good care of that."
"You mean——"
"I mean that I did not save your life for nothing. When I had fully convinced myself that he was—who he said he was—I of course reflected on what it meant. I called to mind what you had told me on that island, and I saw how his being alive would affect you."
"How did you know? I did not tell you the terms of the will. I did not know them myself."
"Does it matter how I knew? Anyhow, he—Riggleton—would guess."
"How did he know?"
Romanoff shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know, my dear fellow? But one can easily guess. He knew he was next-of-kin to old Charles Faversham, and would naturally think he would inherit his wealth. But that is not all. Australia, although a long way from England, is not away from the lines of communication. Melbourne is quite a considerable city. It has newspapers, telephones, cablegrams, and a host of other things. But one thing Anthony Riggleton did not know: he did not know that the terms of the will were published in the Melbourne newspapers. He was afraid to go near Melbourne, in fact. He thought it best for the world to think of him as dead. Indeed, he paid a man to personate him in Melbourne, and that man paid the penalty of his deceit by his life."
"It's anything but clear to me."
"Then I'll make it clear. Riggleton had enemies in Melbourne whom it was necessary for him to see, but whom he was personally afraid to meet. He had served them very shabbily, and they had threatened him with unpleasant things. He had as a friend a man who resembled him very closely, and he offered this friend a sum of money if he would go to Melbourne and personate him. This man, ignorant of his danger, accepted the offer—now, do you see?"
After he had asked many questions about this—questions which Romanoff answered freely—Dick looked long and steadily at a picture of old Charles Faversham which hung on the wall. He was trying to co-ordinate the story—trying to understand it.
"And where is Anthony Riggleton now?"
"He is in England."
"In England! Then—then——"
"Exactly," interrupted Romanoff. "You see what I meant when I said that the foundations of your position were very insecure. I do not imagine that Lady Blanche Huntingford would think very seriously about Dick Faversham if she knew the whole truth."
"But—but—in England?"
"Exactly. In England."
"But you say he does not know—the truth?"
"No. He may guess it, though. Who knows?"
"But why did you not tell me this last night? Why wait till now before letting me know?"
Again Romanoff smiled; he might be enjoying himself.
"Because I like you, my friend. Because I wanted to see the state of your mind, and to know whether it was possible to help you."
"To help me?"
"To help you. I saw the kind of man you were. I saw what such wealth as you thought you possessed would mean to you. I saw, too, to what uses you could turn the power that riches would give you. So I made my plans."
"But you say he is in England. If so, he will know—all!"
"No, he does not. I took good care of that."
"But he will find out."
Romanoff laughed. "No, my friend, I have taken care of everything. As I told you, I like you, and I want you to be a great figure in the life of your country. That is why you are safe—for the present."
Again Dick wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. It seemed to him as though he were standing on a precipice, while beneath him were yawning depths of darkness. All he had hoped for was mocking him, and he saw himself sinking under the stress of circumstances, just as on that terrible night he felt himself sinking in the deep waters. But there were no arms outstretched to save him, nor friendly help near him. He looked around the room, noble in its proportions, and handsomely appointed, and thought of all it suggested. He remembered his last interview with Mr. Bidlake, when that gentleman gave him an account of his possessions, and told him of the approximate amount of his fortune. And now it would all go to this man who was not even aware of the truth. It was all bewildering, maddening. Before he had properly begun to taste of the sweets of fortune they were being dashed from his lips. He felt as though he were losing his senses,that his brain was giving way under the stress of the news he had heard.
Then his innate manhood began to assert itself. If what Romanoff had said were true, he must bear it. But, of course, he would not yield without a struggle. He would take nothing on the bare word of a man who, after all, was a stranger. Everything should be proved up to the hilt before he relinquished possession.
"Safe for the present!" Dick repeated, and there was a note of angry scorn in his voice. "Of course, if—if you are not mistaken, there is no question of safety."
"No question of safety?"
"Certainly not. If Anthony Riggleton is alive, and if he is the true heir to old Charles Faversham, he must make his claim, as I assume he will."
"Then you will yield without a struggle?" and there was a peculiar intonation in Romanoff's voice.
"No," cried Dick, "I shall not yield without a struggle. I shall place the whole matter in Bidlake's hands, and—and if I'm a pauper, I am—that's all."
"I know a better way than that."
"I don't understand you."
"No, but you will in a minute. Faversham, there's no need for you to fix up anything, no need for anyone to know what only you and I know."
"Look here," and Dick's voice trembled. "Are you sure that this fellow you talk about is Anthony Riggleton—and that he is the lawful heir?"
Romanoff gave Dick a quick, searching glance; then he gave a peculiar laugh. "Am I sure that the man is Anthony Riggleton? Here's the photograph he gave me of himself. I compared the photograph with the man, and I'm not likely to be mistaken. The photograph is the exact representation of the man. You have photographs of Riggleton in this house; compare them. Besides, he's been here repeatedly; he's known, I imagine, to the servants, to the neighbours. If he is allowed to make a claim, it will not be a question of Roger Tichborne and Arthur Orton over again, my friend. He will be able to prove his rights."
"What do you mean by saying, 'if he is allowed to make his claim'?" asked Dick hoarsely. "Of course he'll be allowed."
"Why of course?
"Naturally he will."
"That depends on you. Did I not tell you that this was your hour of destiny?"
"Then the matter is settled. I will not usurp another man's rights. If he's the lawful owner, he shall have his own. Of course, he will have to prove it."
"You don't mean that?"
"Of course I do. Why not?"
"Because it would be criminal madness—the act of a fool!"
"It is the only attitude for a decent fellow."
Again Romanoff let his piercing eyes fall on Dick's face. He seemed to be studying him afresh, as though he were trying to read his innermost thoughts.
