“I admit that one or two reforms are necessary, yet I’m not of opinion that in the present position of the Government the time is ripe to open the eyes of the public,” the Minister replied, drawing slowly at his cigar.
“Myself, I think no time ought to be lost in pointing out that the Criminal Investigation Department is not what it should be, owing to the fact that its officers are all drawn from the uniformed service—men who, in the main, come from rural districts. I cast no reflection upon them, for they do their best, but, I ask, are such men as shrewd, as educated, and as clever in investigating crime as the French or Italian detective—a man chosen because of his talent in that direction? Constables in uniform develop a peculiar ambling gait, and by this the London detective always betrays himself—his confrère in Paris, never. No, my dear Bridgman, the Scotland Yard detective is, each year, growing more and more incompetent. You have had some good men, some very excellent men, but nearly all have now retired. Indeed, under your present system, you seem to retire your most useful men. Only recently I understand that a sergeant—a naturalised Russian, who had been many years employed in the extradition branch, and who was a very clever officer—was retired merely because, owing to the fact of not receiving an English education, he could not pass the examination for an inspectorship. No, my dear sir, you want new blood at Scotland Yard—which is only ‘new’ in name. You want clever, intelligent men, not plain-clothes police-constables, if you are to unravel the mysteries of crimes which nowadays are succeeding each other with such alarming rapidity.”
“I cannot for the life of me see what this has to do with the unfortunate death of our mutual friend,” remarked Mr. Bridgman.
“It has. Just because Scotland Yard is faced with an inscrutable problem—with a mystery which is most remarkable and utterly bewildering—they coolly arrange for a verdict of suicide. And not only in that case—but in another, the death of some mysterious old man over at Pimlico.”
“And how do you know all this, pray?” inquired the Home Secretary, looking at him keenly.
“I—well, the fact is, I am in possession of certain information, Bridgman,” replied the young man, with a slight hesitation. “I tell you that there is a great mystery surrounding the death of both these men. They died by the same hand.”
“Are you certain of this, Cunningham?” asked the Home Secretary very surprised, for he had believed the report furnished by the police.
“I’m quite certain,” Gordon said earnestly. “And if the police will not reveal to me—in confidence, of course—the efforts they are making to solve the problem, then I shall put the question in the House, and expose the methods by which they manipulate evidence before a coroner, and hush up serious crime because of their own incompetence.”
“But surely, Cunningham, you’ll never do that! It would be a huge scandal in such an important public department,” cried the Minister, with undisguised alarm.
“Scandal or no, I don’t care. My friend Ravenscourt was murdered, and I intend that the assassin shall be unmasked,” replied Gordon firmly. “Therefore, perhaps, it would be as well if you ordered the Commissioner to reply to my queries—I, on my part, pledging myself to secrecy.”
“But, you see, the police will declare that to reveal their action might be to defeat the ends of justice.”
“I do not care. If they set up that plea, then I shall at once put the question upon the paper.”
The Home Secretary looked at the young man. He did not like the threat. Gordon Cunningham was a young and impetuous man, and an attack upon Scotland Yard would greatly increase his popularity.
Just at that moment their host suggested bridge, and they were compelled to rise.
“The matter rests with you, Bridgman,” said the young man; “but remember I mean to act as I have said.”
“Well,” remarked the Home Secretary, “I’ll think it over. I question very much if Scotland Yard will depart from its usual course—even in face of your threat.”
“Then I shall ask the question,” laughed Gordon, as he passed out of the room.
“I believe I shall obtain the information I seek,” the young man muttered to himself as, a couple of hours later, he was driving home to his chambers in Bruton Street. “Bridgman does not welcome the idea of a question in the House. He believes I am acting for the public welfare, and at the same time seeking a little cheap advertisement. He, at least, does not dream the real reason why I am so desirous of knowing in which direction the police inquiries are being directed.”
As he ascended the stairs and entered his chambers, Newton, his man, came forward, saying:
“There is a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. His business, he says, is very important, so he has remained. He’s been here nearly an hour, sir.”
