Chapter Eighteen.Wiles of the Wicked.On the day that Arthur Porter, under the guise of a doctor from Philadelphia, had visited Edna Manners at quaint old Bayeux, Roddy Homfray had, since early morning, been in his wireless-room at Little Farncombe Rectory, making some experiments with the new receiving-set which he had constructed in a cigar-box.The results had been highly satisfactory and very gratifying. He had been experimenting with a new organic and easily manufactured super-sensitive crystal which he had discovered to be a very delicate detector of wireless waves when an electrical circuit was passed through it, and by dint of long and patient tests of pressure electricity, had come to the conclusion that it was quite as effective as the usual three valves. This meant a very great improvement in the reception of wireless telephony.As that afternoon he sat at tea with his father he explained the trend of his piezo-electric experiments. The discovery was entirely his own, for though others had experimented with inorganic crystals, quartz and gems, trying to solve the riddle why sugar and certain salts should cool from liquid into different patterns of crystals, nobody had ever dreamed of constructing such a detector or of using such a manufactured “crystal.”The secret of the new crystals was his own, and, judging from the efficiency of the new portable receiving-set, would be of very considerable value. When, later on, deaf old Mrs Bentley had cleared the table, father and son sat smoking, and Roddy said:“I’m going along to the Towers to dinner. Mr Sandys has asked me to have a hand at bridge afterwards.”“Elma is away, isn’t she?”“Yes. At Harrogate with her aunt. She returns on Tuesday,” the young man replied. “And to-morrow Barclay meets the Kaid Ahmed-el-Hafid at the Ritz to receive the concession. He had a telegram from the Kaid last Friday to say that the concession had been granted in my name, and that he was leaving Tangiers with it on the following day.”“Well, my boy, it really looks as though Fortune is about to smile on you at last! But we must always remember that she is but a fickle jade at best.”“Yes, father. I shall not feel safe until the concession is actually in my hands. Barclay has promised to introduce me to the Kaid, who will give me every assistance in my prospecting expedition. It is fortunate that we already hold the secret of the exact position of the ancient workings.”“It is, my boy,” remarked the old rector thoughtfully. “Possibly you can induce Mr Sandys to finance the undertaking and float a company—eh?”“That is my idea,” his son replied. “But I shall not approach him until I have been out to the Wad Sus and seen for myself. Then I can speak with authority, and conduct to the spot any expert engineer he may like to send out there.”Afterwards Roddy glanced at the old grandfather clock with its brass face which stood in the corner, rose, and after dressing, shouted a merry “good-bye” to the rector, and left the house to dine with the great financier, with whose daughter he was so deeply in love.Their secret they withheld from Mr Sandys. Theirs was a fierce, all-absorbing passion, a mutual affection that was intense. They loved each other fondly and, Mr Sandys being so often in London, they saw each other nearly every day. Indeed, for hours on end Elma would sit in the wireless-room and assist her lover in those delicate and patient experiments which he had been daily making. Roddy, in the weeks that had passed, had regained his normal condition, though sometimes, at odd moments, he still experienced curious lapses of memory.Old Mr Homfray had not been very well of late. His heart was naturally weak, and the doctor had for several years warned him against any undue excitement or hurrying when walking uphill. Once while conducting morning service, he was seized by faintness and was prevented from preaching his sermon. The narrow, gossiping world of Little Farncombe declared that their rector needed a change, and Mr Homfray had promised his churchwardens that he would take one as soon as he could get someone to lock after the parish in his absence.On the previous day he had received a letter from Gray’s solicitors informing him that the mortgaged property at Totnes had been sold, and enclosing the paltry sum of fourteen pounds twelve shillings as the balance due to him. This fad had irritated him and caused him the greatest indignation. Gordon Gray had defied him and had foreclosed the mortgage after all! He had, however, made no mention of it to Roddy. The matter was his secret—and his alone, for it so closely concerned that closed chapter of his earlier days.To Roddy his own strange experience following the tragic discovery in Welling Wood was still a mystery. Only a few days before he had, out of sheer curiosity, taken train to Welwyn and walked out to Willowden. But the house was closed and the garden neglected, and on inquiry in the neighbourhood he had learnt that the people from London had taken the place furnished, and that their lease being up they had left. Where they had gone nobody knew.To Park Lane Mr Rex Rutherford—as Gordon Gray called himself—had accompanied his friend Porter, alias Harrison, on two occasions, and had endeavoured to make himself extremely affable to Elma, by whose extraordinary beauty he had become greatly attracted. The girl, however, instinctively disliked him. Why, she could not herself tell. He was elegantly-dressed, and his manners were those of a gentleman, yet he had an oleaginous air about him which annoyed her on both occasions. Once she had been compelled to dance with him, and he had been full of empty compliments. But on subsequent occasions when he requested “the pleasure” she managed to excuse herself.Indeed, she went so far as to suggest to her father that he should not invite Mr Rutherford again. Mr Sandys was rather surprised, but said nothing, and obeyed his daughter’s wish.Roddy had left the Rectory about an hour and the dusk was gathering into night, when a closed car with strong headlights, coming from the direction of London and driven by a middle-aged man, drew up outside the village, and from it there alighted a short, stout man wearing a green velour Homburg hat.“I won’t be long,” he remarked to the driver, and at once set out on foot in the direction of the Rectory.Old Norton Homfray was in his study looking up a text in his big well-worn “Cruden,” when he heard a ring, and knowing Mrs Bentley to be upstairs—and that if downstairs she would never hear it—he went to the door and threw it open, expecting his visitor to be one of his parishioners.Instead, he came face to face with his enemy, Gordon Gray.For a second he was too surprised for words.“Well,” he asked with dignity, “why are you here?”“Oh!—well, I happened to be near here, and I thought I’d just pay you a call. I want to see you. May I come in?”“If you wish,” growled the old clergyman, admitting him and conducting him to the study where the lamp was lit.Then when his visitor was in the room, he turned to him and said:“So you have carried out your threat, Gray, and sold my houses in Totnes—eh? You’ve taken my little income from me, as that woman told me you intended.”“I had to; I’m so hard-up. Since the war I’ve been very hard hit,” replied the man. “I’m sorry, of course.”“Yes. I suppose you are very sorry!” sarcastically remarked the old man, pale with anger. “Once, Gray, I trusted you, and—”“And I befriended you in consequence,” interrupted the other. “I lent you money.”“You did—to your own advantage,” said the old rector bitterly. “But let all that pass. I want you to tell me—nay, I demand to know!—what occurred in the wood outside this house on the night when Freda came here in secret.”“How do I know? I was not here.”“You were here. I saw you in church.”“I came to listen to the excellent maxims you put before these yokels—you, who have been in a criminal dock. A fine moral leader you are, Norton?” he laughed scornfully. “You ought to be hounded out of the parish as a hypocrite and a black-coated humbug. And if you don’t take care you will be!”“And you! I—”“Take care. I know too much for you, remember,” said Gray seriously.“You ruin me, and now you would blackmail me—as you and that woman Crisp have blackmailed others. I know your game. It has been played too long.”“You are making allegations that may prove as dangerous to yourself as to me, Homfray,” said the adventurer coldly, gazing straight into the other’s eyes.“What do you mean?” cried the rector fiercely. “I know something—and I suspect a good deal more. Edna Manners died in Welling Wood on that fatal night, and my boy Roddy, because he discovered her, fell into your unscrupulous hands. Now, confess it—or, by Heaven! I’ll tell the truth concerning young Willard!”“Really, Homfray,” the visitor remarked, quite unperturbed. “You’re a very nice, delightful parson—eh? Fancy you preaching in that pulpit, as I sat and listened to you on that Sunday night! You—of all men!”“I demand to know the truth. Poor Edna was engaged to marry that boy whom you, with that accursed woman, fleeced with such audacity. And you had the further audacity to ask me to assist you in your vile plans.”“Why not? You live askew, just as we do—only you are slick enough to put on a clerical collar, as to six-tenths of the world the ‘cloth’ can do no evil,” he laughed.“Edna Manners knew too much for you. I recognised her from Roddy’s description. And then Roddy himself was drugged—or something.”“It is a matter which neither of us need discuss, Homfray,” said the other. “There is six of me and half a dozen of you. Your son is all right again, deep in his wireless experiments and, I hear, in love with a very charming girl. What more do you want?”“I want justice and fair play!” said the old rector in desperation. “You, whom I believed to be my real friend, have played a deep and crooked game. Place your cards on the table for once, Gray, and tell me why. I have never been your enemy—only your friend!”The stocky, beady-eyed adventurer paused for a few seconds. The question nonplussed him. Suddenly he blurted forth:“You didn’t play a straight game over young Willard. We might have shared equally thirty thousand pounds, but you wouldn’t. I confess, Homfray, your refusal annoyed me.”“Oh! Thenthatis the secret!” he said. “I recollect it all. I told you that if you attempted to make thatcoupand divest the poor boy of everything so that he could not marry Edna, I would go to the police. You pretended to withhold your hand in fear of my threat. But Freda and your unscrupulous friend ‘Guinness’ managed to get the money from him and afterwards close his mouth so that the poor lad could tell no tales.”“It’s a lie! A damnable lie!” cried Gray, fiercely indignant.“I have only spoken the truth, and you know it,” declared the old rector calmly. “As a minister of the Gospel, I am not in the habit of lying or being, uncharitable towards my fellow-men.”“Oh! stop that silly rot! You are on a par with us. Don’t pose as a saint?”“I am not a saint by any means, Gray. But I try to live honestly and in the fear of God.”“And the fear of man also, I hope!” the other laughed. “Look here, is it to be war to the end between us? Or will you consider a little proposition I have in mind? Remember that I can very easily go to your bishop and have you kicked out of this little snuggery of yours. And what would your dear son think of all your past adventures—eh?”“Do it. Go to the bishop!” cried the poor old rector in desperation. “I tell you that I will never lift a finger to aid an assassin.”“Whom do you call an assassin?” asked Gray, putting forward his dark face threateningly to the rector.“You—Gordon Gray!” replied the elder man fearlessly. “I know the truth concerning that poor boy Willard’s death, and now that you have ruined me I have determined to risk my position here and reveal the truth!”Gray, never at a loss for words, stood silent. Homfray’s pale determined countenance told him that he meant what he had said. He realised, for the first time, that in attacking Roddy he had taken a false step. The boy’s father suspected the truth. Nay, he knew it.But there was the concession—and Elma! He was determined, at all hazards, to possess himself of both as the crowning point of his marvellously adventurous career.“I defy you to utter a single word!” cried Gray, with clenched fists. “If you do, it will be the worse for you! Remember that!”“I repeat what I told your accomplice, Freda Crisp. I will rid society of you both as social pests—vampires who prey upon the unwary and inexperienced,” shouted the old clergyman in a frenzy of anger. “You have attacked me and mine, and now I will, in turn, retaliate. Get out of my house this instant!”Gordon Gray glanced keenly at the old rector with his shrewd dark eyes and shrugged his shoulders.“Homfray, you are a fool?” he declared. “Why can’t we arrange matters? I came here to put a little proposition to you—that I should join your son in that mining concession he is obtaining from the Moorish Government.”“Join my son!” shrieked the old man. “I would rather that Roddy grasped hands with Satan himself than with you! I—I—”And his face became crimson as he gasped for breath, and suddenly clutched wildly at his throat.“I—I—”But he uttered no further intelligible word. Next second a seizure, due to the violent excitement, held him rigid, and a few seconds later he sank into the arm-chair and expired in the presence of his enemy, thus carrying with him to the grave the secret of Hugh Willard’s tragic end.Gordon Gray stood there in silence and watching with interest, amused rather than otherwise, realising that Nature herself had, by a strange freak, effected still anothercoupin his own interests.The one enemy he feared had been swept from his path! Of Roddy he took no heed.The road to fortune and to Elma was now rendered clear for him.
