Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.Reveals Guy’s Suspicions.All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the mysterious cylinder proved unavailing. Apparently he was entirely in ignorance of its actual contents—of the Thing referred to by the man now dead.Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled about the beautiful gardens in the sunset. He was a bright, merry, easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition for foreign travel. He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who had spent many thousands on improvements. My father had known him but slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much gratified to know his son.From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed friendship towards each other. We were both bachelors, and I saw that we had many tastes in common. His airy carelessness of manner and his overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the devoted slave of the pretty Asta.Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone with Nicholson on the terrace.“Have you known Asta long?” he asked me suddenly.My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of his question—if he were not jealous of her.“I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?”“Oh yes,” I replied lamely. “We’ve been acquainted for some little time.”Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes unusually serious. Then, after a pause, he said—“Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers were. I want to speak very frankly with you.”“Well?” I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.“I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of Harvey Shaw?”“My opinion,” I echoed. “Well, I hardly know. He’s rather a good fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy—”“Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends, and all that,” he interrupted. “But—but what I want you to tell me is, what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a mask?”“I don’t quite follow your meaning,” was my reply.“May I speak to you in entire confidence?”“You certainly may. I shall not abuse it.”“Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman’s bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name.”“Why should any word be said against him?”I queried. “Is he not your friend, as well as mine?”“Granted, but—well, he has been here several years, and I have known Asta all the time. Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her. But were it not for her I would never darken his doors.”“Why?” I asked, much surprised.“Well,” he said with hesitation, lowering his voice. “Because there’s something wrong about him.”“Something wrong? What do you mean?”“What I allege. I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil.”“Then you have suspicion of him, eh? Of what?”“I hardly know. But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly. I do not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta. They are glances of hatred.”“My dear fellow,” I laughed. “You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so.”“Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?”“Why should he? She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever since her childhood.”“I know. You are Shaw’s friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion there may be against him. Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing.”“But what causes you to suspect this?” I asked, looking at him very seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun.“Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball. I have proof.”“Of what?”“Of what I allege,” he cried, in a low, confidential tone. “This man Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be.”I was silent. What could he know? Surely Asta had not betrayed her foster-father! Of that I felt confident.“But you say you have proof. What is the nature of the proof?”“It is undeniable. This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained all these years, has changed towards her. There’s evil in his heart.”“Then you fear that—well, that something may happen, eh?—that he might treat her unkindly. Surely he is not cruel to her!”“Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him.”“But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be.”“Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret.”I held my breath. What could he know?“Well?” I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.“I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago—I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence—I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards.”“Well, and what do you make out from that incident?” I asked.“That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed him to be on the Continent.”“But the disguise?”“Ah! there you are! Surely a gentleman doesn’t go about in shabby clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister motive. The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was making his way to pay a secret visit.”“Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?”“Quite confident.”“You told her nothing?”“Of course not. I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes very wide-open. Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is not what he pretends to be.”The situation was, I saw, a most critical one. The young man loved Asta very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse. This was curious, having regard to Arnold’s written words of caution. The latter’s suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in London.“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” I asked him.“Not to a soul.”“Then if I may be permitted to advise,” I said, “I should say no word to anybody—not even to Miss Seymour. I will assist you, and we will continue to watch and act together.”“Good!” he cried. “Your hand upon it, Kemball.” And we grasped hands.“I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta,” he said in a low hoarse voice. “I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem to have a distinct presage of evil.”“Personally, I don’t think you need have any uneasiness upon that score,” I said. “Miss Seymour is his sole companion—probably his confidante—for he has but few friends.”“Exactly. But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?”I had not looked at the matter in that light. My companion’s discovery was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but suspicion of Shaw’s hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd. But when a man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.“Well,” I said, “now that you have been frank with me so far, and have taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you really do suspect?”“You are Shaw’s friend. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,” he said.“I am no more his friend than you are,” I replied, recollecting Arnold’s warning regarding the Hand—whatever that might be. “Have I not agreed with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised to help you to watch? What actual conclusions have you formed?”“H-s-s-h!” he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me, and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.“They’re worrying Dad on the telephone from London,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “He gets so out of patience with it. But really it is awfully trying sometimes. They ring you up and then keep you half an hour waiting.”“I know,” laughed Guy. “My own experience is exactly the same. Why, only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an hour.”As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked inexpressibly dainty and charming. Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man. They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked Shaw for her hand. Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion which had entered his mind.I saw the love-light in her magnificent brown eyes, she stood laughing with him, while he took from his case a cigarette, tapped its end lightly, as is the habit of some men, and lit it.A few moments later Shaw joined us, smiling merrily, and as he came up he clapped Guy on the back heartily, saying—“You two fellows will stay and have dinner, won’t you? I’m glad you are friends, as you ought to be.”“I really think I must go,” I said. “It will take me hours to get home by train.”“Train! Why, Gray will drive you back, of course,” he cried. “No, never mind about dressing. Asta will excuse us, and you’ll stay.”So, having glanced at each other meaningly, we both accepted, and very soon were seated in the long handsome dining-room, where the table, laden with splendid old silver, was decorated tastefully with roses.Wheaton served us with due stateliness, yet as I sat watching his grey clean-shaven face, I felt somehow that there was a strange mysterious craftiness in its expression, unusual in the countenance of a gentleman’s servant. The manner in which he performed his service was, however, perfect. More than once, during the merry meal, I glanced across at Guy Nicholson, and wondered what were his thoughts.Fortunately he betrayed nothing in his face, for he joked and laughed with his host, and praised the excellent claret which Wheaton had served with such dignity.The girl had eyes only for her lover, while Shaw himself, seated at the head of the table, was full of fun and overflowing geniality. How very strange was the situation!After dinner we took our coffee and liqueurs on the verandah, for the night was breathless and balmy, and the air full of the sweet scent of the flowers.Then after a long gossip alone with Shaw, at half-past ten the car was ordered for me and came round to the front entrance.Before leaving I managed to obtain a word alone with Nicholson.“You’ll come over and see me,” I asked. “Now, don’t disappoint me, will you?”“No, I won’t.” Then he whispered quickly: “I told you that I had certain proofs. I’ve been upstairs. When I come I will show them to you. They will astound you, and they are fully corroborated by what I have noticed to-night. Perhaps it escaped you. Beware of Wheaton. He’s only been here six months, but I know something—haveseensomething?”And we shook hands and parted.

All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the mysterious cylinder proved unavailing. Apparently he was entirely in ignorance of its actual contents—of the Thing referred to by the man now dead.

Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled about the beautiful gardens in the sunset. He was a bright, merry, easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition for foreign travel. He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.

Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who had spent many thousands on improvements. My father had known him but slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much gratified to know his son.

From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed friendship towards each other. We were both bachelors, and I saw that we had many tastes in common. His airy carelessness of manner and his overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the devoted slave of the pretty Asta.

Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone with Nicholson on the terrace.

“Have you known Asta long?” he asked me suddenly.

My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of his question—if he were not jealous of her.

“I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?”

“Oh yes,” I replied lamely. “We’ve been acquainted for some little time.”

Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes unusually serious. Then, after a pause, he said—

“Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers were. I want to speak very frankly with you.”

“Well?” I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.

“I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of Harvey Shaw?”

“My opinion,” I echoed. “Well, I hardly know. He’s rather a good fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy—”

“Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends, and all that,” he interrupted. “But—but what I want you to tell me is, what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a mask?”

“I don’t quite follow your meaning,” was my reply.

“May I speak to you in entire confidence?”

“You certainly may. I shall not abuse it.”

“Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman’s bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name.”

“Why should any word be said against him?”

I queried. “Is he not your friend, as well as mine?”

“Granted, but—well, he has been here several years, and I have known Asta all the time. Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her. But were it not for her I would never darken his doors.”

“Why?” I asked, much surprised.

“Well,” he said with hesitation, lowering his voice. “Because there’s something wrong about him.”

“Something wrong? What do you mean?”

“What I allege. I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil.”

“Then you have suspicion of him, eh? Of what?”

“I hardly know. But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly. I do not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta. They are glances of hatred.”

“My dear fellow,” I laughed. “You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so.”

“Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?”

“Why should he? She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever since her childhood.”

“I know. You are Shaw’s friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion there may be against him. Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing.”

