The conversation became more general now, so that it was possible a moment later for Ravenspur to slip out of the studio without his absence being observed. He went swiftly away to the library, where he hastily dashed off a note, which he handed over to a servant to be delivered immediately. He seemed to be somewhat easier in his mind now, for the smile had come back to his lips. The smile became deeper, and a shade more tender, as a young girl came into the room. She had evidently just returned from some social function, for she was in evening dress, with a light silken cloud thrown over her fair hair. Save for the brilliancy of her eyes, and the happy smile upon her lips, she bore a strong resemblance to the mysterious photograph, which had so disturbed Ravenspur a little time before. She crossed the room gaily, and kissed Ravenspur lightly on the cheek.
"So your friends have all gone?" she asked.
"No; they are still in the studio. But, tell me, have you had a very enjoyable evening? And how is it that you are back so soon?"
A faint splash of colour crept into the girl's cheeks. She seemed to be just a little embarrassed by the apparently simple question.
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "One gets tired of going out every night. And it was rather dull. I daresay all this sounds very ungrateful when you give me everything I could desire. But I am longing to get into the country again. It seems almost a crime for people to shut themselves up in dusty London, when the country is looking at its very best. Do you know, I was far happier when I was down in Hampshire."
"Well, we can't have everything our own way," Ravenspur smiled. "Still, we shall see what will happen later on. And now, I really must go back again to my guests."
Vera Rayne threw herself carelessly down into a chair. A little sigh escaped her lips. She ought to have been happy enough. She had all the blessings that good health and great wealth could procure. And yet there were crumpled rose leaves on her couch of down. The thoughtful look on her face deepened. She sat there so deeply immersed in her own reflections, that she was quite oblivious to the fact that she was no longer alone. Walter Lance had come into the room. He addressed the girl twice before he obtained any response. Then she looked up, and a wistful, tender smile lighted up her beautiful face.
"I was thinking," she said. "Do you know, Walter, I have been thinking a good deal lately. I suppose I am naturally more discontented than most girls, but I am getting very tired of this sort of life. Pleasure is so monotonous."
"Ungrateful," Walter laughed. He came and stood close to the speaker's side so that he could see down into the depths of her eyes, which were now turned fully upon his. "There are thousands of girls who envy your fortunate lot."
"I don't know why they should. You see, it is all very well for me to go on like this. It is all very well to be a fascinating mystery. The time has come when I ought to know things. For instance, I should like to know who I really am."
"What does it matter?" Lance asked. "What does it matter so long as I--so long as we all care for you. My dear girl, you pain me. And when you speak in that cold, not to say arbitrary way, as if--as if--really, Vera! It isn't that I want you to be more worldly than you are----"
"But then you see, I am not worldly, Walter. And I really should like to know who I am, and where I came from. It is all very well to tell people that I am the daughter of an old friend of Lord Ravenspur, and that he adopted me when my father died. That is sufficient for our friends and acquaintances, and seems to satisfy them, but it does not satisfy me. When I ask Lord Ravenspur about my parents he puts me off with one excuse or another, and if I insist he becomes quite stern and angry. He is so good to me that I don't like to bother him. And yet I can't go on like this."
Walter Lance looked somewhat uneasily at the speaker.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"My dear Walter, I mean exactly what I say," Vera said sadly. "I am tired of this constant round of pleasure. Really, it seems to me that the lives of the rich are quite as monotonous as those of the poor. We go our weary round of dinner and dance and reception, varied by an occasional theatre or concert. We see the same faces, and take part in the same vapid conversation---- Oh, Walter, how much nicer it would be to get one's own living!"
"How would you get yours?" Lance laughed.
"Well, at any rate, I could try. And that is what I am going to do, Walter. I have fully made up my mind not to stay here any longer. Don't think that I am ungrateful, or that I do not recognise Lord Ravenspur's great kindness to me. But you see I have no claim upon him, and if anything happened to him tomorrow what would my position be? I know he has a large income from his property, but that will go to his successor some day. Oh, I know you will think that this is very hard and cold of me, but there are reasons, many and urgent reasons, why it is impossible----"
Vera broke off abruptly, and Walter could see that the tears had gathered in her eyes. There was something in those eyes, too, that caused his heart to beat a trifle faster, and brought him still closer to her side.
"Won't you tell me what it is?" he whispered. "We have always been such good friends, Vera. Forgive me asking you, but isn't this decision on your part rather a sudden one?"
"Oh, I am quite prepared to admit that," the girl said candidly, "and I wish I could explain. But you would not understand--was there ever a man yet who really understood a woman? The thing that you call impulse . . . I know that Lord Ravenspur had his own ideas as to my future, the same as he has in regard to yours."
