Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.One Point is Made Clear.On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court, and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master had died of natural causes.I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night. But the official coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only weigh the medical evidence.Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst, had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for arsenic with the Marsh apparatus. The result in all cases had been negative. Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.After the verdict of “death from natural causes,” I drove Shaw, who had also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan and pale in her deep mourning. She was seated in a low chair in her own pretty room, full of books and flowers—an artistic, cosy little apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale blue.The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside. But as she took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that she had recently been crying.I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held her small hand in mine. Her heart, however, was too full for words, and she burst into a flood of tears.Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head sadly in her profound sorrow.I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her shoulder and strove to calm her.“You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour,” I said. “I have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to you.”“Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is, alas! dead—dead!” she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her. “The inquest was held to-day. What have they decided?”“That the poor fellow died of natural causes. He suffered from an unsuspected disease of the brain.”“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I expected they would say something like that. But—” and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.“You dined with him only a few hours before,” I remarked; for I had gone there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence, fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.“Yes. Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never see him again?”“You left before the Vanes, did you not?”“Yes. My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most delightful evening. The weather was bright, and everything had been done to perfection. On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his head, and I became alarmed. Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor Redwood. But he would not hear of it. He begged me to go to bed, but I remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o’clock.”“Until three o’clock?” I echoed. “And you did not leave him at all?”“No. Because he seemed so very queer. I mixed him some brandy and water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not.”“What was his objection against summoning the doctor?”“Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past.”“And after three o’clock you retired to bed?”“It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn—quite unlike his usual self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o’clock next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then—then—just after ten o’clock last night—Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling him of the—the awful discovery at Titmarsh?”Her story made one fact entirely plain—namely, that Shaw, whatever he might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.“Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?” I asked. “Did he not tell the doctors?”“No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with poor Guy’s death, he said.”She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black, which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father. She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and she was certainly not deceiving me.As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me, and in confidence make certain revelations. My feelings towards Shaw had been mixed ones. He had been open and straightforward with me, and had told me that he was leading a double life. Asta had treated me as a friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson as far as possible. Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to know what he had actually discovered—how far he had ascertained the truth.His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife. He loved her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and marrying the girl of his choice.Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which I did. But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one. Asta, full of thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.“The Coroner was an idiot,” I declared in the course of our discussion of the events of the morning. “He would scarcely allow any mention of poor Guy’s cry of horror heard by Cardew.”“Ah, my dear Kemball,” my friend replied, “in many cases inquests are worse than useless. Coroners so often override the jury and instruct them as to what verdict they should return. In almost every case you will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the man who attends themselves and their families. If they are ill, they call him in and accept his dictum. They do just the same at a Coroner’s inquest. They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves.”“Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that night,” I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he glanced across at the girl in annoyance.“Yes,” he said, with a light laugh. “I didn’t feel over grand—a bad headache, just as I used to have years ago. But it was nothing. It didn’t arise from anything I ate or drank. I knew that, and for that reason did not ’phone to Redwood. Yes,” he added, “I spent a rather poor night. Asta became quite alarmed.”“Well,” I exclaimed, “what is your theory regarding the poor fellow’s death?”“Theory! Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury, what can one think?” he asked. “There are certainly many curious points in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was found locked in the room.”“That’s just my point. He could not have locked himself in.”“Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he was locked in. In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have been deceived, and thought the key had been turned.”I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his suggestion caused me to ponder. But next second I asked—“If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get out?”“But did he hammer?” queried Shaw. “Sounds in the night are always distorted, remember.”“Please don’t discuss the horrible affair further, Dad,” cried Asta, appealingly.“My dear, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, turning to her hastily. “I know I ought not to have mentioned the matter. Both Kemball and myself deeply condole with you in your grief. You never mentioned to me your affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago. I told Kemball about it, didn’t I?” and he glanced across at me.“Yes, you did,” I said.“Ah, poor Guy!” he sighed. “He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy. But, alas! the Fates have willed it otherwise.”“I—I feel bewildered, Dad,” exclaimed the girl. “I can’t believe that he is really dead,” and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and with uneven steps left the room.“Poor child!” remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone. “It is indeed a terrible blow for her. I had no idea that she was so devoted to him. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was evidently the one to whom she was most attached. And, between ourselves, Kemball,” he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised between his white fingers, “he was one of the most eligible young fellows in the whole county—eight thousand a year, as well as a half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield. I had dreams of seeing Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court. But, of course, I never told her so. I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life. Love affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly.”And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded. He could not possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow’s untimely end.He could not know of Guy’s secret intention to make certain revelations to me—and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware that he was leading a double life. No; when I carefully weighed over the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before me—mysterious though he might be—had every motive that Guy Nicholson should live. I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him. It certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange affair.Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken, and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury misled?The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural death. Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of that fateful night.

On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court, and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master had died of natural causes.

I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night. But the official coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only weigh the medical evidence.

Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst, had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for arsenic with the Marsh apparatus. The result in all cases had been negative. Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.

After the verdict of “death from natural causes,” I drove Shaw, who had also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan and pale in her deep mourning. She was seated in a low chair in her own pretty room, full of books and flowers—an artistic, cosy little apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale blue.

The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside. But as she took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that she had recently been crying.

I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held her small hand in mine. Her heart, however, was too full for words, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head sadly in her profound sorrow.

I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her shoulder and strove to calm her.

“You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour,” I said. “I have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to you.”

“Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is, alas! dead—dead!” she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her. “The inquest was held to-day. What have they decided?”

“That the poor fellow died of natural causes. He suffered from an unsuspected disease of the brain.”

