← catalogue

The Mystery of the Four Fingers

by Fred M. White · English · Gutenberg #9853 · 456,644 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mystery of the Four Fingers
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Mystery of the Four Fingers

Author: Fred M. White


        
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9853]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9853

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF THE FOUR FINGERS ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team











The Mystery of the Four Fingers

BY FRED M. WHITE

Author of "THE MIDNIGHT GUEST," "THE CRIMSON BLIND," Etc., Etc.

1908






CONTENTS

     I.  THE BLACK PATCH

    II.  THE FIRST FINGER

   III.  THE LOST MINE

    IV.  IN THE LIFT

     V.  A PUZZLE FOR VENNER

    VI.  A PARTIAL FAILURE

   VII.  THE WHITE LADY

  VIII.  MISSING

    IX.  A NEW PHASE

     X.  THE SECOND FINGER

    XI.  AN UNEXPECTED MOVE

   XII.  THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

  XIII.  THE WHITE LADY AGAIN

   XIV.  MASTER OF THE SITUATION

    XV.  FELIX ZARY

   XVI.  FENWICK MOVES AGAIN

  XVII.  MERTON GRANGE

 XVIII.  A COUPLE OF VISITORS

   XIX.  PHANTOM GOLD

    XX.  THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

   XXI.  THE THIRD FINGER

  XXII.  "THE TIME WILL COME"

 XXIII.  SMOKED OUT

  XXIV.  THE MOUTH OF THE NET

   XXV.  AN ACT OF CHARITY

  XXVI.  THE LAST FINGER

 XXVII.  NEMESIS

XXVIII.  EXPLANATIONS

  XXIX.  THIS MORTAL COIL

   XXX.  A PEACEFUL SUNSET




CHAPTER I

THE BLACK PATCH

Considering it was nearly the height of the London winter season, the
Great Empire Hotel was not unusually crowded. This might perhaps have
been owing to the fact that two or three of the finest suites of rooms in
the building had been engaged by Mark Fenwick, who was popularly supposed
to be the last thing in the way of American multi-millionaires. No one
knew precisely who Fenwick was, or how he had made his money; but during
the last few months his name had bulked largely in the financial Press
and the daily periodicals of a sensational character. So far, the man had
hardly been seen, it being understood that he was suffering from a chill,
contracted on his voyage to Europe. Up to the present moment he had taken
all his meals in his rooms, but it was whispered now that the great man
was coming down to dinner. There was quite a flutter of excitement in the
Venetian dining-room about eight o'clock.

The beautifully decorated saloon had a sprinkling of well-dressed men
and women already dining decorously there. Everything was decorous about
the Great Empire Hotel. No thought had been spared in the effort to keep
the place quiet and select. The carpets were extra thick, and the waiters
more than usually soft-footed. On the whole, it was a restful place,
though, perhaps, the decorative scheme of its lighting erred just a
trifle on the side of the sombre. Still, flowers and ferns were soft and
feathery. The band played just loudly enough to stimulate conversation
instead of drowning it. At one of the little tables near the door two men
were dining. One had the alertness and vigor which bespeaks the dweller
in towns. He was neatly groomed, with just the slight suspicion of the
dandy in his dress, though it was obvious at the merest glance that he
was a gentleman. His short, sleek hair gave to his head a certain
suggestion of strength. The eyes which gleamed behind his gold-rimmed
glasses were keen and steady. Most men about town were acquainted with
the name of Jim Gurdon, as a generation before had been acquainted with
his prowess in the athletic field. Now he was a successful barrister,
though his ample private means rendered professional work quite
unnecessary.

The other man was taller, and more loose-limbed, though his spare frame
suggested great physical strength. He was dark in a hawk-like way,
though the suggestion of the adventurer about him was softened by a pair
of frank and pleasant grey eyes. Gerald Venner was tanned to a fine,
healthy bronze by many years of wandering all over the world; in fact, he
was one of those restless Englishmen who cannot for long be satisfied
without risking his life in some adventure or other.

The two friends sat there quietly over their dinner, criticising from
time to time those about them.

"After all," Gurdon said presently, "you must admit that there is
something in our civilization. Now, isn't this better than starving under
a thin blanket, with a chance of being murdered before morning?"

Venner shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"I don't know," he said. "There is something in danger that stimulates
me; in fact, it is the only thing that makes life worth living, I dare
say you have wondered why it is that I have never settled down and
become respectable like the rest of you. If you heard my story, you
would not be surprised at my eccentric mode of living; at any rate, it
enables me to forget."

Venner uttered the last words slowly and sadly, as if he were talking
to himself, and had forgotten the presence of his companion. There
was a speculative look in his eyes, much as if London had vanished
and he could see the orchids on the table before him growing in their
native forests.

"I suppose I don't look much like a man with a past," he went on; "like
a man who is the victim of a great sorrow. I'll tell you the story
presently, but not here; I really could not do it in surroundings like
these. I've tried everything, even to money-making, but that is the
worst and most unsatisfactory process of the lot. There is nothing so
sordid as that."

"Oh, I don't know," Gurdon laughed. "It is better to be a
multi-millionaire than a king today. Take the case of this man Fenwick,
for instance; the papers are making more fuss of him than if he were the
President of the United States or royalty travelling incognito."

Venner smiled more or less contemptuously. He turned to take a casual
glance at a noisy party who had just come into the dining room, for the
frivolous note jarred upon him. Almost immediately the little party sat
down, and the decorous air of the room seemed to subdue them. Immediately
behind them followed a man who came dragging his limbs behind him,
supported on either side by a servant. He was quite a young man, with a
wonderfully handsome, clean-shaven face. Indeed, so handsome was he, that
Venner could think of no more fitting simile for his beauty than the
trite old comparison of the Greek god. The man's features were perfectly
chiselled, slightly melancholy and romantic, and strongly suggestive of
the early portraits of Lord Byron. Yet, all the same, the almost perfect
face was from time to time twisted and distorted with pain, and from time
to time there came into the dark, melancholy eyes a look of almost
malignant fury. It was evident that the newcomer suffered from racking
pain, for his lips were twitching, and Venner could see that his even,
white teeth were clenched together. On the whole, it was a striking
figure to intrude upon the smooth gaiety of the dining-room, for it
seemed to Venner that death and the stranger were more than casual
acquaintances. He had an idea that it was only a strong will which kept
the invalid on this side of the grave.

The sufferer sank at length with a sigh of relief into a large armchair,
which had been specially placed for him. He waved the servants aside as
if he had no further use for them, and commenced to study his _menu_, as
if he had no thought for anything else. Venner did not fail to note that
the man had the full use of his arms, and his eye dwelt with critical
approval on the strong, muscular hands and wrists.

"I wonder who that fellow is?" he said. "What a magnificent frame his
must have been before he got so terribly broken up."

"He is certainly a fascinating personality," Gurdon admitted. "Somehow,
he strikes me not so much as the victim of an accident as an unfortunate
being who is suffering from the result of some terrible form of
vengeance. What a character he would make for a story! I am ready to bet
anything in reason that if we could get to the bottom of his history it
would be a most dramatic one. It regularly appeals to the imagination. I
can quite believe our friend yonder has dragged himself out of bed by
sheer force of will to keep some appointment whereby he can wreak his
long nursed revenge."

"Not in a place like this," Venner smiled.

"Why not? In the old days these things used to be played out to the
accompaniment of thunder and lightning on a blasted heath. Now we are
much more quiet and gentle in our methods. It is quite evident that our
handsome friend is expecting someone to dine with him. He gives a most
excellent dinner to his enemy, points out to him his faults in the most
gentlemanly fashion, and then proceeds to poison him with a specially
prepared cigar. I can see the whole thing in the form of a short story."

Venner smiled at the conceit of his companion. He was more than half
inclined to take a sentimental view of the thing himself. He turned to
the waiter to give some order, and as he did so, his eyes encountered two
more people, a man and a woman, who, at that moment, entered the
dining-room. The man was somewhat past middle age, with a large bald
head, covered with a shining dome of yellow skin, and a yellow face
lighted by a pair of deep-sunk dark eyes. The whole was set off and
rendered sinister by a small hook nose and a little black moustache. For
the rest, the man was short and inclined to be stout. He walked with a
wonderfully light and agile step for a man of his weight; in fact he
seemed to reach his seat much as a cat might have done. Indeed, despite
his bulk, there was something strangely feline about the stranger.

Venner gave a peculiar gasp and gurgle. His eyes started. All the blood
receded from his brown face, leaving him ghastly white under his tan. It
was no aspect of fear--rather one of surprise,--of strong and
unconquerable emotion. At the same moment Venner's hand snapped the stem
of his wine glass, and the champagne frothed upon the table.

"Who is that man?" Venner asked of the waiter. His tone was so strained
and harsh that he hardly recognised his own voice. "Who is the man, I
say? No, no; I don't mean him. I mean that stout man, with the lady in
white, over there."

The waiter stared at the speaker in astonishment. He seemed to wonder
where he had been all these years.

"That, sir, is Mr. Mark Fenwick, the American millionaire."

Venner waved the speaker aside. He was recovering from his emotion now
and the blood had returned once more to his cheeks. He became conscious
of the fact that Gurdon was regarding him with a polite, yet none the
less critical, wonder.

"What is the matter?" the latter asked. "Really, the air seems full of
mystery. Do you know that for the last two minutes you have been
regarding that obese capitalist with a look that was absolutely
murderous? Do you mean to tell me that you have ever seen him before?"

"Indeed, I have," Venner replied. "But on the last occasion of our
meeting, he did not call himself Mark Fenwick, or by any other name so
distinctly British. Look at him now; look at his yellow skin with the
deep patches of purple at the roots of the little hair he has. Mark the
shape of his face and the peculiar oblique slit of his eyelids. Would you
take that man for an Englishman?"

"No, I shouldn't," Gurdon said frankly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I
should say he is either Portuguese or perhaps something of the Mexican
half caste."

"You would not be far wrong," Venner said quietly. "I suppose you thought
that the appearance of that man here tonight was something of a shock to
me. You can little guess what sort of a shock it has been. I promise to
tell you my story presently, so it will have to keep. In the meantime,
it is my mood to sit here and watch that man."

"Personally, I am much more interested in his companion," Gurdon laughed.
"A daughter of the gods, if ever there was one. What a face, and what a
figure! Do you mean to say that you didn't notice her as she came in?"

"Positively I didn't," Venner confessed. "My whole attention was rivetted
on the man. I tell you I can see absolutely nothing but his great,
yellow, wicked face, and for the background the romantic spot where we
last met."

It was Gurdon's turn now to listen. He leant forward in his chair, his
whole attention concentrated upon the figure of the stranger, huddled up
in the armchair at the little table opposite. He touched Venner on the
arm, and indicated the figure of the man who had suffered so cruelly in
some form or other.

"The plot thickens," Venner murmured. "Upon my word, he seems to know
this Mark Fenwick as well as I do."

The maimed crippled figure in the armchair had dragged himself almost to
his feet, with his powerful, muscular arm propping him against the table.
His unusually handsome face was all broken and twisted up with an
expression of malignant fury. He stood there for a moment or two like a
statue of uncontrollable passion, rigid, fixed, and motionless, save for
the twitching of his face. Then, gradually he dropped back into his chair
again, a broken and huddled heap, quivering from head to foot with the
pain caused by his recent exertion. A moment later he took from his
breast pocket a silk shade, which he proceeded to tie over his eyes, as
if the light hurt him. Watching his every movement with intense
eagerness, the two friends saw that he had also taken from his pocket a
small silver case, about the same size as an ordinary box of safety
matches. Indeed, the case looked not unlike the silver coverings for wood
matches, which are generally to be seen in well-appointed households.
Then, as if nothing interested him further, he leaned back in his chair,
and appeared to give himself over entirely to his enjoyment of the
orchestra. In all probability no diner there besides Venner and Gurdon
had noticed anything in the least out of the common.

"This is very dramatic," Gurdon said. "Here is a melo-drama actually
taking place in a comedy 'set' like this. I am glad you will be in a
position later on to gratify my curiosity. I confess I should like to
learn something more about this Mark Fenwick, who does not appear to be
in the least like one's idea of the prosaic money spinner."

"He isn't," Venner said grimly. "Anything but that. Why, three years ago
that man was as poor and desperate as the most wretched outcast who
walks the streets of London to-night. And one thing you may be certain
of--wherever you dine from now to your dying day, you will be under the
roof of no more diabolical scoundrel than the creature who calls himself
Mark Fenwick."

There was a deep note in Venner's voice that did not fail to stimulate
Gurdon's curiosity. He glanced again at the millionaire, who appeared to
be talking in some foreign tongue with his companion. The tall, fair girl
with the shining hair had her back to the friends, so they could not see
her face, and when she spoke it was in a tone so low that it was not
possible to catch anything more than the sweetness of her voice.

"I wonder what she is doing with him?" Gurdon said. "At any rate, she is
English enough. I never saw a woman with a more thoroughbred air. She is
looking this way."

Just for a moment the girl turned her head, and Venner caught a full
sight of her face. It was only for an instant; then the fair head was
turned again, and the girl appeared to resume her dinner. Venner jumped
from his chair and took three strides across the room. He paused there as
if struggling to regain possession of himself; then he dropped into his
chair again, shielding his face from the light with his hands. Gurdon
could see that his companion's face had turned to a ghastly grey.
Veritably it was a night of surprises, quick, dramatic surprises,
following close upon one another's heels.

"What, do you mean to say you know her, too?" Gurdon whispered.

Venner looked up with a strange, unsteady smile on his face. He appeared
to be fighting hard to regain his self-control.

"Indeed, I do know her," he said. "My friend, you are going to have all
the surprises you want. What will you say when I tell you that the girl
who sits there, utterly unconscious of my presence, and deeming me to be
at the other end of the world, is no less a person than--my own wife?"




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST FINGER


Gurdon waited for his companion to go on. It was a boast of his that he
had exhausted most of the sensations of life, and that he never allowed
anything to astonish him. All the same, he was astonished now, and
surprised beyond words. For the last twenty-five years, on and off, he
had known Venner. Indeed, there had been few secrets between them since
the day when they had come down from Oxford together. From time to time,
during his wanderings, Venner had written to his old chum a fairly
complete account of his adventures. During the last three years the
letters had been meagre and far between; and at their meeting a few days
ago, Gurdon had noticed a reticence in the manner of his old chum that he
had not seen before.

He waited now, naturally enough, for the other to give some explanation
of his extraordinary statement, but Venner appeared to have forgotten all
about Gurdon. He sat there shielding one side of his face, heedless of
the attentions of the waiter, who proffered him food from time to time.

"Is that all you are going to tell me?" Gurdon asked at length.

"Upon my word, I am very sorry," Venner said. "But you will excuse me
if I say nothing more at present. You can imagine what a shock this has
been to me."

"Of course. I don't wish to be impertinent, old chap, but I presume that
there has been some little misunderstanding--"

"Not in the least. There has been no misunderstanding whatever. I
honestly believe that the woman over yonder is still just as passionately
fond of me as I am of her. As you know, Gurdon, I never was much of a
ladies' man; in fact, you fellows at Oxford used to chaff me because I
was so ill at ease in the society of women. Usually a man like myself
falls in love but once in his lifetime, and then never changes. At any
rate, that is my case. I worship the ground that girl walks upon. I would
have given up my life cheerfully for her; I would do so now if I could
save her a moment's pain. You think, perhaps, that she saw me when she
came in here to-night. That is where you have got the impression that
there is some misunderstanding between us. You talked just now of
dramatic surprises. I could show you one even beyond your powers of
imagination if I chose. What would you say if I told you that three years
ago I became the husband of that beautiful girl yonder, and that from
half-an-hour after the ceremony till the present moment I have never set
eyes on her again?"

"It seems almost incredible," Gurdon exclaimed.

"Yes, I suppose it does. But it is absolutely a fact all the same. I
can't tell you here the romance of my life. I couldn't do it in
surroundings like these. We will go on to your rooms presently, and then
I will make a clean breast of the whole thing to you. You may be disposed
to laugh at me for a sentimentalist, but I should like to stay here a
little longer, if it is only now and again to hear a word or two from her
lips. If you will push those flowers across between me and the light I
shall be quite secure from observation. I think that will do."

"But you don't mean to tell me," Gurdon murmured, "that the lady in
question is the daughter of that picturesque-looking old ruffian,
Mark Fenwick?"

"Of course, she isn't," Venner said, with great contempt. "What the
connection is between them, I cannot say. What strange fate links them
together is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I do not like it,
but I let it pass, feeling so sure of Vera's innocence and integrity. But
the waiter will tell us. Here, waiter, is the lady dining over there with
Mr. Fenwick his daughter or not?"

"Certainly, sir," the waiter responded. "That is Miss Fenwick."

There was silence for a moment or two between the two friends. Venner
appeared to be deeply immersed in his own thoughts, while Gurdon's eyes
travelled quickly between the table where the millionaire sat and the
deep armchair, in which the invalid lay huddled; and Venner now saw that
the cripple on the opposite side of the room was regarding Fenwick and
his companion with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse.

Dinner had now come pretty well to an end, and the coffee and liqueurs
were going round. A cup was placed before Fenwick, who turned to one of
the waiters with a quick order which the latter hastened to obey. The
order was given so clearly that Gurdon could hear distinctly what it was.
He had asked for a light, wherewith to burn the glass of Curacoa which he
intended to take, foreign fashion, in his coffee.

"And don't forget to bring me a wooden match," he commanded. "Household
matches. Last night one of your men brought me a vesta."

The waiter hurried off to execute his commission, but his intention was
anticipated by another waiter who had apparently been doing nothing and
hanging about in the background. The second waiter was a small, lithe
man, with beady, black eyes and curly hair. For some reason or other,
Gurdon noticed him particularly; then he saw a strange thing happen. The
little waiter with the snaky hair glanced swiftly across the room in the
direction of the cripple huddled up in the armchair. Just as if he had
been waiting for a signal, the invalid stretched out one of his long
arms, and laid his fingers significantly on the tiny silver box he had
deposited on the table some little time before. The small waiter went
across the room and deliberately lifted the silver box from the table. He
then walked briskly across to where the millionaire was seated, placed
the box close to his elbow, and vanished. He seemed to fairly race down
the room until he was lost in a pile of palms which masked the door.
Gurdon had followed all this with the deepest possible interest. Venner
sat there, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings. His head was
on his hands, and his mind was apparently far away. Therefore, Gurdon was
left entirely to himself, to study the strange things that were going on
around him. His whole attention was now concentrated upon Fenwick, who
presently tilted his glass of Curacoa dexterously into his coffee cup,
and then stretched out his hand for the silver match box by his side. He
was still talking to his companion while he fumbled for a match without
looking at the little case in his hand. Suddenly he ceased to speak, his
black eyes rivetted on the box. It fell from his fingers as if it had
contained some poisonous insect, and he rose to his feet with a sudden
scream that could be heard all over the room.

There was a quick hush in the conversation, and every head was turned in
the direction of the millionaire's table. Practically every diner there
knew who the man with the yellow head was, so that the startling
interruption was all the more unexpected. Once again the frightened cry
rang out, and then Fenwick stood, gazing with horrified eyes and white,
ghastly face at the innocent looking little box on the table.

"Who brought this here?" he screamed. "Bring that waiter here. Find him
at once. Find him at once, I say. A little man with beady eyes and hair
like rats' tails."

The head waiter bustled up, full of importance; but it was in vain that
he asked for some explanation of what had happened. All Fenwick could do
was to stand there gesticulating and calling aloud for the production of
the erring waiter.

"But I assure you, sir," the head waiter said, "we have no waiter here
who answers to the description of the man you mention. They are all here
now, every waiter who has entered the room to-night. If you will be so
good as to pick out the one who has offended you--"

Fenwick's startled, bloodshot eyes ranged slowly over the array of
waiters which had been gathered for his inspection round his table.
Presently he shook his head with an impatient gesture.

"I tell you, he is not here," he cried. "The man is not here. He is quite
small, with very queer, black hair."

The head waiter was equally positive in his assurance. Louder rose the
angry voice of the millionaire, till at length Venner was aroused from
his reverie and looked up to Gurdon to know what was going on. The latter
explained as far as possible, not omitting to describe the strange matter
of the silver box. Venner smiled with the air of a man who could say a
great deal if he chose.