“But what causes you to suspect this?” I asked, looking at him very seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun.

“Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball. I have proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I allege,” he cried, in a low, confidential tone. “This man Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be.”

I was silent. What could he know? Surely Asta had not betrayed her foster-father! Of that I felt confident.

“But you say you have proof. What is the nature of the proof?”

“It is undeniable. This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained all these years, has changed towards her. There’s evil in his heart.”

“Then you fear that—well, that something may happen, eh?—that he might treat her unkindly. Surely he is not cruel to her!”

“Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him.”

“But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be.”

“Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret.”

I held my breath. What could he know?

“Well?” I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.

“I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago—I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence—I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards.”

“Well, and what do you make out from that incident?” I asked.

“That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed him to be on the Continent.”

“But the disguise?”

“Ah! there you are! Surely a gentleman doesn’t go about in shabby clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister motive. The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was making his way to pay a secret visit.”

“Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?”

“Quite confident.”

“You told her nothing?”

“Of course not. I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes very wide-open. Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is not what he pretends to be.”

The situation was, I saw, a most critical one. The young man loved Asta very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse. This was curious, having regard to Arnold’s written words of caution. The latter’s suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in London.

“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” I asked him.

“Not to a soul.”

“Then if I may be permitted to advise,” I said, “I should say no word to anybody—not even to Miss Seymour. I will assist you, and we will continue to watch and act together.”

“Good!” he cried. “Your hand upon it, Kemball.” And we grasped hands.

“I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta,” he said in a low hoarse voice. “I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem to have a distinct presage of evil.”

“Personally, I don’t think you need have any uneasiness upon that score,” I said. “Miss Seymour is his sole companion—probably his confidante—for he has but few friends.”

“Exactly. But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?”

I had not looked at the matter in that light. My companion’s discovery was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but suspicion of Shaw’s hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd. But when a man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.

“Well,” I said, “now that you have been frank with me so far, and have taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you really do suspect?”

“You are Shaw’s friend. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,” he said.

“I am no more his friend than you are,” I replied, recollecting Arnold’s warning regarding the Hand—whatever that might be. “Have I not agreed with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised to help you to watch? What actual conclusions have you formed?”

“H-s-s-h!” he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me, and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.

“They’re worrying Dad on the telephone from London,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “He gets so out of patience with it. But really it is awfully trying sometimes. They ring you up and then keep you half an hour waiting.”

“I know,” laughed Guy. “My own experience is exactly the same. Why, only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an hour.”

As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked inexpressibly dainty and charming. Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man. They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked Shaw for her hand. Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion which had entered his mind.

I saw the love-light in her magnificent brown eyes, she stood laughing with him, while he took from his case a cigarette, tapped its end lightly, as is the habit of some men, and lit it.

A few moments later Shaw joined us, smiling merrily, and as he came up he clapped Guy on the back heartily, saying—

“You two fellows will stay and have dinner, won’t you? I’m glad you are friends, as you ought to be.”

“I really think I must go,” I said. “It will take me hours to get home by train.”

“Train! Why, Gray will drive you back, of course,” he cried. “No, never mind about dressing. Asta will excuse us, and you’ll stay.”

So, having glanced at each other meaningly, we both accepted, and very soon were seated in the long handsome dining-room, where the table, laden with splendid old silver, was decorated tastefully with roses.

Wheaton served us with due stateliness, yet as I sat watching his grey clean-shaven face, I felt somehow that there was a strange mysterious craftiness in its expression, unusual in the countenance of a gentleman’s servant. The manner in which he performed his service was, however, perfect. More than once, during the merry meal, I glanced across at Guy Nicholson, and wondered what were his thoughts.

Fortunately he betrayed nothing in his face, for he joked and laughed with his host, and praised the excellent claret which Wheaton had served with such dignity.

The girl had eyes only for her lover, while Shaw himself, seated at the head of the table, was full of fun and overflowing geniality. How very strange was the situation!

After dinner we took our coffee and liqueurs on the verandah, for the night was breathless and balmy, and the air full of the sweet scent of the flowers.

Then after a long gossip alone with Shaw, at half-past ten the car was ordered for me and came round to the front entrance.

Before leaving I managed to obtain a word alone with Nicholson.

“You’ll come over and see me,” I asked. “Now, don’t disappoint me, will you?”

“No, I won’t.” Then he whispered quickly: “I told you that I had certain proofs. I’ve been upstairs. When I come I will show them to you. They will astound you, and they are fully corroborated by what I have noticed to-night. Perhaps it escaped you. Beware of Wheaton. He’s only been here six months, but I know something—haveseensomething?”

And we shook hands and parted.