"Oh, indeed," Walter said drily; "that is news to me. And in what way is my uncle interested in my welfare?"
"Do you mean to say he hasn't told you? He has mentioned it to me at least a score of times. You are going to marry Lady Clara Vavasour. That much is settled."
"Really, now, that is very kind of my uncle. But, unfortunately, I have views of my own on the subject. Lady Clara is a very nice girl, and I understand that she is rich, but she does not appeal to me in the least. My dear Vera, surely you are mistaken. Surely my uncle must have guessed, he could not be so blind as not to see--Vera, dearest, cannot you understand what I mean? Do you suppose that I could possibly have known you all this time without--without---- You know, I am certain that you know."
"Oh, no, no," Vera cried; "you must not speak like that. I cannot listen to you. I know that Lord Ravenspur has set his heart upon this marriage, and it would be the basest ingratitude on my part if I----but what am I talking about?"
The girl broke off in some confusion. The faint pink oh her cheeks turned to a deeper crimson. Her eyes were cast down; she did not seem to realise that Walter had her hands in his, that he had drawn her close to his side.
"I must speak," he said huskily. "Even at the risk of your thinking me the most conceited man on earth, I must tell you what is uppermost in my mind now. My dear girl, I have known you ever since you were a little child. From the very first we have been the best of friends. I have watched you change from a girl to a woman. I have watched your mind expanding, and gradually I have come to know that you are the one girl in the world for me. I have not spoken like this before, because there seemed to be no need to do so. Everything was so natural, there did not appear to be any other end to a love like mine. But if I have been wrong, and if you tell me that you care nothing for me----"
"I couldn't," Vera whispered. "Oh, Walter, if you only knew----"
"Then you do care for me, my dearest. Yes, I can see it in your face, there is always the truth in your eyes. And now I can speak more freely. You were going away from here out of loyalty to my uncle, and because you deem it your duty to sacrifice your feelings rather than interfere with his plans. But, my dear girl, don't you see what a needless sacrifice it would be? Don't you see that any such action on your part would be worse than useless? But I will speak to you about this tomorrow. I am quite sure he is not the man to stand between us and our happiness. Would that I had thought of this before. I am sure that it would have saved you many an anxious moment."
Vera shook her head sadly. Walter's arms were about her now, her head rested on his shoulder. Just for the moment they were absolutely oblivious to the world. They heard nothing of the sound of voices as Lord Ravenspur's guests drifted away; they were unconscious that he was standing in the doorway, now regarding them with stern disapproval. He hesitated just a moment, then he strode into the room. Walter had never seen his face so hard and cold before.
"I am sorry to intrude," he said, "but there is something I have to say to you, Walter. It is getting late now, Vera, and quite time that you were in bed."
The girl looked up with something like rebellion in her eyes.
"I am going into the drawing-room for half an hour," she said. "Perhaps Walter will come and say goodnight to me when you have finished your conversation. I think you understand what I mean. And don't be too hard on me. If you only knew how I have tried to do what--what----"
The tears rose to Vera's eyes, as she turned slowly and sadly away.
Vera turned away and walked quietly from the room, leaving the two men face to face. Lord Ravenspur was the first to speak.
"I am sorry for this," he said; "more sorry than I can tell you. Strange how one should be so wilfully blind. Strange how frequently even the cleverest man will overlook the inevitable. But I suppose I thought that you two had come to regard one another as brother and sister. Oh, I am not disputing your taste. There is not a more beautiful and fascinating girl in London than Vera. It is only natural that you should fall in love with her. But she knows the views I have for you. She knows to what an extent she is indebted to me. That being so it is her plain duty----"
"My dear uncle," Walter broke in eagerly, "if there is anybody to blame, it is I. Vera knows her duty plainly enough, and she would have acted upon it but for me. When I came in here tonight I was struck by the unhappiness of her face, and, naturally, I began to ask questions. It seems an egotistical thing to say, but Vera is as deeply attached to me as I am to her, and that was the source of her trouble. She had made up her mind to go away. She had made up her mind to get her own living. And why? Simply because she knew that you had other views for me, and that she stood in the way of your plans. It was only by a mere accident that the whole thing came out. But I have spoken the words now that are beyond recall, even if I wished to recall them, which I do not. There will never be another woman in the world for me."
