Mr. Mask had a dark little office in the city down a long narrow lane which led from Cheapside. In the building he inhabited were many offices, mostly those of the legal profession, and Mr. Mask's rooms were on the ground floor. He had only two. In the outer one a clerk almost as old as Mr. Mask himself scribbled away in a slow manner, and showed in clients to the inner room. This was a gloomy little dungeon with one barred window looking out on to a blank wall, damp and green with slime. Light was thrown into the room through this window by means of a silvered glass, so the actual illumination of the apartment was very small indeed, even in summer. In winter the gas glared and flared all the day.
Here Mr. Mask sat like a spider in his den, and the place was so full of cobwebs that it really suggested spiders in plenty. There was a rusty grate in which a fire was never lighted, an old mahogany book-case filled with uninviting-looking volumes, and a tin wash-stand which was hidden behind a screen of shabby Indian workmanship. The walls were piled to the dingy ceiling with black japanned deed-boxes, with the names of various clients inscribed on them in white letters. Before the window--and dirty enough the glass of that was--stood a large mahogany table covered untidily with papers, deeds, briefs, memoranda, and such-like legal documents. A small clearing in front was occupied by red blotting paper, and a large lead ink bottle with a tray of pens. There was one chair for Mr. Mask and one for a client. Finally, as there was no carpet on the floor it may be guessed that the office was not an inviting-looking sanctum. Into this hole--as it might fitly be termed--Allen was shown one morning. He had not called immediately on Mr. Mask when he came to town, as he had been searching for his father for the last five days. But all inquiries proved futile. Allen went to the hotel at which Mr. Hill usually stayed, but could not find him there. He had not been stopping in the place for months. Allen sought the aid of the police, but they could not find Mr. Hill. Finally he put an advertisement in the paper, which remained unanswered. Also Allen had called on Mr. Hill's bankers, but found that he had not been near the place. It was so strange that Allen was beginning to feel afraid. The message conveyed in the symbol sent through Cain must be a very serious one, to make his father cut himself off from those who knew him, in this way.
As a last resource, Allen came to see Mr. Mask, feeling he should have done this before. Mask had a large business, but on the face of it appeared to do very little in the dingy office. But he was a man who could be trusted with a secret, and many people who knew this intrusted him with affairs they wished kept quiet. Consequently Mask's business was sometimes rather shady, but he made a great deal of money by it, and that was all he cared about.
A silent, cold man was Mask, and even in his own home at Bloomsbury he was secretive. Still the man had his good points, and had an undercurrent of good nature of which he was somewhat ashamed, heaven only knows why. If he had been as hard as he looked, he certainly would not have asked Mrs. Palmer to give poor Eva a home.
"Well, Mr. Allen," said Mask, who called him thus to distinguish him from his father, whom he had known many years, "so you have come at last?" Allen, who was placing his hat on the floor, as there was no table to put it on, started and stared. "Did you expect me?"
"Long ago," said Mask, putting his fingers together and leaning back with crossed legs; "in fact, you should have come to me five days ago. There was no necessity for you to consult the police as to your father's whereabouts, or to call at his bank and hotel, or to put that very injudicious advertisement into the paper."
"You seem to know all about my doings?"
"Quite so. I know a great many things. To be frank, Mr. Allen, I have had you watched by a private detective, ever since you came to town."
Allen rose in a towering rage. "How dare you do that, Mr. Mask?"
"I did so at your father's request," said the lawyer, on whom the young man's rage produced not the least effect.
"You have seen him?"
"I have. He came to me when he arrived."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I do--but I am not at liberty to tell you."
"Do you know why he is acting in this way?"
Mr. Mask's calm face suddenly wrinkled. "No," he said, looking perplexed, "frankly, Mr. Allen, I don't, and I am glad you have called. I wish to talk the matter over with you."
"Why didn't you send for me, then?"
"Because it is never my wish to take the initiative. People come to me. I don't go to them. I get a lot of business by waiting, Mr. Allen. People are only too glad to find a man who can keep a secret; I have made a fine business out of nothing, simply by holding my tongue."
"And do you intend to do so in this instance?"
Mask shrugged his spare shoulders. "That depends. Johnstone!"
He raised his voice rather, and the door opened to admit a small clerk with a large red beard and a bald head, and a face lined with wrinkles. What his age was no one could tell, and he said as little as he could, being as secretive as his master. Without a word he stood at the door, seen dimly in the half light of the office, for the day was dark. "Johnstone," said Mr. Mask. "I'll be engaged with this gentleman for some time. Let no one in, till I call again."
Johnstone bowed and departed without a word, while Mr. Mask went on in a smooth tone, "I sit in this office from ten in the morning till six at night. Johnstone comes at nine and leaves at four."
"Why before you?" asked Allen, wondering why this information was supplied.
"Because I like the office to myself to see nervous clients. The lawyers in the other offices of the building do not stay late, and frequently I am perfectly alone with clients who wish their business kept so secret that they don't want even to be seen entering this place."
"Are you not afraid?"
Mr. Mask shrugged his shoulders again. "No. Why should I be?"
"Some rough client might do you some harm."
"Oh, I don't think so. Any one who comes here finds it to his interest to conciliate me, not to threaten. But I confess that I was rather startled the other night."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll come to the story in time. Because I intend to tell it, I drew your attention to my hours. Well, Mr. Allen," Mask leaned back again, "and what can I do for you?"
"Tell me where my father is."
"I can't do that. I have not your father's permission to do so."
"How long will he be away?"
"Until I can induce him to return," said Mask blandly.
Allen leaned forward, and looked the lawyer in the eyes. "Is my father afraid of being arrested?"
