Petronella made the terrible announcement with ominous calmness. Then, when she saw Stephen staring at her open-mouthed, her wild southern nature could no longer be controlled. With a choking sob, she flung her apron over her head, and began to lament loudly for her dear padrona. Her voice ascended shrilling in a long wail, like that of the Corsican vocieri. Luckily there were few people in the street, and the sound was scarcely noticed; it was simply thought that the excitable Italian woman was in one of her tantrums. And Beorminster was used to Petronella's fits of rage. Stephen caught her suddenly and dragging her inside by main force closed the door.
Before Petronella could recover her breath for another howl, she found herself on one of the dining-room chairs with Marsh standing over her. The young man was so shaken that he could hardly speak. The prophecy of Sidney, the hurried journey to Beorminster on a grocer's cart which he had met near Saxham, and now the terrible confirmation of the death; these things shook him to the soul. He hardly recognised his own voice. "Tell me everything that happened," he said slowly, "do not make any mistake. I must know all."
Petronella crossed herself. "Holy Virgin," she muttered, "his eyes are like coals." Then after a muffled wail, she burst out into rapid Italian which Stephen understood easily from his habit of talking to her and to Mrs. Marsh.
"After you left at mid-day Signor Stephano, the padrona tried to get a little sleep. When the postman came at two o'clock, he brought one letter for her. I took it up, and woke her. Then I went out of the room. In a quarter of an hour the Signora called me. She looked white, so white. The letter was before her. She told me to give her the chloral as she wanted to sleep. I asked her if she had bad news in the letter. She said no, but that she felt suddenly sick. I gave her the medicine in the little bottle, and went away. She took some I think, for when I went up again an hour later she was asleep. I went again and again--she was still asleep. Then I took up her tea, and wanted to waken her. Gran' Dio--she was dead--dead!"
"What time was that Petronella?"
"At half past five Signor, the hour when I always take up the Signora's tea. Oh, she is dead and I nursed her. Cursed be it that I live still."
While the old woman wailed on, Stephen shuddered. The hour was that which Sidney had named. "Are you sure she died at that time?" he asked.
"Quite sure Signor Stephano. When I went in before she was only asleep; I saw her breathing. I was up at a quarter past five and she still breathed, and had a colour in her poor cheek. When I set down the tray I turned to see that she was quite still, her face pale as snow. I put my hand to her heart. She was dead. Ah Dio mio, she must have passed away when I entered the room. I heard a sigh at the door," said Petronella beginning to embellish. "It was her spirit that passed. What could I do but open the window to let the soul go free? Ah Holy Virgin!" and the old woman crossed herself again.
By this time Stephen had somewhat recovered his composure. Without a word he went up to the room. Petronella had drawn a sheet over the dead. He drew it down gently, and saw the waxen face beneath. Every wrinkle had been smoothed away, and there rested a peaceful expression on that once stormy countenance. As Marsh stood tearlessly looking at the dead, he heard a light step enter the room. Herrick appeared, almost as pale as the dead woman. After a glance at the corpse, he recognised that all was over, and looked at Marsh with a shudder.
"Yes!" whispered the young man replying to the unspoken thought, "at half past five o'clock!"
Herrick shuddered again and drew the sheet over the dead face. Then he took Stephen by the arm and led him downstairs into the study. There he left him in a chair and went into the dining-room, whence he returned with a decanter and two glasses. Pouring out two stiff glasses of brandy he forced Stephen to drink one, and took the other himself. Both were in need of the stimulant, for the event had shaken them considerably.
By and bye Marsh laid down his head on the table and wept quietly. He had been devoted to the dead woman and was all unstrung. Moreover the uncanny way in which the first announcement of the death had been made, shocked him deeply. Herrick went out to see Petronella. He found her in the death chamber. A genuine Romanist, she had placed candles round the bed, and a crucifix on the breast of the dead, On her knees she was praying aloud. Seeing that all had been done that could be done, Herrick returned to the study. Stephen was calmer, and inclined to talk.
"It was half past five as Sidney said," he said in a low voice. "Oh, Herrick what does it mean?"
"I do not know," said the usually sceptically doctor, "After you had gone, I asked the boy how he knew. He said that while asleep he had dreamed--so he put it--that he was standing in your mother's bedroom. She was dying in a stupor, and he saw the breath gradually leave her body. He also said that he saw her spirit after she was dead. But of course that must be nonsense."
"After what he said I can believe anything" said Marsh, "what else?"
"Well," said Jim uncomfortably, "he described the bedroom exactly. Was he ever in it Stephen?"
"No; certainly not. And he described it?"
