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The Lost Million

by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #41454 · 442,319 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lost Million

Author: William Le Queux


        
Release date: November 23, 2012 [eBook #41454]
                Most recently updated: March 23, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41454

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST MILLION ***

The Lost Million
By William Le Queux
Published by George Newnes, Limited, London.
This edition dated 1915.

The Lost Million, by William Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE LOST MILLION, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

DESCRIBES A MAN AND HIS SECRET.

"See!  It's--it's in my kit-bag, over there!  The thing--the Thing at
which the whole world will stand aghast!"

The thin, white-faced, grey-bearded man lying on his back in bed roused
himself with difficulty, and with skinny finger pointed at his strong
but battered old leather bag lying in the corner of the small hotel
bedroom.

"The keys--on my chain--Mr Kemball--" he gasped faintly, his face
slowly flushing.  "Open it, quick!--ah no! you can't deceive me, my dear
fellow.  I'm dying!  I heard what the doctor told you--though he only
whispered.  But, Mr Kemball, although you are a young man, I--I'm going
to trust you with a--with a strange responsibility.  I--I trust you
because you were so very kind to me on board.  They all shunned me--all
save you!  They didn't know my real name,"--and the old man chuckled
bitterly to himself--"and they were not likely to!"

"You were unwell on the voyage, Mr Arnold, and it was surely my duty
to--"

"Duty!  What duty do you owe to me?--a perfect stranger--an adventurer
for aught you know!" cried the old fellow with whom I had formed such a
curious friendship.  "No, Mr Kemball, you have acted as a real man, as
a friend--one of the few friends one meets in this hard, workaday
world," and he clutched wildly at his throat, while his sunken cheeks
slowly assumed a hectic flush.  "Unlock the bag--get it out--before--
before I lose my senses," he added.

I took from the dressing-table the bunch of keys attached to his steel
watch-chain, and was crossing the room towards the bag when he
exclaimed--

"Listen, Mr Kemball!  I'm a dying man.  Will you make a solemn promise
to me?  Will you grant me one last earnest request?  In half an hour--
perhaps before--I shall be lying here dead.  But I'm still alive--a man
who has seen much, who knows strange things--a man who has lived through
much, and who has stood by and seen men die around him like flies.  God!
If I dare only tell you half--but--"

"Well, Mr Arnold," I asked quietly, returning to the bedside and
looking into the pinched grey face, "how do you wish me to act?"

"I have already written it here--I wrote it on board ship, after my
first seizure," he said, slowly drawing a crumpled and bulky envelope
from beneath his pillow and handing it to me with trembling fingers.
"Will you promise not to open it until after I have been placed in the
grave, and to act as I have requested?"

"Most certainly, Mr Arnold," was my reply.  "A promise given to one who
is about to pass to the Beyond is sacred."

His thin fingers gripped my hand in silent acknowledgment.  He did not
speak, but the expression in his eyes told of his profound thankfulness.
I placed the letter in my breast-pocket.  Something seemed to be
enclosed within.

"Go and open the bag," he whispered, after a brief silence.

I did so, and within, to my great surprise, found two huge bundles of
fifty and hundred pound Bank of England notes, each packet several
inches thick and tied with faded pink tape.

He beckoned me to bring them to him, and when I again stood near the
bed, he selected one note, and then said--

"I wish you to destroy all of them--burn them there in the grate--so
that I can watch you," and he gave vent to a harsh, unnatural laugh, a
hideous laugh of despair.

I looked at him in hesitation.  The poor old fellow was surely mad.  In
my hands I held notes to the value of an enormous sum.  And yet he
wished to ruthlessly destroy them!

He noticed my hesitation, and in a quick, impatient tone, asked whether
I would not carry out his wishes, at the same time handing me the note
he had taken, telling me that it was to pay for his interment.

"As you desire," I said, with some reluctance.

"But is it just--with so much distress here, in London--to deliberately
destroy money like this?"

"I have a reason, Mr Kemball, a very strong reason," he answered in a
low tone.

So I was compelled to untie the bundles, and, separating the notes,
placed them in the grate and commenced a fire, which I fed on and on,
until the last note had been consumed, and there remained only a grate
full of blackened tinder.  I confess that I found myself wishing that I
had the numbers of some of the notes, in order to reclaim their
equivalent from the Bank.

The old man's wild eyes, full of unnatural fire, watched the flames die
down, and as they did so he gave a sigh of distinct relief.

Then, with difficulty, he turned to me and, putting out his hand, said--

"In the bag--at the bottom--you will find a sealed cylinder of metal."

I searched as he directed, and drew forth a heavy ancient cylinder of
bronze, about a foot and a half long and three inches in diameter.  The
top had, I saw, been welded down, but a long time ago, because of the
green corrosion about it.

When I had carried it across to him, he looked me straight in the face
with those deep-set glassy eyes, which haunted me for long afterwards,
and said--

"I trust you with that, Mr Kemball, because--because--I feel assured
that you will act as I direct.  Do not attempt to seek--to discover what
is within.  That secret must be withheld--from you.  In this I hope--
that you will respect my desire--I hope so, for--for your own sake."

I held the mysterious cylinder in my hand in wonder.  Evidently he
treasured it even far greater than his riches, and had brought it to
London with some distinct purpose which he was now--owing to his
heart-trouble--unable to accomplish.

"There are other things--other things in the bag.  Bring them to me," he
said, in a low, weak voice, speaking with the greatest difficulty.

I brought the bag over to him and turned its contents pell-mell upon the
floor.  Among the several articles of clothing were a few old letters
which, at his direction, I burned amid the tinder of the banknotes.
Then, on searching further, I found a small, and evidently very antique,
statuette of a figure standing, holding a kind of spear.  It was about
seven inches high, much worn, with a square base, and of solid gold.
Around it I noticed an inscription in hieroglyphics.

"That," my dying friend managed to gasp, "is an ancient image--of the
Egyptian God Osiris, son of Seb, and Nut, or Heaven and Earth, and
married to Isis.  He was held to have gone through sufferings--to have
died--to have risen again, and finally to have become the Judge of the
Dead, His mysteries and rites were--were the most important part of
Egyptian wisdom.  The inscription upon it shows that it was made by one
Mersekha, in the reign of King Radadef, in the Fourth Dynasty--or about
three thousand five hundred years before the Christian era.  Take it for
yourself, Mr Kemball," added the old man, his voice distinctly weaker.
"It will serve as your mascot and will perhaps remind you of the
friendless man whom you have to-day befriended."

I stood by in silence, for I saw a distinct change had crept over him.

I took a glass in which the doctor had placed some drug, giving me
instructions to administer it to him, and I forced a few drops of it
between his teeth.

The evening was warm and oppressive.  Twilight was just falling, and
through the open window came the low hum of the motor traffic a few
hundred yards away in the Strand.  The hotel in which we were was a
quiet, unostentatious little place in Surrey Street, to which, on
leaving the ship two days before, he had persuaded me to accompany him.
Some one had recommended him to go there, he said, in preference to the
Savoy or Carlton.

On board the _Miltiades_, which he had joined at Naples, he had
displayed no outward sign of wealth--or that he possessed money to burn.
Indeed, his dress was mean and shabby, and by the wardrobe contained in
his two ragged bags, one would certainly never put him down as a man of
means.  It is generally dangerous, however, to judge a man by his
clothes.

The old clock of St Clement Danes struck eight, and a few moments later
there came a low tap at the door, and the doctor again reappeared, and
bent over his patient anxiously.

He gave him a few more drops of the medicine, but the old man made an
impatient gesture, and refused to swallow more.

What request, I wondered, was contained in that crumpled and rather
bulky letter which I held in my breast-pocket?

Outside, in the corridor, the doctor told me that the end was quite
near, and suggested that I should obtain something from him concerning
his friends.

"Mr Arnold has already told me," I replied.  "He possesses no friends."

And at that the doctor shrugged his shoulders and descended the stairs.

Back at the bedside in the fast-fading light of the hot day of early
June, I took the old man's bony hand in silent farewell.

He turned his eyes upon me, gazing at me with a strange intense look, as
though trying to read my very soul.

He endeavoured to speak, but though I bent my ear to his mouth, I could
catch no words.  His thin nervous hands clenched themselves, his grey
beard moved, and he struggled violently to communicate with me, but
without avail.  Then with his right hand, he made a sign that he wished
to write.

Instantly I obtained a pen and scrap of paper which I placed before him.

For a long time his hand trembled, so that he could make no intelligible
writing.  At last, however, he managed slowly, and with infinite
difficulty, to trace very unevenly the words--

"_Remember the name Harford--be friendly, but beware of him and the
Hand_."

He watched my face eagerly as I read.

Of a sudden, the light went out of his grey countenance, the pen dropped
from his thin, nerveless fingers, a scarlet spot fell upon the paper,
and a deep, long-drawn sigh escaped his ashen lips.

Then a great stillness fell--a great silence broken only by the low roar
of the London traffic.

And I knew that Melvill Arnold, the man of mystery, was dead.

CHAPTER TWO.

CONTAINS SEVERAL SURPRISES.

For some moments I stood gazing upon the dead man's changed face, not
knowing how to act.

I, Lionel Kemball, had, perhaps very unwisely, accepted a strange
responsibility.  I had acted with complete indiscretion.

On my way home from Australia, where I had been for a voyage for my
health, the liner had called at Naples, and Mr Melvill Arnold had
joined us.  On the day after we had sailed I heard that he had had a
sudden heart seizure, and was confined to his cabin, therefore--why, I
can't exactly tell--I sought him out, and spent a good many hours
chatting with him, and keeping him company.

Perhaps it was that, having been something of an invalid myself, I knew
the weary monotony of being confined to bed; I could sympathise with
anybody who was ill.

From the first I realised that Arnold was a man of no ordinary stamp.
Possessed of a clear and quick intelligence, he was a cultured man
notwithstanding his rather rough exterior, and full of a quiet sound
philosophy.  To me, it appeared as though he had lived abroad a good
many years, and was consequently out of touch with England.  Whence he
had come he never told me, save to casually mention that he had been a
great traveller and had "lived out in the wilds for years."  The
possession of the golden god seemed to point to the fact that he had
come from Egypt.

"London has nowadays no attraction for me," he told me one day.  "I only
go there merely because I am forced to do so.  I finished with London
long, long ago."

Surely, as I, a prosaic man-of-the-world, sat in that narrow cabin as we
steamed up the Mediterranean towards Gibraltar, I had never dreamed that
in his old kit-bag, smothered as it was with faded hotel labels, there
reposed a fortune in banknotes.

He had been perfectly frank on one point.  He was a man without a single
friend.  And now I knew that he had an enemy--and that his name was
Harford.

Presently I bent to the dead man's bag--and examining it thoroughly,
discovered that one letter had remained unburned--a letter which, by the
London postmark upon it, had been written two years ago.  It was
addressed in a fine, angular, woman's hand to "Arnold Edgcumbe, Esquire,
Post Office, Kingswear, South Devon."

The name caused me to ponder.  Had not he admitted that Melvill Arnold
was not his real name?  Was it not to be supposed that his actual name
was Edgcumbe?

The letter was, to say the least, a curious communication.  It bore no
address, but on the half-sheet of paper was written, in the same
feminine hand, the words: "You, no doubt, saw the newspapers of 6th
September, and the sentence of the Court upon the person they know as
Lancaster.  Rest assured that her betrayal will not go unrevenged by--
Her Friend."

I stood gazing at the missive which the dead man had evidently believed
that I had burned.  It would not be difficult to search the files of the
newspapers for 6th September 1908, and ascertain for what crime a
prisoner named Lancaster had been sentenced.  The information might,
perhaps, lead me to some further discovery.

I placed the letter carefully aside and made a most minute search of the
dead man's clothes, and of his other belongings, but found absolutely
nothing.  Then, crossing the wasted hands, and placing the sheet
tenderly over the white face, I left the room, and, descending, informed
the hotel manager of what had occurred, while he, in turn, telephoned to
an undertaker.

The effects of the deceased were taken possession of by the hotel
manager pending the opening of the letter of instructions, while I
conveyed to my own room the ancient bronze cylinder and the golden image
that was to be my mascot.

Death in an hotel is always the cause of unpleasantness with the
management, who declare it to be injurious to the reputation of the
establishment, hence the body was conveyed away by night to await
interment, while I moved to the Cecil.

But that same night a man from the undertaker's came to me and asked me
somewhat mysteriously what I knew concerning the dead man.

"He was my friend," I replied.  "Why do you make this inquiry?"

"Well, sir," he answered, "the guv'nor sent me round to say that he's
found he wore a false beard.  It fell off!"

The man's statement mystified me, more especially when he added--

"The body is that of a much younger man than the gentleman appeared to
be.  The guv'nor fancies there's a bit of a mystery about him."

"Probably he's right," I said, but the judicious administration of a
golden coin quickly put matters straight, and my visitor bowed himself
out.

Sorely was I tempted to tear open that letter which the mysterious man,
now dead, had with calm forethought prepared, yet on the envelope was
boldly written the words: "Not to be opened until after my burial."
That plain injunction deterred me.

Yet on the following morning I went down Fleet Street to the office of
the _Daily Telegraph_, and there asked to see the file of the paper for
September 1908.

It was not long before I was turning over the pages of the news of the
day in question.  For some time I searched, until my eye at last caught
the name of Lancaster in the report of a trial at Old Bailey.

The report was headed--

"LADY LETTICE LANCASTER

"Amazing Life-Story of an Adventuress.

"The story of a woman adventuress is always interesting, and that of
Lettice Earnshaw, _alias_ Lady Lettice Lancaster, is no exception.  She
is a woman of mystery.  Born thirty-four years ago in the West of
England, she has lived the greater part of her life more or less by her
wits.  Always a woman of mystery, she has used many names and lived in
many districts, generally changing her name and abode when the
attentions of her creditors became too pressing.  Many attempts have
been made to trap her, but she has always escaped, until yesterday, when
she was convicted at the Old Bailey of removing furniture in order to
cheat her creditors, and was sent to gaol for nine months.

"The discoveries made by the police reveal a remarkable romance.  Her
birth has always been shrouded in mystery, but it is probable that she
was to a certain extent entitled to use the name Lancaster.  Her
father, believed to have been a distant relative of a well-known man of
title, married an actress.  Needless to say, trouble was occasioned by
the advent of a child.  The family naturally attempted to hush up the
marriage, and the little infant was sent to Camborne in Cornwall, where
her mother had a brother who was a policeman.  Lettice grew up into a
knowing and pretty child, looking much older than her real age, and in
1890 she met a medical student, who was staying in the neighbourhood.
Although at this time she was only fifteen, she looked some years older,
and on 9th April she was married at Exeter, to the student, whose name
was given as Henry Earnshaw.

"At this youthful age the young bride started her long list of aliases.
According to the marriage register she was nineteen years of age--a jump
of four years--and her name was given as Edith Jane Lucy Haddon, the
surname being that of her nurse's daughter.  Her actual life immediately
after marriage is not known, but about a year later she was living at
Manchester, where, according to the prosecuting counsel in the case
heard yesterday, she was obtaining her living by acting in a pantomime.
Her stay in that city was perhaps her longest in any one district, and
she did not obtain notoriety until some years later.  In Manchester she
was known as the Hon.  Lucy Huntingdon, and also as Lady Ella Earnshaw.
The Hon.  Lucy was unmarried, but Lady Ella had entered the bonds of
wedlock.

"With her many aliases and a husband and foster-brother, who
conveniently changed places as the occasion demanded, Lady Lettice
Lancaster, to give her the name by which she is best known, has nearly
always contrived to enjoy life at the expense of others.  When the bills
began to arrive, she denied responsibility, the husband or brother to
whom the creditors were referred was not to be found, and yet, when a
suitable opportunity occurred, she herself disappeared, only to bob up
elsewhere, and continue the same game.  The story of this amazing
woman's extraordinary life has never been published, but we are now in a
position to give many interesting facts as to her career.

"The name Lady Lettice Lancaster was not used until about six years ago,
when she blossomed out in London, took a flat in Hyde Park Court, and
was frequently seen driving in the West End.  She then started a more
clever system of defrauding her creditors.

"Here is a list of some of her abodes, each of which she left somewhat
hurriedly--

  "1903.--Tufnell House, Teddington.
  1903.--Skelton, York.
  1903.--St Catherine's, Guildford.
  1904.--Hackthorn, Lincoln.
  1904.--Kiltoon, Athlone.
  1905.--Saham Toney, Thetford.
  1906.--Gloucester Terrace, London.
  1907.--St John's, Woking.
  1907.--Stuston Hall, Chelmsford.
  1908.--Portleven Mansions, Maida Vale.
  1908.--Brancaster, Norfolk.

"It was while golfing at Brancaster that Lady Lettice was arrested and
brought to London under the Debtors Act in connection with her stay at
Maida Vale.

"While she had many residences, they were few in comparison to her
different aliases.  Here are some of the names by which the
extraordinary woman has been known--

"Lady Lettice Lancaster, Lady Ella Earnshaw, Hon.  Lucy Huntingdon, Hon.
Mary Trelawnay, Mrs Emily Dewar, Mrs Gertrude Curtis, Mrs Evans,
Mrs Shaw, Lettice Leyton, Alice Lethbridge, Grace Fane, Grace
Fitzjames.

"Each of these names was used by her, while she had a habit of giving
one of the other names as reference.  In the case for which she has now
been convicted, she was using the name of Mrs Gertrude Curtis, and had
given Lady Ella Earnshaw as a reference."

The report then went on to give an example of the clever way in which
this extraordinary woman escaped paying her creditors, which showed what
a remarkable adventuress she was.

"Early last year," the journal continued, "she took a fine furnished
mansion, Stuston Hall, near Chelmsford, in the name of Mrs Gertrude
Curtis, and almost immediately afterwards a man who was known in the
village as Hoare, and was thought to be her groom, arrived on the scene.
About two months later Mrs Curtis came down from town, but by this
time there was a considerable sum of money owing.  Certain sums were
paid on account, but before very long the tradespeople were getting
anxious about their money, and a number of county court summonses were
issued.  These were allowed to go by default, and after judgment had
been given, the woman and a man, who was known as Ralph Lancaster, and
was said to be her foster-brother, were found to have removed the
furniture and antiques to London, where it was sold.  The defence to the
charge was that Hoare was really Earnshaw, the woman's husband, and that
he was responsible for the debts, which were on his account, he having
given the orders.