"Listen, my dear fellow," and the Count calmly cut the end of a fresh cigar. "I want to discuss this matter with you calmly, and I want our discussion to be entirely free from sentimental rubbish. To begin with, there is no doubt that the man Anthony Riggleton is alive, and that he is the legal owner of all Charles Faversham's fabulous fortune. Of that I've no doubt. If he came here everyone would recognise him, while there is not a lawyer, not a judge or jury in the land, who would not acclaim him the owner of all which you thought yours. But, as I said, I like you. You were meant to be a rich man; you were meant to enjoy what riches can give you. And of this I am sure, Faversham: poverty after this would mean hell to you. Why, man, think what you can have—titles, position, power, the love of beautiful women, and a thousand things more. If you want to enter public life the door is open to you. With wealth like yours a peerage is only a matter of arrangement. As for Lady Blanche Huntingford——" and the Count laughed meaningly.
"But what is the use of talking like that if nothing really belongs to me?" cried Dick.
"First of all, Faversham," went on the Count, as though Dick had not spoken, "get rid of all nonsense."
"Nonsense? I don't understand."
"I mean all nonsense about right and wrong, about so-called points of honour and that sort of thing. There is no right, and no wrong in the conventional sense of the word. Right! wrong! Pooh, they are only bogys invented by priests in days of darkness, in order to obtain power. It is always right to do the thing that pays—-the thing that gives you happiness—power. The German philosophy is right there. Do the thing you can do. That's common sense."
"It's devilish!" exclaimed Dick.
"Your mind's unhinged, excited, or you wouldn't say so," replied Romanoff. "Now, look at me," and he fastened Dick's eyes by his intense gaze. "Do I look like a fanatic, a fool? Don't I speak with the knowledge of the world's wisdom in my mind? I've travelled in all the countries in the world, my friend, and I've riddled all their philosophies, and I tell you this: there is no right, no wrong. Life is given to us to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to its depths, to press from the winepress all its sweets, and to be happy."
He spoke in low, earnest tones, and as he did so, Dick felt as though his moral manhood were being sapped. The glitter of the Count's eyes fascinated him, and while under their spell he saw as the Count saw, felt as he felt.
And yet he was afraid. There was something awesome in all this—something unholy.
"Look here!" and Dick started to his feet. "What do you mean by coming to me in this way? Why should you so coolly assert that the moralities of the centuries are nonsense? Who are you? What are you?"
Again the Count laughed.
"Who am I? What am I?" he repeated. "You remember Napoleon Bonaparte's famous words: 'I am not a man. I am a thing. I am a force. Right and wrong do not exist for me. I make my own laws, my own morals.' Perhaps I could say the same, Faversham."
"Napoleon found out his mistake, though," protested Dick.
"Did he? Who knows? Besides, better taste the sweets of power, if only for a few years, than be a drudge, a nonentity, a poor, struggling worm all your days."
"But what do you want? What have you in your mind?"
"This, Faversham. If you will listen to me you will treat Anthony Riggleton as non-existent——"
"As non-existent?"
"Yes, you can with safety—absolute safety; and then, if you agree to my proposal, all you hope for, all you dream of, shall be yours. You shall remain here as absolute owner without a shadow of doubt or a shadow of suspicion, and—enjoy. You shall have happiness, my friend—happiness. Did I not tell you that this was your day of destiny?"
Again Dick felt as though he were gripped by an irresistible power, and that this power was evil. It was true that the Count sat in the chair near him, faultlessly dressed, urbane, smiling, with all the outward appearance of a polished man of the world; all the same, Dick felt that an evil influence dominated the room. The picture which Romanoff made him see was beautiful beyond words, and he beheld a future of sensuous ease, of satisfied ambition, of indescribable delights. And what he saw seemed to dull his moral sense, to undermine his moral strength. Moreover, the man had by his news undermined the foundations of life, shattered the hopes he had nourished, and thus left him unable to fight.
"Tell me that this is a—a joke on your part," Dick said at length. "Of course it's not true."
"Of course it is true."
"Well, I'll have it proved, anyhow. Everything shall be sifted to the bottom."
"How?"
"I'll go and see Bidlake to-morrow. I'll tell him what you've said."
"You will do no such thing." The Count spoke in the most nonchalant manner.
"Why not? Indeed, I shall."
"You will not. I'll tell you why. First, because it would be criminally insane, and second, because you would be cutting your own throat."
"Please explain."
"Understand," replied Romanoff, "that this is really nothing to me after all. I do not benefit by your riches, or lose by your poverty. Why, I wonder, am I taking aninterest in the matter?" And for the moment he seemed to be reflecting. "I suppose it is because I like you—of course that is it. Besides, I saved your life, and naturally one has an interest in the life one has saved. But to explain: accept for the moment the conventional standards of right and wrong, good and evil, and what is the result? Suppose you give up everything to Riggleton—what follows? You give up all this to an unclean beast. You put power in the hands of a man who hasn't an elevated thought or desire. You, now—if you are wise, and retain what you have—can do some good with your money. You can bring comfort to the people on your estates; you can help what you believe worthy causes. You, Faversham, are a gentleman at heart, and would always act like one. Mind, Idon'taccept conventional morality; it is no more to me than so much sawdust. But I do respect the decencies of life. My education has thrown me among people who have a sense of what's fit and proper. Anyhow, judging from your own standards, you would be doing animmoralthing by handing this great fortune to Riggleton."
"Tell me about him," and Dick felt a tightening at the throat.
"Tell you about him! An unsavoury subject, my friend. A fellow with the mind of a pig, the tastes of a pig. What are his enjoyments? His true place is in a low-class brothel. If he inherited Wendover Park, he would fill these beautiful rooms with creatures of his own class—men and women."
The Count did not raise his voice, but Dick realised its intensity; and again he felt his influence—felt that he was being dominated by a personality stronger than his own.
"No, no," he continued, and he laughed quietly as he spoke; "copy-book morality has no weight with me. But I trust I am a gentleman. If, to use your own term, I sin, I will sin like a gentleman; I will enjoy myself like a gentleman. But this man is dirty. He wallows in filth—wallows in it, and rejoices in it. That is Anthony Riggleton. Morality! I scorn it. But decency, the behaviour of a gentleman, to act as a gentleman underevery circumstance—that is a kind of religion with me! Now, then, Faversham, would it not be criminal madness to place all this in the hands of such a loathsome creature when you can so easily prevent it?"