"Exactly; and as being in the state in which it now is. He said that Petronella came in at the door with a tray and placed it beside the bed. She then put her hand on your mother's heart and found that she was dead. Afterwards she opened the window. Why--what--Stephen?"
"My God!" cried the young man now ghastly white. "That is exactly what Petronella told me she did. Oh, oh!" and he fainted. Herrick scarcely wondered at it; he felt deadly sick himself and it needed another glass of brandy before he could recover himself sufficiently to attend to the unconscious man.
Next day the news was known all over Beorminster; and Sidney's prophecy also. The Endicotte family would fain have kept it to themselves; but Sidney himself had spread the news. For on the way home and before the rumour could have reached Saxham,--which it did not until late that night--he told several people of Mrs. Marsh's death and the hour at which it had occurred. So the report spread, and that night Saxham, accustomed to Sidney's second sight, was in a ferment. Many believed, others doubted, and the upshot was that a few enquirers went over to Beorminster whence they rushed back with a confirmation of the news. Mrs. Marsh was dead, and moreover she had passed away at half past five. Up till a late hour that night nothing was talked about but this wonderful boy, and next morning a crowd collected about "The Grange" hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
Ida was very angry at Sidney's indiscretion and told him so. He took it all placidly. "Why should I not say that Mrs. Marsh was dead?" he asked. "She _is_ dead; and she died at the time I said."
"But how did you know, Sidney dear?" asked the perplexed sister. "When I was on the sofa in the library I dreamed that I was in her room, I saw her die, and the white spirit get out of her body. The spirit pointed to a bottle on the table beside the bed, and then I forgot all till I woke on the sofa and saw Stephen looking at me. Then I told him to go home. There is nothing strange about it Ida. You know I can see things."
Ida shuddered and ran away to tell Bess that Sidney was a most uncomfortable person to talk to. The boy stayed indoors at the request of Bess all the morning, and then slipped off in the afternoon to go to his favourite haunt in the pine wood. When he came into the village the next day, he refused to talk of his dream or vision or whatever it might be called, and seemed quite cross when it was referred to. From that day Sidney was shunned as though he had the plague. Everyone was afraid of being told too much about themselves or their relations. This troubled the boy very little. He went on living in his usual dreamy way, and had no more visions for a time. Even at Biffstead he was regarded as something dangerous. But there by tacit consent the subject was dropped.
What Dr. Jim thought of all this, it was difficult to say. Sidney's prophecy was thrown into the background so far as he was concerned by the discovery that Mrs. Marsh had died from an overdose of chloral. He had always warned her that she might make a mistake, and apparently she had done so at last. But when Petronella told him of the letter he changed his mind. What if she had committed suicide? He recollected her vague allusions to enemies, and her persistent declaration that she might not live long. At once he set about hunting for the letter, Petronella helping him. But it was not to be discovered although they searched high and low. At last, Herrick spied ashes in the fireless grate, and found that some paper had been burnt, without doubt the letter Mrs. Marsh had received.
"Was there a fire in the grate on the day Mrs. Marsh died?" he asked.
"No, Signor Dottore. The grate was empty."
"Of course. I need not have asked. This flimsy stuff would have been swept away with the ashes. Humph! She must have got up and burnt the letter, and then--Well, we must wait for the inquest."
It was Herrick who attended to all the details of the funeral, as Marsh was completely bewildered by the sudden catastrophe. The inquest resulted in a verdict that Mrs. Marsh had died from an overdose of chloral, but no one hinted at suicide. As Dr. Jim gave evidence of her use of the drug to alleviate pain and obtain sleep, it was concluded that she had miscalculated the dose. Even Stephen believed that this was the case, for Herrick said nothing of his suspicions. What Petronella thought Dr. Jim could not find out. She was as secret as the grave.
Mrs. Marsh was buried in the family vault of the Carr's at Saxham. A large number of people came to the funeral, not because the dead woman had been popular, but that they wished to attend the rites of a person whose death had been foretold in so curious a manner. In the vault, the coffin was laid beside that of the late Colonel, and Herrick shuddered as he thought of these enemies lying side by side. Certainly, when the new vault was ready the body of the Colonel would be removed to it, in accordance with the terms of the will. But it would be some time before this was completed, and meantime Carr's body remained in the old sepulchre. Pending its removal, Stephen had had a new iron door put on the old vault, and kept the key to himself. It was quite safe in his pocket, and he never parted from it.
After the funeral Herrick made several attempts to discover something about the letter delivered to Mrs. Marsh on the day of her death, although he was careful not to hint that it had any connection with her sudden end. But although he questioned the postman and the postal authorities, he could gain very little satisfaction. It was a plain envelope stamped--so far as could be remembered--with the London post-mark. "Humph!" said Dr. Jim to himself when he acquired this information. "Frisco is in London. I wonder if he wrote that letter?"