Mask started. "No. Why do you say that?"
"Because--but before I tell you, may I ask his reason for staying away?"
Mask looked perplexed again. "I can't exactly tell you," he said. "I may as well be frank, Mr. Allen, as I don't like the situation. Your father, whom I have known all his life, came to me over a week ago in great agitation. He said that he was in danger, but what the danger was, he refused to confess. I insisted on an explanation, and he promised to tell me some day. Meantime he wanted to be hidden away for the time being. I arranged that for him."
"I don't think that was wise of you, Mr. Mask."
"My good Allen--I can call you so as I've known you since you were a lad--there is no reason why I should not help your father. He may have done something against the law, for all I know, but as he is my client, it is my duty to help him. He is a good client to me, and I am not such a fool as to lose him. It is my business to keep secrets, and here is one I have not found out. But I don't intend to let your father go away till Idofind out," said Mask grimly. "On that condition I helped him. And after all," added the lawyer, "your father is quite in his sane senses, and I have no right to dictate to him, even when he acts in so eccentric a manner."
"He is always eccentric," said the son wearily; "but this behaviour is beyond a joke. How is my mother to live?"
"I can't send her money. Your father will see to that."
"But why am I shut out from my father's confidence?"
"I can't say. Remember," said Mask in a slightly irritable tone, "I am shut out also."
Allen, much perplexed over the situation which was sufficiently annoying and mysterious, thought for a moment. "Did my father tell you of the cardboard box he received?"
"He did not. He said nothing, save that he wished to hide for a time, and would reveal his reason later."
"Then I must tell you everything I know," said Allen in desperation. "If my father won't trust you, I must. My mother is in a great state of alarm, and for her sake I must get him to come back."
Mr. Mask looked doubtful. "I don't know whether he'll hear reason," he said, after a pause. "However, what you tell me will go no further."
"Well then, Mr. Mask, I know why my father is afraid."
"It's more than I do. Why is he afraid?"
"Because he thinks he may be arrested for the murder of Strode."
Mask pushed back his chair and rose quickly. It was not an easy matter to astonish a man, who, in that very room, had heard tales worthy of theArabian Nights., but Allen had certainly managed to do so. "Do you mean to say he killed Strode?" he asked.
"No. But he thinks he did."
"How can that be?"
Allen related the episode of the pistol, and how he found that the bullet which killed Strode would not fit the barrel. "So you see my father thought he had killed him, and when this cross was sent----"
"What cross?" asked Mask, looking up quickly.
"I forgot. I thought you knew." And Allen related everything in detail. Mask heard the story with his chin on his hand, and in silence. Even when in full possession of the facts he did not speak. Allen grew impatient. "What do you think?"
Mask moved a few papers hither and thither, but did not look straight at his visitor. "It's a mystery," he said. "I know not what to say. But I am perfectly sure of one thing," he added with emphasis, "that your father never shot Strode----"
"I said so. The bullet that went through the heart did not fit the barrel of my revolver."
"You misunderstand me. I don't even believe that your father fired the shot which ripped the flesh of the arm. Why, Strode was his best friend and he was devoted to him."
"My father to Strode, or Strode to my father?"
"Both ways you can take it. Why, it was Strode brought about the marriage between your parents."
"My mother told me how the marriage came about," said Allen quickly, "but I understood that my father acted from a chivalrous motive."
Mask's lip curled. "I fear not," he said, "there were circumstances connected with your mother----"
Allen shifted himself uneasily and grew red. "I know--I know," he said sharply, "my mother told me about the necklace. Surely you did not believe her guilty, Mr. Mask?"
"No," said the lawyer emphatically, "I certainly did not. I can't say who stole the necklace, but it was lost and the thief has never been found. As to the marriage"--he waved his hand--"Strode brought it about--at least he told me so. How he managed I can't say, unless it was that he used his influence over your father."
"My mother believes----"
"I know. All the more credit to her. But we can discuss this on some more fitting occasion. Meantime we must talk of your father. I don't see why you shouldn't see him," said Mask musingly.
"Give me his address."
"Humph," said the lawyer, smiling slightly. "I'll see. But about this murder? Your father did not kill the man."
"No," said Allen sharply, "I swear he did not."
"Quite so. Well, who did, and what was the motive?"
"Robbery was the motive," said Allen, taking a letter out of his pocket. "Read this, I received it from Miss Strode."
Mask took the letter, but did not read it immediately. "I don't believe the motive was robbery," he declared deliberately; "Strode had little money. He certainly brought a hundred or so from Africa and I cashed his letters of credit."
"Did you give him the money in notes?"
"Yes; and what is more I have the numbers of the notes. I see what you mean: you fancy the notes were stolen and that the criminal can thus be traced."
"Read the letter," said Allen impatiently.
The lawyer did so, and thus became possessed of a faithful report of Saltars' communications to Eva which she had detailed for Allen's benefit. On ending he placed the letter on the table. "A blue pocket-book," said Mask musingly. "Yes, he had such a one. I remember he placed the notes in it. I wonder I didn't ask about that at the inquest. It's stolen. Humph! Looks like a commonplace robbery after all. Allen," he raised his eyes, "I gave Strode two hundred in ten pound Bank of England notes. As I have the numbers, I may be able to trace how much of this sum has been spent by inquiring at the Bank. The numbers that are missing will be those that Strode had in the blue pocket-book when he went on that fatal journey to Westhaven. If the murderer stole the book and has cashed the notes he may be traced by the numbers."
"I agree. But what about the forty thousand pounds?"
Mask shook his head. "I can't say. Strode certainly never mentioned to me that he had such a sum."