"It is all part of the programme," he said. "That will come in my story
later on. But what puzzles me is where that handsome cripple comes in.
The mystery deepens."

By this time Fenwick's protestations had grown weaker. He seemed to
ramble on in a mixture of English and Portuguese which was exceedingly
puzzling to the head waiter, who still was utterly in the dark as to the
cause of offence. Most of the diners had gathered round the millionaire's
table with polite curiosity, and sundry offers of assistance.

"I think we had better get to our own room," a sweet, gentle voice said,
as the tall, fair girl by Fenwick's side rose and moved in the direction
of the door. It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Venner had risen at the
same time. As he strode from his own table, he came face to face with the
girl who stood there watching him with something like pain in her blue
eyes. Just for an instant she staggered back, and apparently would have
fallen had not Venner placed his arm about her waist. In the strange
confusion caused by the unexpected disturbance, nobody had noticed this
besides Gurdon, who promptly rose to the occasion.

"You had better take the lady as far as her own rooms," he said. "This
business has evidently been too much for her. Meanwhile, I will see what
I can do for Mr. Fenwick."

Venner shot his friend a glance of gratitude. He did not hesitate for a
moment; he saw that the girl by his side was quite incapable of offering
any objections for the present. In his own strong, masterful way, he drew
the girl's hand under his arm, and fairly dragged her from the room into
the comparative silence and seclusion of the corridor beyond.

"Which way do we go?" he asked.

"The Grand Staircase," the girl replied faintly. "It is on the first
floor. But you must not come with me, you must come no further. It would
be madness for him to know that we are together."

"He will not come just yet," Venner replied. "My friend knows something
of my story, and he will do his best to get us five minutes together. You
have heard me speak of Jim Gurdon before."

"But it is madness," the girl whispered. "You know how dangerous it is.
Oh, Gerald, what must you think of me when--"

"I swear to you that I think nothing of you that is unkind or
ungenerous," Venner protested. "By a cruel stroke of fate we were parted
at the very moment when our happiness seemed most complete. Why you left
me in the strange way you did, I have never yet learned. In your letter
to me you told me you were bound to act as you did, and I believed you
implicitly. How many men in similar circumstances would have behaved as I
did? How many men would have gone on honoring a wife who betrayed her
husband as you betrayed me? And yet, as I stand here at this moment,
looking into your eyes, I feel certain that you are the same sweet and
innocent girl who did me the happiness to become my wife."

The beautiful face quivered, and the blue eyes filled with tears. Her
trembling hand lay on Venner's arm for a moment; then he caught the girl
to his side and kissed her passionately.

"I thank you for those words," she whispered. "From the bottom of my
heart I thank you. If you only knew what I have suffered, if you only
knew the terrible pressure that is put upon me;--and it seemed to me
that I was acting for the best. I hoped, too, that you would go away and
forget me; that in the course of time I should be nothing more than a
memory to you. And yet, in my heart, I always felt that we should meet
again. Is it not strange that we should come together like this?"

"I do not see that it is in the least strange," Venner replied,
"considering that I have been looking for you for the last three years.
When I found you to-night, it was with the greatest difficulty that I
restrained myself from laying my hands on the man who is the cause of
all your misery and suffering. How long has he been passing for an
Englishman? Since when has he been a millionaire? If he be a
millionaire at all."

"I cannot tell you," the girl whispered. "Really, I do not know. A little
time ago we were poor enough; then suddenly, money seemed to come in from
all sides. I asked no questions; they would not have been answered if I
had. At least, not truthfully. And now you really must go. When shall I
see you again? Ah, I cannot tell you. For the present you must go on
trusting me as implicitly as you have done in the past. Oh, if you only
knew how it wrings my heart to have to speak to you like this, when all
the time my whole love is for you and you alone. Gerald--ah, go now; go
at once. Don't you see that he is coming up the stairs?"

Venner turned away, and slipped down a side corridor, till Fenwick had
entered his own room. Then he walked down the stairs again into the
dining-room, where a heated discussion was still going on as to the
identity of the missing waiter.

"They'll never find him," Gurdon muttered, "for the simple reason that
the fellow was imported for the occasion, and, in my opinion, was no
waiter at all. You will notice also that our crippled friend has
vanished. I would give a great deal to know what was in the box that
pretty nearly scared the yellow man to death. I never saw a fellow so
frightened in my life. He had to fortify himself with two brandies before
he could get up to his own room. Gerald, I really must find out what was
in that box!"

"I think I could tell you," Venner said, with a smile. "Didn't you tell
me that the mysterious waiter fetched it from the table where it had been
placed by the handsome cripple?"

"Certainly, he did. I saw the signal pass directly Fenwick asked for a
wooden match; that funny little waiter was palpably waiting for the
silver box, and as soon as he placed it on Fenwick's table, he discreetly
vanished. But, as I said before, I would give considerable to know what
was in that box."

"Well, go and see," Venner said grimly. "Unless my eyes deceive me, the
box is still lying on Fenwick's table. In his fright, he forgot all about
it, and there isn't a waiter among the whole lot, from the chief
downwards, who has a really clear impression of what the offence was. If
you take my advice, you will go and have a peep into that box when you
get the chance. Don't tell me what you find, because I will guess that."

Gurdon crossed over to the other table, and took the box up in his hand.
He pulled the slide out and glanced at the contents with a puzzled
expression of face. Then he dropped the box again, and came back to
Venner with a look on his face as if he had been handling something more
than usually repulsive.

"You needn't tell me what it is," Venner said. "I know quite as well as
you do. Inside that box is a dried up piece of flesh, some three inches
long--in other words a mummified human forefinger."




CHAPTER III

THE LOST MINE


Gurdon nodded thoughtfully. He was trying to piece the puzzle together in
his mind, but so far without success. He was not in the least surprised
to find that Venner had guessed correctly.

"You've got it exactly," he said. "That is just what the gruesome thing
is. What does it all mean?"

By this time dinner had long been a thing of the past, and all the guests
had departed. Here and there the lights were turned down, leaving half
the room in semi-darkness. It was just the time and place for an exchange
of confidences.

"How did you know exactly what was in that box?" Gurdon asked. "I have
read things of this kind before, but they have generally taken the form
of a warning previous to some act of vengeance."

"As a matter of fact, this is something of the same kind," Venner said;
"though I am bound to say that my guess was somewhat in the nature of a
shot. Still, putting two and two together, I felt that I could not have
been far wrong. Since I have been here this evening, I have begun to form
a pretty shrewd opinion as to where Fenwick gets his money."

"What shall we do with that box?" Gurdon asked.

"Leave it where it is, by all means. You may depend upon it that Fenwick
will return for his lost property."

The prophecy came true quicker than Gurdon had expected, for out of the
gloom there presently emerged the yellow face of Mark Fenwick. He came in
with a furtive air, like some mean thief who is about to do a shabby
action. He was palpably looking for something. He made a gesture of
disappointment when he saw that the table where he had dined was now
stripped of everything except the flowers. He did not seem to see the
other two men there at all. Venner took the box from his companion's
hand, and advanced to Fenwick's side.

"I think you have lost something, sir," he said coolly. "Permit me to
restore your property to you."

The millionaire gave a kind of howl as he looked at Venner. The noise he
made was like that of a child suffering from toothache. He fairly
grovelled at Venner's feet, but as far as the latter's expression was
concerned, the two might have met for the first time. Just for a moment
Fenwick stood there, mopping his yellow face, himself a picture of abject
misery and despair.

"Well?" Venner said sharply. "Is this little box yours, or not?"

"Oh, yes, oh yes," Fenwick whined. "You know that perfectly well--I
mean, you must recognise--oh, I don't know what I mean. The fact is,
I am really ill to-night. I hardly know what I am doing. Thank you,
very much."

Fenwick snatched the box from Venner's fingers, and made hastily
for the door.

"I believe we are allowed to smoke in here after ten," Gurdon said. "If
that is the case, why not have a cigar together, and discuss the matter?
What I am anxious to know at present is the inner meaning of the finger
in the box."

There was no objection to a cigar in the dining-room at this late hour,
and presently the two friends were discussing their Havanas together.
Venner began to speak at length.

"Perhaps it would be as well," he said, "to stick to the box business
first. You will remember, some three years ago, my writing you to the
effect that I was going to undertake a journey through Mexico. I don't
suppose I should have gone there at all, only I was attracted by the
notion of possible adventures in that country, among the hills where, at
one time, gold was found. There was no question whatever that gold in
large quantities used to be mined in the wild district where I had chosen
to take up my headquarters. Practical engineers say that the gold is
exhausted, but that did not deter me in the least.

"The first man who put the idea into my head was a half-caste Mexican,
who had an extraordinary grip on the history of his country, especially
as far as legends and traditions were concerned. He was a well-educated
man, and an exceedingly fascinating story-teller. It was he who first
gave me the history of what he called the Four Finger Mine. It appears
that this mine had been discovered some century or more ago by a
Frenchman, who had settled down in the country and married the daughter
of a native chief. The original founder of the mine was a curious sort of
man, and was evidently possessed of strong miserly tendencies. Most men
in his position would have gathered together a band of workers, and
simply exploited the mine for all it was worth. However, this man, Le
Fenu, did nothing of the kind. He kept his discovery an absolute secret,
and what mining was to be done, he did himself. I understand that he was
a man of fine physique, and that his disposition was absolutely fearless.
It was his habit at certain seasons of the year to go up to his mine, and
there work it for a month or two at a time, spending the rest of the year
with his family. It is quite certain, too, that he kept his secret, even
from his grown-up sons; for when he died, they had not the slightest idea
of the locality of the mine, which fact I know from Le Fenu's
descendants.

"And now comes the interesting part of my story, Le Fenu went up into
the mountains early in May one year, to put in his solitary two months'
mining, as usual. For, perhaps, the first time in his life, he suffered
from a serious illness--some kind of fever, I suppose, though he had just
strength of will enough to get on the back of a horse and ride as far as
the nearest _hacienda_.

"Now, on this particular farm there dwelt a Dutchman, who, I believe, was
called Van Fort. Whether or not Le Fenu partially disclosed his secret in
his delirium, will never actually be known. At any rate, two or three
weeks later the body of Le Fenu was discovered not very far away from the
scene of his mining operations, and from the evidence obtainable, there
was no doubt in the world that he was foully murdered. Justice in that
country walks with very tardy footsteps, and though there was little
question who the real murderer was, Van Fort was never brought to
justice. Perhaps that was accounted for by the fact that he seemed to be
suddenly possessed of more money than usual, and was thus in a position
to bribe the authorities.

"And now comes a further development. Soon after the death of Le Fenu, it
was noted that Van Fort spent most of his time away from his farm in the
mountains, no doubt prospecting for Le Fenu's mine. Whether he ever found
it or not will never be known. Please to bear in mind the fact that for a
couple of centuries at least Le Fenu's mysterious property was known as
the Four Finger Mine. With this digression, I will go on to speak further
of Van Fort's movements. To make a long story short, from his last
journey to the mountains he never returned. His widow searched for him
everywhere; I have seen her--a big sullen woman, with a cruel mouth and a
heavy eye. From what I have heard, I have not the slightest doubt that it
was she who inspired the murder of the Frenchman.

"She had practically given up all hope of ever seeing her husband again,
when, one dark and stormy night, just as she was preparing for bed, she
heard her husband outside, screaming for assistance. From his tone, he
was evidently in some dire and deadly peril. The woman was by no means
devoid of courage; she rushed out into the night and searched far and
near, but no trace of Van Fort could be found, nor did the imploring cry
for assistance come again. But the next morning, on the doorstep lay a
bleeding forefinger, which the woman recognised as coming from her
husband's hand. To make identity absolutely certain, on the forefinger
was a ring of native gold, which the Dutchman always wore. Please to
remember once more that this mine was known as the Four Finger Mine."

Venner paused just for a moment to give dramatic effect to his point.
Gurdon said nothing; he was too deeply interested in the narrative to
make any comment.

"That was what I may call the first act in the drama," Venner went on.
"Six months had elapsed, and Van Fort's widow was beginning to forget all
about the startling incident, when, one night, just at the same time, and
in just the same circumstances, came that wild, pitiful yell for
assistance outside the Dutchman's farm. Half mad with dread and terror
the woman sat there listening. She did not dare to go outside now; she
knew how futile such an act would be. Also, she knew quite well what was
going to happen in the morning. She sat up half the night in a state
bordering on madness. I need not insult your intelligence, my dear
fellow, by asking you to guess what she found on the doorstep in the
daylight."

"Of course, I can guess," Gurdon said. "Beyond all question, it was the
third finger of the Dutchman's hand."

"Quite so," Venner resumed. "I need not over elaborate my story or bore
you by telling how, six months later, the second finger of the hand
appeared in the same sensational circumstances, and how, at the end of a
year, the four fingers were complete. Let me once more impress upon you
the fact that this mine was called the Four Finger Mine for more than a
century before these strange things happened."

"It is certainly an extraordinary thing," Gurdon muttered. "I don't think
I ever listened to a weirder tale. And did the Dutch woman confess to
her crime? This strikes me as being a fitting end to the story. I suppose
it came from her lips."

"She didn't confess, for the simple reason that she had no mind to
confess with," Venner explained. "Of course, certain neighbors knew
something of what was going on, but they never knew the whole truth,
because, after the appearance of the last finger, Mrs. Van Fort went
stark raving mad. She lived for a few days, and at the end of that time
her body was found in a waterfall close to her house. That is the story
of the Four Finger Mine so far as it goes, though I should not be
surprised if we manage to get to the last chapter yet. Now, you are an
observant man--did you notice anything peculiar in Fenwick's appearance
to-night?"

Gurdon shook his head slowly. It was quite evident that he had not
noticed anything out of the common in the appearance of the millionaire.
Venner proceeded to explain.

"Let me tell you this," he said. "When I married my wife, we were within
an easy ride of the locality where the Four Finger Mine is situated. Mind
you, our marriage was a secret one, and I presume that Fenwick is still
in ignorance of it, though, of course, he was fully aware of the fact
that I had more than a passing admiration for Vera. I merely mention this
by way of accentuating the little point that I am going to make. It is
more than probable that, when I stumbled upon Fenwick and the girl who
passes for his daughter, he also was in search of the Four Finger Mine.
When he came in to-night he, of course, recognised me, though I treated
him as an absolute stranger whom I had met for the first time. You will
see presently why I treated him in this fashion. I am glad I spoke to
him, because I noticed a slight thing that throws a flood of light upon
the mystery. Now, did it escape your observation, or did you notice that
Fenwick took the box I gave him in his right hand?"

"Oh, dear, no," Gurdon said. "A little thing like that would be almost
too trivial for the typical detective of the cheap story."

"All the same, it is very important," Venner said. "He took the box in
his right hand; he made as if to extend his left, then suddenly changed
his mind, and put it in his pocket. But he was too late to disguise from
me that he had--"

"I know," Gurdon shouted. "He had lost all the fingers on his left
hand. What an amazing thing! We must get to the bottom of this business
at all costs."

"That is precisely what we are going to do," Venner said grimly. "I am
glad you are so quick in taking up the point. When I noted the loss of
those fingers, I was absolutely staggered for a moment. If he had been
less agitated than he was, Fenwick would have guessed what I had seen. I
need not tell you that when I last saw Fenwick his left hand was as sound
as yours or mine. The inference of this is, that Fenwick has fallen under
the ban of the same strange vengeance that overtook Van Fort and his
wife. There is not the slightest doubt that he discovered the mine, and
that he has not yet paid the penalty for his temerity."

"I presume the penalty is coming," Gurdon said. "What a creepy sort of
idea it is, that terrible vengeance reaching across a continent in such a
sinister fashion. But don't forget that we know something as to the way
in which this thing is to be brought about. Don't forget the cripple who
sat at yonder table to-night."

"I am not likely to forget him," Venner observed. "All the more because
he evidently knows more about this matter than we do ourselves. When he
came here to-night, he little dreamed that there was one man in the
room, at least, who had a fairly good knowledge of the Four Finger
Mystery. We shall have to look him out, and, if necessary, force him to
speak. But it is a delicate matter, and as far as I can see, one not
unattended with danger."

Gurdon smoked in thoughtful silence for some little time, turning the
strange thing over in his mind. The more he dwelt upon it, the more wild
and dramatic did it seem.

"There is one thing in our favor," he said, presently. "The mysterious
cripple is evidently a deadly enemy of Fenwick's. We shall doubtless find
him ready to accept our offer, provided that we put it in the right way."

"I am not so sure of that," Venner replied. "At any rate, we can make no
move in that direction without thinking the whole thing out carefully and
thoroughly. Our crippled friend is evidently a fanatic in his way, and he
is not alone in his scheme. Do not forget that we have also the little
man who played the part of the waiter to deal with. I am sorry that I did
not notice him. A man who could carry off a thing like that with such
splendid audacity is certainly a force to be reckoned with."

Gurdon rose from his seat with a yawn, and intimated that it was time to
go to bed. It was long past twelve now and the hotel was gradually
retiring to rest. The Grand Empire was not the sort of house to cater to
the frivolous type of guest, and usually within an hour of the closing of
the theatres the whole of the vast building was wrapped in silence.

"I think I will go now," Gurdon said. "Come and lunch with me to-morrow,
and then you can tell me something about your own romance. What sort of a
night is it, waiter?"

"Very bad, sir," the waiter replied. "It's pouring in torrents. Shall I
call you a cab, sir?"




CHAPTER IV

IN THE LIFT


Gurdon looked out from the shelter of the great portico to see the sheets
of rain falling on the pavement. Silence reigned supreme but for the
steady plash of the raindrops as they rattled on the pavements. To walk
half a mile on such a night meant getting wet through; and Gurdon
somewhat ruefully regarded his thin slippers and his light dust overcoat.
Half a dozen times the night porter blew his whistle, but no sign of a
cab could be seen.

"We shan't get one to-night," Venner said. "They are all engaged. There
is only one thing for it--you must take a room here, and stay till the
morning. I've no doubt I can fit you up in the way of pyjamas and the
things necessary."

Gurdon fell in readily enough with the suggestion. Indeed, there was
nothing else for it. He took his number and key from the sleepy clerk in
the office, and made his way upstairs to Venner's bedroom.

"I'll just have one cigarette before I turn in," he said. "It seems as if
Fate had ordained that I am to keep in close touch with the leading
characters of the mystery. By the way, we never took the trouble to find
out who the handsome cripple was."

"That is very easily done in the morning," Venner replied. "A striking
personality like that is not soon lost sight of. Besides, he has
doubtless been here before, for, if you will recollect, his attendants
took him to the right table as if it had been ordered beforehand. And
now, if you don't mind, I'll turn in--not that I expect to sleep much
after an exciting evening like this. Good night, old fellow."

Gurdon went on to his own room, where he slowly undressed and sat
thinking the whole thing out on the edge of his bed. Perhaps he was
suffering from the same suppressed excitement which at that moment was
keeping Venner awake, for he felt not the slightest disposition to turn
in. Usually he was a sound sleeper; but this night seemed likely to prove
an exception to the rule.

An hour passed, and Gurdon was still sitting there, asking himself
whether it would not be better to go to bed and compel sleep to come to
him. Impatiently he turned out his light and laid his head resolutely on
the pillow.

But it was all in vain--sleep was out of the question. The room was not
altogether in darkness, either; for the sleeping apartments on that
landing had been arranged back to back with a large, open ventilator
between them. Through this ventilator came a stream of light; evidently
the occupant of the adjoining room had not yet retired. The light
worried Gurdon; he asked himself irritably why his neighbor should be
permitted to annoy him in this way. A moment or two later the sound of
suppressed voices came through the ventilator, followed by the noise of a
heavy fall.

At any ordinary time Gurdon would have thought nothing of this, but his
imagination was aflame now, and his mind was full of hidden mysteries. It
seemed to him that something sinister and underhand was going on in the
next room.

