A resplendent footman took the names of the callers, and preceded them to the drawing-room. It was no uncommon thing for Lady Barmouth to invite a score or so of friends to supper after a reception or theatre. The footman intimated that his mistress was alone now, and that she was at present in the hands of her maid; therefore the callers had ample time to study the surroundings of so mysterious a person as Lord Barmouth.
That remarkable man, as everybody knew, had only been married a little over two years. Two years ago he himself had been a more or less popular figure in society. In the first place he was exceedingly rich, by no means ill looking, in fact he was a remarkably fine type of an all-round athlete. He was a triple blue at Oxford, a wonderfully keen shot, and a dashing polo player. At his house in the Shires his hunters were noted, as likewise were his coverts. Two years ago any man would have esteemed it a privilege to call himself Lord Barmouth's friend, and be free of his guns and his horses.
But now all this was changed. Barmouth had gone away to South America with a view of something new in the way of sport. Naturally his movements were followed carefully by the society papers. They chronicled all his doings faithfully, and presently Belgravia was officially informed of the fact that Barmouth was in Mexico, where he had become engaged to be married to the daughter of a settler there--an Englishman of good family who had taken unto himself a Mexican wife. Three months later the announcement of Barmouth's marriage was in theTimes. It was understood that he was not coming home quite yet; indeed, something like two years elapsed before the big house in Belgrave Square was set in order for the owner and his bride. The strange whisperings and muttered scandal began at once. But on one point society was in perfect accord--whatever trouble hung over the household, it could not possibly be a fault of Lady Barmouth's. The woman was a lady to her finger-tips; she took her part naturally and easily in society; she fell into her place like one to the manner born. As everybody expected, there was nothing lacking in the lavish hospitality which had always been a tradition of the Barmouths. Men went down to their country houses in the winter to shoot and hunt, men and women came to Belgrave Square to lunch and dance and dinner--there was no more popular figure in society than Lady Barmouth.
And there it seemed to end. From the day of his arrival in England until the present moment not a soul had looked upon Lord Barmouth with the exception of his wife and his faithful valet. What was the source of the trouble nobody knew, and nobody guessed. It was in vain to try to bribe the servants, for they were just as much in the dark as anybody else. It was perhaps a mistake to say that nobody had ever seen Lord Barmouth, for occasionally he entered the dining or drawing-rooms when some very old friends were there, but previous to his entry the lights were always turned out. Whether this was due to some strange form of disease, or perhaps some phase of madness, was a point never explained. Lady Barmouth, beyond a cold statement that her husband was suffering from a peculiar malady, said nothing, and, indeed, it would have been in very bad taste to have asked. It had only been a nine days' wonder after all, and it mattered little to society in general so long as the hospitality of the house of Barmouth did not suffer.
It was under the roof of a man like this that Rigby and Jack found themselves as a fitting end to a night of amazing adventure. There was nothing to denote a discordant spirit in the house. Here was the magnificent suite of drawing-rooms brilliantly lighted and luxurious to a degree, on the walls of which were pictures of price. There was about the house the decorous, smooth, velvety silence which seems to be tradition in all well-ordered establishments. It seemed almost impossible to believe that the sinister wing of tragedy should hang over a home like this. A few minutes later Lady Barmouth came into the room.
"I am sorry to keep you waiting," she said , "but I have been having a little chat with my husband. As I have already intimated to you, his misfortunes are not altogether unconnected with this Anstruther business. My dear husband has suffered cruelly at the hands of certain people; indeed, so cruelly has he suffered that he seems to have lost all life and hope altogether. Ah, if you had only seen him as I saw him for the first time two years ago! There is one thing, however, I will ask you to do--pray do not say a word to him as to the circumstances in which we met to-night."
"Then we are to have the pleasure of seeing Lord Barmouth," Jack exclaimed. "I quite understood that he----"
"This is an exceptional case altogether. In the strict sense of the word you will not see my husband, but he desires the privilege of a few words with you. Now, let us go into the dining-room and talk this matter over. There will be no servants present--it is the one meal of the day which I prefer to partake of without the presence of one's domestics."
The dining-room was not the usual apartment devoted to state feasts, but a small room on the first floor, cozily and comfortably furnished, and more with an eye to confidences than anything else. The servants were absent as Lady Barmouth had intimated, so that it was possible to discuss the events of the evening without the chance of being overheard.
"Now tell me candidly," Lady Barmouth said at length, "have you any ideas to offer as to that mysterious disappearance from Shannon Street police station? I am asking you this, Mr. Masefield, because it was you who actually found the body of the man who most people speak of as Nostalgo. Really, now, was that unfortunate man so very like the wonderful poster of which London has had to say so much of late?"
"The likeness was amazing," Jack explained. "It quite frightened me. Talking about the poster in question, there is another likeness that I have not failed to note. Of course, if you put the man I mean and the poster side by side, nobody could possibly see the resemblance. But in moments of anger, there is a strong likeness between the poster and Spencer Anstruther. Don't laugh at me, Lady Barmouth; I assure you it is absolutely true."