"But the thing is impossible," Lord Ravenspur broke out harshly. "It is absolutely out of the question. I had other views for you, but I certainly should not have pressed them against your wishes. But all that is as nothing compared to this--this tragedy. I blame myself bitterly for my want of foresight. My conduct has been almost criminal. But, be that as it may, there must be no engagement between Vera and yourself. Don't press me to tell you why, because my lips are sealed, and I dare not speak. But, as you value your future, I implore you to carry this thing no further. I know this sounds an outrageous request, but I am speaking from the bottom of my heart. It is the fashion of the world to regard me as one of the most fortunate and enviable of men. I tell you, with all the force at my command, that I would cheerfully change places with the humblest labourer on my estate. I have never dropped the mask before, and I probably never shall again. I am only doing it now so that you may be warned in time. Go back to Vera, and tell her what I say. Tell her that there are urgent reasons why a marriage between you is utterly out of the question. And if you will persist in having your own way, then let me ask you one final favour. Let the engagement be kept a secret. And now I have no more to say. Perhaps I have said too much as it is, only if you were aware what the last twenty-four hours has brought forth----"
Ravenspur broke off abruptly as if fearful of saying too much. His whole attitude had changed; his features quivered with an almost uncontrollable emotion. Then he turned on his heel, and strode down the corridor in the direction of the studio. Walter could hear the latch of the door click as it closed behind him. . . .
Ravenspur was alone with his own troubled thoughts. For a long time he paced up and down the room, then he took up the photograph which had excited so much attention amongst his guests earlier in the evening. He laid it down on a little table, and gazed at the face there long and sadly.
"Amazing!" Ravenspur muttered to himself. "Absolutely inexplicable! I could have sworn that I had the photograph still under lock and key. When did I take it from the safe, and why? Beyond all question, it was not on the table yesterday. Is this a mere coincidence, or is it a menace and warning of the old trouble which has never ceased to be with me night and day the last twenty years? And how the whole thing works together! First of all, poor Delahay is found murdered in his studio, and now something like the same thing happens to one of my guests who was unquestionably mistaken for me in the darkness. And as if that was not enough, those two young fools must take it into their heads to fancy that they are in love with one another. Heaven only knows how I shall make my way out of this terrible coil, even if I have the good luck to escape the consequences of my folly! The most fortunate man in London! The most popular and most sought for! What a bitter travesty upon the truth it is! If they only knew! If there were only some power to lift the roof off of every house in London, what tragedies would be revealed! And how many friends would be left to me?"
Time was going on. A dozen clocks in different parts of the house struck twelve. As Ravenspur stood by the table, his moody eyes still bent upon the photographs, there was a sudden click and snap, and the whole place was plunged in darkness. The thing was so quick and unexpected that something like a cry of alarm broke from Ravenspur's lips. It all came to him in a flash that the tragedy of Fitzjohn Square was going to be repeated with himself in therôleof the victim. This is just what had happened the previous evening, only there had been nothing to try his nerves then as they were being strained to breaking point now. Shaking and agitated in every limb he made his way across to where the switches were, but there was nothing wrong with them. He could hear no commotion in the house, such as would naturally follow the extinguishing of the light. Indeed, underneath the doorway he could see by the slit of light that the electrics in the corridor were still working.
The full horror of it was almost more than he could bear. A wild desire for light and companionship came upon him. His unsteady hand fumbled at the latch, which seemed in some way to have gone wrong, for the door refused to open. Ravenspur was breathing thickly and heavily. But he was sufficiently in possession of his faculties to realise that he was no longer alone in the room. He could distinctly hear someone breathing close to him. Then he caught the sound of a low chuckle.
"Not so fast," a voice hissed in his ear; "I haven't come all this way for the benefit of your society to lose you like this. You needn't worry about the door, because you can't escape in that way."
In a sudden frenzy of rage and anger and fear, Ravenspur stretched out his arm and encountered that of the mysterious stranger, whose dramatic entrance had so startled him. But, strong man as he was, and in the pink of good condition, Ravenspur could make nothing of his assailant. The man appeared to be not more than half his size, but his arms and body were tough and elastic as the finest whipcord. Gradually Ravenspur was borne backward. He dropped on his knees with a grip about his throat that caused him to gasp for breath, and brought a million stars dancing before his eyes. He wanted help more earnestly than he had ever required it in his life before, but his pride was stubborn still, and he tried to choke down the cry which rose to his lips. He must fight for himself to the end.
"So that is to be the end of it?" Vera asked. "It breaks my heart to speak like this, but after what Lord Ravenspur has said, there must be an end to the matter."
"But, my dearest girl, the thing is absurd," Walter cried. "What have we done that we should be treated in this way? Surely our position is clear enough. We are to be parted for the sake of some ridiculous whim which is not even capable of an explanation. I am not going to leave matters here. I decline to obey until I know the reason why. At any rate, nothing can prevent our loving each other. And, as far as I am concerned, I am quite prepared to keep the matter secret between us. But I intend to have the matter out with my uncle before I sleep tonight. I am not a boy to be treated in this sentimental fashion. So long as I know that your feelings remain unchanged----"
"What is that?" Vera cried. "Didn't you hear anything--a kind of horrible muffled scream? There it is again."