On the day that Arthur Porter, under the guise of a doctor from Philadelphia, had visited Edna Manners at quaint old Bayeux, Roddy Homfray had, since early morning, been in his wireless-room at Little Farncombe Rectory, making some experiments with the new receiving-set which he had constructed in a cigar-box.
The results had been highly satisfactory and very gratifying. He had been experimenting with a new organic and easily manufactured super-sensitive crystal which he had discovered to be a very delicate detector of wireless waves when an electrical circuit was passed through it, and by dint of long and patient tests of pressure electricity, had come to the conclusion that it was quite as effective as the usual three valves. This meant a very great improvement in the reception of wireless telephony.
As that afternoon he sat at tea with his father he explained the trend of his piezo-electric experiments. The discovery was entirely his own, for though others had experimented with inorganic crystals, quartz and gems, trying to solve the riddle why sugar and certain salts should cool from liquid into different patterns of crystals, nobody had ever dreamed of constructing such a detector or of using such a manufactured “crystal.”
The secret of the new crystals was his own, and, judging from the efficiency of the new portable receiving-set, would be of very considerable value. When, later on, deaf old Mrs Bentley had cleared the table, father and son sat smoking, and Roddy said:
“I’m going along to the Towers to dinner. Mr Sandys has asked me to have a hand at bridge afterwards.”
“Elma is away, isn’t she?”
“Yes. At Harrogate with her aunt. She returns on Tuesday,” the young man replied. “And to-morrow Barclay meets the Kaid Ahmed-el-Hafid at the Ritz to receive the concession. He had a telegram from the Kaid last Friday to say that the concession had been granted in my name, and that he was leaving Tangiers with it on the following day.”
“Well, my boy, it really looks as though Fortune is about to smile on you at last! But we must always remember that she is but a fickle jade at best.”
“Yes, father. I shall not feel safe until the concession is actually in my hands. Barclay has promised to introduce me to the Kaid, who will give me every assistance in my prospecting expedition. It is fortunate that we already hold the secret of the exact position of the ancient workings.”
“It is, my boy,” remarked the old rector thoughtfully. “Possibly you can induce Mr Sandys to finance the undertaking and float a company—eh?”
“That is my idea,” his son replied. “But I shall not approach him until I have been out to the Wad Sus and seen for myself. Then I can speak with authority, and conduct to the spot any expert engineer he may like to send out there.”
Afterwards Roddy glanced at the old grandfather clock with its brass face which stood in the corner, rose, and after dressing, shouted a merry “good-bye” to the rector, and left the house to dine with the great financier, with whose daughter he was so deeply in love.
Their secret they withheld from Mr Sandys. Theirs was a fierce, all-absorbing passion, a mutual affection that was intense. They loved each other fondly and, Mr Sandys being so often in London, they saw each other nearly every day. Indeed, for hours on end Elma would sit in the wireless-room and assist her lover in those delicate and patient experiments which he had been daily making. Roddy, in the weeks that had passed, had regained his normal condition, though sometimes, at odd moments, he still experienced curious lapses of memory.
Old Mr Homfray had not been very well of late. His heart was naturally weak, and the doctor had for several years warned him against any undue excitement or hurrying when walking uphill. Once while conducting morning service, he was seized by faintness and was prevented from preaching his sermon. The narrow, gossiping world of Little Farncombe declared that their rector needed a change, and Mr Homfray had promised his churchwardens that he would take one as soon as he could get someone to lock after the parish in his absence.
On the previous day he had received a letter from Gray’s solicitors informing him that the mortgaged property at Totnes had been sold, and enclosing the paltry sum of fourteen pounds twelve shillings as the balance due to him. This fad had irritated him and caused him the greatest indignation. Gordon Gray had defied him and had foreclosed the mortgage after all! He had, however, made no mention of it to Roddy. The matter was his secret—and his alone, for it so closely concerned that closed chapter of his earlier days.
To Roddy his own strange experience following the tragic discovery in Welling Wood was still a mystery. Only a few days before he had, out of sheer curiosity, taken train to Welwyn and walked out to Willowden. But the house was closed and the garden neglected, and on inquiry in the neighbourhood he had learnt that the people from London had taken the place furnished, and that their lease being up they had left. Where they had gone nobody knew.
To Park Lane Mr Rex Rutherford—as Gordon Gray called himself—had accompanied his friend Porter, alias Harrison, on two occasions, and had endeavoured to make himself extremely affable to Elma, by whose extraordinary beauty he had become greatly attracted. The girl, however, instinctively disliked him. Why, she could not herself tell. He was elegantly-dressed, and his manners were those of a gentleman, yet he had an oleaginous air about him which annoyed her on both occasions. Once she had been compelled to dance with him, and he had been full of empty compliments. But on subsequent occasions when he requested “the pleasure” she managed to excuse herself.
Indeed, she went so far as to suggest to her father that he should not invite Mr Rutherford again. Mr Sandys was rather surprised, but said nothing, and obeyed his daughter’s wish.
Roddy had left the Rectory about an hour and the dusk was gathering into night, when a closed car with strong headlights, coming from the direction of London and driven by a middle-aged man, drew up outside the village, and from it there alighted a short, stout man wearing a green velour Homburg hat.
“I won’t be long,” he remarked to the driver, and at once set out on foot in the direction of the Rectory.
Old Norton Homfray was in his study looking up a text in his big well-worn “Cruden,” when he heard a ring, and knowing Mrs Bentley to be upstairs—and that if downstairs she would never hear it—he went to the door and threw it open, expecting his visitor to be one of his parishioners.
Instead, he came face to face with his enemy, Gordon Gray.
For a second he was too surprised for words.
“Well,” he asked with dignity, “why are you here?”
“Oh!—well, I happened to be near here, and I thought I’d just pay you a call. I want to see you. May I come in?”
“If you wish,” growled the old clergyman, admitting him and conducting him to the study where the lamp was lit.
Then when his visitor was in the room, he turned to him and said:
“So you have carried out your threat, Gray, and sold my houses in Totnes—eh? You’ve taken my little income from me, as that woman told me you intended.”
“I had to; I’m so hard-up. Since the war I’ve been very hard hit,” replied the man. “I’m sorry, of course.”
“Yes. I suppose you are very sorry!” sarcastically remarked the old man, pale with anger. “Once, Gray, I trusted you, and—”
“And I befriended you in consequence,” interrupted the other. “I lent you money.”
“You did—to your own advantage,” said the old rector bitterly. “But let all that pass. I want you to tell me—nay, I demand to know!—what occurred in the wood outside this house on the night when Freda came here in secret.”
“How do I know? I was not here.”
“You were here. I saw you in church.”
“I came to listen to the excellent maxims you put before these yokels—you, who have been in a criminal dock. A fine moral leader you are, Norton?” he laughed scornfully. “You ought to be hounded out of the parish as a hypocrite and a black-coated humbug. And if you don’t take care you will be!”
“And you! I—”
“Take care. I know too much for you, remember,” said Gray seriously.
“You ruin me, and now you would blackmail me—as you and that woman Crisp have blackmailed others. I know your game. It has been played too long.”
“You are making allegations that may prove as dangerous to yourself as to me, Homfray,” said the adventurer coldly, gazing straight into the other’s eyes.
“What do you mean?” cried the rector fiercely. “I know something—and I suspect a good deal more. Edna Manners died in Welling Wood on that fatal night, and my boy Roddy, because he discovered her, fell into your unscrupulous hands. Now, confess it—or, by Heaven! I’ll tell the truth concerning young Willard!”
“Really, Homfray,” the visitor remarked, quite unperturbed. “You’re a very nice, delightful parson—eh? Fancy you preaching in that pulpit, as I sat and listened to you on that Sunday night! You—of all men!”
“I demand to know the truth. Poor Edna was engaged to marry that boy whom you, with that accursed woman, fleeced with such audacity. And you had the further audacity to ask me to assist you in your vile plans.”
“Why not? You live askew, just as we do—only you are slick enough to put on a clerical collar, as to six-tenths of the world the ‘cloth’ can do no evil,” he laughed.
“Edna Manners knew too much for you. I recognised her from Roddy’s description. And then Roddy himself was drugged—or something.”
“It is a matter which neither of us need discuss, Homfray,” said the other. “There is six of me and half a dozen of you. Your son is all right again, deep in his wireless experiments and, I hear, in love with a very charming girl. What more do you want?”
“I want justice and fair play!” said the old rector in desperation. “You, whom I believed to be my real friend, have played a deep and crooked game. Place your cards on the table for once, Gray, and tell me why. I have never been your enemy—only your friend!”
The stocky, beady-eyed adventurer paused for a few seconds. The question nonplussed him. Suddenly he blurted forth:
“You didn’t play a straight game over young Willard. We might have shared equally thirty thousand pounds, but you wouldn’t. I confess, Homfray, your refusal annoyed me.”
“Oh! Thenthatis the secret!” he said. “I recollect it all. I told you that if you attempted to make thatcoupand divest the poor boy of everything so that he could not marry Edna, I would go to the police. You pretended to withhold your hand in fear of my threat. But Freda and your unscrupulous friend ‘Guinness’ managed to get the money from him and afterwards close his mouth so that the poor lad could tell no tales.”
“It’s a lie! A damnable lie!” cried Gray, fiercely indignant.
“I have only spoken the truth, and you know it,” declared the old rector calmly. “As a minister of the Gospel, I am not in the habit of lying or being, uncharitable towards my fellow-men.”
“Oh! stop that silly rot! You are on a par with us. Don’t pose as a saint?”
“I am not a saint by any means, Gray. But I try to live honestly and in the fear of God.”
“And the fear of man also, I hope!” the other laughed. “Look here, is it to be war to the end between us? Or will you consider a little proposition I have in mind? Remember that I can very easily go to your bishop and have you kicked out of this little snuggery of yours. And what would your dear son think of all your past adventures—eh?”
“Do it. Go to the bishop!” cried the poor old rector in desperation. “I tell you that I will never lift a finger to aid an assassin.”
“Whom do you call an assassin?” asked Gray, putting forward his dark face threateningly to the rector.
“You—Gordon Gray!” replied the elder man fearlessly. “I know the truth concerning that poor boy Willard’s death, and now that you have ruined me I have determined to risk my position here and reveal the truth!”
Gray, never at a loss for words, stood silent. Homfray’s pale determined countenance told him that he meant what he had said. He realised, for the first time, that in attacking Roddy he had taken a false step. The boy’s father suspected the truth. Nay, he knew it.
But there was the concession—and Elma! He was determined, at all hazards, to possess himself of both as the crowning point of his marvellously adventurous career.