But Lady Barmouth was by no means in the way of laughing at Masefield. Her pale face took on a still more creamy pallor, the pupils of her dark eyes were strangely dilated. "That is a most strange and wonderful thing," she said , as if speaking to herself. "Mr. Masefield, it is most fortunate that we met to-night. You have just told me something which will prove of the utmost value later on. We will not discuss that now, there is no time. But there is one thing that I am going to ask you to do for me; I want you to influence Claire Helmsley in my favor. I have taken a great fancy to her; indeed, I like her far more than any girl in London. This is all the stranger because I believe I am in a position to do her a great service. Iknowthat I am in a position to do her one. But one stipulation I make, and that is--she must be told everything."
Jack hesitated. It would be indeed a dangerous thing to acquaint Claire with all that had happened so long as she was under the same roof as Spencer Anstruther. She was not accustomed to restrain her feelings and emotions, and with his swift, subtle instincts, Anstruther would find out that there was something wrong immediately. Jack pointed this out to Lady Barmouth at some length.
"I don't think so," she said thoughtfully. "Claire is a clever girl, she is in splendid health, and not the least likely to fear Anstruther or anybody else. It is, of course, not nice to have to play a part, but think of the information that Claire could glean for us so long as Anstruther regards her as little more than a child and behaves to her accordingly."
"Believe me, I am only too anxious to get at the bottom of this dreadful business," Jack said earnestly, "and there is nobody more anxious than I am to get Claire outside the sphere of Anstruther's influence altogether. Still, I am quite willing to try. I will see Claire to-morrow, and tell her everything."
Lady Barmouth's face beamed with a delight that was almost childish. She looked and acted like one who had had a great weight taken off her mind. That Jack had come to a wise decision she felt certain. She was saying so, speaking very briskly and freely, when the lights of the room were extinguished by some invisible agency, and the apartment left in utter darkness save for the wood-fire which smouldered on the hearth.
"I do hope you have all finished," Lady Barmouth cried. "It is quite evident that my husband thinks so, or the lights would not have been extinguished by turning off the switch outside the door."
Both Jack and Rigby muttered something to the effect that they had finished. Lady Barmouth produced a tiny silver spirit lamp from the sideboard, the blue flame of which was little larger than a pin's point, sufficient to light a cigarette, but insufficient to illuminate a scrap of paper a foot away. In silence the cigarettes were handed round, and the well-trained voice of a servant was heard announcing Lord Barmouth. A closely muffled figure crept into the room, and proceeded to bury itself in a big armchair by the side of the wood-fire.
"These are my friends, Mr. Rigby and Mr. Masefield," Lady Barmouth said cheerfully. "I have told them that you would like to have a few words with them, George. You will find these gentlemen willing to speak quite freely."
"That is indeed good of you." The deep, clear ringing voice came from the fireplace. "I have been praying for something like this for the last twelve months. Still, it is more with Mr. Masefield than Mr. Rigby that I wish to speak. You have made a great discovery to-night, I understand. You have found out the source of those Nostalgo posters?"
"I think I have done more than that," Jack explained. "I have not only discovered their source, but I know where they are printed, and the process of their manufacture. If you like to put yourself in my hands and accompany me to-morrow night, you shall see the whole scheme for yourself."
Lord Barmouth was of opinion that it was not wise in the circumstances to take any such step. He cross-examined Jack at considerable length, his questions being pointed with marked intelligence. At the same time he said little or nothing about himself. Lady Barmouth sat there smiling behind the cover of the darkness, infinitely glad to see her husband taking an interest in the affairs of life once more.
"Don't you think it is rather late to-night?" she suggested; "besides, we are going too fast. With your intimate knowledge of the situation, and with the help of these gentlemen, surely we can devise some scheme for getting the better of that fiend Anstruther."
"Ay, you are right," Barmouth said, his deep voice ringing through the room. "I see a way now, a way as clear as daylight."
In his passionate emotion he dashed his foot forward so that the point of his shoe came with force against one of the logs in the grate. A blue flame spurted up, and died as suddenly as it had come. Jack and Rigby rose to leave. No sooner were they outside than Jack clutched his companion's arm eagerly.
"Did you see nothing?" Jack whispered. "By heaven, Lord Barmouth and the Nostalgo we saw in the forecourt to-night are one and the same person!"
Rigby's astonishment was frank and undisguised. It was quite evident that he had noticed nothing suspicious about the look or attitude of Lord Barmouth; indeed, he had been on the far side of the table when the master of the house had entered the room. But he was not altogether prepared to accept Jack's statement unless he could verify it by something more than a mere expression of opinion.
"Are you quite sure of that?" he asked. "Mind you, this is an exceedingly important matter, and if what you say is true, we have opened up a quite fresh development of the mystery."