"Did he say he had diamonds?"
"No. Perhaps, as Miss Strode suggests, the forty thousand pounds may have been locked up in diamonds as a portable way to carry such a sum. But we found no diamonds amongst his effects, so it is probable he carried them on his person."
"And was murdered for the sake of them?"
"Perhaps. It was strange, though, that Strode should have spoken to me about his wooden hand. He promised that he would return from Wargrove to place a large sum of money in my hands--probably the forty thousand pounds, though he did not mention the amount."
"I dare say he intended to turn the diamonds into money and then give it to you."
"Perhaps," said Mask carelessly, "but we are not yet sure if the money was in diamonds. However, Strode said, that when he wanted the promised money, he would get it from me personally, and, if he did not apply in person, he would send the wooden hand. As he certainly would not have let the hand be taken from him while alive, it was a very safe token to send."
Allen looked down. "It seems as though he was afraid of being killed," he said musingly; "and he was killed, and the wooden hand was stolen."
"Not only that," said Mask, "but it was brought to me."
"What!" Allen started to his feet, "here! Why didn't you have the man who brought it arrested?"
"Because I could not," said Mask drily; "this is why I told you of my habits. It was after four when Johnstone and every one in the place was away. In fact, it was nearly six, and when I was getting ready to go, that this man came."
"What kind of a man was he?"
"A venerable old man, who looked like the Wandering Jew, with a long white beard, and a benevolent face. He asked if he could speak to me, and we talked. I must remind you that every one in this building is away at the hour of six."
"I understand. But what was the old man's name?"
"He gave none. He simply asked if I had a sum of money in my possession belonging to Mr. Strode. I said I had not; so he asked if Mr. Strode had left a packet of diamonds with me."
"Then therearediamonds!" cried Allen; "and you knew?"
"Now you mention it, I did know," said Mask coolly; "all in good time, Allen. I wished to learn how much you knew before I spoke out. I am a man who keeps secrets, mind you, and I don't say more than is needful. Well, this old man, when I said that I had no diamonds, told me in so many words that I was a liar, and insisted that I should give them up. To test him, I jokingly asked him if he had the wooden hand, which was to be the token to deliver the money or diamonds. He then produced the article."
"Why didn't you arrest him?"
"Let me remind you that I was alone with the Wandering Jew, and that he brought two men of whom I caught a glimpse. They remained in the outer room during our conversation. I asked the old man how he became possessed of the wooden hand. He refused to tell me, but insisted that I should hand over the diamonds. I protested that I had none, and told him what I tell you, as to what Strode said about giving me money later."
"What did the old man say then?"
"He began to believe me, and muttered something about the diamonds being in Strode's possession. Then he sang out, 'No go, Jerry,' to a red-headed ruffian outside. After that, he left."
"You should have followed, Mr. Mask, and have had him arrested."
"I could scarcely do that," said the lawyer drily, "the old gentleman was too clever. He went with one man, and left the red-headed Jerry to keep watch. I had to remain in this room till seven, or else Jerry threatened to shoot me."
"He would never have dared."
"Oh yes, he would, and in this lonely building no one could have stopped him. Well I agreed, and remained in here doing some work. At seven I opened the outer door. Jerry had decamped, but where he and his friends went I can't say?"
"Have you told the police?"
"No. I think it is wiser to remain quiet. These men will try again to get the money through the wooden hand; but they must first learn who killed Strode, and stole the diamonds--for I now agree with you, Allen, that the forty thousand pounds are locked up in diamonds. But now we have talked on this point and it seems clear, let us talk on another in the presence of a third person."
"Who?" asked Allen anxiously.
"Your father," said Mask. "Johnstone!"
The red-bearded clerk entered, and when within, removed a false beard and a wig.
"Father," cried Allen, rising. It was indeed Mr. Hill, pale and trembling.
Allen was so thunderstruck at the sight of his father, who had so unexpectedly appeared, that he could only stand silently staring. Mr. Hill gave a nervous titter, and tried to appear at his ease. But the sight of his pale face and trembling limbs shewed that the man was possessed by terror. Also he locked the door while Allen gaped. It was Mask who spoke first.
"You are surprised to find your father as my clerk," he said smoothly to Allen; "but when he came to me asking to be concealed, I arranged that Johnstone should take a much-needed holiday at the sea-side. I believe he is at Brighton," said Mr. Mask deliberately. "In the meantime, your father, by means of a clever disguise, adopted Johnstone's name, and personality, and looks. In the dim light of the office every one thinks he is Johnstone, and to tell you the truth," said Mr. Mask, smiling, "my clients are so possessed by their own fears, that they take very little notice of my clerk."
Allen scarcely listened to the half of this explanation. "Father," he cried, "whatever is the meaning of all this?"
Hill tittered again, and looked about for a seat as his limbs would hardly support him. As Mr. Mask had one chair, and Allen the other, it looked as though Hill would have to sink on the floor. But Allen pushed forward his own chair and made his father sit down. Then, so white was the man, that he produced his flask, and gave him a nip of brandy. "I never travel without this," said Allen, alluding to the flask. "It comes in handy at times," and he spoke this irrelevantly so as to put Hill at his ease.
The little man, under the grotesque mask of Johnstone, grew braver after the brandy, with Dutch courage. "You did not expect to find me here, Allen?" he said, with his nervous titter.
"I certainly did not," said his son bitterly; "and I don't know why you need disguise yourself in this way. I know you did not murder Strode."
"But I intended to," cried Hill, suddenly snarling, and showing his teeth, "the black-hearted villain."
"I thought Strode was your friend, father?"