Of course, the argument was commonplace enough. It was a device by which thousands have tried to salve their consciences, and to try to find an excuse for wrong-doing. Had some men spoken the same words, Dick might not have been affected, but uttered by Romanoff they seemed to undermine the foundations of his reasoning power.
"But if he is in England?" he protested weakly.
"He is, but what then?"
"He must know; he must. He is not an idiot, I suppose?"
"No; he is cunning with a low kind of cunning—the cunning of a sensual beast. Some would say he is clever."
"Then he must find out the truth."
"Not if you say he must not."
"What have I to do with it?"
"Everything," and Romanoff's eyes seemed to be searching into Dick's innermost soul.
"But how? I do not understand," and he nervously wiped his moist hands.
"Say so, and he must be got rid of."
"How?"
Romanoff laughed quietly. "These are good cigars, Faversham," he said, like one who was vastly enjoying himself. "Oh, you can do that easily enough," he continued.
"How?" asked Dick. He felt his eyes were hot as he turned them towards the other.
"I said treat him as though he were non-existent. Well, let himbenon-existent."
"You mean—you mean——" and Dick's voice could scarcely be recognised.
"Why not?" asked the Count carelessly. "The fellow is vermin—just dirty vermin. But he is a danger—a danger to the community, a danger to you. Why, then, if it can be done easily, secretly, and without anyonehaving the slightest chance of knowing, should you not rid the world of such a creature? Especially when you could save all this," and he looked around the room, "as well as marry that divine creature, and live the life you long to live."
"Never!" cried Dick. "What?—murder! Not for all the wealth ever known. No, no—my God, no!"
"If there are good deeds in the world, that would be a good deed," persisted Romanoff. "You would be a benefactor to your race, your country," and there was a touch of pleading in his voice. "Why, man, think; I have him safe—safe! No one could know, and it would be a praiseworthy deed."
"Then why not do it yourself?" cried Dick. There was a sneer as well as anger in his voice.
"I am not the next heir to the Faversham estates," replied Romanoff. "What does it matter to me who owns all that old Charles Faversham gained during his life?"
"Then why suggest such a thing? Why, it's devilish!"
"Don't—please, don't be melodramatic," the Count drawled. "Would you not kill a rat that ate your corn? Would you not shoot any kind of vermin that infested your house? Well, Riggleton is vermin, human vermin if you like, but still vermin, and he is not fit to live. If I, Romanoff, were in your position, I would have no more hesitation in putting him out of existence than your gamekeeper would have in shooting a dog with rabies. But, then, I am not in your position. I have nothing to gain. I only take a friendly interest in you. I have hurried to you with all speed the moment I knew of your danger, and I have told you how you can rid the world of a coarse, dirty-minded animal, and at the same time save for yourself the thing nearest your heart."
"Did he come in the same vessel with you?"
"Suffice to say that I know he is in England, and in safe keeping."
"Where? How? England has laws to protect everyone."
"That does not matter. I will tell you if you like; but you would be none the wiser."
"Then you have arranged this?"
"If you like—yes."
"But why?"
"Still the same silly question. Have you no sense of proportion, Faversham? Haven't I told you again and again?"
Dick was almost gasping for breath, and as he buried his head in his hands, he tried to understand, to realise. In calmer moments his mind would doubtless have pierced the cheap sophistry of the Count, and discarded it. But, as I have said, he was greatly excited, bewildered. Never as now did he desire wealth. Never as now had the thought of winning Lady Blanche seemed the great thing in life to be hoped for. And he knew the Count was right—knew that without his money she would no more think of marrying him than of marrying the utmost stranger. And yet his heart craved after her. He longed to possess her—to call her his own. He saw her as he had never seen her before, a splendid creature whose beauty outshone that of any woman he had ever seen, as the sun outshone the moon.
And this Anthony Riggleton, whom the Count described as vermin, stood in his way. Because of a quibble on his part this loathsome thing would ruin his future, dash his hopes to the ground, blacken his life.
But the alternative!
"No, of course not!" he cried.
"You refuse?"
"Certainly I do. I'm not a murderer."
"Very well, go your own way. Go to your Mr. Bidlake, see him shrug his shoulders and laugh, and then watch while your cousin—yourcousin!—turns this glorious old place into a cesspool."
"Yes; rather than stain my hands in——I say, Romanoff," and the words passed his lips almost in spite of himself, "there must be some deep reason why you—you say and do all this. Do you expect to gain anything, in any way, because of my—retaining possession of my uncle's wealth?"
For the first time the Count seemed to lose possession over himself. He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing.
"What!" he cried; "do you mean that I, Romanoff, would profit by your poor little riches? What is all this to me? Why, rich as you thought you were, I could buy up all the Faversham estates—all—all, and then not know that my banking account was affected. I, Romanoff, seek to help a man whom I had thought of as my friend for some paltry gain! Good-night, Mr. Richard Faversham, you may go your own way."
"Stop!" cried Dick, almost carried away by the vehemence of the other; "of course, I did not mean——"
"Enough," and the Count interrupted him by a word and a laugh. "Besides, you do not, cannot, understand. But to rid your mind of all possible doubt I will show you something. Here is my account with your Bank of England. This is for pocket-money, pin-money, petty cash as your business men call it. There was my credit yesterday. In the light of that, do you think that I need to participate in your fortune, huge as you regard it?"
Dick was startled as he saw the amount. There could be no doubt about it. The imprimatur of the Bank of England was plainly to be seen, and the huge figures stood out boldly.
"I'm sure I apologise," stammered Dick. "I only thought that—that—you see——"
"All right," laughed the Count, "let it be forgotten. Besides, have I not told you more than once that I am interested in you? I have shown you my interest, and——"
"Of course you have," cried Dick. "I owe you my life; but for you I should not be alive to-day."
"Just so. I want to see you happy, Faversham. I want you to enjoy life's sweetness. I want you to be for ever free from the haunting fear that this Anthony Riggleton shall ever cross your path. That is why——"
He hesitated, as though he did not know what to say next.