"I am absolutely certain of it," Jack declared. "I had not the least idea of anything of the kind till we were both on our feet ready to go. It was at this point, you will remember, that Lord Barmouth displayed some feeling and accidentally touched the logs of wood on the fire with his foot. In the spurt of flame which followed, I had a perfect view of his face."
"Would you mind describing what you saw?" Rigby asked.
"You have only to look at the nearest poster displaying the features of Nostalgo, and your question is answered. It was only a flash, but the face was impressed upon my mind in the most vivid fashion. There was the same sinister expression of face, the same repulsive twist of the mouth, the same inexpressible gleam of the eyes. You know what I mean: the whole thing was exactly as we see it, on half the hoardings in London. Of course it is the face of a leering Mephistopheles. And yet I don't know; it occurred to me that there was something very pathetic and at the same time kindly about Barmouth's aspect. You know what I mean: imagine a kind-hearted, good-natured actor made up as repulsively as possible, and yet with the suggestion of his natural disposition behind him."
"Yes, I fancy I understand what you mean," Rigby replied thoughtfully. "But you don't suggest that the man really was made up, do you?"
Jack replied that he did and he didn't. There was something unreal about Barmouth, and yet it was impossible to believe that that sinister face was anything except just as nature made it. The friends walked along side by side in silence before another idea occurred to Rigby.
"It seems to me," he said, "that we must believe in the existence of two Nostalgos. The one you found near Panton Square was dead; in fact, the police sergeant testified to the fact. How or by what means that man's body was so mysteriously spirited away we are not very likely to find out. At any rate it is quite fair to assume that his friends had some desperate reason for spiriting the body away. Therefore, we may logically infer that Lord Barmouth cannot possibly be the same man you saw in Panton Square."
"That is a very fair assumption," Jack admitted. "But to carry your argument a bit further, we are bound to assume that there are no less than three Nostalgos. The suggestion is almost farcical, but there it is."
"What do you mean by three?" Rigby asked.
"Well, don't forget the man we saw in the forecourt of the house in Montrose Place. No mistake about his being a Nostalgo."
"Quite so," Rigby admitted. "I am with you there. But how do we know for certain that Nostalgo No. 2, so to speak, and Lord Barmouth are not the same man? Did you notice anything strange about the appearance of Barmouth as he came into the room to-night--that he was humpbacked or misshapen in any way?"
Jack was bound to admit that he had not noticed anything of the kind.
"I don't think we shall ever do much good unless we go direct to the fountain head," Jack said thoughtfully.
"Mexico," Rigby cried. "I see exactly what you mean."
"Mexico it is. We know perfectly well that when Barmouth went off to Mexico two years ago on a sporting expedition he was a normal man like you and me. If he had been so terribly disfigured by birth or accident as he appeared to-night we should have known it. A man in his position with an infirmity like that cannot hide it from the light of day. To carry the thing to a logical conclusion, if Barmouth had been like that when he went away, why should he be so dreadfully troubled about it now?"
Rigby applauded this sound reasoning. He could see that Jack had something on his mind, and urged him to proceed.
"I don't quite know what to make of it," Jack said. "As I observed just now, we seem to be face to face with the fact that there are two or three Nostalgos, and for all we know to the contrary, there may be a score more knocking about London. It has occurred to me more than once that these men must belong to some secret society."
Rigby was inclined to laugh at the idea. On being asked by Jack to explain what he saw that was fatal to the theory, he replied logically enough that such a thing was out of the question.
"My dear fellow, just think what you are saying," he exclaimed. "So far as my reading teaches me, the great object of a secret society is to be secret. Besides, you don't suggest for a moment that these men belong to any particular tribe, especially as we know perfectly well that Lord Barmouth, who is an Englishman, belongs to them. Nor would you want me to believe that these men are in the habit of having their faces operated upon by some ingenious doctor, so that they are in the position to recognize one another when they meet."
Jack was bound to admit that Rigby had the facts entirely upon his side. It seemed absolutely childish to believe that sane men would do this kind of thing, especially when it was very evident that these various Nostalgos were only too anxious to hide themselves from the light of day. Rigby did not pursue his advantage; he was quite content to judge that his argument had prevailed from the expression of Jack's face.
"But we need not carry that argument any further," he said. "I judge from your expression that you have another theory."
"I was just coming to that," Jack said. "We will assume for the sake of argument that when Barmouth went to Mexico he was without blemish of mind or body. That being so, he must have met with some terrible adventure which has resulted in this terrible disfigurement. Mind you, it is a disfigurement; it certainly is not natural; for instance, no three men could possibly have faces like that as the result of a freak of Nature. What I am trying to think is this: Barmouth got mixed up in some hideous secret society, and that he either carries on his face the badge of the tribe, or he has been purposely disfigured out of revenge for some dereliction of duty. However, this is only speculation after all, and we can do nothing till we have some fresh facts before us."