“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I expected they would say something like that. But—” and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.

“You dined with him only a few hours before,” I remarked; for I had gone there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence, fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.

“Yes. Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never see him again?”

“You left before the Vanes, did you not?”

“Yes. My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most delightful evening. The weather was bright, and everything had been done to perfection. On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his head, and I became alarmed. Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor Redwood. But he would not hear of it. He begged me to go to bed, but I remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o’clock.”

“Until three o’clock?” I echoed. “And you did not leave him at all?”

“No. Because he seemed so very queer. I mixed him some brandy and water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not.”

“What was his objection against summoning the doctor?”

“Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past.”

“And after three o’clock you retired to bed?”

“It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn—quite unlike his usual self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o’clock next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then—then—just after ten o’clock last night—Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling him of the—the awful discovery at Titmarsh?”

Her story made one fact entirely plain—namely, that Shaw, whatever he might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.

“Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?” I asked. “Did he not tell the doctors?”

“No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with poor Guy’s death, he said.”

She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black, which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.

I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.

Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father. She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and she was certainly not deceiving me.

As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me, and in confidence make certain revelations. My feelings towards Shaw had been mixed ones. He had been open and straightforward with me, and had told me that he was leading a double life. Asta had treated me as a friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson as far as possible. Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to know what he had actually discovered—how far he had ascertained the truth.

His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife. He loved her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and marrying the girl of his choice.

Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which I did. But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one. Asta, full of thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

“The Coroner was an idiot,” I declared in the course of our discussion of the events of the morning. “He would scarcely allow any mention of poor Guy’s cry of horror heard by Cardew.”

“Ah, my dear Kemball,” my friend replied, “in many cases inquests are worse than useless. Coroners so often override the jury and instruct them as to what verdict they should return. In almost every case you will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the man who attends themselves and their families. If they are ill, they call him in and accept his dictum. They do just the same at a Coroner’s inquest. They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves.”

“Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that night,” I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he glanced across at the girl in annoyance.

“Yes,” he said, with a light laugh. “I didn’t feel over grand—a bad headache, just as I used to have years ago. But it was nothing. It didn’t arise from anything I ate or drank. I knew that, and for that reason did not ’phone to Redwood. Yes,” he added, “I spent a rather poor night. Asta became quite alarmed.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, “what is your theory regarding the poor fellow’s death?”

“Theory! Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury, what can one think?” he asked. “There are certainly many curious points in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was found locked in the room.”

“That’s just my point. He could not have locked himself in.”

“Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he was locked in. In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have been deceived, and thought the key had been turned.”

I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his suggestion caused me to ponder. But next second I asked—

“If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get out?”

“But did he hammer?” queried Shaw. “Sounds in the night are always distorted, remember.”

“Please don’t discuss the horrible affair further, Dad,” cried Asta, appealingly.

“My dear, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, turning to her hastily. “I know I ought not to have mentioned the matter. Both Kemball and myself deeply condole with you in your grief. You never mentioned to me your affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago. I told Kemball about it, didn’t I?” and he glanced across at me.

“Yes, you did,” I said.

“Ah, poor Guy!” he sighed. “He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy. But, alas! the Fates have willed it otherwise.”

“I—I feel bewildered, Dad,” exclaimed the girl. “I can’t believe that he is really dead,” and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and with uneven steps left the room.

“Poor child!” remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone. “It is indeed a terrible blow for her. I had no idea that she was so devoted to him. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was evidently the one to whom she was most attached. And, between ourselves, Kemball,” he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised between his white fingers, “he was one of the most eligible young fellows in the whole county—eight thousand a year, as well as a half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield. I had dreams of seeing Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court. But, of course, I never told her so. I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life. Love affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly.”

And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded. He could not possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow’s untimely end.

He could not know of Guy’s secret intention to make certain revelations to me—and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware that he was leading a double life. No; when I carefully weighed over the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before me—mysterious though he might be—had every motive that Guy Nicholson should live. I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him. It certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.

The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange affair.

Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken, and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury misled?

The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural death. Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of that fateful night.