Chapter Ten.The Evil of the Ten Plagues.In the days that followed I was intensely anxious to visit Lydford Hall again, but I had received a warning note from Shaw, urging me not to do so without taking every precaution. I might be followed, for the danger of detection was not yet at an end.Therefore I remained in eager expectancy of Guy’s visit. He had vaguely promised to come over “in a day or two.” But as a week passed and I heard nothing from him, I wrote, and by return of post received a reply that he would motor over and lunch with me on Sunday.“I have something of greatest importance to tell you,” his letter concluded; “so I hope you can make it convenient to be in on that day.”I received the letter on Thursday morning, and at once replied that I would be at home. I would await his visit with keenest impatience.The warm breathless days at Upton End passed but slowly. Truth to tell, I found life there extremely dull. I had many friends in the neighbourhood, but they were mostly elderly persons, or angular girls of superior education. I had little in common with them, and already found myself longing to travel again.More than once when smoking my lonely cigar before going to bed, I had taken out the mysterious cylinder from the big safe built in the wall of the library and held it in my hand pondering. What could be the Thing it contained—the thing which would amaze the world!The weird story told to me by Shaw concerning it haunted me; yet what evil could its possession bring upon me? I had heard, of course, of authenticated stories of certain Egyptian mummies which have brought disaster and death to those who disturbed their long sleep; yet in my case I had become the unwilling agent of another.On the night of receiving Nicholson’s letter, after every one had retired, I was sitting as usual smoking, with the long window open to the verandah, for the air was close and oppressive. Outside the night was glorious, the moon shone brightly, and not a breath of wind stirred.I opened the steel door in the wall by the fireplace, and from the safe took out the dead man’s letter to me with the heavy cylinder. It was a curious fancy of mine to handle and examine it.I read and re-read that letter traced by the hand of the man whom I had known as Arnold, but whose real name seemed most probably to have been Edgcumbe. Then I read that strange letter threatening vengeance, and held in my hand the old copy of the newspaper which told the curious story of Lady Lettice Lancaster.It was all mysterious, but surely most mysterious of all was that bronze cylinder. Why should the dead man have feared to expose its contents to the world?Civilisation would be staggered by the revelation, it was declared. What terrible secret of ages past could be therein contained? Why had the dead man called it a Thing? Was it really some living thing imprisoned in that strong unbreakable casing?I carried it across to the green-shaded lamp upon my writing-table, and taking up a strong magnifying glass examined it closely, and at last determined that the welding by which it had been closed had been done ages ago. As far as I could detect it had never been opened. How, therefore, could Arnold have known what it contained?—unless the papyri that had been discovered with it had given an explanation.Suddenly it occurred to me that the existence of any papyri of great interest would probably be known in the Egyptian Department of the British Museum. Therefore by inquiry there I might perhaps learn something. So I resolved, after Guy’s visit, to run up to London and see one of the officials. As Arnold was an Egyptologist, he would, no doubt, be known and his discoveries noted.I was holding the cylinder in my hand, carrying it across the room to replace it in the safe, when my eye caught a dark shadow thrown across the lawn. So quickly, however, did it disappear that I stood half inclined to believe it to exist only in my imagination. It seemed to be a long shadow, as though some person had crossed in the moonlight the high bank on the opposite side. Yet my collie, who would bark at the slightest sound in the night, lay near and uttered neither bark nor growl. I went out to the verandah and looked about me; but all was perfectly still. The world lay asleep beneath the great full moon.For a few moments I stood puzzled. No intruder should be there at that hour. Yet the fact that Prince had not been disturbed reassured me, so I closed the window, locked the cylinder and the correspondence carefully in the safe, and then went upstairs to bed.My room was directly over the library, and something prompted me to watch. So I extinguished my light and sat peering through the chink between the blind and the window-sash. For nearly half an hour I waited, my eyes fixed upon the great wide, moonlit lawn.Suddenly I saw the shadow again, plainly and distinctly—the dark silhouette passed bade again.It was probably a poacher from the wood beyond. I knew that my rabbits were being trapped with wires; therefore resolving to tell Johnson, the keeper, in the morning, I retired to bed.Next day, among my letters, I found one from my solicitors, which made it necessary for me to go at once to London; and after doing my business in Bedford Row, I strolled along to the British Museum.I had but little difficulty in discovering Professor Stewart, whose knowledge of Egyptology is probably the widest of any living man.Without telling him too many details, I related the story I had heard of the finding of a bronze cylinder in the tomb of King Merenptah, and that certain papyri were discovered with it. Could he give me any information upon the subject.“Well—a little,” replied the tall, grey-bearded, bald-headed man, looking at me through his spectacles with great deliberation. “It is true, I believe, that an interesting cylinder of metal was found in the tomb of Merenptah, coeval with Moses, and with it were some fragments of papyri fairly well-preserved, but on examination they were found not to be of the nineteenth dynasty, as would have been expected.”“Who examined them?” I asked eagerly.“I did myself, about two years ago, if I recollect aright,” replied the Professor. “They were brought to me one day for my opinion by a man whose name I now forget. He was elderly, grey-bearded, and apparently possessed considerable knowledge of Egyptian subjects. He left them with me, so that I might decipher them, as he wished to compare his own decipher with mine. But, curiously enough, I have never seen him since. The papyri I have still locked away, awaiting his return.”“Then they are here?” I cried eagerly.“Certainly. Would you like to see them?”I replied eagerly in the affirmative, and he left me for some minutes, returning with a big cardboard portfolio, which he opened, showing half a dozen pieces of brown crumbling paper-like substance covered with puzzling hieroglyphics. With them were several sheets of blue foolscap, upon which he had written his translation.“Here is what the record contains,” he said.“Perhaps, if you are interested in such matters, you would like to read it. It is a curious piece of literature of apparently the Pharaonic dynasty of the Ptolemies—or 323-30 B.C., which ended with Cleopatra.”I took the folios of modern paper in my hand and from them read as follows, written in the Professor’s own crabbed writing:—”...For of a Verity death, sickness, and sorrow, who knoweth which, may fall upon thee. Therefore, beware of the wrath of Ra, beware lest this cylinder of bronze be opened and its secret be revealed to men, for therein lieth the Thing that shall not speak until the Day of Awakening.“For:“He that seeketh knowledge of that which is hidden is accursed of Amon with the ten plagues and doeth so at his own risk, and must meet his fate being cursed of the wolf-god Osiris, ruler of the underworld. Truly, cutting off the head of, or the forsaking life is better than the satisfaction of curiosity of what is therein contained.“Touch not the cylinder with thine hand, for if...“Let it remain here in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings, Lord... wherein it has been placed to slumber until released by Osiris, to whom all kings and princes bow the knee and to whom...“Observe, He is all-glorious, on whose pleasure fortune waiteth, in whose valour victory, and in whose anger death.“Since:”...a gem be tied at the feet and a piece of glass be worn upon the head, yet still glass is glass, and gems are gems.“It is said:“Wisdom is of more consequence than strength. The want of it is a state of misery. And as in the night darkness is kept at a distance by the lord of shades (the moon) thus love by seeing and being seen delights the young. The woman...“Again:“Women are never to be rendered faithful and obedient; no, not by gifts, nor by honours, nor by sincerity, nor by services, nor by severity, nor by precept!... What women eat is twofold; their cunning fourfold; their perseverance sixfold; their passions eightfold; and their patience tenfold. Wherefore the understanding which upon unexpected occurrences remaineth unaffected, may pass through the greatest difficulties. He who hath sense and worshippeth the Sun-God hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? Where hath...“To the unkind the ruin of the worthy bringeth delight, and...“It is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.“For:“Upon the great river the city of Thebes there was in the days of Sekhomab a city where... called Aa-tenen, the inhabitants of which used to believe that a certain giant crocodile, whom they called Nefer-biu, infested the waters. The fact was this: a thief, as he was swimming away with a bell he had stolen, was overcome and devoured by a crocodile, and the bell, falling from his hand, was washed upon the river-bank there and picked up by some apes, who every now and then used to ring it in the trees by the river... The people of the town, finding a man had been killed there, and hearing continually the noise of the bell, used to declare that the giant Nefer-biu, being enraged, was devouring a man and ringing a bell, so that the city was abandoned by all the principal inhabitants.“And so...“At length, guided by the god Horus... of Stars of Sopdu, a certain poor woman, having considered the subject, discovered that the bell was rung by the apes. She accordingly went unto King Sekhomab, loved of Ra, favourite of Mentu, and before the priests of Amon, and said: ‘If, O King. Lord of both Lands, I may expect a very great reward, I will engage to silence this Nefer-biu.’ The King was exceedingly well pleased, and gave her some silver. So having described some circles and exhibited the worship of strange gods in a conspicuous manner, she secretly provided such fruits as she conceived the apes were fond of and went unto the river; where, strewing them about, they presently quitted the bell and attached themselves to the fruit. The poor woman, in the meantime, took away the bell and carried it into Sekhomab, who honoured her and gave her great reward. And in the city of Aa-tenen she became an object of adoration to its inhabitants, and her cartouche was inscribed upon the Temple of Amon-Ra... and of the Sun-God...“Wherefore I say that it is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.“And wherefore, I repeat that, for fear of great disaster to thyself, let not thine hand touch this brazen cylinder which containeth the Thing which shall remain imprisoned therein in the realms of Tuat (the underworld) until released by Osiris on the Day of Awakening... this 25th of the month Tybi.“Be ye therefore warned, for by disobedience assuredly the anger of the Sun-God and of Osiris the Eternal will fall heavily upon thee. And Harnekht shall smite them.“May disaster happen but in the house of thine enemies. May traitors, day by day, be led by Time to their destruction, and may they remain for ever in Amentet, the place of gloom...”“Curious,” I said, looking up to the Professor’s grave bearded face as he peered over to me through his glasses.“Yes. The fable is very interesting. I have not yet decided the actual date of the papyri. But it is certainly much later than King Merenptah,” he said. “We have many cartouches of his time here in the Museum, and there are many others about Europe, as St. Petersburg and Darmstadt. But in certain ways the hieroglyphics are different. Hence I am of opinion that the bronze cylinder referred to—if it has been found and still exists—was placed with these papyri in the tomb at a much later date.”“You have no knowledge of the person who brought this to you?” I asked.“Only that his name was Arnold—I see that I made a note at the time—and that he was staying at the Savoy Hotel.”“Strange that he did not return to claim his find.”“Very. My own idea is that he may have been called abroad suddenly, and will return one day. He seemed extremely intelligent.”“And the cylinder. What do you think it could have contained—what is the Thing to which the papyri refers!”The old professor shrugged his shoulders.“How can we tell if the cylinder is non-existent? Probably it was rifled from the royal tomb a thousand years ago and broken open by sacrilegious persons who were unable to decipher these writings, and who cared nothing for the curse of the ten plagues placed upon them,” he laughed.Then Mr Arnold had evidently not revealed to the Professor the existence of the cylinder. Why? Because he had already again hidden it in fear.“We have many records of objects concealed, but most of the things referred to in the papyri have disappeared ages ago,” added the great Egyptologist, who, taking me along the gallery, showed me the mummy of the great Pharaoh Merenptah himself, in whose tomb the fragments of papyri were found.The Professor was extremely kind, and lent me his decipher to copy them. After finding that I could obtain nothing further concerning the man Arnold, and that he was not known as an Egyptologist, I thanked him and left without telling him of the existence of the cylinder.That same night, I returned to Upton End with intention to show Guy Nicholson the curious record when he visited me on Sunday.Next morning—which was Saturday—I opened my newspaper, which, as usual, I found on the library table after breakfast, when my eyes fell upon a heading which caused my heart to stand still.The printed words danced before my bewildered eyes. For a second I stood like a mail in a dream. I held my breath and eagerly read the half a dozen lines of brief announcement—a report which caused me to clap my hand to my fevered brow, and to involuntarily ejaculate the words—“My God! It can’t be true—it can’t be true!”