"I am inclined to think very highly of your theory all the same," Rigby said. "There is no questioning the fact that we have to look towards Mexico for an elucidation of the mystery. By Jove, I have nearly forgotten something. Wouldn't it be a good thing to find out if Anstruther had ever been to Mexico?"
"Of course it would," Jack exclaimed. "I'll see to that. I will go to Anstruther's to-morrow night and learn there. It will be hard indeed if I am unable to answer your question next time we meet."
It was fairly late the following afternoon before Jack found himself in Pan ton Square again. He had practically promised Lady Barmouth to tell Claire everything, but a natural reflection had shown him that this was not quite prudent. Not that he objected to take Claire into his confidence, but what he greatly feared was the girl's inability to control her feelings in the presence of Anstruther after she had learned everything. But, as Jack looked into the face of his betrothed, his doubts gradually vanished. It was a courageous as well as a beautiful face, and it occurred to Jack that Lady Barmouth had not done badly when she had selected Claire to be her confidante in this painful matter. Claire's dark eyes were turned interrogatively upon her lover. Perhaps he was looking a little more serious than usual; at any rate his grave face told her that he came with news of importance.
"My dear boy, what is the matter?" Claire asked. She twined her hands about his arm, and laid her head caressingly on his shoulder. It was impossible to resist that pleading upward glance. "I am sure you have something important to say to me."
"Against my better judgment," Jack laughed. "Yes, I am going to tell you something about your guardian."
Claire listened with the deepest attention as Jack proceeded to speak freely of the adventures of the last two days. He watched the change of her face, the flush and the pallor, and the dawning resolution which gave her mouth strength and firmness.
"I do not think you need be afraid for me," Claire said. "I will be brave and resolute; I will do my best to hide my feelings from Mr. Anstruther. This is a dreadful business altogether; but, dreadful as it is, we cannot draw back now. You have told me some strange things, but some of your facts are not facts at all."
"In what way have I been mistaken?" Jack asked.
"Well, as to Mr. Anstruther, for instance. You say that you saw him at Montrose Place last night for the best part of an hour."
"Well, so I did," Jack declared. "If you want anybody to prove that, ask Rigby. Anstruther was there somewhere about half-past ten, and when he left he had not the slightest intention of going home."
"Most extraordinary," Claire murmured. "Listen to what I have to say, what I should have to swear to if this thing ever went into a court of justice. Shortly after dinner last night Spencer Anstruther went directly to his study; he had not been there very long before he was playing his violin, and this he continued to do till one o'clock this morning. Now what do you make of that?"
"It seems almost incredible," Jack said. "Was there a break at all in the performance?"
Claire replied that there was a break of perhaps twenty-five minutes to half-an-hour, so far as she could judge, somewhere about eleven o'clock. Jack smiled with the air of a man who makes a discovery. This was just the period when Padini had turned up in Montrose Place. There was no time to go into theories now, but Jack felt that he would have a surprise for his friends later on.
"Tell me, tell me," he said, "do you think you can recollect the names of all the pieces that Anstruther played last night? I want you to try and repeat them to me exactly in the order that they occurred. This is more important than you would imagine."
It was a somewhat difficult task, but Claire managed it successfully at length. For a long time the girl bent thoughtfully over her writing table, and presently produced a neat list on which were inscribed the names of some ten or fifteen classical compositions.
"I think you will find that practically correct," she said . "I may not have recollected the exact order, but I think that is good enough for your purpose."
Masefield was quite sure of the fact. He folded the list, and carefully placed it in his pocket.
"Now there is one more thing I should like," he said. "Now, as you are perfectly well aware, Padini was giving a recital last night at the small Queen's Hall. You will remember this, more especially as your music agent sent you a programme, a thing he always does when there is anything of importance going on. Now, do you think you could find that programme for me? Not that it very much matters, because I can step 'round to Smithson's and get one for myself; still, if you happen to have it in the house----"
But Claire was quite certain that she had the programme somewhere. She produced it presently from a mass of papers on the piano.
"Now we shall get at it," Jack said. "I see by this programme that Padini is down for no less than six items. He had a most enthusiastic audience, as I happen to know, which really means that he played about twelve pieces altogether. Now I will read to you the first four of these compositions. They are respectively Etude 25, Chopin; Wiegenlied, Brahms; Moszkowski's Five Waltzes; Liszt's 'Die Lorelei.' Now, unless I am greatly mistaken, you will find that those pieces were played in the same order by Anstruther in his study last night. Is not that so?"
"Amazing!" Claire cried. "Absolutely it is exactly as you say. What does it mean?"
"We will take the list right through till the end if you like," Jack replied. "The same thing will apply to both lists. Now is it not an extraordinary thing that those two men should have gone through exactly the same programme, item by item, without the slightest variation? And all the time they were some two miles apart?"
