Jack said no more for the present. He closed the front door quietly, not forgetting, however, to glance at the great clock, and stopping to calculate that a good half-hour must elapse before Anstruther returned. It would have been a great misfortune indeed if the latter had come home at that moment. In a mechanical kind of way Serena turned into the dining-room, where she proceeded to pull down the blinds and switch on the lights. At a sign from Jack, Lady Barmouth remained where she was for the moment, and Masefield, together with Claire, entered the dining-room.
"I am bound to ask you a few questions," he said, turning to Serena. "For instance, I have yet to learn why the walking image of that poster should have frightened you so terribly."
"It was Adolpho returned from the grave," Serena murmured. Apparently she was talking to herself. "Beyond all question poor Adolpho----"
She paused in some confusion, and looked guiltily from Claire to Jack. The latter was not slow to take up the point.
"So you have actually seen the man before?" he demanded. "Well, we will not discuss that at present. A little later on perhaps I shall ask you to speak more freely. Meanwhile, I may as well tell you that I came here to-night with a lady desirous of seeing you."
Serena was alert and eager in a moment. Jack could see that the fighting look had returned to her face; her eyes dilated strangely. She seemed to guess by some subtle instinct exactly what was going to happen.
"My sister," she whispered. Her voice was very strained and low. "Something tells me that my sister is here. I pray you go away and get rid of her at once. Tell her any lie, invent any falsehood. If you have the slightest feeling for the most miserable woman in the world you will do this thing for me."
"But it is too late," Jack protested. "Lady Barmouth is with me; she is waiting in the hall at the present moment, and she has already seen your face."
"But I do not understand," Serena cried, stretching out her hands hopelessly. "I have but one sister whom I believe to be living, and her name is Grace. Lady Barmouth cannot possibly be anything to me."
"Lady Barmouth is your sister all the same," Jack explained. "She married Lord Barmouth after you left home; she has told me your sad story, and you must believe that she has been looking for you everywhere. Surely you would not punish yourself for that which was after all merely an act of girlish folly?"
Serena covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. Her head fell forward on the table. Presently an arm stole about her neck. When she looked up again it was to meet the tender and softened gaze of Lady Barmouth.
"And so we meet again like this after all these years," Lady Barmouth said gently. "Oh, my dear Serena, how could you go off like that; how could you leave us all without a word or a sign? Our father was a harsh man; his pride was his besetting sin, but he would have forgiven you and taken you to his heart again if only you had returned to the old home. Didn't you suppose that I cared? And after all said and done, what is your crime? You trusted a man who was not worthy of your affection, and he deserted you because you lacked the money for which he married you. If that is a crime, then there are many thousands of poor women in the world in the same sad plight."
Meanwhile Jack and Claire had crept quietly from the room. It would have been indelicate to remain there in the circumstances. Jack, looking at Claire, noted that the tears were also in her eyes.
"What a strangely pathetic thing," Claire murmured. "How did it come about, Jack?"
Jack explained the story of the photograph, but Claire was hardly listening. It seemed such a strange, sad story to her, this pathetic meeting between the two sisters.
"But you don't suppose that Mr. Anstruther knows?" Claire asked. "You do not imagine for a moment that he is aware of the fact that Serena is Lady Barmouth's sister?"
"I hope to goodness no," Jack exclaimed. "But I don't see how the thing could be possible. To begin with, the sisters are not in the least alike, and in addition to this Serena had not the least idea that Lady Barmouth had married. What I am most afraid of now is that Anstruther should come back and discover those two women together."
"Claire nodded gravely, with one eye on the clock. It was only a matter of minutes now when Anstruther would return. He was dining at his club to-night, Claire explained, with Mr. Carrington, at eight o'clock, and as it was now a quarter past seven, there was not much time for him to dress and get back to St. James's Street again.
"In that case I must intrude myself upon those two ladies," Jack said firmly. "I will put Lady Barmouth in a cab and send her home. It will be quite easy for the sisters to arrange a meeting at Lady Barmouth's house. Keep Anstruther out of the dining-room if he comes in."
Jack strode resolutely across the hall, and placed the matter tersely and vigorously before the sisters. "It would never do," he explained, "for Anstruther to find you here at this moment."
Serena's eyes were swollen with weeping. There were the deep marks of tears upon her cheeks. Lady Barmouth's worldly training had stood her in better stead, but she also carried traces of emotion which could not be wiped out in a moment.
"I am going to put you in a cab at once," Jack said. "Anstruther may be here any instant, and you can imagine how necessary it is to keep him in the dark. Besides, you can easily arrange a meeting in a safer atmosphere than this."
With a brief remark to the effect that she would communicate with Serena again, Lady Barmouth left the room, and permitted Jack to escort her to a cab. The latter breathed more freely as the clatter of the horses' hoofs died away. He ran back quickly to the house again to give a few last words of instruction to Claire.