“I defy you to utter a single word!” cried Gray, with clenched fists. “If you do, it will be the worse for you! Remember that!”
“I repeat what I told your accomplice, Freda Crisp. I will rid society of you both as social pests—vampires who prey upon the unwary and inexperienced,” shouted the old clergyman in a frenzy of anger. “You have attacked me and mine, and now I will, in turn, retaliate. Get out of my house this instant!”
Gordon Gray glanced keenly at the old rector with his shrewd dark eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Homfray, you are a fool?” he declared. “Why can’t we arrange matters? I came here to put a little proposition to you—that I should join your son in that mining concession he is obtaining from the Moorish Government.”
“Join my son!” shrieked the old man. “I would rather that Roddy grasped hands with Satan himself than with you! I—I—”
And his face became crimson as he gasped for breath, and suddenly clutched wildly at his throat.
“I—I—”
But he uttered no further intelligible word. Next second a seizure, due to the violent excitement, held him rigid, and a few seconds later he sank into the arm-chair and expired in the presence of his enemy, thus carrying with him to the grave the secret of Hugh Willard’s tragic end.
Gordon Gray stood there in silence and watching with interest, amused rather than otherwise, realising that Nature herself had, by a strange freak, effected still anothercoupin his own interests.
The one enemy he feared had been swept from his path! Of Roddy he took no heed.
The road to fortune and to Elma was now rendered clear for him.
Chapter Nineteen.A Matter of Urgency.When Roddy Homfray returned from Farncombe Towers shortly before midnight he was staggered to find his father lying back in his arm-chair.Horrified, he tried to rouse him. But at once he saw that he was dead.He raised the alarm, and Doctor Denton was at once fetched out in his pyjamas from the other end of the village.“As I feared,” said his friend when he saw the dead rector. “He has had another heart attack which has unfortunately proved fatal.”“But he was quite all right and bright when I left him at seven,” Roddy cried in despair.“No doubt. But your father has had a weak heart for years. I’ve attended him for it, so there will be no need for an inquest. Indeed, only a week ago I warned him that any undue excitement might end fatally.”“But he has had no excitement!” cried the dead man’s son, looking in despair around the cosy little study, where upon the writing-table “Cruden’s Concordance” still lay open, as it had done when Gordon Gray had entered.“Apparently not,” Denton admitted. “But perhaps he may have been secretly worrying over something. We shall, I fear, never know. Your father was a rather secretive man, I believe, wasn’t he, Roddy?”“Yes. He was. He held some secret or other from me, the nature of which I could never make out,” said his son, overcome with grief. At first he could not believe that his father, whom he idolised, was actually dead. But now he realised his loss, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.“A secret!” exclaimed his friend the doctor. “Of what nature?”“I have no idea. He once warned me against a certain man and a certain woman, who were apparently his enemies. But he would tell me nothing definite—nothing!”“When you came home, was the front-door locked?” asked the doctor.“No, my father always leaves it unlocked for me.”“He expected you to come in later, and was no doubt at work here preparing his sermon,” said Denton, glancing at the open reference book lying upon the blotting-pad. Indeed, beside the copy of “Cruden” was a sheet of sermon paper with a number of headings written in the neat uniform hand of a classical scholar, as old Mr Homfray was.“Yes. It seems so,” said his son. “Apparently he felt the seizure approaching, and, leaving the table, crossed to the chair, and sinking into it, he breathed his last. Poor dear father! Why was I not here to assist him, instead of playing bridge? I—I’ll never forgive myself, Denton!”“But you could not have foretold this. Who could?” asked his friend. “Endocarditis, from which your father was suffering, is quite a common complaint and very often causes sudden death, especially when it is ulcerative, as in your lamented father’s case. No medical aid would have saved him.”“And he knew this, and never told me!” cried Roddy.“He was secretive, as I have already said,” answered the doctor. “Your poor father’s death was caused by embolism; I have suspected it for some time.”While Roddy and Denton were speaking at the dead man’s side, Gordon Gray entered the tawdrily-decorated dancing-room of a certain disreputable night-club off Regent Street known as “The Gay Hundred”—a haunt of cocaine sellers and takers—and glanced eagerly around. He had driven up in his car a few doors away, and the doorkeeper had bowed to him and taken his coat and hat as he rushed in.His quick eyes espied a table in the corner at which sat Freda Crisp, in a daring black-and-orange gown without sleeves, smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, laughing, and drinking champagne with two young men in evening clothes, while about them whirled many couples dancing, the women mostly with artificially fair hair and wearing deeply-cut gowns, while some of them smoked cigarettes as they danced to the wild strains of the blatant orchestra.Freda’s eyes met those of her friend Gray, and she read in them a message. She was a woman of quick perception and astounding intuition. Her adventures had been many and constant, and if she could have recorded them in print the book would certainly have been amongst the “best sellers” of which the public hear so much.The men with her were strangers to Gordon, therefore, assuming an instant carelessness, he lounged over, bowed, and greeted her. He did not know on what terms she was with the pair with whom she was drinking “bubbly,” whether, indeed, they were pigeons worth plucking. Therefore his attitude was one of extreme caution. Gordon Gray was far too clever ever to spoil “a good thing” in the course of being engineered by any of his accomplices of either sex.“Oh! Good-evening, Mr Gray!” Freda exclaimed. “Fancy your being here to-night! I never suspected you of being a member of this place!”“I’m not. A friend of mine has introduced me,” he said, and then, when the elegantly-dressed woman in the daring black-and-orange gown had introduced her companions, Gray sat down at the table and took a cigarette.Presently she excused herself from her two friends, saying:“You’ll forgive me if I have just this one dance with Mr Gray—won’t you?”And both joined the fox-trot which was at that moment commencing.“Well, I see by your face, Gordon, that something has happened. What?” she whispered as they took the floor.“Something good. Old Homfray is dead!”“Dead!” gasped the woman. “But you didn’t do it—eh?”“No. I might have done. You know what I intended to do if he cut up rough—but luck came to my aid. The old hypocrite died suddenly from heart disease, I think. At any rate, he got into a passion and sank into his chair and expired. And then I quietly retired and drove back here to town. Nobody saw me. Luck—eh?”“By Jove! yes. That relieves us of a great deal of worry, doesn’t it?” said the woman. “It’s the best bit of news I’ve heard for years. While the old man lived there was always a risk—always a constant danger that he might throw discretion to the winds and give us away.”“You’re quite right, Freda. He was the only person in the world I feared.”“And yet you defied him!” she remarked. “That is the only way. Never let your enemy suspect that you are frightened of him,” said the stout, beady-eyed man in the navy-blue suit.“What about the young pup?” asked the woman in a low voice as they danced together over the excellent floor, while yellow-haired, under-dressed women who bore on their countenances the mark of cocaine-taking, and prosperous, vicious-looking men, both young and old, sat at the little tables, laughing, drinking and looking on.“He knows nothing, and he’s going to be useful to us.”“But he’s very deeply in love with Elma.”“Of course. But to part them will be quite easy. Leave all that to me.”There was a pause.“And you will desert me for that slip of a girl—eh, Gordon?” asked the handsome woman suddenly in a strange, unusual voice.He started. He had never realised that the woman’s jealousy had been aroused, but, nevertheless, he knew that a jealous woman always constitutes a danger when one sails near the wind.“Oh! my dear Freda, please don’t talk like that,” he laughed. “Surely ours is a business connexion. Your interests are mine, andvice versa. Have they not been so for five years? You have kept your eyes open for the pigeons, while I have plucked them for you and given you half share of the spoil.”“And now you contemplate deserting me—and perhaps marrying the daughter of a wealthy man. Where do I come in?”“As you always have done, my dear Freda. Both of us are out for money—and big money we must get from somewhere. That concession in Morocco is my main object at the present moment. We already have the plan, and Barclay has not yet discovered his loss.”“He may do so at any moment. What then?”“Why, nothing. He will have no suspicion as to who has secured it or how it was taken from his safe. Besides, the old Moor is arriving at the Ritz and is bringing the actual signed concession over from Fez. And now that the parson is dead all will be plain sailing. Have you heard from Arthur to-day?”“Not a word. He should be back from Bayeux in a couple of days.”“I shall want him to help me when young Homfray gets the concession in his possession.”The woman looked him straight in the face, and then, after another pause, asked in a whisper: “What! Do you intend that an—an accident shall happen to him—eh?”“Perhaps,” replied the man with a grim smile. “Who knows?”“Ah! I see!” she exclaimed quickly. “There cannot be two candidates for the hand of Elma Sandys!”And he nodded in the affirmative, a few moments later leading her back to the two young men who had been entertaining her, and then he left the place.The ill-suppressed jealousy which his accomplice had expressed considerably perturbed him. He saw that if he intended to attain success with Elma he must first propitiate Freda. A single word from her as an enemy would ruin all his chances.He was not blind to the fact either that Elma had no great liking for him, and that, on the other hand, the girl was deeply in love with the late rector’s son. Though he had declared to Freda that all was plain sailing, he viewed the situation with considerable misgiving. As Rex Rutherford he had made a very favourable impression upon Mr Sandys, but women being gifted with an often uncanny intuition, Elma had from the first viewed him with suspicion. His studied attentions had annoyed her. And now that Freda had shown jealousy, a further difficulty, and even danger, had arisen.Since their hurried departure from Willowden Freda had taken another furnished house called The Elms, not far from Laleham, on the Thames, and there old Claribut had again been installed as butler and general factotum, while Gray, under the name of Rutherford, occupied a handsome suite of chambers in Dover Street, to which his new chauffeur eventually drove him that night.Next day the village of Little Farncombe was plunged into grief at the astounding news that their popular rector was dead. Old Mr Sandys’ valet told his master the sad truth when he took up his early cup of tea, and within an hour the old financier called at the Rectory and offered his sincere condolences to Roddy, while later he sent a telegram to Elma at Harrogate announcing the tragic fact.Not a soul had apparently seen the dead man’s visitor either arrive or depart. Mrs Bentley had, as was her habit, gone to bed without wishing her master “Good-night.” Nobody, therefore, discovered that the poor old gentleman had been taken ill in consequence of violent anger expressed to a visitor, for the latter had been clever enough to slip away without being seen.Before noon Roddy received a long telegram from Elma, among many others, and three days later the body of the Reverend Norton Homfray was laid to rest in the quiet old churchyard which almost joined the Rectory garden. From far and near came crowds of mourners, and many were the beautiful wreaths placed upon the coffin by loving hands, though none was more beautiful than that which Elma herself brought from the Towers.That evening, when the funeral was over, and all the mourners had gone, Roddy stood in the wireless-room with his loved one clasped in his strong arms.He was pale, serious, and grief-stricken. She saw it, and kissed him upon the lips in mute sympathy.He held his breath as his eyes wandered over the long row of experimental instruments which had been his chief hobby and delight. But with his father’s death all the interest in them had been swept away.This he declared to Elma in a tone of deep and poignant sorrow.