“Who is he?” asked the young legislator, glancing at the stranger’s card as he stood in his cosy, luxurious, dimly-lit sitting-room, furnished with low divans, Eastern hangings, and quantities of bric-à-brac which he had collected in his travels in the Balkans, Asia Minor, and Arabia.
“He’s a stranger,” said his man. “Evidently he is in a great hurry to see you.”
Gordon sighed, for he was very tired after a long day and the fevered atmosphere of the bridge-table.
“Oh! show him in,” he said, casting off his coat and advancing to the fire.
A moment later a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man entered, carrying his crush hat in his hand, and, bowing politely, expressed regret at being compelled to call at that hour—for it was nearly eleven o’clock.
The visitor did not look more than fifty-five, and rather dandified in his smartly-cut dress clothes, black overcoat, and patent-leather boots. Upon his face was a pleasant, urbane smile.
Yet, as the dim light from the shaded lamps in the old brass Turkish lanterns fell across his profile, it revealed the sharply-cut features of John Ambrose, the man who was such a past-master in the art of disguise.
Gordon Cunningham, even though the light was dim and restful, instantly recognised his visitor. He stood there gasping, open-mouthed.
Ambrose, entirely unlike his real self, was quick to realise this. Yet, coolly and unperturbed he stood before him, his hand in his overcoat pocket, wherein reposed a big Browning revolver. His eager finger was upon the trigger. He would shoot through his coat if necessary. He had no compunction—and he took no risks.
John Ambrose, full of devilish cunning as always, was there for a purpose.
“Well?” gasped the young man, his face pale as death.
“Well?” said the man of mystery. “So at last I have the opportunity of a chat with you. You don’t seem exactly overjoyed to see me—eh?”
CHAPTER XV.
FROM THE BEYOND
Gordon Cunningham sank upon the nearest divan, and for a few seconds covered his face with his hands.
“Go away!” he cried in dismay. “Spare me this, Tulloch! I thought—I always thought——”
“Yes; you thought that I was dead, my dear Gordon,” Ambrose said in a deep, meaning voice, and with an evil grin. “I see, however, that you have recognised me! Probably you guess the nature of my errand?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Leave me!”
“Not before I have had a serious talk with you, my dear fellow,” was his cold reply. “Come, sit up. Face me like a man,” he urged.
The young fellow, crushed and trembling, did not stir.
“Ah!” the elder man exclaimed with a sneer, his appearance entirely different from when he had sat huddled up in the train. “I see, you can’t do that, eh? Well—well, it is hardly surprising. And yet I am here in your own interests. Raise your head, and listen to me. First, you may love Maidee Lambton—but I happen to know that she suspects the truth!”
“Suspects!” gasped the young man, raising his white face, his eyes staring wildly as he rose and closed the door carefully. “Does Maidee suspect?” he inquired in a low, hoarse whisper. He seemed filled with horror at the very thought that Maidee might have guessed his secret.
“Yes,” replied the other quietly.
“How do you know?”
“I met her the other day—by pure chance. I did not let her know who I was, but from what she told me I am certain that a deep and terrible suspicion has entered her heart.”
“And what did you say? You did not give me away?”
“Why should I?” asked the elder dandified man who, having removed his overcoat, stood upon the centre of the fine Persian rug, a smart, well-groomed figure in his perfectly-cut evening clothes. “Is it to my own interests to reveal anything?”
“No, it isn’t. It would be bad for you—if you dared!” Gordon snapped with a scowl. “If—if you told her anything, I—I’d, by Gad, Tulloch!—I’d kill you!”
“My dear Gordon, I know very well you would,” laughed his visitor. “But that isn’t the point. She suspects—and you must at once remove the suspicion.”
“How? Give me your advice. You are always so far-seeing and clever. How shall I act?”
“Take up in Parliament the mystery of Sir George Ravenscourt’s death, declare that he died by the hand of an assassin,” he said, looking straight into the other’s eyes, “and demand that Scotland Yard shall investigate. By adopting such a course you will exhibit a bold front. She believes in you, and if you bring up the subject in the House it will remove from her mind all suspicion.”