"You look all right now," he said, "but Serena's case is entirely different. Take my advice, and send her up to her room. If you are not going to dine in the proper sense of the word, there is no reason why Serena should appear again till Anstruther has gone to his club. And I will go, too; I don't want our worthy host to know that I have been here this evening."
Jack went off thoughtfully in the direction of the square. It was a particularly good-class neighborhood, and generally very quiet at this time of the evening. The half-hour past seven had just struck from a neighboring clock. In most of the dining-rooms on the north side of the square brilliant lights demonstrated the fact that folk were at dinner. With the exception of a solitary policeman nobody was in sight. As is usual with the majority of London squares, the place was none too well lighted, and there were just sufficient lamps to throw the shadows of the garden in deeper relief. It had often occurred to Jack how easy crime and violence would be in circumstances like these.
Jack's imagination was working freely now; indeed, it would have been odd if his brain had not been screwed to a high pitch by the events of the day. Coming towards him now, swinging along at a good pace, was a tall, slim figure, which seemed familiar to Masefield. As the figure paused under a lamp to look at his watch, Jack could see the figure was that of Anstruther. He congratulated himself upon the fact that he had got away from Panton Square before Anstruther returned. He crossed the road in a casual sort of way, and passed along under the shadow of the houses so that Anstruther had no idea how he was being watched.
The latter paused again, just by the entrance to the square gardens, the gates of which had not yet been locked, though it was considerably past the hour when the gardens were closed to the public. Anstruther stood there as if debating something in his mind, then suddenly another figure came like a lightning flash from inside the garden gates, and fell upon Anstruther with terrible swiftness.
So sudden and unexpected was it that Jack could hardly believe the evidence of his own eyes. Anstruther gave one gurgling cry, his hands went up as if imploring assistance, then he settled down to a fray which could only end in one fashion. It was impossible where Jack stood for him to make out anything more than the mere outline of the man who had so unexpectedly fallen upon Anstruther. But there was no mistaking the grimness of his intention: there was sinister design in every movement of the body This was no common square thief, intent upon a paltry meed of plunder, but a man who had deliberately picked out his prey with the intention of mauling it to the death.
All this passed as it were in the twinkling of an eye. Jack knew now that he would have to pull himself together and advance to the rescue. As he flew across the road he heard in a mechanical sort of fashion the heavy footstep of a policeman clanging on the quiet pavement some little way off. Here, at any rate, was aid fairly close at hand. But Jack was not the kind of man to wait in an emergency like this. Before he could cross the road he saw that Anstruther was prostrate on the pavement, with his assailant kneeling cat-like upon his chest. The man was evidently fumbling for something, probably a weapon of the noiseless kind, for Jack could see his right hand working in a hip pocket. With a headlong leap Jack fell upon the would-be assassin, and clutched him by the throat. At the same time a police whistle shrilled.
But the man kneeling on Anstruther's chest was not taken aback for an instant. With a quick upward motion of his body he pitched Jack clean over his head, and, rolling off Anstruther's chest, darted like a snake into the gardens. By this time three policemen were upon the scene. "No, I don't think he is hurt much," Jack explained, as Anstruther scrambled to his feet, and gazed wildly around him. "No damage done, eh?"
Anstruther explained that he was none the worse for his adventure. He seemed to be under the impression that he had been the victim of some loafer's cupidity. He could give no description of his assailant; indeed, he said that he had no idea now but to get away and keep an important appointment. He tossed his card over to the police, and went coolly down the road.
"We can get that fellow all the same," Jack said. "He is in the gardens somewhere. Suppose you three men stand round the square while I go inside and drive him out. One of you lend me a lantern."
The quest was by no means a long one. At the fourth cast of the lantern Jack descried his man crouching down under a belt of laurels. He reached forward and dragged the fellow up by the neck.
"I am a bigger man than you are," Jack said. "Do you come quietly, or are you going to take it fighting?"
By way of reply the man raised his hat; his face was exposed.
"I am not going to take it at all," he said. "You will be good enough to put the police off my scent and have a cab handy so that I can get away without being seen. We have met before, sir."
It was a fitting crown to a day of surprises. For the man who stood before Jack was the same Nostalgo he had conveyed in the guise of a dead body to Shannon Street police station.
The man standing there showed not the slightest trace of alarm. There was just the suggestion of a smile on his face, as if he felt confident of his position. Jack could even see that he was fingering a cigarette case, as if he were thinking more about tobacco than anything else. He advanced a little nearer to his pursuer, and the suggestion of a smile broadened to a look of absolute amusement.
"It seems to me that we have met before," he said, with an accent that left no doubt as to his nationality. "But I have just reminded you of the fact. The question is, what are you going to do?"
"Well, you are a very cool hand," Jack replied. "My obvious duty is to hand you over to the police for the attempted murder of Mr. Spencer Anstruther."
"Instead of which you are going to do nothing of the kind," the stranger replied. "Besides, you are quite wrong. I am prepared to admit the assault on Mr. Anstruther, but as to murdering him--nothing of the kind. Besides, you know perfectly well you are consumed with curiosity to know all about my mysterious self."