“No, Roddy dear,” she exclaimed, her hand tenderly placed on his shoulder. “You must strive to bear your loss, great as it is. I know how you loved your dear father, but the parting must always come for all of us. The blow is great—to us all, to the village—and to you more especially, but you must not allow it to interfere with your future interests.”She saw in his eyes the light of unshed tears, and taking his strong hand, softly added:“Face the world anew, dear—face it with greater spirit and energy than you have done before, so that you may become a son worthy of a splendid and revered father.”“I know!” he said. “It is very good of you to speak like that, Elma, but my grief seems to have altered the face of the world for me. The Moroccan Government has suddenly changed, it appears, and the Kaid Ahmed-el-Hafid is now no longer in power. The Minister of the Interior has been replaced by Mohammed ben Mussa, who was grand chamberlain to the Sultan, and who is now at the Ritz Hotel. My friend Barclay has arranged with him that I shall receive the concession for the ancient emerald mines, and I have to be introduced to him to-morrow. He promises me every facility and protection.”“Then you will go, dearest,” she said, standing with her little black “pom” in her arms. “It will mean a great fortune for you. Father was only remarking about it the other day.”Roddy paused and looked fondly at her sweet face.“Yes. If you really wish it, darling, I’ll go.”“That’s right,” she exclaimed brightly. “Come up to the Towers with me in the car. Father asked me to bring you. You can’t stay here alone this evening.”He demurred, and tried to excuse himself, but the girl was insistent.“There’s the news broadcast!” she exclaimed next second, glancing at the big, round-faced ship’s clock. “Let’s listen for a moment before we go—eh? The broadcast always fascinates me.”In obedience to her desire Roddy switched on the aerial, lit the valves, and giving her one pair of head-’phones, took another. Then adjusting a tuning-coil and turning the knobs of the two condensers one after the other, a deep, sonorous voice was heard announcing the results of certain races held that afternoon, followed by a number of items of general news, which included a railway accident in France and the facts, that the King had left Buckingham Palace for Windsor, and that yet another conference of the Allies was contemplated.The news was followed by the announcement:“Mr George Pelham will now tell you all one of the famous bedtime stories for the children. Hulloa! C.Q. Hulloa! C.Q.? Listen! A bedtime story.”Elma removed the telephones from her ears, and said:“I think we may go now.” And then together they went forth to the car awaiting them.Mr Sandys had asked Roddy to fit for him a wireless transmitting set so that he could speak to his office by wireless telephone. This he had done, though not without considerable difficulties with the authorities.It was eleven o’clock before the young man returned to the silent, empty house, and on entering his dead father’s study he saw that upon the blotting-pad old Mrs Bentley had placed several letters.He took them up thoughtfully.“Poor old dad!” he exclaimed aloud. “These have been written by people who still believe him to be alive!”He turned them over in his hand, and then began to open them. The first was a polite intimation from a moneylender, who expressed himself anxious to lend the reverend gentleman a loan of anything from two pounds to two thousand pounds at practically a nominal interest. The next was from a second-hand bookseller of whom his father frequently dealt, the third a bill, and the fourth was thin and bore a foreign stamp, the address being written in a small, angular hand.He opened it with some curiosity, and read as follows:“Dear Mr Homfray,—Though we have not met for nearly two years, you will probably recollect me. I have of late been very ill, and in a most mysterious manner. I am, however, fast recovering, and am at last able to write to you—having recollected only yesterday your name and address.“I have been suffering from blindness and a peculiar loss of memory; indeed, so much that I could not, until yesterday, tell people my own name. Here I am known as Betty Grayson, and I am living with some good, honest Normandy folk called Nicole.“I need not recall the tragedy which befell myfiancé, Mr Willard, but it is in that connexion that I wish to see you—and with all urgency, for your interests in the affair coincide with my own. I feel that I dare not tell you more in this letter than to say that I feel grave danger threatening, and I make an appeal to you to come here and see me, so that we may act together in clearing up the mystery and bringing those guilty to the justice they deserve.“The situation has assumed the greatest urgency for action, so will you, on receipt of this letter, telegraph to me: chez Madame Nicole, 104, Rue des Chanoines, Bayeux, France, and tell me that you will come at once to see me. I would come to you, but as an invalid I am in the charge of those who are doing their best to ensure my rapid recovery. You are a clergyman, and I rely upon your kind and generous aid.—Yours very sincerely,“Edna Manners.”“Edna Manners?” gasped Roddy when he saw the signature. “Can she possibly be the girl whom I saw dead in Welling Wood?”
When Roddy Homfray returned from Farncombe Towers shortly before midnight he was staggered to find his father lying back in his arm-chair.
Horrified, he tried to rouse him. But at once he saw that he was dead.
He raised the alarm, and Doctor Denton was at once fetched out in his pyjamas from the other end of the village.
“As I feared,” said his friend when he saw the dead rector. “He has had another heart attack which has unfortunately proved fatal.”
“But he was quite all right and bright when I left him at seven,” Roddy cried in despair.
“No doubt. But your father has had a weak heart for years. I’ve attended him for it, so there will be no need for an inquest. Indeed, only a week ago I warned him that any undue excitement might end fatally.”
“But he has had no excitement!” cried the dead man’s son, looking in despair around the cosy little study, where upon the writing-table “Cruden’s Concordance” still lay open, as it had done when Gordon Gray had entered.
“Apparently not,” Denton admitted. “But perhaps he may have been secretly worrying over something. We shall, I fear, never know. Your father was a rather secretive man, I believe, wasn’t he, Roddy?”
“Yes. He was. He held some secret or other from me, the nature of which I could never make out,” said his son, overcome with grief. At first he could not believe that his father, whom he idolised, was actually dead. But now he realised his loss, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“A secret!” exclaimed his friend the doctor. “Of what nature?”
“I have no idea. He once warned me against a certain man and a certain woman, who were apparently his enemies. But he would tell me nothing definite—nothing!”
“When you came home, was the front-door locked?” asked the doctor.
“No, my father always leaves it unlocked for me.”
“He expected you to come in later, and was no doubt at work here preparing his sermon,” said Denton, glancing at the open reference book lying upon the blotting-pad. Indeed, beside the copy of “Cruden” was a sheet of sermon paper with a number of headings written in the neat uniform hand of a classical scholar, as old Mr Homfray was.
“Yes. It seems so,” said his son. “Apparently he felt the seizure approaching, and, leaving the table, crossed to the chair, and sinking into it, he breathed his last. Poor dear father! Why was I not here to assist him, instead of playing bridge? I—I’ll never forgive myself, Denton!”
“But you could not have foretold this. Who could?” asked his friend. “Endocarditis, from which your father was suffering, is quite a common complaint and very often causes sudden death, especially when it is ulcerative, as in your lamented father’s case. No medical aid would have saved him.”
“And he knew this, and never told me!” cried Roddy.
“He was secretive, as I have already said,” answered the doctor. “Your poor father’s death was caused by embolism; I have suspected it for some time.”
While Roddy and Denton were speaking at the dead man’s side, Gordon Gray entered the tawdrily-decorated dancing-room of a certain disreputable night-club off Regent Street known as “The Gay Hundred”—a haunt of cocaine sellers and takers—and glanced eagerly around. He had driven up in his car a few doors away, and the doorkeeper had bowed to him and taken his coat and hat as he rushed in.
His quick eyes espied a table in the corner at which sat Freda Crisp, in a daring black-and-orange gown without sleeves, smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, laughing, and drinking champagne with two young men in evening clothes, while about them whirled many couples dancing, the women mostly with artificially fair hair and wearing deeply-cut gowns, while some of them smoked cigarettes as they danced to the wild strains of the blatant orchestra.
Freda’s eyes met those of her friend Gray, and she read in them a message. She was a woman of quick perception and astounding intuition. Her adventures had been many and constant, and if she could have recorded them in print the book would certainly have been amongst the “best sellers” of which the public hear so much.
The men with her were strangers to Gordon, therefore, assuming an instant carelessness, he lounged over, bowed, and greeted her. He did not know on what terms she was with the pair with whom she was drinking “bubbly,” whether, indeed, they were pigeons worth plucking. Therefore his attitude was one of extreme caution. Gordon Gray was far too clever ever to spoil “a good thing” in the course of being engineered by any of his accomplices of either sex.
“Oh! Good-evening, Mr Gray!” Freda exclaimed. “Fancy your being here to-night! I never suspected you of being a member of this place!”
“I’m not. A friend of mine has introduced me,” he said, and then, when the elegantly-dressed woman in the daring black-and-orange gown had introduced her companions, Gray sat down at the table and took a cigarette.
Presently she excused herself from her two friends, saying:
“You’ll forgive me if I have just this one dance with Mr Gray—won’t you?”
And both joined the fox-trot which was at that moment commencing.
“Well, I see by your face, Gordon, that something has happened. What?” she whispered as they took the floor.
“Something good. Old Homfray is dead!”
“Dead!” gasped the woman. “But you didn’t do it—eh?”
“No. I might have done. You know what I intended to do if he cut up rough—but luck came to my aid. The old hypocrite died suddenly from heart disease, I think. At any rate, he got into a passion and sank into his chair and expired. And then I quietly retired and drove back here to town. Nobody saw me. Luck—eh?”
“By Jove! yes. That relieves us of a great deal of worry, doesn’t it?” said the woman. “It’s the best bit of news I’ve heard for years. While the old man lived there was always a risk—always a constant danger that he might throw discretion to the winds and give us away.”
“You’re quite right, Freda. He was the only person in the world I feared.”
“And yet you defied him!” she remarked. “That is the only way. Never let your enemy suspect that you are frightened of him,” said the stout, beady-eyed man in the navy-blue suit.
“What about the young pup?” asked the woman in a low voice as they danced together over the excellent floor, while yellow-haired, under-dressed women who bore on their countenances the mark of cocaine-taking, and prosperous, vicious-looking men, both young and old, sat at the little tables, laughing, drinking and looking on.
“He knows nothing, and he’s going to be useful to us.”
“But he’s very deeply in love with Elma.”
“Of course. But to part them will be quite easy. Leave all that to me.”
There was a pause.
“And you will desert me for that slip of a girl—eh, Gordon?” asked the handsome woman suddenly in a strange, unusual voice.
He started. He had never realised that the woman’s jealousy had been aroused, but, nevertheless, he knew that a jealous woman always constitutes a danger when one sails near the wind.
“Oh! my dear Freda, please don’t talk like that,” he laughed. “Surely ours is a business connexion. Your interests are mine, andvice versa. Have they not been so for five years? You have kept your eyes open for the pigeons, while I have plucked them for you and given you half share of the spoil.”
“And now you contemplate deserting me—and perhaps marrying the daughter of a wealthy man. Where do I come in?”
“As you always have done, my dear Freda. Both of us are out for money—and big money we must get from somewhere. That concession in Morocco is my main object at the present moment. We already have the plan, and Barclay has not yet discovered his loss.”
“He may do so at any moment. What then?”
“Why, nothing. He will have no suspicion as to who has secured it or how it was taken from his safe. Besides, the old Moor is arriving at the Ritz and is bringing the actual signed concession over from Fez. And now that the parson is dead all will be plain sailing. Have you heard from Arthur to-day?”
“Not a word. He should be back from Bayeux in a couple of days.”
“I shall want him to help me when young Homfray gets the concession in his possession.”
The woman looked him straight in the face, and then, after another pause, asked in a whisper: “What! Do you intend that an—an accident shall happen to him—eh?”
“Perhaps,” replied the man with a grim smile. “Who knows?”