“Curiously enough,” said the young man, “I had decided upon acting just as you have suggested—alleging that it was not a case of suicide, and that the police have hushed up the matter for either a political or some ulterior motive.”
“Yes,” said the man he had addressed as Tulloch. “It is the only way. You love Maidee, eh?”
“I do, most devotedly. Surely you must know that!”
“But you must not disguise from yourself the fact that you are sitting upon the edge of a volcano,” the elder man remarked, looking across at the other in the dim half-light of the Eastern room. “You are a coming man, welcomed everywhere as a Cabinet Minister in embryo; yet—well, I should think,” he added, lowering his voice to a low, soft whisper, “I should think you can have but little real peace of mind with that skeleton in your cupboard—with the constant fear that the affair may be found out.”
“But who knows—except yourself, Tulloch?” asked the young man in a hard broken voice. “Surely she does not know—I mean, hers are mere suspicions.”
The elder man’s face relaxed into a strange, sinister smile, but in the uncertain light Gordon Cunningham did not distinguish it. His visitor’s face was exultant, triumphant.
“Of course, she has not forgotten, there are suspicions—yes, strong suspicions, my dear fellow. You must act at once in order to allay them. Show a bold front.”
“That was already my intention.”
“Pursue your usual rôle of anxious inquirer in the interests of justice into the death of Sir George. Criticise Scotland Yard, and boldly condemn the whole police system. Create a scandal—it will increase your popularity and remove Maidee’s suspicions.”
“Very well, I will,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I was only talking to Bridgman, the Home Secretary, to-night upon the subject, and he urged me not to put a question in the House.”
“Disregard him. Put down the question at once.”
And to this course the young man agreed, little knowing the abyss which the man Tulloch had opened before him, or the exquisite duplicity of the man whom he believed to be his friend.
Tulloch was a man who knew certain of his secrets, yet he had every confidence in him. He had met him under somewhat strange circumstances. Tulloch was a studious man and knew much concerning the complicated tangle of Balkan politics, therefore a friendship had sprung up between the pair. At one time, a year ago, they had been almost inseparable, for to Tulloch’s promptings and his clever diplomacy Gordon Cunningham had, in a great measure, owed his present “boom.”
Then suddenly he had awakened to the fact that Tulloch was not exactly the straightforward, honest person he had represented himself to be. Gradually the truth had become forced upon him that he had placed himself within the toils of an adventurer.
So Gordon then decided to act diplomatically. He picked a quarrel with Tulloch, and the latter, with that calm unconcern which was his most remarkable characteristic, had shrugged his shoulders and eleven months ago gone off to the Continent. A fortnight later came the news through a mutual friend that he had caught typhoid fever, and had died in an obscure hotel called the Tazzo d’Oro, in Ancona, on the Adriatic.
Gordon Cunningham had once again breathed freely. The man who had knowledge of the strange skeleton in his cupboard no longer lived; therefore he was free—free to love Maidee, free to rise to the high station which his friends everywhere predicted.
It was hardly surprising, therefore, that sudden sight of him, standing there alive in that dimly-lit room in Bruton Street, was the reverse of reassuring. His enemy, the only man who knew his secret, had risen, as if from the grave.
Yet Tulloch had made no threats. He made no reference even to certain discreditable facts of the past, save that which is recorded in these pages.
Nevertheless, in the brief silence that followed, the young man seated upon the divan, again staring and pensive, was wondering by what means Tulloch suspected the truth concerning the affair at Carlton House Terrace. Yet was he not a most remarkable man? No secret had ever seemed safe from him, however strictly it might be kept. He possessed some weird power by which he read the inner lives of men as others read a printed book.
Indeed, from the first moment they had met, Cunningham had held in a certain degree of awe this man whose remarkably wide political knowledge had been of such use to him, and whose interest in national defence was so full of keen enthusiasm. There was something decidedly uncanny about him—though what it was he could never describe.
That he was an adventurer—a calm, unscrupulous and clever adventurer—there could be no doubt. His friends were mostly vulgar undesirables, and he certainly was no better than his associates.
He had, without asking permission, selected a cigar from the box upon the table, and was engaged in lighting it.