Jack smiled to himself despite the gravity of the situation. The stranger had hit off his thoughts exactly.
"You are naturally anxious to know," he said, "what happened to me after you were good enough to escort my unconscious body to Shannon Street police station. I see you are a little dubious as to whether I am the right man or not; but if you looked at me carefully, you would see there is no mistake whatever."
Jack advanced a few paces nearer the speaker, and surveyed him closely in the blinding light of the lantern. There was no doubt whatever that this was one and the same Nostalgo. There was a certain mark in the shape of a crescent scar on his chin, the same scantiness of eyebrow, and the same peculiar droop of the lids.
"I am quite satisfied that you are the same man," Jack said.
"That's all right," the stranger cried, eagerly. "Of course, I know quite well that you are deeply interested in this Nostalgo mystery, and good fortune has placed you in the position to find out all about it. Get rid of those fellows, and call me a hansom. As a guarantee of good faith, here is my card. The address leaves a great deal to be desired, but I assure you my quarters are a great deal more comfortable than the locality would convey. If you have not yet dined, perhaps you would not mind partaking of my bread and salt."
Jack did not hesitate a moment longer. It was, perhaps, playing it rather low down on the police, but it seemed almost a criminal folly to waste so golden an opportunity as this. If the man had been given in custody for the murderous assault upon Spencer Anstruther, there would be long and tedious investigations, which would not only delay the solution of the trouble, but perhaps scare away others who were more or less party to the mystery. After all said and done, Anstruther was not a penny the worse for his adventure, and no harm could be done in defeating the so-called ends of justice.
"You stay where you are," Jack said, "and I will see what I can do for you. The police are On three sides of the square, leaving this side open to me. It is only a matter of a little patience, and the thing is accomplished."
Jack emerged cautiously into the road and looked about him. So far as he could see the street was deserted, though he could hear the constables making signs to one another on the other three sides of the square. Whilst he was still debating in his mind what to do, an empty hansom crawled towards him. Jack ran back and signed to the driver not to stop.
"You can earn a sovereign if you like," he said. "Don't ask any questions, but do exactly what I tell you. Turn back, go just to the corner of the square, and then return slowly; when you are opposite the gates, pull up as if there was something the matter with your horse. Then a man will come out and jump into your cab. You are to drive him to the address which I am going to give you without asking any questions. Here is your sovereign, and now listen carefully to the address. That's all."
Jack returned hurriedly to the gardens, at the same time whistling loudly as if he had need of assistance. It was not long before the three constables came swarming over the railings, guided to the right spot by the flash of Jack's lantern.
"Now's your time," he whispered hurriedly. "There is a hansom waiting for you by the gate, and the driver knows exactly what to do and where to take you. He is already paid his fare."
The man Nostalgo smiled and vanished. It was an easy matter to satisfy the police that their quarry had eluded Masefield, and that he was still hiding somewhere in the gardens. Jack left them to their search presently under the plea that he had no further time to waste. He walked as far as Albany Street, and there took a cab to Mare Street, Hackney.
It was not a particularly desirable neighborhood, as the man Nostalgo had pointed out. The destination was a side street of great dingy houses, which a generation or two back had been inhabited by wealthy tradesmen and the like. Now the large houses had been cut up into small flats and tenements, and for the most part were occupied by artisans and the like. The gutter swarmed with children, disheveled-looking women stood gossiping on the door-steps; round a flaming gin palace a group of loafers had gathered. It seemed to Jack high time to dismiss his hansom, for evidently vehicles of that kind were not frequent visitors to the street. More than one of the loafers lounging heavily against the greasy walls looked pointedly at Jack, but he was not the class of man to be tackled single-handed, and therefore he was allowed to proceed unmolested to No. 14, where he asked for Mr. James Smith.
A surly-looking porter, evidently considerably the worse for drink, replied that Smith lived on the fifth floor.
"Not that I have ever seen him," he growled, propitiated by Jack's half-crown; "sort of secretive chap, only goes out after dark and all that sort of thing. Shouldn't wonder if the police came and walked off with him any day; but that's no business of mine, so long as he pays his rent regularly and don't give no trouble. Keeps a couple of servants, he does; but they ain't English, and we don't have no truck with them."
Unenlightened by this fragment of a biography, Jack made his way up the greasy staircase. There must have been scores of families living in the self-same house, for Jack could hear the cries of children, and an occasional oath from some angry man. He came at length to the fifth floor, the outer door of which was closed, and on this he knocked. He knocked a third time before the door was cautiously opened, and the sallow, almond-eyed face of a Chinaman peered out. Apparently the Celestial was satisfied as to his visitor, for he merely bowed and stood aside so that Jack might enter. Then the door was closed again and locked. There was another door at the end of a dingy passage, the walls of which had not been papered for years; but a passage through this revealed a different state of affairs entirely.