Chapter Fourteen.Contains Another Suggestion.A week went by—a breathless, anxious week.I had attended poor Guy’s burial in the pretty churchyard of Titmarsh village, and as I turned from the grave I could not help wondering about what he had intended to tell me, had he but lived to speak.Yet his lips were sealed. Some one had known of his intentions, and had forced silence upon him.My mind was ever full of dark thoughts and black suspicions, and yet I had so clearly proved that Harvey Shaw, against whom his intention was to speak, had had no hand in the matter. Of one thing, however, I was convinced: poor Nicholson had been cruelly murdered.About eight days after the funeral, Shaw, one hot afternoon, drove over alone in his car, and found me smoking in a deck-chair beneath a tree. The object of his visit was to tell me of Guy’s will. It had been found, he said, that the young man had bequeathed the sum of ten thousand pounds to Asta.“He was infatuated with her, poor fellow,” Shaw declared, in a tone of slight annoyance. “Of course she will not touch a penny of it. How could she? Ah! when he made that will, only two months ago, he never dreamt that he would meet with such a sudden end.”“No,” I sighed, my mind full of wonder. At that moment many strange things flitted across my brain. “We all of us foolishly believe that we have many years to live.”“As soon as Asta heard of the legacy, she declared that she would not accept it,” he remarked, “But I suppose she must, even though she transfers it to some charity, as is her intention.”“I can quite understand her reluctance to take the dead man’s present,” I said. “It is only natural. Is she still very upset?”“Very. I scarcely know what to do with her. She suffers from insomnia, and sits for hours moping and sobbing. I’ve been wondering if a trip abroad would bring about forgetfulness. But she declared that she’s had enough travelling, and prefers her own home. Therefore I’m half afraid to take her away. Redwood advises a journey through Hungary and Roumania, which would be fresh ground for her. But at present I’m undecided.”He remained with me for a couple of hours, and afterwards left, when that same evening I was called by telephone up to London to see my lawyer regarding the pending action concerning a portion of my land.Fortunately, at the inquest, I had met the dead man’s solicitor, Mr Sewell, and in order to ascertain whether Shaw’s statement was correct, I called upon him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. From what I gathered it seemed that the bulk of the property had passed to a cousin, and that Asta had declined to accept her legacy, and had given instructions for it to be divided between three London hospitals.The solicitor, like myself, disagreed with the finding of the Coroner’s jury. Yet he could form no theory as to the manner in which his client had met with his untimely end.On the afternoon of my return to Upton End, four days later, I was in the library scribbling a letter to catch the post, when a card was brought to me bearing the name, “Mrs Charles Olliffe.”“The lady has come by car, sir, and wishes very particular to see you,” the girl said.I was not over-pleased to have a visitor at that moment; nevertheless, I ordered her to be shown in, and in a few moments found myself confronted by a tall, well-built, good-looking, well-dressed woman of about forty-five, wearing a smart motor-bonnet and dust-coat. The latter was open, revealing a fine diamond brooch in her white silk blouse.As our eyes met, I held my breath; but next moment I managed to recover myself, and bowing, offered her a chair.“I hope, Mr Kemball, that you will pardon my intrusion. I am a stranger to you, but I wished to see you upon a matter of the greatest importance to myself.”“There is no necessity for apology,” I assured her. “I am at your service.”My eyes were fixed upon her in wonder, for I had, on the instant I had seen her, recognised her as the original of the newspaper photograph I had locked away in my safe—the picture of Lady Lettice Lancaster!She certainly had the air and manner of a lady, and surely none would have suspected her to be a convicted criminal. Notwithstanding her age, she was extremely well-preserved. She spoke low and with refinement, whilst her bearing was that of a well-bred woman. Her smile, too, as she spoke to me, was good-humoured, almost fascinating.“The fact is, Mr Kemball,” she said, as I seated myself and bent towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her identity, “I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine.”“Who is that?” I asked quickly.“Mr Melvill Arnold.”Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady Lettice.“Yes. It is true that I knew Mr Arnold,” I said slowly.“It is about him that I have ventured to call. I live near Bath, but I motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you,” she said. “I heard from a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold’s death, and that he entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate. It was an honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody.”Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was “pumping” me, I knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my replies.Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so completely hidden.I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness, and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet, from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the police.And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in prison! It seemed utterly incredible.Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether Arnold had made a will. But I told her that, so far as I knew, there was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.“I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors,” she said. “He would not trust them.”“Then who is in charge of the dead man’s estate?” I asked, hoping for some information.“Ah! That’s a complete mystery, Mr Kemball,” was her reply. “That Mr Arnold was wealthy—tremendously wealthy—there is no doubt. Yet he was as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income. It was derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware.”“He was a complete mystery in many ways.”“In every way. I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess that I was most puzzled always. He lived in secret, and it appears that he has died in secret,” replied Mrs Olliffe. “I had hoped, Mr Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in which he has disposed of his property.”“Unfortunately, I know nothing,” was my reply. “He merely asked me to perform several little services for him after his death; and having done them, there my knowledge ends.”She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd, deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said—“I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will. But, on the contrary, I know full well that I should not. All I can tell you, Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold’s, then only evil can result.”“Why?” I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before me.“Because Arnold was a worker of evil.”“Then you were not his friend, eh?”“Yes, I was. Only I have warned you,” was her quick reply.Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar assertion. Had he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it in their possession?I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting. As I sat chatting with her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey, and of her curiously romantic life. Now that she was free, she was, without doubt, again carrying on her old game. Once a woman is an adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance with the dead man Arnold.More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a mystery complete and profound. She had known him intimately, yet she would tell me very little concerning him.“He was, of course, very eccentric,” she declared. “One of his fads was that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession. He was constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the appearance of being poor.”“Where did he live usually?” I asked.“Half his time he was abroad—in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover.”I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently, after she had taken tea with me, she left.Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near Kelston, about three miles out of the city.At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.“Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe’s a widow,” said the stout, white-bearded landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. “She’s been here close on two years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven’t been very many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson—and he’s always there, more or less.”“Nicholson!” I cried, startled at mention of the name. “Was he Mr Guy Nicholson, from Titmarsh?”“I don’t know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He hasn’t been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work for Mrs Olliffe. He’s a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only wish there were a few more of his sort about.”“He’s a friend of Mrs Olliffe’s, you say? Has he been coming here for long?”“Ever since she’s been here. They used to say he came to see Miss Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes just as much since she’s left. Ah!” he added, “now I recollect. Only a week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was.”I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor. It was, I found, a splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely timbered park, and in full view from the high road. Would the country folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the curious truth?While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled, ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw back into a hedge. In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of thought.Guy had been that undesirable woman’s friend. Was it possible that she had been implicated in the poor fellow’s mysterious end?That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking—thinking very deeply.

A week went by—a breathless, anxious week.

I had attended poor Guy’s burial in the pretty churchyard of Titmarsh village, and as I turned from the grave I could not help wondering about what he had intended to tell me, had he but lived to speak.

Yet his lips were sealed. Some one had known of his intentions, and had forced silence upon him.