"He was my enemy--he was my evil genius--he was a tyrant who tried to crush all the spirit out of me. Oh," Hill beat his fist on the table in impotent rage, "I'm glad he's dead. But I wish he'd died by torture--I wish he'd been burnt--sliced to atoms. I wish----"
"Stop," said Mask, seeing Allen turn white and faint, at the sight of this degrading spectacle, "there's no need to speak like this, Lawrence. Tell us how you came to be at the Red Deeps."
"How do you know I was at the Red Deeps?" asked Hill, shivering, and with the sudden rage dying out of him.
"Well, you took your son's revolver, and----"
"You said you didn't believe I fired the shot, Mask," cried the miserable creature. "I heard you say so, I had my ear to the keyhole all the time----
"Father--father," said Allen, sick with disgust at the sight of his parent behaving in this way.
"And why not?" cried Hill, turning fiercely on him. "I am in danger. Haven't I the right to take all measures I can for my own safety? Ididlisten, I tell you, and I overheard all. Had you not proved to Mask here, that the bullet which caused the death could not have been fired out of your revolver, I'd not have come in. I should have run away. But you know I am innocent----"
"Quite so," said Mask, looking searchingly at the speaker, "therefore the reason for your disguise is at an end."
Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips and crouched again. "No, it isn't," he said faintly, "there's something else."
"In heaven's name, what is it?" asked Allen.
"Leave me alone," snarled his father, shrinking back in his chair and looking apprehensively at his tall, white-faced son, "it's got nothing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with me," said his son with calm firmness, "for my mother's sake I intend to have an explanation."
"If my wife were here she would never let you treat me in this way, Allen," whimpered the miserable father. "Sarah"--he did not call his wife Saccharissa now, the situation being too serious--"Sarah is always kind to me."
Allen with folded arms leaned against the bookcase and looked at his father with deep pity in his eyes. Hill was alternately whimpering and threatening: at one moment he would show a sort of despairing courage, and the next would wince like a child fearful of a blow. The young man never loved his father, who, taken up with himself and his whims, had done nothing to make the boy love him. He had never respected the man, and only out of regard for his mother had he refrained from taking strong measures to curb the pronounced eccentricities of Hill. But the man, miserable coward as he seemed, was still his father, and it behoved him to deal with him as gently as possible. In his own mind, Allen decided that his father's troubles--whatever they were--had driven him insane. But the sight of that cringing, crawling figure begot a mixture of pity and loathing--loathing that a human creature should fall so low, and pity that his own father should suddenly become a 'thing' instead of a man.
"I want to be kind to you, father," he said after a pause; "who will you trust if not your own son?"
"You were never a son to me," muttered Hill.
"Was that my fault?" asked Allen strongly. "I would have been a son to you, if you had let me. But you know, father, how you kept me at arm's length--you know how you ruled the house according to your whims and fancies, and scorned both my mother and myself. Often you have spoken to her in such a manner that it was only the knowledge that you are my father which made me refrain from interfering. My mother says she owes much to you----"
"So she does--so she does."
"Then why take advantage of her gratitude? She gives everything to you, father, and you treat her in a way--faugh," Allen swept the air with his arm, as though to banish the subject. "Let us say no more on that point. But I have come up here to get to the bottom of this affair, father, and I don't leave this place till I know all."
Hill tried to straighten himself. "You forget I am your father," he said, with an attempt at dignity.
"No; I do not forget. Because you are my father I wish to help you out of this trouble, whatever it is. I can save you from being accused of Strode's murder, but the other thing----"
"I never said there was anything else," said Hill quickly.
"Yes, you did, Lawrence," said Mask. "I have taken a note of it."
"Oh," whimpered Hill, "if you turn against me too---"
"Neither one of us intend to turn against you," said Allen in deep disgust, for the man was more like a jelly-fish than ever, and constantly evaded all attempts to bring him to the point. "For heaven's sake, father, summon up your manhood and let us know the worst!"
"I won't be spoken to in this way," stuttered Hill, growing red.
Allen made one stride forward, and looked down from his tall height at the crouching figure in the chair--the figure in its shameful disguise, with the white face and wild eyes. "You shall be spoken to in a perfectly quiet way," he said calmly, although inwardly agitated, "but you shall do what you are told. I have put up with this state of things long enough. In future, my mother shall govern the house, and you shall come back to it to indulge in whatever whims you like within reason. But master you shall not be."
"Who will prevent me?" said Hill, trying to bluster.
"I shall," said Allen decisively; "you are not fit to manage your own affairs or to rule a house. If you come back--as you shall--my mother, who loves you, will do all she can to make you happy. I also, as your son, will give you all respect due to a father."
"You're doing so now, I think," sneered Hill, very white.
"God help me, what else can I do?" cried Allen, restraining himself by a violent effort; "if you could see yourself you would know what it costs me to speak to you like this. But, for your own sake, for my mother's sake, for my own, I must take the upper hand."
Hill leaped panting from his seat. "You dare!----"
"Sit down," said his son imperiously, and pushed him back in his chair; "yes, I dare, father. As you are not responsible, I shall deal with you as I think is for your good. I know how to deal with men," said Allen, looking very tall and very strong, "and so I shall deal with you."
"You forget," panted Hill, with dry lips, "I have the money."
"I forget nothing. I shall have a commission of lunacy taken out against you and the money matters shall be arranged----"
"Oh," Hill burst into tears, and turned to the quiet, observant Mask, "can you sit and hear all this?"
"I think your son is right, Lawrence."
"I shall go to law," cried Hill fiercely.
"Can a man in hiding go to law?" hinted Mask significantly.