The sound came again and again, ringing through the silent house, horrible and insistent in its note of tragedy. Vera turned a pale, scared face to her companion.
"Where is it?" she gasped. "Where does it come from?"
"The studio," Walter exclaimed. "It is my uncle's voice. Something terrible has happened to him."
Without another word Walter dashed from the room, and flew along the corridor leading to the studio. Just for a moment there was a strained, tense silence; then, as the door of the studio was reached, a strange, muffled scream burst out again. With his hand on the lock Walter shook the door, which refused to give way to him. He called aloud on Ravenspur, but no reply came. He shook the door in a fit of angry exasperation, and once more from inside the room came that queer, choking noise, followed by a low chuckle. It was maddening, exasperating to a degree, to stand so close to the threshold of tragedy and yet to be so far away.
There was only one thing for it, and that was to break down the door. Flinging himself full against the woodwork, Walter literally forced his way in. Then he stood just for a moment looking into the gloom and darkness, trying to see where the figure of the unhappy man lay.
The suggestion of tragedy brooding in the darkness held Lance back just for the moment. He was almost afraid to proceed lest he should find something even worse than he had expected. Then his hand fumbled along the wall with the switches, and the great room burst into a glow of light again.
The place was absolutely empty, save for the figure of Lord Ravenspur huddled up upon the Persian rug. He was absolutely still and silent. As far as Lance could see he had ceased to breathe.
Naturally enough the young man looked about him for a sign of the miscreant, but the studio contained no trace of his presence. The thing was puzzling to the last degree. There was no exit from the room beyond the door which Walter had broken down, and nobody could possibly have passed him that way. Besides, the switches were just inside the door, and the light had been turned on almost immediately. At any rate, there was nobody there now except the victim of the attack himself, and Walter feared that he was already past any explanation of the strange affair.
That would have to keep for the present. Walter bent over and raised Lord Ravenspur's head and shoulders. He was still alive, for his eyes were wide open, though no words came from his lips. At the same time he seemed to be struggling for speech which would not come. Then he raised a shaking arm and contrived to pull Walter's head down close to his lips. The words came at length in a faint whisper, a whisper so low, that Walter had the greatest difficulty in following it.
"Don't let anybody know. It is absolutely necessary that no one should know," Lord Ravenspur faltered. "If there is any alarm, I pray you go and allay it at once. Say that I had fallen asleep and was suffering from nightmare. Say I had a horrible dream. Say anything, so long as you respect my secret. Now go."
There was nothing to do but to obey this mysterious request. At the end of the corridor Vera was waiting with an anxious face. It was no nice thing to prevaricate, it would have to be done. Walter spoke as lightly as possible.
"There is no occasion for alarm," he said. "Lord Ravenspur says that he fell asleep and had a horrible nightmare. At any rate, he seems to be all right now. You had better go to bed. I am sorry that you should have been so much alarmed."
To Walter's great relief, Vera asked no further questions. She turned away obediently enough, and he hurried back to the studio. Lord Ravenspur still lay on the Persian rug, but with Walter's help he contrived to get into a chair. A little brandy brought some trace of colour to his face. He seemed more like himself again. "They heard nothing in the house?" he asked anxiously.
"Only Vera," Walter explained. "She was terribly frightened, but she believed what I told her, and she has gone up to her room. And now, perhaps, you will tell me the truth."
"Do you think I have not already done so?"
"My dear uncle, I am sure of it. I know it is possible for people to make the most hideous noises when they are suffering from nightmare, but this is quite another matter. You called aloud for help. You were in imminent danger of losing your life. Before I broke the door down I distinctly heard somebody give a low chuckle. Of course, you can make light of this in the morning. You can induce people to laugh at your absurd situation, but you cannot deceive me. I know there was someone in the room when I forced the door."
"Then where is he now, Walter?" Lord Ravenspur asked.
"Ah, that I cannot tell; but he was here right enough."
"He passed you in the corridor?"
"That he most certainly did not. Nobody came out that way."
A faint smile came to Lord Ravenspur's lips. He indicated the room with a wave of his hand.
"I see exactly what you mean," Walter said. "Of course, if you do not feel inclined to tell me the truth I cannot compel you to do so. But I have only to look at you, to see that you have lately been through a desperate struggle with someone who came here to take your life. You are absolutely exhausted with the severity of it. If I had my own way I would put the matter in the hands of the police."
"No, no," Ravenspur said vehemently. "If you have the slightest regard for me you will not venture to say a word to a soul. I want the whole thing to be forgotten. If I remain in my room all tomorrow under the plea of indisposition, I shall be all right the next day. You are to give me your word of honour that you will say nothing of what you have seen tonight."