My mind was ever full of dark thoughts and black suspicions, and yet I had so clearly proved that Harvey Shaw, against whom his intention was to speak, had had no hand in the matter. Of one thing, however, I was convinced: poor Nicholson had been cruelly murdered.

About eight days after the funeral, Shaw, one hot afternoon, drove over alone in his car, and found me smoking in a deck-chair beneath a tree. The object of his visit was to tell me of Guy’s will. It had been found, he said, that the young man had bequeathed the sum of ten thousand pounds to Asta.

“He was infatuated with her, poor fellow,” Shaw declared, in a tone of slight annoyance. “Of course she will not touch a penny of it. How could she? Ah! when he made that will, only two months ago, he never dreamt that he would meet with such a sudden end.”

“No,” I sighed, my mind full of wonder. At that moment many strange things flitted across my brain. “We all of us foolishly believe that we have many years to live.”

“As soon as Asta heard of the legacy, she declared that she would not accept it,” he remarked, “But I suppose she must, even though she transfers it to some charity, as is her intention.”

“I can quite understand her reluctance to take the dead man’s present,” I said. “It is only natural. Is she still very upset?”

“Very. I scarcely know what to do with her. She suffers from insomnia, and sits for hours moping and sobbing. I’ve been wondering if a trip abroad would bring about forgetfulness. But she declared that she’s had enough travelling, and prefers her own home. Therefore I’m half afraid to take her away. Redwood advises a journey through Hungary and Roumania, which would be fresh ground for her. But at present I’m undecided.”

He remained with me for a couple of hours, and afterwards left, when that same evening I was called by telephone up to London to see my lawyer regarding the pending action concerning a portion of my land.

Fortunately, at the inquest, I had met the dead man’s solicitor, Mr Sewell, and in order to ascertain whether Shaw’s statement was correct, I called upon him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. From what I gathered it seemed that the bulk of the property had passed to a cousin, and that Asta had declined to accept her legacy, and had given instructions for it to be divided between three London hospitals.

The solicitor, like myself, disagreed with the finding of the Coroner’s jury. Yet he could form no theory as to the manner in which his client had met with his untimely end.

On the afternoon of my return to Upton End, four days later, I was in the library scribbling a letter to catch the post, when a card was brought to me bearing the name, “Mrs Charles Olliffe.”

“The lady has come by car, sir, and wishes very particular to see you,” the girl said.

I was not over-pleased to have a visitor at that moment; nevertheless, I ordered her to be shown in, and in a few moments found myself confronted by a tall, well-built, good-looking, well-dressed woman of about forty-five, wearing a smart motor-bonnet and dust-coat. The latter was open, revealing a fine diamond brooch in her white silk blouse.

As our eyes met, I held my breath; but next moment I managed to recover myself, and bowing, offered her a chair.

“I hope, Mr Kemball, that you will pardon my intrusion. I am a stranger to you, but I wished to see you upon a matter of the greatest importance to myself.”

“There is no necessity for apology,” I assured her. “I am at your service.”

My eyes were fixed upon her in wonder, for I had, on the instant I had seen her, recognised her as the original of the newspaper photograph I had locked away in my safe—the picture of Lady Lettice Lancaster!

She certainly had the air and manner of a lady, and surely none would have suspected her to be a convicted criminal. Notwithstanding her age, she was extremely well-preserved. She spoke low and with refinement, whilst her bearing was that of a well-bred woman. Her smile, too, as she spoke to me, was good-humoured, almost fascinating.

“The fact is, Mr Kemball,” she said, as I seated myself and bent towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her identity, “I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine.”

“Who is that?” I asked quickly.

“Mr Melvill Arnold.”

Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady Lettice.

“Yes. It is true that I knew Mr Arnold,” I said slowly.

“It is about him that I have ventured to call. I live near Bath, but I motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you,” she said. “I heard from a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold’s death, and that he entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate. It was an honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody.”

Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was “pumping” me, I knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my replies.

Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.

I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so completely hidden.

I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness, and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet, from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the police.

And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in prison! It seemed utterly incredible.

Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether Arnold had made a will. But I told her that, so far as I knew, there was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.

“I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors,” she said. “He would not trust them.”

“Then who is in charge of the dead man’s estate?” I asked, hoping for some information.

“Ah! That’s a complete mystery, Mr Kemball,” was her reply. “That Mr Arnold was wealthy—tremendously wealthy—there is no doubt. Yet he was as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income. It was derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware.”

“He was a complete mystery in many ways.”

“In every way. I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess that I was most puzzled always. He lived in secret, and it appears that he has died in secret,” replied Mrs Olliffe. “I had hoped, Mr Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in which he has disposed of his property.”

“Unfortunately, I know nothing,” was my reply. “He merely asked me to perform several little services for him after his death; and having done them, there my knowledge ends.”

She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd, deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said—

“I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will. But, on the contrary, I know full well that I should not. All I can tell you, Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold’s, then only evil can result.”

“Why?” I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before me.

“Because Arnold was a worker of evil.”

“Then you were not his friend, eh?”

“Yes, I was. Only I have warned you,” was her quick reply.

Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar assertion. Had he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it in their possession?

I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting. As I sat chatting with her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey, and of her curiously romantic life. Now that she was free, she was, without doubt, again carrying on her old game. Once a woman is an adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.

Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance with the dead man Arnold.

More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a mystery complete and profound. She had known him intimately, yet she would tell me very little concerning him.

“He was, of course, very eccentric,” she declared. “One of his fads was that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession. He was constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the appearance of being poor.”

“Where did he live usually?” I asked.