The miserable man sank back in his seat and wept. Sick at heart, Allen looked at the old lawyer. "You are my father's friend, sir," he said gently, "try and bring him to reason. As for me, I must walk for a time in the outer room to recover myself. I can't bear the sight of those tears. My father--oh, God help me, my father!" and Allen, unlocking the door, walked into the outer room sick at heart. He was not a man given to melodrama, but the sight of his wretched father made him sick and faint. He sat down in the clerk's chair to recover himself, and leaned his aching head on his hand.
What passed between Mask and Hill he never knew, but after half an hour the old lawyer called Allen in. Hill had dried his tears, and was still sitting hunched up in the chair. But he was calmer, and took the words which Mask would have spoken out of the lawyer's mouth. "I am much worried, Allen," said he softly, "so you must excuse my being somewhat unstrung. If you think it wise, I'll go back."
"So far as I know, I do think it wise."
"Let us hear the story first," said Mask.
"What story?" asked Allen sharply.
"My miserable story," said Hill; "I'll tell it all. You may be able to help me. And I need help," he ended piteously.
"You shall have all help, father. Tell me why you went to the Red Deeps and took my revolver."
Hill did not answer at once. His eyelids drooped, and he looked cunningly and doubtfully at his son. Apparently he did not trust him altogether, and was thinking as to what he would say, and what leave unsaid. The two men did not speak, and after a pause, Hill, now more composed, began to speak slowly:
"I have known Strode all my life, and he always treated me badly. As a boy I lived near his father's place at Wargrove, and my father liked me to associate with him, as he was of better birth than I. We studied at the same school and the same college, and, when we went into the world, Strode's influence introduced me into aristocratic circles. But my own talents aided me also," said Hill, with open vanity, "I can do everything and amuse any one. When I stopped at Lord Ipsen's----"
"My mother told me of that," said Allen with a gesture of repugnance, "and I don't want to hear the story again."
"I'm not going to tell it," retorted his father tartly, "my idea was to explain a popularity you will never attain to, Allen. However, I'll pass that over. I married your mother, and Strode married Lady Jane Delham, with whom I also was in love--and I would have made her a much better husband than Strode," said the little man plaintively.
"Go on, please," said Mask, glancing at his watch. "There isn't much time. I have to go out to luncheon."
"Always thinking of yourself, Mask," sneered Hill, "you always did, you know. Well, I saw little of Strode for some time. Then I lent him money and saw less of him than ever. Then he----"
"You told me all this before," interposed Allen, who began to think his father was merely playing with him.
"I'll come to the point presently," said Hill with great dignity; "let me say, Allen, that although I hated Strode, and had good cause too--yes, very good cause--I liked Eva. When you wished to marry her, I was pleased. She wrote to her father about the marriage. He sent her a cablegram saying he was coming home----"
"And when he did arrive at Southampton he told her she was not to think of the marriage."
"He told me also," said Hill, "and long before. He wrote from the Cape telling me he would not allow you to marry Eva."
"Allow me!" said Allen indignantly.
"Yes, and told me I was to stop the marriage. I wrote, and urged the advisability of the match. When Strode reached Southampton, he wrote again saying he intended Eva to marry Lord Saltars---"
"Did he make any mention of money?"
"No. He simply said that if I did not stop the marriage he would disgrace me," here Hill changed colour, and looked furtively at both his listeners.
"How disgrace you?" asked Mask sharply.
"I shan't tell you that," was the dogged reply, "all you need know is, that Strode could disgrace me. I--I--made a mistake when I was a young man," said Hill, casting down his eyes, so as not to meet the honest gaze of his son, "and Strode took advantage of it. He made me sign a document confessing what I had done----"
"And what in heaven's name had you done?" questioned Allen, much troubled.
"That's my business. I shan't say--it has nothing to do with you," said Hill hurriedly, "but Strode had the document and always carried it about with him. I wanted to get it and destroy it, so I asked him when he came to Wargrove to meet me at the Red Deeps, and then I would tell him how the marriage with you could be prevented. I also said that I knew something about Lord Saltars----"
"What is that?"
"Nothing," said Hill, this time frankly. "I really knew nothing, but I wanted Strode to come to the Red Deeps. He made an appointment to meet me there on Wednesday at nine."
"In that case, why did he wire to Eva he would be down on Thursday?"
"Because he wanted to come down quietly to see me. And," added Hill hesitating, "he had to see some one else. I don't know who, but he hinted that he had to see some one."
"When you spoke to him at the Red Deeps?"
"Yes. I went there on Wednesday and he was waiting. It was getting dark, but we saw plainly enough. I urged him to give up the document. He refused, and told me that he required more money. I grew angry and left him."
"Alive?"
"Yes. But I had your revolver with me, Allen. I took it with the idea of shooting Strode, if he didn't give up the document----"
"Oh," cried Allen, shrinking back. It seemed horrible to hear his father talk like this. "But you didn't----"
"No. I got behind a bush and fired. My shot touched his arm, for he clapped his hand to the wound. Then he turned with a volley of abuse to run after me. At that moment there came another shot from a clump of trees near me, and Strode fell face downward. I was so afraid at the idea of any one having been near me, and of having overheard our conversation----"
"And of seeing your attempt at murder," interpolated Mask.
"Yes--yes--that I dropped Allen's revolver and ran away."
"I found the revolver and took it home," said Allen; "so the way you acted the next morning when Wasp came was----"
"It was the morning after that," said his father drily, "on Friday, and Strode was shot on Wednesday. I never went near the Red Deeps again. I didn't know if Strode was dead, but I knew that he had been shot. I steeled myself to bear the worst, but did not make any inquiries out of policy. When Wasp came that morning at breakfast, I knew what he had to say. Strode was dead. I dreaded lest Wasp should say that the revolver had been found, in which case you might have got into trouble, Allen: but I was thankful nothing was said of it."