“Ah! I see!” she exclaimed quickly. “There cannot be two candidates for the hand of Elma Sandys!”
And he nodded in the affirmative, a few moments later leading her back to the two young men who had been entertaining her, and then he left the place.
The ill-suppressed jealousy which his accomplice had expressed considerably perturbed him. He saw that if he intended to attain success with Elma he must first propitiate Freda. A single word from her as an enemy would ruin all his chances.
He was not blind to the fact either that Elma had no great liking for him, and that, on the other hand, the girl was deeply in love with the late rector’s son. Though he had declared to Freda that all was plain sailing, he viewed the situation with considerable misgiving. As Rex Rutherford he had made a very favourable impression upon Mr Sandys, but women being gifted with an often uncanny intuition, Elma had from the first viewed him with suspicion. His studied attentions had annoyed her. And now that Freda had shown jealousy, a further difficulty, and even danger, had arisen.
Since their hurried departure from Willowden Freda had taken another furnished house called The Elms, not far from Laleham, on the Thames, and there old Claribut had again been installed as butler and general factotum, while Gray, under the name of Rutherford, occupied a handsome suite of chambers in Dover Street, to which his new chauffeur eventually drove him that night.
Next day the village of Little Farncombe was plunged into grief at the astounding news that their popular rector was dead. Old Mr Sandys’ valet told his master the sad truth when he took up his early cup of tea, and within an hour the old financier called at the Rectory and offered his sincere condolences to Roddy, while later he sent a telegram to Elma at Harrogate announcing the tragic fact.
Not a soul had apparently seen the dead man’s visitor either arrive or depart. Mrs Bentley had, as was her habit, gone to bed without wishing her master “Good-night.” Nobody, therefore, discovered that the poor old gentleman had been taken ill in consequence of violent anger expressed to a visitor, for the latter had been clever enough to slip away without being seen.
Before noon Roddy received a long telegram from Elma, among many others, and three days later the body of the Reverend Norton Homfray was laid to rest in the quiet old churchyard which almost joined the Rectory garden. From far and near came crowds of mourners, and many were the beautiful wreaths placed upon the coffin by loving hands, though none was more beautiful than that which Elma herself brought from the Towers.
That evening, when the funeral was over, and all the mourners had gone, Roddy stood in the wireless-room with his loved one clasped in his strong arms.
He was pale, serious, and grief-stricken. She saw it, and kissed him upon the lips in mute sympathy.
He held his breath as his eyes wandered over the long row of experimental instruments which had been his chief hobby and delight. But with his father’s death all the interest in them had been swept away.
This he declared to Elma in a tone of deep and poignant sorrow.
“No, Roddy dear,” she exclaimed, her hand tenderly placed on his shoulder. “You must strive to bear your loss, great as it is. I know how you loved your dear father, but the parting must always come for all of us. The blow is great—to us all, to the village—and to you more especially, but you must not allow it to interfere with your future interests.”
She saw in his eyes the light of unshed tears, and taking his strong hand, softly added:
“Face the world anew, dear—face it with greater spirit and energy than you have done before, so that you may become a son worthy of a splendid and revered father.”
“I know!” he said. “It is very good of you to speak like that, Elma, but my grief seems to have altered the face of the world for me. The Moroccan Government has suddenly changed, it appears, and the Kaid Ahmed-el-Hafid is now no longer in power. The Minister of the Interior has been replaced by Mohammed ben Mussa, who was grand chamberlain to the Sultan, and who is now at the Ritz Hotel. My friend Barclay has arranged with him that I shall receive the concession for the ancient emerald mines, and I have to be introduced to him to-morrow. He promises me every facility and protection.”
“Then you will go, dearest,” she said, standing with her little black “pom” in her arms. “It will mean a great fortune for you. Father was only remarking about it the other day.”
Roddy paused and looked fondly at her sweet face.
“Yes. If you really wish it, darling, I’ll go.”
“That’s right,” she exclaimed brightly. “Come up to the Towers with me in the car. Father asked me to bring you. You can’t stay here alone this evening.”
He demurred, and tried to excuse himself, but the girl was insistent.
“There’s the news broadcast!” she exclaimed next second, glancing at the big, round-faced ship’s clock. “Let’s listen for a moment before we go—eh? The broadcast always fascinates me.”
In obedience to her desire Roddy switched on the aerial, lit the valves, and giving her one pair of head-’phones, took another. Then adjusting a tuning-coil and turning the knobs of the two condensers one after the other, a deep, sonorous voice was heard announcing the results of certain races held that afternoon, followed by a number of items of general news, which included a railway accident in France and the facts, that the King had left Buckingham Palace for Windsor, and that yet another conference of the Allies was contemplated.
The news was followed by the announcement:
“Mr George Pelham will now tell you all one of the famous bedtime stories for the children. Hulloa! C.Q. Hulloa! C.Q.? Listen! A bedtime story.”
Elma removed the telephones from her ears, and said:
“I think we may go now.” And then together they went forth to the car awaiting them.
Mr Sandys had asked Roddy to fit for him a wireless transmitting set so that he could speak to his office by wireless telephone. This he had done, though not without considerable difficulties with the authorities.
It was eleven o’clock before the young man returned to the silent, empty house, and on entering his dead father’s study he saw that upon the blotting-pad old Mrs Bentley had placed several letters.
He took them up thoughtfully.
“Poor old dad!” he exclaimed aloud. “These have been written by people who still believe him to be alive!”
He turned them over in his hand, and then began to open them. The first was a polite intimation from a moneylender, who expressed himself anxious to lend the reverend gentleman a loan of anything from two pounds to two thousand pounds at practically a nominal interest. The next was from a second-hand bookseller of whom his father frequently dealt, the third a bill, and the fourth was thin and bore a foreign stamp, the address being written in a small, angular hand.
He opened it with some curiosity, and read as follows:
“Dear Mr Homfray,—Though we have not met for nearly two years, you will probably recollect me. I have of late been very ill, and in a most mysterious manner. I am, however, fast recovering, and am at last able to write to you—having recollected only yesterday your name and address.“I have been suffering from blindness and a peculiar loss of memory; indeed, so much that I could not, until yesterday, tell people my own name. Here I am known as Betty Grayson, and I am living with some good, honest Normandy folk called Nicole.“I need not recall the tragedy which befell myfiancé, Mr Willard, but it is in that connexion that I wish to see you—and with all urgency, for your interests in the affair coincide with my own. I feel that I dare not tell you more in this letter than to say that I feel grave danger threatening, and I make an appeal to you to come here and see me, so that we may act together in clearing up the mystery and bringing those guilty to the justice they deserve.“The situation has assumed the greatest urgency for action, so will you, on receipt of this letter, telegraph to me: chez Madame Nicole, 104, Rue des Chanoines, Bayeux, France, and tell me that you will come at once to see me. I would come to you, but as an invalid I am in the charge of those who are doing their best to ensure my rapid recovery. You are a clergyman, and I rely upon your kind and generous aid.—Yours very sincerely,“Edna Manners.”
“Dear Mr Homfray,—Though we have not met for nearly two years, you will probably recollect me. I have of late been very ill, and in a most mysterious manner. I am, however, fast recovering, and am at last able to write to you—having recollected only yesterday your name and address.
“I have been suffering from blindness and a peculiar loss of memory; indeed, so much that I could not, until yesterday, tell people my own name. Here I am known as Betty Grayson, and I am living with some good, honest Normandy folk called Nicole.
“I need not recall the tragedy which befell myfiancé, Mr Willard, but it is in that connexion that I wish to see you—and with all urgency, for your interests in the affair coincide with my own. I feel that I dare not tell you more in this letter than to say that I feel grave danger threatening, and I make an appeal to you to come here and see me, so that we may act together in clearing up the mystery and bringing those guilty to the justice they deserve.
“The situation has assumed the greatest urgency for action, so will you, on receipt of this letter, telegraph to me: chez Madame Nicole, 104, Rue des Chanoines, Bayeux, France, and tell me that you will come at once to see me. I would come to you, but as an invalid I am in the charge of those who are doing their best to ensure my rapid recovery. You are a clergyman, and I rely upon your kind and generous aid.—Yours very sincerely,
“Edna Manners.”
“Edna Manners?” gasped Roddy when he saw the signature. “Can she possibly be the girl whom I saw dead in Welling Wood?”