However it was little use conjecturing. Mrs. Marsh was dead and had taken her secret and the secret of Colonel Carr along with her into the next world. Herrick put the idea out of his head, as he had much to do in considering his future position. Three or four days after the funeral he was alone with Stephen in the Beorminster house, and there spoke to the young man about his movements.
"I must return to London Marsh," he said. "I can do no more good here; and I must attend to my practice."
"No," replied Stephen quickly, "you must not leave me like this Herrick. I have grown used to you as a companion. I like you more than any man I ever met, and without you I should be lost. You must stay with me. Is your practice a large one?"
"On the contrary it is very small. I have been established in West Kensington only for two years. If I had not a small income of my own I should starve."
"Well you must come to me. I hope you will Herrick. I am rich, and I can allow you a good income--say a thousand a year."
"That is generous of you Marsh. Did your mother speak of this to you?"
"No! she did not. Why do you ask?"
"Because she wanted me to stay with you, and proposed the same amount."
"I am glad," cried Stephen his face lighting up. "I can do this much at least for her memory. So she wished you to remain with me? You will of course. I cannot do without you."
Herrick smoked in silence for a few minutes. "A man in my position has no right to turn his back on such good fortune. All the same Marsh, if I did not like you personally; if I did not think I could earn my income by helping you, I would not take the position."
"Then you will do so?" cried Stephen stretching out his hand.
The doctor grasped it heartily in token of acceptance. "But I am not without scruples as to taking such a large amount of money," said he. "I make only a couple of hundred a year by my practice. You rate me at a high value."
"Not too high for the good you will do me," said Marsh heartily. "I have been a different man since you came into my life. You have shown me how to look at things in a broader spirit. I am less morbid than I was. No, Herrick. I have eight thousand a year, and you shall have the sum I name."
"Very good. I am delighted. But for what period? You see Marsh, some day you will marry, and then you will find in your wife the companion necessary to your existence; you will not want me. I think we had better make an agreement for three years. By that time I shall have done you all the good I can; you will be used to your position. And," continued Jim looking into the young man's eyes, "you will be looking for a wife."
Stephen nodded. "Three years then," he said, "if you want a document, the lawyers can draw it up. As to marrying, I dare say I shall marry. Already I have"--here he broke off abruptly, "there are some things a man cannot talk about even to his best friend. Let the subject of love and marriage be tabooed between us Herrick."
"Certainly!" replied the doctor rather stiffly, "I have no wish to force your confidence Marsh."
"It's not that; but--I have an idea in my head. It may come to nothing. On the other hand--well," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, "time enough to talk about it when it ripens. Let us change the subject."
In the face of this unwillingness on the part of Marsh, Herrick was obliged to do as he was asked. He wondered if Stephen really loved Ida Endicotte or whether it was Bess who attracted him. Time alone would reveal the truth, so Herrick for the moment thought no more about the matter. He had engaged himself to look after Stephen, and at once set to work to earn his income. The subject was introduced by Marsh.
"I think you and I ought to go abroad for a year or two," he said restlessly. "I feel that both Beorminster and Saxham are distasteful to me for a time. I have arranged to let Petronella live here, on a small income. I thought she would like to return to Italy, but she begged me to allow her to stay here for a time. I asked her to go to 'The Pines' but she refused. So here she must stay, and you and I Herrick?----"
"We will go up to London for a couple of weeks," said Herrick promptly.
"But I want to go further afield and for a longer time."
"Have you forgotten the terms of the will?" put in Dr. Jim. "You must pay a monthly visit to that vault, or the money goes to Frisco!"
Stephen nodded somewhat grimly. "I should have remembered," said he, "yes! I cannot travel until the year is at an end. But even if it so happened that I did not go to the vault and lost the money, I do not think that Frisco would return to claim it."
"Well I don't know," replied Herrick musingly, "after all we cannot be certain that Frisco killed his master. He may re-appear and explain his flight and prove his innocence. On the face of it, it would seem he is guilty but the evidence is all circumstantial. Better stick to the terms of the will, and not give him the chance of claiming the money."
"Very good Herrick. Then we will go up to London, and you can take me to tailors and all the other tradesmen whose goods I may need. I want you to educate me Dr. Jim. You have had a varied experience of the world and I have not. I am a country mouse, and you the Town one."
"At thirty-five I must have had some experience Marsh. Yes! I have travelled in my time. I have been round Europe with a man I was trying to reclaim from strong drink----"
"Did you succeed?"