Usually, no one would identify the Grand Empire Hotel with crime and
intrigue; but that did not deter Gurdon from rising from his bed and
making a determined effort to see through the ventilator into the
adjoining room. It was not an easy matter, but by dint of balancing two
chairs one on top of the other the thing was accomplished. Very
cautiously Gurdon pushed back the glass slide and looked through. So far
as he could see, there was nothing to justify any suspicion. The room
was absolutely empty, though it was brilliantly lighted; and for a
moment Gurdon felt ashamed of his suspicions, and turned away, half
determined to try and sleep. It was at that instant that he noticed
something out of the common. To his quickened ear there came a sound
unmistakably like a snore, and pushing his body half through the
ventilator he managed to make out the bed in the next room. On it lay
the body of a boy in uniform, unmistakably a messenger boy or hotel
attendant of that kind. Gurdon could see the hotel name embroidered in
gold letters on his collar.

Perhaps there was nothing so very suspicious in this, except that the boy
was lying on the bed fully dressed, even to his boots. It was a luxurious
room; not at all the class of apartment to which the hotel management
would relegate one of their messenger boys, nor was it possible that the
lad had had the temerity to go into the vacant room and sleep.

"Something wrong here," Gurdon muttered. "Hang me if I don't get through
the ventilator and see what it is."

It was no difficult matter for an athlete like Gurdon to push his way
through and drop on to the bed on the other side. Then he shook the form
of the slumbering lad without reward. The boy seemed to be plunged in a
sleep almost like death. As Gurdon turned him over, he noticed on the
other side of the lad's collar the single word "Lift." It began to dawn
upon Gurdon exactly what had happened. In large hotels like the Grand
Empire there is no fixed period when the lift is suspended, and
consequently, it has its attendants night and day. For some reason, this
boy had evidently been drugged and carried into the room where he now
lay. There was no doubt whatever about it, for it was impossible to
shake the lad into the slightest semblance of life. Gurdon crossed to
the door, and found, not to his surprise, that it was locked. His first
impulse was to return to his room and call the night porter; but a
strange, wild idea had come into his mind, and he refrained from doing
so. It occurred to him that perhaps Mark Fenwick or the cripple had had
a hand in this outrage.

"I'll wait a bit," Gurdon told himself. "It is just possible that my key
will fit this door. Anyway, it is worth trying."

Gurdon made his way back to his own room again, to return a minute or two
later with his key. To his great delight the door opened, and he stood in
a further corridor, close against the cage in which the lift worked
noiselessly up and down.

It was absolutely quiet, so that anybody standing there would have been
able to carry out any operation of an unlawful kind without observation.
Gurdon stood, looking down the lift shaft, until he saw that the cage was
once more beginning to ascend. It came up slowly and smoothly and without
the least noise, until it was level with the floor on which Gurdon was
standing. It was one of the open kind, so he could see inside quite
clearly. To all practical purposes, the lift was empty, save for the
presence of one man, who lay unconscious on the floor. The cage was
ascending so leisurely that Gurdon was in a position to make a close
examination of the figure before the whole structure had risen to the
next floor. It did not need a second glance to tell Gurdon that the man
in the cage was the attendant, and that he was suffering from the same
drug which had placed his boy assistant beyond all power of interfering.

"Now what does all this mean?" Gurdon muttered. "Who is there on the
floor above who is interested in getting these two people out of the way?
What do they want to bring up or send down which it is not safe to
dispose of by the ordinary means? I think I'll wait and see. No sleep for
me to-night."

The lift vanished in the same silent way. It hung overhead for some
little time, and once more appeared in sight, this time absolutely empty,
save for a small square box with iron bands at the corners, which lay
upon the floor. As the cage descended, Gurdon suddenly made up his mind
what to do. He sprang lightly on to the top of the falling cage, and
grasped the rope with both hands. A moment later and he was descending in
the darkness.

As far as he could judge, the lift went down to the basement, where, for
the time being, it remained. There was a warm damp smell in the air,
suggestive of fungus, whereby Gurdon judged that he must be in the vaults
beneath the hotel. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could
make out just in front of him a circular patch of light, which evidently
was a coal shoot.

He had no need to wait now for the full development of the adventure.
He could hear whispered voices and the clang of metal, as if somebody
had opened the door of the lift. One of the voices he failed to
understand, but with a thrill he recognised the fact that the speaker
was talking in either Spanish or Portuguese. Instantly it flashed into
his mind that this was the language most familiar to the man who called
himself Mark Fenwick. Beyond doubt he was quite right when he
identified this last development with the actors in the dramatic events
earlier in the evening.

"Now don't be long about it," a hoarse voice whispered. "There are two
more cases to send up, and two more to come down here. Has that van come
along, or shall we have to wait until morning?"

"The van is there right enough," another hoarse voice said. "We have
the stuff out on the pavement. Let's have the last lot here, and get it
up at once."

Gurdon could hear the sound of labored breathing as if the unseen man was
struggling with some heavy burden. Presently some square object was
deposited on the floor of the lift. It seemed to slip from someone's
hands, and dropped with a heavy thud that caused the lift to vibrate like
a thing of life."

"Clumsy fool," a voice muttered. "You might have dropped that on my foot.
What did you want to let go for?"

"I couldn't help it," another voice grumbled. "I didn't know it was half
so heavy. Besides, the rope broke."

"Oh, are you going to be there all night?"--another voice, with a
suggestion of a foreign accent in it, asked impatiently. "Don't forget
you have to bring the man down yet, and see that the boy is taken to his
place. Now, up with it."

Standing there, holding on to the rope and quivering with excitement,
Gurdon wondered what was going to happen next. Once more he felt himself
rising, and an instant later he was in the light again. He waited till
the lift had reached his own floor; then he jumped quickly down, taking
care as he went to note the heavy box which lay on the floor of the lift.
A corner of it had been split open by the heavy jar, and some shining
material like sand lay in a little heap, glittering in the rays of the
electric light.

Gurdon stood there panting for a moment, and rather at a loss to know
what to do next. Once more the lift came down, this time with two boxes
of a smaller size. They vanished; and as the lift rose once again, Gurdon
had barely time to hide himself behind the bedroom door, and thus escape
the observation of two men who now occupied the cage. He just caught a
fleeting glimpse of them, and saw that one was an absolute stranger, but
he felt his heart beating slightly faster as he recognised in the other
the now familiar form of Mark Fenwick. The mystery was beginning to
unfold itself.

"That was a close thing," Gurdon muttered, as he wiped his hot face. "I
think I had better go back to my own room, and wait developments. One
can't be too careful."

The lift-boy was still sleeping on the bed; but his features were
twitching, as if already the drug was beginning to lose its effect. At
least, so Gurdon shrewdly thought, and subsequent events proved that he
was not far wrong. He was standing in his own room now, waiting by the
ventilator, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the
wall. Two men had entered the room, and by taking a little risk, Gurdon
could see that they were examining the unconscious boy coolly and
critically.

"I should think about five minutes more would do it," one of them said.
"Better carry him out, and shove him in that little sentry box of his.
When he comes to himself again he won't know but what he has fallen
asleep; barring a headache, the little beggar won't be any the worse for
the adventure."

"Have we got all the stuff up now?" the other man asked.

"Every bit of it," was the whispered reply. "I hope the old man is
satisfied now. It was not a bad idea of his to work this little game in a
great hotel of this kind. But, all the same, it is not without risks,
and I for one should be glad to get away to that place in the country
where we are going in a week or two."

Gurdon heard no more. He allowed the best part of half-an-hour to pass
before he ventured once more to creep through the ventilator and reach
the landing in the neighborhood of the lift. Everything looked quite
normal now, and as if nothing had happened. The lift boy sat in his
little hut, yawning and stretching himself. It was quite evident that he
knew nothing of the vile uses he had been put to. A sudden idea occurred
to Gurdon.

"I want you to bring the lift up to this floor," he said to the boy. "No,
I don't want to use it; I have lost something, and it occurs to me that I
might have left it in the lift."

In the usual unconcerned manner of his class the boy touched an electric
button, and the lift slowly rose from the basement.

"Does this go right down to the cellars?" Gurdon asked.

"It can if it's wanted to," the boy replied. "Only it very seldom does.
You see, we only use this lift for our customers. It's fitted with what
they call a pneumatic cushion--I mean, if anything goes wrong, the lift
falls into a funnel shaped well, made of concrete, which forms a cushion
of air, and so breaks the fall. They say you could cut the rope and let
it down without so much as upsetting a glass of water. Not that I should
like to try it, sir, but there you are."

Gurdon entered the lift, where he pretended to be searching for something
for a moment or two. In reality, he was scraping up some of the yellow
sand which had fallen from the box to the floor of the lift, and this he
proceeded to place in a scrap of paper. Then he decided that it was
absolutely necessary to retire to bed, though he was still in full
possession of his waking faculties. As a matter of fact, he was asleep
almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Nevertheless, he was up
early the following morning, and in Venner's bedroom long before
breakfast. He had an exciting story to tell, and he could not complain
that in Venner he had anything but an interested listener.

"We are getting on," the latter said grimly. "But before you say anything
more, I should like to have a look at that yellow sand you speak of.
Bring it over near the light."

Venner let the yellow stuff trickle through his hands; then he turned to
Gurdon with a smile.

"You look upon this as refuse, I suppose?" he said. "You seem to imagine
that it is of no great value."

"Well, is it?" Gurdon asked. "What is it?"

"Gold," Venner said curtly. "Pure virgin gold, of the very finest
quality. I never saw a better sample."




CHAPTER V

A PUZZLE FOR VENNER


Venner sat just for a moment or two with the thin stream trickling
through his fingers, and wondering what it all meant. With his superior
knowledge of past events, he could see in this something that it was
impossible for Gurdon to follow.

"I suppose this is some of the gold from the Four Finger Mine?" Gurdon
suggested. "Do you know, I have never handled any virgin gold before. I
had an idea that it was more brilliant and glittering. Is this very
good stuff?"

"Absolutely pure, I should say," Venner replied. "There are two ways of
gold mining. One is by crushing quartz in machinery, as they do in South
Africa, and the other is by obtaining the metal in what are called
pockets or placers. This is the way in which it is generally found in
Australia and Mexico. I should not be in the least surprised if this came
from the Four Finger Mine."

"There is no reason why it shouldn't," Gurdon said. "It is pretty
evident, from what you told me last night, that Mark Fenwick has
discovered the mysterious treasure house, but that does not account for
all these proceedings. Why should he have taken all the trouble he did
last night, when he might just as well have brought the stuff in, and
taken the other boxes out by the front door?"

"That is what we have to find out," Venner said. "That fellow may call
himself a millionaire, but I believe he is nothing more nor less than a
desperate adventurer."

Gurdon nodded his assent. There must have been something very urgent to
compel Mark Fenwick to adopt such methods. Why was he so strangely
anxious to conceal the knowledge that he was receiving boxes of pure gold
in the hotel, and that he was sending out something of equal value?
However carefully the thing might have been planned the drugging of lift
attendants must have been attended with considerable risk. And the
slightest accident would have brought about a revelation. As it was,
everything seemed to have passed off smoothly, except for the chance by
which Gurdon had stumbled on the mystery.

"We can't leave the thing here," the latter said. "For once in my life I
am going to turn amateur detective. I have made up my mind to get into
Fenwick's suite of rooms and see what is going on there. Of course, the
thing will take time, and will have to be carefully planned. Do you think
it is possible for us to make use of your wife in this matter?"

"I don't think so," Venner said thoughtfully.

"In the first place, I don't much like the idea; and in the second, I
am entirely at a loss to know what mysterious hold Mark Fenwick has on
Vera. As I told you last night, she left me within a very short time of
our marriage, and until a few hours ago I had never looked upon her
again. Something terrible must have happened, or she would never have
deserted me in the way she did. I don't for a moment believe that Mark
Fenwick knew anything about our marriage, but on that point I cannot be
absolutely certain. You had better come back to me later in the day, and
I will see what I can do. It is just possible that good fortune may be
on my side."

The afternoon was dragging on, and still Venner was no nearer to a
practical scheme which would enable him to make an examination of
Fenwick's rooms without the chance of discovery. He was lounging in the
hall, smoking innumerable cigarettes, when Fenwick himself came down the
stairs. Obviously the man was going on a journey, for he was closely
muffled up in a big fur coat, and behind him came a servant, carrying two
bags and a railway rug. It was a little gloomy in the lobby, so Venner
was enabled to watch what was going on without being seen himself. He did
not fail to note a certain strained anxiety that rested on Fenwick's
face. The man looked behind him once or twice, as if half afraid of being
followed. Venner had seen that same furtive air in men who are wanted by
the police. Fenwick stopped at the office and handed a couple of keys to
the clerk. His instructions were quite audible to Venner.

"I shan't want those for a day or two," he said. "You will see that no
one has them under any pretext. Probably, I shall be back by Saturday at
the latest."

Venner did not scruple to follow Fenwick's disappearing figure as far as
the street. He was anxious to obtain a clue to Fenwick's destination.
Straining his ears, he just managed to catch the words "Charing Cross,"
and then returned to the hall, by no means dissatisfied. Obviously,
Fenwick was intending to cross the Channel for a day or two, and he had
said to the clerk that he would not be back before Saturday.

Here was something like a chance at last. Very slowly and thoughtfully,
Venner went up the stairs in the direction of his own room. He had
ascertained by this time that one part of Fenwick's suite was immediately
over his own bedroom. His idea now was to walk up to the next floor, and
make a close examination of the rooms there. It did not take him long to
discover the fact that Fenwick's suite was self contained, like a flat.
That is to say, a strong outer door once locked made communication with
the suite of rooms impossible. Venner was still pondering over his
problem when the master door opened, and Vera came out so hurriedly as
almost to fall into Venner's arms. She turned pale as she saw him; and as
she closed the big door hurriedly behind her, Venner could see that she
had in her hand the tiny Yale key which gave entrance to the suite of
rooms. The girl looked distressed and embarrassed, but not much more so
than Venner, who was feeling not a little guilty.

But all this was lost upon Vera; her own agitation and her own
unhappiness seemed to have blinded her to everything else.

"What are you doing here?" she stammered.

"Perhaps I am looking for you," Venner said. He had quite recovered
himself by this time. "I was in the lobby just now, when I saw that
scoundrel, Fenwick, go out. He is not coming back for a day or two, I
understand."

"No," Vera said with accents of evident relief. "He is gone, but I don't
know where he is gone. He never tells me."

Just for a moment Venner looked somewhat sternly at his companion. Here
was an opportunity for an explanation too good to be lost.

"There is a little alcove at the end of the corridor," he said. "I see it
is full of ferns and flowers. In fact, the very place for a confidence.
Vera, whether you like it or not, I am going to have an explanation."

The girl shrank back, and every vestige of color faded from her face.
Yet at the same time, the pleading, imploring eyes which she turned upon
her companion's face were filled with the deepest affection. Badly as he
had been treated, Venner could not doubt for a moment the sincerity of
the woman who had become his wife. But he did not fail to realise that
few men would have put up with conduct like this, however much in love
they might have been. Therefore, the hand that he laid on Vera's arm was
strong and firm, and she made no resistance as he led her in the
direction of the little alcove.

"Now," he said. "Are you going to tell me why you left me so mysteriously
on our wedding day? You merely went to change your dress, and you never
returned. Am I to understand that at the very last moment you learned
something that made it absolutely necessary for us to part? Do you really
mean that?"

"Indeed, I do, Gerald," the girl said. "There was a letter waiting for me
in my bedroom. It was a short letter, but long enough to wreck my
happiness for all time."

"No, no," Venner cried; "not for all time. You asked me to trust you
absolutely and implicitly, and I have done so. I believe every word that
you say, and I am prepared to wait patiently enough till the good time
comes. But I am not going to sit down quietly like this and see a pure
life like yours wrecked for the sake of such a scoundrel as Fenwick.
Surely it is not for his sake that you--"

"Oh, no," the girl cried. "My sacrifice is not for his sake at all, but
for that of another whose life is bound up with his in the strangest
possible way. When you first met me, Gerald, and asked me to be your
wife, you did not display the faintest curiosity as to my past history.
Why was that?"

"Why should I?" Venner demanded. "I am my own master, I have more money
than I know what to do with and I have practically no relations to
consider. You were all-sufficient for me; I loved you for your own sake
alone; I cared nothing, and I care nothing still for your past. What I
want to know is, how long this is going on?"

"That I cannot tell you," Vera said sadly. "You must go on trusting me,
dear. You must--"

The speaker broke off suddenly, as someone in the corridor called her
name. She slipped away from Venner's side, and, looking through the palms
and flowers, he could see that she was talking eagerly to a woman who had
the appearance of a lady's maid. Venner could not fail to note the calm
strength of the woman's face. It was only for a moment; then Vera came
back with a telegram in her hand.

"I must go at once," she said. "It is something of great importance. I
don't know when I shall see you again--"

"I do," Venner said grimly. "You are going to dine with me to-night.
Come just for once; let us imagine we are on our honeymoon. That
blackguard Fenwick is away, and he will be none the wiser. Now, I want
you to promise me."

"I really can't," Vera protested. "If you only knew the danger--"

However, Venner's persistency got its own way. A moment later Vera was
hurrying down the corridor. It was not until she was out of sight that
Venner found that she had gone away, leaving the little Yale key behind
her on the table. He thrilled at the sight of it. Here was the
opportunity for which he had been waiting.

Not more than ten minutes had elapsed when, thanks to the use of the
telephone, Gurdon had reached the Grand Empire Hotel. In a few hurried
words, Venner gave him a brief outline of what had happened. There was no
time to lose.

"Of course, it is a risk," Venner said, "and I am not altogether sure
that I am justified in taking advantage of this little slip on the part
of my wife. What do you think?"

"I think you are talking a lot of rot," Gurdon said emphatically. "You
love the girl, you believe implicitly in her, and you are desperately
anxious to get her out of the hands of that blackguard, Fenwick. From
some morbid idea of self sacrifice, your wife continues to lead this life
of misery rather than betray what she would probably call a trust. It
seems to me that you would be more than foolish to hesitate longer."

"Come along, then," Venner said. "Let's see what we can do."

The key was in the lock at length, and the big door thrown open,
disclosing a luxurious suite of rooms beyond. So far as the explorers
could see at present, they had the place entirely to themselves. No
doubt Fenwick's servants had taken advantage of his absence to make a
holiday. For the most part, the rooms presented nothing out of the
common; they might have been inhabited by anybody possessing large
means. In one of the rooms stood a desk, carefully locked, and by its
side a fireproof safe.

"No chance of getting into either of those," Gurdon said. "Besides, the
attempt would be too risky. Don't you notice a peculiar noise going on?
Sounds almost like machinery."

Surely enough, from a distant apartment there came a peculiar click and
rumble, followed by a whirr of wheels, as if someone was running out a
small motor close by. At the same time, the two friends noticed the
unmistakable odor of petrol on the atmosphere.

"What the dickens can that be?" Gurdon said. "Its most assuredly in the
flat, and not far off, either."

"The only way to find out is to go and see," Venner replied. "I fancy
this is the way."

They came at length to a small room at the end of a long corridor. It
was evidently from this room that the sound of machinery came, for the
nearer they came the louder it grew. The door was slightly ajar, and
looking in, the friends could see two men, evidently engaged on some
mechanical task. There was a fire of charcoal in the grate, and attached
to it a pair of small but powerful bellows, driven by a small motor. In
the heart of the fire was a metal crucible, so white and dazzling hot
that it was almost impossible for the eye to look upon it. Venner did not
fail to notice that the men engaged in this mysterious occupation were
masked; at least, they wore exceedingly large smoked spectacles, which
came to much the same thing. Behind them stood another man, who had every
appearance of being a master workman. He had a short pipe in his mouth, a
pair of slippers on his feet, and his somewhat expansive body was swathed
in a frock coat. Presently he made a sign, and with the aid of a long
pair of tongs, the white hot crucible was lifted from the fire. It was
impossible for the two men outside to see what became of it, but
evidently the foreman was satisfied with the experiment, for he gave a
grunt of approval.

"I think that will do," he muttered. "The impression is excellent.
Now, you fellows can take a rest whilst I go off and finish the other
lot of stuff."

"He's coming out," Venner whispered. "Let us make a bolt for it. It
won't do to be caught here."

They darted down the corridor together, and stood in an angle of a
doorway, a little undecided as to what to do next. The man in the frock
coat passed them, carrying under one arm a square case, that bore some
resemblance to the slide in which photographers slip their negatives
after taking a photograph. The man in the frock coat placed his burden on
a chair, and then, apparently, hurried back for something he had
forgotten.

"Here is our chance," Gurdon whispered. "Let's see what is in that case.
There may be an important clue here."