Chapter Twenty.Concerns the Concession.Next morning Roddy was compelled to leave Haslemere by the early train, and having met Barclay at Waterloo station, they drove in a taxi to the Ritz, where in a luxurious suite of apartments they found the white-bearded intellectual old Moor, Mohammed ben Mussa. His dark, deep-set eyes sparkled when in French Mr Barclay introduced the young man as “one of the most active and enthusiastic mining engineers in London,” and from beneath his white robe he put forth his hand and grasped Roddy’s.“I am very pleased, Monsieur Homfray, to think that you contemplate prospecting in the Wad Sus. Our mutual friend Mr Barclay is well known to us in Fez, and at his instigation I am granting you the necessary concession on the same conditions as my predecessor proposed to you, namely, that one-eighth of the profits be paid to me privately.”“To those terms, Your Excellency, we entirely agree,” Roddy said.“Good. Then I have the agreement ready for your signature.”Upon the writing-table stood a small steel dispatch-case, from which His Excellency brought out a document which had been drawn up by a French notary in Tangiers, and, having read it, both Barclay and Homfray appended their signatures. Replacing it in the box, he then drew out a formidable-looking document written in Arabic with a translation in French.Both Roddy and his friend sat down and together digested the contents of the document by which “Son Majesté Chérifiane,” through “his trusted Minister Mohammed ben Mussa,” granted to Roderick Charles Homfray, of Little Farncombe, in Surrey, the sole right to prospect for and to work the emerald mines in the Wad Sus region of the Sahara on payment of one-eighth of the money obtained from the sale of the gems to the Sultan’s private account at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris.It was a long and wordy screed, couched in the quaint and flowery language of the Moors, but the above was the gist of it. The Sultan and his Minister were sharing between themselves a quarter of the spoils, while Morocco itself obtained no benefit whatever.The two Englishmen having expressed their acceptance, His Excellency, the slow-moving Moorish Minister, bestirred himself again, and taking a large piece of scarlet sealing-wax, produced a huge silver seal—his seal of office as Minister—and with considerable care and with a great show of formality, he heated the wax until he had a round mass about three inches in diameter, into which he pressed the all-important seal. Then, ascertaining that the impression was a good one, he took out a red pen and signed it with long, sprawly Arabic characters, afterwards signing his name in French as Minister of His Majesty the Sultan.“And now, my young friend,” said the patriarchal-looking man in French, as he handed the document to Roddy hardly dry, “I want to give you some little advice. You will go to Mogador, and there you will meet Ben Chaib Benuis, who will bear a letter from me. He will conduct you safely through very unsafe country which is held by our veiled Touaregs, the brigands of the Great Desert. While you are with him you will have safe conduct into the Wad Sus, one of the most inaccessible regions south of the Atlas Mountains.”“I am much indebted to Your Excellency,” said the young man. “I have had some little experience of mining operations in South America, and up to the present I am glad to say that I have been successful. I hope I may be equally successful in Morocco.”“You will surely be,” the old man assured him. “Already Ben Chaib Benuis knows where to find the entrance to the workings, and the rest will be quite easy for you. You have only to raise the necessary capital here, in your city of London, and then we go ahead. And may Allah’s blessing ever rest upon you!” concluded the mock-pious old man, who saw in the concession a big profit to himself and to his royal master.Roddy folded the precious document into four and placed it in the breast pocket of his dark-blue jacket with an expression of thanks and a promise to do his utmost to carry out his part of the contract.“We have every hope of floating a very important company to carry out the scheme,” said Andrew Barclay enthusiastically, even then in ignorance that the plan given him by the Minister’s predecessor in Marseilles was no longer in his possession. “I saw the beautiful dark emerald which has been only recently taken from one of the mines. It is a glorious stone, finer, they say, than any that have ever come from the Urals into the treasury of the Romanoffs.”“Emeralds and rubies are the most precious stones of to-day,” Roddy declared. “Diamonds do not count. They are unfashionable in these post-war days of the ruined aristocracy and the blatant profiteer. A big emerald worn as a pendant upon a platinum chain is of far greater notoriety than a diamond tiara. Nobody wears the latter.”It was eleven o’clock, and His Excellency rang for a cup of black coffee, while Barclay and Roddy each took a glass of French vermouth. Then, when they sat down to chat over their cigarettes, Roddy glanced casually at the morning newspaper, and saw the announcement that the Moorish Minister was in London “upon a matter of international importance concerning the port of Mogador.”The young fellow smiled. The matter upon which old Mohammed was “doing himself well” at the Ritz concerned his own pocket—the same matter which affects nine-tenths of the foreign political adventurers who visit Paris and London. They make excuses of international “conversations,” but the greed of gain to themselves at the expense of their own country is ever present.Later, when he walked with Barclay along Piccadilly towards the Circus, the concession safely in his pocket, Roddy turned to his friends and said:“Do you know, Andrew, I’m not quite easy in my own mind! I fear that somebody might try to do me out of this great stroke of good fortune for which I am indebted to you.”“Why? Who could contest your right to the concession? The future is all plain sailing for you—and for Miss Sandys, I hope. I congratulate you, my boy. You’ll end by being a pillar of finance!”“Never, old chap,” laughed Roddy. Then, after a few moments’ pause, he added: “I’m going over to France to-morrow. I must go.”“Why?”“I have a little matter to see after that brooks no delay. When I’m back I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll be away only two or three days at most. But in the meantime I shall place the concession with old Braydon, my father’s solicitor, in Bedford Row. I have to see him this afternoon regarding some matters concerning the poor old governor’s will.”“Yes. Perhaps it may be just as well, Roddy,” said his friend. “But as soon as you have recovered from the blow of your poor father’s death we ought to take up the concession and see what business we can do to our mutual advantage. There’s a big fortune in it. Of that I’m quite convinced.”“So am I—unless there are sinister influences at work, as somehow I fear there may be.”But Barclay laughed at his qualms. The pair took lunch in a small Italian restaurant in Wardour Street, and while Andrew returned to Richmond, Roddy went along to see his father’s old friend, Mr Braydon, and asked him to put the sealed concession into safe keeping.“I’m just sending along to the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults in Chancery Lane,” said the grey-haired, clean-shaven old man who was so well known in the legal world. “I’ll send the document for you. Perhaps you will like a copy? I’ll have a rough copy made at once.” And, touching a bell, he gave the order to the lady clerk who entered in response.When Roddy left Bedford Row he felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.Perhaps he would not have been so completely reassured if he had known that Gordon Gray himself had been very cleverly keeping watch upon his movements all the morning. He had been idling in the corridor of the Ritz while Roddy had been engaged in the negotiations, and he had been standing on the opposite pavement in Bedford Row while he had sought Mr Arnold Braydon.When Roddy had walked down towards Holborn the silent watcher had turned upon his heel and left, with a muttered expression of dissatisfaction, for he knew that young Homfray had placed the official document in keeping so safe that theft would now be impossible.“We must change our tactics,” growled the king of international crooks to himself. “That concession would be worthless to us even if we had it at this moment. No; we must devise other means.”And, hailing a passing taxi, he entered and drove away.Gordon Gray had been foiled by Roddy’s forethought. Yet, after all, the concession had been actually granted and stamped by the official seal of the Moorish Minister of the Interior. Therefore, the dead rector’s son was in possession of the sole right to prospect in the Wad Sus, and it only now remained for him to start out on his journey into the Sahara and locate the mines, aided by the plan which his friend Barclay had been given.As far as Roddy was concerned the concession was an accomplished fact. But uppermost in his mind was that curious letter addressed to his father from the girl, Edna Manners. Something impelled him to investigate it—and at once.Therefore, he dashed back to Little Farncombe, and before going home called at the Towers, intending to show the strange letter to Mr Sandys before leaving for Bayeux. James, the footman, who opened the door to him, replied that both his master and Miss Elma had left at twelve o’clock, Mr Sandys having some urgent business in Liverpool. They had gone north in the car.Disappointed, Roddy went home and packed a suit-case, and that evening left for Southampton, whence he crossed to Havre, as being the most direct route into Normandy.At midday he alighted from the train at Bayeux, and drove in a ramshacklefiacreover the uneven cobbles of the quaint old town, until at the back of the magnificent cathedral he found the address given in the letter.Ascending to the first floor, he knocked at the door, and Madame Nicole appeared.“I am in search of Mademoiselle Grayson,” he said inquiringly in French.“Mademoiselle lives here,” answered the woman, “but, unfortunately, she is not at home. She went out last evening to post a letter, and, strangely enough, she has not returned! We are much distressed. Only an hour ago my husband informed the commissary of police, and he is making inquiries. Mademoiselle has recovered her sight and, to a great extent, her proper senses. It is a mystery! She promised to return in a quarter of an hour, but she has not been seen since!”
Next morning Roddy was compelled to leave Haslemere by the early train, and having met Barclay at Waterloo station, they drove in a taxi to the Ritz, where in a luxurious suite of apartments they found the white-bearded intellectual old Moor, Mohammed ben Mussa. His dark, deep-set eyes sparkled when in French Mr Barclay introduced the young man as “one of the most active and enthusiastic mining engineers in London,” and from beneath his white robe he put forth his hand and grasped Roddy’s.
“I am very pleased, Monsieur Homfray, to think that you contemplate prospecting in the Wad Sus. Our mutual friend Mr Barclay is well known to us in Fez, and at his instigation I am granting you the necessary concession on the same conditions as my predecessor proposed to you, namely, that one-eighth of the profits be paid to me privately.”
“To those terms, Your Excellency, we entirely agree,” Roddy said.
“Good. Then I have the agreement ready for your signature.”
Upon the writing-table stood a small steel dispatch-case, from which His Excellency brought out a document which had been drawn up by a French notary in Tangiers, and, having read it, both Barclay and Homfray appended their signatures. Replacing it in the box, he then drew out a formidable-looking document written in Arabic with a translation in French.
Both Roddy and his friend sat down and together digested the contents of the document by which “Son Majesté Chérifiane,” through “his trusted Minister Mohammed ben Mussa,” granted to Roderick Charles Homfray, of Little Farncombe, in Surrey, the sole right to prospect for and to work the emerald mines in the Wad Sus region of the Sahara on payment of one-eighth of the money obtained from the sale of the gems to the Sultan’s private account at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris.
It was a long and wordy screed, couched in the quaint and flowery language of the Moors, but the above was the gist of it. The Sultan and his Minister were sharing between themselves a quarter of the spoils, while Morocco itself obtained no benefit whatever.
The two Englishmen having expressed their acceptance, His Excellency, the slow-moving Moorish Minister, bestirred himself again, and taking a large piece of scarlet sealing-wax, produced a huge silver seal—his seal of office as Minister—and with considerable care and with a great show of formality, he heated the wax until he had a round mass about three inches in diameter, into which he pressed the all-important seal. Then, ascertaining that the impression was a good one, he took out a red pen and signed it with long, sprawly Arabic characters, afterwards signing his name in French as Minister of His Majesty the Sultan.
“And now, my young friend,” said the patriarchal-looking man in French, as he handed the document to Roddy hardly dry, “I want to give you some little advice. You will go to Mogador, and there you will meet Ben Chaib Benuis, who will bear a letter from me. He will conduct you safely through very unsafe country which is held by our veiled Touaregs, the brigands of the Great Desert. While you are with him you will have safe conduct into the Wad Sus, one of the most inaccessible regions south of the Atlas Mountains.”
“I am much indebted to Your Excellency,” said the young man. “I have had some little experience of mining operations in South America, and up to the present I am glad to say that I have been successful. I hope I may be equally successful in Morocco.”
“You will surely be,” the old man assured him. “Already Ben Chaib Benuis knows where to find the entrance to the workings, and the rest will be quite easy for you. You have only to raise the necessary capital here, in your city of London, and then we go ahead. And may Allah’s blessing ever rest upon you!” concluded the mock-pious old man, who saw in the concession a big profit to himself and to his royal master.
Roddy folded the precious document into four and placed it in the breast pocket of his dark-blue jacket with an expression of thanks and a promise to do his utmost to carry out his part of the contract.
“We have every hope of floating a very important company to carry out the scheme,” said Andrew Barclay enthusiastically, even then in ignorance that the plan given him by the Minister’s predecessor in Marseilles was no longer in his possession. “I saw the beautiful dark emerald which has been only recently taken from one of the mines. It is a glorious stone, finer, they say, than any that have ever come from the Urals into the treasury of the Romanoffs.”
“Emeralds and rubies are the most precious stones of to-day,” Roddy declared. “Diamonds do not count. They are unfashionable in these post-war days of the ruined aristocracy and the blatant profiteer. A big emerald worn as a pendant upon a platinum chain is of far greater notoriety than a diamond tiara. Nobody wears the latter.”
It was eleven o’clock, and His Excellency rang for a cup of black coffee, while Barclay and Roddy each took a glass of French vermouth. Then, when they sat down to chat over their cigarettes, Roddy glanced casually at the morning newspaper, and saw the announcement that the Moorish Minister was in London “upon a matter of international importance concerning the port of Mogador.”
The young fellow smiled. The matter upon which old Mohammed was “doing himself well” at the Ritz concerned his own pocket—the same matter which affects nine-tenths of the foreign political adventurers who visit Paris and London. They make excuses of international “conversations,” but the greed of gain to themselves at the expense of their own country is ever present.
Later, when he walked with Barclay along Piccadilly towards the Circus, the concession safely in his pocket, Roddy turned to his friends and said:
“Do you know, Andrew, I’m not quite easy in my own mind! I fear that somebody might try to do me out of this great stroke of good fortune for which I am indebted to you.”
“Why? Who could contest your right to the concession? The future is all plain sailing for you—and for Miss Sandys, I hope. I congratulate you, my boy. You’ll end by being a pillar of finance!”
“Never, old chap,” laughed Roddy. Then, after a few moments’ pause, he added: “I’m going over to France to-morrow. I must go.”
“Why?”
“I have a little matter to see after that brooks no delay. When I’m back I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll be away only two or three days at most. But in the meantime I shall place the concession with old Braydon, my father’s solicitor, in Bedford Row. I have to see him this afternoon regarding some matters concerning the poor old governor’s will.”