"If you wish it so, certainly," Walter said reluctantly.
"My dear uncle, won't you trust me? I would do anything to help you. And besides, how are you going to guard against this happening again?
"A bloodthirsty ruffian who can enter a house and vanish in this mysterious fashion, is not likely to be put off, if he knows you are going to take no steps to guard yourself against a further attack. But what has become of him?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Ravenspur said wearily. "I was sitting in my chair when the light suddenly went out and I heard the door locked. Then I had to fight for my life, and was nearly done for when I called out for assistance."
"And you saw nothing of him?" Walter asked.
"Nothing whatever," Ravenspur went on. "I could only feel him. And after that I recollect no more till you came."
"A most extraordinary thing," Walter said, somewhat impatiently. "Surely you have some idea as to who the man is. Surely he must be the same man who mistook Sir James Seton for yourself tonight."
No reply came from Lord Ravenspur. Evidently he desired to say no more. He seemed anxious to be alone. But Walter, angry and hurt, walked rapidly about the room seeking for a way whereby the late visitor had vanished. But he looked in vain. There was no possible means of exit other than the door, and the fireplace was too narrow to admit of anybody coming or going. As to the roof, it was of heavy stained glass, and as impregnable as the walls themselves. The mystery was maddening. And yet the one man who could have explained it all sat there silent, and moody, and tongue tied.
"Is there anything more that I can do for you before I go to bed?" Walter asked. "Are you sure I can't help you?"
"I am afraid not, my boy," Ravenspur said in a dull, mechanical way. "I know that you won't chatter about this thing. And, perhaps, a little later on, I shall be able to speak more plainly. I shall be glad if you will help me up the stairs and get me into bed. I have had a great shock tonight."
It seemed almost cruel to pursue the subject further, and Walter refrained from questions as he noticed the ghastly whiteness of his uncle's face. The latter was disposed of at length, and then Walter came downstairs again. He now had the house practically to himself. All desire for sleep had forsaken him. Besides that, it was no nice thought to reflect on the possibility of that ruffian being still on the premises. Walter had not the slightest doubt in his mind that the man had left the studio in some secret manner, and that he had come there through no ordinary channel. What was to prevent him returning again when the house was asleep and finishing his work? In itself, the fact of Lord Ravenspur possessing a bitter enemy was remarkable. And Lord Ravenspur's obstinate silence was more remarkable still. Walter had given his word to say nothing of these strange events, but that did not bind him from making inquiries on his own account.
He returned to the studio once more and made a thoroughly searching examination of the place. Was there some secret door which Lord Ravenspur used, and of which nobody knew anything? It had never occurred to Walter till that moment that his uncle might have turned-down pages in his life, but that conclusion was inevitable now. Still, though Walter spent the best part of an hour in his search, he had nothing to show for his pains. He was about to give up the thing in despair when a piece of yellow paper, lying by the side of the Persian rug where Lord Ravenspur had fallen, attracted his attention. It was a small, shabby sheet of paper, folded in four and printed from worn-out type, in fact, just the class of bill which is circulated amongst travelling circuses and shows of that kind. It was the last thing in the world that anyone would have looked for in the studio of so fastidious a man as Lord Ravenspur. Slowly and thoughtfully Walter unfolded and read the handbill. It was an advertisement of the nightly programme of the Imperial Palace Theatre. The name of the place sounded imposing enough, but the locality of Vauxhall Bridge Road somewhat detracted from the importance of it. So far as Walter could judge, the Imperial Palace Theatre was no more than a shady music hall giving two shows a night, and most of the names on the bill were absolutely unknown to fame. The star turn appeared to be one Valdo, who was announced as the flying man who had made such a sensation throughout the leading halls in Europe.
"I wonder if this is a clue," Walter murmured to himself. "At any rate, I should like to see this Valdo. I'll go down to the Imperial Palace tomorrow night and enquire for myself."
Walter folded up the shabby bill and placed it in his pocket, after which he went thoughtfully to bed.
Nobody in the Park Lane house appeared to have the slightest suspicion that anything had been wrong. The stolid, well-trained servants accepted the explanation of the broken door quite as a matter of course. And when Vera had come down in the morning she appeared to have forgotten the incident entirely. Lord Ravenspur was not feeling particularly well, and he had decided to keep to his room for the day. The explanation was perfectly simple and quite natural. All the same, Walter was thankful that Vera should ask him no questions. It was no easy matter to preserve a cheerful and unconcerned face at the breakfast table, but he seemed to manage it all right. He was just a little quiet and subdued, but then there was nothing remarkable about that, especially in view of Lord Ravenspur's feelings on the subject of his engagement to Vera.