It was idle to enquire by what magic this thing had been brought about, but here, in this home of wretchedness and desolation, was a luxurious and comfortable home. In what appeared to be the hall was a remarkably fine specimen of Persian carpet. There were Moorish hangings, luxurious lounges and divans--the whole illuminated by a shaded lamp which depended from the ceiling. Jack could see other rooms beyond, quite as luxuriously furnished. In one of them a table had been laid out with a fair white cloth, and on the snowy damask appeared to be what was a perfectly appointed meal.
Jack could see the shaded lights falling on the flowers and silver, upon gold-necked bottles, and ruby wines in cut-glass decanters. A negro dressed like an English butler came silently from the room, carrying a silver coffee service in his hand. It was a fairy kind of dream, coming as it did upon the edge of stern reality. Jack would have been surprised had he not been long past that emotion. As it was, he allowed the Chinese servant to relieve him of his hat and coat, after which he was escorted to a small room at the back, where his queer host was smoking something quite exceptional in the way of a cigar.
"I thought you would come," he said. It was only when he stood up under the full light of the lamps that Jack could see what a fine figure of a man he was. "Sit down and try one of these cigars--dinner will not be ready for quite a quarter of an hour. You are rather surprised to find anything of this kind here, eh?"
"Well, rather," Jack said drily; "you hardly expect eastern palaces in the slums. I won't be vulgarly curious and ask why a man of your apparent means prefers to take up his quarters here, but what I want to know is this--how on earth did you manage to get all this luxury and refinement here without arousing the suspicions of your neighbors? There are men--ay, and women, too--under the same roof who would murder you cheerfully, if only to get hold of your silver coffee service."
"Oh, that's explained easily enough," Nostalgo cried. "My two servants are very faithful to me; they practically know no English, and when they go out they are dressed very very differently to what you see them now. As to the rest, we smuggled the things here a few at a time, and we did the papering and upholstering between us. As to why I choose to live here--ah, that is quite another matter."
The stranger finished with a stern abruptness that told Jack pretty plainly he was not expected to ask any further questions on that head. "You will know more about me presently," he said. "Meanwhile, I dare say you are curious to know what brought me lying apparently dead near Panton Square, and how my body disappeared from the police station. Of course, you suspect Anstruther of being at the bottom of the whole business; in fact, I presume Lord Barmouth told you all about that."
Here was another surprise, but Jack did not express it in words. He merely nodded, as if he took the whole thing for granted.
"We will let that pass," he said. "But why did Anstruther desire to have you put out of the way like that?"
"Well, it was either Anstruther or myself," the stranger said coolly. "To give you some idea of the feelings I entertain towards Anstruther, I will ask you to kindly look at that craotint over the mantelpiece. You may not believe it, but that picture represents me before I came under the baneful influence of the man we are discussing. Will you please look at it carefully?"
It was barely possible to recognize in those handsome features the almost repulsive ugliness of Nostalgo. Perhaps he read something of this passing through Jack's mind, for he smiled with exceeding bitterness.
"Yes, I don't think I need much justification. You know all about that business in Mexico, but Lord Barmouth was not the only victim. I also was left penniless and mutilated, and I swore that if ever fortune favored me, I would be even with Anstruther before I died. Fortune has favored me, and I am here with one set purpose before me."
"To kill Spencer Anstruther," Jack cried.
"Oh, dear, no," Nostalgo said; "do you suppose that I can think of no more terrible revenge than that? When you saw me holding that scoundrel to-night I had quite another purpose in my mind. If everything had gone well with me, London would have been startled to-morrow to hear of the strange disappearance of Spencer Anstruther. But you were good enough to prevent me, and I cannot blame you for that. But I am talking about myself, though you would like to hear more of other matters. I promised to tell you how I got away from Shannon Street police station. I expect my case puzzled the doctor, did it not?"
"You puzzled him exceedingly," Jack said. "How did you manage it?"
"I was shot in a peculiar manner, and with a peculiar weapon," Nostalgo explained. "The whole device was an invention of Anstruther's--in fact, I saw it in operation in Mexico. It is a kind of air gun arrangement that propels a sort of poisoned bullet encased in celluloid. The bullet penetrates a part not necessarily vital and dissolves there. There is practically no wound, the virulent poison in the bullet spreads all over the system and speedily does its work. But in my instance the shots fired were not fatal, for the simple reason that I am wearing a thin coat of highly-tempered chain mail."
"But the doctor did not notice that," Jack exclaimed.
Nostalgo made no reply for a moment; he seemed to be thinking about something else. His varying moods had not been lost upon Jack. He was stern and silent, then again happy and cheerful, and once more grim and sardonic. If he did not care to speak now, Jack had no desire to press him. He felt quite sure that the stranger had taken a liking to him, or he would not be enjoying his present novel situation. Nostalgo broke the silence at length as if he had suddenly realized that he was not alone.
"You have not traveled much, I presume?" he asked.