"In the witness-box, Mrs Curtis admitted that Hoare was her husband,
and that his real name was Earnshaw.  She took the house in the name of
Curtis because she was anxious to get away from her husband, who when
drunk was very cruel, and on one occasion broke her arm.  He, however,
found her out, and, as a matter of fact, went down to Stuston Hall, a
long time before her advent there.  She claimed to have `a moral right'
to use the name Lady Lettice Lancaster, but `for family reasons' refused
to divulge why.  If she did, her income would be discontinued.  She
added that she was receiving five pounds per week from a firm of
solicitors in London.  The defence did not prevail, and both the woman
and Ralph Lancaster were sent to gaol for nine months.

"The way the three persons mixed up their relationship is decidedly
interesting.  Earnshaw or Hoare is the son of an officer who held high
rank in the Navy, and was known as groom, butler, chauffeur, husband, or
foster-brother, while Ralph Lancaster was referred to as foster-brother,
husband, or stepbrother.  The real husband was nearly always treated as
if he were the groom, and when the three were living in Yorkshire, Lady
Lettice was summoned for keeping a man-servant without a licence--the
man-servant was her husband!  This was not the only occasion on which
the Inland Revenue took action against Lady Lettice.  Once when the
woman was prosecuted for keeping a dog without a licence, Lancaster
represented her at the police-court.  He then said he did not know
whether she was the daughter of a Duke or of an Earl, but she was his
wife.

"While living near Lincoln, the woman came into prominence for an
unusual assault on a butcher's salesman, who had been sent to obtain
payment of an account.  He found the gate of the house locked, and
rattled it to attract attention.  Lady Lettice then came out of the
house with a hunting-crop in her hand, and shouted to her daughter: `Let
loose the dogs, and they will kill and devour him.'  The dogs, however,
neither killed nor devoured him, but the woman hit him on the head with
a hunting-crop, and knocked him over his bicycle.  This little amusement
cost her two pounds and costs at the subsequent police proceedings.

"Lady Lettice was always interested in horses, and she generally had
some good animals in her stables.  For some years she, in conjunction
with Ralph Lancaster, had been running a riding-school in the West End,
and it is stated that her income from this source was nearly 500 a year.
When at Woking, in 1907, she was known as the `lady horse-dealer,' and
was very popular locally, until pressing creditors caused her to seek
fresh fields and pastures new.  When she was at Stuston Hall, she stated
that she had taken the place for the purpose of teaching riding, and
receiving hunting guests.  But although she had several horses there,
the only persons to use them were Lady Lettice, the two men, and the
children.  The eldest of the children, a girl of sixteen, frequently
attracted attention by her plucky riding, and she is now earning money
as a rider.

"While Lady Lettice was living at Stuston Hall, the house was regarded
more or less as a house of mystery, and strange tales are told of how
the woman disregarded the canons of convention during the hot weather.
Moreover, the hours kept were hardly regarded as usual by her
neighbours.  Stuston, being a small village, is generally asleep fairly
early, but if the statements made to callers are to be accepted as
correct Lady Lettice frequently retired for the night as early as six
o'clock.  Nevertheless, it is stated that she was sometimes seen walking
in the grounds during the night in a garb that can only be described as
scanty.  Naturally the house was watched by the local tradespeople with
some care, and it was due to this watching that the removal of the
furniture was discovered.  The local postman and grocer, to whom she
owed nearly ten pounds, saw the furniture being removed, and followed it
to London, where it was sold.  The police, in the course of the
evidence, also hinted at the probability of other and more serious
charges of crime being preferred against them on the expiration of their
sentences."

In the centre of the report was given the photograph of "Lady Lettice,"
taken by one of the news agencies, the picture being the head and
shoulders of a good-looking woman, smartly dressed in tweed country-hat
and tailor-made coat--a woman whose type of features was certainly
aristocratic, and would never be adjudged an adventuress.

When I had finished reading the report--which I here reproduce in order
that you shall be more thoroughly acquainted with every detail of the
strange adventures which befell me--I purchased a copy of the paper, and
carried it back with me to my room at the Hotel Cecil.

Who was that mysterious correspondent of the dead man who had sworn
vengeance.  Who was the friend of Lettice Lancaster?  For what reason
had that letter been written?  What connection could the quiet-mannered,
unassuming old gentleman have with such a trio of clever swindlers?

It was fortunate, perhaps, that the letter had not been burned, for it
had, at least, placed me in possession of some curious facts which must
otherwise have been hidden.

During the next three days I was greatly occupied by my own affairs,
which had been neglected by my year's absence at the Antipodes.  Yet
time after time I felt the keenest anxiety as to what could be contained
in the dead man's letter of instruction, and in that corroded cylinder
of bronze.

At last, however, I followed the mortal remains of my mysterious friend
to Highgate Cemetery, the sole mourner, and after I had seen the coffin
committed to the grave I returned to the hotel, where the statue of
Osiris stood upon my table, and there, with impatient fingers, tore open
the letter.

I read it through.

Then I stood staring at the unevenly scribbled words--staring at them
like a man in a dream.

What I read there held me aghast, amazed, stupefied.

CHAPTER THREE.

WHAT MR ARNOLD LEFT BEHIND.

The letter, written upon the notepaper of R.M.S.  _Miltiades_, was dated
four days prior to our arrival in London.

Perhaps I cannot do better than reproduce it in its entirety.

"To Lionel Kemball, Esquire.

"Dear Mr Kemball,--Now, after my death, I desire here to place on
record my great indebtedness to you for your kindness and sympathy.  You
knew nothing of me, yet you took pity upon my lonely and unfortunate
self.  You have, in addition, made solemn promise to me to act as I
direct.  At the outset I desire to be perfectly frank with you and to
confess that I was not what I represented myself to be.  Certain
chapters of my eventful life must be for ever hidden, even from you, who
are acting as my friend.  This I greatly regret, but to reveal all must
only bring unhappiness upon one who is innocent.  For that reason I die
carrying my secret with me.

"How long I shall continue to live after penning this request I cannot
know.  Therefore, I will make matters as plain as possible, and
earnestly request you to act as follows:--

"To be present at the railway station of Totnes in Devon at five o'clock
on the evening of the 20th of June next, and there meet a certain man
who will come in secret in search of you.  He will wear a red tie, a
carnation in his coat, and will carry an ebony walking-stick.  He may be
watched, therefore do not approach him unless he unbuttons his gloves
and removes them.  To him hand the enclosed letter, and if you wish
further to serve the interests of one who herein expresses his deepest
and most heartfelt gratitude, watch him, become his helper, and act as
he directs--but do not trust him implicitly.

"Some of the circumstances may strike you as extraordinary and
unwarrantable, but I beg of you not to attempt to solve mysteries which
must, for ever, be hidden.  The person in question may be in sore need
of a friend to give assistance and advice, therefore rest assured that
such favour shown to him will not go unrewarded.

"As regards the bronze cylinder, be extremely careful of it, and in all
security hold it unopened in trust for me until six months from the date
of this letter--namely, on 3rd November--when you will hand it without
question to the person who comes to you and lays claim to it.

"What is enclosed addressed to yourself please accept as a trifling
token of the great esteem in which you have been held by the lonely and
forgotten man who, in later life, was known as--

"Melvill Arnold."

I tore open the envelope addressed to myself, and therein found four
Bank of England notes for five hundred pounds each.  My mysterious
fellow-traveller who had money to burn had presented me with the sum of
two thousand pounds.

The other enclosure, a letter secured by three seals of black wax, was
addressed to "Arthur Dawnay, Esquire."

My trust was indeed a strange one, increased by the dead man's request
that I should befriend a man who was friendless, and at the same time
warning me against placing too great a trust in him.

I tried to conjure up in my mind what kind of person I was to meet so
mysteriously away in Devonshire.  Why, I wondered, could not Mr
Arnold's affairs be settled in a proper manner by his lawyers?  But
perhaps, so mysterious was he, that to trust solicitors would be to
reveal his identity.  One thing, however, was evident.  He had already
made a secret appointment with Mr Dawnay.  In all probability he had
travelled to England expressly to see him.

From him I should probably learn something concerning the Man from
Nowhere who had made me that very welcome present of two thousand
pounds.

That the grey beard was not his own, and that he was somewhat younger
than the age he had assumed, were, in themselves, facts which caused me
a good deal of deep reflection.  He was a complete mystery, and more
could not be said.

Many times had I taken the ancient cylinder in my hand wondering what it
really contained.  As far as I could judge it was of metal, half an inch
thick, for the cylinder was well made, and had apparently been drilled
out of a solid block.  The welded end had been very carefully and neatly
closed, and it had evidently lain in the damp, or more probably under
water, for many years, judging from the rough corrosion upon it.

My instructions were to guard it with all zeal, yet I was to hand it
without question to whoever, on the 3rd of November, should ask for it.

I turned it over in my hands time after time, wondering what could be
the nature of this, the greatest treasure of a man, who had undoubtedly
been wealthy.

I confess to you that I entertained certain misgivings.  Out of mere
pity I had made the acquaintance of Melvill Arnold, never dreaming that
I should be led into so strange an executorship.  Again, there being no
will, I began to wonder what was my actual position in law.

The mystery surrounding the dead man had been increased both by the
discovery of his disguise and by the frankness of his letter, in which
he plainly admitted that he was not what he had represented himself to
be.  Why had that letter been sent to him threatening revenge for the
sentence upon the adventuress who called herself Lady Lettice Lancaster?
What connection could he have had with such swindlers?

The whole affair formed a complete enigma.  Perhaps I had acted very
foolishly in mixing myself up with a perfect stranger, and as day
succeeded day this thought became the more and more impressed upon me.

I suppose in order that you should understand matters aright I ought
here to say something concerning myself.

I, Lionel Kemball, was aged twenty-seven.  My father, a well-known
London surgeon, who had been knighted for his services in the interests
of surgical science, had died two years ago, leaving me with a
comfortable old house, called Upton End, near Newport Pagnell, in
Buckinghamshire, and an income of about a couple of thousand a year.
Three years prior to his death he had retired and given up the house in
Cavendish Square, preferring life in healthier and quieter surroundings.
I had studied medicine, and had passed my preliminary examinations at
Edinburgh, when I found myself troubled slightly with my lungs, and had
been advised to take a trip to Australia.  To my satisfaction I had
returned in the very pink of health and perfectly cured.

I had visited Ceylon, the cities of Sydney, Brisbane, and Perth, had
witnessed some of the wonders of New Zealand, and now, on my return, had
become involved in this most curious and perplexing romance.

The day on which I opened Mr Arnold's strange letter was the 8th of
June, therefore twelve days had to elapse before I could go down to
Devonshire to meet the mysterious Mr Dawnay.

Those were hot, exciting days.  Such blazing weather in June had not
been experienced in London for years.  It was hot by day, succeeded by
oppressive, breathless evenings, with that red dust-haze seen only in
our great metropolis.  The Derby had been run and London hotels were
crammed.  The colossal Cecil, at which it was my habit to stay, was
filled to overflowing by crowds of Americans, and the West End ran riot
with gaiety and extravagance, as it always does each season.

Perhaps fortunately for me, for it prevented my mind being too much
concentrated upon my remarkable trust, I found myself involved in some
trouble concerning some land down at Upton End, and I had a number of
interviews with my late father's solicitors.  A lawsuit was threatened,
and it looked much as though I should be the loser by several hundreds a
year.

My mother died when I was but ten, and though I was fond of a country
life, yet, somehow, since my father's decease, I had not cared for the
loneliness and solitude of the quaint old house.  It was certainly a
delightful old place, with several oak-panelled chambers, and clinging
to it were all sorts of quaint legends of Roundheads and Cavaliers.  Its
old bowling-green and its gardens ablaze in summer with crimson ramblers
were charming; yet it was, after all, only a white elephant to me, a
bachelor.  So I had kept on a couple of the old servants, who together
with Tucker, the head-gardener, and his assistant, kept the place
going--for I had secret thoughts of letting it furnished.

My trouble over the ownership of the piece of land forming a portion of
the farm attached to the house, and several other matters which had been
neglected owing to my absence in Australia, kept my hands pretty full;
nevertheless, I found time one evening to take a taxi up to Highgate
Cemetery in order to see that the grave of my dead friend had been
properly closed and put in order.

It was about six o'clock in the evening when I arrived, and there were
many friends and relatives tenderly watering the flowers on the graves
of their loved ones.  Without much difficulty I found the newly made
mound of brown earth, but to my surprise I also saw that a magnificent
cross of white flowers had been laid upon it.

This I eagerly examined, but no card was attached.

Surely whoever had placed it there had mistaken the grave, for Mr
Arnold possessed no friends, and I had been the only follower.  His
decease had not been advertised; therefore surely none could know of his
death.

For a few minutes I stood there, gazing upon the emblem, and pondering.

Suddenly I saw the cemetery-keeper, and walking up to him pointed out
the grave and asked him if he knew anything of the cross that had been
placed upon it.

"Oh, you mean Mr Arnold's grave, I suppose, sir," exclaimed the man.

"How do you know it is Mr Arnold's!"  I asked.

"Well, sir, the day after the funeral a young lady came to me and
inquired where a Mr Melvill Arnold had been buried.  So I looked it up
in the books and told her.  She's been here every day since, and put
fresh flowers there."

"A young lady!  What was she like?"  I inquired.  "Oh, well, she's about
twenty, I should say--pretty, with dark hair, and dressed in mourning,"
he replied.  "She comes each day about five, generally in a private
motor-car--a big grey car.  The flowers cost her a tidy lot, I should
think, for they're not common ones."

"About five o'clock!"  I exclaimed.  "Has she been here to-day?"

"No.  And she didn't come yesterday either," was the man's reply.
"Perhaps she'll come later on.  We don't close till half-past seven just
now."

So I waited in patience in the vicinity, eagerly watching for the advent
of the one person beside myself and the undertaker who knew of the last
resting-place of the mysterious man who had deliberately destroyed his
fortune.

I wandered among the graves for a full hour, until of a sudden the
cemetery-keeper approached me, and in a low voice said--

"Look, over yonder, sir!  That tall young lady in black with the
chauffeur carrying the wreath: that's the lady who comes daily to Mr
Arnold's grave."

I looked, but, curiously enough, she had turned and was leaving the spot
without depositing the wreath she had brought.

"Somebody's watching her, sir," remarked the man, "Perhaps she
recognises you.  She's taking the wreath away again!"

The chauffeur was walking close behind her along the central avenue as
though about to leave the burial-ground, when of a sudden she crossed
the grass to a newly made grave, and there her man deposited the wreath.

She had detected somebody watching--perhaps she had suspicion of the
keeper in conversation with myself; at any rate, she resorted to the
ruse of placing the wreath upon the grave of a stranger.

Fortunately, I had been able to obtain a good look at her handsome,
refined features, and I decided that hers was a countenance which I
should recognise again anywhere.

I looked around, but could see no one in the vicinity to arouse her
suspicion--nobody, save myself.

Why did she hold me in fear?  By what manner had she been aware of the
mysterious man's death, or that I had been his friend?

I watched her turn and leave the cemetery, followed by her motor-driver.

Why did she hold the dead man in such esteem that she came there each
day and with tender hands placed fresh flowers upon his grave?  What
relation could she be?  And why did she thus visit his last
resting-place in secret?

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE MAN WITH THE RED CRAVAT.

Of necessity I went down to Upton End in order to see old Tucker and his
wife, who had acted as caretakers in my absence.

Thomas Tucker--a tall, thin, active, grey-moustached man of sixty-five--
was a servant of the old-fashioned faithful school.  For thirty-two
years--ever since the day of his marriage--he had lived in the pretty
rose-embowered lodge, and had been taken over by my father as part of
the estate.  Indeed, in such high esteem did the governor hold him that
he was given an entirely free hand in all outside matters; while his
wife--a well-preserved, round-faced woman, equally devoted to her
master--was entrusted with the care of the servants and other domestic
affairs.

Hence, when I found myself possessor of the place, I too reposed the
same confidence in the faithful pair as my father had done.  But now
that he was dead and I was alone, Upton End seemed, alas! very grim and
silent.  True, the old place, with its quaint corners and historic
associations, its dark panelling, polished floors, and antique
furniture, its high box hedges, level lawns, and wealth of roses, would
have delighted the artist or the antiquarian; but modern man that I was,
I failed to find very much there to attract me.

It was a house built for entertainment, and was only tolerable when
filled by a gay house-party.  The lawns, gardens, and park were looking
their best in those balmy days of June; yet as I walked about, listening
to Tucker as he showed me some improvements in tree-planting and in the
green-houses, I found myself already reflecting whether, after all, it
was worth while keeping the place up further, now that I scarcely ever
visited it.

The rural quiet of the place palled upon me--so much so, indeed, that
while sitting on the wide veranda smoking in the sunset on the third
evening after my arrival I made up my mind to leave again next day.
This I did, much to Tucker's regret.

The old fellow watched me climb into the dog-cart, and touched his straw
hat in respectful silence.  I knew how the poor old fellow hated his
master to be absent.

Again in London, I waited in eager impatience until the nineteenth of
the month, when I left Paddington for Totnes, in Devon.  It was, I
found, a quaint old town among green hills through which wound the
picturesque Dart--a town with a long, steep high street, a city gateway,
with shops built over the footpath, like those in the Borgo Largo in
Pisa.

The Seymour Hotel, where I took up my quarters, was situated by the
bridge, and faced the river--a well-known resort of anglers and summer
tourists.  But of such things as fishing or scenery I cared nothing on
that well-remembered day--the day appointed for me to keep the strange
tryst made by the man now dead.

The wording of Mr Arnold's injunction was "to be present at the railway
station of Totnes at five o'clock."  It did not mention the platform or
the booking-office.  Examination of the time-table showed that no train
arrived at or left Totnes between the hours of four p.m., when the
Plymouth train arrived, and the five-fifteen up-train to Exeter and
Taunton.  There were several expresses, of course, Totnes being on the
Great Western main line between Plymouth and London.

By this fact it seemed that the mysterious man whom I was to meet would
already be in Totnes, and would come to the station in order to meet me.
All day, therefore, my eyes were open for sight of a man wearing a red
tie or a carnation in his coat.

Mr Arnold had held suspicion that he might be watched.  Why?  What did
he fear?

I was not to approach him unless he unbuttoned his gloves and removed
them.