The young legislator sat gazing upon him without a word. What were this man’s intentions? he was wondering. Had there been some motive in the pretence that he had died in Ancona? Assuredly so. He recollected how the false news had been conveyed to him by letter from one of the man’s friends.
Much the young man owed to this strange, unscrupulous person whose knowledge of men and things was so wide and remarkable. Tulloch could engineer anything, and gradually he had wound himself into his confidence and learnt his secrets almost unconsciously.
“Look here!” said Gordon, rising to his feet and facing his visitor boldly. “Why have you come back here, Tulloch? Heron wrote to me, telling me that you had died in Italy.”
“Well, he was a trifle mistaken,” laughed his friend. “I’m quite well aware that my presence here is not—well, not exactly pleasant, Gordon. I know just a little too much, eh?”
“Yes, you do!” cried the young man angrily. “You first misled me with news of your death, and now, I suppose, your intention is to blackmail me, eh? Well, how much do you want for your silence?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,” was Tulloch’s reply. “I never have blackmailed you, and do not intend to do so.”
“But you’ve sailed pretty near the wind, haven’t you?” asked Gordon, fiercely. “You remember how you made me back that bill for a thousand for Heron—and I had to pay?”
The man who was such a past-master in the art of disguise and subterfuge shrugged his shoulders, answering:
“Not a very great price for all I have done in your interests, Cunningham, eh? Reflect a moment. Where would you have been without my aid—without my silence?”
“I know. I quite admit all that,” he said impatiently. “But I want you to be straight and open with me. Why are you here?”
“Purely in your own interests. You are in a hole, and I’m assisting you out of it.”
“How do you know?”
“By the same means that I have discovered other things concerning your rather remarkable career,” replied the man with an evil grin. “Don’t you think you are a very lucky young fellow to have risen to become the most popular of the coming politicians, eh?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips. “Examine yourself, Cunningham, and ask yourself whether your actual worth and your extraordinary intelligence are really as great as that attributed to you. You are acclaimed a genius. Why? Because, by my influence, certain journalists declared that you were. The public read, and became convinced. To-day is not an age when merit is acknowledged. In the mad hurry of this modern world of ours there is no time to think, hence the self-advertiser is accepted at his own estimation, and the possession of an ample income is of far greater import to the man who wants to ‘get on’ than the possession of brains. Most honours are merely matters of money—and judicious advertising. And you’ve been advertised widely enough—in all conscience.”
“I admit it, Tulloch. But you are always so infernally blunt. You can lay a man out upon the dissecting-table and examine his conscience—nay, his very soul—just as you have often done mine.”
“I found very little honour in yours,” declared the elder man with a laugh.
“Yes!” cried the young fellow in a changed voice. “You tempted me to do what I did, and now you are here to taunt me!”
“That’s it,” laughed Tulloch, examining the end of his cigar. “Abuse me—your best friend. How strange it is that you are not more grateful!”
“Grateful to you for returning here when I had so foolishly believed that I had seen the last of you, and heard the last of your evil counsel for ever!” cried Gordon, fiercely.
“My dear fellow, I merely came here in order to make a suggestion entirely in your own interests,” declared the other.
“Yes, but tell me,” asked Gordon, “how do you know that Ravenscourt did not commit suicide? Answer me that question,” he demanded wildly, advancing towards him threateningly. “You, who possess a supernatural power to fathom men’s secrets and read their innermost hearts, shall tell me by what means you learnt the truth—or, by Gad!” and he clenched his fist, biting his thin white lip.
“Enough!” replied the other, standing quite calm in the centre of the room and laughing. “I think I know the truth, my dear Gordon. That is sufficient. Act as I have directed; demand an explanation of the action of Scotland Yard. Save yourself now, before it becomes too late, or——”
“Well! Why should I obey your orders, pray?”
“Because if you do not,” answered Tulloch, fixing his keen, crafty eyes upon the young man in the dim light—“because if you do not, Maidee herself shall know the truth!”
“You—you would do that, eh?” he gasped, his face showing white and haggard in the gloom. “You would betray me—you infernal fiend!”