"No," Jack replied. "Only the usual Continental trips and all that kind of thing. Mine has been a very prosaic life up to now, and I have never found myself in the heart of a great adventure before. Now it seems to me as if I were going to have enough mystery to last me forever."
"Ah, as Shakespeare says, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.' Had you lived my life, and knew the world as I know it, you would not be astonished at anything. Probably if you had read what I have told you in a novel, of the sensational kind, you would have pitched the book aside with a laugh of contempt. And now, confess it, have you ever heard before of a decadent modern man walking about in a mail shirt and being plugged by mysterious bullets, and all this in the streets of London?"
"Well, I confess that it does seem a little strange and outlandish," Jack admitted. "But when I come to think of it, and when I look at you, I can no longer hesitate. Some men are born for picturesqueness and adventure, and you are one of them. But all the same the doctor was utterly deceived."
Nostalgo smiled and shook his head. The doctor had not made an examination of him at all; and he explained he had simply given him a cursory glance and pronounced that the whole thing had been fatal. No doubt a thorough examination would have taken place later on, only that the victim had returned to his senses, and, having his own reasons for secrecy, had escaped by means of the overhead light in the mortuary.
"There you have the whole thing in a nutshell," he concluded. "It was fortunate for me that I knew exactly how to get away, for the simple reason that I had been keeping a close eye upon Anstruther's movements, and knew all about that hiding place in Montrose Place. To a certain extent I made my escape through Montrose Place. There is only one thing I find that is difficult of explanation. Now I know for a fact that Anstruther was otherwise engaged on the night of that murderous attack upon me. Who, then, was it who fired the bullet?"
"I think it is just possible I can enlighten you there," Jack said. "Did you ever chance to hear of a man called Padini?"
The name conveyed nothing apparently to Nostalgo, who rose at the same moment and suggested that dinner was possibly ready. It was a well-served meal, cold for the most part, Nostalgo explaining that anything in the way of elaborate cookery had for obvious reasons to be done off the premises. It was possible to talk freely before the servants, who seemed to be entirely in their master's confidence.
"Tell me about this Padini whose name you mentioned just now," the host said. "So far as I know, I have never heard the name before."
"That is exceedingly likely, considering that Padini is only one of the many aliases. The man I mentioned is an exceedingly fine violinist--clean shaven and artistic-looking, and perhaps just a little effeminate. On the stage he looks rather boyish, but in private life it is his whim to assume a moustache closely resembling that of the German Emperor. I know this as a fact, because I have met him wearing his moustache at the house of a man called Carrington--a rich bachelor banker who has a very elaborate establishment in Piccadilly."
A heavy scowl crossed the face of Nostalgo.
"So you know that sorry blackguard, do you?" he asked. "Upon my word, Mr. Masefield, you seem to have mixed up with a rare lot of scoundrels."
Jack was politely incredulous; he had never heard anything to the detriment of Mr. Carrington, who was partner in a well-known City bank. Still, he remembered now that he had heard Carrington's name mentioned by Anstruther that time he was hiding in Montrose Place with Rigby.
"Oh, I am perfectly certain of my facts," Nostalgo cried. "It may be news to you, but Carrington's bank is on the verge of collapse. I know that, because they have twenty thousand pounds of mine in their hands. I was acquainted with Carrington before I went to Mexico, and as good fortune favored me, I sent a great deal of my earnings to Carrington for investment. When I came home I called upon him one night and explained my altered appearance. He appeared to be fairly satisfied till I asked for my securities. Then the rascal showed himself in his true colors. He pretended to believe that I was an impudent impostor; he laughed my strange story to scorn, and refused to part with anything until I could prove my identity beyond question. He knew perfectly well that at the time I could do nothing of the sort, and there the matter stands for the present. I suppose that Carrington is a friend of Anstruther's?"
Jack explained that Anstruther and Carrington were dining together at the former's club at that self-same moment. Nostalgo nodded, as if the information was not displeasing to him. "Very good," he cried. "Everything is going our way now. I will get you to accompany me on a little expedition presently. And as to this man you call Padini, I think I have a pretty good notion of his real identity. And now take some more of that wine, and let us discuss matters generally, apart from this wretched business. Let me try and make you forget what a physical wreck I am."
A more entertaining companion Jack could not have wished for. His host seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything; he was a thorough citizen of the world, and a charming companion to boot. Jack was astonished to look up presently and see that it was already past eleven o'clock. Nostalgo followed his glance and smiled. He rang the bell and ordered coffee to be served at once.
"Just one more cigar and a liquor," he suggested, "and then we must be off. Meanwhile, there are one or two things I must do in regard to my personal appearance. Like the modern plain young woman, I am compelled occasionally to resort to a beauty doctor. It is a case of where Nature fails Art steps in."
So saying, Nostalgo passed the cigar box across the table and sauntered from the room. It was some half-hour before he returned, and when he did so he was changed almost beyond recognition. At the same time, the almost hideous ugliness had only given way to another form of repulsive feature. Nostalgo smiled sadly as he seemed to follow Jack's thoughts.