All that well-remembered day I idled by the cool rippling river,
lingered by the rushing weir, watching the fishermen haul in their
salmon-nets, and strolled about the quiet old-world streets of the
rather sleepy place, eager for the arrival of five o'clock.

The station being some distance from the town, I walked down to it about
half-past four.  The afternoon was blazing-hot, and scarcely anyone was
astir, even the dogs were asleep in the shadows, and the heat-slumber
was over everything.

A hundred times had I tried to picture to myself what Mr Arthur Dawnay
could be like.  In the High Street, earlier in the day, I had seen a
young man in tweed Norfolk jacket, obviously a tourist, wearing a red
tie, but no carnation, and had followed him unnoticed to a house out on
the outskirts of the town, where he was evidently lodging.  Was his name
Dawnay, I wondered!  If he were actually the man whom I was to meet,
then he certainly was a very prosaic looking person.

Still I possessed my soul in patience, and with the dead man's letter in
my breast-pocket I walked through the booking-office and on to the
platform.

Several persons were about--ordinary looking individuals, such as one
sees every day at the station of a small provincial town--but there was
no man wearing either a red cravat or a carnation.

I lit a cigarette and strolled up and down the platform where the
booking-office was situated.  The gate of the up-platform being kept
locked, he would be compelled to pass through the booking-office.

Twice expresses with ocean mails from Plymouth to London roared through,
and slowly the hands of the big clock approached the hour of five.

The appointment must have been made long ago by the man now dead--weeks
ago, when he was still abroad; for the letter, I recollected, had been
written on board the liner between Naples and London.  But the principal
point which puzzled me was the reason why the dead man's letter should
be delivered in such secrecy.

A man with a red tie is very easily distinguishable, and I flatter
myself that I possess a very keen eyesight; yet though minute after
minute went by till it was already a quarter-past the hour, still no man
answering the description given by the late Mr Arnold put in an
appearance.

Presently, on the opposite platform, the express from Plymouth to
Bristol came in; and suspecting that he might arrive by it, I dashed up
the stairs, two steps at a time, and across the footbridge.  When
halfway down the stairs I halted, for I could see all over the
up-platform.

Few passengers had alighted, but among them I instantly discerned a man
wearing a cravat of scarlet satin.  He was smartly dressed in a grey
lounge-suit, and in his coat he wore a pink carnation.  In his hand was
an old-fashioned black ebony cane with silver knob.

He was standing looking up and down the platform, as though in search of
somebody.  Therefore I sped down the remaining stairs and quickly
approached him, though I had not seen his face distinctly.

Suddenly, as I was within six yards of him, I recollected the dead man's
written words, and halted short.

He was still wearing grey suede gloves.  He had not removed them;
therefore he was suspicious of being watched!

I lit another cigarette, and with careless air sauntered past him in
order to gain a good view of his features.

He was, I saw, of middle height, and aged about fifty.  His clean-shaven
face, with heavy, square jaws, was pimply and rather bloated--a face
which somehow filled me with repugnance, for it was the countenance of
one who was a fast liver and who indulged a little too freely in
alcohol.  His grey suit, grey soft felt hat, and grey gloves gave to him
a certain air of smartness and distinction; yet those small brown eyes,
with a peculiar, indescribable expression searching up and down the
platform, were the eyes of a man full of craft and double cunning.

From the first moment I turned my gaze upon him I held him in distinct
suspicion; while he, it appeared, in turn held somebody else in
suspicion.  I looked around, but could not discern anybody who might
arouse his misgivings.  About us were all honest Devon folk.

The fact that he had not taken off his gloves still remained.  My
injunctions were not to approach him if he failed to remove them.  He
had the air of a _bon vivant_, even to the manner in which he tucked his
ebony cane beneath his arm in order to light a choice cigar.

Most of the passengers crossed the bridge on their way out, while others
made their exit by the little wicket, some of them entering the dusty
motor-'bus which plies to Paignton.

Once, only once, his small narrow brown eyes met mine, and I saw in them
a look of quick inquiry and shrewd cunning.

Then, still wearing his gloves as sign to me to hold aloof, he leisurely
crossed the bridge to the down-platform, and strolled along the hot,
dusty road into the town.

As far as I could discern, nobody was watching his movements at all;
nevertheless, I could only suppose that he had great cause for
precaution, otherwise he would have allowed me to approach and speak to
him.

True, there was a queer, insignificant-looking old lady in rusty black,
who had been on the platform when I had arrived, who had crossed the
bridge and waited for the train from Plymouth, and who was now making
her way back into Totnes in the direction we were walking.

Could it be possible that he feared her?

It struck me that he might have recognised that I had travelled there to
meet him in place of the man now deceased; therefore I hurried on and
got in front so that he might, if he so wished, follow me to the Seymour
Hotel.

But judge my chagrin when at last we entered the main street, and while
I turned down towards the bridge, he turned in the opposite direction,
thus showing that he had not detected my anxiety to speak with him.  And
the old lady had followed in his footsteps.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me.  It was surely more than probable
that Mr Dawnay was there to meet the man Arnold, in ignorance of his
death.  Therefore, having allowed him to get on some distance, I turned
upon my heel and followed him.

His movements were certainly curious.  He was undoubtedly avoiding the
unwelcome attentions of the old lady, who now seemed to be acting in
conjunction with a dark-haired, middle-aged man with beetling brows, who
wore a shabby brown suit and a last year's straw hat.

The man with the red cravat entered an inn in Fore Street, and remained
there a full hour, the other man watching in the vicinity.  Then, on
emerging, he went to a chemist's, and afterwards turned his footsteps
back towards the station.

I saw that his intention was to leave Totnes.  Therefore, in preference
to following on foot, I drove to the station in a fly.

He had never once removed those grey suede gloves, though the day was so
hot, for on the up-platform the man in the straw hat was still idling
behind him.  A number of people were waiting for the train, and I,
discerning Mr Dawnay's intention of travelling, entered the
booking-office and bought a ticket for Exeter.

At last the London express came roaring into the station, when the man
whom I was there to meet quickly entered a first-class corridor
compartment, and while I remained vigilant, I saw the mysterious watcher
enter a carriage a little way behind.  Then, just as the train was
leaving, I sprang into the compartment next that of Mr Dawnay.

I allowed the train to travel for about ten minutes, and as we slowly
ascended the steep incline to Stony Coombe, between Totnes and Newton
Abbot, I passed along the corridor and entered the compartment of the
fugitive.

His quick, wary eyes were upon me in an instant, and I saw him start
visibly in alarm, as I shut the door behind me leading to the corridor.

"I believe," I exclaimed next moment, "that you are Mr Arthur Dawnay?"

In an instant--before, indeed, I was aware of it--I found myself looking
down the big barrel of a heavy Browning pistol.

"Well?" asked the man with the red tie, without moving from his seat,
yet covering me with his weapon.  "And what if I am, eh?"

Upon his face was a hard, evil grin, and I saw that he certainly was not
a man to be trifled with.

"You think you've cornered me this time, eh?" he said in a hard, dry
voice.  "But raise a finger, and, by Gad!  I'll put a bullet through
you.  So you'd best own yourself beaten, and let me slip out at Newton
Abbot.  Understand?"

Then, next moment, the train unfortunately entered the tunnel, and we
were plunged in complete darkness.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE SIGN OF THE GLOVES.

Those moments of security seemed hours as I sat there with the pistol
turned upon me.

Truly his was a strange greeting.

At length, however, daylight showed again as we commenced to descend the
incline towards Newton Abbot, yet I saw that his hand--practised, no
doubt, with a weapon by the manner he had whipped it forth--was still
uplifted against me.

"Really, sir, you have no cause for alarm," I assured him, with a laugh.
"I could not approach; you openly, so I adopted the ruse of travelling
with you in order to speak.  You came to Totnes to-day in order to meet
me, did you not?"

"No, I certainly did not," he said, the expression upon his countenance
showing him to be much puzzled by my words.

"Then perhaps you came to meet Mr Melvill Arnold?"  I suggested.

"And why do you wish to know that, pray?" he asked, in the refined voice
of a gentleman, still regarding me with antagonism.  His small, closely
set eyes peered forth at me with a ferret-like expression, while about
his clean-shaven mouth was a curious hardness as his hand still held the
weapon pointed in my direction.

"Because you are wearing the signs--the scarlet tie, the carnation, and
I see that you carry the ebony walking-stick," was my cool reply.  I was
trying to prevent myself from flinching before that grim, business-like
weapon of his.

"And what if I am?  What business is it of yours?" he asked resentfully,
and in evident alarm.

"My business is with you if your name is Alfred Dawnay," I said.  "Mr
Melvill Arnold is, I regret to say, dead, and--"

"Dead!" he gasped, lowering his weapon and staring at me, the colour
dying from his face.  "Arnold dead!  Is this the truth--are you quite
certain?"

"The unfortunate gentleman died in my presence."

"Where?  Abroad, I suppose?"

"No; in a small hotel off the Strand," was my reply.

The news I had imparted to him seemed to hold him amazed and stupefied.

"Poor Arnold!  Dead!" he repeated blankly to himself, sitting with both
hands upon his knees--for he had flung the pistol upon the cushion.
"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, raising his eyes to mine.

"Forgive me for receiving you in this antagonistic manner, sir, but--but
you don't know what Mr Arnold's death means to me.  It means everything
to me--all that--" But his lips closed with a snap without concluding
his sentence.

"A few moments before he died he gave me this letter, with instructions
to meet you at Totnes to-day," and I handed him the dead man's missive.

Eagerly, with trembling fingers, he broke open the black seals; but the
letter was in a second envelope, also carefully sealed with black wax.
This he also tore open, and breathlessly read the closely scribbled
lines which it contained--the message from the dead.

He bit his full red lips, his cheeks went ashen pale, and his nostrils
dilated.

"I--I wish to thank you for carrying out Arnold's injunctions," he
managed to gasp.  "I went to Totnes for the purpose of meeting him, for
he had made the appointment with me three months ago.  Yet it seemed
that he must have had some presentiment that he could not keep it
himself, or he would not have suggested me wearing a red tie, a
carnation, and carrying this old-fashioned ebony stick which he gave me
long ago."

Briefly I recounted my meeting with him when he came on board at Naples,
his sudden illness, and its fatal termination in the Strand hotel.

"Ah, yes," sighed the man Dawnay--the man whom I was to help, but not to
trust.  "Poor Arnold was a great traveller--ever on the move; but for
years he knew that he had a weak heart."

I was about to make further inquiry regarding the man who had so
strangely left me a legacy, but Dawnay suddenly exclaimed--

"You and I must not be seen together, Mr Kemball--for I notice by this
letter that that is your name."

"Where can I meet you again?"  I inquired; for I recollected the dead
man's words that my strange companion might be in sore need of a friend.

"I hardly know," was his hasty answer, as he replaced his pistol in his
pocket.  "I am closely watched.  Probably you saw the man--a fellow in a
straw hat."

"Yes--and the old woman."

"Ah! then you are observant, Mr Kemball," he exclaimed, with a slight
grin.  "Yes, I am in danger--grave danger at this moment; and how to
escape I know not."

"Escape from what?"

"From arrest."

"Is that young-looking man a police-officer?"  I asked, much surprised.

"Yes; he's older than he looks.  I ought never to have dared to go to
Totnes."

"Why not Totnes?"  I asked.

"I was lying low--for a certain reason, Mr Kemball.  All of us have to
wash in dirty water sometimes, you know," he smiled grimly.  "You are an
honest man, no doubt--I too was, once."

"And now the police are in search of you--eh?"

I asked.  So my estimate of the man was not very far wrong.

He nodded slowly in the affirmative.

A silence fell between us.  This discovery, coupled with Arnold's
mysterious connection with the trial of the adventuress who called
herself Lady Lettice Lancaster, caused me to ponder.  Arnold had warned
me not to trust him entirely.

The train was now rushing down the incline, and in a few moments would
be at Newton Abbot, the junction for Torquay.

Without a word, my companion suddenly sprang to his feet, and taking a
railway key from his pocket, went out into the corridor and locked both
doors at either end of the carriage so that no one could pass along.

Then, returning to me, he said--

"Perhaps it would be better, Mr Kemball, if you went into the next
compartment while we are stopping.  We must not appear to have knowledge
of each other."

Scarcely had I time to enter the adjoining compartment when the train
pulled up.  I lit a cigarette, and sat gazing lazily out of the window,
when, sure enough, the man in the straw hat who had travelled in the
rear of the train strolled aimlessly along, and as he passed the
compartment occupied by Dawnay glanced in to satisfy himself that he was
still there.

The wait was long, for the corridor coaches from Torquay for London were
being joined on.  But at last we moved off again, and as soon as we did
so I returned to the mysterious fugitive.

"Tell me, Mr Dawnay, something concerning Mr Arnold," I urged
earnestly, without preamble.  "He did me the honour of entrusting me
with certain purely personal matters, but gave me no information as to
who or what he was."

"Melvill Arnold was a most remarkable person," declared the man in the
red tie.  "He divided his time between life in London and exploring the
remains of the extinct civilisation in Egypt."

"Then he lived in Egypt?"

"Mostly in the deserts.  His knowledge of Egyptology was, perhaps,
unequalled.  The last letter I received from him was from El Fasher, in
Darfur."

"Arnold was not his real name?"

"Not exactly his baptismal one," laughed Dawnay, lightly.  "It would
hardly have suited him to use that!"

"What was it?  Is there any reason why I should not know?"

"Yes.  I am scarcely likely to betray my dead friend, Mr Kemball."

I was silent beneath his stern rebuke.  At one moment I felt repulsion
when I gazed upon his pimply face, yet at the next I experienced a
curious sense of fascination.  The mystery of it all had become most
tantalising.  Thought of the bronze cylinder and what it might contain
flashed across my mind, whereupon I asked whether Arnold had had any
permanent address in London.

"No.  I usually wrote to him to the Poste Restante at Charing Cross.  He
was an elusive man always, and when in London--which was on very rare
occasions--seemed to change his abode each day.  He boasted that he
never slept two nights running in the same bed.  He had reasons for
that--the same reasons, truth to tell, that I had."

"He feared the police--eh?"

Dawnay's fat face relaxed again into a grim smile.  "But now that Arnold
is dead I have to secure my own safety," he exclaimed quickly.  "I'm in
an infernal trap here in this train.  I may be arrested when I step out
of it--who knows?"

"And would arrest entail serious consequences?"  I asked slowly, my eyes
fixed upon his.

"Yes, very serious consequences.  For myself I don't care very much, but
for another--a woman--it would, alas! be fatal," he added hoarsely.

A woman!  Did he refer to that remarkable adventuress, details of whose
strange career I had read in that old copy of the newspaper?

I remembered that Arnold, in his letter to me, had appealed to me to
assist this man--who was evidently his very intimate friend.

"You must evade this person who is watching," I said.  "How can it be
done?"

He shrugged his shoulders with an expression indicative of bewilderment.

A sudden thought occurred to me.

"You and I are about the same build.  Could we not exchange clothes?"  I
suggested.  "At Exeter, you could walk up to the front of the train and
escape away, and out of the station, while I will still sit here, my
back turned towards the window.  The detective will believe you to be
still in the train."

"Capital!" he cried, starting up.  "A splendid plan, Mr Kemball!  By
Jove! you are resourceful!"  And he began quickly divesting himself of
coat and trousers.  "This train is express to Exeter, therefore we shall
not stop at either Teignmouth or Dawlish."  I threw off my coat, vest,
cravat, and trousers, and in five minutes had exchanged my garments for
his, and had assumed the scarlet tie in place of my own, while he, on
his part, got into my suit, which, however, seemed slightly tight for
him.  He laughed heartily as we stood regarding each other so quickly
transformed.

I assumed the grey suede gloves, slightly large for me, tilted the smart
grey hat a little over my eyes, and then ensconced myself against the
corridor, so that my back only could be visible when the train drew up
at St David's Station in Exeter.

Dawnay went out into the corridor to observe the effect critically.

"Capital!" he cried.  "Capital!  Won't the fellow be done in the eye!"

"Yes," I laughed; "it will be really amusing to watch his face when he
comes to arrest me."

"But he may not come until you get to Paddington--after midnight.  And
what excuse shall you make for changing clothes with me?"

"Oh, don't bother about that," I said, rather enjoying the prospect of a
joke, but little dreaming of the serious predicament in which I was
placing myself.  "Where shall I meet you again?"

"Ah!  Be careful--be very careful, Mr Kemball.  You will no doubt be
watched.  They will suspect you of an intention to meet me again in
secret, and for that reason will keep strict surveillance upon you.  Use
the name Hamilton Davis, and write to me at the Poste Restante at
Charing Cross.  That is as safe as anywhere.  I shall be in London; but
I must be off now, and the moment the train stops I shall be out and
away.  There's sure to be a crowd upon Exeter platform.  Ah!  You can't
tell what a great service you have rendered me in assuming my identity
this evening--you have saved me.  Good-bye--and a thousand thanks."

Then, with a wave of his hand and a merry smile, the elusive person--for
such he no doubt was--went forth into the corridor and disappeared.

I took up my previous position, so that when the train ran into Exeter I
was seated with my back to the window, one leg upon the cushion, lazily
reading a newspaper which I had found in Dawnay's pocket.

Much bustle was going on outside on the platform, and I knew that the
police-officer had passed in order to reassure himself that I had not
escaped.  For perhaps ten minutes I sat there in lazy indolence, until
at last the train moved off again, and once more I was free from
observation.

I could not for the life of me discern why the man had feared to be seen
in my company.  Arnold must have somehow foreseen that his friend would
be watched, and had therefore prearranged the sign of the gloves.
Perhaps he had expected that another enemy, not the police, would be
watching.  Yet even there, in the train, Dawnay had expressed fear lest
we be observed together.  It was a point the full meaning of which I
failed to grasp.

At Taunton we stopped again, and I assumed my attitude just as before,
with my back to the window, when of a sudden the carriage door was flung
open unceremoniously, and a man's voice exclaimed--

"Alfred Dawnay, I am a police-officer and I hold a warrant for your
arrest!"

I roused myself slowly and, facing the man who had addressed me,
remarked in a cool voice--

"I think you've made a slight mistake--eh?  My name is not Dawnay."

The man in the straw hat uttered an ejaculation of surprise and stood
staring at me dumbfounded, while a man at his side, evidently one of the
Taunton police in plain clothes, looked at us both in wonder.

"If you are not Dawnay, then where is Dawnay?" demanded the detective
quickly.