"Yes," asked Dick, "why what?"
"That is why I want to serve you further."
"Serve me further? How?"
"Suppose I get rid of Riggleton for you?"
"I do not understand."
"Suppose I offer to get rid of Riggleton for you? Suppose without your having anything to do with him, without knowing where he is, I offer to remove him for ever from your path—would you consent?"
"I consent?"
"Yes; I must have that. Would you give it?"
"You—you—that is, you ask me if I will consent to—to his—his murder?"
"Just that, my friend. That must be—else why should I do it? But—but I love you, Faversham—as if you were my son, and I would do it for your happiness. Of course, it's an unpleasant thing to do, even although I have no moral scruples, but I'll do it for you."
Again Dick felt as though the ground were slipping from under his feet. Never before was he tempted as he was tempted now, never did it seem so easy to consent to wrong. And he would not be responsible. He had suggested nothing, pleaded nothing. His part would be simply to be blindly quiescent. His mind was confused to every issue save one. He had only to consent, and this man Riggleton, the true owner of everything, would be removed for ever.
"And if I do not?" he asked.
"Then nothing more need be said. But look at me, Faversham, and tell me if you will be such a fool. If there is any guilt, I bear it; if there is any danger, I face it; do you refuse, Faversham? I only make the offer for your sake."
Again Dick felt the awful eyes of the Count piercing him; it was as though all his power of judgment, all his volition were ebbing away. At that moment he felt incapable of resistance.
"And if I consent?" he asked weakly.
"Of course you will, youwill, youwill," and the words were repeated with peculiar intensity, while the eyes of the two met. "I only make one stipulation, and I must make it because you need a friend. I must make it binding for your sake."
He took a piece of paper from a desk and scribbled a few words.
"There, read," he said.
Dick read:
"I promise to put myself completely under the guidance of Count Romanoff with regard to the future of my life."
"There, sign that, Faversham," and the Count placed the pen in his hand.
Without will, and almost without knowledge, Dick took the pen.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Dick dully.
"Sign that paper. Just put 'Richard Faversham' and the date. I will do the rest."
"But—but if I do this, I shall be signing away my liberty. I shall make myself a slave to you."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Why should I interfere with your liberty?"
"I don't know; but this paper means that." He was still able to think consecutively, although his thoughts were cloudy and but dimly realised.
"Think, Faversham. I am undertaking a dirty piece of work for your sake. Why? I am doing it because I want you to be free from Anthony Riggleton, and I am doing it because I take a deep interest in you."
"But why should I sign this?"
In spite of the Count's influence over him, he had a dull feeling that there was no need for such a thing. Even although he had tacitly consented to Romanoff's proposal he saw no necessity for binding himself.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I know you—because I read your mind like a book. I want to make you my protégé, and I want you to cut a figure in the life of the world. After all, in spite of Charles Faversham's wealth, you are a nobody. You are a commoner all compact. But I can make you really great. I am Romanoff. You asked me once if I were of the great Russian family, and I answered yes. Do you know what that means? It means that no door is closed to me—that I can go where I will, do what I will. It means that if I desire a man's aggrandisement, it is an accomplished fact.Not only are the delights of this country mine for the asking, but my name is anOpen Sesamein every land. My name and my influence are a key to unlock every door; my hand can draw aside the curtain of every delight. And there are delights in the world that you know nothing of, never dreamt of. As my protégé I want them to be yours. A great name, great power, glorious pleasures, the smile of beautiful women, delights such as the author ofThe Arabian Nightsonly dimly dreamt of—it is my will that you shall have them all. Charles Faversham's money and my influence shall give you all this and more. But I am not going to have a fretful, puling boy objecting all the time; I am not going to have my plans for your happiness frustrated by conscience and petty quibbles about what is good and evil. That is why I insist on your signing that paper."
Romanoff spoke in low tones, but every word seemed to be laden with meanings hitherto unknown to Dick. He saw pictures of exquisite delights, of earthly paradises, of joys that made life an ecstasy.
And still something kept his hand still. He felt rather than reasoned that something was wrong—that all was wrong. He was in an abnormal state of mind; he knew that the influences by which he was surrounded were blinding him to truth, and giving him distorted fancies about life's values.
"No," he said doggedly; "I won't sign, and I won't consent to this devilish deed."
Again Romanoff laughed. "Look at me, Dick, my boy," he said. "You are not a milksop; you were made to live your whole life. Fancy you being a clerk in an office, a store—a poor little manikin keeping body and soul together in order to do the will of some snivelling tradesman! Think of it! Think of Anthony Riggleton living here, or in London, in Paris, in India—or wherever he pleases—squandering his money, and satiated with pleasure, while you—you——Pooh! I know you. I see you holding Lady Blanche in your arms. I see you basking in the smiles of beautiful women all over the world. I see the name of Faversham world-widein its power. I see——" and the Count laughed again.
All the while, too, he kept Dick's eyes riveted on his own—eyes which told him of a world of sensuous delights, and which robbed him of his manhood. No, he could not bear to become poor again, and he would not give up the delights he had dreamt of. Right! Wrong! Good! Evil! They were only words. The Count was right. It was his right to enjoy.
"All right, I'll sign," he said.
He dipped the pen into the ink, and prepared to inscribe his name, but the moment he placed his hand on the paper it felt as though it were paralysed.
"There is something here!" he gasped.
"Something here? Nonsense."
"But there is. Look!"
It seemed to him that a ray of light, brighter than that of the electric current that burnt in the room, streamed towards him. Above him, too, he saw the face that was now becoming familiar to him. Strange that he had forgotten it during the long conversation, strange that no memory of the evening before, when over the doorway he had seen an angel's face beaming upon him and warning him, had come to him.
But he remembered now. The night on the heaving sea, the vision on the island, the luminous form over the doorway of the house, all flashed before him, and in a way he could not understand Romanoff's influence over him lessened—weakened.
"Sign—sign there!" urged the Count, pointing towards the paper.