"It is only a change after all," he said; "for change is sometimes necessary. If you have quite finished, we are going to walk down as far as St. James's Street, where I will get you to go into Anstruther's club, the Salisbury, and ascertain if he and Carrington are still there. You can easily make an excuse to do that."
"As it happens, there is no occasion to do anything of the kind," Jack said. "I am a member of the Salisbury Club. I will go into the dining-room and see if those men are still there; and if they have already gone, I will try and ascertain where. Come along."
The Salisbury Club was reached at length, and Jack entered, followed by his companion. There was no reason why the latter should not come into the club, Jack urged. With his hat pulled down over his eyes nobody would recognize him or note anything peculiar in his appearance.
The club was fairly crowded by this time, for the theatres had begun to empty, and members were trooping in the direction of the smoking and card rooms. The dining-room was still comparatively full, for though dinner was practically a thing of the past, a great many suppers had already been served. As Jack glanced carelessly about the room, he noticed Anstruther and Carrington seated at a table at the top. There was a third man with them, who had apparently just come in, for his opera cape was still about his shoulders. Jack touched his companion on the arm.
"There our men are," he whispered, "and judging from the amount of wine upon the table, I should think there they are likely to stay. We are fortunate, too, in another direction. Please take note of that man in the opera cape--that is the man Padini. Perhaps you can tell me if you have ever seen him before."
Nostalgo gave a queer and dry chuckle, and Jack could see that his eyes were burning under the edge of his hat.
"You are quite right about our being in luck," he said hoarsely. "So you want to know if I am acquainted with the little man in the opera cape. I know the scoundrel perfectly. It seems to me that all the scores I have to pay are going to be wiped off in London. Now I think we will get on our way."
Nostalgo strode away as if he had quite made up his mind what to do. Once outside, he turned off in the direction of Piccadilly, walking so rapidly that Jack had some considerable difficulty in keeping up with him. The man had evidently something on his mind, for he was muttering to himself as if he had entirely forgotten his companion. He came out of his brown study presently, and laughed a laugh of grim amusement.
"I am a little mad at times," he said, in explanation of his queer conduct; "but you must not mind that. You have behaved exceedingly well to me, and I am taking you entirely into my confidence. You asked me just now if I knew Padini. I explained to you that I knew him very well indeed, but not under that name. He used to be with Anstruther all the time that the latter was in Mexico. Not that he is the class of man to care much for the rough life we led out there, because he is physically a great coward, though his cunning and craft are equal to those of his master. We knew him out there for a very skilled performer on the violin, but I never expected that he would blossom out into a leading platform artist. I should have thought that the fellow was too lazy and too casual to tie himself down to a settled programme. But I dare say it is all part of some scheme of Anstruther's."
"That I am absolutely certain about," Jack said. "Seeing that you have been so candid with me, I will be equally candid with you, and tell you something very strange. It has to do with Padini and his violin."
Jack proceeded to explain at length the apparently strange coincidence of the items on Padini's concert programme and their simultaneous playing in Anstruther's study. It was a somewhat complicated story, and Nostalgo did not quite take it in at first. When he thoroughly grasped the situation, he was grimly pleased to pay a high compliment to Anstruther's ingenuity.
"I think I can grasp the meaning of it," he said. "If Anstruther ever found himself in a tight corner--and he is very likely to before long--he has a magnificent alibi. But here we are; just wait till I get my key out."
To Jack's great surprise Nostalgo paused before the front door of Carrington's chambers, and proceeded to fit the key in the latch as if he were the master of the premises. Very coolly he pushed the door back and bade Jack enter. "But this is something like burglary," the latter protested. "Burglary or not, we are going in all the same," Nostalgo growled. "You will see presently something that will surprise you. But stop--surely there is some one coming down the hall."
The hall light was a very dim one, so that it was impossible for the moment to determine the identity of the woman who came down the stairway towards them. She carried in her hand a candle, which had the effect of keeping her face half in shadow. It was evident that the woman had heard the key in the door, and had come down to see if her master required anything.
Satisfied that she was mistaken, she set the candle down on the table. Her features were quite plain now--the sad yet defiant face of Serena. A grasp like a vice was laid on Jack's arm, and his companion's voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.
"Great heaven!" Nostalgo said. "And she is here. Oh, the villainy of it, the villainy of it!"
The woman looked about her as if half expecting to see somebody 'there who had come with evil intent. Jack could not fail to notice the extreme nervousness and agitation of her face. She was no longer quiet and subdued, as he had been accustomed to see her in Panton Square; she seemed as if some force had dragged her there against her will. She advanced towards the table, and, taking up a hat and coat lying there, proceeded to put them on as if she had finished her task whatever it was. If anything had frightened her, it was not, at any rate, the suggestion of burglars, for there was nothing of physical fear to be detected about her.