“Yes. Perhaps it may be just as well, Roddy,” said his friend. “But as soon as you have recovered from the blow of your poor father’s death we ought to take up the concession and see what business we can do to our mutual advantage. There’s a big fortune in it. Of that I’m quite convinced.”
“So am I—unless there are sinister influences at work, as somehow I fear there may be.”
But Barclay laughed at his qualms. The pair took lunch in a small Italian restaurant in Wardour Street, and while Andrew returned to Richmond, Roddy went along to see his father’s old friend, Mr Braydon, and asked him to put the sealed concession into safe keeping.
“I’m just sending along to the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults in Chancery Lane,” said the grey-haired, clean-shaven old man who was so well known in the legal world. “I’ll send the document for you. Perhaps you will like a copy? I’ll have a rough copy made at once.” And, touching a bell, he gave the order to the lady clerk who entered in response.
When Roddy left Bedford Row he felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Perhaps he would not have been so completely reassured if he had known that Gordon Gray himself had been very cleverly keeping watch upon his movements all the morning. He had been idling in the corridor of the Ritz while Roddy had been engaged in the negotiations, and he had been standing on the opposite pavement in Bedford Row while he had sought Mr Arnold Braydon.
When Roddy had walked down towards Holborn the silent watcher had turned upon his heel and left, with a muttered expression of dissatisfaction, for he knew that young Homfray had placed the official document in keeping so safe that theft would now be impossible.
“We must change our tactics,” growled the king of international crooks to himself. “That concession would be worthless to us even if we had it at this moment. No; we must devise other means.”
And, hailing a passing taxi, he entered and drove away.
Gordon Gray had been foiled by Roddy’s forethought. Yet, after all, the concession had been actually granted and stamped by the official seal of the Moorish Minister of the Interior. Therefore, the dead rector’s son was in possession of the sole right to prospect in the Wad Sus, and it only now remained for him to start out on his journey into the Sahara and locate the mines, aided by the plan which his friend Barclay had been given.
As far as Roddy was concerned the concession was an accomplished fact. But uppermost in his mind was that curious letter addressed to his father from the girl, Edna Manners. Something impelled him to investigate it—and at once.
Therefore, he dashed back to Little Farncombe, and before going home called at the Towers, intending to show the strange letter to Mr Sandys before leaving for Bayeux. James, the footman, who opened the door to him, replied that both his master and Miss Elma had left at twelve o’clock, Mr Sandys having some urgent business in Liverpool. They had gone north in the car.
Disappointed, Roddy went home and packed a suit-case, and that evening left for Southampton, whence he crossed to Havre, as being the most direct route into Normandy.
At midday he alighted from the train at Bayeux, and drove in a ramshacklefiacreover the uneven cobbles of the quaint old town, until at the back of the magnificent cathedral he found the address given in the letter.
Ascending to the first floor, he knocked at the door, and Madame Nicole appeared.
“I am in search of Mademoiselle Grayson,” he said inquiringly in French.
“Mademoiselle lives here,” answered the woman, “but, unfortunately, she is not at home. She went out last evening to post a letter, and, strangely enough, she has not returned! We are much distressed. Only an hour ago my husband informed the commissary of police, and he is making inquiries. Mademoiselle has recovered her sight and, to a great extent, her proper senses. It is a mystery! She promised to return in a quarter of an hour, but she has not been seen since!”
Chapter Twenty One.The Blow.Purcell Sandys was seated at his writing-table in his fine spacious library in Park Lane engrossed in the intricacies of some formidable-looking accounts.Hughes, the grave-faced old butler, opened the door softly, and asked:“Shall you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?”His master raised his head wearily, and Hughes at once noticed how very pale and changed he seemed.“No, nothing, Hughes,” he replied in an unusual voice. “But leave word that when Miss Elma comes in I wish to see her here at once. She’s at Lady Whitchurch’s dance, but she ought to be back very soon.”“Yes, sir,” answered the old servant. “But—excuse me, sir, you don’t look very well. Can’t I get you something? A little brandy—perhaps?”“Well, yes, Hughes. Just a liqueur-glass full,” was his master’s reply; and then he turned again to his accounts.Hughes, a moment later, placed the thin little Venetian liqueur-glass upon a silver salver at his elbow, and retired noiselessly.Mr Sandys had not heard him. He was far too engrossed in his work of examination of the accounts and three bankers’ pass-books.Now and then he drew long breaths and snapped his fingers in fierce impatience.“To think of this! Only to think of it!” escaped his pale, thin lips.Then he rose, and with his hand on the edge of the table he slowly surveyed his room.“And I trusted Hornton! He was so sound that I would have entrusted to him Elma’s life and future. And she is all I have in the world. And he’s let me down!”He reseated himself at the table, and, taking up a telegram, re-read it, as he had done a dozen times before.It was dated from Stowmarket, and said:“Much regret to tell you that poor Charles has been found dead. Very distressed.—Lady Hornton.”His partner was dead! Upon his table lay a letter he had received by the last post that evening. A letter of apology it was. On the previous night at eight o’clock the two partners had met alone in Lombard Street, and Sir Charles had confessed that he had been gambling heavily in Paris, at Deauville, at Aix, at Madeira, at the Jockey Club, at Buenos Ayres, as well as at a private gambling-hell called Evans’ in West Kensington, and that the result had been that he had lost everything. He could not face the music.So he had made his bow to the world and ended his life. Purcell Sandys was left to bear the brunt of the whole of the gigantic liabilities of them both!The great financier left the little glass of brandy untouched. He was never addicted to spirits. A man of strong and outstanding personality, he had studied, as so many of our greatest Englishmen have done, the practically unknown philosophy of Yogi—that science of “I am”—of the “Great Ego,” which by our modern world is so little understood.Purcell Sandys, at that moment when he knew that ruin had befallen him, stood erect, and presently a curious smile crossed his lips. He had studied the old Indian science of “Raja Yogi” thoroughly and well. He knew the nature of Real Self, as every strong man does. He knew the power of the Will, which power underlies the entire teachings of Raja Yogi, and he was master of his Real Self. The great strong men through all the ages have studied the Yogi science perhaps unconsciously. Even as Purcell Sandys stood there, a ruined man in that millionaire’s palace in Park Lane, he spoke aloud and repeated the mantrams or affirmations of the candidates presenting themselves to the Yogi masters for their first lesson.“I am a Centre,” he said in a low, distinct voice. “Around me revolves the world. ‘I’ am a Centre of Influence and Power. ‘I’ am a Centre of Thought and Consciousness. ‘I’ am independent of the Body. ‘I’ am Immortal and cannot be destroyed. ‘I’ am Invincible and cannot be injured. Mastery is with me.”Then he returned to his chair and fell to studying and adding up his liabilities. They were colossal. He had known that Hornton was very fond of games of chance and often played for high stakes at a certain gaming-club in Paris, but he had never dreamed he was gambling away the firm’s securities. The blow had staggered him, for it had brought him in a day from luxury to ruin. The financial operations they had in progress throughout the world were now simply bubbles. There was nothing behind them. The Paris house had been depleted, and yet so high was the standing of the firm that nobody had expected such a crisis.The failure would inevitably bring down with it other smaller houses, and hundreds of small investors, war widows, clergymen, artisans, and people who earned weekly wages, both in England and in France, would lose their all.He bit his lip to the blood. An hour before he had spoken on the telephone to Lady Hornton, but the line was very bad to Stowmarket, and he could scarcely hear her. But he understood her to say that her husband, who had been out motoring in the morning, had lunched and then, as usual, gone to his room to have a nap. But when his man went to call him at half-past five he found him dead.Such news was, indeed, calculated to upset any man. But Purcell Sandys, on account of his Yogi knowledge, knew of his own subconscious mentality. He relaxed every muscle, he took the tension from every nerve, threw aside all mental strain, and waited for a few moments. Then he placed his position firmly and fixedly before his mental vision by means of concentration. Afterwards he murmured to his subconscious mentality—which all of us possess if we know how to use it aright:“I wish my position to be thoroughly analysed, arranged, classified, and directed, and the result handed back to me. Attend to this?”Thus the ruined financier spoke to his subconscious mentality just as though it were a separate entity which had been employed to do the work.Confident expectation was, he knew, an important part of the process, and that the degree of success depended upon the degree of his confident expectation. He was not a slave to the subconscious, but its master.Returning again to his table, he sat for a long time pondering until suddenly the door opened and Elma burst in, bright and radiant in a filmy dance frock of emerald with shoes and stockings to match. In her hair she wore a large golden butterfly, and in her hand she carried her long gloves.“Do you want to see me, dad?” she asked. “I know I’m rather late, but I’ve had such a topping time. Only one thing spoiled it. That Mr Rutherford was there and pestered me to dance with him.”Her father was silent for a few seconds. Mention of the name of Rutherford caused him to reflect.“Yes, dear, I want to see you. Sit down for a moment. I have something to tell you.”“You look very anxious, dad,” exclaimed the girl. “Why, what’s the matter?”“A very serious one, my dear—most serious. A heavy blow has fallen upon me. Sir Charles has killed himself!”“What?” gasped the girl, rising from her chair.“Yes, and, moreover, before doing so he ruined us both by gambling. Elma, I cannot conceal the bitter truth from you, dear. I am ruined!”The girl was too astounded to utter a word. Her countenance had blanched.“But, dad!” she cried at last. “You can’t mean that you are actually ruined—you, the rich man that you are.”“I thought I was until last night,” he replied huskily. “I have enemies, as well as friends. What man has not? The truth cannot be concealed from them very long, and then they will exult over my ruin,” he remarked very gravely.“But, dad, what are we to do? Surely Sir Charles hasn’t actually ruined you?”“Unfortunately he has, my child. I trusted him, but the curse of gambling was in his blood and he flung away my money as well as his own. But he is dead—he has paid the penalty of his folly, and left me to face our creditors.”“And the future, dad?” asked the young girl, gazing aimlessly about her and not yet realising what ruin meant.Purcell Sandys, the man whose credit was at that moment so high in Lombard Street—for the truth was not yet out—sighed and shook his head.“I must face the music, my dear,” he said. “Face defeat, as others have done. Napoleon was compelled to bow to the inevitable; I must do so. Farncombe must be sold, and this house also. I must realise as much as possible to pay my creditors. But I cannot pay them all even though I sell everything.”“And then?” asked his pretty daughter, so slim and girlish. “And then, dad?”“Then we must both go into obscurity. Perhaps we can live over in Brittany, in some out-of-the-way place, and learn to forget. But I said ‘we.’ No, dear, you could never forget. You are young and have your life before you—you must marry, child, and be a happy wife. I could never take you over to France to one of those deadly-dull little towns where life is only existence, and thoughts of the past become an obsession. No.”“But I want to help you, dad,” she said, crossing to him and stroking his grey brow with her hand.“I know, darling. I know,” he muttered. “You may be able to—one day. But—but to-night don’t let us discuss this painful subject further. I feel—well, I can’t bear it. Good-night!” And raising his bearded face, he kissed her, patting her upon the shoulder as he did so.Reluctantly she withdrew, for he was insistent that she should retire.Then, when she had gone, he drew several long, deep breaths—part of his Yogi training—and locking up the sheaf of accounts and the pass-books, he switched off the light and ascended the wide, handsome stairs to his room.By the irony of fate the man who had built that magnificent town mansion in Park Lane, and had sold it to Purcell Sandys, had afterwards stood in the dock at the Old Bailey and had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for a gigantic fraud.The position of Purcell Sandys was certainly a very serious one. Honest, upright, and straight-spoken, he had, from small beginnings, attained greatness in the financial world, until the name of the firm was one to conjure with in the money markets of Europe. But he was ever a man of honour. During the war he saw the way open to make a profit of five millions sterling by dealing with Germany through a certain source in South America.The proposition was put to him on the day of the air-raid on Brixton. He heard the sleek agent of the enemy, and smoked a good cigar as he listened. Then he rose from his chair, and said:“Look here! I’m an Englishman! Get out! There’s the door. And if you don’t get out of England in twelve hours you’ll find yourself arrested. Get out!”And even while the caller was in the room he crossed to the telephone and rang up “M.O.5” at the War Office.Purcell Sandys was a real, honest, firm-handed Englishman. He had, by his own pluck, self-confidence and shrewd intuition, raised himself from his small office as a provincial bank manager to the position he had attained in the financial world. Mrs Sandys, who had been a great invalid for years, had died at St. Moritz two years before, and he had only Elma left to him. And naturally he doted upon her—his only child.That night he felt himself up against a brick wall—he, whose very name was a power upon every bourse in Europe.Alone in her room Elma, dismissing her maid Evans, sank at her bedside and prayed. She loved her father, and had never before seen him with hopelessness written plainly upon his features.She thought of Roddy. Would that he were at her side to advise and help her!But she was alone—alone except for her little pet, the black pom, Tweedles.