In the days that followed I was intensely anxious to visit Lydford Hall again, but I had received a warning note from Shaw, urging me not to do so without taking every precaution. I might be followed, for the danger of detection was not yet at an end.

Therefore I remained in eager expectancy of Guy’s visit. He had vaguely promised to come over “in a day or two.” But as a week passed and I heard nothing from him, I wrote, and by return of post received a reply that he would motor over and lunch with me on Sunday.

“I have something of greatest importance to tell you,” his letter concluded; “so I hope you can make it convenient to be in on that day.”

I received the letter on Thursday morning, and at once replied that I would be at home. I would await his visit with keenest impatience.

The warm breathless days at Upton End passed but slowly. Truth to tell, I found life there extremely dull. I had many friends in the neighbourhood, but they were mostly elderly persons, or angular girls of superior education. I had little in common with them, and already found myself longing to travel again.

More than once when smoking my lonely cigar before going to bed, I had taken out the mysterious cylinder from the big safe built in the wall of the library and held it in my hand pondering. What could be the Thing it contained—the thing which would amaze the world!

The weird story told to me by Shaw concerning it haunted me; yet what evil could its possession bring upon me? I had heard, of course, of authenticated stories of certain Egyptian mummies which have brought disaster and death to those who disturbed their long sleep; yet in my case I had become the unwilling agent of another.

On the night of receiving Nicholson’s letter, after every one had retired, I was sitting as usual smoking, with the long window open to the verandah, for the air was close and oppressive. Outside the night was glorious, the moon shone brightly, and not a breath of wind stirred.

I opened the steel door in the wall by the fireplace, and from the safe took out the dead man’s letter to me with the heavy cylinder. It was a curious fancy of mine to handle and examine it.

I read and re-read that letter traced by the hand of the man whom I had known as Arnold, but whose real name seemed most probably to have been Edgcumbe. Then I read that strange letter threatening vengeance, and held in my hand the old copy of the newspaper which told the curious story of Lady Lettice Lancaster.

It was all mysterious, but surely most mysterious of all was that bronze cylinder. Why should the dead man have feared to expose its contents to the world?

Civilisation would be staggered by the revelation, it was declared. What terrible secret of ages past could be therein contained? Why had the dead man called it a Thing? Was it really some living thing imprisoned in that strong unbreakable casing?

I carried it across to the green-shaded lamp upon my writing-table, and taking up a strong magnifying glass examined it closely, and at last determined that the welding by which it had been closed had been done ages ago. As far as I could detect it had never been opened. How, therefore, could Arnold have known what it contained?—unless the papyri that had been discovered with it had given an explanation.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the existence of any papyri of great interest would probably be known in the Egyptian Department of the British Museum. Therefore by inquiry there I might perhaps learn something. So I resolved, after Guy’s visit, to run up to London and see one of the officials. As Arnold was an Egyptologist, he would, no doubt, be known and his discoveries noted.

I was holding the cylinder in my hand, carrying it across the room to replace it in the safe, when my eye caught a dark shadow thrown across the lawn. So quickly, however, did it disappear that I stood half inclined to believe it to exist only in my imagination. It seemed to be a long shadow, as though some person had crossed in the moonlight the high bank on the opposite side. Yet my collie, who would bark at the slightest sound in the night, lay near and uttered neither bark nor growl. I went out to the verandah and looked about me; but all was perfectly still. The world lay asleep beneath the great full moon.

For a few moments I stood puzzled. No intruder should be there at that hour. Yet the fact that Prince had not been disturbed reassured me, so I closed the window, locked the cylinder and the correspondence carefully in the safe, and then went upstairs to bed.

My room was directly over the library, and something prompted me to watch. So I extinguished my light and sat peering through the chink between the blind and the window-sash. For nearly half an hour I waited, my eyes fixed upon the great wide, moonlit lawn.

Suddenly I saw the shadow again, plainly and distinctly—the dark silhouette passed bade again.

It was probably a poacher from the wood beyond. I knew that my rabbits were being trapped with wires; therefore resolving to tell Johnson, the keeper, in the morning, I retired to bed.

Next day, among my letters, I found one from my solicitors, which made it necessary for me to go at once to London; and after doing my business in Bedford Row, I strolled along to the British Museum.

I had but little difficulty in discovering Professor Stewart, whose knowledge of Egyptology is probably the widest of any living man.

Without telling him too many details, I related the story I had heard of the finding of a bronze cylinder in the tomb of King Merenptah, and that certain papyri were discovered with it. Could he give me any information upon the subject.

“Well—a little,” replied the tall, grey-bearded, bald-headed man, looking at me through his spectacles with great deliberation. “It is true, I believe, that an interesting cylinder of metal was found in the tomb of Merenptah, coeval with Moses, and with it were some fragments of papyri fairly well-preserved, but on examination they were found not to be of the nineteenth dynasty, as would have been expected.”

“Who examined them?” I asked eagerly.

“I did myself, about two years ago, if I recollect aright,” replied the Professor. “They were brought to me one day for my opinion by a man whose name I now forget. He was elderly, grey-bearded, and apparently possessed considerable knowledge of Egyptian subjects. He left them with me, so that I might decipher them, as he wished to compare his own decipher with mine. But, curiously enough, I have never seen him since. The papyri I have still locked away, awaiting his return.”

“Then they are here?” I cried eagerly.

“Certainly. Would you like to see them?”

I replied eagerly in the affirmative, and he left me for some minutes, returning with a big cardboard portfolio, which he opened, showing half a dozen pieces of brown crumbling paper-like substance covered with puzzling hieroglyphics. With them were several sheets of blue foolscap, upon which he had written his translation.

“Here is what the record contains,” he said.

“Perhaps, if you are interested in such matters, you would like to read it. It is a curious piece of literature of apparently the Pharaonic dynasty of the Ptolemies—or 323-30 B.C., which ended with Cleopatra.”

I took the folios of modern paper in my hand and from them read as follows, written in the Professor’s own crabbed writing:—

”...For of a Verity death, sickness, and sorrow, who knoweth which, may fall upon thee. Therefore, beware of the wrath of Ra, beware lest this cylinder of bronze be opened and its secret be revealed to men, for therein lieth the Thing that shall not speak until the Day of Awakening.

“For:

“He that seeketh knowledge of that which is hidden is accursed of Amon with the ten plagues and doeth so at his own risk, and must meet his fate being cursed of the wolf-god Osiris, ruler of the underworld. Truly, cutting off the head of, or the forsaking life is better than the satisfaction of curiosity of what is therein contained.

“Touch not the cylinder with thine hand, for if...

“Let it remain here in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings, Lord... wherein it has been placed to slumber until released by Osiris, to whom all kings and princes bow the knee and to whom...

“Observe, He is all-glorious, on whose pleasure fortune waiteth, in whose valour victory, and in whose anger death.

“Since:

”...a gem be tied at the feet and a piece of glass be worn upon the head, yet still glass is glass, and gems are gems.

“It is said:

“Wisdom is of more consequence than strength. The want of it is a state of misery. And as in the night darkness is kept at a distance by the lord of shades (the moon) thus love by seeing and being seen delights the young. The woman...

“Again:

“Women are never to be rendered faithful and obedient; no, not by gifts, nor by honours, nor by sincerity, nor by services, nor by severity, nor by precept!... What women eat is twofold; their cunning fourfold; their perseverance sixfold; their passions eightfold; and their patience tenfold. Wherefore the understanding which upon unexpected occurrences remaineth unaffected, may pass through the greatest difficulties. He who hath sense and worshippeth the Sun-God hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? Where hath...

“To the unkind the ruin of the worthy bringeth delight, and...

“It is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.

“For:

“Upon the great river the city of Thebes there was in the days of Sekhomab a city where... called Aa-tenen, the inhabitants of which used to believe that a certain giant crocodile, whom they called Nefer-biu, infested the waters. The fact was this: a thief, as he was swimming away with a bell he had stolen, was overcome and devoured by a crocodile, and the bell, falling from his hand, was washed upon the river-bank there and picked up by some apes, who every now and then used to ring it in the trees by the river... The people of the town, finding a man had been killed there, and hearing continually the noise of the bell, used to declare that the giant Nefer-biu, being enraged, was devouring a man and ringing a bell, so that the city was abandoned by all the principal inhabitants.