So far as Jack could discern, his companion appeared to be equally disconcerted. But there would be plenty of time presently to learn what Nostalgo knew about Serena. Events were moving rapidly now, and Jack felt that he would have plenty to tell Rigby later on. They stood aside till Serena had left the house, making sure that the latch was down, and that no one could enter the premises without a key. Jack turned to Nostalgo with an interrogative glance.
"The more we go into this thing," he said, "the more do we find one mystery piled upon another. Do you know that unfortunate lady?"
"If you do not mind, I would much rather you did not press that question," Nostalgo said, coldly. "I am going to help you all I can; I am going to do everything in my power both for your sake and mine; but there are some things which will not bear discussion, and this is one of them."
Jack turned away, feeling just a little hurt and disappointed. He would have found it difficult to say why, but he had taken a strange liking to the man by his side, perhaps because the man was suffering more from terrible misfortune than from his own imprudence.
"We will let it stand over for the present," he said, "but to be more candid than you are, I am greatly interested in that poor woman. I have known her for a long time now, and, as a novelist, I am bound to say that she greatly fascinates me. She always strikes me as a woman who has been tamed--she is so like a performing lion or tiger, if you will permit me the simile."
"I think I know what you mean," Nostalgo said. "The class of animal you speak of paces restlessly about its cage, a picture of moody discontent and more or less physical fear. And then the time comes when all the old savage instincts burst forth, and years of cruel treatment are avenged in the course of a moment."
"And so it would be with Serena," Jack said. "I have seen her cower and tremble before her master; I have seen her hand him a knife in the humblest possible fashion. And then I have seen her hands clench on the handle, and a gleam come into her eyes--on more than one occasion I have half expected to see her lean over and cut her master's throat from ear to ear. After this, perhaps, you may be disposed to say more on the subject?"
"We have never met, we have never been introduced," Nostalgo explained; "but I know who she is and all about her just the same. Do not press me more at present; the secret is not entirely my own. I can only tell you this: it was a great shock to me to meet that unfortunate lady to-night. But perhaps you know who she is?"
"I know perfectly well who she is," Jack said, "though the knowledge has come to me quite recently. Up to a day or two ago I regarded her in the prosaic light of Anstruther's housekeeper. She has always interested me, because she has always seemed to me to be a kind of wild animal who has been cleverly tamed. I have seen her like a tiger ready to spring; I have seen the lurking demon of passion in her eyes, as if she could destroy Anstruther and rejoice in the deed. And then a word from him or a glance, and she has cowered as timidly as the wife of the veriest bully in the world."
"But that isn't telling me who she is," Nostalgo said, impatiently.
"Well, she is Lady Barmouth's sister, to begin with," Jack said. "Now, perhaps, you may be inclined to be more communicative."
Nostalgo shook his head in a sorrowful manner, and proceeded to lead the way up-stairs. It was not lost upon Jack that his companion seemed to know his way about the house just as one would who had lived there for some time. He even seemed to know where to lay his hand upon each electric switch; in fact, his familiarity with the surroundings was apparent to the meanest understanding.
"One more word before we leave the subject," Jack said. "I showed you to-night the man who calls himself Padini. You recognized him as a man whom you had known in Mexico, and you left me to understand that he was as great a scoundrel as Anstruther, only that he lacked the necessary courage to carry his schemes into effect. Would it surprise you to know that this Padini is the husband of the poor woman who has just gone out?"
Nostalgo shook his head with the air of a man who is not hearing anything for the first time. As he had intimated before, the secret was not his own, and he showed no inclination to go into the matter now. He led the way to the first landing, from which the living-rooms branched off. Here was the fine, spacious hall where Jack had found himself on the night he had met Rigby there; the big ferns and palms were still scattered about; the evidences of luxury were plain. Only a rich man could have occupied so fine a suite of apartments. Nostalgo smiled as all these objects of art and luxury met his eye.
"All is not gold that glitters," he said; "in fact, nothing that glitters is gold. All this kind of thing would be calculated to impress any client who came along, but the British public is getting to understand the value of outside show. Let me see--this used to be the drawing-room in the old days, when----
"Nostalgo flicked up the lights, and there, bathed brilliantly by the flashing rays, was a room that would not have disgraced a palace. Carrington was a man of taste and feeling; his pictures were good, and his china would have fetched much money at Christie's. The lights were down again, and Nostalgo walked away in the direction of the dining-room. He might have been some contemptuous servant displaying his master's treasures to the admiring eye of a colleague. Everywhere the foot sank deeply into velvety carpets. Many fine sets of armor graced the corridor. There were one or two pictures of price here, also; a Corot, a dainty little Meissonier, a sketch or two from the brush of same other modern painters. Deeply interested as he was in the adventure, Jack did not fail to note and do justice to Carrington's taste.
"A whited sepulchre," Nostalgo murmured. "It is a poor jewel, after all, that lives in this perfect setting. Now, here is the dining-room. What do you think of it--old oak and old blue china with Flemish pictures of the best school? Elegant, is it not? You need not wonder why the women run after Carrington. But we will give them something to talk about presently."