The young man was astounded at this cool speech: but he passed it over, as it was useless to be angry with such a man. "I picked up the revolver as I said," he replied; "but about the document?"
"I hadn't time to get it. The shot frightened me."
"Did you see who fired the shot?"
"No. I was too afraid. I simply ran away and never looked back."
At this point Mask held up his hand. "I hear some one in the outer office," he said, and rose to open the door. Hill slipped behind the table quivering with fear. However, Mask returned to his seat. "I am wrong," he said, "there's no one there. Go on."
"What else do you want to know?" questioned Hill irritably.
"Why you fainted and left the house, when you got that cross from Giles Merry?"
Hill stared. "You knew it was Giles?" he stammered; "what do you know of Giles?"
"Nothing. But Mrs. Merry recognised the direction on the brown paper as being in her husband's writing. Why did you faint?"
Hill looked down and then looked up defiantly. He was still standing behind the desk. "I stole the wooden hand!"
"What!" cried Mask and Allen, both rising.
"Yes. I had my reasons for doing so. I took it from the body, when I was in the death-chamber. I had it in my pocket when I saw you and Eva, and said it was stolen. And then," went on Mr. Hill very fast, so that Allen should not give expression to the horror which was on his face, "I took it home. But I feared lest my wife should find it and then I would get into trouble. Sarah was always looking into my private affairs," he whined, "so to stop that, I went and buried the hand on the common. Some one must have watched me, for I put that cross to mark the spot. When I opened the parcel and saw the cross I knew some one must have dug up the wooden hand and that my secret----"
"What has the wooden hand to do with your secret?"
Hill shuffled, but did not reply to the question. "It was Giles's writing. I knew he'd got the wooden hand, and my secret--Hark!" There was certainly the sound of retreating footsteps in the other room. Allen flung open the door, while his father cowered behind the desk. The outer door was closing. Allen leaped for it: but the person had turned the key in the lock. They heard a laugh, and then retreating footsteps. Mask, who had followed Allen, saw something white on the floor. He picked it up. It was a letter addressed to Sebastian Mask. Opening this he returned to the inner office. "Let us look at this first," said Mask, and recalled Allen: then he read what was in the envelope. It consisted of one line. "Open the wooden hand," said the mysterious epistle.
"No," shrieked Hill, dropping on his knees; "my secret will be found out!"
Allen was stopping in quiet rooms near Woburn Square, which was cheaper than boarding at a hotel. He was none too well off, as his father allowed him nothing. Still, Allen had made sufficient money to live fairly comfortable, and had not spent much, since his arrival in England, owing to his residence at "The Arabian Nights."
It had been Allen's intention to escort his father back to Wargrove, whither Hill consented to go. But, on explaining to Mask his desire to trace out Butsey by using the address of the Fresh Air People in Whitechapel, Mask had agreed to take the old man home himself. He thought that it was just as well Allen should find the boy, who might know much.
"He didn't steal the wooden hand," said Mask, when he parted from Allen, "but he is evidently in with the gang."
"What gang, Mr. Mask?"
"That headed by the old gentleman who called on me. Jerry is one of the gang, and this boy Butsey another. He sent that telegram, remember. If you can find the lad you may learn much, and perhaps may get back the hand."
"But what good will that do?" asked Allen, puzzled; "from what my father said when you read the anonymous letter, he evidently knew that the hand can be opened. If, as he says, it contains his secret, he must have opened it himself when he took it home, and before he buried it."
Mask wrinkled his brows and shook his head. "I confess that I cannot understand," he remarked hopelessly, "nor will I, until your father is more frank with me. This is one reason why I am taking him myself to Wargrove. When I get him there I may induce him to tell me his secret."
"It must be a very serious secret to make him behave as he does."
Mask sighed. "I repeat that I can't understand. I have known your father all his life. We were boys together, and I also knew Strode. But although your father was always foolish, I can't think that he would do anything likely to bring him within reach of the law."
"He stole the wooden hand, at all events," said Allen grimly.
"Out of sheer terror, I believe, and that makes me think that his secret, for the preservation of which he robbed the dead, is more serious than we think. However I'll see what I can learn, and failing your father, I shall ask Giles Merry."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I fancy so. The parcel with the cross was addressed in his writing, so it is he who has the hand. He must have given it to the old scoundrel who called on me, so I think, Mr. Allen, we are justified in adding Merry to the gang."
"But the hand must have been empty when my father buried it on the common, so how could Giles know his secret?"
"I can only say that I don't understand," said Mask with a gesture of hopelessness; "wait till I get your father to speak out. Then we may learn the truth."
"I dread to hear it," said the son gloomily.
"Well," replied Mask in a comforting tone, "at all events we know it has nothing to do with this murder. It is your task to learn who committed that, and you may do so through Butsey."
After this conversation Mr. Mask took Hill back to Wargrove, whither the old man went willingly enough. He seemed to think himself absolutely safe, when in the company of his legal adviser and old friend. Allen returned to his rooms, and sent a message to Mr. Horace Parkins that he would see him that afternoon. It was necessary that he should keep faith with his friend Mark Parkins in South America, and find a capitalist; and Allen thought that Horace, whom Mark reported shrewd, might know of some South African millionaire likely to float the mine in Bolivia. As to the search after Butsey, Allen had not quite made up his mind. He could learn of Butsey's whereabouts certainly, but if it was some low den where the lad lived, he did not want to go alone, and thought it might be necessary to enlist the service of a detective. For his father's sake, Allen did not wish to do so. But he must have some one to go with him into the depths of London slums, that was certain. Allen knew the life of the Naked Lands, and there could more than hold his own, but he was ignorant of the more terrible life of the submerged tenth's dens.