"Partly," replied the doctor with a shrug, "he is a fairly decent member of society now. Nothing to boast of. Well Marsh, I have also been doctor on a liner to the East. Finally I went with an expedition into the interior of Africa. Now I am settled in the dull quarter of West Kensington, and often wish I could be off again on the long trail. Civilised life is too respectable for me."
"When the year is out we will go on the long trail together."
"Well," said Herrick, "an exploration of our planet will do you no harm. Later on you can settle down and be comfortable with a wife--I beg your pardon I am trenching on forbidden ground. However Marsh I am glad things are so arranged. It is a bit of good luck for me."
"And for me also Herrick. You can do me nothing but good."
"I hope so," said Herrick cheerfully "the first thing I intend to do is to take you out into the open air. You must hunt and shoot and golf and swim, and get yourself into a state of physical perfection. Your mind is all right. I like your poems, and you have it in you to do great things Marsh. But first of all you must attend to the body."
"I have neglected these things," said Stephen straightening himself, "but my life was so narrow, that I did not look after myself as a man should. Besides to tell you the truth Herrick I am so much of the student, that out-of-door life never attracted me."
"That is because you have never had a companion to interest you in the life," said Herrick smiling. "Now, I am devoted to athletic sports of all kinds. If I can infect you with my enthusiasm you will soon be able to take the deepest interest in them yourself. Not that I was fortunate enough to succeed with Joyce," finished Dr. Jim with a shrug.
"Ah, your friend who was staying at the Carr Arms? I never met him."
"You will when we go to town. He is not a bad little chap but his brain is too large for his body, Besides which he is neurotic, and intensely trying at times. I don't suppose I should have cured him altogether, but I could have made him twice the man he was, had he only taken my advice. But Robin was always as obstinate as a mule. He lives into himself and for himself. There is no hope for a man like that."
"I hope you will succeed with me Herrick."
"I am certain to succeed with you. In the first place your nerves are not diseased: in the second you are less selfish, and thirdly you are sensible enough to see sense--and that last is not given to many men. Well, we have had a long talk Marsh, so we had better go to bed, and begin our new life to-morrow."
It was three days after this that the two went up to London. Herrick called at Biffstead, and told Bess about his new relations with Stephen. She expressed herself greatly pleased. "You will do him no end of good," she said, "physical exercise is what he needs. He in making good use of his money," she added emphatically.
"You have too good an opinion of me, Miss Bess."
The girl laughed, and blushed. In her heart she liked Herrick greatly. He was so big, so strong, so sensible--exactly the sort of man she admired. Frank, her brother resembled him in many ways, but he was not so worldly-wise, nor perhaps so clever. However she was too much the woman to make a direct reply to Herrick's speech, and changed the subject. "When you come back we must have our talk," she said. "Meantime I shall give you something to go on with in London. Do you know anything about cryptographs Dr. Jim?"
"No. I have looked into the subject once or twice, but I never did much good at it. Why?" Bess went to her desk and fished out a bit of paper. "I want you to see if you can solve this," she said. "I have done my best and failed. It is a piece of paper I picked up in the Colonel's house when he was alive. I am sure it has to do with his secret, whatever that might be. Else why should it be in secret writing?"
Herrick took the paper she held out. It was a yellow kind of Chinese paper, tough, and wrinkled. On it was written in red ink the following,
"S.g.d. K.Z.R.S. V.z.q.m.h.f. S.h.k.k. 1.5.I.t.k.x. S.i.d.n. C.d.z.s.g. T.m.k.d.r.r.----"
This jumble of letters made Herrick stare. He could make nothing of them. Yet here, no doubt, was the secret of Colonel Carr! Perhaps if the writing could be read, the reason of his death might be explained, even the name of the assassin might be given. Bess watched him eagerly.
"What do you think of it?" she asked.
"I daresay it may help us," Herrick said doubtfully, "if the Colonel had a secret?"
"_If_ he had," cried Bess emphatically. "I _know_ he had!"
"Then it may be contained in this mixture of letters. You have failed, you say? Well Miss Bess, I don't know that I shall succeed. However I will try. You will let me have this?"
"If you will take the very greatest care of it. I have a copy to be sure; but that is the original."
"I'll bring it back to you safe and sound in two weeks."
"You will be back then?" she asked with a quick flush.
"Certainly. I shall arrange about my practice and return for good."
Bess looked down. "I am glad," she said in a low tone; then thinking she might have said too much she smiled in his face. "Of course I am glad," she cried gaily, "are we not pledged to find out who killed the Colonel?"