"It seems absolutely incapable of explanation," Claire cried. "Oh! the explanation will be simple enough when the time comes," Jack laughed; "but you will see for yourself that the thing is not quite finished. It is obvious enough that Padini's recital finished at about eleven, whereas you say that Anstruther went on till about one o'clock in the morning. The next business is to find out where Padini was playing so late--possibly at a smoking concert or something of that kind. At any rate I am going to find out, and then I shall discover that the supplementary programme will be exactly the same as your list."
"Is it some new science?" Claire asked, "some wonderful new discovery that Mr. Anstruther is perfecting before he submits it to the world?"
"Not a bit of it," Jack said practically. "There is nothing occult here. And now I must go. I will see you at dinner."
Jack went off, bent upon putting his discovery to the test. There was not the slightest trouble in ascertaining where Padini had passed the hours between eleven and one of the previous evening. As Masefield had anticipated, the artist had been persuaded to lend his services to the Bohemia Clef Club, where he had been the lion of the evening. The fact Jack ascertained at the club itself, a musical member affording him all the information he desired. The previous night's talent had been of a very middle class nature, so that Padini had found himself in great request. He had been exceedingly obliging, so Jack's informant said, and had practically played straight away for a couple of hours. Jack jotted down the names of the various items executed by Padini, and on comparing them with the list given him by Claire, found that they tallied exactly.
"The plot thickens," he murmured, as he walked rapidly away in the direction of thePlanetoffice, there to lay his most recent discoveries before Rigby. "What an ingenious rascal we have to deal with, to be sure!"
Rigby was emphatically of the same opinion. He did not see how it was possible to better Jack's suggestion that he should dine at Anstruther's that night and ascertain all he could as to Anstruther's past, and especially as to whether the latter had ever been in Mexico.
"There is one little thing we have quite overlooked," Jack suggested as he rose to depart. "We have got to get inside that study. Anstruther's game is to lock himself in and pretend that his violin soothes his mind and induces a proper train of thought. That's his story, of course. I have ascertained that Padini is doing nothing to-night, but that will not prevent the music going on all the same. Now if you could hit upon some scheme whereby----"
"I know exactly what you mean," Rigby said; "you want to see the inside of the study just at the critical moment. I think our game is to make a diversion outside. I'll just turn over the matter in my mind, and if I can see a really artistic way of doing it, I will send you a telegram just before you go to dinner. The diversion, of course, will come from the outside of the house."
Jack felt sure that the matter was quite safe in the capable hands of Dick Rigby. He was surer still when a little before eight o'clock his landlady handed him a telegram containing just three words from Rigby. Before he slept that night, Jack felt pretty sure that the mystery of Anstruther's violin practice would be a secret from him no longer.
It was hard work to keep his feelings under control, to sit in the drawing-room before dinner was announced and exchange commonplaces with his brilliant host. Anstruther had rarely been in better form; he had the air and mien of a man with whom the world goes very well indeed; success seemed to stand out in big letters upon him. Usually Anstruther was a man of moods; to-night he was merely a society creature with apparently no heed of the morrow.
If Jack had any misgivings on the subject of Claire's behavior towards her guardian, his uneasiness was speedily set at rest. The most critical observer could not have detected the slightest jarring note. It was all the same through dinner: Anstruther monopolized most of the conversation, and Claire followed every word with flattering attention. Dessert was on the table at length before Jack carefully led up the conversation to foreign travel. He had seen much of the world himself, so that there were several places of mutual interest to be discussed with Anstruther.
"There is one part of the world, however," Jack said, as he carelessly peeled a peach, "that I have always been curious to see. I allude to the land of the Aztecs, those wonderful ruined cities of Mexico, of which we know so little and profess to know so much. Now, don't you think that those people must have been of an exceedingly high state of civilization?"
The question was so innocently asked, and Jack's artistic deference was so subtly conveyed, that Anstruther fell headlong into the trap.
"I should say there is not the slightest doubt about it," the host responded. "I have been there; indeed, I spent a goodish part of my time in and about Montezuma."
"And about when would that be?" Jack asked.
Anstruther explained, without giving definite dates, that it was about two years before. Jack proceeded to discuss the matter in a casual kind of way. He was anxious to know whether any of the old customs of the Aztecs still prevailed; he had heard that to a great extent the religion of these people had been built up on freemasonry. Did, for instance, Anstruther believe in the legends of terrible revenges which these people used to inflict upon their enemies?
But Anstruther declined to put his head further into the lion's mouth; he seemed to become suddenly a little uneasy and suspicious and changed the conversation to safer grounds. Still, Jack had learned quite as much as he had expected to learn, and Anstruther's very reticence confirmed Jack in the feeling that his host knew everything there was to know about the terrible misfortunes of the man or men called Nostalgo.
It was getting fairly late now, and Jack was beginning to wonder whether the hour had not yet arrived for Rigby's promised diversion. If it came now it would be merely wasted, seeing that nothing could be gained by Rigby's ingenious device until Anstruther was safe in his study. He showed no signs, however, of any disposition to move; his face had grown placid again, and he was talking with all his old charm of manner on various topics of interest.