“And so...

“At length, guided by the god Horus... of Stars of Sopdu, a certain poor woman, having considered the subject, discovered that the bell was rung by the apes. She accordingly went unto King Sekhomab, loved of Ra, favourite of Mentu, and before the priests of Amon, and said: ‘If, O King. Lord of both Lands, I may expect a very great reward, I will engage to silence this Nefer-biu.’ The King was exceedingly well pleased, and gave her some silver. So having described some circles and exhibited the worship of strange gods in a conspicuous manner, she secretly provided such fruits as she conceived the apes were fond of and went unto the river; where, strewing them about, they presently quitted the bell and attached themselves to the fruit. The poor woman, in the meantime, took away the bell and carried it into Sekhomab, who honoured her and gave her great reward. And in the city of Aa-tenen she became an object of adoration to its inhabitants, and her cartouche was inscribed upon the Temple of Amon-Ra... and of the Sun-God...

“Wherefore I say that it is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.

“And wherefore, I repeat that, for fear of great disaster to thyself, let not thine hand touch this brazen cylinder which containeth the Thing which shall remain imprisoned therein in the realms of Tuat (the underworld) until released by Osiris on the Day of Awakening... this 25th of the month Tybi.

“Be ye therefore warned, for by disobedience assuredly the anger of the Sun-God and of Osiris the Eternal will fall heavily upon thee. And Harnekht shall smite them.

“May disaster happen but in the house of thine enemies. May traitors, day by day, be led by Time to their destruction, and may they remain for ever in Amentet, the place of gloom...”

“Curious,” I said, looking up to the Professor’s grave bearded face as he peered over to me through his glasses.

“Yes. The fable is very interesting. I have not yet decided the actual date of the papyri. But it is certainly much later than King Merenptah,” he said. “We have many cartouches of his time here in the Museum, and there are many others about Europe, as St. Petersburg and Darmstadt. But in certain ways the hieroglyphics are different. Hence I am of opinion that the bronze cylinder referred to—if it has been found and still exists—was placed with these papyri in the tomb at a much later date.”

“You have no knowledge of the person who brought this to you?” I asked.

“Only that his name was Arnold—I see that I made a note at the time—and that he was staying at the Savoy Hotel.”

“Strange that he did not return to claim his find.”

“Very. My own idea is that he may have been called abroad suddenly, and will return one day. He seemed extremely intelligent.”

“And the cylinder. What do you think it could have contained—what is the Thing to which the papyri refers!”

The old professor shrugged his shoulders.

“How can we tell if the cylinder is non-existent? Probably it was rifled from the royal tomb a thousand years ago and broken open by sacrilegious persons who were unable to decipher these writings, and who cared nothing for the curse of the ten plagues placed upon them,” he laughed.

Then Mr Arnold had evidently not revealed to the Professor the existence of the cylinder. Why? Because he had already again hidden it in fear.

“We have many records of objects concealed, but most of the things referred to in the papyri have disappeared ages ago,” added the great Egyptologist, who, taking me along the gallery, showed me the mummy of the great Pharaoh Merenptah himself, in whose tomb the fragments of papyri were found.

The Professor was extremely kind, and lent me his decipher to copy them. After finding that I could obtain nothing further concerning the man Arnold, and that he was not known as an Egyptologist, I thanked him and left without telling him of the existence of the cylinder.

That same night, I returned to Upton End with intention to show Guy Nicholson the curious record when he visited me on Sunday.

Next morning—which was Saturday—I opened my newspaper, which, as usual, I found on the library table after breakfast, when my eyes fell upon a heading which caused my heart to stand still.

The printed words danced before my bewildered eyes. For a second I stood like a mail in a dream. I held my breath and eagerly read the half a dozen lines of brief announcement—a report which caused me to clap my hand to my fevered brow, and to involuntarily ejaculate the words—

“My God! It can’t be true—it can’t be true!”

Chapter Eleven.A Sensation in the County.The paragraph I read was truly a startling one, brief, but amazing.Apparently few details had arrived in London, for it read thus—“Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat remarkable circumstances. It appears that he entertained some guests at dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and the last of his friends to depart left about midnight. About two o’clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man’s piercing shrieks, as though of horror. He listened, and heard a loud thumping sound below. Then all was quiet. It being the first time he had been a guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for over an hour dropped off to sleep again. In the morning, however, the maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside, as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours. Considerable mystery attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular.”What could actually have happened!I read and re-read that paragraph. Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur, on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must have been spent by Guy’s father in the way of improvements. It was a splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of chestnuts, which met overhead.A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw’s grey car standing against the garage, and inquired for him.In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat surprised, I think, at my presence there.“This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball,” he exclaimed, his face pale. “I only knew of it late last night. The police and doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could.”“I saw it in the paper, and came over at once,” I said. “What is your opinion?” I asked eagerly. “Is foul play suspected?”“I really don’t know,” was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide, old-fashioned hall. “It’s a terrible thing, however. Poor Asta! she is overcome with grief, poor girl.”“Ah yes?” I sighed. “She was very fond of him; I realised that the other day.”Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room—the morning-room I supposed it to be—and there I was introduced to a fussy elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby. He was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting doctor of the grass-country.“Well, Mr Shaw,” he exclaimed briskly, “Doctor Petherbridge, from Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the conclusion that death was due to natural causes—inflammation of the brain. We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace whatever of foul play.”“Nor of suicide—by poison, for instance?” asked Shaw, leaning with his back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale blue carpet.“Certainly not. We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach into. Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy ourselves. Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly collapsed. Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon.”“But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard,” I remarked.“Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the hammering, it seems,” replied Shaw. “The poor fellow was in the best of spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past eleven. We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them. The judge was talking with him on the steps when we left.”“Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one might suspect ptomaine poisoning,” remarked the doctor from Northampton, a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the room. “My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes.”“And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner to-morrow, eh?” Shaw asked.“Precisely. I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of course. Indeed, I’m just off to Northampton for that purpose. But I do not anticipate finding anything. Young Nicholson was not the kind of fellow to take his own life.”“No,” I said; “he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies towards suicide. Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most mysterious.”“Oh, the papers!” laughed Shaw, derisively. “They’re always sensational. A good story means hundreds of pounds to them. But,” he added, “I must be off, Kemball. I was just going when you came. I have to be on the Bench this morning at twelve.”“Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour,” I said. “You and I will meet again soon, no doubt.”“My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like. Better ring me on the ’phone to see if we are at home, for we’re often out in the car this fine weather.”And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench, gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand. Yet almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an adjoining room. Shaw was whistling to himself—even though the house was a house of mourning!Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that I was a friend of the man now dead.“Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you very much, Mr Kemball. Captain Cardew, who was Nicholson’s guest, is in the library. At least I left him there a little time ago; let’s go and find him.”So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the floor to the panelled ceiling. At the table a tall, fair-haired, military-looking young man was seated writing letters.I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to answer any questions, as I was poor Guy’s friend, the doctor, having some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone. When he had gone I closed the door. Then, turning to the dead man’s guest, I said in a low voice—“I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you in absolute confidence?”“Certainly,” he said; “we are mutual friends of poor Guy’s.”“Well,” I exclaimed; “first, will you tell me, frankly, your private opinion of this terrible affair? Has there been foul play?”I saw that he hesitated.“Well,” he replied, “there are certain curious circumstances which no doubt point to such a conclusion, although I understand that the doctors have had no hesitation in pronouncing death to be due to natural causes.”“Would you mind describing to me, as far as you are able, what you heard in the night?” I said. “I have a reason for asking this. No doubt you have already several times told your story.”“Yes. To the medical men and also to the police,” he said. “Well, it was like this. I’m quartered at Canterbury, and Guy, who was in my regiment and retired a year or so ago, asked me to spend a few days with him. I came here three days ago and found him in the highest of spirits, and very keen about tennis. He took me over to see a man named Shaw, and his daughter, of whom he was, I know, very fond. The night before last he gave a little dinner to a few people, and Shaw and the girl were here. After dinner we all went out on to the lawn for coffee. The place was hung with Chinese lanterns and looked charming, but all Guy’s attention was devoted towards entertaining Shaw’s daughter. I saw them cross the lawn in the moonlight and stroll into the grounds together; and when they came back I overheard Shaw expressing his annoyance to her at her absence. Shaw chatted with Justice Michelmore a good deal, while I had a Mrs Vane, a rather stout person, put upon me for the evening. I tell you I envied Guy, for the girl is really delightful.”“Was there any bridge?”“Yes, for about an hour in the drawing-room. Shaw and the Judge did not play. Before eleven the guests began to depart, and the Vanes, the last to leave, went about midnight. After they had gone I sat in the library with Guy for half an hour, and had a cigar. He was full of Asta Seymour, and when I asked him why he did not propose to her he reflected a moment, and then told me, in strict confidence, that he would do so at once—but for a certain circumstance.”“Did he explain that circumstance?” I asked eagerly.“No. I pressed him, but he refused to tell me. ‘It is my secret, Teddy,’ he said. ‘A secret which, alas! bars my happiness for ever.’ As we smoked, I noticed that, contrary to the rule, the long window yonder was open, and remarked upon it. He rose, and saying that the servant had probably forgotten it, closed it himself and barred the shutters. You’ll see they are strong shutters, and they were found in the morning closed and barred just as he had left them. Indeed, I unbarred them myself.”“Then you left him here?” I asked.“No. He turned off the light and came out with me, locking the door after him, for it seems he’s always careful to have every door on the ground floor locked at night. He came upstairs with me, wished me a cheery good-night outside my own door, and, promising to motor me into Oakham on the morrow, went along to his room. That is the last time he was seen alive.”“What did you next hear?”“I was awakened by a loud, piercing shriek—a man’s shriek of intense horror, it seemed. No one else slept in this wing of the house, or they must certainly have heard it. I roused myself at the unusual sound, for I was thoroughly startled and awakened by it. The clock on my mantelshelf struck two. I waited for some minutes, when I heard a noise which seemed to be below in the library, as though some one were moving about trying the door and hammering upon it. This caused me to wonder, and I held my breath to listen further. I suppose I must have lain like that for fully an hour. It was my intention if I heard anything further to go along to Guy’s room. I had, of course, some hesitation in arousing the household. But as I heard nothing further, I suppose I fell asleep, for the sun was shining when I awoke again. I got up, and was crossing to the window to look out when I heard a woman’s cry for help. So I rushed out in my pyjamas, and, descending the stairs, found poor Guy lying just here,” and he crossed to a spot about four yards from the door, and pointed to the red carpet.“Was the room in any disorder?” I asked.“Not as far as I could see. The shutters yonder were closed and barred, so I opened them and then tried to rouse my friend. But, alas! I saw by the ashen look upon his face that he was already dead. He was still in his dinner-jacket—just as I had left him. Of course you can well imagine the scene and the horror of the servants. Poor Guy—he was one of the very best.”“What is your theory, Captain Cardew?”“Theory! Well, I hardly know. I was a fool, and I shall never forgive myself for not raising an alarm when I first heard his shriek. I ought to have known that something was wrong. But there are moments in one’s life when one, being awakened suddenly, acts foolishly. It was so with me.”