It was now quite two months since the death of Colonel Carr, and all this time Robin had been in London. He had written to Herrick telling him he felt so much better that he would not go abroad. "I have a new idea for a novel," wrote Joyce, "and now that I have the leisure, I intend to throw myself heart and soul into it. I still keep on my flat." Herrick therefore determined that his first visit should be to the little man.
Stephen and the doctor took up their abode in the Guelph Hotel in Jermyn Street. It was the first time the young man had been in London, and the novelty and excitement of town life, did much to dispel the grief he felt for the death of his step-mother. It was not that he regretted her the less, but he was sensible enough to see that it was foolish to weep over an irremediable misfortune. He therefore took Herrick's advice and threw himself with ardour into fitting himself out with a complete ward-robe for the first time in his life. The doctor took him to the best West-End shops, instructed him in the topography of the fashionable locality, and when Stephen was fairly set going, found time to attend to his own business.
He first went to his house in West Kensington, and saw that it was all right. Then he called upon the young practitioner who had nursed his practice while he was away, and made him an offer to sell it. The young doctor who had only lately started in the district was overjoyed at the chance as Jim had got together a fair number of patients. Herrick made the terms of purchase as light as possible, and spread the payment over a considerable time. Dr. Grant asked two days for consideration, as being poor it was necessary he should see his way how to pay the money. At once Jim consented to this, and after finishing this necessary business, he went off to Robin's flat. The arrangement and discussion with Grant had taken up the best part of the afternoon, and it was close upon seven when Herrick found time to see his friend. At first he hesitated, and half made up his mind to put it off until the next day. But as he was in the neighbourhood, he finally decided to go, and sent a wire to Marsh that he would not be home until ten o'clock. He intended to ask Joyce for a meal, making sure that he would be welcome. Yet strange to say, Robin was not so hearty as Herrick expected. Perhaps he had not got over his anger at the desertion of the doctor; but after his last letter Jim could not think that such was the case. In spite of their severance, Herrick still wished to keep an eye on Robin knowing that he was foolish in many ways. Therefore when Joyce showed a disposition not to invite him to stay, Herrick at once determined that he would remain. There was a reason at the back of this confusion, and Herrick in the interests of a weak man, resolved to find out what it might be. Seeing that he was bent on remaining, Robin made the best of what he evidently considered a bad job, and became more of his old self.
"You are not looking so well, as your letter led me to hope Robin," said Herrick, when the two were smoking in the study.
"I am in the best of health," said Robin quickly. "But of course I have been working hard at my book, and that takes it out of a chap."
"Read me some of the chapters," said Herrick, who once had been a kind of literary adviser to the author.
Robin shook his head uneasily. "Not until the book is done," he said. "I want you to get an impression as a whole. This will be my master-piece. Besides," he added glancing at the clock, "we might be interrupted. At half past seven a friend of mine is coming to dinner."
"I hope my unexpected coming will not upset your arrangements Joyce?"
"Of course not--how can you think so?" said Robin with an air of constraint that did not escape Herrick. "You are always welcome. Will you stop the night? I can put you up."
"No! I must get back to Marsh. I am his companion and doctor for the time being. A very good billet I assure you Robin."
"What about your practice?" asked Joyce.
"I am now selling it to Grant. It is such a small practice that it is not worth my while to stick to it as against an assured income of a thousand a year."
"Is that what Marsh gives you?"
"Yes! I do not mind telling you Robin as you are such an old friend. But do not mention this to anyone else. I stay with Marsh for three years. In this way I shall be able to save money and buy a practice in a better part of the town. It is a wonderful bit of luck."
"It is indeed, and I congratulate you," replied Robin cheerfully and shaking his friend by the hand. "Marsh must be well off to be able to afford your companionship at that price."
"Yes! He has been left about eight thousand a year more or less by Colonel Carr, his late uncle. But that is his business Robin. We will not talk about it."
"Have they yet found out who killed Colonel Carr?"
"Not yet. Of course it is supposed that Frisco killed him; but the man has disappeared. When he is caught we shall know the truth. You read the case Robin. What do you think?"
"It seems as though that man were guilty," replied Joyce slowly, "but I am not prepared to offer an opinion. The fact is I am so busy with my book that I have put all these horrors out of my head. By the way, what about your Southberry Helen?"
"Miss Endicotte? Oh, I have seen a good deal of her."
"And you are still in love?"
"Not very passionately perhaps. But I think a respectable affection is better to marry upon than a wild romantic adoration that will not resist the wear and tear of life. I hope some day if Miss Endicotte will allow me, to marry her--that is when I have a good practice. But if another man more worthy of her comes along, why--"
"Ardent lover!" laughed Joyce. "If you really felt any passion you would not contemplate with equanimity the idea of an intruder. I believe you like that little journalistic girl better."