Jack did not fail to notice the figure of Serena as she flitted noiselessly about the room. It had not escaped his notice, either, that the woman had appeared more than usually anxious and eager when Mexico had been mentioned. Serena disappeared from the room a moment in her soft, flitting manner, coming back a moment later with a telegram, which she laid silently by her master's side. Anstruther opened the envelope carelessly, and glanced at the contents.
Just for an instant his face grew dark as a thunder-cloud, and something like an oath escaped his lips. It was all like a lightning flash, but the swift change had not been lost on Jack. Anstruther twisted up the telegram carefully, and thrust it in one of the shaded candles before him, as if he needed a light for his cigar. Jack felt that he would have given much for a sight of that telegram, but already it was a little pile of gray ashes upon Anstruther's dessert plate.
"A great nuisance," the latter said airily; "that is the worst of being a man of science. But I am not going out to-night for anybody. I have got some new music I want to try over presently."
Jack murmured something appropriate to the occasion. Claire had already left the table, with the suggestion that perhaps the men would like coffee in the drawing-room.
"You stay here and smoke," said Anstruther; "you won't mind my leaving you, of course, especially as I am so anxious to get back to my music."
So saying, Anstruther pitched his cigar end on the ash tray, and moved off in the direction of his study. He had a gay, debonair manner now; he hummed a fragment of an operatic air as he walked along. There was the jangle of a telephone bell presently; almost immediately afterwards the study door was heard to shut and lock, and the music began.
"It seems almost impossible to believe that that can be Anstruther," Jack said to himself. "No man could improve like that in so short a time. I wonder what Rigby is doing. I hope he won't spoil the pretty scheme by over-haste. Probably in the course of half an-hour he will deem it time to begin."
Evidently Rigby had been of the same opinion, for a full half-hour elapsed before a sound came from outside the house. Anstruther was well into his second theme before there was a sudden knocking and hammering on the front door, and a stentorian voice burst into cries of "Fire! Fire!"
So spontaneous and natural was the whole thing, that Jack was taken absolutely aback for a moment. It occurred to him, of course, that a fire had broken out inside the house, and that some passer-by had discovered it. Again came the hammering on the door and the strident shouts of those outside. Jack made a leap for the hall, and raced up-stairs to the drawing-room three steps at a time. Claire had thrown her book aside, and stood, pale and startled, demanding to know what was the matter.
"Somebody outside is calling 'fire,'" Jack explained hurriedly; "not that I fancy there is much the matter--the kitchen chimney or something of that kind. There they go again!"
Once more the hammering and yelling were upraised; a frightened servant crept across the hall to the front door and opened it. And yet, despite all this turmoil, the beautiful soft strains of music below were continuing. Not for a second did they cease; the player was evidently too wrapped in his music to be conscious of outside disturbances. Not that the clamor lacked force and volume, for now that the front door was open the din was absolutely deafening. Through the break in the disturbance the sweet, liquid strains of music went on. Fond of his instrument as Anstruther might have been, he could be wide awake and alert enough on ordinary occasions, as Jack knew only too well. Why, then, was he so callous on this occasion?
"Had not you better go down and arouse my guardian?" Clare suggested; "surely he is the proper man to look to a thing like this."
Jack tumbled eagerly down the stairs, and thundered with both fists on the study door. As he had more than half expected, no response came to his summons. The music had become still more melodious and dreamy; the player might have been far away. As Jack turned, he saw that some half-dozen men were standing in the hall, one of whom gave him a palpable wink. It was Rigby's wink, and Jack detected it instantly.
"There don't seem to be so very much the matter, sir," Rigby said. "No more than the kitchen fire. Only we thought we'd drop in and let you know. You chaps go to the kitchen and see what you can do."
"How on earth did you manage that?" Jack asked.
"Only a matter of burning a little magnesium light by the back door," Rigby explained, with a grin; "but it seems to me only part of our duty to acquaint the master of the house with the fact that something is wrong. Is that him playing now, Jack?"
"Nobody else," Jack replied. "Isn't it wonderful? Anybody would think he was a great artist absolutely lost to all sense of his surroundings. Still, as you say, it is our duty to let him know what is going on, even if we have to break in the door."
Rigby grinned responsively. Secure in his disguise, he was not afraid of being taken for anything else but a street loafer eager to earn a more or less honest shilling. He tried the door and found it locked; he ran back a pace or two and hurled himself with full force against the oak door. Crack went the door on its hinges, the woodwork gave inwardly, and the room was disclosed to view.
The music had not stopped or faltered for an instant, the whole apartment was flooded with a delicate melody. Jack stood there puzzled and bewildered, and with a feeling that he would wake presently and find that it was all a dream.
"Absolutely stupendous!" he cried; "music fit food for the gods, and not a sign of the player!"
For the room was absolutely empty!