The paragraph I read was truly a startling one, brief, but amazing.

Apparently few details had arrived in London, for it read thus—

“Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat remarkable circumstances. It appears that he entertained some guests at dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and the last of his friends to depart left about midnight. About two o’clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man’s piercing shrieks, as though of horror. He listened, and heard a loud thumping sound below. Then all was quiet. It being the first time he had been a guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for over an hour dropped off to sleep again. In the morning, however, the maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside, as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours. Considerable mystery attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular.”

What could actually have happened!

I read and re-read that paragraph. Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur, on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.

Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must have been spent by Guy’s father in the way of improvements. It was a splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of chestnuts, which met overhead.

A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw’s grey car standing against the garage, and inquired for him.

In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat surprised, I think, at my presence there.

“This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball,” he exclaimed, his face pale. “I only knew of it late last night. The police and doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could.”

“I saw it in the paper, and came over at once,” I said. “What is your opinion?” I asked eagerly. “Is foul play suspected?”

“I really don’t know,” was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide, old-fashioned hall. “It’s a terrible thing, however. Poor Asta! she is overcome with grief, poor girl.”

“Ah yes?” I sighed. “She was very fond of him; I realised that the other day.”

Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room—the morning-room I supposed it to be—and there I was introduced to a fussy elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby. He was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting doctor of the grass-country.

“Well, Mr Shaw,” he exclaimed briskly, “Doctor Petherbridge, from Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the conclusion that death was due to natural causes—inflammation of the brain. We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace whatever of foul play.”

“Nor of suicide—by poison, for instance?” asked Shaw, leaning with his back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale blue carpet.

“Certainly not. We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach into. Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy ourselves. Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly collapsed. Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon.”

“But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard,” I remarked.

“Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the hammering, it seems,” replied Shaw. “The poor fellow was in the best of spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past eleven. We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them. The judge was talking with him on the steps when we left.”

“Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one might suspect ptomaine poisoning,” remarked the doctor from Northampton, a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the room. “My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes.”

“And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner to-morrow, eh?” Shaw asked.

“Precisely. I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of course. Indeed, I’m just off to Northampton for that purpose. But I do not anticipate finding anything. Young Nicholson was not the kind of fellow to take his own life.”

“No,” I said; “he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies towards suicide. Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most mysterious.”

“Oh, the papers!” laughed Shaw, derisively. “They’re always sensational. A good story means hundreds of pounds to them. But,” he added, “I must be off, Kemball. I was just going when you came. I have to be on the Bench this morning at twelve.”

“Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour,” I said. “You and I will meet again soon, no doubt.”

“My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like. Better ring me on the ’phone to see if we are at home, for we’re often out in the car this fine weather.”

And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench, gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand. Yet almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an adjoining room. Shaw was whistling to himself—even though the house was a house of mourning!

Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that I was a friend of the man now dead.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you very much, Mr Kemball. Captain Cardew, who was Nicholson’s guest, is in the library. At least I left him there a little time ago; let’s go and find him.”

So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the floor to the panelled ceiling. At the table a tall, fair-haired, military-looking young man was seated writing letters.

I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to answer any questions, as I was poor Guy’s friend, the doctor, having some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone. When he had gone I closed the door. Then, turning to the dead man’s guest, I said in a low voice—“I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you in absolute confidence?”

“Certainly,” he said; “we are mutual friends of poor Guy’s.”

“Well,” I exclaimed; “first, will you tell me, frankly, your private opinion of this terrible affair? Has there been foul play?”

I saw that he hesitated.

“Well,” he replied, “there are certain curious circumstances which no doubt point to such a conclusion, although I understand that the doctors have had no hesitation in pronouncing death to be due to natural causes.”

“Would you mind describing to me, as far as you are able, what you heard in the night?” I said. “I have a reason for asking this. No doubt you have already several times told your story.”

“Yes. To the medical men and also to the police,” he said. “Well, it was like this. I’m quartered at Canterbury, and Guy, who was in my regiment and retired a year or so ago, asked me to spend a few days with him. I came here three days ago and found him in the highest of spirits, and very keen about tennis. He took me over to see a man named Shaw, and his daughter, of whom he was, I know, very fond. The night before last he gave a little dinner to a few people, and Shaw and the girl were here. After dinner we all went out on to the lawn for coffee. The place was hung with Chinese lanterns and looked charming, but all Guy’s attention was devoted towards entertaining Shaw’s daughter. I saw them cross the lawn in the moonlight and stroll into the grounds together; and when they came back I overheard Shaw expressing his annoyance to her at her absence. Shaw chatted with Justice Michelmore a good deal, while I had a Mrs Vane, a rather stout person, put upon me for the evening. I tell you I envied Guy, for the girl is really delightful.”

“Was there any bridge?”

“Yes, for about an hour in the drawing-room. Shaw and the Judge did not play. Before eleven the guests began to depart, and the Vanes, the last to leave, went about midnight. After they had gone I sat in the library with Guy for half an hour, and had a cigar. He was full of Asta Seymour, and when I asked him why he did not propose to her he reflected a moment, and then told me, in strict confidence, that he would do so at once—but for a certain circumstance.”

“Did he explain that circumstance?” I asked eagerly.