"How do I know?"

"But you are wearing his clothes!  You assisted him to escape, therefore
you will have to make some explanation."

"I have no explanation to offer," I said.  "If you want Dawnay you'd
better go and look for him.  You have no warrant to arrest me merely
because I happen to be wearing clothes resembling Dawnay's."

"Perhaps not, my dear sir," replied the detective, greatly annoyed at
being thus outwitted.  "But I tell you it will be better for you to be
quite frank and outspoken with us.  When did Dawnay leave this train--
tell me?"

"I don't know," I replied, which was really the truth.  And the chagrin
of the two police-officers was now fully apparent.

"But you've rendered yourself liable to prosecution, don't forget that,"
said the man with the straw hat.  "That man, Alfred Dawnay, _alias_ Day,
is wanted on a very serious charge."

"Of what?"  I asked quickly.

"Never mind what.  You've assisted him to escape, and you'll have to
answer for it."

And he closed the door angrily, for the train was again about to move
off towards London.

What, I wondered, was the serious charge against Alfred Dawnay?

CHAPTER SIX.

THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.

On my return to London I had the very unpleasant experience of being
closely watched by detectives, just as the fugitive had foreseen.  It
was quite evident that the police intended to rediscover Dawnay through
my instrumentality.

I wrote to "Mr Hamilton Davis," at the Poste Restante, Charing Cross,
giving him my London address at the Hotel Cecil, and also my address at
Upton End, hoping that he would send me an appointment.  Yet he had
shown himself so wary that I hardly believed he would at once reveal his
hiding-place.  I was extremely anxious to meet him again, for I hoped to
learn more from him and solve the mystery of the man whom I had known as
Melvill Arnold.

In order to evade the unwelcome attentions of detectives, I went down to
Upton End for a few days, for I knew that if any stranger were lurking
in the vicinity old Tucker would certainly know of it.  Not three days
had I been there, indeed, before one morning he lingered over watering
the plants in the conservatory when I came down to breakfast, to declare
that he was much puzzled over the fact that a man--"a decent-looking
man" he described him--seemed to be for ever passing and repassing the
lodge.

"I can't think, sir, what can be his business," he said.  "I don't like
the looks of him at all.  Maybe he's one of a gang who intends to rob
the house, sir.  Therefore I've told Thomas and Mason to keep their eyes
open."  He referred to the groom and the under-gardener.  "I've half a
mind to set the dogs on 'im," he added.  "Only let 'im come into the
drive and I'd let Prince after 'im.  His whole suit of clothes wouldn't
be worth sixpence afterwards."

"Some inquisitive fellow, I suppose, Tucker," I said, in an endeavour to
treat the incident with utter unconcern.  "I don't fancy burglars would
come here."

"Don't you believe it, sir.  There's lots of things--pictures and curios
which your father, the late Sir Lionel, collected--which would fetch a
big price in London, you know, sir."

"Well," I laughed, "if burglars really do pay us a visit, Prince will
see to them.  I'd be sorry to face the dog if I were a thief."

"So would I, sir.  Only there's such a thing as a dose o' strychnine on
a bit o' meat, you know."

"Abroad, yes.  In Italy it is the favourite ruse of burglars, Tucker.
But here in England we are much more secure."

And then, watering-can in hand, the faithful old fellow passed out,
while I sat down to my lonely breakfast.

A week after I had written to the Charing Cross Post Office I received a
note, dated from the Hotel de la Boule d'Or at Provins, a small town
some sixty miles east of Paris.

"I am delighted to have your address," it read.  "At the present moment
my movements are very uncertain, but as soon as I can see you again I
will write to Upton End.  Be careful, however, that when you meet me you
are not watched.  I fear you may be troubled by unwelcome watchers.  If
you are, pray forgive me, and recollect how grateful I am to you for the
service which you have rendered me, and which one day I hope to repay."

That was all.  There was no signature.

And so I was compelled to wait for a further communication from the man
who was undoubtedly in hiding in that obscure old town in the valley of
the Voulzie.

Time after time I took out that corroded cylinder--wherein was something
which the dead man had declared would cause the whole world to stand
aghast--and held it in my hand full of wonder.  Upon the table, in the
big old-fashioned library, stood the weird little figure of the ancient
god of the Egyptians--the great Osiris.  Sight of it, each time that I
entered there, recalled to me that sunset hour in the little hotel off
the Strand, the hour when Melvill Arnold had passed silently to the
Beyond.

Three weeks went by in eager expectancy.  By careful inquiry and
judicious watchfulness, I came to the conclusion that the surveillance
set upon me by Scotland Yard had been withdrawn.  Hence it seemed to me
that they had found traces of the fugitive they sought.  Probably, if he
were a known criminal, his presence in France had been reported through
the Prefecture of Police in Paris.  It was part of the international
police system to do so.

Was Alfred Dawnay again in peril of arrest, I wondered?

One morning, however, I received the long-expected message, for among my
letters I found a note asking me to be alone outside Lathbury--a small
hamlet a little way out of Newport Pagnell, on the Northampton Road--at
three o'clock that afternoon.  The heavy handwriting was the same as the
letter from Provins, and I knew it to be from Dawnay.

Therefore, with considerable eagerness, I set out about two o'clock to
walk to the place appointed for meeting.  I passed up the long street of
Newport Pagnell, but nobody followed me.  It was early-closing day, and
the place was sleepy and deserted.  Out again upon the dusty high road I
met nobody save a middle-aged man on a motor-cycle, who dashed past me
at a tearing pace, and who, as later on I approached the inn at
Lathbury, had pulled up to make some repair.

Suddenly I regarded him with suspicion.  Was it possible that he was
following me to watch my movements?

As I went by he looked up, full into my face, and then I felt certain
that I had seen him somewhere before.  But where I could not recollect.

I had half a mind to turn back and thus throw him off the scent if he
were a detective; nevertheless, compelled as I was to act warily, I
strolled on through the village, and out upon the open road, up the hill
in the direction of Gaythurst.

I glanced at my watch and found it already a quarter-past three.  But
nobody was yet in sight.  Probably Dawnay was standing concealed
somewhere behind the hedge in order to satisfy himself that the coast
was quite clear before approaching me.

Behind, at some distance away, I heard the hum of an approaching
motor-car, and, stepping to the side of the road, prepared to be
suffocated by the thick white dust.

The car swung through the village and rushed up the hill, but as it came
behind me slowed down, until it passed me at quite a slow pace.  Then I
saw it was a powerful limousine, painted and upholstered in stone-grey,
and within sat a woman alone.

A few yards in front of me it stopped dead, and the woman leaned out of
the door, when, to my utter amazement, I recognised her to be the same
pretty young girl whom I had seen in Highgate Cemetery--the mysterious
person who had so tenderly placed fresh flowers upon the grave of
Melvill Arnold.

"Excuse me!" she exclaimed, addressing me in a musical voice, as she
opened the door.  "I believe you are Mr Kemball, are you not?"

"That certainly is my name," I said, raising my straw hat instinctively.

"Well, I--I've come here to meet you," she laughed merrily.  "Would you
come inside, and then I can tell you all."

So at her invitation I got in beside her, when the ear moved off swiftly
again, and next moment we were swinging along towards Northampton, the
driver evidently having already received his instructions.

"I suppose I ought to explain, Mr Kemball, that Mr Harvey Shaw, the
gentleman known to you as Dawnay, deemed it wiser not to come and meet
you in person, because--well--" and she laughed sweetly, displaying even
rows of pearly teeth.  "I think you probably realise the reason."

"Fully," I answered, quite taken aback by the ruddiness of her
appearance.  "But I had suspicion as I came along of a motor-cyclist who
stopped before the inn.  He is a man I have seen somewhere before."

"Oh, he is a friend.  He is there as scout for us," she said.  "He has
been watching you, and has signalled that all is clear, and so we may
proceed without fear.  Mr Shaw has asked me to take you to him."

"Where is he?"

"At Rockingham, beyond Kettering," was her reply, and as she turned her
splendid brown eyes upon me, I judged her to be about nineteen or
twenty, and saw that hers was a face more perfect in its beauty than
ever I had before gazed upon.  Her sombre black heightened the pallor of
her complexion, yet her lips were full and red, her soft cheeks dimpled
and perfect in their contour, while her large splendid eyes revealed an
inexpressible sweetness and charm.  From the first moment I realised
that she was full of good-humour, with a bright, cheerful disposition,
and yet quiet of manner and full of exquisite refinement.  The
expression in her great wide-open eyes was perhaps just a trifle too
shrewd, and she seemed, as I began to chat with her, possessed of a
ready wit and a quaint philosophy.

Of her wondrous and striking beauty there could be no two opinions.  She
was perfect, from the crown of her neat little straw motor-bonnet to the
top of her brown glace shoe.  Her hands were small and well-gloved, and
her pointed chin gave to her sweet delicate face an air of piquant
irresponsibility that added greatly to her attractiveness.

Between the smart chauffeur and ourselves the window was closed;
therefore we could converse without being overheard.

"Mr Shaw told me how generously you assisted him when you met at
Totnes," she exclaimed at last.  "Ah, Mr Kemball!" she added, suddenly
growing very serious, "you cannot tell how great a service you rendered
us then."

"Us?"  I echoed.  "Then I presume you are a relation?"

"His daughter," she replied, "or, to be quite correct, his adopted
daughter.  My name is Asta--Asta Seymour.  So perhaps I may be permitted
to thank you, Mr Kemball, for the generous assistance you gave in
securing my foster-father's escape."

"No thanks are needed, Miss Seymour, I assure you," I declared.  "But
tell me, why is he in dread of the police?"

"Of that you will learn soon enough, I fear," she replied in a hard,
changed voice, which had a distant touch of sadness in it.

"Yes.  But is there not a grave danger in returning to England?"

"He was compelled to do so--first in order to meet you at Totnes, and
now for a second reason, in connection with the unfortunate death of
poor Mr Melvill Arnold."

"You, of course, knew Mr Arnold," I said.  "It is your hand that has
placed those fresh flowers upon his grave."

She was silent.  Then in a low voice she said--

"I admit that I have done so, for he was always my friend--always.  But
please say nothing to my father regarding what I have done."

"To me a great mystery enshrouds Mr Arnold," I said.  "Cannot you tell
me something concerning him--who and what he was?  By my very slight
knowledge of him, I feel instinctively that he was no ordinary person."

"And your estimate was surely a perfectly correct one, Mr Kemball.  He
was one of the most remarkable of men."

"You knew of his death.  How?"

"I knew he was in London, for he scribbled me a note telling me his
address, but requesting me to reveal it to nobody, not even my father,"
she said, in a low, hoarse voice.  "I called to see him upon some urgent
business--because he wished to see me, but, alas! they told me at the
hotel that he had died only a few hours before.  So I went away, fearing
to reveal myself to you, who they told me was his friend.  Two days
later I made inquiries, and learned where they had buried him.  Then, in
tribute to the memory of the man of whose greatness of heart and
remarkable attainments the world has remained in ignorance, I laid
flowers upon his grave."

"Why did you fear to reveal yourself to me, Miss Seymour?"  I asked
earnestly, looking straight into her soft brown eyes as the car rushed
along.

But she avoided my gaze, while a flush overspreading her cheeks betrayed
her embarrassment.

"Because--well, because I did not know how far you might be trusted,"
was her frank, open response, after a moment's hesitation.  "Indeed, I
do not even now know whether you would still remain our friend and
preserve the secret if the ugly truth became revealed to you!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

DAWNAY MAKES CONFESSION.

Her curious reply greatly puzzled me.  What could be "the ugly truth" to
which she had referred?

At her side I sat in silence for some time.  The car was tearing along a
wide straight main road between dusty hedges and many telegraph wires,
and as I glanced at her I saw that she was staring straight before her
fixedly, with a strange hard look upon her beautiful countenance.

Perhaps I might have been mistaken, but at my mention of the dead man I
felt certain that I saw in her eyes the light of unshed tears.

Through the busy town of Northampton we went, and out again on the road
to Kettering--a road I knew well, having motored over it many times.  In
the centre of the latter town we turned sharply to the left, and, taking
the Oakham Road, soon passed through the village of Great Oakley, and
suddenly descending a very steep hill, on the summit, of which a castle
was perched, we found ourselves in the wide straggling main street of
Rockingham village.

My fair companion spoke but little.  She seemed suddenly to have become
strangely preoccupied.  Indeed, it struck me as though she had been
seized by some sudden apprehension, by a thought which had crossed her
mind for the first time.  Her manner had completely changed.

"Your father has been away in France since I met him?"  I remarked, for
want of something else to say.

"Yes," she responded; "he has been moving rapidly from place to place
for reasons to which I need not refer."

"But why has he returned if there is still danger?"  I queried.

"I scarcely think there is further danger--at least at present," she
answered.  I was puzzled at her reply, but not for long, as I will
relate.

The car slipped through Rockingham, and when about two miles farther on
swung abruptly through a handsome pair of lodge-gates and into a broad,
well-timbered park, at last pulled up before a long, old-fashioned
Jacobean mansion which commanded from its grey stone terrace fine views
of the green undulating hills and rich pastures around.  The old
ivy-clad place, with its pointed gables and mullioned windows, was a
good type of the stately English home, and as the car drew up at the
porch the great door was flung open by a neat man-servant, who bowed low
as we entered the fine hall, where the stone slabs were, I noticed, worn
hollow by the tread of generations.

The place was built in a quadrangle, two-storeyed, with handsome
heraldic devices in the stained windows.  There seemed to be roomy
corridors, leading by stout oak doors to roomier apartments within, some
oak-panelled, others with moulded ceilings and carved stone fireplaces.
The whole place had a cloak and rapier look about it, built probably
when the old Cavalier was poor and soured and had sheathed his sword,
but nevertheless was counting the months when the King should come to
his own again.

I followed Asta Seymour along the hall, and turning into a corridor on
the left, suddenly found myself in a pleasant sitting-room wherein the
man I knew as Dawnay stood, his hands behind his back, awaiting me.

As we entered she closed the door behind us.  The room bore an old-world
air, with chintz-covered furniture and filled with the perfume of
pot-pourri.

"At last, Mr Kemball!  At last?" cried the fugitive, crossing quickly
to me and taking my hand in warm welcome.  "So Asta found you all right,
eh?"

"Her appearance was certainly a surprise," I said.  "I expected you to
meet me yourself."

"Well," he laughed, his small narrow-set eyes filled with a merry
twinkle.  "It would hardly have been a judicious proceeding.  So I sent
Asta, to whom, I may as well tell you, I entrust all matters of
strictest confidence.  But sit down, Mr Kemball.  Give me your hat and
stick."

And he drew forward for me a comfortable chair, while the girl, excusing
herself, left us alone.

When she had gone, my friend looked me in the face, and burst out
laughing, exclaiming--

"I suppose, Mr Kemball, this is rather a surprise to you to find that
Harvey Shaw, the occupier of Lydford Hall, and Alfred Dawnay are one and
the same person, eh?"

"It is," I admitted.  "I have passed the edge of your park many times in
my car, but I never dreamed that you lived here."

"Well," he said, "I rely upon your secrecy.  You were extremely good to
me the other day, so I see no reason why I should not be just a little
frank with you."

"Your affairs are, of course, no business of mine," I declared.  "But
whatever you may reveal to me I shall certainly treat with the strictest
confidence."

"Ah!  I feel sure that you will.  Melvill Arnold would never have taken
you into his confidence if he had not been certain that he could trust
you.  He was one of the very shrewdest men in all England, or he would
not have been so enormously successful."

From the long windows, with their small leaded panes, I could see from
where I sat far away across the park with its fine beech avenue.  Over
the wide fireplace were carved many heraldic devices in stone, while
against the dark oak-panelling the bright chintzes showed clean and
fresh.  Taste was displayed everywhere--the taste of a refined man.

Mr Shaw, as he was apparently known there, was dressed very different
from the occasion when we had met at Totnes.  Then he had assumed the
appearance of a racing man, but in his guise of country gentleman he was
dressed in morning-coat of a rather old-fashioned cut, and
pepper-and-salt trousers, an attire which gave him a quiet and somewhat
distinguished appearance.

I sat before him, wondering at his remarkable dual personality--the man
hunted by the police, and the wealthy occupier of that fine country
mansion.

His small, shrewd eyes seemed to realise the trend of my thoughts as he
lounged back in his chair near the window, regarding me lazily.

"I promised, Mr Kemball, that I would see you again as soon as
opportunity offered," he said; "and feeling assured of the spirit of
good fellowship existing between us, I have this afternoon let you into
the secret of my double life.  That evening at Exeter I had a very
narrow squeak of it--by Gad! one of the narrowest in all my life.  An
enemy--one whom I had believed to be my friend--gave me completely away.
The police evidently expected to find me through you, for you were
watched constantly.  Everywhere you went you were followed."

"You know that?"

"I do," he said.  "The fact is I have a personal guardian who constantly
watches over me, and warns me of danger.  You saw him on his cycle at
Lathbury.  He watched you while I was absent in France shaking off those
bloodhounds of the law."

"And you have now shaken them off, I presume?"

"I think so.  Scotland Yard has, happily, never yet associated Harvey
Shaw, Justice of the Peace for the County of Rutland, and one of the
visiting justices of Oakham Gaol, with Alfred Dawnay, alias Day, whom
they are so very eager to arrest," and he laughed grimly.  "Mine is an
amusing situation, I assure you, to sit on the Bench and try prisoners,
well knowing that each police-officer who appears as witness would, if
he knew, be only too eager to execute the warrant outstanding."

And his broad, good-humoured face again expanded into a smile.

"Certainly.  I quite see the grim humour of the situation," I said.

"And if you had not assisted me, Mr Kemball, I should, at this moment,
have been under detention in His Majesty's prison at Brixton," he said.
"By the way, I have to return the suit of clothes you so very kindly
lent to me.  My man has them upstairs ready packed.  I shall send them
to you by parcel-post.  Gates was, I think, rather surprised to find
another man's clothes among my kit.  But fortunately he's used to my
idiosyncrasies, and regards them as mere eccentricities on the part of
his master.  But he is always discreet.  He's been with me these ten
years."

"How long have you lived here, Mr--er--"

"Shaw here," he interrupted quickly.

"Mr Shaw.  How long have you lived here?  I thought the place belonged
to Lord Wyville?"

"So it does--at least to the late lord's executors.  I've rented it for
the past three years.  So in the county I'm highly respectable, and I
believe highly respected."