It was at three o'clock that Allen appointed the meeting with Parkins, and at that hour precisely a cab drove up. In a few minutes Parkins was shown in by the landlady, and proved to be a giant of over six feet, lean, bright-eyed, and speaking with a decided American accent. He was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, but looked rather out of place in a frock-coat and silk hat and patent leather boots.
"Well, I'm glad to see you," said the giant, shaking hands with a grip which made Allen wince--and he was no weakling. "Mark's been firing in letters about what a good sort you are, and I was just crazy to meet you. It isn't easy finding a pal in this rotten planet of ours, Mr. Hill, but I guess from what Mark says, you fill the bill, so far as he's concerned, and I hope you'll cotton on to me, for I'm dog-sick with loneliness in this old city."
Allen laughed at this long speech and placed a chair for his visitor. "You'd like a drink, I know," he said, ringing the bell.
"Milk only," said Parkins, hitching up the knees of his trousers, and casting his mighty bulk into the deep chair; "I don't hold with wine, or whisky, or tea, or coffee, or anything of that sort. My nerves are my own, I guess, and all I've got to hang on to, for the making of bargains. I'm not going to play Sally-in-our-Alley with them. No, sir, I guess not. Give me the cow's brew."
So a glass of milk was brought, and Mr. Parkins was made happy. "I suppose you don't smoke, then?" said Allen, amused.
"You bet--a pipe." He produced a short clay and filled it. "I'm of the opinion of that old chap inWestward Ho., if you know the book?"
"I haven't read it for years."
"Y'ought to. I read it every year, same as I do my Bible. Had I my way, sir," he emphasised with his pipe, "I'd give every English boy a copy of that glorious book to show him what a man should be."
"You're English, I believe, Mr. Parkins?"
"Born, but not bred so. Fact is, my mother and father didn't go well in double harness, so mother stopped at home with Mark, and I lighted out Westward-ho with father. You'd never take me for Mark's brother?"
"I should think not. You're a big man and he's small: you talk with a Yankee accent, and he speaks pure English. He's----"
"Different to me in every way. That's a fact. I'm a naturalised citizen of the U.S.A. and Mark's a Britisher. We've met only once, twice, and again, Mr. Hill, but get on very well. There's only two of us alive of the Parkins gang, so I guess we'd best be friendly, till we marry and rear the next generation. I'm going to hitch up with an English girl, and Mark--if I can persuade him--will marry an American dollar heiress. Yes, sir, we'll square accounts with the motherland that way."
All the time Parkins talked, he pulled at his pipe, and enveloped himself in a cloud of smoke. But his keen blue eyes were constantly on Allen's face, and finally he stretched out a huge hand. "I guess I've taken to you, some," said he, "catch on, and we'll be friends."
"Oh," said Allen, grasping the hand, "I'm sure we shall. I like Mark."
"Well then, just you like the American side of him, which is Horace Parkins. I guess we'll drop the misters and get to business, Hill."
"I'm ready. What do you want to see me about?"
"Well, Mark wrote to me as you'd got a mine of sorts, and wanted a capitalist. I'm not a millionaire, but I can shell out a few dollars, if y'think you can get the property cheap."
"Oh, I think so. The Spaniard that owns it wants money and isn't very sure of its value."
"Tell me about that right along."
Whereupon Hill detailed the story of the Indian and how the mine had been worked by the Inca kings. He described the locality and the chances of getting the silver to the coast: also spoke of the labour required and the number of shares he and Mark intended to divide the mine into. Horace listened, nodding gravely.
"I see you've figured it out all right, Hill," said Parkins, "and I guess I'll take a hand in the game. Give me a share and I'll engineer the buying."
"Good," said Allan, delighted, "we'll divide the mine into three equal shares. You buy it, and Mark and I will work it."
"Good enough. We won't want any one else to chip in. It's a deal."
They shook hands on this, and then had a long talk about the West Indies, which Horace, who had never been there, knew chiefly through the glowing pages ofWestward Ho.. "Though I guess the place has changed since then," said he, "but the gold and silver's there right enough, and maybe, if we looked long enough, we'd chance on that golden Manoa Kingsley talks about."
The talk drifted into more immediate topics, and Allen, much amused at his gigantic companion's naïve ways of looking at things, asked him about his life. Thereupon Horace launched out into a wild tale of doings in Africa. He had been all through the war and had fought therein. He had been up the Shire River, and all over the lion country. He made money and lost it, so he said, and finally managed to find a fortune. It was five o'clock before he ended, and later he made a remark which made Allen jump: "So I just thought when I got Mark's letter telling me you were in the old country and about the mine, that I'd come home and see what kind of man you were. I'm satisfied--oh yes, you bet. I'll trust you to the death, for I size up folk uncommon quick, and you?"
"I'll trust you also," said Allen, looking at the man's clear eyes and responding to his true-hearted grip, "and in fact I need a friend now, Mr. Parkins."
"Call me Parkins, plain, without the Mister. Well, here I am, ready to be your pal, while Mark's over the herring-pond. What's up? Do you want me to cut a throat? Just say the word, and I'll do it. Anything for a change, for I'm dead sick of this place ever since I left theDunoon Castle.."
It was this speech which made Allen jump. "What, did you come home in theDunoon Castle?"
"You bet I did, and a fine passage we had."
"Did you know a passenger called Strode?"