The thing was done rapidly and neatly. Inside the case, between layers of
cotton wool, lay a great number of gold coins, obviously sovereigns. They
appeared to be in a fine state of preservation, for they glistened in the
light like new gold.

"Put one in your pocket," whispered Venner.

"I'm afraid we are going to have our journey for our pains; but still,
you can't tell. Better take two while you are about it."

Gurdon slipped the coins into his pocket, then turned away in the
direction of the door as the man in the frock coat came back,
thoughtfully whistling, as if to give the intruders a chance of escape.
Before he appeared in sight the outer door closed softly, and Venner and
Gurdon were in the corridor once more.




CHAPTER VI

A PARTIAL FAILURE


"Do you notice anything peculiar about these coins?" Venner said, when
once more they were back in the comparative seclusion of the
smoking-room. "Have a good look at them."

Gurdon complied; he turned the coins over in his hand and weighed them on
his fingers. So far as he could see they were good, honest, British
coins, each well worth the twenty shillings which they were supposed to
represent.

"I don't see anything peculiar about them at all," he said. "So far as I
can judge, they appear to be genuine enough. At first I began to think
that our friend Fenwick had turned coiner. Look at this."

As he spoke Gurdon dashed the coin down upon a marble table. It rang true
and clear.

"I'd give a pound for it," he said. "The weight in itself is a good test.
No coiner yet has ever discovered a metal that will weigh like gold and
ring as true. The only strange thing about the coin is that it is in such
a wonderful state of preservation. It might have come out of the Mint
yesterday. I am afraid we shall have to abandon the idea of laying
Fenwick by the heels on the charge of making counterfeit money. I'll
swear this is genuine."

"I am of the same opinion, too," Venner said. "I have handled too much
gold in my time to be easily deceived. Still, there is something wrong
here, and I'll tell you why. Look at those two coins again, and tell me
the dates on them."

"That is very easily done. One is dated 1901 and the other is dated 1899.
I don't see that you gain anything by pointing out that fact to me. I
don't see what you are driving at."

"Well the thing is pretty clear. It would be less clear if those coins
had been worn by use and circulation. But they are both of them Mint
perfect, and they are of different dates. Do you suppose that our friend
Fenwick makes a hobby of collecting English sovereigns? Besides, the man
in the frock coat was going to do something with these coins; and, of
course, you noticed how carefully they were wrapped up in cotton wool."

"I should like to make assurance doubly sure," Gurdon said. "Let's
take these two coins to some silversmith's shop and ask if they are
all right."

It was no far journey to the nearest silversmiths, where the coins were
cut up, tested, and weighed. The assistant smiled as he handed the pieces
back to Venner.

"We will give you eighteen and sixpence each for them, sir," he said,
"which is about the intrinsic value of a sovereign; and, as you are
probably aware, sir, English gold coinage contains a certain amount of
alloy, without which it would speedily deteriorate in circulation, just
as the old guinea used to; but there is no doubt that I have just lost
you three shillings by cutting up those coins."

Venner smiled as he left the shop. As a matter of fact, he was a little
more puzzled now than he had been before. He had expected to find
something wrong with the two coins.

"We must suspend judgment for the present," he said. "Still, I feel
absolutely certain that there is some trick here, though what the
scheme is I am utterly at a loss to know. Will you come in this evening
after dinner and take your coffee and cigar with me? My wife is dining
with me, but it was an express stipulation that she should go directly
dinner is over."

At a little after seven Venner was impatiently waiting the coming of
Vera. He was not altogether sorry to notice that the dining-room was
filling up more rapidly than it had done for some days past. Perhaps, on
the whole, there would be safety in numbers. Venner had secured a little
table for two on the far side of the room, and he stood in the doorway
now, waiting somewhat restlessly and impatiently for Vera to appear. He
was not a little anxious and nervous in case something should happen at
the last moment to prevent his wife's appearance. As a rule, Venner was
not a man who was troubled much with nerves, though he became conscious
of the fact that he possessed them to-night.

Was ever a man so strangely placed as himself, he wondered? He marvelled,
too, that he could sit down so patiently without asserting his rights. He
was the possessor of ample means, and if money stood in the way he was
quite prepared to pay Fenwick his price.

On these somewhat painful meditations Vera intruded. She was simply
dressed in white, and had no ornaments beyond a few flowers. Her face was
flushed now, and there was in her eyes a look of something that
approached happiness.

"I am so glad you have come, dear," Venner said, as he pressed the girl's
hand. "I was terribly afraid that something might come in the way. If
there is any danger--"

"I don't think there is any danger," Vera whispered, "though there are
other eyes on me besides those of Mark Fenwick. But, all the same, I am
not supposed to know anybody in the hotel, and I come down to dinner as a
matter of course, I am glad the place is so crowded, Gerald, it will make
us less conspicuous. But it is just possible that I may have to go before
dinner is over. If that is so, I hope you will not be annoyed with me."

"You have given me cause for greater annoyance than that," Venner smiled.
"And I have borne it all uncomplainingly. And now let us forget the
unhappy past, and try and live for the present. We are on our honeymoon,
you understand. I wonder what people in this room would say if they heard
our amazing story."

"I have no doubt there are other stories just as sad here," Vera said, as
she took her place at the table. "But I am not going to allow myself to
be miserable to-night. We are going to forget everything; we are going to
believe that this is Fairyland, and that you are the Prince who--"

Despite her assumed gaiety there was just a little catch in Vera's voice.
If Venner noticed it he did not appear to do so. For the next hour or so
he meant resolutely to put the past out of his mind, and give himself
over to the ecstasy of the moment.... All too soon the dinner came to an
end, and Gurdon appeared.

"This is my wife," Venner said simply. "Dear, Mr. Gurdon is a very old
friend of mine, and I have practically no secrets from him. All the same,
he did not know till last night that I was married--until you came into
the room and my feelings got the better of me. But we can trust Gurdon."

"I think I am to be relied upon," Gurdon said with a smile. "You will
pardon me if I say that I never heard a stranger story than yours; and if
at any time I can be of assistance to you, I shall be sincerely happy to
do all that is in my power."

"You are very good," Vera said gratefully. "Who knows how soon I may
call upon you to fulfil your promise? But I am afraid that it will not be
quite yet."

They sat chatting there for some half an hour longer, when a waiter came
in, and advancing to their table proffered Vera a visiting card, on the
back of which a few words had been scribbled. The girl looked a little
anxious and distressed as her eyes ran over the writing on the card. Then
she rose hurriedly.

"I am afraid I shall have to go," she said. "I have been anticipating
this for some little time."

She turned to the waiter, and asked if her maid was outside, to which the
man responded that it was the maid who had brought the card, and that she
was waiting with her wraps in the corridor. Vera extended her hand to
Gurdon as she rose to go.

"I am exceedingly sorry," she said. "This has been a pleasant evening for
me: perhaps the most pleasant evening with one exception that I ever
spent in my life. Gerald will know what evening I mean."

As she finished she smiled tenderly at Venner. He had no words in reply.
Just at that moment he was filled with passionate and rebellious anger.
He dared not trust himself to speak, conscious as he was that Vera's
burden was already almost more than she could bear. She held out her hand
to him with an imploring little gesture, as if she understood exactly
what was passing in his mind.

"You will forgive me," she whispered. "I am sure you will forgive me. It
is nothing but duty which compels me to go. I would far rather stay here
and be happy."

Venner took the extended hand and pressed it tenderly. His yearning eyes
looked after the retreating figure; then, suddenly, he turned to Gurdon,
who affected to be busy over a cigar.

"I want you to do something for me," he said. "It is a strange fancy,
but I should like you to follow her. I suppose I am beginning to get
old and nervous; at any rate, I am full of silly fancies tonight. I am
possessed with the idea that my unhappy little girl is thrusting
herself into some danger. You can quite see how impossible it is for me
to dog her footsteps, but your case is different. Of course, if you
like to refuse--"

"I am not going to refuse," Gurdon said. "I can see nothing dishonorable.
I'll go at once, if you like."

Venner nodded curtly, and Gurdon rose from the table. He passed out into
the street just as the slim figure of Vera was descending the steps of
the hotel. He had no difficulty in recognising her outline, though she
was clad from head to foot now in a long, black wrap, and her fair hair
was disguised under a hood of the same material. Rather to Gurdon's
surprise, the girl had not called a cab. She was walking down the street
with a firm, determined step, as of one who knew exactly where she was
going, and meant to get there in as short a time as possible.

Gurdon followed cautiously at a distance. He was not altogether satisfied
in his own mind that his action was quite as straightforward as it might
have been. Still, he had given his promise, and he was not inclined to
back out of it now. For about a quarter of an hour he followed, until
Vera at length halted before a house somewhere in the neighborhood of
Grosvenor Square. It was a fine, large corner mansion, but so far as
Gurdon could see there was not a light in the place from parapet to
basement. He could see Vera going up the steps; he was close enough to
hear the sound of an electric bell; then a light blazed in the hall, and
the door was opened. So far as Gurdon could see, it was an old man who
opened the door; an old man with a long, grey beard, and a face lined and
scored with the ravages of time. All this happened in an instant. The
door was closed again, and the whole house left in darkness.

Gurdon paused, a little uncertain as to what to do next. He would have
liked, if possible, to be a little closer to Vera, for if there were any
dangers threatening her he would be just as powerless to help now as if
he had been in another part of the town. He walked slowly down the side
of the house, and noted that there was a line garden behind, and a small
green door leading to the lane. Acting on the impulse of the moment he
tried the door, which yielded to his touch. If he had been asked why he
did this thing he would have found it exceedingly difficult to reply.
Still, the thing was done, and Gurdon walked forward over the wide
expanse of lawn till he could make out at length a row of windows,
looking out from the back of the house. It was not so very easy to
discern all this, for the night was dark, and the back of the house
darker still. Presently a light flared out in one of the rooms, and then
Gurdon could make out the dome of a large conservatory leading from the
garden to the house.

"I shall find myself in the hands of the police, if I don't take care,"
Gurdon said to himself. "What an ass I am to embark on an adventure like
this. It isn't as if I had the slightest chance of being of any use to
the girl, seeing that I--"

He broke off, suddenly conscious of the fact that another of the rooms
was lighted now--a large one, by the side of the conservatory. In the
silence of the garden it seemed to him that he could hear voices raised
angrily, and then a cry, as if of pain, from somebody inside.

Fairly interested at last, Gurdon advanced till he was close to the
window. He could hear no more now, for the same tense silence had
fallen over the place once more. Gurdon pressed close to the window; he
felt something yield beneath his feet, and the next moment he had
plunged headlong into the darkness of something that suggested an
underground cellar. Perhaps he had been standing unconsciously on a
grating that was none too safe, for now he felt himself bruised and half
stunned, lying on his back on a cold, hard floor, amid a mass of broken
glass and rusty ironwork.

Startled and surprised as he was, the noise of the breaking glass sounded
in Gurdon's ears like the din of some earthquake. He struggled to his
feet, hoping that the gods would be kind to him, and that he could get
away before his presence there was discovered. He was still dazed and
confused; his head ached painfully, and he groped in the pitch darkness
without any prospect of escape. He could nowhere find an avenue. So far
as he could judge, he was absolutely caught like a rat in a trap.

He half smiled to himself; he was still too dazed to grasp the
significance of his position, when a light suddenly appeared overhead, at
the top of a flight of stairs, and a hoarse voice demanded to know who
was there. In the same dreamy kind of way, Gurdon was just conscious of
the fact that a strong pair of arms lifted him from the floor, and that
he was being carried up the steps. In the same dreamy fashion, he was
cognisant of light and warmth, a luxurious atmosphere, and rows upon
rows of beautiful flowers everywhere. He would, no doubt, awake
presently, and find that the whole thing was a dream. Meanwhile, there
was nothing visionary about the glass of brandy which somebody had put to
his lips, or about the hands which were brushing him down and removing
all traces of his recent adventure.

"When you feel quite up to it, sir," a quiet, respectful voice said, "my
master would like to see you. He is naturally curious enough to know what
you were doing in the garden."

"I am afraid your master must have his own way," Gurdon said grimly. "I
am feeling pretty well now, thanks to the brandy. If you will take me to
your master, I will try to explain matters."

The servant led the way into a large, handsome apartment, where a man in
evening dress was seated in a big armchair before the fire. He looked
round with a peculiar smile as Gurdon came in.

"Well, sir," he said. "And what does this mean?"

Gurdon had no voice to reply, for the man in the armchair was the
handsome cripple--the hero of the forefinger.




CHAPTER VII

THE WHITE LADY


Gurdon looked hopelessly about him, utterly at a loss for anything to
say. The whole thing had been so unexpected, so very opposite to the
commonplace ending he had anticipated, that he was too dazed and
confused to do anything but smile in an inane and foolish manner. He had
rather looked forward to seeing some eccentric individual, some elderly
recluse who lived there with a servant or two. And here he was, face to
face with the man who, at the present moment, was to him the most
interesting in London.

"You can take your time," the cripple said. "I am anxious for you to
believe that I am not in the least hurry. The point of the problem is
this: a well dressed man, evidently a gentleman, is discovered at a late
hour in the evening in my cellar. As the gentleman in question is
obviously sober, one naturally feels a little curiosity as to what it
all means."

The speaker spoke quite slowly and clearly, and with a sarcastic emphasis
that caused Gurdon to writhe impotently. Every word and gesture on the
part of the cripple spoke of a strong mind and a clear intellect in that
twisted body. Despite the playful acidity of his words, there was a
distinct threat underlying them. It occurred to Gurdon as he stood there
that he would much rather have this man for a friend than a foe.

"Perhaps you had better take a seat," the cripple said. "There is plenty
of time, and I don't mind confessing to you that this little comedy
amuses me. Heaven knows, I have little enough amusement in my dreary
life; and, therefore, in a measure, you have earned my gratitude. But
there is another side to the picture. I have enemies who are utterly
unscrupulous. I have to be unscrupulous in my turn, so that when I have
the opportunity of laying one of them by the heels, my methods are apt to
be thorough. Did you come here alone to-night, or have you an
accomplice?"

"Assuredly, I came alone," Gurdon replied.

"Oh, indeed. You found your way into the garden. To argue out the thing
logically, we will take it for granted that you had no intention whatever
of paying a visit to my garden when you left home. If such had been your
intention, you would not be wearing evening dress, and thin, patent
leather shoes. Your visit to the garden was either a resolution taken on
the spur of the moment, or was determined upon after a certain discovery.
I am glad to hear that you came here entirely by yourself."

There was an unmistakable threat in these latter words; and as Gurdon
looked up he saw that the cripple was regarding him with an intense
malignity. The grey eyes were cold and merciless, the handsome face hard
and set, and yet it was not a countenance which one usually associates
with the madman or the criminal. Really, it was a very noble face--the
face of a philanthropist, a poet, a great statesman, who devotes his
money and his talents to the interests of his country. Despite a feeling
of danger, Gurdon could not help making a mental note of these things.

"Won't you sit down?" the cripple asked again. "I should like to have a
little chat with you. Here are whisky and soda, and some cigars, for the
excellence of which I can vouch, as I import them myself. Perhaps, also,
you share with me a love of flowers?"

With a wave of his strong arm, the speaker indicated the wealth of
blossoms which arose from all sides of the room. There were flowers
everywhere. The luxuriant blooms seemed to overpower and dwarf the
handsome furnishings of the room. At the far end, folding doors
opened into the conservatory, which was a veritable mass of brilliant
colors. The cripple smiled upon his blossoms, as a mother might smile
on her child.

"These are the only friends who never deceive you," he said. "Flowers and
dogs, and, perhaps, little children. I know this, because I have
suffered from contact with the world, as, perhaps, you will notice when
you regard this poor body of mine. I think you said just now you came
here entirely by yourself."

"That is a fact," Gurdon replied. He was beginning to feel a little more
at his ease now. "Let me hasten to assure you that I came here with no
felonious intent at all. I was looking for somebody, and I thought that
my friend came here. You will pardon me if I do not explain with any
amount of detail, because the thing does not concern myself altogether.
And, besides--"

Gurdon paused; he could not possibly tell this stranger of the startling
events which had led to his present awkward situation. In any case, he
would not have been believed.

"We need not go into that," the cripple said. "It is all by the way. You
came here alone; and, I take it, when you left your home, you had not the
slightest intention of coming here. To make my meaning a little more
clear, if you disappeared from this moment, and your friends never saw
you again, the police would not have the slightest clue to your
whereabouts."

Gurdon laughed just a little uneasily; he began to entertain the idea
that he was face to face with some dangerous lunatic, some man whose
dreadful troubles and misfortunes had turned him against the world.
Evidently, it would be the right policy to humor him.

"That is quite correct," he said. "Nobody has the least idea where I am;
and if the unpleasant contingency you allude to happened to me, I should
go down to posterity as one of the victims of the mysterious type of
crime that startles London now and again."

"I should think," said the stranger, in a thin, dry tone, that caused
Gurdon's pulses to beat a little faster--"I should think that your
prophecy is in a fair way to turn out correct. I don't ask you why you
came here, because you would not tell me if I did. But you must have been
spying on the place, or you would not have had the misfortune to tread on
a damaged grating, and finish your adventure ignominiously in the cellar.
As I told you just now, I have enemies who are absolutely unscrupulous,
and who would give much for a chance of murdering me if the thing could
be done with impunity. Common sense prompts me to take it for granted
that you are in some wry connected with the foes to whom I have alluded."

"I assure you, I am not," Gurdon protested. "I am the enemy of no man. I
came here to night--"

Gurdon stopped in some confusion. How could he possibly tell this man why
he had come and what he had in his mind? The thing was awkward--almost to
the verge of absurdity.

"I quite see the quandary you are in," said the cripple, with a smile.
"Now, let me ask you a question. Do you happen to know a man by the name
of Mark Fenwick?"

The query was so straight and to the point that Gurdon fairly started.
More and more did he begin to appreciate the subtlety and cleverness of
his companion. It was impossible to fence the interrogation; it had to be
answered, one way or the other.

"I know the man by sight," he said; "but I beg to assure you that until
last night I had never seen him."

"That may be," the cripple said drily. "But you know him now, and that
satisfies me. Now, listen. You see what I have in my hand. Perhaps you
are acquainted with weapons of this kind?"

So saying, the speaker wriggled in his chair, and produced from somewhere
behind him a small revolver. Despite its silver plated barrel and ivory
handle, it was a sinister looking weapon, and capable of deadly mischief
in the hands of an expert. Though no judge of such matters, it occurred
to Gurdon that his companion handled the revolver as an expert should.

"I have been used to this kind of thing from a boy," the cripple said. "I
could shoot you where you sit within a hair's breadth of where I wanted
to hit you."

"Which would be murder," Gurdon said quietly.

"Perhaps it would, in the eyes of the law; but there are times when one
is tempted to defy the mandates of a wise legislature. For instance, I
have told you more than once before that I have enemies, and everything
points to the fact that you are the tool and accomplice of some of them.
I have about me one or two faithful people, who would do anything I ask.
If I shoot you now the report of a weapon like this will hardly be
audible beyond the door. You lie there, dead, shot clean through the
brain. I ring my bell and tell my servants to clear this mess away. I
give them orders to go and bury it quietly somewhere, and they would obey
me without the slightest hesitation. Nothing more would be said. I should
be as safe from molestation as if the whole thing had happened on a
desert island. I hope I have succeeded in making the position clear,
because I should be loth to think that a little incident like this should
cause inconvenience to one who might after all have been absolutely
innocent."

The words were spoken quietly, and without the slightest trace of
passion. Still, there was no mistaking the malignity and intense fury
which underlay the well chosen and well balanced sentences.

Gurdon was silent; there was nothing for him to say. He was in a position
in which he could not possibly explain; he could only sit there, looking
into the barrel of the deadly weapon, and praying for some diversion
which might be the means of saving his life. It came presently in a
strange and totally unexpected fashion. Upon the tense, nerve-breaking
silence, a voice suddenly intruded like a flash of light in a dark place.
It was a sweet and girlish voice, singing some simple ballad, with a
natural pathos which rendered the song singularly touching and
attractive. As the voice came nearer the cripple's expression changed
entirely; his hard eyes grew soft, and the handsome features were
wreathed in a smile. Then the door opened, and the singer came in.