"The situation is unusual--to say the least," I declared.

"Perhaps I'm a rather unusual man, Mr Kemball," he said, rising and
crossing the room.  I saw that in his dark green cravat he wore a fine
diamond, and that his manner and bearing were those of a well-born
country gentleman.  Truly, he was an unusual person.

"I hope," he went on, halting suddenly before me, "that as you have
associated yourself with my very dear and intimate friend, Melvill
Arnold, you will now become my friend also.  It is for that reason I
venture to approach you as I have done to-day."

"Well," I said, my natural sense of caution exerting itself as I
recollected the dead man's written injunction, "I must admit, Mr Shaw,
that I am sorely puzzled to fathom the mystery of the situation.  Ever
since my meeting with poor Mr Arnold I seem to have been living in a
perfect maze of inexplicable circumstances."

"I have no doubt.  But all will be explained in due course.  Did Arnold
make no explanation?"

"None.  Indeed, in his letter to me, which I opened after his burial, he
admitted to me that he was not what he had pretended to be."

"Few of us are, I fear," he laughed.  "We are all more or less
hypocrites and humbugs.  To-day, in this age of criminality and
self-advertisement, the art of evading exposure is the art of industry.
Alas! the copy-book proverb that honesty is the best policy seems no
longer true.  To be dishonest is to get rich quick; to remain honest is
to face the Official Receiver in the Bankruptcy Court.  A dishonest man
amasses money and becomes great and honoured owing to the effort of his
press agent.  The honest man struggles against the trickery of the
unscrupulous, and sooner or later goes to the wall."

"What you say is, I fear, too true," I sighed.  "Would that it were
untrue.  Virtue has very little reward in these days of unscrupulous
dealing in every walk of life, from the palace to the slum."

"Then I take it that you do not hold in contempt a man who, in dealing
with the world, has used his opponents' own weapons?" he asked.

"How can I?  In a duel the same weapons must be used."

"Exactly, Mr Kemball, we are now beginning to understand each other,
and--"

At that moment the door opened without warning, and Asta re-entered.
She had changed her frock, and was wearing a pretty muslin blouse and
skirt of dove-grey.

"Shall you have tea in here, Dad--or out on the lawn?" she inquired.

"Oh, on the lawn, I think, dear.  I just want to finish my chat with Mr
Kemball--if you don't mind."

"I'm awfully sorry I intruded," she laughed.  "I thought you'd
finished."  And with a sweet smile to me she closed the door and again
left us.

How very dainty she looked; how exquisite was her figure!  Surely her
grace was perfect.

"Really," my companion said, "I don't know what I'd do without Asta.
She's all I have in the world, and she's a perfect marvel of discretion
and diplomacy."

"She's indeed very charming," I said, perfectly frankly.

"I'm glad you find her so.  She has plenty of admirers, I can assure
you.  And I fear they are spoiling her.  But as I was saying, Mr
Kemball," he went on, "I hope we now understand each other perfectly.
Poor Arnold was such a dear and intimate friend of mine, and we were
equally interested in so many financial schemes that it has puzzled me
greatly that he should have sought an obscure burial as he has done, and
that his affairs are not in the hands of some responsible lawyer.  Did
he mention anything to you concerning the terms of his will?"

"He never breathed a word regarding it.  Indeed, I have no idea whether
he had made one."

"Ah!" sighed my companion; "so like poor Arnold.  He always was fond of
postponing till to-morrow what could be done to-day.  His will--if he
made one--would be interesting, no doubt, for his estate must be pretty
considerable.  He was a wealthy man."

I recollected the incident of the burning of the banknotes, and that set
me pondering.

"Do you anticipate that he made a will?"  I asked.  "I think not," was
Shaw's answer.  "He had a strong aversion to making a will, I know,
because he feared that after his death the truth might be revealed."

"The truth concerning what?"

"Concerning a certain chapter of his life which for years had been very
carefully hidden.  The fact is, Mr Kemball, that he feared exposure!"

"Of what?"

"Of some rather ugly facts.  And for that reason he carefully avoided
making much explanation to you as to who he really was.  He had
reasons--very strong reasons--for concealing his actual identity."

"May I not know them?"  I asked very slowly, fixing my eyes upon his.

"Some day," was the rather strained reply.  "Not now--some day--some
day.  I hope to be in a position to explain all to you--to reveal to you
certain matters which will hold you utterly dumbfounded and amazed."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE STORY OF THE CYLINDER.

I was taking tea beneath the trees with my host and Asta, when there
approached a tall, dark-haired athletic young fellow in grey flannels
and straw hat.  He was smiling merrily, and the sudden light in the
girl's eyes when she saw him was sufficient to reveal to me that they
were intimate friends.

They grasped hands, while Shaw exclaimed in his slow deliberate drawl--

"Hulloa, Guy!  I thought you had gone up to town?"

"No.  I had a wire which put off my appointment until Thursday, so I've
come over for a cup of tea."  Then she introduced the young fellow to me
as Guy Nicholson.

He seated himself in one of the long cane deckchairs, and as Asta handed
him some tea the pair began to chat about a tennis tournament which was
to be held at a neighbouring house.  Presently he turned to me, and we
had a long conversation.  He had the distinct bearing of a gentleman,
smart, spruce, and upright, his handsome smiling face bronzed by the
sun, while he seemed brimming over with good-humour.

From the first I instinctively liked him.  Shaw explained that the young
fellow was a near neighbour, whose father, an ironmaster in the North,
had died a couple of years ago, leaving him a handsome fortune.

"He's always about with Asta," he added confidently in a low voice.
"And I have suspicion that she has grown very fond of him."

As I glanced across at the pair I saw how well suited they were to each
other.  She looked the personification of all that is lovely.  Her cool
muslin blouse and grey skirt fell to her young form prettily; her dark
wavy hair shadowed the great brown eyes now that she had removed her
motor-bonnet, making them seem to hold in their depths a vague knowledge
that should never come to the ken of man, save perhaps at that moment
when love would drag from them their slumbering secrets.

But that was only one of Asta's moods, and almost before I had taken
notice of it she was laughing merrily with her companion as she handed
him the cake.

I saw that her eyes did not flinch from the steady gaze of those others,
but I knew that there was a certain quick thumping beneath the pretty
blouse that made her realise she was not quite so adamant as she had
believed.

She believed that her secret was her own.  It did not matter about her
heart.  No one could see, and so no one knew.

When we had finished tea the pair rose and strolled away together
through the rosery, towards the flower-garden ablaze with bright
blossoms.  And as they passed beneath the arches of crimson ramblers and
were lost to sight, my host exclaimed, with a sigh and a sad smile--

"Ah!  How delightful it would be to find oneself young again--young
again like you, Mr Kemball!"

I laughed, and we lit cigarettes and began to chat.  I confess that the
mystery surrounding this man who had so openly admitted to me that he
was an adventurer as well as a county magistrate greatly attracted me.
I found myself fascinated by the whole unusual circumstances.  One
curious fact I had noted was that while Asta was aware of Arnold's death
she had never told the man whom she knew as father.  What motive had she
in concealing the truth?  Again, it seemed very evident that the young
man Nicholson little dreamed that Mr Harvey Shaw was anything else than
the wealthy idler which he pretended to be.  And surely Asta had not
undeceived him.

As together we strolled about the beautiful well-kept grounds, and as he
showed me his motor garage, wherein stood four cars of various types,
his electric lighting plant and electric pumps for the water supply, I
tried to obtain from him some further information regarding the man
Arnold.

But to all my ingenious inquiries he remained dumb.

Therefore I turned my attention to Asta, and discovered that he had
adopted her when she was left alone a little child of eight.

"My life, Mr Kemball, has been very full of change and variety.
Sometimes for months I have been compelled to live in strict seclusion--
sometimes in places hardly civilised.  I spent a year in the mountains
of Northern Albania, for instance, living with one of the mountain
tribes; and on another occasion necessity compelled me to live for eight
months in an obscure village in Corfu.  But through it all little Asta
has been my companion--ah, yes!--and how often she has cheered my
lonely, solitary life!"

I saw that, whatever might be this man's character, he was devoted to
her.  While she, on her part, had shown herself to be ever watchful of
his interests.

"Then she really is quite a cosmopolitan!"  I exclaimed.

"Certainly.  She speaks three languages perfectly.  Few girls of her age
have, like her, seen life in all its various phases, from that of the
peasant hut to life here in an English home.  But," he added, "when
Arnold spoke to you in confidence did he tell you nothing?"

"Of what?"  I asked.

"Nothing concerning his past?"

"Nothing."

"He did not mention me--eh?" asked my companion.

"Only to urge me to carry that letter to you at Totnes."

"And he gave you nothing else?  I understood you to say that he treated
you with a certain amount of confidence," and he looked me narrowly in
the face.

"He gave me two objects," I replied.  "A small golden figure of the
Egyptian god Osiris--a very ancient relic--and a curious and much
corroded cylinder of bronze."

"Great Heavens!  The bronze cylinder!" he gasped, starting and standing
before me open-mouthed.  His face was blanched at mention of it.

"Yes."

"He gave you that, eh?" he cried in distinct alarm.  "And you accepted
the trust--you were fool enough to do that?"

"Of course I did.  Why?"

"Ah!  You would not have done so had you but known the terrible evil
which must now threaten you," he said in a low, hoarse voice, his manner
changing to one of great alarm.  He seemed agitated and nervous.

"I don't quite follow you," I said, much puzzled at his manner.

"You are, of course, in ignorance, Mr Kemball.  But by the acceptance
of that executorship--by the holding in your possession of that cylinder
you are a doomed man."

"Doomed?  How?"  I asked, with an incredulous smile.

"I tell you this quite openly and frankly, because you have already
proved yourself my friend," he said, his face now entirely transformed.
We were standing together at the edge of the square croquet lawn, once
the bowling-green, where the great old box-trees were clipped into
fantastic shapes, while at the end was the long stone terrace with the
open park beyond.

"I think you told me that he made you a present in banknotes?"  Shaw
went on.  "Ah!  Melvill Arnold knew only too well what dire unhappiness
and misfortune, what deadly peril, possession of that cylinder must
entail.  He therefore made you that payment by way of a little
recompense.  Did he instruct you what to do with the thing," he
inquired.

"On a certain day I am to hand it over to a person who will come to me
and ask for it."

"To hand it over without question?"

"Yes, without question."

Shaw was silent for some moments.  His brows were knit, and he was
thinking deeply, his arms folded as he stood.

"Well," he exclaimed suddenly, at last, "I never dreamed that he had
entrusted the cylinder to you.  You, of course, still hold it in your
possession?"

"Yes."

"Then, if I were you, I should be very anxious for the arrival of the
appointed day when you are to be relieved of its heavy responsibility.
The history of that metal tube is a record of ruin, disaster, and death,
for misfortune in one form or another always overtakes its possessor.
Its story is surely the weirdest and most terrible that could be
related.  I knew that Arnold was in Egypt, but I never dreamed that he
would dare at last to take the cylinder from its hiding-place and convey
it here--to England!"

I recollected how my friend had just before his death declared that its
contents would amaze the world, and I made quick inquiry concerning it.

"What it contains I do not know," he replied.  "Only Arnold himself
knows, and he has unfortunately carried his secret to the grave.  It was
found, I believe, in the tomb of King Merenptah, the Pharaoh under whom
the exodus of the Israelites took place some twelve hundred years before
the Christian era.  Arnold himself discovered it at Abydos, but on
opening it, dreaded to allow the thing to see the light of day, and in
order to preserve its influence from mankind, he again buried it in a
certain spot known only to himself; but, no doubt, somewhere near the
great Temple of Amon-Ra, at Karnak."

"Why did he wish to preserve his discovery from mankind?"  I asked, much
interested.

"How can I tell?  After his discovery he returned post-haste to England,
an entirely changed man.  He would never reveal to me, his most intimate
friend, what the cylinder actually contained, save that he admitted to
me that he held it in awe--and that if he allowed it to go forth to the
world it would have caused the greatest sensation in our modern
civilisation, that the world would stand still in amazement."

"What could he have meant by that?"

"Ah!" replied my companion, "I cannot tell.  All I know is, that
together with the cylinder he discovered some ancient papyri recounting
the terrible fate which would befall its possessors, and warning any one
against handling, possessing, or opening it."

"A favourite method of the ancients to prevent the rifling of their
tombs," I remarked with a laugh.

"But in this case Arnold, who was a great archaeologist, and could
decipher the hieroglyphics no doubt, investigated the weird contents of
the cylinder and satisfied himself that they were such that no mortal
eye should gaze upon without bewilderment.  Those were the very words he
used in describing them to me."

"And did anything terrible happen to him as a result?"  I asked.

"From the moment of that investigation misfortune dogged his footsteps
always.  His friends died one by one, and he himself was smitten by that
infection of the heart, which, as you know, has terminated fatally."

"How long ago is it since he made this discovery in King Merenptah's
tomb?"  I asked.

"About four years," was Shaw's reply, and I saw that he was trembling
with excitement.  "And from that day until the day of his death poor
Melvill Arnold was, alas! never the same man.  What he found within the
Thing, as he used to call it, made such a terrible impression upon him
that he, bold and fearless and defiant as he used to be, became suddenly
weak, timid, and nervous, lest the secret contained in the cylinder
should be revealed.  That message of the hieroglyphics, whatever it was,
haunted him night and day, and he often declared to me that, in
consequence of his foolish disobedience of the injunction contained in
the papyri, he had become a doomed man,--doomed, Mr Kemball!" he added,
in a low, strange voice, looking straight and earnestly into my
lace--"doomed, as I fear, alas! that you too are now doomed!"

CHAPTER NINE.

REVEALS GUY'S SUSPICIONS.

All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the
mysterious cylinder proved unavailing.  Apparently he was entirely in
ignorance of its actual contents--of the Thing referred to by the man
now dead.

Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled
about the beautiful gardens in the sunset.  He was a bright, merry,
easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had
retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition
for foreign travel.  He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and
Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.

Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield
ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who
had spent many thousands on improvements.  My father had known him but
slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much
gratified to know his son.

From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed
friendship towards each other.  We were both bachelors, and I saw that
we had many tastes in common.  His airy carelessness of manner and his
overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the
devoted slave of the pretty Asta.

Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior
person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone
with Nicholson on the terrace.

"Have you known Asta long?" he asked me suddenly.

My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of
his question--if he were not jealous of her.

"I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?"

"Oh yes," I replied lamely.  "We've been acquainted for some little
time."

Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes
unusually serious.  Then, after a pause, he said--

"Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers
were.  I want to speak very frankly with you."

"Well?"  I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.

"I want to ask you a plain honest question.  What is your opinion of
Harvey Shaw?"

"My opinion," I echoed.  "Well, I hardly know.  He's rather a good
fellow, I think, as far as I know.  Generous, happy--"

"Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends,
and all that," he interrupted.  "But--but what I want you to tell me is,
what you really think of him.  Is his rather austere exterior only a
mask?"

"I don't quite follow your meaning," was my reply.

"May I speak to you in entire confidence?"

"You certainly may.  I shall not abuse it."

"Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who
knows him, but I have had no opportunity.  Because he gives money freely
in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman's
bill, he is naturally highly popular.  Nobody will say a word against
him.  Harvey Shaw can do no wrong.  But it is the same everywhere in a
rural district.  Money alone buys popularity and a good name."

"Why should any word be said against him?"

I queried.  "Is he not your friend, as well as mine?"

"Granted, but--well, he has been here several years, and I have known
Asta all the time.  Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her.  But were
it not for her I would never darken his doors."

"Why?"  I asked, much surprised.

"Well," he said with hesitation, lowering his voice.  "Because there's
something wrong about him."

"Something wrong?  What do you mean?"

"What I allege.  I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of
Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil."

"Then you have suspicion of him, eh?  Of what?"

"I hardly know.  But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly.  I do
not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta.  They are
glances of hatred."

"My dear fellow," I laughed.  "You must really be mistaken in this.  He
is entirely devoted to her.  He has told me so."

"Ah, yes!  He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know,
but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart.
He hates her?"

"Why should he?  She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever
since her childhood."

"I know.  You are Shaw's friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion
there may be against him.  Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence
blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing."

"But what causes you to suspect this?"  I asked, looking at him very
seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his
dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun.

"Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball.  I have proof."

"Of what?"

"Of what I allege," he cried, in a low, confidential tone.  "This man
Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be."

I was silent.  What could he know?  Surely Asta had not betrayed her
foster-father!  Of that I felt confident.

"But you say you have proof.  What is the nature of the proof?"

"It is undeniable.  This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained
all these years, has changed towards her.  There's evil in his heart."

"Then you fear that--well, that something may happen, eh?--that he might
treat her unkindly.  Surely he is not cruel to her!"

"Cruel?  Oh dear, no, not in the least.  He is most indulgent and
charming always.  That is why she believes in him."

"But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man
he pretends to be."

"Yes, I have.  My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for
behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about
something, as though he were concealing some great secret."

I held my breath.  What could he know?

"Well?"  I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.

"I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed.  His
frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more
especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them.  Sometimes
for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with
only the servants.  Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly?  Then
two months ago--I tell you this, of course, in the strictest
confidence--I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one
dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad,
and drenched to the skin.  I wished him good-night, and in his response
I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw.  So presently I
dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach.  But
he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I
turned my acetylene lamp back along the road.  Next day I made casual
inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris
on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight
afterwards."

"Well, and what do you make out from that incident?"  I asked.

"That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed
him to be on the Continent."

"But the disguise?"

"Ah! there you are!  Surely a gentleman doesn't go about in shabby
clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister
motive.  The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes
before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was
making his way to pay a secret visit."

"Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?"

"Quite confident."

"You told her nothing?"

"Of course not.  I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes
very wide-open.  Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is
not what he pretends to be."

The situation was, I saw, a most critical one.  The young man loved Asta
very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now
watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse.  This was
curious, having regard to Arnold's written words of caution.  The
latter's suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in
London.

"Have you mentioned this to anybody?"  I asked him.

"Not to a soul."

"Then if I may be permitted to advise," I said, "I should say no word to
anybody--not even to Miss Seymour.  I will assist you, and we will
continue to watch and act together."

"Good!" he cried.  "Your hand upon it, Kemball."  And we grasped hands.

"I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta," he said in a low
hoarse voice.  "I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem
to have a distinct presage of evil."