Parkins raised his immense bulk slightly, and looked sharply at the questioner. "Do you mean the man who was murdered?"
"Yes. I suppose you read about the crime in the papers?"
"That's so. Yes, I knew him very well. Better than any one on board, I guess. We got along finely. Not a man I trusted," added Parkins musingly, "but a clever sort of chap. Well?"
"Did he ever tell you of his daughter?"
"No. He never spoke of his private relations."
"Well, he has a daughter, Miss Eva Strode. You must have read her name in the papers when the case was reported."
"I did," said Parkins after a pause; "yes?"
"I'm engaged to her."
Parkins rose and looked astonished. "That's a queer start."
"You'll hear of something queerer if you will answer my questions."
"What sort of questions?"
Allen debated within himself if he should trust Parkins all in all. It seemed a rash thing to do, and yet there was something about the man which showed that he would not break faith. Horace was just the sort of companion Allen needed to search after Butsey in the slums of Whitechapel. It was no good telling him anything, unless all were told, and yet Allen hesitated to bring in the name of his father. Finally he resolved to say as little as he could about him, and merely detail the broad facts of the murder, and of the theft of the hand, without mentioning names. "Parkins," he said frankly and with a keen look, "can I trust you?"
"I guess so," said the big man serenely. "I mean what I say. You can take my word without oaths, I reckon."
"Very well, then," said Allen with a sudden impulse to make a clean breast of it; "sit down again and answer a few questions."
Horace dropped down heavily and loaded his pipe. While he was lighting up, he listened to Allen's questions. But Allen did not begin before he had explained the purpose of his inquiries.
"I am engaged to Miss Strode," said Allen, "but she refuses to marry me until I learn who killed her father."
"Very right and just," nodded Parkins.
"Well, I'm trying to hunt out the criminal, and I should like you to help me."
"I'm with you right along, Hill. Fire away with your questions."
Allen began: "Did Mr. Strode ever tell you he had money?"
"Yes. He made a lot in South Africa and not in the most respectable way. I don't like talking ill of the dead, and of the father of the girl you're going to make Mrs. Hill, but if I am to be truthful----"
"I want you to be, at all costs. The issues are too great for anything false to be spoken."
"Well then, I heard a lot about Strode in Africa before we steamed together in theDunoon Castle.. He made his money in shady ways."
"Humph!" said Allen, "I'm not surprised, from what I've heard."
"He was an I. D. B. if you want to get to facts."
"What's that?" demanded Allen.
"An illicit diamond buyer."
"Can you explain?"
"I guess so. Strode bought diamonds from any one who had them. If a Kaffir stole a jewel, and many of them do steal, you bet, Strode would buy it from him at a small price. He was on this lay for a long time, but was never caught. And yet I don't know," said Parkins half to himself, "that brute Jerry Train knew something of his doings!"
Allen almost leaped from his seat. "Jerry! was he a big red-headed man--a ruffian?"
"He was a bad lot all through--a horse-thief and I don't know what else in the way of crime. He made South Africa too hot for him, and came home steerage in theDunoon Castle.. I saw him at times, as I knew a heap about him, and he thieved from a pal of mine up Bulawayo way. He seemed to suspect Strode of yanking diamonds out of the country."
"Did Strode tell you he possessed diamonds?"
"No. He said he'd made money to the extent of forty thousand pounds."
"Did he carry the money with him?"
Parkins shook his head. "I can't say. I should think he'd have letters of credit. He'd a pocketbook he was always dipping into, and talked of his money a lot."
"A blue pocket-book with a crest?"
"That's so. Do you know it?"
"No. But that pocket-book was stolen from the body. At least it was not found, so it must have been stolen."
"Oh, and I guess Strode was murdered for the sake of the pocket-book. But see here," said Horace shrewdly, "I've told you a heap. Now, you cut along and reel out a yarn to me."
The other man needed no second invitation. He laid aside his pipe and told the story of the crime, suppressing only the doings of his father. Horace listened and nodded at intervals.
"I don't see clear after all," he said when Allen ended, "sure you've told me everything?"
The young man looked uneasy. "I've told you what I could."
Parkins rose and stretched out his hand. "What you've told me will never be repeated. Good-bye."
"What for?" asked Allen, also rising.
"Because you won't trust me. I can't straighten out this business, unless you do."
"The other thing I might tell isn't my own."
"No go. If it concerns the murder it must be told. I don't work half knowledge with any one. You can trust me."
Allen hesitated. He wanted to tell all, for he felt sure that Parkins would help him. But then it seemed terrible to reveal his father's shame to a stranger. What was he to do?
"See here, I'll tell--you everything, suppressing names."
"Won't do," said the inflexible Parkins; "good-bye."
"Will you give me a few hours to think over the matter?"
"No. If I'm not to be trusted now, I'm not to be trusted at all."
The young man bit his fingers. He couldn't let Parkins go, for he knew about Strode and Red Jerry, and might aid the case a lot. It was imperative that the truth should be discovered, else it might be that his father would be put to open shame. Better, Allen thought, to tell Parkins and get his aid, than risk the arrest of his father and see the whole story in the papers. "I'll tell all," he said.
"Good man," growled Parkins, his brow clearing.
When in possession of all the facts, Parkins thought for a moment and delivered his opinion: "Strode I take it was followed to the Red Deeps by Jerry Train, and Jerry shot him and stole the pocket-book."
"But the wooden hand?"
"Merry's got it and he's in the gang. Hold on," said Parkins, "I'll not give a straight opinion till I see this boy. We'll go down and hunt him up. He'll give the show away."
"But my father?" asked Allen, downcast.
"He's a crank. I don't believe he mixed up in the biznai at all."