The day dragged on, and Walter waited with what patience he had till the evening. He was not displeased to find that Vera was dining out with some friends in Sloane Square, for this would give him the opportunity he needed. He changed his dinner jacket presently for an old tweed coat and cap. Then he set out on his errand in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Walter was not alone on this occasion, for he was accompanied by a journalist friend whose particular study was the life and habits of the lower classes. It was this friend who had suggested the advisability of the humble garb, so that they could thus mix freely with the people around them. Walter congratulated himself upon his friend's prudence when he saw the class of audience that filled the Imperial Palace Theatre.
The place was large enough, and by no means lacked artistic finish. At one time it had been an actual theatre, run by some enthusiast with a view to the elevation of the masses and the production of high-class plays at popular prices. The experiment had ended in a ghastly failure, and now a shrewd, hard-headed publican in the neighbourhood was making a fortune by the simple expedient of giving his patrons exactly what they required.
"What part of the house shall we try?" Walter asked.
"We can't do better than the pit," Venables replied. "That will cost you sixpence, or perhaps, if you like to be extravagant, we can have a box for half-a-crown. Still, we don't want to make ourselves conspicuous. The pit is quite good enough for me. You can smoke here, you know, and drink too, for the matter of that. But I should not advise you to try the latter experiment."
The house was fairly well filled as the two friends entered and took their seats. The audience for the most part were respectable enough, but the whole place reeked with perspiring humanity, and the air was pungent with the smell of acrid tobacco. A constant fusillade of chaff went on between the stage and the audience. Indeed, the artistes, for the most part, appeared to be on the most friendly terms with thehabituésof the theatre. A dreary-looking comedian was singing one of the inevitable patter songs, full of the feeble allusions to drink without which songs of that kind never appear to be complete. The audience listened stolidly enough.
"Are they never going to tire of this kind of thing?" Walter asked his companion. "Is there nothing humorous in the world outside the region of too much beer? These people sadden me."
"Oh, they are all right," Venables said, cheerfully. "They are quite happy in their own particular way. I have long ceased to look for anything fresh on the music hall stage. An original artist and an original manner wouldn't be tolerated."
The dreary song came to an end at length; then it was followed by two so-called sisters, who, in short skirts and large picture hats, discoursed of the joys of country life in a peculiarly aggressive Cockney accent. The whole thing was dull and depressing to the last degree, and Walter began to regret his loss of time. He noticed from his programme that Valdo was down rather late, so there was nothing for it but to possess his soul in patience till the time came. It was a little past ten o'clock before the stage was cleared, and the attendants, in their grimy uniforms, began to erect a series of fine wires running from the roof to the floor. Then there was an extra flourish from the aggressive orchestra, and a slim man, dressed entirely in black, came on to the stage. He was received with great enthusiasm and the smiting of glasses upon the tables. Evidently Valdo had established himself as a firm favourite with the patrons of the Imperial Palace Theatre.
All Walter's apathy had vanished, as he turned to the stage and scrutinised the acrobat long and carefully. So far as he could judge, Valdo was no Englishman with a foreign name, but a genuine foreigner, presumably of Italian birth. The man was not tall or particularly broad, but he was well proportioned, and gave the idea of one possessed of considerable physical strength. In particular, Walter noticed how long his arms were, and how the muscles stood out between his shoulders. As to the rest, the man looked mild enough, and his dark Southern face was wreathed in an amiable smile.
He proceeded, with the aid of an attendant, to fasten two small curved canvas frames to his shoulders. These he thrashed up and down with his arms much as a cock flaps its wings before crowing. Then, with an agile leap from the stage, the man proceeded to sail up slowly from the floor to the flies.
"That's clever," Venables exclaimed. "It looks to me as if our friend has solved the art of the flying machine. But one never knows. I daresay it is no more than some ingenious trick."
This speech appeared to be resented by a respectable-looking mechanic who was occupying the next seat to Venables.
"Nothing of the kind," the man said indignantly. "I've been here three nights now, and I know something about mechanics, too. If you think that wires are used you are just mistaken. A friend of mine is stage carpenter here, and he told me all about it. Depend upon it, that chap has got the knack right enough."
The performer fluttered down again from the wings as lightly and easily as he had risen, and a tremendous outbreak of applause followed. When the din had died away, the stage manager came forward and invited any of the audience who chose to come up and see for themselves that everything was fair and legitimate, and that no mechanism had been employed. The intelligent mechanic turned to Venables with a defiant smile.
"Now is your chance, guv'nor," he exclaimed. "You go and smell it out for yourself."