“Half his time he was abroad—in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover.”

I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently, after she had taken tea with me, she left.

Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near Kelston, about three miles out of the city.

At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.

“Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe’s a widow,” said the stout, white-bearded landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. “She’s been here close on two years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven’t been very many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson—and he’s always there, more or less.”

“Nicholson!” I cried, startled at mention of the name. “Was he Mr Guy Nicholson, from Titmarsh?”

“I don’t know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He hasn’t been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work for Mrs Olliffe. He’s a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only wish there were a few more of his sort about.”

“He’s a friend of Mrs Olliffe’s, you say? Has he been coming here for long?”

“Ever since she’s been here. They used to say he came to see Miss Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes just as much since she’s left. Ah!” he added, “now I recollect. Only a week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was.”

I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.

When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor. It was, I found, a splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely timbered park, and in full view from the high road. Would the country folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the curious truth?

While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled, ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw back into a hedge. In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.

But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of thought.

Guy had been that undesirable woman’s friend. Was it possible that she had been implicated in the poor fellow’s mysterious end?

That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking—thinking very deeply.

Chapter Fifteen.Contains some Fresh Facts.I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with me at the club.“You were poor Guy’s intimate friend,” I remarked as we sat together. “Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere near Bath?”“Oh yes,” was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem. “He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe.”“Have you ever met the widow?” I asked.“Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy.”“Where is the young lady now?”“Somewhere in India, I think. Her father’s a civilian out there.”“But this Mrs Olliffe,” I said. “Don’t you know any thing about her?”“Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties.”“What was her husband?”“I fancy he was a banker, or something.”I smiled within myself at his reply.“She’s evidently in rather a good set,” Cardew went on, “for I’ve often seen in theMorning Postaccounts of her parties, which seem to include quite a number of distinguished people.”“Well,” I said, “as you know, Cardew, I am busy making my own inquiries. It is a slow, tedious process, but I am hopeful of success. I intend to discover by what means poor Guy was killed; therefore his friends interest me—especially his women friends. For that reason I am trying to discover all I can concerning Mrs Olliffe.”He was silent for a moment; then, bending across the table to me, said—“It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have just been discussing.”“In fear of her?”“Yes. One circumstance made it quite plain. A little over a month ago, I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an appointment on the Sunday which he could not break. I urged him to go, but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o’clock, and did not return until two in the morning. I chaffed him next morning. But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant. ‘No, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole. I’m in one—a woman, as you can guess. And I had to keep that appointment. I couldn’t refuse her, for we had some serious business to transact. Ah,’ he sighed, ‘if I could only think that I’d never see her again, by Gad! I’d be a different man!’”“And you guessed that he met the widow?” I said.“I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings.”“Then she had some hold upon him?”“Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal affairs.”“That was over a month ago, eh?”“Perhaps six weeks.”I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery.We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply.I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice.The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime.Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.“If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I’ll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be,” he said.I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club.It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something.Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty, old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty or so, and they were taking tea.From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a party on the following day.“Sir Charles will be there, so do come,” the girl urged.“I’m afraid I have to go to the Reids’ with my brother,” the widow replied. “He accepted their invitation a month ago.”And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother, George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey—the husband Earnshaw, who sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes as a servant!As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was just as clever and refined as his alleged sister. He had just returned from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described the pleasant time he had had.When at last Mrs Olliffe’s visitors rose and left, I requested a word with her alone.“Certainly,” she said—not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room—a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.When we were seated, I began without preamble—“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that—well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.“Had he any enemies—any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.“Yes.”“And you suspect them of—”“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”“Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion,” I said. “I was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I remained with him nearly the whole time until the end.”“Nearly. You were absent sometimes.”“Of course. I was not with him both night and day.”“And therefore you can’t say with absolute certainty that his enemies had no access to him,” she said.“But even if they had, they can have profited nothing,” I said.“How do you know? Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy. Where is it all? Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed.”I shook my head and smiled.“I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild. Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that effect.”“I’ll never believe it,” she declared. “If there had not been foul play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known. He was a friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for speaking quite frankly.”“You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with authority that his end was due to natural causes.”“It is curious that he should have trusted you—a perfect stranger,” she said, with coolness. “You did not explain the nature of your trust.”“It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you to-day,” I said. “Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain Mr Alfred Dawnay, and—”“To Alfred Dawnay!” she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour faded from her face. “He wrote to him?” she cried. “Then—”She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have fallen.I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she had never dreamed—something which upset all her previous calculations.“Tell me, Mr Kemball,” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice, scarce above a whisper, “tell me—what did he write?”“Ah! I do not know. I was merely the bearer of the letter.”“You have no idea what Arnold told that man—what he revealed to him?”“I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold’s death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay.”“To Dawnay! His worst enemy and his—”“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him—to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance—after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.But she was distrustful and evasive.“An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would cause the whole world to stand aghast,” replied the woman, in a low, hollow voice.Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!What could that secret be?

I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with me at the club.

“You were poor Guy’s intimate friend,” I remarked as we sat together. “Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere near Bath?”

“Oh yes,” was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem. “He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe.”

“Have you ever met the widow?” I asked.

“Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy.”

“Where is the young lady now?”

“Somewhere in India, I think. Her father’s a civilian out there.”

“But this Mrs Olliffe,” I said. “Don’t you know any thing about her?”

“Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties.”

“What was her husband?”

“I fancy he was a banker, or something.”

I smiled within myself at his reply.

“She’s evidently in rather a good set,” Cardew went on, “for I’ve often seen in theMorning Postaccounts of her parties, which seem to include quite a number of distinguished people.”