Gurdon looked at her, though she seemed unconscious of his presence
altogether. He saw a slight, fair girl, dressed entirely in white, with
her long hair streaming over her shoulders. The face was very sad and
wistful, the blue eyes clouded with some suggestion of trouble and
despair. Gurdon did not need a second glance to assure him that he was in
the presence of one who was mentally afflicted. She came forward and took
her place by the side of the cripple.

"They told me that you are busy," she said, "Just as if it mattered
whether you were busy or not, when I wanted to see you."

"You must go away now, Beth," the cripple said, in his softest and most
tender manner. "Don't you see that I am talking with this gentleman?"

The girl turned eagerly to Gurdon; she crossed the room with a swift,
elastic step, and laid her two hands on him.

"I know what you have come for," she said, eagerly. "You have come to
tell me all about Charles. You have found him at last; you are going to
bring him back to me. They told me he was dead, that he had perished in
the mine; but I knew better than that. I know that Charles will come back
to me again."

"What mine?" Gurdon asked.

"Why, the Four Finger Mine, of course," was the totally unexpected
reply. "They said that Charles had lost his life in the Four Finger
Mine. It was in a kind of dream that I saw his body lying there,
murdered. But I shall wake from the dream presently, and he will come
back to me, come back in the evening, as he always used to when the sun
was setting beyond the pines."

There was something so utterly sad and hopeless in this that Gurdon
averted his eyes from the girl's face. He glanced in the direction of the
door; then it required all his self control to repress a cry, for in the
comparative gloom of the passage beyond, he could just make out the
figure of Vera, who stood there with her finger on her lip as if imposing
silence. He could see that in her hand she held something that looked
like a chisel. A moment later she flitted away once more, leaving Gurdon
to puzzle his brain as to what it all meant.

"I am sorry for all this," the cripple said. "You have entirely by
accident come face to face with a phase in my life which is sacred and
inviolate. Really, if I had no other reason for reducing you to silence,
this would be a sufficiently powerful inducement. My dear Beth, I really
must ask you--"

Whatever the cripple might have intended to say, the speech was never
finished; for, at that moment, the electric lights vanished suddenly,
plunging the whole house into absolute darkness. A moment later,
footsteps came hurrying along in the hall, and a voice was heard to say
that the fuse from the meter had gone, and it would be impossible to turn
on the light again until the officials had been called in to repair the
damage. At the same moment, Gurdon rose to his feet and crept quietly in
the direction of the door. Here, at any rate, was a chance of escape, for
that his life was in dire peril he had felt for some little time. He had
hardly reached the doorway when he felt a slim hand touch his, and he was
guided from the room into the passage beyond. He could give a pretty fair
idea as to the owner of the slim fingers that trembled in his own, but he
made no remark; he allowed himself to be led on till his feet stumbled
against the stairs.

"This way," a voice whispered. "Say nothing, and make no protest. You
will be quite safe from further harm."

Gurdon did exactly as he was told. He found himself presently at the top
of a staircase, and a little later on in a room, the door of which was
closed very quietly by his guide.

"I think I can guess who I have to thank for this," Gurdon murmured. "But
why did you not take me to the front door, or the back entrance leading
to the garden? It was lucky for me that the lights failed at the critical
moment--a piece of nominal good fortune, such as usually only happens in
a story. But I should feel a great deal safer if I were on the other side
of the front door."

"That is quite impossible," Vera said, for it was she who had come to
Gurdon's rescue. "Both doors are locked, and all the rooms on the
ground floor are furnished with shutters. As to the light going out, I
am responsible for it. I learned all about the electric light when I
lived in a mining camp in Mexico. I had only to remove one of the lamps
and apply my chisel to the two poles, and thereby put out every fuse in
the house. That is why the light failed, for it occurred to me that in
the confusion that followed the darkness, I should be in a position to
save you. But you little realise how near you have been to death
to-night. And, why, oh, why did you follow me in this way? It was very
wrong of you."

"It was Venner's idea," Gurdon said. "He had a strange fear that you were
going into some danger. He asked me to follow you, and I did so. As to
the manner of my getting here--"

"I know all about that," Vera said hurriedly. "I have been listening to
your conversation. I dare say you are curious to know something more
about this strange household; but, for the present, you will be far
better employed in getting away from it. I shall not be easy in my mind
till you are once more in the street."




CHAPTER VIII

MISSING


Gurdon waited to hear what his companion was going to say now. He had
made up his mind to place himself implicitly in her hands, and let her
decide for the best. Evidently, he had found himself in a kind of lunatic
asylum, where one inhabitant at least had developed a dangerous form of
homicidal mania, and he had a pretty sure conclusion that Vera had saved
his life. It was no time now to ask questions; that would come later on.

"I am sure I am awfully grateful to you," Gurdon said. "Who are these
people, and why do they behave in this insane fashion? This is not
exactly the kind of menage one expects to find in one of the best
appointed mansions in the West End."

"I can tell you nothing about it," Vera said. There was a marked coldness
in her voice that told Gurdon he was going too far. "I can tell you
nothing. One thing you may rest assured of--I am in no kind of danger,
nor am I likely to be. My concern chiefly at the present moment is with
you. I want you to get back as soon as you can to the Great Empire Hotel,
and ease Gerald's mind as to myself."

"I hardly like to go, without you," Gurdon murmured.

"But you must," Vera protested. "Let me assure you once more that I am as
absolutely safe here as if I were in my own room. Now, come this way. I
dare not strike a light. I can only take you by the hand and lead you to
the top of the house. Every inch of the place is perfectly familiar to
me, and you are not likely to come to the least harm. Please don't waste
a moment more of your time."

Gurdon yielded against his better judgment. A moment or two later, he
found himself climbing through a skylight on to the flat leads at the
top of the house. By the light of the town he could now see what he
was doing, and pretty well where he was. From the leads he could look
down into the garden, though, as yet, he could not discern any avenue
of escape.

"The thing is quite easy," Vera explained. "The late occupant of the
house had a nervous dread of fire, and from every floor he had a series
of rope ladders arranged. See, there is one fixed to this chimney. I have
only to throw it over, and you can reach the garden without delay; then I
will pull the ladder up again and no one will be any the wiser. Please,
leave me without any further delay, in the absolute assurance that I
shall be back again within an hour."

A few minutes later Gurdon was in the street again, making his way back
to the hotel where Venner was waiting for him.

It was a strange story that he had to tell; a very thrilling and
interesting adventure, but one which, after all, still further
complicated the mystery and rendered it almost unintelligible.

"And you mean to say that you have been actually face to face with our
cripple friend?" Venner said. "You mean to say that he would actually
have murdered you if Vera had not interfered in that providential manner?
I suppose I must accept your assurance that she is absolutely safe,
though I can't help feeling that she has exaggerated her own position. I
am terribly anxious about her. I have an idea which I should like to
carry out. I feel tolerably sure that this picturesque cripple of ours
could tell us everything that we want to know. Besides, unless I do
something I shall go mad. What do you say to paying the interesting
cripple a visit to-morrow night, and forcing him to tell us everything?"

Gurdon shook his head; he was not particularly impressed with the
suggestion that Venner had made.

"Of course, we could get into the house easily enough," he said. "Now
that I have learned the secret of the cellar, there will be no
difficulty about that. Still, don't you think it seems rather ridiculous
to try this sort of thing when your wife is in a position to tell you
the whole thing?"

"But she would decline to do anything of the kind," Venner protested.
"She has told me that her lips are sealed; she has even no explanation to
offer for the way in which she left me within half-an-hour of our
becoming man and wife. I should almost be justified in forcing her to
speak; but, you see, I cannot do that. Therefore, I must treat her in a
way as if she were one of our enemies. I have a very strong fancy for
paying a visit to our cripple friend, and, if the worst came to the
worst, we could convince him that we are emphatically not on the side of
Mark Fenwick. At any rate, I mean to have a try, and if you don't like to
come in--"

"Oh, I'll come in fast enough," Gurdon said. "You had better meet me
to-morrow night at my rooms, say, about eleven; then, we will see what we
can do with a view to a solution of the mystery."

At the appointed time, Venner duly put in an appearance. He was clothed
in a dark suit and cap, Gurdon donning a similar costume. Under his arm
Venner had a small brown paper parcel.

"What have you got there?" Gurdon asked.

"A pair of tennis shoes," was the response. "And if you take my advice,
you should have a pair, too. My idea is to take off our boots directly we
get into the seclusion of the garden and change into these shoes. Now
come along, let's get it over."

It was an easy matter to reach the garden without being observed, and in
a very short time the two friends were standing close to the windows of
the large room at the back of the house. There was not so much as a
glimmer of light to be seen anywhere within. Very cautiously they felt
their way along until they came at length to the grating through which
Gurdon had made so dramatic an entrance on the night before. He took
from his pocket a box of vestas, and ventured to strike one. He held it
down close to the ground, shading the tiny point of flame in the hollow
of his hand.

"Here is a bit of luck to begin with," he chuckled. "They haven't
fastened this grating up again. I suppose my escape last night must have
upset them. At any rate, here is a way into the house without running the
risk of being arrested on a charge of burglary, and if the police did
catch us we should find it an exceedingly awkward matter to frame an
excuse carefully, to satisfy a magistrate."

"That seems all right," Venner said. "When we get into the cellar it's
any odds that we find the door of the stairs locked. I don't suppose the
grating has been forgotten. You see, it is not such an easy matter to get
the British workman to do a job on the spur of the moment."

"Well, come along; we will soon ascertain that," Gurdon said. "Once down
these steps, we shall be able to use our matches."

They crept cautiously down the stairs into the damp and moldy cellar;
thence, up the steps on the other side, where Gurdon lighted one of his
matches. The door was closed, but it yielded quite easily to the touch,
and at length the two men were in the part of the house which was given
over to the use of the servants. So far as they could judge the place was
absolutely deserted. Doubtless the domestic staff had retired to bed. All
the same, it seemed strange to find no signs of life in the kitchen. The
stove was cold, and though the grate was full of cinders, it was quite
apparent that no fire had been lighted there for the past four and twenty
hours. Again, there was no furniture in the kitchen other than a large
table and a couple of chairs. The dressers were empty, and the shelves
deprived of their usual burden.

"This is odd," Venner murmured. "Perhaps we shall have better luck on the
dining-room floor. I suppose we had better not turn on the lights!"

"That would be too risky," Gurdon said. "However, I have plenty of
matches, which will serve our purpose equally well."

On cautiously reaching the hall a further surprise awaited the intruders.
There was absolutely nothing there--not so much as an umbrella stand. The
marble floor was swept bare of everything, the big dining-room which the
night before had been most luxuriously furnished, was now stripped and
empty; not so much as a flower remained; and the conservatory beyond
showed nothing but wooden staging and glittering glass behind that. A
close examination of the whole house disclosed the fact that it was
absolutely empty.

"If I did not know you as well as I do," Venner said grimly, "I should
say that you had been drinking. Do you mean to tell me that you sat in
this dining-room last night, and that it was furnished in the luxurious
way you described? Do you mean to tell me that you sat here, opposite
our cripple friend, waiting for him to shoot you? Are you perfectly
certain that we have made our way into the right house? You have no
doubt on that score?"

"Of course, I haven't," Gurdon said, a little hotly. "Would there be two
houses close together, both of them with a broken grating over the
cellar? I tell you this is the same house right enough. It was just in
this particular spot I was seated when the lights went out, and your
wife's fertility of resource saved my life. It may be possible that the
electric fuses have not yet been repaired. At any rate, I'll see."

Gurdon laid his hand upon the switch and snapped it down. No light came;
the solitary illuminating point in the room was afforded by the match
which Venner held in his hand.

"There," Gurdon said, with a sort of gloomy triumph. "Doesn't that
prove it? I suppose that our cripple took alarm and has cleared out of
the house."

"That's all very well, but it is almost impossible to remove the
furniture of a great place like this in the course of a day."

"My dear chap, I don't think it has been removed in the course of a
day. Didn't you notice just now what a tremendous lot of dust we
stirred up as we were going over the house? My theory is this--only
three or four of the rooms were furnished, and the rest of the house
was closed. When I made my escape last night, the cripple must have
taken alarm and gone away from here as speedily as possible. What
renders the whole thing more inexplicable is the fact that your wife
could explain everything if she pleased. But after a check-mate like
this, I don't see the slightest reason for staying here any longer. The
best thing we can do is to get back to my rooms and discuss the matter
over a whiskey and soda and cigar. But, talking about cigars, will you
have the goodness to look at this?"

From the empty grate Gurdon picked up a half smoked cigar of a somewhat
peculiar make and shape.

"I want you to notice this little bit of evidence," he said. "This is the
very cigar that the cripple gave me last night. I can't say that I
altogether enjoyed smoking it, but it was my tip to humor him. I smoked
that much. When the white lady came in I naturally threw the end of the
cigar into the fireplace. In the face of this, I don't think you will
accuse me of dreaming."

More than one cigar was consumed before Venner left his friend's rooms,
but even the inspiration of tobacco failed to elucidate a solitary point
at issue. What had become of the cripple, and where had he vanished so
mysteriously? Gurdon was still debating this point over a late breakfast
the following morning, when Venner came in. His face was flushed and his
manner was excited. He carried a copy of an early edition of an evening
paper in his hand--the edition which is usually issued by most papers a
little after noon.

"I think I've discovered something," he said. "It was quite by accident,
but you will not fail to be interested in something that appears in the
_Comet_. It alludes to the disappearance of a gentleman called Bates, who
seems to have vanished from his house in Portsmouth Square. You know the
name of the Square, of course?"

Gurdon pushed his coffee cup away from him, and lighted a cigarette. He
felt that something of importance was coming.

"I suppose I ought to know the name of the square," he said grimly.
"Seeing that I nearly lost my life in a house there the night before
last. But please go on. I see you have something to tell me that is well
worth hearing."

"That's right," Venner said. "Most of it is in this paper. It appears
that the aforesaid Mr. Bates is a gentleman of retiring disposition, and
somewhat eccentric habits. As far as one can gather, he has no friends,
but lives quietly in Portsmouth Square, his wants being ministered to by
a body of servants who have been in his employ for years. Of necessity,
Mr. Bates is a man of wealth, or he could not possibly live in a house
the rent of which cannot be less than five or six hundred a year. As a
rule, Mr. Bates rarely leaves his house, but last night he seems to have
gone out unattended, and since then, he has not been seen."

"Stop a moment," Gurdon exclaimed eagerly. "I am beginning to see
daylight at last. What was the number of the house where this Bates
lived? I mean the number of the square."

Venner turned to his paper, and ran his eye down the printed column. Then
he smiled as he spoke.

"The number of the house," he said, "is 75."

"I knew it," Gurdon said excitedly. "I felt pretty certain of it. The man
who has disappeared lived at No. 75, and the place where we had our
adventure, or rather, I had my adventure, is No. 74. Now, tell me, who
was it who informed the police of the disappearance of Mr. Bates? Some
servant, I suppose?"

"Of course; and the servant goes on to suggest that Mr. Bates had
mysterious enemies, who caused him considerable trouble from time to
time. But now I come to the interesting part of my story. At the foot of
the narrative which is contained in the _Comet_, that I hold in my hand,
is a full description of Mr. Bates."

"Go on," Gurdon said breathlessly. "I should be little less than an idiot
if I did not know what was coming."

"I thought you would guess," Venner said. "A name like Bates implies
middle age and respectability. But this Bates is described as being young
and exceedingly good looking. Moreover, he is afflicted with a kind of
paralysis, which renders his movements slow and uncertain. And now you
know all about it. There is not the slightest doubt that this missing
Bates is no other than our interesting friend, the good-looking cripple.
The only point which leaves us in doubt is the fact that Mr. Bates is a
respectable householder, living at 75, Portsmouth Square, while the man
who tried to murder you entertained you at No. 74, which house, now, is
absolutely empty. We need not discuss that puzzle at the present moment,
because there are more important things to occupy our attention. There
can be no doubt that this man who calls himself Bates has been kidnapped
by somebody. You will not have much difficulty in guessing the name of
the culprit."

"I guess it at once," Gurdon said. "If I mention the name of Mark
Fenwick, I think I have said the last word."




CHAPTER IX

A NEW PHASE


There was not the slightest doubt that Gurdon had hit the mark. As far as
they could see at present, the man most likely to benefit by the death or
disappearance of the cripple was Mark Fenwick. Still, it was impossible
to dismiss the thing in this casual way, nor could it be forgotten that
the cripple had actually been present at the Grand Empire Hotel on the
night when the alleged millionaire received his message by means of the
mummified finger. Therefore, logically speaking, it was only fair to
infer that on the night in question Fenwick had not been acquainted with
the personality of the cripple. Otherwise, the latter would have scarcely
ventured to show himself in a place where his experiment had been brought
to a conclusion.

On the other hand, it was just possible that Fenwick had been looking for
the cripple for some time past. But all this was more or less in the air,
though there was a great deal to be said for the conclusion at which the
two friends had arrived.

"I work it out like this," Venner said, after a long, thoughtful pause.
"You know all about the Four Finger Mine; you know exactly what happened
to the Dutchman Van Fort after the murder of Le Fenu. It will be fresh in
your recollection how, by some mysterious agency, the fingers of the
Dutchman were conveyed to his wife, though he himself was never seen
again. It is quite fair to infer that Fenwick has contrived to get hold
of the same mine, though that dangerous property does not seem to have
harmed him as much as it did the other thief. Still, we know that he has
lost all the fingers of his left hand, and we have evidence of the fact
that the vengeance has been worked out in the same mysterious fashion as
it was worked out on the Dutchman. We know, too, who is at the bottom of
the plot, we know that the cripple could tell us all about it if he
liked. Obviously, this same cripple is a deadly enemy of Fenwick's. And,
no doubt, Fenwick has found out where to lay his hands upon his man quite
recently. Fenwick is a clever man, he is bold and unscrupulous, and
without question he set to work at once to get the better of the cripple.
Of course, this may be nothing but a wrong theory of mine, and it may
lead us astray, but it is all I can see to work upon at present."

"I don't think you are very far wrong," Gurdon said, "but I am still
puzzled about the house in Portsmouth Square."

"Which house do you mean?" Venner asked.

"The one in which my adventure took place. The house from which the
furniture vanished so mysteriously."

"That seems to me capable of an easy explanation," Venner replied. "There
is no doubt that the man called Bates and the cripple are one and the
same person. You must admit that."

"Yes, I admit that freely enough. Go on."

"Well, this Bates, as we will call him, has a large establishment at 75,
Portsmouth Square. The house next door was empty, possibly it belonged to
Mr. Bates. He had a whim for furnishing a room or two in an empty house,
or perhaps there was some more sinister purpose behind it. Anyway, after
you had blundered on the place and had taken your life in your hands, it
became necessary for the man to disappear from No. 74. Therefore, he had
that furniture removed at once. I daresay if we investigated the house
carefully we should find that there was some means of communication
between the two; at least, that is the only explanation I can think of."

"You've got it," Gurdon cried. "I'll wager any money, you are right. But
I am sorry the man has vanished in this mysterious way, because it checks
our investigations at the very outset. The last thing you wanted in this
matter was police interference. Now the whole thing has got into the
papers, and the public are sure to take the matter up. It is the very
class of mystery that the cheap press loves to dwell upon. It has all
the attributes of the _cause celebre_. Here is a handsome man,
picturesque looking, a cripple into the bargain, a man leading an
absolutely secluded life, and the very last person in the world one would
expect to have enemies. He is very rich, too, and lives in one of the
finest houses in the West End of London. He disappears in the most
mysterious manner. Unless I am greatly mistaken, within the next two or
three days London will be disclosing this matter and the newspapers will
be full of it."

"I am afraid you are right," Venner admitted; "but I don't see how we are
going to gain any thing by telling the police what we have found out. As
you know, I investigated this matter solely in the interests of the woman
I love, and with the one intention of freeing her life from the cloud
that hangs over it. In any other circumstances I would go direct to
Scotland Yard and tell them everything we know. But not now. I think you
will agree with me that we should go our own way and say nothing to
anybody about our discovery."