"What is the matter with your eyes?" gasped Dick. "They burn with the light of hell fire."
"You are dreaming, boy. Sign, and let's have a bottle of wine to seal the bargain."
"I must be dreaming," thought Dick. "An angel's face! What mad, idiotic nonsense!"
He still held the pen in his hand, and it seemed to him that strength was again returning to his fingers.
"Where must I sign?" he muttered. "I can't see plainly."
"There—right at the point of your pen," was the Count's reply.
But Dick did not sign, for suddenly he saw a white, shadowy hand appear, which with irresistible strength gripped his wrist.
Suddenly the spell, or whatever had enchained him, was broken. There was a noise of wheels on the gravel outside, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. He heard the Count mutter a savage oath, and a moment later the door opened and he heard a happy, clear, girlish voice:
"Oh, Mr. Faversham, forgive me for coming; but I really couldn't help myself."
It was Beatrice Stanmore who, unheralded and unaccompanied, stood by his side.
He muttered something, he knew not what, although he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and strength came back to his being.
"I really couldn't," the girl went on. "Granddad left me just after a very early dinner, and then I felt awfully miserable and depressed. I didn't know why. It was just ghastly. Nothing had happened, and yet I knew—why, I couldn't tell—that something was terribly wrong. Then something told me that you were in danger, that unless I came to help you, you would be—oh, I can't put it into words! You are not in danger, are you?"
"It was very kind of you to come," muttered Dick. "I'm no end glad to see you."
"But—but I'm afraid!" she said in her childish way. "I don't know what Granddad will say to me. You see, you are a stranger to me, and I had no right to come. But I couldn't help it—I really couldn't. Someone seemed to be saying to me all the time, 'Mr. Faversham is in deadly peril; go to him—go to him quick! quick!' And I couldn't help myself. I kept telling myself that I was very silly, and all that sort of thing,but all the time I heard the voice saying, 'Quick, quick, or you'll be too late!' But I'm afraid it's all wrong. You are all right. You are in no danger, are you?"
"I'm no end glad to see you," he repeated. "And it is awfully good of you to come."
He still seemed to be under strange influences, but he no longer felt as though his strength was gone. His heart was strangely light, too. The presence of the girl by his side gave him comfort.
"You are not angry with me, then? I've not done wrong, have I?"
"Wrong? No! You have done quite right—quite. Thank you very, very much."
"I'm glad of that. When I had left our house I wanted to run to you. Then I thought of the car. I've learnt to drive, and Granddad thinks I'm very clever at it. I simply flew through the park. But I'm glad you are in no danger. I must go now."
She had not once looked at Romanoff; she simply stood gazing at Dick with wide-open, childish-looking eyes, and her words came from her almost pantingly, as though she spoke under the stress of great excitement. Then she looked at the paper before him.
"You are not going to write your name on that, are you?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "I'm not."
"You must not," she said simply. "It would be wrong. When I heard the words telling me to come to you I—I saw—but no, I can't recall it. But you must not sign that. I'll go now. Good-night, and please forgive me for coming."
"Please don't go yet."
"But I must. I could not stay here. There's something wrong, something evil. I'm sure there is."
She glanced nervously towards Romanoff, and shivered. "Good-night," she said, holding out her hand. "I really must go now. I think the danger is over—I feel sure it is; and Granddad will be anxious if he comes back and does not find me."
"I'll see you to the door," said Dick. "I shall never cease to thank you for coming."
Leaving the paper on the table, and without looking at Romanoff, he opened the door to her, and passed into the hall.
"Yes; I shall never cease to thank you," he repeated—"never. You have saved me."
"What from?" and she looked at him with a strangely wistful smile.
"I don't know," he replied—"I don't know."
When they stood together on the gravel outside the door, he gave a deep sigh. It seemed to him as though the pure, sweet air enabled him to lift every weight from himself. He was free—wonderfully, miraculously free.
"Oh, it is heavenly, just heavenly here!" and she laughed gaily. "I think this is the most beautiful place in the world, and this is the most beautiful night that ever was. Isn't the avenue just lovely? The trees are becoming greener and greener every day. It is just as though the angels were here, hanging their festoons. Do you like my car? Isn't it a little beauty?"
"Yes," replied Dick. "May—may I drive you back?"
"Will you? Then you can explain to Granddad. But no, you mustn't. You must go back to your friend."
"He isn't my friend," replied Dick almost involuntarily; "he's just—but perhaps you wouldn't understand."
"He isn't a good man," she cried impulsively. "I don't like him. I know I ought not to say this. Granddad often tells me that I let my tongue run away with me. But he's not a good man, and—and I think he's your enemy."
Dick was silent.
"Is he staying with you long?" she went on.
"No, not long."
"I'm glad of that. He isn't nice. He's—he's—I don't know what. I shall tell Granddad I've been here."
"He won't be angry, will he?"
"No; he's never angry. Besides, I think he'll understand. You'll come and see us soon, won't you?"
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to. I'm going away."
"Going away?"
"Yes; I'm leaving Wendover Park. At least, I expect so."
"You don't mean for always?"
"Yes; for always. To-night has decided it."
She looked at him wistfully, questioningly.
"Has that man anything to do with it? Is he driving you away?"
"No; he wants me to stay."
She again scanned his features in a puzzled, childish way. "Of course, I don't understand," she said.
"No; I hardly understand myself," and he spoke almost involuntarily. "Thank you very much for coming."
She clasped his hand eagerly. "I shall be very sorry if you go," she said, "but please don't do anything that man asks you. Please don't."
"I won't," replied Dick.
He started the car for her, and then watched her while she drove down the avenue. Then he stood for a few seconds looking at the great doorway. He might have been expecting to see there what had been so plainly visible before, but there was nothing.
The grey old mansion was simply bathed in the light of the dying day, while the silvery moon, which was just rising behind the tree-tops, sent its rays through the fast-growing leaves. But as Beatrice Stanmore had said, it was a most wondrous night. All nature was glorying in life, while the light breezes seemed to bring him distant messages. The birds, too, even although the sun had set, perhaps an hour before, sent their messages one to another, and twittered their love-songs as they settled to their rest.