“Well,” I said, “as you know, Cardew, I am busy making my own inquiries. It is a slow, tedious process, but I am hopeful of success. I intend to discover by what means poor Guy was killed; therefore his friends interest me—especially his women friends. For that reason I am trying to discover all I can concerning Mrs Olliffe.”

He was silent for a moment; then, bending across the table to me, said—

“It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have just been discussing.”

“In fear of her?”

“Yes. One circumstance made it quite plain. A little over a month ago, I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an appointment on the Sunday which he could not break. I urged him to go, but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o’clock, and did not return until two in the morning. I chaffed him next morning. But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant. ‘No, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole. I’m in one—a woman, as you can guess. And I had to keep that appointment. I couldn’t refuse her, for we had some serious business to transact. Ah,’ he sighed, ‘if I could only think that I’d never see her again, by Gad! I’d be a different man!’”

“And you guessed that he met the widow?” I said.

“I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings.”

“Then she had some hold upon him?”

“Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal affairs.”

“That was over a month ago, eh?”

“Perhaps six weeks.”

I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery.

We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply.

I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice.

The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime.

Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.

“If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I’ll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be,” he said.

I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club.

It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something.

Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty, old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty or so, and they were taking tea.

From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!

Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.

The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a party on the following day.

“Sir Charles will be there, so do come,” the girl urged.

“I’m afraid I have to go to the Reids’ with my brother,” the widow replied. “He accepted their invitation a month ago.”

And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother, George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey—the husband Earnshaw, who sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes as a servant!

As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was just as clever and refined as his alleged sister. He had just returned from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described the pleasant time he had had.

When at last Mrs Olliffe’s visitors rose and left, I requested a word with her alone.

“Certainly,” she said—not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room—a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.

When we were seated, I began without preamble—

“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”

“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that—well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”

“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.

“Had he any enemies—any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“And you suspect them of—”

“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”

“Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion,” I said. “I was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I remained with him nearly the whole time until the end.”

“Nearly. You were absent sometimes.”

“Of course. I was not with him both night and day.”

“And therefore you can’t say with absolute certainty that his enemies had no access to him,” she said.

“But even if they had, they can have profited nothing,” I said.

“How do you know? Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy. Where is it all? Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed.”

I shook my head and smiled.

“I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild. Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that effect.”

“I’ll never believe it,” she declared. “If there had not been foul play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known. He was a friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for speaking quite frankly.”

“You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with authority that his end was due to natural causes.”

“It is curious that he should have trusted you—a perfect stranger,” she said, with coolness. “You did not explain the nature of your trust.”

“It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you to-day,” I said. “Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain Mr Alfred Dawnay, and—”

“To Alfred Dawnay!” she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour faded from her face. “He wrote to him?” she cried. “Then—”

She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have fallen.

I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she had never dreamed—something which upset all her previous calculations.

“Tell me, Mr Kemball,” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice, scarce above a whisper, “tell me—what did he write?”

“Ah! I do not know. I was merely the bearer of the letter.”

“You have no idea what Arnold told that man—what he revealed to him?”

“I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold’s death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay.”

“To Dawnay! His worst enemy and his—”

“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”

The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.

“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him—to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance—after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.

“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.

“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”

“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.

“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.

“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.

“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”

“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.

But she was distrustful and evasive.

“An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would cause the whole world to stand aghast,” replied the woman, in a low, hollow voice.

Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

What could that secret be?