With the assured step of one who knows every inch of the way, Nostalgo moved on to a small apartment behind the dining-room. This was fitted in the form of a smoking-room, with deep and cozy armchairs and comfortable divans against the Moorish walls. The whole thing was Moorish, from the decorations on the walls and the wonderful brass lamps depending from the painted ceiling. At the far end of the room were two double stained glass doors leading into a conservatory. The warmth here was grateful, and seemed to touch the senses drowsily. As to the rest, the conservatory was filled with masses of graceful feathery palms and ferns, beyond which was tier upon tier of red geraniums. The whole effect was wonderfully pleasing and artistic, and Jack did not hesitate to say so.
Nostalgo was not so enthusiastic.
"I wasn't thinking so much about that," he said drily. "I was regarding this little garden more in the light of a hiding place. You and I are going to play the eavesdropper, my friend. It is not a congenial occupation, I know; but there is precious little of anything congenial about this business. Carrington will be here presently, and probably Anstruther will accompany him."
"You are a bit of a detective in your way," Jack smiled.
"The conclusion is only what any one would call obvious," Nostalgo replied. "In the first place, all the servants have gone to bed, or that poor woman whom we saw down-stairs would not have been so careful to see that the door could not be opened without a latch-key. On the table behind you is a big silver salver with two glasses, a couple of syphons of soda-water, and a spirit-stand. What other conclusion do you come to than that Carrington is returning presently, and is bringing a friend with him?"
"I quite follow you," Jack said, "but there is one thing I don't understand. How is it that you can find your way about this house in so familiar a manner?"
"Ah, that is not so obvious," Nostalgo replied. "And yet the explanation is perfectly simple. Before I went to Mexico I was a friend of Carrington's. In those days his father was still alive, and he had not succeeded to so large a share of the business. As a matter of fact, Carrington and myself lived here together. He frequently discussed with me the improvements he would make here when once he was in a position to do so. The place where we are standing now used to be my dressing-room."
It seemed to Jack that Carrington must have been a cool hand indeed, and he suggested something of this to Nostalgo.
"Cool with the courage of despair," the latter said. "The night I came home and called on Carrington here, I thought he would have had a fit of apoplexy. Disfigured as I am, I am certain that he recognized me, but The Yellow Face 198 he was not slow to take advantage of my misfortunes. Directly he had recovered himself he became painfully polite, though he refused to acknowledge me as his quondam friend. You can quite see the point of that--so long as I could not prove my identity, he was able to keep me out of my property. But we have already discussed that point. And now you know why I am so familiar with the house, and how it comes about that I have a latch-key to fit the front door."
Nostalgo was apparently prepared to say more, only his quick hearing detected a suspicious sound below. He strode swiftly across the room, and switched out the light that had illuminated the room and the conservatory. It was an easy matter to find the hiding place amidst that tangle of ferns and flowers, and the two had hardly done so before the smoking-room door opened and Carrington came in, closely followed by Anstruther and Padini. The latter seemed to be terribly put out about something, for he flung his hat and coat upon the floor and dropped into a chair with an attitude of defiance.
"It is all very well for you," he exclaimed heatedly. "We do all the work and take all the risks, and you walk off with the profit. I tell you it is absolutely dangerous to work a scheme like ours from the Great Metropolitan Hotel."
There was a sneer on Anstruther's face as he helped himself to a cigarette and poured out a carefully-moderated dose of whiskey and soda.
"You little rascal," he said. He had the air of a man who, having tamed lions, was now contemptuously engaged in subduing less noble animals. "If you talk to me like this I will let you down altogether. You cannot injure me, but I can ruin you, body and soul. Go to your kennel, you hound."
Padini cowered before the flashing anger in Anstruther's eyes, and he muttered something to himself that might have been an apology; but the "listeners were a little too far away to hear.
"It is all very well for you," Padini whimpered. "You can call me a coward if you like--I am. It is not like you to run any risks at all. So long as I am at the Great Metropolitan Hotel, so sure is there danger."
"Send him off about his business," Carrington growled. "Why did you allow him to follow us here at all? He ought to have been in his own room by this time carrying on his share of the programme."
"Well, give me a programme," Padini said, with some show of spirit. "How am I to know what Anstruther wants unless he tells me beforehand? Is it to be nothing but Chopin to-night?"
In the same way that one humors a spoiled child, Anstruther took a note-book from his pocket and jotted a few names upon it.
"I think that will about do," he said. "Start with the 'Grand Polonaise,' and take the 'Fantasie in F' afterwards; then stick steadily to the programme I have marked on that sheet of paper."
Padini rose obediently enough now, and donned his hat and coat. He would have helped himself to a small modicum of refreshment, only Anstruther put him sternly aside. "None of that," he said, "and not one spot of anything till you have finished your night's work. We know what you are when you start. Now go at once."