A kind of dull anger stirred in the doctor's breast at hearing Bess so flippantly alluded to. But he saw that Joyce did not mean any harm, so turned off the remark with a laugh. "She is a charming young lady Robin. But she is better as a comrade than she would be as a wife."
"A comrade is what you want," said Joyce shrewdly. "Your luke-warm affection will not win you the love of a woman."
"Perhaps not. However we shall see," Herrick was annoyed, for he felt there was some truth in this remark. He was glad when a ring came to the door and interrupted a conversation which was rapidly getting unpleasant to him. "There's your friend. Who is he?"
"A Mexican called Don Manuel Santiago."
"Humph! It it not often one foregathers with that nationality in London. Where did you meet him?"
"At the Apollo Club, Johnstone introduced me to him. Here he is. I think you will like him."
Herrick was not so sure. He had met with Mexicans on their native heath and did not like the breed. However as the man was the guest of Joyce, he felt compelled to behave at least politely. All the same knowing Robin's weakness in picking up doubtful acquaintances, he determined to be observant of the Mexican.
"Dr. Herrick, Don Manuel Santiago. And this Señor, is my very best friend."
The little dark man clicked his heels together, foreign fashion, and bowed politely. Herrick looked at him from head to foot in one swift glance, and made up his mind that the man was a rogue, an adventurer, if nothing worse. He was not tall, and he was very lean. His face was swarthy; he had a hook nose, a black moustache, and a pair of restless shifty dark eyes. Accurately dressed in an evening suit, he wore too much jewellery. Yet for all this he did not look vulgar. There was a somewhat dangerous air about him. Herrick watching his face intently made up his mind that Don Manuel was a half caste Indian.
"I am pleased to meet you Señor," said Don Manuel in good English but with a foreign accent. "Dr. Herrick? Ah! I know the name."
"Indeed!" said Dr. Jim, looking surprised. Robin also shared his astonishment, and expressed it.
"Why, Santiago you did not tell me you knew Herrick!" said he, as they took their seats at table.
"Did I not?" replied the Don carelessly. "Ah! that was no doubt because his name was never mentioned between us. But if I am not mistaken," said he addressing himself directly to Jim, "you were concerned in that strange case of my friend Colonel Carr."
Herrick almost bounded from his seat. That here of all places and in so unexpected a way, he should meet with a stranger who knew Carr, was like fiction. Had the incident occurred in a novel, he would have put it down as a freak of imagination on the author's part. Yet the thing had happened in real life and to himself. "Was Carr a friend of yours?" he asked.
"Twelve years and more ago," replied Santiago quietly, "we knew one another intimately in Mexico."
"Mexico!" muttered Herrick, recalling what Bess had said about Frisco's tales of North and South America, "not in Peru?"
"We went to Peru together--on an expedition."
"What sort of an expedition?" asked Joyce eagerly.
"To make our fortunes. That is the sort of expedition we all are bound to undertake."
Herrick thought of Colonel Carr's money. Was he on the point of learning sufficient of the man's wild life in the Americas, to reveal what his secret was? "Did you succeed?" he asked.
"I did not--the Colonel did. Afterwards he returned to England, and I lost sight of him. When I came over six months ago, I heard of him, and intended to pay him a visit. But I put it off and off and off--until--" he made a rapid gesture, "poor Carr! His was a sad end."
"An unexpected one," said Herrick fixing his eyes on the man. "Did you know his servant, Frisco?"
"No!" replied Manuel calmly. "Frisco was after my time, or before it; I forget which."
Somehow Herrick felt instinctively that this was a lie. According to Bess the ex-sailor had been with Carr throughout his wandering life. It was incredible that if such was the case (and Jim preferred to believe Frisco rather than Santiago)--that Frisco should not have gone on to Peru. He would be needed on an expedition such as Manuel spoke of.
"Were you treasure-hunting" asked Jim.
Don Manuel nodded "Yes! The Peruvians buried a lot of gold and jewels, at the time of the Conquest. Carr got wind of a hiding place from some one--an Indian I believe, and induced me to go with him to Peru. I was doing nothing at the time, so I went."
"Carr found the treasure?"
"I believe so. Colonel Carr was rich was he not?"
"Very rich," chimed in Joyce. "Do you remember Herrick, how astonished we were at the magnificence of that house?"
"I remember," said Herrick curtly. The interruption did not please him, as he wanted particularly to hear what Santiago had to say. "But Señor Manuel, if you started on this search together, how was it that you do not know for certain if Colonel Carr was successful?"