There they stood in the empty room, neither speaking, and gazing about them as if they expected some solution of the strange mystery to fall upon them. The wildest part of the whole thing was that though the music continued in the same sweet, harmonious way, there was not the slightest suggestion or indication of where it came from. It could not possibly have been a phonograph or a gramophone or anything of that kind, as the instrument in that case would have been in sight. And yet the whole room was flooded with that beautiful melody as if an invisible choir had been there making the music of the gods.
"I declare it makes me feel quite queer," Rigby said; "but of course there must be some practical explanation of it. Can you suggest any common sense solution?"
"No, but I am quite sure that Anstruther could," Jack replied. "This has nothing to do with the other world. What's that?"
Though Jack spoke coolly enough, he was feeling just a little nervous himself. From the hall beyond came a quick, buzzing noise, like a muffled circular saw, which resolved itself presently into the wild whirling of the handle of the telephone, as if some one were trying to get a call in a desperate hurry. Rigby jumped at once to the explanation, and Jack proceeded immediately to make a close examination of the room.
He was still in the act of doing so, when a startled cry from Rigby brought him up all standing. An instant later and Anstruther was there, demanding to know the meaning of this unwarrantable intrusion. Rigby congratulated himself upon his disguise; he had no fancy at that moment to be recognized by Anstruther.
"Who is that loafer yonder?" Anstruther demanded passionately. "What is the blackguard doing in my study? And, if it comes to that, what are you doing here too?"
Jack proceeded to explain exactly what had happened. In spite of the confusion of the moment, he had not failed to notice the fact that the music had ceased directly Anstruther had entered the room. It was quite evident that Anstruther had not the slightest idea of Rigby's identity. He was clearly taken in by the story of the fire, and pitched Rigby a half-crown, which the latter acknowledged hoarsely, after the manner of the class he was made up to represent.
"Well, I suppose it is all right now," Anstruther muttered. Usually cool and collected enough, he looked white and very much agitated. Something had evidently gone terribly wrong with that man of blood and iron. "Get these fellows out of the house, please, Masefield. I have had a great deal to worry me to-night, and I want to be quiet."
There being nothing further to wait for, and Rigby, having practically gained his point, departed with an intimation to Jack that he would wait outside for him. Masefield could see that Anstruther was regarding him with an eye of deep suspicion. But it was no cue of Jack's to notice this; he w r anted to make matters as smooth as possible.
"I suppose you were not very faraway?" he said. "I heard your violin a few minutes before the fire broke out. I wonder you did not see it for yourself."
Anstruther's face cleared slightly, though Jack noticed that his hand trembled, and that his pallid lips were twitching. With a commonplace expression or two, Jack turned and left the house as if nothing out of the usual run had happened. He found Rigby patiently waiting for him at the corner.
"Well, what do you think of that?" Rigby asked. "I am exceedingly glad to find that Anstruther did not recognize me. A most unlucky thing that he should have come back like that. Given a half-an-hour alone in that room, it would have been an odd thing if we had not solved the mystery of the invisible musician. But it is hardly safe to stop and discuss the question here. Walk on to thePlanetoffice, and wait for me there."
"Is there any more to be done to-night?" Jack asked, when he and his friend were alone once more, seated in the latter's office. "Shall we stop here, or do you want to proceed further before you go to bed?"
"Well, you can do as you please," Rigby said. "I don't know that I particularly desire your services at present. My notion is to go back to Panton Square, and hang about on the off-chance of seeing something."
"And spend half the night in dodging the police," Jack laughed. "That's a very primitive idea of yours; I flatter myself I have a much better idea than that. Anstruther will never betray himself; we haven't the slightest chance of trapping him. Now, unless I am altogether out of it, Padini is the man we want to get hold of. He is exceedingly vain; like most artists, there is nothing secretive about him, and I am told that he is particularly fond of a glass of champagne. Depend upon it, that fellow will talk fast enough when the time comes. If he doesn't, we can make him."
"But we must have something to go upon," Rigby observed thoughtfully. "I think we are justified in assuming that the fellow is a wrong 'un; anyway, our hands will be greatly strengthened if we can find something to his discredit."
"That's exactly what I mean to do," Jack said. "Now Bates is quite as much interested in this matter as we are, and though you have backed yourself against the police in this case, there is no reason why you shouldn't make use of them. Besides, we are not bound to tell Bates too much. If there is anything to be found out to the discredit of Padini, Bates is the very man for our purpose."
But, as it transpired subsequently, Bates was not available. He had just gone off, so the sergeant said, having been called in to investigate a burglary quite recently discovered in Belgrave Gardens. It was something exceedingly neat in the way of a burglary, the sergeant explained, with the air of a connoisseur in such matters; in fact, the place had been routed during the progress of a big reception. No ladders had been used, no wedges or commonplace implements of that kind; indeed, it was more than suspected that the burglary was the work of two of the guests.