"Personally, I don't think you need have any uneasiness upon that
score," I said.  "Miss Seymour is his sole companion--probably his
confidante--for he has but few friends."

"Exactly.  But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?"

I had not looked at the matter in that light.  My companion's discovery
was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but
suspicion of Shaw's hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd.  But when a
man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.

"Well," I said, "now that you have been frank with me so far, and have
taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you
really do suspect?"

"You are Shaw's friend.  Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,"
he said.

"I am no more his friend than you are," I replied, recollecting Arnold's
warning regarding the Hand--whatever that might be.  "Have I not agreed
with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised
to help you to watch?  What actual conclusions have you formed?"

"H-s-s-h!" he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me,
and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.

"They're worrying Dad on the telephone from London," she exclaimed,
laughing merrily.  "He gets so out of patience with it.  But really it
is awfully trying sometimes.  They ring you up and then keep you half an
hour waiting."

"I know," laughed Guy.  "My own experience is exactly the same.  Why,
only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an
hour."

As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked
inexpressibly dainty and charming.  Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man.
They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked
Shaw for her hand.  Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion
which had entered his mind.

I saw the love-light in her magnificent brown eyes, she stood laughing
with him, while he took from his case a cigarette, tapped its end
lightly, as is the habit of some men, and lit it.

A few moments later Shaw joined us, smiling merrily, and as he came up
he clapped Guy on the back heartily, saying--

"You two fellows will stay and have dinner, won't you?  I'm glad you are
friends, as you ought to be."

"I really think I must go," I said.  "It will take me hours to get home
by train."

"Train!  Why, Gray will drive you back, of course," he cried.  "No,
never mind about dressing.  Asta will excuse us, and you'll stay."

So, having glanced at each other meaningly, we both accepted, and very
soon were seated in the long handsome dining-room, where the table,
laden with splendid old silver, was decorated tastefully with roses.

Wheaton served us with due stateliness, yet as I sat watching his grey
clean-shaven face, I felt somehow that there was a strange mysterious
craftiness in its expression, unusual in the countenance of a
gentleman's servant.  The manner in which he performed his service was,
however, perfect.  More than once, during the merry meal, I glanced
across at Guy Nicholson, and wondered what were his thoughts.

Fortunately he betrayed nothing in his face, for he joked and laughed
with his host, and praised the excellent claret which Wheaton had served
with such dignity.

The girl had eyes only for her lover, while Shaw himself, seated at the
head of the table, was full of fun and overflowing geniality.  How very
strange was the situation!

After dinner we took our coffee and liqueurs on the verandah, for the
night was breathless and balmy, and the air full of the sweet scent of
the flowers.

Then after a long gossip alone with Shaw, at half-past ten the car was
ordered for me and came round to the front entrance.

Before leaving I managed to obtain a word alone with Nicholson.

"You'll come over and see me," I asked.  "Now, don't disappoint me, will
you?"

"No, I won't."  Then he whispered quickly: "I told you that I had
certain proofs.  I've been upstairs.  When I come I will show them to
you.  They will astound you, and they are fully corroborated by what I
have noticed to-night.  Perhaps it escaped you.  Beware of Wheaton.
He's only been here six months, but I know something--have _seen_
something?"

And we shook hands and parted.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EVIL OF THE TEN PLAGUES.

In the days that followed I was intensely anxious to visit Lydford Hall
again, but I had received a warning note from Shaw, urging me not to do
so without taking every precaution.  I might be followed, for the danger
of detection was not yet at an end.

Therefore I remained in eager expectancy of Guy's visit.  He had vaguely
promised to come over "in a day or two."  But as a week passed and I
heard nothing from him, I wrote, and by return of post received a reply
that he would motor over and lunch with me on Sunday.

"I have something of greatest importance to tell you," his letter
concluded; "so I hope you can make it convenient to be in on that day."

I received the letter on Thursday morning, and at once replied that I
would be at home.  I would await his visit with keenest impatience.

The warm breathless days at Upton End passed but slowly.  Truth to tell,
I found life there extremely dull.  I had many friends in the
neighbourhood, but they were mostly elderly persons, or angular girls of
superior education.  I had little in common with them, and already found
myself longing to travel again.

More than once when smoking my lonely cigar before going to bed, I had
taken out the mysterious cylinder from the big safe built in the wall of
the library and held it in my hand pondering.  What could be the Thing
it contained--the thing which would amaze the world!

The weird story told to me by Shaw concerning it haunted me; yet what
evil could its possession bring upon me?  I had heard, of course, of
authenticated stories of certain Egyptian mummies which have brought
disaster and death to those who disturbed their long sleep; yet in my
case I had become the unwilling agent of another.

On the night of receiving Nicholson's letter, after every one had
retired, I was sitting as usual smoking, with the long window open to
the verandah, for the air was close and oppressive.  Outside the night
was glorious, the moon shone brightly, and not a breath of wind stirred.

I opened the steel door in the wall by the fireplace, and from the safe
took out the dead man's letter to me with the heavy cylinder.  It was a
curious fancy of mine to handle and examine it.

I read and re-read that letter traced by the hand of the man whom I had
known as Arnold, but whose real name seemed most probably to have been
Edgcumbe.  Then I read that strange letter threatening vengeance, and
held in my hand the old copy of the newspaper which told the curious
story of Lady Lettice Lancaster.

It was all mysterious, but surely most mysterious of all was that bronze
cylinder.  Why should the dead man have feared to expose its contents to
the world?

Civilisation would be staggered by the revelation, it was declared.
What terrible secret of ages past could be therein contained?  Why had
the dead man called it a Thing?  Was it really some living thing
imprisoned in that strong unbreakable casing?

I carried it across to the green-shaded lamp upon my writing-table, and
taking up a strong magnifying glass examined it closely, and at last
determined that the welding by which it had been closed had been done
ages ago.  As far as I could detect it had never been opened.  How,
therefore, could Arnold have known what it contained?--unless the papyri
that had been discovered with it had given an explanation.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the existence of any papyri of great
interest would probably be known in the Egyptian Department of the
British Museum.  Therefore by inquiry there I might perhaps learn
something.  So I resolved, after Guy's visit, to run up to London and
see one of the officials.  As Arnold was an Egyptologist, he would, no
doubt, be known and his discoveries noted.

I was holding the cylinder in my hand, carrying it across the room to
replace it in the safe, when my eye caught a dark shadow thrown across
the lawn.  So quickly, however, did it disappear that I stood half
inclined to believe it to exist only in my imagination.  It seemed to be
a long shadow, as though some person had crossed in the moonlight the
high bank on the opposite side.  Yet my collie, who would bark at the
slightest sound in the night, lay near and uttered neither bark nor
growl.  I went out to the verandah and looked about me; but all was
perfectly still.  The world lay asleep beneath the great full moon.

For a few moments I stood puzzled.  No intruder should be there at that
hour.  Yet the fact that Prince had not been disturbed reassured me, so
I closed the window, locked the cylinder and the correspondence
carefully in the safe, and then went upstairs to bed.

My room was directly over the library, and something prompted me to
watch.  So I extinguished my light and sat peering through the chink
between the blind and the window-sash.  For nearly half an hour I
waited, my eyes fixed upon the great wide, moonlit lawn.

Suddenly I saw the shadow again, plainly and distinctly--the dark
silhouette passed bay again.

It was probably a poacher from the wood beyond.  I knew that my rabbits
were being trapped with wires; therefore resolving to tell Johnson, the
keeper, in the morning, I retired to bed.

Next day, among my letters, I found one from my solicitors, which made
it necessary for me to go at once to London; and after doing my business
in Bedford Row, I strolled along to the British Museum.

I had but little difficulty in discovering Professor Stewart, whose
knowledge of Egyptology is probably the widest of any living man.

Without telling him too many details, I related the story I had heard of
the finding of a bronze cylinder in the tomb of King Merenptah, and that
certain papyri were discovered with it.  Could he give me any
information upon the subject.

"Well--a little," replied the tall, grey-bearded, bald-headed man,
looking at me through his spectacles with great deliberation.  "It is
true, I believe, that an interesting cylinder of metal was found in the
tomb of Merenptah, coeval with Moses, and with it were some fragments of
papyri fairly well-preserved, but on examination they were found not to
be of the nineteenth dynasty, as would have been expected."

"Who examined them?"  I asked eagerly.

"I did myself, about two years ago, if I recollect aright," replied the
Professor.  "They were brought to me one day for my opinion by a man
whose name I now forget.  He was elderly, grey-bearded, and apparently
possessed considerable knowledge of Egyptian subjects.  He left them
with me, so that I might decipher them, as he wished to compare his own
decipher with mine.  But, curiously enough, I have never seen him since.
The papyri I have still locked away, awaiting his return."

"Then they are here?"  I cried eagerly.

"Certainly.  Would you like to see them?"

I replied eagerly in the affirmative, and he left me for some minutes,
returning with a big cardboard portfolio, which he opened, showing half
a dozen pieces of brown crumbling paper-like substance covered with
puzzling hieroglyphics.  With them were several sheets of blue foolscap,
upon which he had written his translation.

"Here is what the record contains," he said.

"Perhaps, if you are interested in such matters, you would like to read
it.  It is a curious piece of literature of apparently the Pharaonic
dynasty of the Ptolemies--or 323-30 B.C., which ended with Cleopatra."

I took the folios of modern paper in my hand and from them read as
follows, written in the Professor's own crabbed writing:--

"...For of a Verity death, sickness, and sorrow, who knoweth which, may
fall upon thee.  Therefore, beware of the wrath of Ra, beware lest this
cylinder of bronze be opened and its secret be revealed to men, for
therein lieth the Thing that shall not speak until the Day of Awakening.

"For:

"He that seeketh knowledge of that which is hidden is accursed of Amon
with the ten plagues and doeth so at his own risk, and must meet his
fate being cursed of the wolf-god Osiris, ruler of the underworld.
Truly, cutting off the head of, or the forsaking life is better than the
satisfaction of curiosity of what is therein contained.

"Touch not the cylinder with thine hand, for if...

"Let it remain here in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings,
Lord... wherein it has been placed to slumber until released by Osiris,
to whom all kings and princes bow the knee and to whom...

"Observe, He is all-glorious, on whose pleasure fortune waiteth, in
whose valour victory, and in whose anger death.

"Since:

"...a gem be tied at the feet and a piece of glass be worn upon the
head, yet still glass is glass, and gems are gems.

"It is said:

"Wisdom is of more consequence than strength.  The want of it is a state
of misery.  And as in the night darkness is kept at a distance by the
lord of shades (the moon) thus love by seeing and being seen delights
the young.  The woman...

"Again:

"Women are never to be rendered faithful and obedient; no, not by gifts,
nor by honours, nor by sincerity, nor by services, nor by severity, nor
by precept!...  What women eat is twofold; their cunning fourfold; their
perseverance sixfold; their passions eightfold; and their patience
tenfold.  Wherefore the understanding which upon unexpected occurrences
remaineth unaffected, may pass through the greatest difficulties.  He
who hath sense and worshippeth the Sun-God hath strength.  Where hath he
strength who wanteth judgment?  Where hath...

"To the unkind the ruin of the worthy bringeth delight, and...

"It is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that
sound is unknown.

"For:

"Upon the great river the city of Thebes there was in the days of
Sekhomab a city where... called Aa-tenen, the inhabitants of which used
to believe that a certain giant crocodile, whom they called Nefer-biu,
infested the waters.  The fact was this: a thief, as he was swimming
away with a bell he had stolen, was overcome and devoured by a
crocodile, and the bell, falling from his hand, was washed upon the
river-bank there and picked up by some apes, who every now and then used
to ring it in the trees by the river...  The people of the town, finding
a man had been killed there, and hearing continually the noise of the
bell, used to declare that the giant Nefer-biu, being enraged, was
devouring a man and ringing a bell, so that the city was abandoned by
all the principal inhabitants.

"And so...

"At length, guided by the god Horus... of Stars of Sopdu, a certain poor
woman, having considered the subject, discovered that the bell was rung
by the apes.  She accordingly went unto King Sekhomab, loved of Ra,
favourite of Mentu, and before the priests of Amon, and said: `If, O
King.  Lord of both Lands, I may expect a very great reward, I will
engage to silence this Nefer-biu.'  The King was exceedingly well
pleased, and gave her some silver.  So having described some circles and
exhibited the worship of strange gods in a conspicuous manner, she
secretly provided such fruits as she conceived the apes were fond of and
went unto the river; where, strewing them about, they presently quitted
the bell and attached themselves to the fruit.  The poor woman, in the
meantime, took away the bell and carried it into Sekhomab, who honoured
her and gave her great reward.  And in the city of Aa-tenen she became
an object of adoration to its inhabitants, and her cartouche was
inscribed upon the Temple of Amon-Ra... and of the Sun-God...

"Wherefore I say that it is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound
when the cause of that sound is unknown.

"And wherefore, I repeat that, for fear of great disaster to thyself,
let not thine hand touch this brazen cylinder which containeth the Thing
which shall remain imprisoned therein in the realms of Tuat (the
underworld) until released by Osiris on the Day of Awakening... this
25th of the month Tybi.

"Be ye therefore warned, for by disobedience assuredly the anger of the
Sun-God and of Osiris the Eternal will fall heavily upon thee.  And
Harnekht shall smite them.

"May disaster happen but in the house of thine enemies.  May traitors,
day by day, be led by Time to their destruction, and may they remain for
ever in Amentet, the place of gloom..."

"Curious," I said, looking up to the Professor's grave bearded face as
he peered over to me through his glasses.

"Yes.  The fable is very interesting.  I have not yet decided the actual
date of the papyri.  But it is certainly much later than King
Merenptah," he said.  "We have many cartouches of his time here in the
Museum, and there are many others about Europe, as St Petersburg and
Darmstadt.  But in certain ways the hieroglyphics are different.  Hence
I am of opinion that the bronze cylinder referred to--if it has been
found and still exists--was placed with these papyri in the tomb at a
much later date."

"You have no knowledge of the person who brought this to you?"  I asked.

"Only that his name was Arnold--I see that I made a note at the time--
and that he was staying at the Savoy Hotel."

"Strange that he did not return to claim his find."

"Very.  My own idea is that he may have been called abroad suddenly, and
will return one day.  He seemed extremely intelligent."

"And the cylinder.  What do you think it could have contained--what is
the Thing to which the papyri refers!"

The old professor shrugged his shoulders.

"How can we tell if the cylinder is non-existent?  Probably it was
rifled from the royal tomb a thousand years ago and broken open by
sacrilegious persons who were unable to decipher these writings, and who
cared nothing for the curse of the ten plagues placed upon them," he
laughed.

Then Mr Arnold had evidently not revealed to the Professor the
existence of the cylinder.  Why?  Because he had already again hidden it
in fear.

"We have many records of objects concealed, but most of the things
referred to in the papyri have disappeared ages ago," added the great
Egyptologist, who, taking me along the gallery, showed me the mummy of
the great Pharaoh Merenptah himself, in whose tomb the fragments of
papyri were found.

The Professor was extremely kind, and lent me his decipher to copy them.
After finding that I could obtain nothing further concerning the man
Arnold, and that he was not known as an Egyptologist, I thanked him and
left without telling him of the existence of the cylinder.

That same night, I returned to Upton End with intention to show Guy
Nicholson the curious record when he visited me on Sunday.

Next morning--which was Saturday--I opened my newspaper, which, as
usual, I found on the library table after breakfast, when my eyes fell
upon a heading which caused my heart to stand still.

The printed words danced before my bewildered eyes.  For a second I
stood like a man in a dream.  I held my breath and eagerly read the
half a dozen lines of brief announcement--a report which caused me to
clap my hand to my fevered brow, and to involuntarily ejaculate the
words--

"My God!  It can't be true--_it can't be true_!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A SENSATION IN THE COUNTY.

The paragraph I read was truly a startling one, brief, but amazing.

Apparently few details had arrived in London, for it read thus--

"Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the
well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for
South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat
remarkable circumstances.  It appears that he entertained some guests at
dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and
the last of his friends to depart left about midnight.  About two
o'clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose
room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man's piercing
shrieks, as though of horror.  He listened, and heard a loud thumping
sound below.  Then all was quiet.  It being the first time he had been a
guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for
over an hour dropped off to sleep again.  In the morning, however, the
maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside,
as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying
upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours.  Considerable mystery
attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the
neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular."

What could actually have happened!

I read and re-read that paragraph.  Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur,
on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.

Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh
Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must
have been spent by Guy's father in the way of improvements.  It was a
splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in
well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of
chestnuts, which met overhead.

A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be
uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw's grey car
standing against the garage, and inquired for him.

In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat
surprised, I think, at my presence there.

"This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball," he exclaimed,
his face pale.  "I only knew of it late last night.  The police and
doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could."

"I saw it in the paper, and came over at once," I said.  "What is your
opinion?"  I asked eagerly.  "Is foul play suspected?"

"I really don't know," was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide,
old-fashioned hall.  "It's a terrible thing, however.  Poor Asta! she is
overcome with grief, poor girl."

"Ah yes?"  I sighed.  "She was very fond of him; I realised that the
other day."

Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room--the
morning-room I supposed it to be--and there I was introduced to a fussy
elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby.  He
was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting
doctor of the grass-country.

"Well, Mr Shaw," he exclaimed briskly, "Doctor Petherbridge, from
Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the
conclusion that death was due to natural causes--inflammation of the
brain.  We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace
whatever of foul play."

"Nor of suicide--by poison, for instance?" asked Shaw, leaning with his
back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale
blue carpet.

"Certainly not.  We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace
whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach
into  Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy
ourselves.  Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in
his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before
going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly
collapsed.  Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon."

"But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard," I
remarked.

"Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the
hammering, it seems," replied Shaw.  "The poor fellow was in the best of
spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past
eleven.  We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from
Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them.  The judge
was talking with him on the steps when we left."

"Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one
might suspect ptomaine poisoning," remarked the doctor from Northampton,
a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the
room.  "My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most
mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes."

"And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner
to-morrow, eh?"  Shaw asked.

"Precisely.  I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of
course.  Indeed, I'm just off to Northampton for that purpose.  But I do
not anticipate finding anything.  Young Nicholson was not the kind of
fellow to take his own life."

"No," I said; "he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies
towards suicide.  Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most
mysterious."

"Oh, the papers!" laughed Shaw, derisively.  "They're always
sensational.  A good story means hundreds of pounds to them.  But," he
added, "I must be off, Kemball.  I was just going when you came.  I have
to be on the Bench this morning at twelve."

"Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour," I said.
"You and I will meet again soon, no doubt."

"My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like.  Better ring me on
the 'phone to see if we are at home, for we're often out in the car this
fine weather."

And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county
magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench,
gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a
moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand.  Yet
almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an
adjoining room.  Shaw was whistling to himself--even though the house
was a house of mourning!

Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that
I was a friend of the man now dead.

"Well," he said, "I can't tell you very much, Mr Kemball.  Captain
Cardew, who was Nicholson's guest, is in the library.  At least I left
him there a little time ago; let's go and find him."

So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I
noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a
long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the
floor to the panelled ceiling.  At the table a tall, fair-haired,
military-looking young man was seated writing letters.

I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to
answer any questions, as I was poor Guy's friend, the doctor, having
some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone.  When he
had gone I closed the door.  Then, turning to the dead man's guest, I
said in a low voice--"I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you
in absolute confidence?"

"Certainly," he said; "we are mutual friends of poor Guy's."

"Well," I exclaimed; "first, will you tell me, frankly, your private
opinion of this terrible affair?  Has there been foul play?"

I saw that he hesitated.

"Well," he replied, "there are certain curious circumstances which no
doubt point to such a conclusion, although I understand that the doctors
have had no hesitation in pronouncing death to be due to natural
causes."

"Would you mind describing to me, as far as you are able, what you heard
in the night?"  I said.  "I have a reason for asking this.  No doubt you
have already several times told your story."

"Yes.  To the medical men and also to the police," he said.  "Well, it
was like this.  I'm quartered at Canterbury, and Guy, who was in my
regiment and retired a year or so ago, asked me to spend a few days with
him.  I came here three days ago and found him in the highest of
spirits, and very keen about tennis.  He took me over to see a man named
Shaw, and his daughter, of whom he was, I know, very fond.  The night
before last he gave a little dinner to a few people, and Shaw and the
girl were here.  After dinner we all went out on to the lawn for coffee.
The place was hung with Chinese lanterns and looked charming, but all
Guy's attention was devoted towards entertaining Shaw's daughter.  I saw
them cross the lawn in the moonlight and stroll into the grounds
together; and when they came back I overheard Shaw expressing his
annoyance to her at her absence.  Shaw chatted with Justice Michelmore a
good deal, while I had a Mrs Vane, a rather stout person, put upon me
for the evening.  I tell you I envied Guy, for the girl is really
delightful."

"Was there any bridge?"

"Yes, for about an hour in the drawing-room.  Shaw and the Judge did not
play.  Before eleven the guests began to depart, and the Vanes, the last
to leave, went about midnight.  After they had gone I sat in the library
with Guy for half an hour, and had a cigar.  He was full of Asta
Seymour, and when I asked him why he did not propose to her he reflected
a moment, and then told me, in strict confidence, that he would do so at
once--but for a certain circumstance."

"Did he explain that circumstance?"  I asked eagerly.

"No.  I pressed him, but he refused to tell me.  `It is my secret,
Teddy,' he said.  `A secret which, alas! bars my happiness for ever.'
As we smoked, I noticed that, contrary to the rule, the long window
yonder was open, and remarked upon it.  He rose, and saying that the
servant had probably forgotten it, closed it himself and barred the
shutters.  You'll see they are strong shutters, and they were found in
the morning closed and barred just as he had left them.  Indeed, I
unbarred them myself."

"Then you left him here?"  I asked.

"No.  He turned off the light and came out with me, locking the door
after him, for it seems he's always careful to have every door on the
ground floor locked at night.  He came upstairs with me, wished me a
cheery good-night outside my own door, and, promising to motor me into
Oakham on the morrow, went along to his room.  That is the last time he
was seen alive."

"What did you next hear?"

"I was awakened by a loud, piercing shriek--a man's shriek of intense
horror, it seemed.  No one else slept in this wing of the house, or they
must certainly have heard it.  I roused myself at the unusual sound, for
I was thoroughly startled and awakened by it.  The clock on my
mantelshelf struck two.  I waited for some minutes, when I heard a noise
which seemed to be below in the library, as though some one were moving
about trying the door and hammering upon it.  This caused me to wonder,
and I held my breath to listen further.  I suppose I must have lain like
that for fully an hour.  It was my intention if I heard anything further
to go along to Guy's room.  I had, of course, some hesitation in
arousing the household.  But as I heard nothing further, I suppose I
fell asleep, for the sun was shining when I awoke again.  I got up, and
was crossing to the window to look out when I heard a woman's cry for
help.  So I rushed out in my pyjamas, and, descending the stairs, found
poor Guy lying just here," and he crossed to a spot about four yards
from the door, and pointed to the red carpet.

"Was the room in any disorder?"  I asked.

"Not as far as I could see.  The shutters yonder were closed and barred,
so I opened them and then tried to rouse my friend.  But, alas!  I saw
by the ashen look upon his face that he was already dead.  He was still
in his dinner-jacket--just as I had left him.  Of course you can well
imagine the scene and the horror of the servants.  Poor Guy--he was one
of the very best."

"What is your theory, Captain Cardew?"

"Theory!  Well, I hardly know.  I was a fool, and I shall never forgive
myself for not raising an alarm when I first heard his shriek.  I ought
to have known that something was wrong.  But there are moments in one's
life when one, being awakened suddenly, acts foolishly.  It was so with
me."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE CRY IN THE NIGHT.

"After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the
library," I said to Cardew.  "Were all the lights out when he came up
with you?"

"By Jove!  No, they were not," he replied.  "He didn't turn out the
light in the passage here just outside the library door.  I have not
remembered that point until this moment!"

"Did you see any newspaper about?"

"Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there," and he pointed
to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered
cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the
unfortunate man had arisen from it.

"Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to
return to the library and read his paper as usual," I said.  "He did so,
and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read."

"And while reading, he had the fatal seizure--eh?  That, at least, is
the theory of the police," the Captain said.

"But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found
the door locked from the outside?"  I remarked.  The reason I cannot
tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected
a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain's manner.  Was he
telling all he knew?

"Yes," he said.  "It was undoubtedly locked from the outside--a most
mysterious fact."

"Why mysterious?"  I queried.  "If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in
mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should
be found behind locked doors.  He had only to pass out by the door, lock
it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that.  I noticed
as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door--so that it
locks itself when closed!"

"Ah!  I had not thought of that," the Captain declared.  "Of course, by
such proceeding he would have been found locked in."

"But you have suspicion of foul play," I said; "you may as well admit
that, Captain Cardew."

"Well, I see no good in concealing it," he said, with a smile.  "To tell
the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four
hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of
the medical men."

"And I agree with you," I declared.  "One point we have to consider is
what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o'clock.
He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper."

"No, but he might have been reading something else.  He was not writing
letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any
letters he might have written, but I could find none."

"The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet
somebody there in secret," I exclaimed.  "They may have passed in by the
window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by
the front door."

His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.

"By Jove!  I've never thought of that!" he gasped.  "Then your theory is
that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh?  What causes
you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball?  I've
been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with
me?"

"Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest
of certain persons that he should die suddenly," I said; "that's all."

"Will you not name the persons?" he asked.

"Not until I obtain proof.  I may be mistaken.  I may be grossly
misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific
charge against anybody," was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the
large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and
the park was spread.  It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in
which the previous owner--a great politician and writer--had spent many
studious hours.

"But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put
them to the police?"

"And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate
inquiry!  Scarcely, I think," I replied, with a smile, still looking
about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world
room during the silent watches of that fatal night.

"Nothing has been touched here," Cardew remarked.  "I picked up the
newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down
at hearing the housemaid's horrified cry."

The room was certainly in no disorder.  On the big square table, covered
by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a
great silver bowl filled with roses.  The writing-table--an
old-fashioned mahogany one--was, I noticed, littered with letters,
bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and
as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat
was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small
neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument.  Strange
that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon
assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.

"The hammering you heard--was it quite distinct?"  I inquired.

"Quite.  It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out
of this locked room."

The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me
considerably.  But a fresh suggestion arose within me--namely, that
after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was
open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them.  Yet she
would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light
still burning.  No: the only explanation was that the key had been
turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her
master's return there, and while on her way to bed.

Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most
remarkable features.  There was mystery--a great and inexplicable
mystery--somewhere.

And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.

With that object in view, I interviewed the housemaid who found the body
of her young master, and listened to her story from her own lips.
Probably the whole household considered me to be highly inquisitive;
nevertheless, I pointed out to them the earnest necessity of clearing up
the matter to everybody's satisfaction, and both to the housekeeper, a
witty woman, and to the other servants, I declared that the facts were
full of grave suspicion.

The inspector of County Constabulary was not highly intelligent, and as
soon as the medical men had given their opinion he ceased to take any
further professional interest in the affair.  It was a sudden death, and
with such occurrences the police have only to attend the inquest and
formally report.

The officer was, I think, rather piqued at the persistency of my
inquiries, for when I pointed out to him the suspicious circumstance of
the locked door, he point-blank told me that the medical declaration was
quite sufficient for him.

The girl, Kate Hayes, who discovered her master--a dark-haired,
good-looking maid, about twenty-six--had been eight years at Titmarsh
Court.  It was Mr Guy's habit always to read his paper before going to
bed, she told me, as we stood in the long servants' hall.

"I often find the library door unlocked before I go to my room, sir, and
the night before last it was unlocked."

"Did you lock it?"  I asked quickly.

"No, sir.  I once locked Mr Guy in, so I always look inside now, before
securing it," she replied.  "I looked inside, and found Mr Guy there.
He was then taking a book down from one of the shelves near the window.
I apologised for intruding, and wished him good-night.  `Good-night,
Hayes,' he replied, and I closed the door and left him.  I heard nothing
in the night.  But when I went to the library door next morning I found
it locked.  I recollect it was locked, because at first the key would
not turn.  At last I succeeded in opening the door, when the first sight
that met my eyes in the faint grey light through the chinks of the
shutters was poor Mr Guy lying crouched up, his knees nearly touching
his chin and quite dead."

"You are absolutely certain that the window was quite securely closed?"
I asked.

"Captain Cardew opened it, sir.  I ran away to fetch the other
servants."

Here again the Captain showed some disinclination thoroughly to probe
matters, for he interrupted, saying--

"I don't see how questioning the servants will assist us.  We already
know all that they know."

"What we want to discover is whether poor Nicholson received any visitor
clandestinely during the early hours of the morning," I said.  "To me,
it seems very much as though he did."

"Then you are directly opposed to the medical theory?" he exclaimed.

"And so are you, are you not?"  I remarked.

"In a manner, yes--but not altogether.  We must credit doctors with a
certain amount of knowledge where death is concerned."

"I credit them with every knowledge," I hastened to assure him; "only in
this case, I fear they have not sufficiently weighed over all the known
and indisputable facts."

"If there had actually been foul play, there would be traces of it," he
said.

"Not always," I replied.  "Many cases of secret assassination have been
declared by doctors to have been deaths from natural causes."

I saw that the servants, all country-bred, ridiculed my suspicions.
Doctor Redwood had said that their master had died of brain disease, and
that was sufficient.  The police, too, were quite satisfied, and the
young man's relations, two of whom arrived in hot haste while I was
there, of course accepted the verdict of the medical men--the evidence
which would be given at the inquest on the following day.

To me, it was a curious circumstance that Cardew, when he heard the
shriek, had not attempted to investigate its cause.  True, he had
listened, and the cry was not repeated.  I should have regarded his
apathy as suspicious if I myself had not more than once, when dreaming,
awakened suddenly, believing that I had heard a cry of distress.

The shriek of terror--nay, of horror, Cardew described it--was, in
itself, a most peculiar circumstance.  There is a distinct difference
between a cry of pain and a shriek of horror.

No; I felt certain that the medical men had not sufficiently considered
that very singular point.  But when I tried to argue with the Captain,
he merely declared that the cause of the shriek would never be
explained.  Perhaps it was the sudden knowledge that he was dying that
had terrified him.

I intended, however, to seek further explanation.  It was ever upon my
mind that the man who had died so mysteriously intended to visit me on
Sunday, and to reveal to me something--something concerning Harvey Shaw.

Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a
doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before,
accompanied by Asta.  It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy
myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and
re-visited Titmarsh Court.

I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime.  Hence, I spared
no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circumstances--in
doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of
the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.

I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and
covered with a sheet.  I did not remove the shroud.  I was too
horrified.  A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for
the arrival of the coffin.

What had the dead man intended to reveal to me?  He had evidently
discovered something detrimental to Shaw.  Of that I felt assured, for
had he not admitted as much?

"Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?"  I asked Cardew
some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room
wherein he had died.  The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent
of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of
mystery.

"Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his
manner at the time.  But since--now that I have reflected--I recollect
that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw's daughter--as though
he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair."

At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who
told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to
see him.  Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded
opportunity to examine it.

I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had
sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the
silent watches of the night.  Why had he given vent to that shriek of
horror?  What had he seen?

Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a
piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man's lips.

I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of
polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity--nothing had been
tampered with.

My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had
seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with
his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room.
Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to
unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.

But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ONE POINT IS MADE CLEAR.

On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the
neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court,
and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master
had died of natural causes.

I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a
query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night.  But the official
coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of
death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only
weigh the medical evidence.

Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst,
had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the
Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids
and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for
arsenic with the Marsh apparatus.  The result in all cases had been
negative.  Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.

After the verdict of "death from natural causes," I drove Shaw, who had
also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan
and pale in her deep mourning.  She was seated in a low chair in her own
pretty room, full of books and flowers--an artistic, cosy little
apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale
blue.

The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside.  But as she
took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that
she had recently been crying.

I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held
her small hand in mine.  Her heart, however, was too full for words, and
she burst into a flood of tears.

Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly
upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head
sadly in her profound sorrow.

I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when
Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her
shoulder and strove to calm her.

"You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour," I said.  "I
have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to
you."

"Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is,
alas! dead--dead!" she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her.
"The inquest was held to-day.  What have they decided?"

"That the poor fellow died of natural causes.  He suffered from an
unsuspected disease of the brain."

"Ah, yes," she sighed.  "I expected they would say something like that.
But--" and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.

"You dined with him only a few hours before," I remarked; for I had gone
there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence,
fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.

"Yes.  Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never
see him again?"

"You left before the Vanes, did you not?"

"Yes.  My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling
very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most
delightful evening.  The weather was bright, and everything had been
done to perfection.  On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his
head, and I became alarmed.  Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very
queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor
Redwood.  But he would not hear of it.  He begged me to go to bed, but I
remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o'clock."

"Until three o'clock?"  I echoed.  "And you did not leave him at all?"

"No.  Because he seemed so very queer.  I mixed him some brandy and
water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not."

"What was his objection against summoning the doctor?"

"Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only
a bad headache.  Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to
such attacks, he said.  But he had not had one for years past."

"And after three o'clock you retired to bed?"

"It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far
as his room.  He looked fearfully pale and worn--quite unlike his usual
self.  He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at
times his limbs were trembling.  I remarked upon it, but my comments
seemed to irritate him.  So I said nothing further.  At nine o'clock
next morning he came down to breakfast quite well.  Then--then--just
after ten o'clock last night--Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling
him of the--the awful discovery at Titmarsh?"

Her story made one fact entirely plain--namely, that Shaw, whatever he
might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.

"Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?"  I asked.  "Did he
not tell the doctors?"

"No.  Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to
such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with
poor Guy's death, he said."

She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue
carpet.  A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black,
which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.

I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and
convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to
Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.

Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away.  Her
statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of
the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father.
She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and
she was certainly not deceiving me.

As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange
circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me,
and in confidence make certain revelations.  My feelings towards Shaw
had been mixed ones.  He had been open and straightforward with me, and
had told me that he was leading a double life.  Asta had treated me as a
friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson
as far as possible.  Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to
know what he had actually discovered--how far he had ascertained the
truth.

His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing
to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife.  He loved
her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a
very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and
marrying the girl of his choice.

Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which
I did.  But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one.  Asta, full of
thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself
seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

"The Coroner was an idiot," I declared in the course of our discussion
of the events of the morning.  "He would scarcely allow any mention of
poor Guy's cry of horror heard by Cardew."

"Ah, my dear Kemball," my friend replied, "in many cases inquests are
worse than useless.  Coroners so often override the jury and instruct
them as to what verdict they should return.  In almost every case you
will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly
honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the
evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the
man who attends themselves and their families.  If they are ill, they
call him in and accept his dictum.  They do just the same at a Coroner's
inquest.  They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves."

"Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that
night," I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he
glanced across at the girl in annoyance.

"Yes," he said, with a light laugh.  "I didn't feel over grand--a bad
headache, just as I used to have years ago.  But it was nothing.  It
didn't arise from anything I ate or drank.  I knew that, and for that
reason did not 'phone to Redwood.  Yes," he added, "I spent a rather
poor night.  Asta became quite alarmed."

"Well," I exclaimed, "what is your theory regarding the poor fellow's
death?"

"Theory!  Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury,
what can one think?" he asked.  "There are certainly many curious points
in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was
found locked in the room."

"That's just my point.  He could not have locked himself in."

"Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he
was locked in.  In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled
at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have
been deceived, and thought the key had been turned."

I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his
suggestion caused me to ponder.  But next second I asked--

"If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get
out?"

"But did he hammer?" queried Shaw.  "Sounds in the night are always
distorted, remember."

"Please don't discuss the horrible affair further, Dad," cried Asta,
appealingly.

"My dear, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning to her hastily.  "I
know I ought not to have mentioned the matter.  Both Kemball and myself
deeply condole with you in your grief.  You never mentioned to me your
affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago.  I told Kemball about
it, didn't I?" and he glanced across at me.

"Yes, you did," I said.

"Ah, poor Guy!" he sighed.  "He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and
I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy.  But, alas! the
Fates have willed it otherwise."

"I--I feel bewildered, Dad," exclaimed the girl.  "I can't believe that
he is really dead," and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and
with uneven steps left the room.

"Poor child!" remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone.  "It is
indeed a terrible blow for her.  I had no idea that she was so devoted
to him.  She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was
evidently the one to whom she was most attached.  And, between
ourselves, Kemball," he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised
between his white fingers, "he was one of the most eligible young
fellows in the whole county--eight thousand a year, as well as a
half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield.  I had dreams of seeing
Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court.  But, of course, I never told her so.
I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life.  Love
affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly."