Chapter Sixteen.The Sign of the Hand.The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtain no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold. His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune. Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands. Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him. Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the dead man’s riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey Shaw was really Arnold’s friend and not his enemy, as the woman had alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed. Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead of healing the wound caused by Guy’s sudden end, only served to aggravate it. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes I endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and silence.To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least sound seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared as though she had something upon her conscience—some secret which she feared moment by moment might be betrayed.One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.“Yes,” he sighed, “you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I’ve noticed it too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants a change. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of it. Now, however, I’ve induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in France. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne, thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding thepavéof Paris, by Versailles, Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you ever been there?”“No. It must be a very fine run,” I said.“Then why don’t you come with us?” he suggested. “I’m taking the sixty, and there’ll be plenty of room.”I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. My own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey.“Ah!” he laughed, noticing my indecision. “Of course, you’ll come. Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow.”“Very well,” I said, “I’ll come, if you really mean that there’ll be room.”And so it was arranged.When he told Asta a few minutes later her face brightened, and she turned to me, saying—“Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball. Dad has often been on the Continent with the car, but he has never taken me before. He as thought that the long runs might be too fatiguing.”“Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place,” he said, with a laugh. “You must have a change, or else you’ll be ill.”Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for an hour. Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while with Asta in the drawing-room to get cool. She looked very sweet in her simple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes. Exertion had heightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expression had returned to her eyes.As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.I listened. The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the room above.“It’s Dad,” the girl said. “Of late he seems to have taken to whistling like that. Why, I can’t tell, for we have no dogs.”We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill call of a peculiar note. Apparently he was in his room directly over the drawing-room—which was the bedroom—and the window being open we could hear distinctly.Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shouted up—“Who are you calling, Dad?”“Oh, nobody, dear,” was his reply. “I—I didn’t know you were there. I thought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden.”The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenly recollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on the occasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similar whistle. It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quickly forgotten.We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Asta exclaimed—“Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad? One could understand it if we had dogs. But to whistle to nothing seems so idiotic.”“All, so it is, dear,” he replied, laughing. “But I was not whistling to nothing. I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window. I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellow gets very deaf nowadays.”Such was Shaw’s explanation. It was surely not an unusual circumstance, yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwards transpired.As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over those fine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he had uttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at Titmarsh Court.A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swung down the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in the Côte d’Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old château, now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there under Coligny in 1570. Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, the echoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before the long, low-built Hôtel de la Poste, a building painted grey, withjalousiesof the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, like many of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways of France—the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadays bear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had become almost her old self. The complete change of surroundings had wrought in her a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her pale mauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat. Shaw wore dark spectacles, pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes. But I had shrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiously enough, of an evening he never removed them.What did he fear in France?That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at the Grand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Fôret de Fontainebleau, had lunched at the Hôtel de l’Épée in busy Auverre, and then spun away over the straight wideroute nationalethrough Vermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the rich vinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that place and Arnay-le-Duc.It was our intention to get on to Mâcon, a hundred kilometres farther, that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentious littlesalle à manger, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets, washed down by an old and perfect bottle of Beaune, Harris, the chauffeur, who had been hired for the tour because he knew the French roads, came and informed us of a slight breakdown of the engine, which would take him at least a couple of hours or so to repair.“Then we can’t get on to Mâcon to-night, that’s very certain,” remarked Shaw.“That’s a pity, Dad,” exclaimed Asta, “for I wanted to spend a few hours there. I’ve heard it is a wonderful place to buy antiques, and I want some old crucifixes to add to my collection.”“Never mind, dear,” he said, “we will lunch there to-morrow. We can’t expect to go through France without a single mishap. Very well, Harris,” he added, “we’ll stay here to-night.”Three travellers in the wine trade, men who tucked their serviettes into their collars, and who ate and drank heartily, were our table companions, and soon we were all chatting merrily in French, while Madame and her two daughters waited upon us.The room was at the back, and looked out upon the spacious old courtyard into which, in days bygone, the dusty Lyons mail used to rumble over the cobbles. It was bare, with highly polished oak floor, a mirror on the walls, and an old buffet, as is the style in French inns, while when we ascended to our rooms we found the same bareness and cleanliness pervading.My window looked out upon the village street. The floor was carpetless and polished, the bed an old-fashioned wooden one, and besides a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washstand, the only other furniture was a japanned iron stand of hooks upon which to hang coats—that article which is common in every hotel from Archangel to Reggio, and from Ekaterinburg to Lisbon.After a wash, we met below and strolled about the village, which, three hundred kilometres distant from Paris, and two hundred from Lyons, was, we found, a charming old-world place, once important, but now, alas! decayed and forgotten in the mad hurry of our modern world. In the heart of the wine-country, with the vines in lines with great regularity everywhere, it is still a place with a certain amount of commerce, but surely not so important or busy as in the days when on an average two hundred travelling coaches passed through daily.We idled in the old courtyard watching Harris making his repairs, and after a final smoke upon the bench outside, we all retired about ten o’clock, at which hour the whole village seemed already in profound slumber.Shaw’s room was, I found, next to mine, but the communicating door was shut and bolted, while Asta was at the farther end of the corridor. The long journey and the fresh air had caused a great drowsiness to overcome me, and I was exceedingly glad to turn in. A peal of old bells were clanging somewhere as I blew out my candle, and a few minutes later I must have dropped off to sleep.How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly by feeling a strange touch upon my cheek, soft, almost imperceptible, yet chilly—a peculiar feeling that I cannot adequately describe. The contact, whatever it was, thrilled me, and as I opened my eyes I saw the grey light of dawn was just appearing. My face was towards the window, and as I looked I saw distinctly upon my pillow the silhouette of a dark and shadowy hand—a hand with weird, claw-like fingers.Startled, I sat up in bed, but when I looked it had vanished.It was as though the hand of the Angel of Death himself had touched me! At that instant I recollected the words written by Melvill Arnold before he died.Holding my breath, and wondering at first whether I had not been dreaming, I looked about me. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing.My first impulse was to shout, alarm Shaw, and tell him of my uncanny experience, but I could hear him snoring soundly in the adjoining room. So I crept out of bed and examined the communicating door. It was still bolted, just as I had left it.Yet I still recollected most distinctly that touch upon my cheek. And I still had the black silhouette of that phantom hand photographed indelibly upon my memory.I tried to persuade myself that the incident was but a mere chimera of my overwrought imagination, but, alas! to no avail.I had actually seen Something with my own eyes!But what could that weird Something have been?Of what evil had Melvill Arnold desired to warn me when he had scrawled those curious final words before expiring?

The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtain no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold. His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.

Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune. Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands. Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him. Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the dead man’s riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey Shaw was really Arnold’s friend and not his enemy, as the woman had alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!

I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed. Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.

Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead of healing the wound caused by Guy’s sudden end, only served to aggravate it. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes I endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and silence.

To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least sound seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared as though she had something upon her conscience—some secret which she feared moment by moment might be betrayed.

One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.

“Yes,” he sighed, “you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I’ve noticed it too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants a change. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of it. Now, however, I’ve induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in France. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne, thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding thepavéof Paris, by Versailles, Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you ever been there?”

“No. It must be a very fine run,” I said.

“Then why don’t you come with us?” he suggested. “I’m taking the sixty, and there’ll be plenty of room.”

I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. My own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey.

“Ah!” he laughed, noticing my indecision. “Of course, you’ll come. Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow.”

“Very well,” I said, “I’ll come, if you really mean that there’ll be room.”

And so it was arranged.

When he told Asta a few minutes later her face brightened, and she turned to me, saying—

“Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball. Dad has often been on the Continent with the car, but he has never taken me before. He as thought that the long runs might be too fatiguing.”

“Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place,” he said, with a laugh. “You must have a change, or else you’ll be ill.”

Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for an hour. Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while with Asta in the drawing-room to get cool. She looked very sweet in her simple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes. Exertion had heightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expression had returned to her eyes.

As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.

I listened. The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the room above.

“It’s Dad,” the girl said. “Of late he seems to have taken to whistling like that. Why, I can’t tell, for we have no dogs.”

We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill call of a peculiar note. Apparently he was in his room directly over the drawing-room—which was the bedroom—and the window being open we could hear distinctly.

Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shouted up—

“Who are you calling, Dad?”

“Oh, nobody, dear,” was his reply. “I—I didn’t know you were there. I thought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden.”

The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenly recollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on the occasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similar whistle. It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quickly forgotten.

We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Asta exclaimed—

“Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad? One could understand it if we had dogs. But to whistle to nothing seems so idiotic.”

“All, so it is, dear,” he replied, laughing. “But I was not whistling to nothing. I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window. I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellow gets very deaf nowadays.”

Such was Shaw’s explanation. It was surely not an unusual circumstance, yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwards transpired.

As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over those fine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he had uttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at Titmarsh Court.

A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swung down the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in the Côte d’Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old château, now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there under Coligny in 1570. Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, the echoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before the long, low-built Hôtel de la Poste, a building painted grey, withjalousiesof the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, like many of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways of France—the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadays bear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.

We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had become almost her old self. The complete change of surroundings had wrought in her a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her pale mauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat. Shaw wore dark spectacles, pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes. But I had shrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiously enough, of an evening he never removed them.

What did he fear in France?

That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at the Grand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Fôret de Fontainebleau, had lunched at the Hôtel de l’Épée in busy Auverre, and then spun away over the straight wideroute nationalethrough Vermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the rich vinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that place and Arnay-le-Duc.

It was our intention to get on to Mâcon, a hundred kilometres farther, that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentious littlesalle à manger, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets, washed down by an old and perfect bottle of Beaune, Harris, the chauffeur, who had been hired for the tour because he knew the French roads, came and informed us of a slight breakdown of the engine, which would take him at least a couple of hours or so to repair.

“Then we can’t get on to Mâcon to-night, that’s very certain,” remarked Shaw.

“That’s a pity, Dad,” exclaimed Asta, “for I wanted to spend a few hours there. I’ve heard it is a wonderful place to buy antiques, and I want some old crucifixes to add to my collection.”

“Never mind, dear,” he said, “we will lunch there to-morrow. We can’t expect to go through France without a single mishap. Very well, Harris,” he added, “we’ll stay here to-night.”

Three travellers in the wine trade, men who tucked their serviettes into their collars, and who ate and drank heartily, were our table companions, and soon we were all chatting merrily in French, while Madame and her two daughters waited upon us.

The room was at the back, and looked out upon the spacious old courtyard into which, in days bygone, the dusty Lyons mail used to rumble over the cobbles. It was bare, with highly polished oak floor, a mirror on the walls, and an old buffet, as is the style in French inns, while when we ascended to our rooms we found the same bareness and cleanliness pervading.

My window looked out upon the village street. The floor was carpetless and polished, the bed an old-fashioned wooden one, and besides a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washstand, the only other furniture was a japanned iron stand of hooks upon which to hang coats—that article which is common in every hotel from Archangel to Reggio, and from Ekaterinburg to Lisbon.

After a wash, we met below and strolled about the village, which, three hundred kilometres distant from Paris, and two hundred from Lyons, was, we found, a charming old-world place, once important, but now, alas! decayed and forgotten in the mad hurry of our modern world. In the heart of the wine-country, with the vines in lines with great regularity everywhere, it is still a place with a certain amount of commerce, but surely not so important or busy as in the days when on an average two hundred travelling coaches passed through daily.

We idled in the old courtyard watching Harris making his repairs, and after a final smoke upon the bench outside, we all retired about ten o’clock, at which hour the whole village seemed already in profound slumber.

Shaw’s room was, I found, next to mine, but the communicating door was shut and bolted, while Asta was at the farther end of the corridor. The long journey and the fresh air had caused a great drowsiness to overcome me, and I was exceedingly glad to turn in. A peal of old bells were clanging somewhere as I blew out my candle, and a few minutes later I must have dropped off to sleep.

How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly by feeling a strange touch upon my cheek, soft, almost imperceptible, yet chilly—a peculiar feeling that I cannot adequately describe. The contact, whatever it was, thrilled me, and as I opened my eyes I saw the grey light of dawn was just appearing. My face was towards the window, and as I looked I saw distinctly upon my pillow the silhouette of a dark and shadowy hand—a hand with weird, claw-like fingers.

Startled, I sat up in bed, but when I looked it had vanished.

It was as though the hand of the Angel of Death himself had touched me! At that instant I recollected the words written by Melvill Arnold before he died.

Holding my breath, and wondering at first whether I had not been dreaming, I looked about me. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing.

My first impulse was to shout, alarm Shaw, and tell him of my uncanny experience, but I could hear him snoring soundly in the adjoining room. So I crept out of bed and examined the communicating door. It was still bolted, just as I had left it.

Yet I still recollected most distinctly that touch upon my cheek. And I still had the black silhouette of that phantom hand photographed indelibly upon my memory.

I tried to persuade myself that the incident was but a mere chimera of my overwrought imagination, but, alas! to no avail.

I had actually seen Something with my own eyes!

But what could that weird Something have been?

Of what evil had Melvill Arnold desired to warn me when he had scrawled those curious final words before expiring?

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