“Yes,” was the cold, hard response of the weird man of mystery. “I am here for that purpose. Obey me, or she shall know the disgraceful truth!”
CHAPTER XVI.
A SCENE IN THE HOUSE
Next evening, in response to an invitation over the telephone, Gordon Cunningham snatched a couple of hours from his duties at the House and dined en famille at Mrs. Beresford’s, in Gloucester Terrace.
He, however, found Maidee cold and suspicious. Her greeting was not warm and affectionate, as usual, and she seemed to be covertly watching his every movement with her big, velvety eyes. The widow, in her neat black, remained very sad, and spoke but little at dinner; therefore Gordon did not announce his intention of putting the question in the House until he found himself alone with Maidee in the pretty morning-room, the two elder ladies having gone upstairs to the drawing-room.
He took her in his arms and kissed her white brow, as was his habit; but he felt that through her ran an instinctive thrill not of love, but of repulsion.
What did she suspect?
“Maidee,” he said after a pause, “do you know that I have resolved to tackle Scotland Yard, and demand the truth concerning Sir George’s death?”
“The truth!” she echoed, staring at him. “I—I don’t understand. What do you mean? What truth?”
“Well, I have, all along, held a suspicion that Sir George did not commit suicide. Therefore I shall to-morrow put a question in the House, asking why the matter has been hushed up.”
“Perhaps for political reasons,” she remarked meaningly.
“I want your opinion,” he said, holding the pale, nervous girl in his arms. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“No,” she declared; “it was murder.” It was the first time she had admitted the truth.
“Then why have the police misled us?” he asked. “Why are they shielding the culprit?”
She glanced swiftly at his pale, intense face.
“Probably they will not shield him any longer, Gordon, when you put the question,” she said.
“I intend that the death of Sir George shall be avenged!” declared the young man firmly. “I know that from a political point it is injudicious of me to criticise our police methods at the present moment. But——”
“But the assassin must not go scot free, Gordon!” she interrupted in a low, changed voice. “Sir George was killed, and his murderer must be brought to justice—whoever he may be!”
“I intend to do all in my power to achieve that end,” he assured her, looking into her sweet countenance.
She was undecided. Were her suspicions well grounded—those horrible suspicions which had arisen within her, and to which she had referred in so veiled a manner two days before when, for a few moments, she had seen Uncle John? Or was she upon a false scent?
For the past forty-eight hours she had been sorely troubled. Scarcely had she slept because of the awful thought which had seized her—that he, the man she loved so dearly, was an assassin.
To Uncle John she had not openly expressed her belief that Gordon had knowledge of the crime. They had, however, discussed the point. So full had her mind been of the terrible suspicion which had arisen within it, that she had quite unconsciously revealed to the old man the trend of her belief.
For him, clever and crafty as he was, that had been sufficient. He had acted at once, and had now reduced Gordon Cunningham to a state of terror. For what reason was known only to himself. His actions were frequently mysterious, and yet in them there was always a definite and direct purpose.
Maidee had sunk into a big easy chair, and her lover was sitting upon the arm in an indolent attitude, his hand upon her shoulder. He had lit a cigarette at her invitation, and was slowly blowing a cloud of blue smoke from his lips.
She, on her part, remained silent, pondering. Was it fair to poor Gordon to prejudge him? she asked herself. And yet how very easy it would have been for him, a constant visitor to the house, to have entered on that fatal night at Sir George’s invitation, and strike him down while he sat at his table! Nevertheless, there was, she recollected, a serious flaw in such a theory. When Sir George was struck he had evidently been writing for some time, a proof that the assassin must have crept noiselessly into the room. He certainly was not present with the victim’s knowledge, for was not Sir George engaged in writing a most confidential document? Yet he might have entered with Sir George, and afterwards left, his host believing him to have gone home, whereas he had secreted himself in one or other of the dark rooms running off the hall.
But the main point was motive. What possible motive could Gordon have in securing Sir George’s death? As far as she could see, there was none—absolutely none.
The eyes of the pair met. The girl held her breath for a second; then, with quick resolve, she threw both her arms about his neck and kissed him—kissed him with the same passionate fervour as of old, crying:
“Gordon—oh, Gordon! I have been so very unhappy.”