And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into
those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my
suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded.  He could not
possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow's untimely end.

He could not know of Guy's secret intention to make certain revelations
to me--and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware
that he was leading a double life.  No; when I carefully weighed over
the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before
me--mysterious though he might be--had every motive that Guy Nicholson
should live.  I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the
ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already
seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure
Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him.  It
certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.

The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts
certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange
affair.

Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken,
and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the
brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury
misled?

The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural
death.  Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour
to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what
had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of
that fateful night.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CONTAINS ANOTHER SUGGESTION.

A week went by--a breathless, anxious week.

I had attended poor Guy's burial in the pretty churchyard of Titmarsh
village, and as I turned from the grave I could not help wondering about
what he had intended to tell me, had he but lived to speak.

Yet his lips were sealed.  Some one had known of his intentions, and had
forced silence upon him.

My mind was ever full of dark thoughts and black suspicions, and yet I
had so clearly proved that Harvey Shaw, against whom his intention was
to speak, had had no hand in the matter.  Of one thing, however, I was
convinced: poor Nicholson had been cruelly murdered.

About eight days after the funeral, Shaw, one hot afternoon, drove over
alone in his car, and found me smoking in a deck-chair beneath a tree.
The object of his visit was to tell me of Guy's will.  It had been
found, he said, that the young man had bequeathed the sum of ten
thousand pounds to Asta.

"He was infatuated with her, poor fellow," Shaw declared, in a tone of
slight annoyance.  "Of course she will not touch a penny of it.  How
could she?  Ah! when he made that will, only two months ago, he never
dreamt that he would meet with such a sudden end."

"No," I sighed, my mind full of wonder.  At that moment many strange
things flitted across my brain.  "We all of us foolishly believe that we
have many years to live."

"As soon as Asta heard of the legacy, she declared that she would not
accept it," he remarked, "But I suppose she must, even though she
transfers it to some charity, as is her intention."

"I can quite understand her reluctance to take the dead man's present,"
I said.  "It is only natural.  Is she still very upset?"

"Very.  I scarcely know what to do with her.  She suffers from insomnia,
and sits for hours moping and sobbing.  I've been wondering if a trip
abroad would bring about forgetfulness.  But she declared that she's had
enough travelling, and prefers her own home.  Therefore I'm half afraid
to take her away.  Redwood advises a journey through Hungary and
Roumania, which would be fresh ground for her.  But at present I'm
undecided."

He remained with me for a couple of hours, and afterwards left, when
that same evening I was called by telephone up to London to see my
lawyer regarding the pending action concerning a portion of my land.

Fortunately, at the inquest, I had met the dead man's solicitor, Mr
Sewell, and in order to ascertain whether Shaw's statement was correct,
I called upon him in Lincoln's Inn Fields.  From what I gathered it
seemed that the bulk of the property had passed to a cousin, and that
Asta had declined to accept her legacy, and had given instructions for
it to be divided between three London hospitals.

The solicitor, like myself, disagreed with the finding of the Coroner's
jury.  Yet he could form no theory as to the manner in which his client
had met with his untimely end.

On the afternoon of my return to Upton End, four days later, I was in
the library scribbling a letter to catch the post, when a card was
brought to me bearing the name, "Mrs Charles Olliffe."

"The lady has come by car, sir, and wishes very particular to see you,"
the girl said.

I was not over-pleased to have a visitor at that moment; nevertheless, I
ordered her to be shown in, and in a few moments found myself confronted
by a tall, well-built, good-looking, well-dressed woman of about
forty-five, wearing a smart motor-bonnet and dust-coat.  The latter was
open, revealing a fine diamond brooch in her white silk blouse.

As our eyes met, I held my breath; but next moment I managed to recover
myself, and bowing, offered her a chair.

"I hope, Mr Kemball, that you will pardon my intrusion.  I am a
stranger to you, but I wished to see you upon a matter of the greatest
importance to myself."

"There is no necessity for apology," I assured her.  "I am at your
service."

My eyes were fixed upon her in wonder, for I had, on the instant I had
seen her, recognised her as the original of the newspaper photograph I
had locked away in my safe--the picture of Lady Lettice Lancaster!

She certainly had the air and manner of a lady, and surely none would
have suspected her to be a convicted criminal.  Notwithstanding her age,
she was extremely well-preserved.  She spoke low and with refinement,
whilst her bearing was that of a well-bred woman.  Her smile, too, as
she spoke to me, was good-humoured, almost fascinating.

"The fact is, Mr Kemball," she said, as I seated myself and bent
towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her
identity, "I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine."

"Who is that?"  I asked quickly.

"Mr Melvill Arnold."

Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter
through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady
Lettice.

"Yes.  It is true that I knew Mr Arnold," I said slowly.

"It is about him that I have ventured to call.  I live near Bath, but I
motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you," she said.  "I heard from
a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold's death, and that he
entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate.  It was an
honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody."

Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very
communicative.  She plied me with many clever questions, to which I
carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers.  She was "pumping" me, I
knew.  But I could see no motive.  Hence I exercised every care in my
replies.

Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the
man now dead?  I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware
of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.

I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his
death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most
diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be
able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so
completely hidden.

I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman.  The
manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness,
and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning.  Yet,
from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end
she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the
police.

And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in
prison!  It seemed utterly incredible.

Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether
Arnold had made a will.  But I told her that, so far as I knew, there
was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.

"I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors," she said.  "He would not
trust them."

"Then who is in charge of the dead man's estate?"  I asked, hoping for
some information.

"Ah!  That's a complete mystery, Mr Kemball," was her reply.  "That Mr
Arnold was wealthy--tremendously wealthy--there is no doubt.  Yet he was
as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income.  It was
derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the
Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware."

"He was a complete mystery in many ways."

"In every way.  I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess
that I was most puzzled always.  He lived in secret, and it appears that
he has died in secret," replied Mrs Olliffe.  "I had hoped, Mr
Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in
which he has disposed of his property."

"Unfortunately, I know nothing," was my reply.  "He merely asked me to
perform several little services for him after his death; and having done
them, there my knowledge ends."

She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd,
deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said--

"I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will.  But, on
the contrary, I know full well that I should not.  All I can tell you,
Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold's,
then only evil can result."

"Why?"  I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before
me.

"Because Arnold was a worker of evil."

"Then you were not his friend, eh?"

"Yes, I was.  Only I have warned you," was her quick reply.

Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar assertion.  Had
he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just
behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it
in their possession?

I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting.  As I sat chatting with
her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey,
and of her curiously romantic life.  Now that she was free, she was,
without doubt, again carrying on her old game.  Once a woman is an
adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.

Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only
through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance
with the dead man Arnold.

More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel
off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a
mystery complete and profound.  She had known him intimately, yet she
would tell me very little concerning him.

"He was, of course, very eccentric," she declared.  "One of his fads was
that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession.  He was
constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the
appearance of being poor."

"Where did he live usually?"  I asked.

"Half his time he was abroad--in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt.  He seemed
extremely fond of North Africa.  Why, I could never discover."

I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too
wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently,
after she had taken tea with me, she left.

Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries
concerning her.  Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and
found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near
Kelston, about three miles out of the city.

At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best
room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.

"Ah, yes.  Mrs Olliffe's a widow," said the stout, white-bearded
landlord, when I mentioned the Manor.  "She's been here close on two
years now.  Everybody likes her.  Last year she kept a host of company
always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven't been very
many visitors.  Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson--and he's always
there, more or less."

"Nicholson!"  I cried, startled at mention of the name.  "Was he Mr Guy
Nicholson, from Titmarsh?"

"I don't know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir.  He
hasn't been here for a week or two now.  He often comes over on his
motor-cycle.  Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work
for Mrs Olliffe.  He's a very nice, affable young gentleman.  I only
wish there were a few more of his sort about."

"He's a friend of Mrs Olliffe's, you say?  Has he been coming here for
long?"

"Ever since she's been here.  They used to say he came to see Miss
Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor.  But he comes
just as much since she's left.  Ah!" he added, "now I recollect.  Only a
week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr
Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was."

I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and
he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.

When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a
mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor.  It was, I found, a
splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely
timbered park, and in full view from the high road.  Would the country
folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the
curious truth?

While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled,
ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the
hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw
back into a hedge.  In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.

But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of
thought.

Guy had been that undesirable woman's friend.  Was it possible that she
had been implicated in the poor fellow's mysterious end?

That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking--
thinking very deeply.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CONTAINS SOME FRESH FACTS.

I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with
me at the club.

"You were poor Guy's intimate friend," I remarked as we sat together.
"Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere
near Bath?"

"Oh yes," was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem.
"He knew her.  She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living
with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe."

"Have you ever met the widow?"  I asked.

"Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy."

"Where is the young lady now?"

"Somewhere in India, I think.  Her father's a civilian out there."

"But this Mrs Olliffe," I said.  "Don't you know any thing about her?"

"Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant
shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties."

"What was her husband?"

"I fancy he was a banker, or something."

I smiled within myself at his reply.

"She's evidently in rather a good set," Cardew went on, "for I've often
seen in the _Morning Post_ accounts of her parties, which seem to
include quite a number of distinguished people."

"Well," I said, "as you know, Cardew, I am busy making my own inquiries.
It is a slow, tedious process, but I am hopeful of success.  I intend
to discover by what means poor Guy was killed; therefore his friends
interest me--especially his women friends.  For that reason I am trying
to discover all I can concerning Mrs Olliffe."

He was silent for a moment; then, bending across the table to me, said--

"It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I
reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have
just been discussing."

"In fear of her?"

"Yes.  One circumstance made it quite plain.  A little over a month ago,
I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to
come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an
appointment on the Sunday which he could not break.  I urged him to go,
but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o'clock,
and did not return until two in the morning.  I chaffed him next
morning.  But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant.
`No, old chap,' he said.  `Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole.
I'm in one--a woman, as you can guess.  And I had to keep that
appointment.  I couldn't refuse her, for we had some serious business to
transact.  Ah,' he sighed, `if I could only think that I'd never see her
again, by Gad!  I'd be a different man!'"

"And you guessed that he met the widow?"  I said.

"I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop
casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings."

"Then she had some hold upon him?"

"Apparently so.  But Guy was always very close about his personal
affairs."

"That was over a month ago, eh?"

"Perhaps six weeks."

I was silent.  Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of
that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne?  Yet why should they meet in
such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor
so openly?  By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon
mystery.

We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big
smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park.  Then, when
he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and
pondered deeply.

I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through
those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta,
loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting
me to bring the culprit to justice.

The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy
Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the
accomplishment of the crime.

Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.

"If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me.
I'll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be," he said.

I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he
descended the steps of the club.

It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with
Mrs Olliffe.  By that means I might perhaps learn something.

Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty,
old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the
widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me.  With her was
a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty
or so, and they were taking tea.

From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after
being introduced, was handed a cup of tea.  Yes, I actually took it from
the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!

Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed
with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace
of guilt.  That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her
extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in
her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.

The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a
party on the following day.

"Sir Charles will be there, so do come," the girl urged.

"I'm afraid I have to go to the Reids' with my brother," the widow
replied.  "He accepted their invitation a month ago."

And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven
man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother,
George King.  As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of
whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey--the husband Earnshaw, who
sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes
as a servant!

As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was
just as clever and refined as his alleged sister.  He had just returned
from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described
the pleasant time he had had.

When at last Mrs Olliffe's visitors rose and left, I requested a word
with her alone.

"Certainly," she said--not, however, without a slightly startled glance,
which I did not fail to notice.  "Come in here;" and she led me through
to her own little sitting-room--a charming, cosy place, very tastefully
furnished and restful.

When we were seated, I began without preamble--

"You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation
concerning the late Melvill Arnold.  You were anxious to learn facts
connected with his death."

"Yes," she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face.  "My
object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that
he died a natural death; that--well, that he was not the victim of foul
play."

"Foul play!"  I gasped, staring at her.  "Do you suspect that?"

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.

"Had he any enemies--any person who would benefit by his death?"  I
asked quickly.

"Yes."

"And you suspect them of--"

"I suspect nobody," she hastened to assure me.  "Only his sudden and
mysterious end is extremely suspicious."

"Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion," I said.  "I
was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I
remained with him nearly the whole time until the end."

"Nearly.  You were absent sometimes."

"Of course.  I was not with him both night and day."

"And therefore you can't say with absolute certainty that his enemies
had no access to him," she said.

"But even if they had, they can have profited nothing," I said.

"How do you know?  Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy.  Where is it
all?  Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death
brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed."

I shook my head and smiled.

"I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild.
Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that
effect."

"I'll never believe it," she declared.  "If there had not been foul
play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known.  He was a
friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for
speaking quite frankly."

"You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the
facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with
authority that his end was due to natural causes."

"It is curious that he should have trusted you--a perfect stranger," she
said, with coolness.  "You did not explain the nature of your trust."

"It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you
to-day," I said.  "Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain
Mr Alfred Dawnay, and--"

"To Alfred Dawnay!" she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour
faded from her face.  "He wrote to him?" she cried.  "Then--"

She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped
the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have
fallen.

I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she
had never dreamed--something which upset all her previous calculations.

"Tell me, Mr Kemball," she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained
voice, scarce above a whisper, "tell me--what did he write?"

"Ah!  I do not know.  I was merely the bearer of the letter."

"You have no idea what Arnold told that man--what he revealed to him?"

"I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold's
death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay."

"To Dawnay!  His worst enemy and his--"

"Was Dawnay an enemy?"  I asked.  "I took him, of course, to be the dead
man's friend and confidant."

The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit
brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning
countenance.

"Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend.  Ah! what fatal folly
to have written to him--to have placed trust in him.  And yet, is not
this my vengeance--after all these years?"  She laughed hysterically.

"Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?"  I asked quietly.

"Undesirable!" she cried, with flashing eyes.  "If Arnold had known but
half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him."

"But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship," I
suggested.

"It was.  I can see through it now.  Ah! why did I not know a week or
two ago!  How very differently I would then have acted," she murmured in
a tone of blank despair.  Her face was deadly pale and her lips were
trembling.

"Was Dawnay aware of Arnold's identity?"  I asked.  It was upon the tip
of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I
hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.

"How can I tell?" she said hoarsely.  "Yet, from facts that have
recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have
foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy."

"What secret?"  I demanded anxiously.

But she was distrustful and evasive.

"An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would
cause the whole world to stand aghast," replied the woman, in a low,
hollow voice.

Strange!  Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious
contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

What could that secret be?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE SIGN OF THE HAND.

The problem grew daily more intricate.  Try how I would, I could obtain
no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold.
His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his
possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.

Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued.  First, that he was
wealthy was without doubt.  Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which
he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune.
Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands.
Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had
been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him.
Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the
dead man's riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey
Shaw was really Arnold's friend and not his enemy, as the woman had
alleged.  Had not Arnold written to him in secret?  Ah!  What would I
not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!

I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed.
Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and
straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both
him and Asta.  Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined
with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long
summer days.  But I confess my friendship had for its object the
elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.

Asta was, alas! still inconsolable.  Poor child!  Time, instead of
healing the wound caused by Guy's sudden end, only served to aggravate
it.  She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day.  Sometimes I
endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and
silence.

To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive.  The least sound
seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror.  It appeared as
though she had something upon her conscience--some secret which she
feared moment by moment might be betrayed.

One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at
Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.

"Yes," he sighed, "you are quite right, my dear Kemball.  I've noticed
it too.  Poor girl!  It was a terrible blow for her.  She wants a
change.  I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of
it.  Now, however, I've induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in
France.  We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne,
thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding the _pave_ of Paris, by Versailles,
Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains.  Have you ever
been there?"

"No.  It must be a very fine run," I said.

"Then why don't you come with us?" he suggested.  "I'm taking the sixty,
and there'll be plenty of room."

I reflected.  The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring.  My
own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey.

"Ah!" he laughed, noticing my indecision.  "Of course, you'll come.
Asta will be delighted.  Do keep us company, my dear fellow."

"Very well," I said, "I'll come, if you really mean that there'll be
room."

And so it was arranged.

When he told Asta a few minutes later her face brightened, and she
turned to me, saying--

"Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball.  Dad has often been on the
Continent with the car, but he has never taken me before.  He thought
that the long runs might be too fatiguing."

"Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place," he said, with a
laugh.  "You must have a change, or else you'll be ill."

Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for an
hour.  Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while with
Asta in the drawing-room to get cool.  She looked very sweet in her
simple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes.  Exertion had
heightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expression
had returned to her eyes.

As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.

I listened.  The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the room
above.

"It's Dad," the girl said.  "Of late he seems to have taken to whistling
like that.  Why, I can't tell, for we have no dogs."

We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill call
of a peculiar note.  Apparently he was in his room directly over the
drawing-room--which was the bedroom--and the window being open we could
hear distinctly.

Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shouted
up--

"Who are you calling, Dad?"

"Oh, nobody, dear," was his reply.  "I--I didn't know you were there.  I
thought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden."

The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenly
recollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on the
occasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similar
whistle.  It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quickly
forgotten.

We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Asta
exclaimed--

"Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad?  One
could understand it if we had dogs.  But to whistle to nothing seems so
idiotic."

"All, so it is, dear," he replied, laughing.  "But I was not whistling
to nothing.  I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window.
I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellow
gets very deaf nowadays."

Such was Shaw's explanation.  It was surely not an unusual circumstance,
yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwards
transpired.

As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over those
fine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he had
uttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at Titmarsh
Court.

A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swung
down the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in the
Cote d'Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old chateau,
now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there under
Coligny in 1570.  Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, the
echoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before the
long, low-built Hotel de la Poste, a building painted grey, with
_jalousies_ of the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, like
many of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways of
France--the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadays
bear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.

We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had become
almost her old self.  The complete change of surroundings had wrought in
her a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her pale
mauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat.  Shaw wore dark spectacles,
pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes.  But I had
shrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiously
enough, of an evening he never removed them.

What did he fear in France?

That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at the
Grand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Foret de
Fontainebleau, had lunched at the Hotel de l'Epee in busy Auverre, and
then spun away over the straight wide _route nationale_ through
Vermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the rich
vinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that place
and Arnay-le-Duc.

It was our intention to get on to Macon, a hundred kilometres farther,
that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentious
little _salle a manger_, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets,
washed down by an old and perf

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