He waited on the steps for perhaps five minutes, then he found his way back to Romanoff. For some seconds neither said anything; each seemed to have a weight upon his lips. Then Romanoff spoke.
"You refuse, then?"
"Yes; I refuse."
"What do you refuse?"
"Everything. I refuse to allow you to do that devilish deed. I refuse to obey you."
Romanoff laughed as his eyes rested on Dick's face.
"You know what this means, of course?"
"Yes, I know."
"Then—then I interfere no further."
"Thank you."
Romanoff waited a few seconds before he spoke again. "Of course, you are very silly, Faversham," he said. "Soon you'll be sorry for this, and some time you'll need my help. Meanwhile I'm tired, and will go to bed."
He passed out of the room as he spoke, and Dick noticed that the scrap of paper was gone.
The next morning when Dick came downstairs he found Romanoff evidently prepared for a journey. His luggage had been brought into the hall, and he was looking at a time-table.
"Faversham, I am sorry that we part in this way," he said.
"Are you going?" asked Dick.
The Count looked at him steadily, as if trying to divine his state of mind—to know if he had changed his purposes since the previous evening.
"Naturally," he replied.
"You have settled on your train?"
"Yes; I go by the 10.43."
"Then I will see that a car is in readiness."
As may be imagined, Dick had spent a well-nigh sleepless flight, and he was in a nervous condition; but upon one thing he had decided. He would be studiously polite to the Count, and would in no way refer to the happenings of the previous night. Even yet he had not made up his mind about his visitor, except that he agreed with Beatrice Stanmore. The man still fascinated him; but he repelled him also. There was something mysterious, evil, about him; but the evil was alluring; it was made to seem as though it were not evil.
"Should you alter your mind," said the Count on leaving, "this address will find me. After to-night at ten o'clock, it will be useless to try to find me."
Dick looked at the card he had placed in his hand, and found the name of one of the best hotels in London.
When he had gone, the young man felt strangely lonely and fearfully depressed. The air seemed full offoreboding; everything seemed to tell him of calamity. As the morning passed away, too, he, more than once, found himself questioning his wisdom. After all, the Count had asked nothing unreasonable. Why should he not promise to be guided by a man who was so much older and wiser than himself? One, too, who could so greatly help him in the future.
Again and again he wandered around the house, and through the gardens. Again and again he feasted his eyes upon the beauty of the park and the glory of the district. And it was his no longer! Could he not even now——
No; he could not! If Anthony Riggleton were alive, and was the true heir to old Charles Faversham's wealth, he should have it. The thought of doing what Romanoff had proposed made him shudder.
But he would not give up without a struggle. After all, he was in possession, and he was accepted as the owner of Wendover Park as well as heir to enormous wealth. Why, then, should he give it up? No; he would fight for what he held.
The day passed slowly away. He ate his lonely lunch in silence, and then, taking a two-seater car, ran it in the direction of Lord Huntingford's house. Just as he was passing the gates Lady Blanche appeared, accompanied by a girl of about her own age.
Almost unconsciously he lifted his foot from the accelerator and pressed down the brake.
"Alone, Mr. Faversham?" she asked, with a radiant smile.
"Quite alone, Lady Blanche."
"Your guest is gone, then?"
"He left this morning."
"Then—then please excuse the informality—but then we are neighbours; won't you come to dinneren familleon Thursday night? Father will be delighted to see you. And, oh, I want to introduce you to my friend here."
He did not catch the girl's name, but it did not matter. He had only eyes and ears for this glorious woman. Her face was wreathed with smiles, while her eyes shonebrightly. Surely such a woman was never known before. In a moment he had forgotten the previous night—forgotten the great crisis in his life.
"Thursday! I shall be delighted!" he cried, lifting his cap.
The two passed on, and he resumed his drive. Why did he not ask them to accompany him? Why? Why?
His mind was in a turmoil. The sight of Lady Blanche had set his nerves tingling, and caused his blood to course madly through his veins. Her smile, her look, her attitude could only mean one thing: she thought kindly of him—she thought more than kindly of him.
Then he remembered. Wendover Park was not his—nothing was his. If Romanoff told him truly, he was a pauper. All—all would have to be sacrificed.
Where he went that afternoon he had no recollection. He only knew that he drove the car at its utmost speed, and that the country through which he was passing was strange to him. He wanted to get away from himself, from his thoughts, from everything that reminded him of the truth.
He returned to Wendover Park in time for dinner, and from eight to ten o'clock he sat alone. On his arrival he had asked whether there had been any callers, any message, and on receiving an answer in the negative, he had heaved a sigh of relief. In the library after dinner, however, the whole ghastly position had to be faced, and for two hours his mind was torn first this way and then that.
But he did nothing. He could not do anything. How could he?
The evening—the night passed, and there was no happening. Everything was orderly, quiet, commonplace. He might never have seen the luminous figure at the doorway, never felt that awesome gripping of his wrist; indeed, the whole experience might have been a dream, so unreal was it.
The next day passed, and still nothing happened. More than once he was on the point of ringing up Mr. Bidlake, but he refrained. What could he say to the keen old lawyer?
He did not leave the house during the whole day. Almost feverishly he listened to every sound. No footstep passed unnoticed, no caller but was anxiously scanned. Every time the telephone bell rang, he rushed to it with fast-beating heart, only to heave a sigh of relief when he discovered that there was no message concerning the things which haunted his mind.
Still another night passed, and still nothing happened. He was beginning to hope that Romanoff had been playing a practical joke on him, and that all his fears were groundless.
Then just before noon the blow came.
The telephone bell tinkled innocently near him, and on putting the instrument to his ear he heard Mr. Bidlake's voice.
"Is that you, Mr. Faversham?
"Mr. Faversham speaking. You are Mr. Bidlake, aren't you?"
"Yes."
This was followed by a cough; then the lawyer spoke again.
"Will you be home this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"I want to see you very particularly. A strange thing has happened. Grotesque, in fact, and I want you to be prepared for—for anything."