Venables would have declined the offer, but already Walter had risen eagerly from his seat. The opportunity was too good to be missed. Though he did not associate this man Valdo with the mysterious attack on Lord Ravenspur's life, he felt quite convinced that the artist was indirectly concerned in it. To waste a chance would be the height of folly. A moment or two later the two friends were on the stage. They stood there whilst the performer went through another series of graceful performances, but they could see absolutely nothing which suggested mechanical contrivance of any kind. The whole act came to an end at length, and Valdo stood there bowing and smiling when his wings were removed.
"Let's have a chat with him," Venables whispered. "Apart from the thing being decidedly interesting, there ought to be some good 'copy' here. Properly worked, Signor Valdo ought to be worth a couple of columns to me."
At the suggestion of the "Press," the stage manager pricked up his ears. He was not insensible to the value of a good advertisement. He suggested a move to his private office, where it would be possible for the visitors to interview quietly.
"Nothing I should like better," Walter said eagerly. "Perhaps you will come with us, and join us in a bottle of champagne?"
They made their way behind the stage to a dingy little room, insufficiently lighted with one gas jet. The back of the stage was in a turmoil. It was almost impossible to hear for the din. Then very briefly and modestly Valdo told his history. He had found out his peculiar powers by a series of experiments with the parachute. The whole secret lay, he explained, in the enormously powerful muscles between his shoulders and the backs of his arms. The rest was worked by the amazing rapidity with which he had learnt to move his arms. So far the thing was effective enough, but the strain was so great that, hitherto, he had found it impossible to rise to a height of more than forty feet. This naturally prevented him from obtaining engagements in the larger theatres and halls where so limited a flight would have been far less imposing than it appeared to be when performed in a place like the Imperial Palace. There was nothing more to be said, and the two friends were turning away when a woman put her head into the door, and looked inquiringly at Valdo. He muttered something to the effect that he would be ready in a moment or two, and the woman vanished.
Walter caught his lip in his teeth. It was hard work to conceal his surprise. There was no doubt whatever about it, no question as to the identity of the intruder. Strange as it appeared to be, Walter recognised the features of Mrs. Delahay. There was no mistaking that white, stern face. It was only for a moment, but that moment had been enough for Lance.
All that evening and most of the next day Walter brooded over his startling discovery. He said nothing to anybody about it, though he had attempted the night previously to follow up the clue. The attempt had failed, however, for though Walter had waited outside the theatre, he saw no more of Mrs. Delahay. And as to the man Valdo he eventually went off by himself. There was nothing for it now but to wait and see what was going to happen.
Meanwhile, public interest in the Fitzjohn Square tragedy had not abated in the least. Everybody was waiting eagerly enough for the inquest, which was to open at four o'clock on the day following the mysterious attack upon Lord Ravenspur. The latter had come down somewhat late in the morning, looking but little the worse for his adventure. It was not expected that the inquest would be more than formally opened, and it was generally known that Lord Ravenspur would be an important witness.
In view of the extraordinary interest taken in the affair the proceedings had been moved to a public hall. Long before the time arranged for opening the hall was packed to its utmost capacity. After the police and medical evidence had been taken, the first witness called was Lord Ravenspur. His fine, picturesque figure stood out in the strong light. He gave his evidence clearly and well, though his voice shook from time to time with emotion, which was only natural enough, seeing that the dead man had been so close a friend of his.
After all, he had little to tell. He described his late visit to Fitzjohn Square, and how he had been at work on a picture there until such time as the lights were extinguished and he was forced to abandon his task.
"You thought nothing of the lights going out?" the coroner asked. "You saw nothing suspicious in that?"
"Well, no," the witness replied. "You see, it is no unusual occurrence for the supply of electric light to fail. The thing so easily happens. As the house has been empty for some time it occurred to me that perhaps there was a fault somewhere, or, perhaps, the workmen had not quite finished their job."
"Quite so," the coroner observed. "Tell us, did you hear any noise in the house, or any suspicious sounds?"
"Nothing whatever. Until the light went out there was nothing whatever to disturb me. In fact, I was so intent upon my work that I was quite lost to everything else."
"But you know now," the coroner went on, "that the main cable leading to the meter was cut. That being so, somebody must have been in the house at the same time as yourself. What I want to get at is this--the murderer was deliberately waiting for his victim. He had no quarrel with you, and his great idea was to get you out of the way. That appears to be obvious."
"It is obvious enough to me," Ravenspur replied. "I came to that conclusion directly Inspector Dallas pointed out to me that the main cable had been deliberately cut. But you see I suspected nothing wrong at the time, and there was nothing else for me to do but to abandon my task directly the light went out. I am afraid that I can tell you nothing more."
"The deceased was a great friend of yours?" the coroner asked. "I presume you know a great deal about his life and habits. Was he at all the sort of man to make enemies?"
"The last man in the world," the witness said emphatically. "My friend was both upright and straightforward. Indeed, I regarded him as a man incapable of a mean action."