“No. I pressed him, but he refused to tell me. ‘It is my secret, Teddy,’ he said. ‘A secret which, alas! bars my happiness for ever.’ As we smoked, I noticed that, contrary to the rule, the long window yonder was open, and remarked upon it. He rose, and saying that the servant had probably forgotten it, closed it himself and barred the shutters. You’ll see they are strong shutters, and they were found in the morning closed and barred just as he had left them. Indeed, I unbarred them myself.”

“Then you left him here?” I asked.

“No. He turned off the light and came out with me, locking the door after him, for it seems he’s always careful to have every door on the ground floor locked at night. He came upstairs with me, wished me a cheery good-night outside my own door, and, promising to motor me into Oakham on the morrow, went along to his room. That is the last time he was seen alive.”

“What did you next hear?”

“I was awakened by a loud, piercing shriek—a man’s shriek of intense horror, it seemed. No one else slept in this wing of the house, or they must certainly have heard it. I roused myself at the unusual sound, for I was thoroughly startled and awakened by it. The clock on my mantelshelf struck two. I waited for some minutes, when I heard a noise which seemed to be below in the library, as though some one were moving about trying the door and hammering upon it. This caused me to wonder, and I held my breath to listen further. I suppose I must have lain like that for fully an hour. It was my intention if I heard anything further to go along to Guy’s room. I had, of course, some hesitation in arousing the household. But as I heard nothing further, I suppose I fell asleep, for the sun was shining when I awoke again. I got up, and was crossing to the window to look out when I heard a woman’s cry for help. So I rushed out in my pyjamas, and, descending the stairs, found poor Guy lying just here,” and he crossed to a spot about four yards from the door, and pointed to the red carpet.

“Was the room in any disorder?” I asked.

“Not as far as I could see. The shutters yonder were closed and barred, so I opened them and then tried to rouse my friend. But, alas! I saw by the ashen look upon his face that he was already dead. He was still in his dinner-jacket—just as I had left him. Of course you can well imagine the scene and the horror of the servants. Poor Guy—he was one of the very best.”

“What is your theory, Captain Cardew?”

“Theory! Well, I hardly know. I was a fool, and I shall never forgive myself for not raising an alarm when I first heard his shriek. I ought to have known that something was wrong. But there are moments in one’s life when one, being awakened suddenly, acts foolishly. It was so with me.”

Chapter Twelve.The Cry in the Night.“After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the library,” I said to Cardew. “Were all the lights out when he came up with you?”“By Jove! No, they were not,” he replied. “He didn’t turn out the light in the passage here just outside the library door. I have not remembered that point until this moment!”“Did you see any newspaper about?”“Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there,” and he pointed to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the unfortunate man had arisen from it.“Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to return to the library and read his paper as usual,” I said. “He did so, and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read.”“And while reading, he had the fatal seizure—eh? That, at least, is the theory of the police,” the Captain said.“But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found the door locked from the outside?” I remarked. The reason I cannot tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain’s manner. Was he telling all he knew?“Yes,” he said. “It was undoubtedly locked from the outside—a most mysterious fact.”“Why mysterious?” I queried. “If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should be found behind locked doors. He had only to pass out by the door, lock it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that. I noticed as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door—so that it locks itself when closed!”“Ah! I had not thought of that,” the Captain declared. “Of course, by such proceeding he would have been found locked in.”“But you have suspicion of foul play,” I said; “you may as well admit that, Captain Cardew.”“Well, I see no good in concealing it,” he said, with a smile. “To tell the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of the medical men.”“And I agree with you,” I declared. “One point we have to consider is what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o’clock. He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper.”“No, but he might have been reading something else. He was not writing letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any letters he might have written, but I could find none.”“The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet somebody there in secret,” I exclaimed. “They may have passed in by the window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by the front door.”His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.“By Jove! I’ve never thought of that!” he gasped. “Then your theory is that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh? What causes you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball? I’ve been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with me?”“Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest of certain persons that he should die suddenly,” I said; “that’s all.”“Will you not name the persons?” he asked.“Not until I obtain proof. I may be mistaken. I may be grossly misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific charge against anybody,” was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and the park was spread. It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in which the previous owner—a great politician and writer—had spent many studious hours.“But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put them to the police?”“And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate inquiry! Scarcely, I think,” I replied, with a smile, still looking about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world room during the silent watches of that fatal night.“Nothing has been touched here,” Cardew remarked. “I picked up the newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down at hearing the housemaid’s horrified cry.”The room was certainly in no disorder. On the big square table, covered by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a great silver bowl filled with roses. The writing-table—an old-fashioned mahogany one—was, I noticed, littered with letters, bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument. Strange that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.“The hammering you heard—was it quite distinct?” I inquired.“Quite. It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out of this locked room.”The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me considerably. But a fresh suggestion arose within me—namely, that after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them. Yet she would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light still burning. No: the only explanation was that the key had been turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her master’s return there, and while on her way to bed.Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most remarkable features. There was mystery—a great and inexplicable mystery—somewhere.And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.With that object in view, I interviewed the housemaid who found the body of her young master, and listened to her story from her own lips. Probably the whole household considered me to be highly inquisitive; nevertheless, I pointed out to them the earnest necessity of clearing up the matter to everybody’s satisfaction, and both to the housekeeper, a witty woman, and to the other servants, I declared that the facts were full of grave suspicion.The inspector of County Constabulary was not highly intelligent, and as soon as the medical men had given their opinion he ceased to take any further professional interest in the affair. It was a sudden death, and with such occurrences the police have only to attend the inquest and formally report.The officer was, I think, rather piqued at the persistency of my inquiries, for when I pointed out to him the suspicious circumstance of the locked door, he point-blank told me that the medical declaration was quite sufficient for him.The girl, Kate Hayes, who discovered her master—a dark-haired, good-looking maid, about twenty-six—had been eight years at Titmarsh Court. It was Mr Guy’s habit always to read his paper before going to bed, she told me, as we stood in the long servants’ hall.“I often find the library door unlocked before I go to my room, sir, and the night before last it was unlocked.”“Did you lock it?” I asked quickly.“No, sir. I once locked Mr Guy in, so I always look inside now, before securing it,” she replied. “I looked inside, and found Mr Guy there. He was then taking a book down from one of the shelves near the window. I apologised for intruding, and wished him good-night. ‘Good-night, Hayes,’ he replied, and I closed the door and left him. I heard nothing in the night. But when I went to the library door next morning I found it locked. I recollect it was locked, because at first the key would not turn. At last I succeeded in opening the door, when the first sight that met my eyes in the faint grey light through the chinks of the shutters was poor Mr Guy lying crouched up, his knees nearly touching his chin and quite dead.”“You are absolutely certain that the window was quite securely closed?” I asked.“Captain Cardew opened it, sir. I ran away to fetch the other servants.”Here again the Captain showed some disinclination thoroughly to probe matters, for he interrupted, saying—“I don’t see how questioning the servants will assist us. We already know all that they know.”“What we want to discover is whether poor Nicholson received any visitor clandestinely during the early hours of the morning,” I said. “To me, it seems very much as though he did.”“Then you are directly opposed to the medical theory?” he exclaimed.“And so are you, are you not?” I remarked.“In a manner, yes—but not altogether. We must credit doctors with a certain amount of knowledge where death is concerned.”“I credit them with every knowledge,” I hastened to assure him; “only in this case, I fear they have not sufficiently weighed over all the known and indisputable facts.”“If there had actually been foul play, there would be traces of it,” he said.“Not always,” I replied. “Many cases of secret assassination have been declared by doctors to have been deaths from natural causes.”I saw that the servants, all country-bred, ridiculed my suspicions. Doctor Redwood had said that their master had died of brain disease, and that was sufficient. The police, too, were quite satisfied, and the young man’s relations, two of whom arrived in hot haste while I was there, of course accepted the verdict of the medical men—the evidence which would be given at the inquest on the following day.To me, it was a curious circumstance that Cardew, when he heard the shriek, had not attempted to investigate its cause. True, he had listened, and the cry was not repeated. I should have regarded his apathy as suspicious if I myself had not more than once, when dreaming, awakened suddenly, believing that I had heard a cry of distress.The shriek of terror—nay, of horror, Cardew described it—was, in itself, a most peculiar circumstance. There is a distinct difference between a cry of pain and a shriek of horror.No; I felt certain that the medical men had not sufficiently considered that very singular point. But when I tried to argue with the Captain, he merely declared that the cause of the shriek would never be explained. Perhaps it was the sudden knowledge that he was dying that had terrified him.I intended, however, to seek further explanation. It was ever upon my mind that the man who had died so mysteriously intended to visit me on Sunday, and to reveal to me something—something concerning Harvey Shaw.Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before, accompanied by Asta. It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and re-visited Titmarsh Court.I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime. Hence, I spared no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circumstances—in doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and covered with a sheet. I did not remove the shroud. I was too horrified. A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for the arrival of the coffin.What had the dead man intended to reveal to me? He had evidently discovered something detrimental to Shaw. Of that I felt assured, for had he not admitted as much?“Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?” I asked Cardew some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room wherein he had died. The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of mystery.“Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his manner at the time. But since—now that I have reflected—I recollect that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw’s daughter—as though he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair.”At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to see him. Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded opportunity to examine it.I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the silent watches of the night. Why had he given vent to that shriek of horror? What had he seen?Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man’s lips.I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity—nothing had been tampered with.My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room. Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?