An unfortunate footman, being where he ought not to have been, had had his suspicions aroused by the movements of two distinguished-looking men in evening dress. He had come quite unexpectedly upon them in one of the corridors, and had so far forgotten himself as to want to know what they were doing there. Immediately one of them had felled him with some blunt, heavy instrument, and he had only just time to yell a note of warning before he fainted. The cry was taken up at once, and immediately the corridor was filled with men guests. In the confusion, and owing to the fact that the thieves themselves were in evening dress, it was impossible to lay hands on the culprits. All this the sergeant told his visitors with an air of great enjoyment.
"If you give us the number we will walk round there," Rigby said. "Thank you very much."
The big house in Belgrave Gardens had lost most of its air of simmering excitement by the time the two friends reached there. They were informed that Bates had nearly finished his investigations, and, indeed, the inspector came into the hall at that moment, accompanied by Lord Longworth. He held in his hand a beautifully embroidered silk muffler--one of those choice affairs which are large enough to cover a dinner table, and yet small enough to go into a waistcoat pocket.
"Very strange indeed, your lordship," Bates was saying; "I can't understand it at all. Here is your injured footman prepared to swear that one of his assailants was wearing that muffler when he came into the house, that is, on his arrival. And here we have Mrs. Montague ready to swear that the muffler belongs to her. Whether she likes it or not, I really must insist upon my right to take this wrap away with me. If it proves to belong to Mrs. Montague, why, of course----"
And the detective shrugged his shoulders. A moment later, and he was in the street with Masefield and Rigby. He listened carefully enough to the dramatic version of the story they had to tell him, and professed himself ready to do anything required of him.
"Of course, I know nothing whatever about this violin mystery," he said. "I have quite enough to do to look after the native element in the way of rascality. But there are ways and means of getting the better of the gentle foreigner."
"But I always understood that Scotland Yard employed detectives of all nationalities?" Rigby observed. "Haven't you got anybody on your staff with a knowledge of international crime?"
Bates responded that such was the case. If the friends liked, he would go with them at once to the residence of Superintendent Zimburg, and there see what could be done. "As far as I am personally concerned, my own hands are very full to-night."
"Your sergeant told us that this was a very interesting case," Jack suggested. "Is it possible that this burglary was the work of some guests invited to the house?"
"Honestly, I believe it to be the case," Bates proceeded to explain. "After all said and done, modern society is a pretty queer mixture. Given a good presence and a good address, plus the appearance of the possession of money, it is quite possible for a man to get anywhere. Take a big reception like the one that Lord Longworth gave to-night. Now, it would be quite fair to assume that his lordship and his wife were not personally acquainted with at least a third of the guests present. Somebody takes a friend, and that friend takes somebody else, and there you are. Of course, you are aware of the fact that at all big weddings nowadays it is absolutely necessary to employ detectives. To-night's business was exceedingly neat and novel, and might have been wonderfully successful but for the footman. All the same I am quite certain that the thing was executed by somebody who is actually a guest of his lordship."
"And not so much as a clue left behind," Jack laughed.
"Well, there is, and there isn't," Bates admitted. "I had a good look round when everybody was gone, and the only thing I could lay my hands on was this wonderful silk muffler. Nobody owned it; the injured footman declares that he saw a gentleman arriving earlier in the evening who had this muffler about his neck. Here was a fine clue, I thought to myself. And then Mrs. Montague comes back in her brougham and claims this thing as her own. Distinctly annoying, don't you think?"
"Annoying enough," Rigby agreed; "but is the muffler in question so very much out of the common?"
Bates was emphatically of the opinion that such was the case. He produced the thing from his pocket, and the three men proceeded to examine it in the light of a street lamp. Jack appeared as if about to say something, then suddenly changed his mind, and began to whistle instead. They came at length once more to Shannon Street police station, where Bates telephoned to Superintendent Zimburg, asking the latter if he would come round immediately. He arrived a few moments later--a slim, dark little man, with a vivacious manner and a beard with an interrogative cock to it. He smiled in a greasy sort of way at the suggestion that there might be some prominent foreign scoundrel in London with whom he was not acquainted.
"I know the whole gang," he said. "That is exactly my business. Have I seen anything, or do I know anything of this Padini? Probably I do, but not under that name. Oh, yes, it is quite a usual thing for some of the pink of cosmopolitan rascals to be talented. For instance, I know at least three who might have made great names as artists, only they prefer the seamy side of life. There is another who might have been a poet. Therefore, I see no reason why this Padini, or whatever his proper name may be, should not be a really great violinist. If you have such a thing as a portrait----"
But Bates had nothing of the kind, and the whole thing looked like coming to a deadlock, when Rigby suddenly recollected that a portrait of Padini was to be obtained at the office of thePlanet. The violinist's portrait had been produced in thePlanettwo days before, and the original was still lying about the office.
"I'll take a cab and be back in ten minutes," Rigby said.
He was back in the prescribed time, and produced a cabinet portrait of Padini, which he handed over to the superintendent.
"Now, what do you make of that?" he asked.