One or two desultory questions followed, and then Lord Ravenspur sat down. To a certain extent his evidence had been dramatic enough, but, at the same time, he had not said a single word likely to throw any light on the mystery. The audience thrilled and bent forward eagerly as Mrs. Delahay stood up to give her evidence. She was just as deadly pale, just as calm and set, as she had been when she called upon Ravenspur in Park Lane with the dreadful news. She gave her evidence slowly and distinctly, speaking more like an automaton than a creature of flesh and blood. She told how she had become alarmed at her husband's prolonged absence, how she had gone down to Fitzjohn Square to see if anything had happened, how she found the dead body there, and how the police had come to her assistance. But more than that she could not say, more than that she did not know. So far as she knew her husband had always been a cheerful man. She had never heard him say an evil word of any one. She had not been married long, in fact she was still a bride. Altogether she had known her husband for a little over three years. She was older than her husband, she proceeded to say. The coroner asked her age.
"I am forty-three," she said calmly.
"Really," the coroner murmured politely, "I should not have taken you to be so much. I don't wish to ask you anything likely to cause you pain, but does it not occur to you that your husband might have been concealing something? Is it not rather strange that he should leave you at midnight and take an hour and a half in reaching a house to which he might have walked in ten minutes?"
"I don't think so," Mrs. Delahay said. "My husband was one of the most open of men. In fact, he was too fond of leaving his letters and private papers about. And as to the rest, he might have met a friend. He might have gone to one of his clubs."
"If I may be allowed to interrupt a moment," Inspector Dallas said, "I may say that we have utterly failed to trace Mr. Delahay's movements from the time he left the Grand Hotel till he reached Fitzjohn Square. Not one of his friends appears to have seen him on the night in question."
"That is rather unfortunate," the coroner murmured. "I am sorry to have troubled you so far. You may sit down now."
With something which might have been a sigh of relief Mrs. Delahay resumed her seat close to the table. Then Inspector Dallas put forward a witness who gave the name of John Stevens. He looked like a broken-down professional man in his greasy, shabby frock-coat and dingy linen. His watery eye glanced nervously over the court. The red tinge on his cheeks spoke quite plainly of the cause of his downfall. He proceeded to give his evidence so incoherently that the coroner had to reprimand him sharply once or twice.
"I can't hear half you say," that official said irritably. "I think you said your name was John Stevens. What can you tell us about this case? Did you know Mr. Delahay?"
"I knew him quite well, sir," the witness said. "I have seen him scores of times when I have been watching in Fitzjohn Square."
"What do you mean by watching there?"
"Well, sir, you see, I am a private inquiry agent. I work for one of the large firms of detectives, getting up evidence and that kind of thing. For months past it has been my duty to keep my eye on a certain house in the Square, especially at night. In that way I have got to know most of the inhabitants by sight, and also I have got to know a good deal about their habits."
"You are a professional spy, then?" the coroner asked.
"Well, sir, if you like to put it like that," the witness said humbly. "On the night of the murder about a quarter past one, I was in the Square gardens watching through the railings at the corner of John Street. I could see perfectly well what was going on because there is a large electric arc light where John Street and the Square adjoin. As I said, it was just about a quarter past one, because I looked at my watch to see what the time was. It was nearly time for me to leave, as my instructions----"
The witness broke off abruptly, and glanced about the room with the air of a man who has recognised an acquaintance whom he had not expected to see. His rambling attentions were recalled by the coroner in a few sharp words.
"I am sure I beg your pardon. As I said, I was waiting there till my time was up, and I saw Mr. Delahay come round the corner. He stood there just a moment. As far as I could gather he seemed to be troubled about something. I was too far off to hear what he was saying, but it seemed to me----"
"What are you talking about?" the coroner interrupted. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Delahay was talking to himself?"
"Oh, dear no, sir; he was talking to his companion."
"Companion! That is the first we have heard of that. Was the companion a man or a woman, might I ask?"
"It was a lady, sir. She was a tall woman dressed in black. They stood opposite me for five or six minutes talking very earnestly together. Then Mr. Delahay turned away from the woman and went into the house. The woman seemed to hesitate a few moments, then she followed, and I saw her go into the house after Mr. Delahay. But she will be able to tell you all about it herself."
"I don't understand you," the coroner said, with a puzzled frown. "How can the woman tell us all about it herself? You don't mean to say that she is in court?"
The witness slowly turned and pointed a dingy forefinger in the direction of Maria Delahay.
"That's the lady, sir," he said. "That's the lady that I saw with Mr. Delahay the night before last."
"But that is absolutely impossible," the coroner cried. "Don't you know that that lady is Mr. Delahay's wife?"