The events of the next day or so fully verified the fears of the two
friends. The Bates case appealed powerfully to the large section of the
public who delight in crimes of the mysterious order. Within a couple of
days most of the papers were devoting much space to the problem. It so
happened, too, that the week was an exceedingly barren one from a news
point of view; therefore, the Bates case had the place of honor. There
was absolutely no fresh information, not a single line that pointed to a
definite solution of the problem. Indeed, the ingenious way in which most
of the papers contrived to fill some three columns a day was beyond all
praise. But both Gurdon and Venner searched in vain for a scrap of
information that threw any light on the identity of the missing man. His
habits were described at some length, a tolerably accurate description of
his household appeared in several quarters; but nothing very much beyond
that. The missing man's servants were exceedingly reticent, and if they
knew anything whatever about their master they had preferred to confide
it to the police in preference to the inquisitive reporter. Not a single
relative turned up, though it was generally understood that the missing
man was possessed of considerable property.

It was on the third day that Venner began to see daylight. One of the
evening papers had come out with a startling letter which seemed to point
to a clue, though it conveyed nothing to the police. Venner came round to
Gurdon's rooms with a copy of the evening paper in his hand. He laid it
before his friend and asked him to read the letter, which, though it
contained but a few lines, was of absorbing interest to both of them.

"You see what this man says?" Venner remarked. "He appears to be a
workingman who got himself into trouble over a drinking bout. Two days
ago he was charged before the magistrate with being drunk and disorderly,
and was sentenced to a fine of forty shillings or fourteen days'
imprisonment. According to his story, the money was not forthcoming,
therefore he was taken to gaol. At the end of two days his friends
contrived to obtain the necessary cash and he was released. He writes all
this to show how it was that he was entirely ignorant of the startling
events which had taken place in the Bates case. This man goes on to say
that on the night when Mr. Bates disappeared he was passing Portsmouth
Square on his way home from some public-house festivities. He was none
too sober, and has a hazy recollection of what he saw. He recollects
quite clearly, now that he has time to think the matter over, seeing a
cab standing at the corner of the Square within three doors of No. 75. At
the same time, a telegraph boy called at No. 75 with a message. It was at
this point that the narrator of the story stopped to light his pipe. It
was rather a windy evening, so that he used several matches in the
process. Anyway, he stood there long enough to see the telegraph boy
deliver his message to a gentleman who appeared to have great difficulty
in getting to the door. No sooner had the telegraph boy gone than the
gentleman crept slowly and painfully down the steps and walked in the
direction of the cab. Then somebody stepped from the cab and accosted the
cripple, who, beyond all question, was the mysterious Bates. The writer
of the letter says that he heard a sort of cry, then someone called out
something in a language that he was unable to understand. He rather
thinks it was Portuguese, because among his fellow workmen is a
Portuguese artisan, and the language sounded something like his."

"We are getting on," Gurdon said. "That little touch about the Portuguese
language clearly points to Fenwick."

"Of course, it does," Venner went on. "But that is not quite all. The
letter goes on to say that something like a struggle took place, after
which the cripple was bundled into the cab, which was driven away. It was
a four-wheeled cab, and the peculiarity about it was that it had india
rubber tires, which is a most unusual thing for the typical growler. The
author of all this information says that the struggle appeared to be of
no very desperate nature, for it was followed by nothing in the way of a
call for help. Indeed, the workman who is telling all this seemed to
think that it was more or less in the way of what he calls a spree. He
said nothing whatever to the police about it, fearing perhaps that he
himself was in no fit state to tell a story; and, besides, there was just
the possibility that he might find himself figuring before a magistrate
the next morning. That is the whole of the letter, Gurdon, which though
it conveys very little to the authorities, is full of pregnant
information for ourselves. At any rate, it tells us quite clearly that
Fenwick was at the bottom of this outrage."

"Quite right," Gurdon said. "The little touch about the Portuguese
language proves that. Is there anything else in the letter likely to be
useful to us?"

"No, I have given you the whole of it. Personally, the best thing we can
do is to go and interview the writer, who has given his name and address.
A small, but judicious, outlay in the matter of beer will cause him to
tell us all we want to know."

It was somewhere in the neighborhood of the Docks where the man who had
given his name as James Taylor was discovered later on in the day. He was
a fairly intelligent type of laborer, who obtained a more or less
precarious livelihood as a docker. As a rule, he worked hard enough four
or five hours a day when things were brisk, and, in slack periods when
money was scarce, he spent the best part of his day in bed. He had one
room in a large tenement house, where the friends found him partially
dressed and reading a sporting paper. He was not disposed to be
communicative at first, but the suggestion of something in the way of
liquid refreshment stimulated his good-nature.

"Right you are," he said. "I've had nothing today besides a mouthful of
breakfast, and when I've paid my rent I shall have a solitary tanner
left; but I 'ope you gents are not down here with a view of getting a
poor chap into trouble?"

Gurdon hastened to reassure him on that head. He was balancing a
half-sovereign thoughtfully on his forefinger.

"We are not going to hurt you at all," he said. "We want you to give us a
little information. In proof of what I say you can take this
half-sovereign and obtain what liquid refreshment you require. Also, you
can keep the change. If you don't like my proposal, there is an end of
the matter."

"Don't be short, guv'nor," Taylor responded. "I like that there
proposition of yours so well that I'm going to take it; 'alf-sovereigns
ain't so plentiful as all that comes to. If you just wait a moment, I'll
be back in 'alf a tick. Then I'll tell you all you want to know."

The man was back again presently, and professed himself ready to answer
any questions that might be put to him. His manner grew just a little
suspicious as Venner mentioned the name of Bates.

"You don't look like police," he said. "Speaking personally, I ain't fond
of 'em, and I don't want to get into trouble."

"We have no connection whatever with the police," Venner said. "In fact,
we would rather not have anything to do with them. It so happens that we
are both interested in the gentleman that you saw getting into the cab
the other night. I have read your letter in the paper, and I am quite
prepared to believe every word of it. The only thing we want to know is
whether you saw the man in the cab--"

"Which one?" Taylor asked. "There were two blokes in the cab."

"This is very interesting," Venner murmured. "I shall be greatly obliged
to you if you will describe both of them."

"I couldn't describe the one, guv'nor," Taylor replied. "His back was to
me all the time, and when you come to think of it, I wasn't quite so
clear in the head as I might have been. But I caught a glimpse of the
other man's face; as he looked out of the cab the light of the lamp shone
on his face. He'd a big cloak on, as far as I could judge, with the
collar turned up about his throat, and a soft hat on his head. He knocks
the hat off looking out of the cab window, then I see as 'is head was
bald like a bloomin' egg, and yellow, same as if he had been painted. I
can't tell you any more than that, not if you was to give me another
'alf-sovereign on the top of the first one."

"Just another question," Gurdon said. "Then we won't bother you any more.
About what age do you suppose the man was?"

Taylor paused thoughtfully for a moment before he replied.

"Well, I should think he was about fifty-five or sixty," he said. "Looked
like some sort of a foreigner."

"That will do, thank you," Venner said. "We will not detain you any
longer. At the same time I should be obliged if you would keep this
information to yourself; but, of course, if the police question you, you
will have to speak. But a discreet silence on the subject of this visit
of ours would be esteemed."

Taylor winked and nodded, and the friends departed, not displeased to get
away from the stuffy and vitiated atmosphere of Taylor's room. On the
whole, they were not dissatisfied with the result of their expedition. At
any rate, they had now proof positive of the fact that Fenwick was at the
bottom of the mysterious disappearance of the man called Bates.

"I don't quite see what we are going to do next," Venner said. "So
far, we have been exceedingly fortunate to find ourselves in
possession of a set of clues which would be exceedingly valuable to
the police. But how are we going to use these clues is quite another
matter. What do you suggest?"

"Keeping a close eye upon Fenwick at any rate. For that purpose it would
not be a bad idea to employ a private inquiry agent. He need know
nothing of what we are after."

Thereupon it was decided that Gurdon was to dine with Venner that night
and go fully into the matter.




CHAPTER X

THE SECOND FINGER


It was, perhaps, fortunate for all concerned that, though Venner was so
closely identified by the irony of Fate with the movements of Mark
Fenwick, he was not known to the latter personally, though they had been
almost side by side three years previous in Mexico. Therefore, it was
possible for Venner to get a table in the dining-room quite close to that
of the alleged millionaire. It was all the more fortunate, as things
subsequently turned out, that Fenwick had returned to town that afternoon
and had announced his intention of dining at the hotel the same evening.
This information Venner gave to Gurdon when the latter turned up about
half-past seven. Then the host began to outline the plan of campaign
which he had carefully thought out.

"Fenwick is dining over there," he said. "He generally sits with his back
to the wall, and I have had our table so altered that we can command all
his movements. Vera, of course, will dine with him. Naturally enough, she
will act as if we were absolute strangers to her. That will be
necessary."

"Of course," Gurdon admitted. "But isn't it a strange thing that you
should be an absolute stranger to Fenwick?"

"Well, it does seem strange on the face of it. But it is capable of the
easiest explanation. You see, when I first met Vera, she was at school in
a town somewhere removed from the Four Finger Mine. I saw a good deal of
her there, and when finally she went up country, we were practically
engaged. At her urgent request the engagement was kept a secret, and when
I followed to the Mines it was distinctly understood that I should not
call at Fenwick's house or make myself known to him except in the way of
business. As it happens, we never did meet, and whenever I saw Vera it
was usually by stealth. The very marriage was a secret one, and you may
charge me fairly with showing great weakness in the matter. But there, I
have told you the story before, and you must make the best of it. On the
whole, I am glad things turned out as they did, for now I can play my
cards in the game against Fenwick without his even suspecting that he has
me for an opponent. It is certainly an advantage in my favor."

Venner had scarcely ceased speaking before Fenwick and Vera appeared. She
gave one timid glance at Venner; then, averting her eyes, she walked
demurely across to her place at the table. Fenwick followed, looking
downcast and moody, and altogether unlike a man who is supposed to be
the happy possessor of millions. His manner was curt and irritable, and
he seemed disposed to find fault with everything. Venner noticed, too,
that though the man ate very little he partook of far more champagne than
was good for anyone. Thanks no doubt to the wine, the man's dark mood
lifted presently, and he began chatting to Vera. The two men at the other
table appeared to be deeply interested in their dinner, though, as a
matter of fact, they were listening intently to every word that Fenwick
was saying. He was talking glibly enough now about some large house in
the country which he appeared to have taken for the winter months. Vera
listened with polite indifference.

"In Kent," Fenwick was saying. "Not very far from Canterbury. A fine old
house, filled with grand furniture, just the sort of place you'd like.
I've made all arrangements, and the sooner we get away from London the
better I shall be pleased."

"It will be rather dull, I fear," Vera replied. "I don't suppose that I
shall get on very well with county people--"

"Hang the county people," Fenwick growled. "Who cares a straw for them?
Not but what they'll come along fast enough when they hear that Mark
Fenwick, the millionaire, is in their midst. Still, there is a fine park
round the house, and you'll be able to get as much riding as you want."

Venner watching furtively saw that Vera was interested for the first
time. He had not forgotten the fact that she was an exceedingly fine
horsewoman; he recollected the glorious rides they had had together.
Interested as he was in the mysterious set of circumstances which had
wound themselves into his life, he was not without hope that this change
would enable him to see more of Vera than was possible in London. In the
lonely country he would be able to plan meetings with her; indeed, he had
made up his mind to leave London as soon as Vera had gone. Moreover, in
this instance, duty and inclination pointed the same way. If the mystery
were to be solved and Vera freed from her intolerable burden, it would be
essential that every movement of Fenwick's should be carefully watched.
The only way to carry out this plan successfully would be to follow him
into Kent.

"You heard that?" he murmured to Gurdon. "We must find out exactly where
this place is, and then look out some likely quarters in the
neighborhood. I must contrive to see Vera and learn her new address
before she goes."

"No reason to worry about that," Gurdon said. "It will all be in the
papers. The doings of these monied men are chronicled as carefully now
as the movements of Royalty. It is any odds when you take up your
_Morning Post_ in the morning that you will know not only exactly where
Fenwick is going to spend the winter, but get an exact history of the
house. So far as I can see we might finish our dinner and go off to a
theatre. We are not likely to hear any more to-night, and all this
mystery and worry is beginning to get on my nerves. What do you say to
an hour or two at the Gaiety?"

Venner pleaded for a few moments' delay. So far as he was personally
concerned he felt very unlike the frivolity of the typical musical
comedy; but still, he had finished his dinner by this time and was not
disposed to be churlish. Fenwick had completed his repast also, and was
sipping his coffee in an amiable frame of mind, heedless apparently of
business worries of all kinds.

At the same moment a waiter came into the room and advanced to the
millionaire's table with a small parcel in his hand.

"A letter for you, sir. An express letter which has just arrived. Will
you be good enough to sign the receipt?"

"Confound the people," Fenwick growled. "Can't you leave me alone for
half an hour when I am having my dinner? Take the thing up to my room.
You sign it, Vera."

"I'll sign it, of course," Vera replied. "But don't you think you had
better open the parcel? It may be of some importance. People don't
usually send express letters at this time of night unless they are
urgent. Or, shall I open it for you?"

The waiter had gone by this time, taking the receipt for the letter with
him. With a gesture Fenwick signified to Vera that she might open the
parcel. She cut the string and opened the flat packet, disclosing a small
object in tissue paper inside. This she handed to Fenwick, who tore the
paper off leisurely. Then the silence of the room was startled by the
sound of an oath uttered in tones of intense fury.

"Curse the thing!" Fenwick cried. His yellow face was wet and ghastly
now. The big purple veins stood out like cords on his forehead. "Am I
never to be free from the terror of this mystery? Where did it come from?
How could it be possible when the very man I have most reason to dread is
no longer in a position--"

The speaker broke off suddenly, as if conscious that he was betraying
himself. The little object in the tissue paper lay on the table in such a
position that it was impossible for Venner or Gurdon to see what it was,
but they could give a pretty shrewd guess. Venn or looked inquiringly at
his friend.

"Well, what do you suppose it is?" he asked.

"Personally, I have no doubt whatever as to what it is," Gurdon said. "I
am as sure as if I held the thing in my hand at the present moment. It
is the second finger which at some time or another was attached to
Fenwick's hand."

"You've got it," Venner said. "Upon my word, the farther we go with this
thing the more complicated it becomes. No sooner do we clear up one point
than a dozen fresh ones arrive. Now, is not this amazing? We know
perfectly well that the man whom we have to call Bates has been kidnapped
by our interesting friend opposite, and yet here the second warning
arrives just as if Bates were still free to carry out his vengeance. What
can one make of it?"

"Well, the logical conclusion is that Bates has an accomplice. I fail to
see any other way of accounting for it."

Fenwick still sat there mopping his heated face and turning a disgusted
eye upon the little object on the table. He seemed to be terribly
distressed and upset, though there was nothing like the scene on the
previous occasion, and, doubtless, few diners besides Venner and Gurdon
knew that anything out of the common was taking place there. But they
were watching everything carefully; they noted Fenwick's anxious face,
they could hear his stertorous breathing. Though he had dined so freely
he called for brandy now, a large glass of which he drank without any
addition whatever. Then his agitation became less uncontrollable and a
little natural color crept into his cheeks. Without glancing at it he
slipped the little object on the table into his pocket and rose more or
less unsteadily to his feet.

"I have had a shock," he muttered. "I don't deny that I have had a
terrible shock. You don't understand it, Vera, and I hope you never will.
I wish I had never touched that accursed mine. I wish it had been fathoms
under the sea before I heard of it, but the mischief has been done now,
and I shall have to go on to the end. You can stay here if you like--as
to me, I am going to my own room. I want to be alone for a bit and think
this matter out."

Fenwick lurched across the room with the air of a man who is more or less
intoxicated, though his head was clear enough and his faculties undimmed.
Still, his limbs were trembling under him and he groped his way to the
door with the aid of a table here and there. It was perhaps rather a
risky thing to do, but Venner immediately crossed over and took the seat
vacated so recently by Fenwick. Vera welcomed him shyly, but it was
palpable that she was ill at ease. She would have risen had not Venner
detained her.

"Don't you think you are very imprudent?" she said. "Suppose he should
change his mind and come back here again?"

"I don't think there is much chance of that," Venner said, grimly.
"Fenwick will only be too glad to be by himself for a bit. But tell me,
dear, what was it that gave him such a shock?"

"I don't understand it at all," Vera said. "It was something to do
with that dreadful mine and the vengeance connected with it. This is
the second time the same thing has happened within the last few days,
and I fear that it will culminate sooner or later in some fearful
tragedy. I have some hazy idea of the old legend, but I have almost
forgotten what it is."

"I don't think you need worry about that," Venner said. "Though it
will have to be spoken of again when the whole thing is cleared up;
but now I wish to talk to you on more personal matters. Did I not
understand Fenwick to say to-night that he was taking a large house
somewhere in Kent?"

"That is his intention, I believe," Vera replied. "I understand it is a
large, dull place in the heart of the country. Personally I am not
looking forward to it with the least pleasure. Things are bad enough here
in London, but there is always the comfortable feeling that one is
protected here, whereas in a lonely neighborhood the feeling of
helplessness grows very strong."

"You are not likely to be lonely or neglected," Venner smiled. "As soon
as I have definitely ascertained where you are going, Gurdon and myself
will follow. It is quite necessary that we should be somewhere near you;
but, of course, if you object--"

But Vera was not objecting. Her face flushed with a sudden happiness. The
knowledge that the man she loved was going to be so near her filled her
with a sense of comfort.

"Don't you think it will be dangerous?" she asked.

"Not in the least," Venner said. "Don't forget that I am a stranger to
Mark Fenwick, which remark applies with equal force to Gurdon. And if we
take a fancy to spend a month or two hunting in the neighborhood of
Canterbury, surely there is nothing suspicious in that. I am looking
forward to the hunting as a means whereby we may manage to get some long
rides together. And even if Fenwick does find it out, it will be easy to
explain to him that you made my acquaintance on the field of sport."

"I am glad to hear you say that," Vera whispered. "I may be wrong, of
course, but I feel that strange things are going to happen, and that I
shall need your presence to give me courage."

Vera might have said more, but a waiter came into the room at the same
moment with an intimation to the effect that Mr. Fenwick desired to speak
to her. She flitted away now, and there was nothing for it but for Venner
to fall in with Gurdon's suggestion of a visit to the theatre.

It was not long after breakfast on the following morning that Venner
walked into Gurdon's rooms with a new proposal.

"I have been thinking out this confounded thing," he said. "I have an
idea; as you know, the house where you had your adventure the other night
is empty, it has occurred to me that perhaps it may be to let. If so, we
are going to call upon the agent in the characters of prospective
tenants. What I want to do is to ascertain if possible the name of the
owner of the premises."

"I see," Gurdon said thoughtfully. "I am ready for you now."

It was some little time before the friends got on the right track, but
they found the right man at length. The agent was not quite sure whether
he was in a position at present to make any definite arrangements on the
part of the owner.

"I presume he wants to let the house," he said, "though I have no
instructions, and it is some considerable time since I have heard from my
client. You see, he lives abroad."

"Can't you give us his address," Venner asked, "and let us write to him
direct? It would save time."

"That I fear is equally impossible," the agent explained. "My client
wanders about from place to place, and I haven't the remotest idea where
to find him. However, I'll do my best."

"You might tell us his name," Venner said.

"Certainly. His name is Mr. Le Fenu."

"What do you make of it?" Venner said, when once more he and Gurdon were
in the street. "I see you have forgotten what the name of Le Fenu
implies. Don't you remember my telling you that the original owner of
the Four Finger Mine who was murdered by the Dutchman, Van Fort, was
called Le Fenu?"




CHAPTER XI

AN UNEXPECTED MOVE


On the whole the discovery was startling enough. It proved to
demonstration that the man who called himself Bates must have been in
some way connected with the one-time unfortunate owner of the Four Finger
Mine. There was very little said as the two friends walked down the
street together. Venner paused presently, and stood as if an idea had
occurred to him.

"I have a notion that something will come of this," he said. "I had a
great mind to go back to the agent's and try to get the key of the empty
house under some pretext or another."

"What do you want it for?" Gurdon asked.

"I am not sure that I want it for anything," Venner admitted. "I have a
vague idea, a shadowy theory, that I am on the right track at last, but I
may be wrong, especially as I am dealing with so unscrupulous an opponent
as Fenwick. All the same, I think I'll step round to that agent's office
this afternoon and get the key. Sooner or later, I shall want a town
house, and I don't see why that Portsmouth Square place shouldn't suit me
very well."