“After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the library,” I said to Cardew. “Were all the lights out when he came up with you?”

“By Jove! No, they were not,” he replied. “He didn’t turn out the light in the passage here just outside the library door. I have not remembered that point until this moment!”

“Did you see any newspaper about?”

“Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there,” and he pointed to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the unfortunate man had arisen from it.

“Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to return to the library and read his paper as usual,” I said. “He did so, and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read.”

“And while reading, he had the fatal seizure—eh? That, at least, is the theory of the police,” the Captain said.

“But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found the door locked from the outside?” I remarked. The reason I cannot tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain’s manner. Was he telling all he knew?

“Yes,” he said. “It was undoubtedly locked from the outside—a most mysterious fact.”

“Why mysterious?” I queried. “If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should be found behind locked doors. He had only to pass out by the door, lock it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that. I noticed as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door—so that it locks itself when closed!”

“Ah! I had not thought of that,” the Captain declared. “Of course, by such proceeding he would have been found locked in.”

“But you have suspicion of foul play,” I said; “you may as well admit that, Captain Cardew.”

“Well, I see no good in concealing it,” he said, with a smile. “To tell the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of the medical men.”

“And I agree with you,” I declared. “One point we have to consider is what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o’clock. He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper.”

“No, but he might have been reading something else. He was not writing letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any letters he might have written, but I could find none.”

“The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet somebody there in secret,” I exclaimed. “They may have passed in by the window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by the front door.”

His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.

“By Jove! I’ve never thought of that!” he gasped. “Then your theory is that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh? What causes you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball? I’ve been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with me?”

“Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest of certain persons that he should die suddenly,” I said; “that’s all.”

“Will you not name the persons?” he asked.

“Not until I obtain proof. I may be mistaken. I may be grossly misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific charge against anybody,” was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and the park was spread. It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in which the previous owner—a great politician and writer—had spent many studious hours.

“But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put them to the police?”

“And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate inquiry! Scarcely, I think,” I replied, with a smile, still looking about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world room during the silent watches of that fatal night.

“Nothing has been touched here,” Cardew remarked. “I picked up the newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down at hearing the housemaid’s horrified cry.”

The room was certainly in no disorder. On the big square table, covered by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a great silver bowl filled with roses. The writing-table—an old-fashioned mahogany one—was, I noticed, littered with letters, bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument. Strange that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.

“The hammering you heard—was it quite distinct?” I inquired.

“Quite. It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out of this locked room.”

The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me considerably. But a fresh suggestion arose within me—namely, that after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them. Yet she would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light still burning. No: the only explanation was that the key had been turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her master’s return there, and while on her way to bed.

Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most remarkable features. There was mystery—a great and inexplicable mystery—somewhere.

And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.

With that object in view, I interviewed the housemaid who found the body of her young master, and listened to her story from her own lips. Probably the whole household considered me to be highly inquisitive; nevertheless, I pointed out to them the earnest necessity of clearing up the matter to everybody’s satisfaction, and both to the housekeeper, a witty woman, and to the other servants, I declared that the facts were full of grave suspicion.

The inspector of County Constabulary was not highly intelligent, and as soon as the medical men had given their opinion he ceased to take any further professional interest in the affair. It was a sudden death, and with such occurrences the police have only to attend the inquest and formally report.

The officer was, I think, rather piqued at the persistency of my inquiries, for when I pointed out to him the suspicious circumstance of the locked door, he point-blank told me that the medical declaration was quite sufficient for him.

The girl, Kate Hayes, who discovered her master—a dark-haired, good-looking maid, about twenty-six—had been eight years at Titmarsh Court. It was Mr Guy’s habit always to read his paper before going to bed, she told me, as we stood in the long servants’ hall.

“I often find the library door unlocked before I go to my room, sir, and the night before last it was unlocked.”

“Did you lock it?” I asked quickly.

“No, sir. I once locked Mr Guy in, so I always look inside now, before securing it,” she replied. “I looked inside, and found Mr Guy there. He was then taking a book down from one of the shelves near the window. I apologised for intruding, and wished him good-night. ‘Good-night, Hayes,’ he replied, and I closed the door and left him. I heard nothing in the night. But when I went to the library door next morning I found it locked. I recollect it was locked, because at first the key would not turn. At last I succeeded in opening the door, when the first sight that met my eyes in the faint grey light through the chinks of the shutters was poor Mr Guy lying crouched up, his knees nearly touching his chin and quite dead.”

“You are absolutely certain that the window was quite securely closed?” I asked.

“Captain Cardew opened it, sir. I ran away to fetch the other servants.”

Here again the Captain showed some disinclination thoroughly to probe matters, for he interrupted, saying—

“I don’t see how questioning the servants will assist us. We already know all that they know.”

“What we want to discover is whether poor Nicholson received any visitor clandestinely during the early hours of the morning,” I said. “To me, it seems very much as though he did.”

“Then you are directly opposed to the medical theory?” he exclaimed.

“And so are you, are you not?” I remarked.

“In a manner, yes—but not altogether. We must credit doctors with a certain amount of knowledge where death is concerned.”

“I credit them with every knowledge,” I hastened to assure him; “only in this case, I fear they have not sufficiently weighed over all the known and indisputable facts.”

“If there had actually been foul play, there would be traces of it,” he said.

“Not always,” I replied. “Many cases of secret assassination have been declared by doctors to have been deaths from natural causes.”

I saw that the servants, all country-bred, ridiculed my suspicions. Doctor Redwood had said that their master had died of brain disease, and that was sufficient. The police, too, were quite satisfied, and the young man’s relations, two of whom arrived in hot haste while I was there, of course accepted the verdict of the medical men—the evidence which would be given at the inquest on the following day.

To me, it was a curious circumstance that Cardew, when he heard the shriek, had not attempted to investigate its cause. True, he had listened, and the cry was not repeated. I should have regarded his apathy as suspicious if I myself had not more than once, when dreaming, awakened suddenly, believing that I had heard a cry of distress.

The shriek of terror—nay, of horror, Cardew described it—was, in itself, a most peculiar circumstance. There is a distinct difference between a cry of pain and a shriek of horror.

No; I felt certain that the medical men had not sufficiently considered that very singular point. But when I tried to argue with the Captain, he merely declared that the cause of the shriek would never be explained. Perhaps it was the sudden knowledge that he was dying that had terrified him.

I intended, however, to seek further explanation. It was ever upon my mind that the man who had died so mysteriously intended to visit me on Sunday, and to reveal to me something—something concerning Harvey Shaw.

Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before, accompanied by Asta. It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and re-visited Titmarsh Court.

I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime. Hence, I spared no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circumstances—in doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.

I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and covered with a sheet. I did not remove the shroud. I was too horrified. A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for the arrival of the coffin.

What had the dead man intended to reveal to me? He had evidently discovered something detrimental to Shaw. Of that I felt assured, for had he not admitted as much?

“Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?” I asked Cardew some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room wherein he had died. The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of mystery.

“Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his manner at the time. But since—now that I have reflected—I recollect that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw’s daughter—as though he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair.”

At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to see him. Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded opportunity to examine it.

I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the silent watches of the night. Why had he given vent to that shriek of horror? What had he seen?

Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man’s lips.

I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity—nothing had been tampered with.

My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room. Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.

But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?

Back to IndexNext