Don Manuel's face grew black and his eyes flashed. "If you would know the reason Señor, Colonel Carr was a devil!"
"Ha!" said Herrick with a short laugh. "That is no news."
"We shared the expenses of the expedition, we were to share the profits; but Carr treated me shamefully. The treasure was said to be concealed beyond Cuzco--where it does not matter. I know, but I do not intend to tell. I fell ill at the first stage of the journey after we left Cuzco and were amongst the mountains. What did Carr do? He left me to the care of the Indians, and pushed on himself. That was the last I saw of the devil. For two years I was held captive amongst the Indians and barely escaped with my life. I hunted for Carr when I got to Callao; but he had disappeared. I traced him to Mexico. He vanished from Vera Cruz. I was worn out and ill. I went back to my own family, and all these years I thought nothing about the Colonel. But chance brought me to England, and chance led me to hear where Colonel Carr was settled. As I said I would have seen him to reproach him for his treachery, but----" Don Manuel shrugged--"he is dead. That is the end."
"A strange story, and not creditable to Carr," said Herrick wondering if all this was a lie. "Who was it told you where Colonel Carr lived?"
"I did not," said Joyce on whose face Jim's eyes rested for a moment. "I knew nothing of this until this moment."
"Where I heard the name Señor, can be of little interest to you," said the Don with a sneer. "It was in London. I tell you no more."
"I do not want you to tell me anything," retorted Herrick the blood rushing to his face. "So far, I am interested in your story, but if you choose to be silent, you are at liberty to do so."
"Pardon," said Manuel humbly, "I did not intend to provoke your anger," but as he spoke there was a nasty glitter in his eyes, "I cannot tell you who gave me the information without breaking confidence with a friend."
Herrick grunted, but he said nothing. Santiago was evidently a dangerous little devil. For all he knew the Mexican might have had something to do with the murder. Of all strange circumstances that Herrick had stumbled upon this surely was the strangest! To find the man who knew of the past of Colonel Carr, in the company of Robin Joyce.
As the meal was now at an end, the three adjourned to the study where they began to smoke. Herrick had his pipe, Joyce a cigarette, and Manuel produced one of those long lean Mexican cigars, that only a hardened smoker can enjoy. As he bent forward over the spirit lamp, Jim saw by the touch of grey on his temples and the wrinkles down the side of his neck that the man was much older than he had thought. At the first glance Santiago looked--if you wanted to be disagreeable--say thirty-five. Herrick was now sure he was over fifty. But the man was in wonderfully good condition. Having noticed him at the table Jim saw that he was both abstemious and temperate.
For some reason not apparent, Manuel desired to ingratiate himself with Herrick, and tried by picturesque talk to banish the disagreeable impression he had made by his last remark. He told the most wonderful stories of his adventures by land and sea. According to his own account he had lived a life of hair-breadth escapes. South America he knew from Quito to the Horn, and had explored the unknown portions at the risk of his life. He had been captive to Indians, he had been tortured--Herrick noted that his left ear was missing--and he had been almost frozen while ascending Chimborazo. Then he had hunted for treasure, fought for it with knives when it was found, and by his own confession had more than one death to his account. All this he told in vivid picturesque language and with a wonderful command of the English tongue. Herrick complimented him on his capabilities as a linguist.
"Oh, I know seven or eight languages," said Manuel boastfully "not to speak of Indian dialects. I have been all over Europe. Yes, Señor, when I made money--and I have made a great deal--I came always to Europe to spend it. That I did royally. Oh, they know me in every capital. Of all, give me Vienna. Oh, Señor, I am known on the Prater."
"And to the police no doubt," thought Herrick; but for his own private reasons did not give vent to this opinion. He said aloud, "I suppose Don Manuel, you were not surprised to hear of Colonel Carr's death."
Santiago flashed a quick glance at the imperturbable countenance of the doctor. "Oh, but I was," said he "to escape all the dangers of the tropics, and then to die in a quiet little English village. Strange! To be sure though," added Manuel with another glance, "he brought his murderer with him. And Frisco was capable of anything!"
"Oh!" put in Herrick sharply, "I thought you did not know Frisco!"
"Nor did I Señor," said Santiago covering his mistake with wonderful swiftness "but I heard of him. He was a devil worse than Carr, if that can be possible. They were attached to one another but quarrelled--Oh, yes, Señor I assure you they quarrelled. Once over a game of cards, Carr slashed Frisco across the face."
"Oh, that was it, was it?" murmured Herrick as he recalled the criss-cross slash on Frisco's face which had been described to him. "A queer couple. What was Frisco's real name?"