"What?"
"I don't like telling you over the telephone. I'm tremendously upset. I can hardly speak collectedly."
"I think I know. It has to do with Anthony Riggleton and the Faversham estates, hasn't it?"
"How did you know? Yes; it has. It's terribly serious, I'm afraid. I'd better see you at once. Some arrangement, some compromise might be made."
"You mean that Riggleton is not dead? That you've seen him?"
He spoke quite calmly and naturally. Indeed, he was surprised at his command over himself.
"Yes; he's just left me. He's been here for two hours. Of course, I tried at first to take his visit as a joke, but——"
"You are convinced that itwasRiggleton?"
"I can have no doubt about it—no possible doubt. He's deadly in earnest too, and his case is overwhelming—simply overwhelming. Never, outside the realms of the wildest romance, did I ever come across a case where a lawyer could be so completely mistaken. But I can't help it, and I'm afraid that—that your prospects for the future are materially altered. Of course you might——"
"You are coming down here, you say. There's a good train from Victoria at 1.45. Can you catch it?"
"Ye—s. I think so."
"Then I'll send a car to meet you at this end."
He rang the bell, altered the time of lunch, and then sat down to think. But not for long. Calmly as he had talked to the lawyer, his every nerve was quivering with excitement, every faculty was in tension.
He went to the window and looked out.
All he saw was his no longer. He had no doubt about it, and it seemed to him that an icy hand was placed upon his heart as he realised it.
And he might have retained it!
Was he glad or sorry because of what he had done? Every particle of his being was crying out for the life he longed to live, and yet——As he thought of the price he would have to pay, as he remembered Romanoff's words, he did not repent.
He calmly waited for the lawyer's arrival.
By four o'clock Mr. Bidlake was on his way back to London again, and Dick knew that his own fate was sealed. The lawyer had proved to him that he had no right to be there, and while he advised him to put on a bold face, and in the last extremity to try and compromise with Anthony Riggleton, he held out no hope. Anthony Riggleton was beyond doubt the true heir of old Charles Faversham, and he had undisputable proofs of the fact.
"I am more upset than I can say, Faversham," said the lawyer, when he had described Riggleton's visit, "but we can't help ourselves. He is perfectly sure of his ground, and he has reason to be."
"He convinced you entirely, then?"
"Absolutely—absolutely."
Dick was still calm. Perhaps the experiences of the last few days left him almost incapable of feeling.
"What sort of fellow is he?"
The lawyer puckered up his face, and shook his head dismally. "He will not be a Society favourite," was all he said.
"But he has no doubts as to his plans?"
"He says he's going to take possession immediately. If you offer any opposition, he will apply for an injunction."
"Has he any money?"
"He appeared to be quite well off. His clothes are quite new," added the lawyer, "and he sported some very flashy jewellery. I was impressed by the thought that he had someone behind him."
"Did he say so?"
"No, not definitely, but I formed that impression. Anyhow, you can be certain of this. He will lose no time in making his claim. Indeed, I should not be at all surprised if the papers don't contain some notice of his advent and his claims to-morrow morning."
"You said something about a compromise."
"Yes, you see"—and the lawyer coughed almost nervously—"this will be very awkward for you. You've no right here; you've been spending money which has not been your own. Still, your case is not without its good points. You are in possession, you have been accepted as the owner of—all this, and even although he has the prior claim, you would have great sympathy from a jury—should it come to that. I told him so. I don't promise anything, but it might be that he might be disposed to—do something considerable to persuade you to leave him in possession quietly."
"As a kind of salve for my disappointment?" and there was an angry light in Dick's eyes.
"If you like to put it that way, yes. But, bless my soul, it is close on four o'clock, and I must be going. I can't say how sorry I am, and—and if I can do anything——"
"Is the fellow married?" interrupted Dick.
"No—nothing of that sort. After all, no one but he stands in the way of possession."
"What shall I do?" Dick asked himself. "I'm worse off than I was before. At any rate I was in the way of earning a few hundred pounds when that wireless came. But now everything is altered, and I don't know where to turn. Still——" and there was a grim, hard look in his eyes.
Slowly he walked down the avenue towards the lodge gates. Away in the distance, as though coming towards him, he saw a young girl. It was Beatrice Stanmore. He took a few steps towards her, and then turned back. Something forbade his speaking to her; somehow she seemed closely connected with the black calamity which had fallen on him.
He had barely returned to the house when he heard the tooting of a motor horn, and, looking out, he saw a large, powerful motor-car coming rapidly up the avenue. A minute later he heard voices in the hall—voices which suggested recognition. Then the door opened.
"Mr. Anthony Riggleton!" said the servant excitedly.
A young fellow about twenty-eight years of age entered the room. He was a round-faced, thickly built man, and he carried himself with a swagger. Evidently it had been his desire to get himself up for the occasion. His clothes were new, and shouted aloud of his tastes. They suggested a bookmaker. He smoked a large cigar, and wore an aggressive buttonhole. He did not take off his hat on entering, but, having advanced a couple of steps, took a survey of the room.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was somewhat thick; "I remember the old place well. It's as natural as life." Then, coming up to where Dick was, he continued, "Of course you know who I am?"
Dick, who had difficulty in repressing his excitement, mentioned something about never having seen him before.
"Oh, stow that!" said the newcomer. "I'm Tony Riggleton, I am. You know that well enough."
"I don't see why I should," and Dick's voice was a little angry. He instinctively disliked Tony Riggleton.
"I do, though. Why, Bidlake hasn't been gone half an hour. Hopper has just told me."
Dick was silent. He did not see at the moment what there was for him to say.
"You guess why I'm here?" he went on.
"I'm not good at guessing." Dick felt that Riggleton had the whip hand of him, and while he did not intend to make any concessions to his whilom cousin, he felt sure what the upshot of their meeting would be.