Venner was true to his intention, and later in the afternoon was once
more closeted with the house-agent.

"Do you really want to let the place?" he asked.

"Well, upon my word, sir, I'm not quite sure," the agent replied. "As
I said before, it is such a difficult matter to get in contact with
the owner."

"But unless he wanted to let it, why did he put it in your hands?" Venner
asked. "Still, you can try to communicate with him, and it will save time
if you let me have the keys to take measurements and get estimates for
the decorating, and so on. I will give you any references you require."

"Oh, there can be no objection to that," the agent replied. "Yes, you can
have the keys now, if you like. You are not in the least likely to run
away with the place."

Venner departed with the keys in his possession, and made his way back to
the hotel. He had hardly reached his own room before a waiter came in
with a note for him. It was from Vera, with an urgent request that Venner
would see her at once, and the intimation that there would be no danger
in his going up to the suite of rooms occupied by Mark Fenwick. Venner
lost no time in answering this message. He felt vaguely uneasy and
alarmed. Surely, there must be something wrong, or Vera would not have
sent for him in this sudden manner. He could not quite see, either, how
it was that he could call at Fenwick's rooms without risk. However, he
hesitated no longer, but knocked at the outer door of the self-contained
rooms, which summons was presently answered by Vera herself.

"You can come in," she said. "I am absolutely alone. Mr. Fenwick has gone
off in a great hurry with all his assistants, and my own maid will not be
back for some little time."

"But is there no chance of Fenwick coming back?" Venner asked. "If he
caught me here, all my plans would be ruined. My dear girl, why don't you
leave him and come to me? I declare it makes me miserable to know that
you are constantly in contact with such a man as that. It isn't as if you
were any relation to him."

"Thank goodness, I am no relation at all," Vera replied. "It is not for
my own sake that I endure all this humiliation."

"Then, why endure it?" Venner urged.

"Because I cannot help myself. Because there is someone else whom I have
to look after and shield from harm. Some day you will know the whole
truth, but not yet, because my lips are sealed. But I did not bring you
here to talk about myself. There are other and more urgent matters. I am
perfectly sure that something very wrong is going on here. Not long after
breakfast this morning, Mr. Fenwick was sitting here reading the paper,
when he suddenly rose in a state of great agitation and began sending
telegrams right and left. I am certain that there was terribly disturbing
intelligence in that paper; but what it was, I, of course, cannot say. I
have looked everywhere for a clue and all in vain. No sooner were the
telegrams dispatched than the three or four men here, whom Mr. Fenwick
calls his clerks, gathered all his papers and things together and sent
them off by express vans. Mr. Fenwick told me that everything was going
to the place that he had taken at Canterbury, but I don't believe that,
because none of the boxes were labelled. Anyway, they have all gone, and
I am instructed to remain here until I hear from Mr. Fenwick again."

Venner began to understand; in the light of his superior knowledge it was
plain to him that these men had been interrupted in some work, and that
they feared the grip of the law. He expressed a wish to see the paper
which had been the cause of all the trouble. The news-sheet lay on the
floor where Fenwick had thrown it, and Venner took it up in his hands.

"This has not been disturbed?" he asked.

"No," Vera replied. "I thought it best not to. I have looked at both
sides of the paper myself, but I have not turned over a leaf. You see,
it must have been on one side or another of this sheet that the
disturbing news appeared, and that is why I have not looked further.
Perhaps you will be able to pick out the particular paragraph? There is
plenty of time."

Very carefully Venner scanned the columns of the paper. He came at length
to something that seemed to him to bear upon the sudden change of plans
which appeared to have been forced upon Fenwick. The paragraph in
question was not a long one, and emanated from the New York correspondent
of the _Daily Herald_.

"We are informed," the paragraph ran, "that the police here believe that
at length they are on the track of the clever gang of international
swindlers who were so successful in their bank forgeries two years ago.
Naturally enough, the authorities are very reticent as to names and other
details, but they declare that they have made a discovery which embraces
what is practically a new crime, or, at any rate, a very ingenious
variant upon an old one. As far as we can understand, the police were
first put on the track by the discovery of the fact that the head of the
gang had recently transported some boxes of gold dust to London. Quite by
accident this discovery was made, and, at first, the police were under
the impression that the gold had been stolen. When, however, they had
proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the gold in question was
honestly the property of the gang, they naturally began to ask themselves
what it was intended for. As the metal could be so easily transferred
into cash, what was the object of the gang in taking the gold to Europe?
This question the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department feels
quite sure that he has successfully solved. The public may look for
startling developments before long. Meanwhile, two of the smartest
detectives in New York are on their way to Europe, and are expected to
reach Liverpool by the _Lusitania_ to-day."

"There is the source of the trouble," Venner said. "I hardly care about
telling you how I know, because the less information you have on this
head the better. And I don't want your face to betray you to the sharp
eyes of Mark Fenwick. But I am absolutely certain that that paragraph is
the source of all the mischief."

"I daresay it is," Vera sighed. "I feel so terribly lonely and frightened
sometimes, so afraid of something terrible happening, that I feel
inclined to run away and hide myself. What shall I do now, though I am
afraid you cannot help me?"

"I can help you in a way you little dream of," Venner said through his
teeth. "For the present, at any rate, you had better do exactly as
Fenwick tells you. I am not going to leave you here all alone, when we
have a chance like this; after dinner, I am going to take you to a
theatre. Meanwhile, I must leave you now, as I have much work to do, and
there is no time to be lost. It will be no fault of mine if you are not
absolutely free from Mark Fenwick before many days have passed."

Venner sat alone at dinner, keeping a critical eye open for whatever
might be going on around him. He had made one or two little calculations
as to time and distance, and, unless his arithmetic was very far out, he
expected to learn something useful before midnight.

The meal had not proceeded very far when two strangers came in and took
their places at a table close by. They were in evening dress and appeared
to be absolutely at home, yet, in some subtle way, they differed
materially from the other diners about them. On the whole, they might
have passed for two mining engineers who had just touched civilisation
after a long lapse of time. Venner noticed that they both ate and drank
sparingly, and that they seemed to get through their dinner as speedily
as possible. They went off to the lounge presently to smoke over their
coffee, and Venner followed them. He dropped into a seat by their side.

"You have forgotten me, Mr. Egan," he said to the smaller man of the two.
"Don't you remember that night on the Bowery when I was fortunate enough
to help you to lay hands on the notorious James Daley? You were in rather
a tight place, I remember."

"Bless me, if it isn't Mr. Venner," the other cried. "This is my friend,
Grady. I daresay you have heard of him."

"Of course I have," Venner replied. "Mr. Grady is quite as celebrated
in his way as you are yourself. But you see, there was a time when I took
a keen interest in crime and criminals, and some of my experiences in New
York would make a respectable volume. When I heard that you were coming
over here--"

"You heard we were coming here?" Egan exclaimed. "I should very much like
to know how you heard that."

"Oh, you needn't be alarmed," Venner laughed. "Nobody has betrayed your
secret mission to Europe, though, strangely enough, I fancy I shall be in
a position to give you some considerable assistance. I happened to see a
paragraph in the _Herald_ to-day alluding to a mysterious gang of
swindlers who had hit upon a novel form of crime--something to do with
gold dust, I believe it was. At the end of the paragraph it stated that
two of the smartest detectives in the New York Force were coming over
here, and, therefore, it was quite fair to infer that you might be one of
them. In any case, if you had not been, I could have introduced myself to
your colleagues and used your name."

Egan looked relieved, but he said nothing.

"You are quite right to be reticent," Venner said. "But, as I remarked
before, I think I can help you in this business. You hoped to lay hands
on the man you wanted in this hotel."

"I quite see you know something," Egan replied. "As a matter of fart, we
are a long way at present from being in a position to lay hands on our
man with a reasonable hope of convicting him. There will be a great deal
of watching to do first, and a lot of delicate detective work. That is
the worst of these confounded newspapers. How that paragraph got into the
_Herald,_ I don't know, but it is going to cause Grady and myself a great
deal of trouble. To be quite candid, we did expect to find our man here,
but when he had vanished as he did, just before we arrived, I knew at
once that somebody must have been giving him information."

"Do I know the name of the man?" Venner asked.

"If you don't, I certainly can't tell you," Egan said. "One has to be
cautious, even with so discreet a gentleman as yourself."

"That's very well," Venner said. "But it so happens that I am just as
much interested in this individual as yourself. Now let me describe him.
He is short and stout, he is between fifty and sixty years of age, he has
beady black eyes, and a little hooked nose like a parrot. Also, he has an
enormous bald head, and his coloring is strongly like that of a yellow
tomato. If I am mistaken, then I have no further interest in the matter."

"Oh, you're not mistaken," Egan said. "That is our man right enough.
But tell me, sir, do you happen to know what his particular line is
just at present?"

"I have a pretty good idea," Venner said; "but I am not quite sure as
yet. I have been making a few inquiries, and they all tend to confirm my
theory, but I am afraid I cannot stay here discussing the matter any
longer, as I have an important appointment elsewhere. Do you propose to
stay at the Empire Hotel for any time?"

Egan replied that it all depended upon circumstances. They were in no way
pressed for time, and as they were there on State business they were not
limited as to expenses. With a remark to the effect that they might meet
again later on in the evening, Venner went on his way and stood waiting
for Vera at the foot of the stairs. She came down presently, and they
entered a cab together.

"We won't go to a theatre at all," Venner said. "We will try one of the
music halls, and we shall be able to talk better there; if we have a box
we shall be quite secure from observation."

"It is all the same to me," Vera smiled. "I care very little where I go
so long as we are together. How strange it is that you should have turned
up in this extraordinary way!"

"There is nothing strange about it at all," Venner said. "It is only Fate
making for the undoing of the criminal. It may be an old-fashioned theory
of mine, but justice always overtakes the rogue sooner or later, and
Fenwick's time is coming. I have been the instrument chosen to bring
about his downfall, and save you from your terrible position. If you
would only confide in me--"

"But I can't, dear," Vera said. "There is somebody else. If it were not
for that somebody else, I could end my troubles to-morrow. But don't let
us talk about it. Let us have two delightful hours together and thank
Providence for the opportunity."

The time passed all too quickly in the dim seclusion of one of the boxes;
indeed, Vera sat up with a start when the orchestra began to play the
National Anthem. It seemed impossible that the hour was close upon
twelve. As to the performance itself, Vera could have said very little.
She had been far too engrossed in her companion to heed what was taking
place upon the stage.

"Come along," Venner said. "It has been a delightful time, but all too
brief. I am going to put you in a cab and send you back to the hotel, as
I have to go and see Gurdon."

Vera made no demur to this arrangement, and presently was being conveyed
back to the hotel, while Venner thoughtfully walked down the street. Late
as it was, the usual crop of hoarse yelling newsboys were ranging the
pavement and forcing their wares on the unwilling passers-by.

"Here you are, sir. 'Late Special.' Startling development of the Bates
Case. The mystery solved."

"I'll take one of those," Venner said. "Here's sixpence for you, and you
can keep the change. Call me that cab there."




CHAPTER XII

THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR


Venner lost no time in reaching the rooms of his friend Gurdon, and was
fortunate enough to find the latter at home. He was hard at work on some
literary matter, but he pushed his manuscript aside as Venner came
excitedly into the room.

"Well, what is it?" he asked. "Anything fresh? But your face answers that
question. Have you found Bates?"

"No, I haven't," Venner said; "but he seems to have been discovered. I
bought this paper just now in Piccadilly, but I have not been able to
look at it yet. It is stated here that the mystery has been solved."

"Hand it over," Gurdon cried excitedly. "Let's see if we can find it. Ah!
here we are. The Press Association has just received a letter which
appears to come from Mr. Bates himself. He says he is very much annoyed
at all this fuss and bother in the papers, about his so-called
kidnapping. He goes on to say that he was called to the Continent by
pressing business, and that he had not even time to tell his servants he
was going, as it was imperatively necessary that he should catch the
midnight boat to Dieppe. The correspondent of the Press Association says
that Mr. Bates has been interviewed by a foreign journalist, who is
absolutely certain as to his identity. Moreover, an official has called
at Mr. Bates' residence and found that his servants have had a letter
from their master instructing them to join him at once, as he has let his
house furnished for the next two months. Well, my dear man, that seems to
be very satisfactory, and effectually disposes of the idea that Mr. Bates
has been mysteriously kidnapped. I am rather sorry for this in a way,
because it upsets all our theories and makes it necessary to begin our
task all over again."

"I don't believe a word of it," Venner said. "I believe it's a gigantic
bluff. I was coming to see you to-night in any case, but after buying
that paper I came on here post haste. Now that story of the Press
Association strikes me as being decidedly thin. Here is a man living
comfortably at home who suddenly disappears in a most mysterious manner,
and nothing is heard of him for some time. Directly the public began to
regard it as a fascinating mystery and the miscreants realising what a
storm they were likely to stir up, the man himself writes and says that
it is all a mistake. Now, if he had come back and shown himself, it would
have been quite another matter. Instead of doing that, he writes a
letter from abroad, or sends a telegram or something of that kind, saying
that he has been called away on urgent business. That might pass easily
enough, but mark what follows. He writes to his servants asking them to
join him at once in some foreign town because he has let his house for
two months, and the new tenant wishes to get in without delay. Did ever
anybody hear anything so preposterous? Just as if a man would let a house
in that break-neck fashion without giving his servants due warning. The
thing is not to be thought of."

"Then you think the servants have been lured away on a fools' errand?"
Gurdon asked. "You don't think there is anybody in the house?"

"Oh, yes, I do," Venner said drily. "I have a very strong opinion that
there _are_ people in the house, and I also have a pretty shrewd idea as
to who they are. It happens, also, that I am in a position to test my
theory without delay."

"How do you propose to do that?" Gurdon asked.

"Quite easily. After I left you this afternoon I went back to the agent
and succeeded in obtaining possession of the keys of the empty house in
Portsmouth Square. My excuse was that I wanted to go into detail and to
take measurements and the like. I need not remind you that Bates' house
is next door to the empty one. In fact, there is no question that both
houses belong to the same person. You will remember, also, the mysterious
way in which that furniture vanished from the scene of your adventure."

"I remember," Gurdon said grimly. "But all the same I don't quite see
what you are driving at."

"The thing is quite plain. That furniture did not vanish through the
prosaic medium of a van, nor was it carted through the front door from
one house to the other. The two houses communicated in some way, and it
will be our business to find the door. As I have the keys and every
legitimate excuse for being on the premises, we can proceed to make our
investigations without the slightest secrecy, and without the least fear
of awkward questions being asked. Now do you follow me?"

"I follow you fast enough. I suppose your game is to try and get into the
next house by means of the door?"

"You have hit it exactly," Venner said. "That is precisely what I mean
to do. We shall find it necessary to discover the identity of Mr.
Bates' tenant."

"When are we going to make the experiment?" Gurdon asked.

"We are going to make it now," Venner replied. "We will have a cab as far
as the Empire Hotel, so that I can get the keys. After that, the thing
will be quite easy. Come along, and thank me for an exciting evening's
adventure. I shall be greatly surprised if it is not even more exciting
than the last occasion."

They were in the empty house at last. The windows were closed and
shuttered, so that it was possible to use matches in the various rooms
without attracting attention from the outside. But search how they would,
for upwards of two hours, they could find no trace whatever of a means of
communication between the two houses. They tapped the walls and sounded
the skirtings, but without success. Venner paced the floor of the
drawing-room moodily, racking his brains to discover a way out of the
difficulty.

"It must be here somewhere," he muttered. "I am sure all that
furniture was moved backwards and forwards through some door, and a
wide one at that."

"Then it must be on the ground floor," Gurdon remarked. "When you come to
think of it, some of that furniture was so heavy and massive that it
would not go through an ordinary doorway, neither could it have been
brought upstairs without the assistance of two or three men of great
strength. We shall have to look for it in the hall; if we don't find it
there, we shall have to give it up as a bad job and try some other plan."

"I am inclined to think you are right," Venner said. "Let us go down and
see. At any rate, there is one consolation. If we fail to-night we can
come again to-morrow."

Gurdon did not appear to be listening. He strode resolutely down the
stairs into the hall and stood for some moments contemplating the panels
before him. The panels were painted white; they were elaborately
ornamented with wreaths of flowers after the Adams' style of decoration.
Then it seemed to Gurdon that two pairs of panels, one above and one
below, had at one time taken the formation of a doorway. He tapped on one
of the panels, and the drumming of his fingers gave out a hollow sound.
Gurdon tapped again on the next panel, but hardly any sound came in
response. He looked triumphantly at Venner.

"I think we have got it at last," he said. "Do you happen to have a knife
in your pocket? Unless I am greatly mistaken, the decorations around
these panels come off like a bead. If you have a knife with you we can
soon find out."

Venner produced a small knife from his pocket, and Gurdon attempted to
insinuate the point of the blade under the elaborate moulding. Surely
enough, the moulding yielded, and presently came away in Gurdon's hands.

"There you are," he said. "It is exactly as I told you. I thought at
first that those mouldings were plaster, but you can see for yourself now
that they are elaborately carved wood."

Venner laid the ornament aside and stood watching Gurdon with breathless
interest while the latter attacked another of the mouldings. They came
away quite easily, pointing to the fact that they must have been removed
before within a very short period. Once they were all cleared away,
Gurdon placed the point of the knife behind one of the panels, and it
came away in his hands, disclosing beyond a square hole quite large
enough for anybody to enter. Here was the whole secret exposed.

"Exactly what I thought," Gurdon said. "If I removed all the mouldings
from the other three panels there would be space enough here to drive a
trap through. I think we have been exceedingly lucky to get to the bottom
of this. How clever and ingeniously the whole thing has been managed!
However, I don't think there is any occasion for us to worry about moving
any more of the panels, seeing that we can get through now quite easily.
Wouldn't it be just as well to put all the lights out?"

"I haven't thought of that," Venner muttered. "On the whole, it would be
exceedingly injudicious not to extinguish all the lights. We had better
go on at once, I think, and get it over."

The house was reduced to darkness, and very quietly and cautiously the
two adventurers crept through the panel. They were in the hall on the
other side, of which fact there was no doubt, for they stepped at once
off a marble floor on to a thick rug which deadened the sound of their
footsteps. They had, naturally enough, expected to find the whole place
in darkness, and the tenant of the house and his servants in bed. This,
on the whole, would be in their favor, for it would enable them to take
all the observations they required with a minimum chance of being
disturbed.

A surprise awaited them from the first. True, the hall was in darkness,
and, as far as they could judge, so was the rest of the house. But from
somewhere upstairs came the unmistakable sound of a piano, and of
somebody singing in a sweet but plaintive soprano voice. Gurdon clutched
his companion by the arm.

"Don't you think it is just possible that we have made a mistake?" he
whispered. "Isn't it quite on the cards that this is a genuine affair,
and that we are intruding in an unwarrantable manner upon some
respectable private citizen? I am bound to say that that beautiful voice
does not suggest crime to me."

"We must go on now," Venner said, impatiently. "It won't do to judge by
appearances. Let us go up the stairs and see what is going on for
ourselves. If we are intruding, we will get away as speedily as
possible."

Gurdon made no further objection, and together they crept up the stairs.
There was no chance of their being surprised from behind by the servants,
for they had taken good care to notice that the basement was all in
darkness. They were getting nearer and nearer now to the sound of the
music, which appeared to come from the drawing-room, the door of which
was widely enough open for the brilliant light inside to illuminate the
staircase. A moment later the music ceased, and someone was heard to
applaud in a hoarse voice.

"Sing some more," the voice said. "Now don't be foolish, don't begin to
cry again. Confound the girl, she makes me miserable."

"Do you recognise the voice?" Venner whispered.

"Lord! yes," was Gurdon's reply. "Why, it's Fenwick. No mistaking those
tones anywhere. Now, what on earth does all this mean?"

"We shall find out presently," Venner said. "You may laugh at me, but I
quite expected something of this kind, which was one of the reasons why I
obtained the keys of the house."

"It's a most extraordinary thing," Gurdon replied. "Now isn't this
man--Fenwick--one of the last persons in the world you would credit with
a love of music?"

"I don't know," Venner said. "You never can tell. But don't let's talk.
We are here more to listen than anything else. I wish we could get a
glimpse of the singer."