"I do not know," snapped Manuel with a surprising curtness considering his late voluble talk. Shortly he took his leave, with a politely expressed hope that he would meet Herrick again. When the Mexican was gone, Joyce turned eagerly to his friend and asked what he thought of him. "If you want to know my real opinion, he is a thorough little blackguard. Cut him Robin, or you will get into trouble."
"I don't see why I should. He is a decent fellow. His only vice is gambling. He would sell his shirt to gamble."
"Humph! Looks a card-sharper. Where does he gamble principally?"
"In a club down in Pimlico,--the Parrot Club. Very few people know about it. But the play is very high?"
"Oh. So you met Santiago there," said Herrick lazily.
But Joyce saw the trap and avoided it. "No! I told you I met him at the Apollo Club--that is respectable enough I hope? And Archy Johnstone introduced him to me. He is decent, isn't he?"
"Oh, I have nothing to say," replied Herrick with a yawn, putting on his coat, "only, if that man gets you into trouble don't blame me. He will probably induce you to gamble and all your new income of five hundred a year will go once and for all."
A peculiar expression swept across Joyce's face and he opened and shut his hands nervously. However he held his tongue, and having said good-night Herrick went away, sorry to see that his friend was in such bad company. He regarded Don Manuel as a rook and Joyce as a pigeon. But he knew the little man well enough to know that his interference was vain. Joyce could be as obstinate as a mule at times.
When he got back to the Guelph Hotel it was close on eleven. All the same Stephen was sitting up for him over a meditative pipe. The sight of his honest handsome face was quite a relief to Herrick after the crafty looks of Manuel. And truth to tell, Joyce had fallen also in Herrick's estimation; for as a man he could not compare with Marsh. Not for the first time Dr. Jim began to think there was something sly and evil about Robin. Hitherto, he had been too much taken up with the man's nerves to think much of his moral character. But after this long absence he saw plainly that Joyce was deteriorating rapidly. The company he had been in this very night proved it, if there were any truth in the saying that birds of a feather flock together.
"Hullo Stephen!" said Herrick taking off his coat, "why did you not go to bed man? Sitting up all alone, like a maid on the Eve of St. Agnes."
"I did not want to go to bed until you came home," said Stephen, "you know I always like a chat. Have some whisky?"
"Thanks. Shove over the tobacco-jar. Well Marsh, I have arranged about the sale of my practice. It's all right."
"I am delighted. You are sure you do not mind giving it up?"
"Not for a thousand a year," replied Herrick with a laugh. "I never made so much in all my medical life. Not to mention the delights of your society. What have you been doing?"
"Shopping mostly. Then I called in on Frith and Frith to talk about business. I heard of your friend Joyce there."
"The deuce you did!" said Jim wheeling round. "I have just been dining with him, and I do not think he is improved. Frith and Frith are his lawyers I know. How did his name crop up?"
"In the course of my talk about the Colonel's business."
Herrick stared. "What do you mean?" he asked roughly.
"Well, you will be rather astonished," continued Marsh lighting his pipe, "but the fact is Colonel Carr allowed Mrs. Joyce, the mother of your friend an income of five hundred a year."
"No!" said Herrick, and thought that this was just the sum Robin said he had been left by his mother's will.
"Yes! Why, I do not know. Nor could Frith tell me. The Colonel never called to see Mrs. Joyce; he never wrote her a letter. But he directed Frith to pay her an annuity of five hundred pounds."
"An annuity? Then it ceased at her death?"
"Of course. The son gets nothing. The reason Frith mentioned it, was that he wished to know if I had found anything amongst my uncle's papers likely to show why the annuity had been paid, and whether it ought to be continued to the son."
"Queer!" said Herrick. He remembered that Robin had told him that he had interviewed the lawyers and had been informed of his income. Why had Robin told a lie? "I suppose," said the doctor after a pause, "that Frith did not take it upon himself to promise Joyce the continuance of this annuity?"
"Certainly not," replied Stephen, "he had no right. Of course I told him that I knew nothing about the matter and would not pay anything to Joyce. Still--as he is your friend?--"
"Never mind that. I don't want you to pay him anything. Did Joyce call to see Frith do you know?"
"A week after his mother's death. He has not been since. They told him then that he need not expect any more money."
"A week after his mother's death," related the doctor "and it was two months later we were on that walking tour! Did not Joyce call to see Frith somewhere about the twenty-fourth of July?"
"No! It was towards the end of April he called. He has not been near them since. You look rather pale, Herrick."
"It's nothing," replied the doctor. "I have had rather a turn, that's all."