"Oh, I say, Faversham," and Riggleton moved farther into the room, "it's no use taking the high handwith me. Of course I don't blame you, and naturally you're cut up. Anyone would be in your place. But there's nothing green about me. All this show belongs to me, and I mean to finger the coin. That's straight. Mind, I've come down here in a friendly way, and I don't want to be unreasonable. See? I'm old Faversham's heir. Old Bidlake was obliged to own it, although he wriggled like a ferret in a hole. I can see, too, that you're a bit of a swell, and would suit his book better than I can; but I can make the money go. Don't you make any mistake."
He laughed as he spoke, and made a pretence of re-lighting his cigar.
"Come now," he went on, "let's have a bottle of champagne, and then we can talk over things quietly."
"There's nothing to talk over as far as I can see," interposed Dick.
"What do you mean by that?" In spite of his assertive attitude, he did not appear at ease, and was constantly casting furtive and suspicious glances towards Dick.
"I mean," replied Dick, "that if you are old Charles Faversham's heir, and if you can prove it, there's nothing more to be said."
"You mean that you'll clear out quietly?"
There was evident astonishment in his voice. Apparently he had expected bluster, and perhaps a scene.
"Of course I shall clear out quietly. Naturally there are formalities with which you'll have to comply; but, if you are the true owner, you are, and there's no more to be said."
Riggleton looked at him with open-mouthed wonder, evidently staggered that Faversham was taking the matter so calmly.
Dick was silent. The fellow was getting on his nerves, and he had difficulty in keeping calm.
"Then you don't mean to fight it out?" he continued.
"Why should I?" asked Dick quietly. "You have placed your papers in Mr. Bidlake's hands, and left everything for his examination. Your identity will haveto be proved, and all that sort of thing; but I hope I've too much self-respect to try to hold anything that isn't mine."
"Put it there!" cried Anthony Riggleton, holding out his hand. "That's what I call acting like a gentleman, that is. I sort of thought you'd get your monkey up, and—but there. It's all right. There's nothing fishy about me. I don't pretend to be a saint, I don't. In fact, I don't believe old Uncle Charlie ever meant me to come in for all his wad. S'welp me bob, I don't. I was never his sort, and I don't mind telling you that he as good as kicked me out from here. You see, I was always fond of a bit of life, and I've gone the whole hog in my time. But that's all over now."
"You mean that you're going to reform?"
"Reform! Not 'alf. No, Faversham; I'm going to have the time of my life. I'm going to—but—I say, have you been here ever since you thought you came in for the old man's whack?"
"Yes; why?"
"Youarea plaster saint. By gosh, you are! But you don't see me burying myself in this hole. Of course it's very grand, and all that sort of thing; but, no, thank you! Tony Riggleton is going the whole hog. What's the use of money else? Of course I shall use the place now and then. When I feel my feet a bit I shall get some music-hall people down here for week-ends, and all that sort of thing. But, as for living here like Bidlake says you have!—no, thank you. London's my mark! I tell you, I mean to paint the town red. And then, if I can get passports and that sort of tommy-rot, I'll do Paris and Madrid and Rome. You don't catch me burying myself like a hermit. Not a little bit. Now I've got the money, I mean to make it fly. Ishouldbe a fool if I didn't!"
The man was revealing himself by every word he spoke. His tastes and desires were manifested by his sensual lips, his small, dull eyes and throaty voice.
"Now, look here, Faversham," he went on, "I'll admit you are different from what I expected you to be. I was prepared for a bit of a shindy, and that's straight.But you've taken a knock-down blow in a sporting way, and I want to do the thing handsome. Of course I own this show just as I own all the rest of the old man's estates; but there's nothing mean about me. Live and let live is my motto. You can stay on here for a week or a fortnight if you like. I don't want to be hard. For that matter, although I'm going back to town to-night, I'll come back on Saturday and bring some bits of fluff from the Friv, and we'll make a week-end of it. I expect you've plenty of fizz in the house, haven't you?"
Dick was silent. The conversation, only a part of which I have recorded, so disgusted him that, although he was not a Puritan by nature, he felt almost polluted by the man's presence. It seemed like sacrilege, too, that this fellow should turn Wendover Park into a sty, as he evidently meant to do, and he found himself wondering whether, after all, he would not have been justified in accepting Romanoff's offer.
"Come, what do you say?" went on Riggleton. "I tell you——" and then he went on to give details of his programme. "There's no need for you to be so down in the mouth," he concluded. "There's plenty of money, as you know, and I'll not be hard on you."
The fellow was so coarsely patronising that Dick with difficulty kept himself from starting up and rushing from the room. At that moment, however, a servant entered and brought him a telegram, and a moment later his brain seemed on fire as he read:
"Riggleton's claim undoubtedly valid, but can still save situation if you accept my terms.—Romanoff, Hotel Cosmopolitan."
"Riggleton's claim undoubtedly valid, but can still save situation if you accept my terms.—Romanoff, Hotel Cosmopolitan."
The words burnt into his brain; he felt as he had felt a few nights before when Romanoff had placed the paper before him to sign.
"Any answer, sir?"
He looked towards a pen which lay on the table before him. Why should he not send back an acceptance?
"I say," said Riggleton, "is that about the estate? Because if it is, I demand to see it."
His tone was loud and arrogant. The sight of the telegram had evidently aroused his suspicions and his desire to assert his mastery.
"Oh, I mean it," he went on. "I'm an easy chap to get on with, but I'm master here. I tell you that straight."
Dick felt as though his nerves were raw; the man's presence was maddening. And he had to give up everything to him!
"It's a purely personal telegram," he replied. "I'm only considering how I shall answer it."
He seized a telegraph form, and dipped a pen into an inkstand, but he did not write a word. His mind again flew back to the night when Romanoff tempted him, and when he had felt a hand grip his wrist.
"Let's get out," he said, cramming the telegram into his pocket.
"Yes; let's," assented Riggleton; "but let's have a drink before we go. I say, my man," and he turned to the servant, who still waited, "bring a bottle of fizz. Yes; do as you're told. I'm your new master. Everything belongs to me. See?"
The servant turned to Dick. Doubtless there had been a great deal of excited conversation in the servants' quarters, and he awaited confirmation of what he had heard.