"I am going to," Gurdon declared. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have
made a discovery, too. Oh, I am not going to take any risk. Do you see
that mirror opposite the door? It strikes me if I get close enough to
look into it that I shall be able to see who is in the room without
betraying my presence."

So saying, Gurdon crept forward till he was close enough to the mirror to
get a very good idea of the room and its occupants. He could see a pale
figure in white standing by a piano; he could see that Fenwick was
sprawling in a big armchair, smoking a large cigar. Then he noticed that
the girl crossed the floor and laid a slim hand half timidly, half
imploringly, on Fenwick's shoulder.

"Why are you so unkind to me?" she said. "Why so cruel? How many times
have you promised me that you will bring him back to me again? I get so
tired of waiting, I feel so sad and weary, and at times my mind seems to
go altogether."

"Have patience," Fenwick said. "If you will only wait a little longer he
will come back to you right enough. Now go to the piano and sing me
another song before I go to bed. Do you hear what I say?"

The last words were harshly uttered; the girl reeled back as if fearing
a blow. Gurdon standing there clenched his fists impulsively; he had
considerable difficulty in restraining himself.

"Very well," she said; "just one more, and then I will go to bed, for I
am so tired and weary."

Once more the sweet pathetic voice rang out in some simple song; the
words gradually died away, and there was silence. Gurdon had barely time
to slip back to the head of the stairs before the girl came out and made
her way to the landing above. Standing just below the level of the floor,
Venner gazed eagerly at the pretty tired face and mournful blue eyes. He
grasped his companion by the arm in a grip that was almost painful.

"We are getting to it," he said. "It was a good night's work coming here
to-night. Do you mean to say you don't notice the likeness? Making due
allowance for the difference in height and temperament, that poor girl is
the image of my wife."

"I must have been a dolt not to have noticed it before," Gurdon said.
"Now that you mention it, the likeness is plain enough. My dear fellow,
can't you see in this a reason for your wife's reticence in speaking of
the past?"

There was no time to reply, for the sinister evil face of Fenwick
appeared in the doorway, and he called aloud in Spanish some hoarse
command, which was answered from above by someone, in the same language.
Gurdon whispered to his companion, with a view to ascertaining what had
been said.

"You will see for yourself in a minute," Venner said in an excited
whisper. "You are going to have another surprise. You wanted to know just
now what had become of Bates. Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will be
able to judge for yourself in a few moments. I believe the man to be a
prisoner in his own house."




CHAPTER XIII

THE WHITE LADY AGAIN


It was perhaps an imprudent thing for the two friends to remain there,
exposed as they were to the danger of discovery at any moment; but, so
completely were they fascinated by what was going on about them, that
they had flung caution to the winds. One thing was in their favor,
however; there was not much likelihood of their being attacked from
below, seeing that all the servants had gone to bed; unless, perhaps,
some late comer entered the house. Still, the risk had to be run, and so
they stood there together, waiting for the next move. It was Venner who
spoke first.

"I cannot get over the extraordinary likeness of that girl to my wife,"
he said. "Is she anything like the woman you saw next door? I mean the
poor half-demented creature who happened to come into the room when you
were talking with the owner?"

"Why, of course, it is the same girl," Gurdon replied.

"Then I am sure she is Vera's sister. I'll ask her about it the first
time I have an opportunity. Be silent and get a little lower down the
stairs. There is somebody coming from the top of the house. We can see
here without being seen."

Assuredly there were sounds emanating from the top of the house. A voice
was raised in angry expostulation, followed by other voices morose and
threatening. As far as the listeners could judge, two men were dragging a
third down the stairs against his will. But for that, the house was
deadly silent; the watchers could hear the jingle of a passing cab bell,
a belated foot passenger whistled as he went along. It seemed almost
impossible to believe that so close to light and law and order and the
well-being of the town a strange tragedy like this should be in progress;
hidden from the eye of London, by mere skill of brick and mortar, this
strange thing was going on. Venner wondered to himself how many such
scenes were taking place in London at the same moment.

But he had not much time for his meditation, for the shuffling of feet
came closer. There were no more sounds of expostulation now; only the
heavy breathing of three people, as if the captive had ceased to struggle
and was making but a passive resistance. Then there emerged on the
landing the figure of the handsome cripple with a guardian on either
side. His face was no longer distorted with pain; rather was it white
with an overpowering anger--his eyes shone like points of flame. On his
right side Venner and Gurdon recognised the figure of the man in the
list slippers--the man who had been handling the sovereigns in Fenwick's
rooms. His comrade was a stranger, though of the same type, and it seemed
to Venner that anyone would have been justified in repudiating either of
them as an acquaintance. It was perfectly evident that the cripple came
against his will, though he was struggling no longer. Probably the
condition of his emaciated frame had rendered the task of his captors an
easy one. They dragged him, limp and exhausted, into the drawing-room
where Fenwick was seated and they stood in the doorway awaiting further
instructions.

"You needn't stay there," Fenwick growled. "If I want you I can call. You
had better go back to your cards again."

The two men disappeared up the stairs, and just for a moment there was
silence in the drawing-room. It was safe for Venner and his companion
now to creep back to the drawing-room door and take a careful note of
what was going on. With the aid of a friendly mirror on the opposite
side of the room, it was possible to see and note everything. The
cripple had fallen into a chair, where he sat huddled in a heap, his
hand to his head, as if some great physical pain racked him. His heavy
breathing was the only sound made, except the steady puffing of
Fenwick's cigar. A fit of anger gripped Venner for the moment; he would
have liked to step in and soundly punish Fenwick for his brutality.
Doubtless the poor crippled frame was racked with the pain caused by the
violence of his late captors.

But under that queer exterior was a fine spirit. Gradually the cripple
ceased to quiver and palpitate; gradually he pulled himself up in his
chair and faced his captor. His face was still deadly white, but it was
hard and set now; there was no sign of fear about him. He leaned forward
and stared Fenwick between the eyes.

"Well, you scoundrel," he said in a clear, cold voice, "I should like to
know the meaning of this. I have heard of and read of some strange
outrages in my time, but to kidnap a man and keep him prisoner in his own
house is to exceed all the bounds of audacity."

"You appear to be annoyed," Fenwick said. "Perhaps you have not already
learned who I am?"

"I know perfectly well who you are," the cripple responded. "Your name is
Mark Fenwick, and you are one of the greatest scoundrels unhung. At
present, you are posing as an American millionaire. Fools may believe
you, but I know better. The point is, do you happen to know who I am?"

"Yes, I know who you are," Fenwick said with a sardonic smile. "You elect
to call yourself Mr. Bates, or some such name, and you pretend to be a
recluse who gives himself over to literary pursuits. As a matter of
fact, you are Charles Le Fenu, and your father was, at one time, the
practical owner of the Four Finger Mine."

"We are getting on," Venner whispered. "It may surprise you to hear this,
but I have suspected it for some little time. The so-called absent owner
of these houses is the man sitting opposite Fenwick there. Now do you
begin to see something like daylight before you? I wouldn't have missed
this for worlds."

"We have certainly been lucky," Gurdon replied.

There was no time for further conversation, for the cripple was speaking
again. His voice was still hard and cold, nor did his manner betray the
slightest sign of fear.

"So you have found that out," he said. "You know that I am the son of the
unfortunate Frenchman who was murdered by a rascally Dutchman at your
instigation. You thought that once having discovered the secret of the
mine you could work it to your own advantage. How well you worked it your
left hand testifies."

The jeer went home to Fenwick, his yellow face flushed, and he half rose
from his chair with a threatening gesture.

"Oh, you can strike me," the cripple said. "I am practically helpless as
far as my lower limbs are concerned, and it would be just the sort of
cowardly act that would gratify a dirty little soul like yours. It
hurts me to sit here, helpless and useless, knowing that you are the
cause of all my misfortunes; knowing that, but for you, I should be as
straight and strong as the best of them. And yet you are not safe--you
are going to pay the penalty of your crime. Have you had the first of
your warnings yet?"

Fenwick started in his seat; in the looking-glass the watchers could see
how ghastly his face had grown.

"I don't know what you mean," he muttered.

"Liar!" the cripple cried. "Paltry liar! Why, you are shaking from head
to foot now--your face is like that of a man who stands in the shadow of
the gallows."

"I repeat, I don't know what you mean," Fenwick said.

"Oh, yes, you do. When your accomplice Van Fort foully murdered my
father, you thought that the two of you would have the mine to
yourselves; you thought you would work it alone as my father did, and
send your ill-gotten gains back to England. That is how the murdered man
accomplished it, that is how he made his fortune--and you were going to
do the same thing, both of you. When you had made all your arrangements
you went down to the coast on certain business, leaving the rascally
Dutchman behind. He was quite alone in the mine, there was no one within
miles of that secret spot. And yet he vanished. Van Fort was never heard
of again. The message of his fingers was conveyed to his wife, for she
was implicated in the murder of my father, and how she suffered you
already know. But you are a brave man--I give you all the credit for
that. You went back to the mine again, determined not to be deterred by
what had happened. What happened to you, I need not go into. Shall I tell
the story, or will you be content with a recollection of your sufferings?
It is all the same to me."

"You are a bold man," Fenwick cried. He was trembling with the rage that
filled him. "You are a bold man to defy me like this. Nobody knows that I
am here, nobody knows that you are back in your own house again. I could
kill you as you sit there, and not a soul would suffer for the crime."

The cripple laughed aloud; he seemed to be amused at something.

"Really!" he sneered. "Such cheap talk is wasted upon me. Besides, what
would you gain by so unnecessary a crime, and how much better off would
you be? You know as well as I do, disguise it as you will, that the long
arm has reached for you across five thousand miles of sea, and that,
when the time comes, you will be stricken down here in London as surely
and inevitably as if you had remained in Mexico under the shadow of the
mountains. The dreadful secret is known to a few, in its entirety it is
even unknown to me. I asked you just now if you had received the first
of your messages, and you denied that you knew what I meant. You
actually had the effrontery to deny it to me, sitting opposite to you as
I am, and looking straight at the dreadful disfigurement of your left
hand. For over three centuries the natives of Mexico worked the Four
Finger Mine till only two of the tribe who knew its secret remained.
Then it was that my father came along. He was a brave man, and an
adventurer to his finger tips. Moreover, he was a doctor. His healing
art made those rough men his friends, and when their time came, my
father was left in possession of the mine. How that mine was guarded and
how the spirit of the place took its vengeance upon intruders, you know
too well. Ah, I have touched you now."

Fenwick had risen, and was pacing uneasily up and down the room. All the
dare-devil spirit seemed to have left the man for a moment; he turned a
troubled face on the cripple huddled in his chair. He seemed half
inclined to temporise, and then, with a short laugh, he resumed his own
seat again.

"You seem to be very sure of your ground," he sneered.

"I am," the cripple went on. "What does it matter what becomes of a
melancholy wreck like myself? Doctors tell me that in time I may become
my old self again, but in my heart I doubt it, and as sure as I sit here
the mere frame-work of a human being, my injuries are due to you. I
might have had you shot before now, or I might even have done it myself,
but I spared you. It would have been a kindness to cut your life short,
but I had another use for you than that. And now, gradually, but surely,
the net is closing in around you, though you cannot yet see its meshes,
and you are powerless to prevent the inevitable end."

"You seem to have mapped it all out," Fenwick replied. "You seem to have
settled it all to your own satisfaction, but you forget that I may have
something to say in the matter. When I discovered, as I did quite by
accident, that you were in London, I laid my plans for getting you into
my hands. It suits me very well, apart from the criminal side of it, to
hide myself in your house, but that is not all. I am in a position now to
dictate terms, and you have nothing else to do but to listen. I am
prepared to spare your life on one condition. Now kindly follow me
carefully."

"I am listening," the cripple said, coldly. "If you were not the blind
fool you seem to be you would know that there could be no conditions
between us; but go on. Let me hear what you have to say."

"I am coming to that. I want you to tell me where I can find Felix Zary."

Suddenly, without the slightest premonition, the cripple burst into a
hearty laugh. He rocked backward and forward in a perfect ecstasy of
enjoyment; for the moment, at any rate, he might have been on the very
best of terms with his companion.

"Oh, that is what you are driving at?" he said. "So you think that if you
could get Felix Zary out of the way you would be absolutely safe? Really,
it is marvellous how an otherwise clever man could be so blind to the
true facts of the case. My good sir, I will give you Zary's address with
pleasure."

Fenwick was obviously puzzled. Perhaps it was beginning to dawn upon
him that he had a man of more than ordinary intellect to grapple with.
He looked searchingly at the cripple, who was leaning back with eyes
half closed.

"Hang me, if I can understand you," he muttered. "I am in imminent danger
of my life, though I should be safe enough if Felix Zary and yourself
were out of the way."

"And you are quite capable of putting us out of the way," the cripple
said, gently. "Is not that so, my friend?"

"Aye, I could, and I would," Fenwick said in a fierce whisper. "If you
were both dead I could breathe freely; I could go to bed at night feeling
sure that I should wake in the morning. Nothing could trouble me then. As
to that accursed mine, I have done with it. Never again do I plant my
foot in Mexico."

"Fool that you are!" the cripple said in tones of infinite pity. "So you
think that if Zary and myself were out of the way you might die
eventually in your bed honored and respected of men? I tell you, never!
The vengeance is upon you, it is following you here, it is close at hand
now. You have already had your warning. Perhaps, for all I know to the
contrary, you may have had your second warning; that you have had one,
your face told me eloquently enough a few moments ago. I am quite sure
that a little quiet reflection will show you the absurdity of keeping me
a prisoner in my own house. Of course, I know I am entirely in your
hands, and that you may keep me here for weeks if you choose. It will be
very awkward for me, because I have important business on hand."

"I know your important business," Fenwick sneered. "Everything that goes
in your favor will naturally spell disaster to me. As I told you before,
it was only an accident that told me where you were; indeed, so changed
are you that I should not have recognised you if I had met you in the
street. No, on the whole, you will stay where you are."

At this point Venner clutched Gurdon's arm and dragged him hurriedly
across the landing down to the half staircase. So quickly was this done
that Gurdon had no time to ask the reason for it all.

"Someone coming down the stairs," Venner whispered. "Didn't you hear a
voice? I believe it is the girl in white again."

Surely enough, looking upward, they could see the slim white figure
creeping down the stairs. The girl was crooning some little song to
herself as she came along. She turned into the drawing-room and called
aloud to the cripple in the chair. With an oath on his lips, Fenwick
motioned her away.




CHAPTER XIV

MASTER OF THE SITUATION


"What have you come back here for?" Fenwick demanded. "You said you were
tired, and that you were going to bed, long ago."

The girl looked dreamily about her; it was some little time before she
appeared to appreciate the significance of Fenwick's question. She was
more like one who walks in her sleep than a human being in the full
possession of understanding.

"I don't know," she said, helplessly. She rubbed her eyes as if there had
been mist before them. "I was so tired that I lay on the bed without
undressing, and I fell fast asleep. Then I had a dream. I dreamed that
all the miserable past was forgotten, and that Charles was with me once
more. Then he seemed to call me, and I woke up. Oh, it was such a vivid
dream, so vivid, that I could not sleep again! I was so restless and
anxious, that I made up my mind to come downstairs, and, as I was passing
a door just now, it opened, and the face of Charles looked out. It was
only for a moment, then two men behind him dragged him back and the door
closed once more."

"A foolish fancy," Fenwick growled.

"It was not," the girl cried almost passionately. "I tried the door a
moment later, and it was locked. I tell you that Charles is in that room.
I cannot go to bed again until I am certain of the truth. Oh, why do you
keep me in suspense like this?"

"Mad," Fenwick muttered. "Mad as a March hare. Why don't you send her to
an asylum?"

"She is not mad," the cripple said in a curiously hard voice. "Something
tells me that she has made a discovery. You rascal, is it possible that
you have Charles Evors under this roof?"

Fenwick laughed, but there was something uneasy and strained about his
mirth. He glanced defiantly at the cripple, then his eyes dropped before
the latter's steady gaze.

"Why should I worry about Evors?" he asked. "The man is nothing to me,
and if by chance--"

The rest of Fenwick's sentence was drowned in a sudden uproar which
seemed to break out in a room overhead. The tense silence was broken by
the thud of heavy blows as if someone were banging on a door, then came
muttered shouts and yells of unmistakable pain. Hastily Fenwick rose from
his seat and made in the direction of the door. He had hardly advanced
two steps before he found himself confronted with the rim of a
silver-plated revolver, which the cripple was holding directly in the
line of his head.

"Sit down," the latter said tersely. "Sit down, or, as sure as I am a
living man, I'll fire. I could say that I fired the shot in self-defence,
and when the whole story comes to be told I have no fear that a jury
would disbelieve me. Besides, there is nothing to be afraid of. Those
sounds don't come from the police trying to force their way into the
house. On the contrary, it seems to me that some of your parasites are
having a misunderstanding over their cards. At any rate, you are not to
move. If you do, there will be an end once and for all of the millionaire
Mark Fenwick. Sit down, my child--you are trembling from head to foot."

"It was his voice," the girl cried. "I am certain that it was Charles who
called out just now."

Once more the shouts and cries broke out, once more came that banging on
the panels, followed by a splitting crash, after which the uproar
doubled. Evidently a door had given way and the conflict was being fought
out on the stairs.

"Shall we go and take a hand?" Gurdon whispered excitedly. "Murder might
be going on here."

"I think we had better risk it a little longer," was Venner's cautious
reply. "After all is said and done, we must not make ourselves too
prominent. If necessary we will take a hand, but, unless I am greatly
mistaken, the prisoner upstairs has got the better of his captors. Ah, I
thought so."

The sound of strife overhead suddenly ceased after two smashing blows,
in which evidently a man's clenched fist had come in contact with naked
flesh. There was a groan, the thud of a falling body, and the man in the
list slippers came rolling down the stairs. He was followed a moment
later by a young clean-shaven man dressed in a grey Norfolk suit. His
frame suggested power and strength, though his face was white like that
of one who is just recovering from a long illness. He was breathing very
hard, but otherwise he did not appear to have suffered much in the
struggle out of which he had emerged in so victorious a fashion. He made
his way direct to the drawing-room, and immediately a woman's voice
uprose in a long wailing cry.

"I'd give something to see that," Venner whispered. "Only I am afraid we
can't do anything until the man in the list slippers comes to his senses
and takes himself off. There is another one coming now. He doesn't look
much better off than his colleague."

Another man crept down the stairs, swaying as he came and holding on to
the balusters. He had a tremendous swelling over his left eye and a
terrible gash in his lip, from which the blood was flowing freely.
Altogether he presented a terrible aspect as he bent over the prostrate
form of his unconscious companion.

"Here, get up, wake up," he said. "What are you lying there for? He'll
be out of the house before we can turn round, and what will the governor
say then?"

The man in the slippers gradually assumed a sitting position and stared
stupidly about him. A hearty kick in the ribs seemed to restore him to
some measure of consciousness.

"Don't ask me," he said. "I never saw anything like it. Here's a chap who
has been in bed on and off for months coming out in this unexpected
manner and knocking us about as if we had been ninepins. What's become of
him, I should like to know?"

"What are you two ruffians doing there?" came Fenwick's voice from the
drawing-room. "Go back to your room, and I will send for you when I
want you."

The men slunk back again, probably by no means sorry to be out of further
trouble. No sooner had they disappeared than the two friends stood in the
entrance to the door of the drawing-room once more. The friendly mirror
again stood them in good stead, for by its aid they watched as dramatic
and thrilling a picture as ever was presented on any stage.

The young man in the Norfolk suit stood there side by side with the girl
in white. He had his arm about her waist. She clung to him, with her head
upon his shoulder; there were words of endearment on her lips. Just for
the moment she seemed to have forgotten that they were not alone; all
the world might have been made for herself and her lover. For the moment,
too, the dreamy look had left her face, and she no longer conveyed the
impression to a stranger's eyes that she was suffering from some form of
insanity. She was alert and vigorous once more.

"Oh, I knew that you would come back to me," she said. "I knew that you
were not dead, for all they told me so. How cruel they were to tell me
these things--"

"Stop," the cripple cried. "It sounds cruel and heartless for me to have
to interfere just now, but I must insist that you go back to your room,
Beth. Back at once."

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/9853