Purcell Sandys was seated at his writing-table in his fine spacious library in Park Lane engrossed in the intricacies of some formidable-looking accounts.
Hughes, the grave-faced old butler, opened the door softly, and asked:
“Shall you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?”
His master raised his head wearily, and Hughes at once noticed how very pale and changed he seemed.
“No, nothing, Hughes,” he replied in an unusual voice. “But leave word that when Miss Elma comes in I wish to see her here at once. She’s at Lady Whitchurch’s dance, but she ought to be back very soon.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the old servant. “But—excuse me, sir, you don’t look very well. Can’t I get you something? A little brandy—perhaps?”
“Well, yes, Hughes. Just a liqueur-glass full,” was his master’s reply; and then he turned again to his accounts.
Hughes, a moment later, placed the thin little Venetian liqueur-glass upon a silver salver at his elbow, and retired noiselessly.
Mr Sandys had not heard him. He was far too engrossed in his work of examination of the accounts and three bankers’ pass-books.
Now and then he drew long breaths and snapped his fingers in fierce impatience.
“To think of this! Only to think of it!” escaped his pale, thin lips.
Then he rose, and with his hand on the edge of the table he slowly surveyed his room.
“And I trusted Hornton! He was so sound that I would have entrusted to him Elma’s life and future. And she is all I have in the world. And he’s let me down!”
He reseated himself at the table, and, taking up a telegram, re-read it, as he had done a dozen times before.
It was dated from Stowmarket, and said:
“Much regret to tell you that poor Charles has been found dead. Very distressed.—Lady Hornton.”
His partner was dead! Upon his table lay a letter he had received by the last post that evening. A letter of apology it was. On the previous night at eight o’clock the two partners had met alone in Lombard Street, and Sir Charles had confessed that he had been gambling heavily in Paris, at Deauville, at Aix, at Madeira, at the Jockey Club, at Buenos Ayres, as well as at a private gambling-hell called Evans’ in West Kensington, and that the result had been that he had lost everything. He could not face the music.
So he had made his bow to the world and ended his life. Purcell Sandys was left to bear the brunt of the whole of the gigantic liabilities of them both!
The great financier left the little glass of brandy untouched. He was never addicted to spirits. A man of strong and outstanding personality, he had studied, as so many of our greatest Englishmen have done, the practically unknown philosophy of Yogi—that science of “I am”—of the “Great Ego,” which by our modern world is so little understood.
Purcell Sandys, at that moment when he knew that ruin had befallen him, stood erect, and presently a curious smile crossed his lips. He had studied the old Indian science of “Raja Yogi” thoroughly and well. He knew the nature of Real Self, as every strong man does. He knew the power of the Will, which power underlies the entire teachings of Raja Yogi, and he was master of his Real Self. The great strong men through all the ages have studied the Yogi science perhaps unconsciously. Even as Purcell Sandys stood there, a ruined man in that millionaire’s palace in Park Lane, he spoke aloud and repeated the mantrams or affirmations of the candidates presenting themselves to the Yogi masters for their first lesson.
“I am a Centre,” he said in a low, distinct voice. “Around me revolves the world. ‘I’ am a Centre of Influence and Power. ‘I’ am a Centre of Thought and Consciousness. ‘I’ am independent of the Body. ‘I’ am Immortal and cannot be destroyed. ‘I’ am Invincible and cannot be injured. Mastery is with me.”
Then he returned to his chair and fell to studying and adding up his liabilities. They were colossal. He had known that Hornton was very fond of games of chance and often played for high stakes at a certain gaming-club in Paris, but he had never dreamed he was gambling away the firm’s securities. The blow had staggered him, for it had brought him in a day from luxury to ruin. The financial operations they had in progress throughout the world were now simply bubbles. There was nothing behind them. The Paris house had been depleted, and yet so high was the standing of the firm that nobody had expected such a crisis.
The failure would inevitably bring down with it other smaller houses, and hundreds of small investors, war widows, clergymen, artisans, and people who earned weekly wages, both in England and in France, would lose their all.
He bit his lip to the blood. An hour before he had spoken on the telephone to Lady Hornton, but the line was very bad to Stowmarket, and he could scarcely hear her. But he understood her to say that her husband, who had been out motoring in the morning, had lunched and then, as usual, gone to his room to have a nap. But when his man went to call him at half-past five he found him dead.
Such news was, indeed, calculated to upset any man. But Purcell Sandys, on account of his Yogi knowledge, knew of his own subconscious mentality. He relaxed every muscle, he took the tension from every nerve, threw aside all mental strain, and waited for a few moments. Then he placed his position firmly and fixedly before his mental vision by means of concentration. Afterwards he murmured to his subconscious mentality—which all of us possess if we know how to use it aright:
“I wish my position to be thoroughly analysed, arranged, classified, and directed, and the result handed back to me. Attend to this?”
Thus the ruined financier spoke to his subconscious mentality just as though it were a separate entity which had been employed to do the work.
Confident expectation was, he knew, an important part of the process, and that the degree of success depended upon the degree of his confident expectation. He was not a slave to the subconscious, but its master.
Returning again to his table, he sat for a long time pondering until suddenly the door opened and Elma burst in, bright and radiant in a filmy dance frock of emerald with shoes and stockings to match. In her hair she wore a large golden butterfly, and in her hand she carried her long gloves.
“Do you want to see me, dad?” she asked. “I know I’m rather late, but I’ve had such a topping time. Only one thing spoiled it. That Mr Rutherford was there and pestered me to dance with him.”
Her father was silent for a few seconds. Mention of the name of Rutherford caused him to reflect.
“Yes, dear, I want to see you. Sit down for a moment. I have something to tell you.”
“You look very anxious, dad,” exclaimed the girl. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“A very serious one, my dear—most serious. A heavy blow has fallen upon me. Sir Charles has killed himself!”
“What?” gasped the girl, rising from her chair.
“Yes, and, moreover, before doing so he ruined us both by gambling. Elma, I cannot conceal the bitter truth from you, dear. I am ruined!”
The girl was too astounded to utter a word. Her countenance had blanched.
“But, dad!” she cried at last. “You can’t mean that you are actually ruined—you, the rich man that you are.”
“I thought I was until last night,” he replied huskily. “I have enemies, as well as friends. What man has not? The truth cannot be concealed from them very long, and then they will exult over my ruin,” he remarked very gravely.
“But, dad, what are we to do? Surely Sir Charles hasn’t actually ruined you?”
“Unfortunately he has, my child. I trusted him, but the curse of gambling was in his blood and he flung away my money as well as his own. But he is dead—he has paid the penalty of his folly, and left me to face our creditors.”
“And the future, dad?” asked the young girl, gazing aimlessly about her and not yet realising what ruin meant.
Purcell Sandys, the man whose credit was at that moment so high in Lombard Street—for the truth was not yet out—sighed and shook his head.
“I must face the music, my dear,” he said. “Face defeat, as others have done. Napoleon was compelled to bow to the inevitable; I must do so. Farncombe must be sold, and this house also. I must realise as much as possible to pay my creditors. But I cannot pay them all even though I sell everything.”
“And then?” asked his pretty daughter, so slim and girlish. “And then, dad?”
“Then we must both go into obscurity. Perhaps we can live over in Brittany, in some out-of-the-way place, and learn to forget. But I said ‘we.’ No, dear, you could never forget. You are young and have your life before you—you must marry, child, and be a happy wife. I could never take you over to France to one of those deadly-dull little towns where life is only existence, and thoughts of the past become an obsession. No.”
“But I want to help you, dad,” she said, crossing to him and stroking his grey brow with her hand.
“I know, darling. I know,” he muttered. “You may be able to—one day. But—but to-night don’t let us discuss this painful subject further. I feel—well, I can’t bear it. Good-night!” And raising his bearded face, he kissed her, patting her upon the shoulder as he did so.
Reluctantly she withdrew, for he was insistent that she should retire.
Then, when she had gone, he drew several long, deep breaths—part of his Yogi training—and locking up the sheaf of accounts and the pass-books, he switched off the light and ascended the wide, handsome stairs to his room.
By the irony of fate the man who had built that magnificent town mansion in Park Lane, and had sold it to Purcell Sandys, had afterwards stood in the dock at the Old Bailey and had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for a gigantic fraud.
The position of Purcell Sandys was certainly a very serious one. Honest, upright, and straight-spoken, he had, from small beginnings, attained greatness in the financial world, until the name of the firm was one to conjure with in the money markets of Europe. But he was ever a man of honour. During the war he saw the way open to make a profit of five millions sterling by dealing with Germany through a certain source in South America.
The proposition was put to him on the day of the air-raid on Brixton. He heard the sleek agent of the enemy, and smoked a good cigar as he listened. Then he rose from his chair, and said:
“Look here! I’m an Englishman! Get out! There’s the door. And if you don’t get out of England in twelve hours you’ll find yourself arrested. Get out!”
And even while the caller was in the room he crossed to the telephone and rang up “M.O.5” at the War Office.
Purcell Sandys was a real, honest, firm-handed Englishman. He had, by his own pluck, self-confidence and shrewd intuition, raised himself from his small office as a provincial bank manager to the position he had attained in the financial world. Mrs Sandys, who had been a great invalid for years, had died at St. Moritz two years before, and he had only Elma left to him. And naturally he doted upon her—his only child.
That night he felt himself up against a brick wall—he, whose very name was a power upon every bourse in Europe.
Alone in her room Elma, dismissing her maid Evans, sank at her bedside and prayed. She loved her father, and had never before seen him with hopelessness written plainly upon his features.
She thought of Roddy. Would that he were at her side to advise and help her!
But she was alone—alone except for her little pet, the black pom, Tweedles.