“Unhappy, darling!” he exclaimed. “Why?”
“Because—because of all this terrible trouble which has lately fallen upon our house—because of the mystery of it all,” she sobbed, bursting into tears.
“I know,” he said in a low voice. “I know how greatly you must have been upset. I wonder that you and Lady Ravenscourt don’t go abroad somewhere for a time.”
“Abroad!” she echoed, raising her pretty face to his. “No, she won’t go abroad. She intends, she says, to remain and see if she can assist the police in unravelling the mystery.”
“Scotland Yard will very quickly become active when I ask the question,” he said with a grim laugh. “No Government Department likes a question put in the House, for it always reflects upon it.”
“The police are bunglers,” declared Maidee. “They ought to have solved the problem long ago.”
“I can’t think why they hushed it up and secured a verdict of suicide,” remarked her lover. “Depend upon it, there is much more mystery surrounding the affair than we imagine. Because of that, Scotland Yard took such an unusual course.”
Maidee looked again into her lover’s face, and there saw honesty and straightforwardness written. Its expression was entirely unlike that when he had discussed the affair with his whilom friend Tulloch. But Gordon Cunningham was a very good actor. He had “played to the gallery” ever since he had left college—and with remarkable success.
He smiled upon his well-beloved, and, with her soft little hand held in his, he bent and imprinted a long, passionate kiss upon her ready lips—a kiss which she reciprocated.
He realised that, just as Tulloch had predicted, whatever suspicions she had held, they were now swept away by his apparent boldness in putting a poignant question in Parliament.
“Do you know, darling,” he said, as his arm stole around her neat waist as she sat in the chair, a sweet and pretty figure in her dinner-gown of black chiffon, which increased the whiteness of her neck and arms, “do you know that a great deal of your disquietude would have been avoided if you had only told me your suspicions from the first? Instead of that, you led me to believe that you agreed with the verdict of the coroner’s jury.”
“I was compelled. The police made us all promise silence. Had you not told me of your suspicions, Gordon, I should not have mentioned mine.”
“Surely the precautions of the police are in themselves mysterious,” he exclaimed. “I suppose it is not possible that some constable or detective is the criminal—that they know it, and have hushed it up in order to prevent a sensation—eh?”
“I never thought of that!” gasped Maidee, half starting from her chair. “If such were the case the authorities would combine in a conspiracy of silence, would they not?”
“Exactly; just as they are doing now,” replied her lover. “A constable may have entered the house in secret, and perhaps, in a fit of homicidal mania, struck down Sir George.”
The girl was silent. The suggestion appealed to her as a possible solution of the mystery. How unjust she had been, she reflected, to have entertained suspicions of dear Gordon—the man who was all the world to her.
She entwined her bare arms about his neck once again, and kissed him fondly of her own accord, while his heart beat quickly in secret gratification that his diplomacy should have been so successful.
She loved him very dearly. Of that he was well aware. He, on his part, thought of no other woman but her. She was very young, it was true, but all London had voted her to be one of the prettiest girls in society, while Gordon had long ago realised that her disposition was an extremely sweet one, that her intelligence was remarkable, and that they possessed an affinity of soul.
She had suddenly brightened and become her own vivacious self again.
“Yes,” she said eagerly; “ask the question, Gordon. Awaken the police from their apathy, and compel them to solve the mystery. Their action has been simply disgraceful!”
“To-morrow, at question time, I shall do so,” he said. “I have already framed it and put it down. The Home Secretary is furious, I hear.”
For nearly an hour the well-matched pair sat together, happy in each other’s love, he smoking in a careless attitude, his arm about her waist, and she gazing up at him with eyes full of an unbounded affection. And their lips met in solemn pledges of undying love.
Afterwards they ascended to the drawing-room, where sat Mrs. Beresford and Lady Ravenscourt, the former playing patience and the other reading.
Maidee seated herself at the grand piano, and, at Gordon’s request, sang several of those sweet little French chansons which always charmed him so. Possessing a well-trained soprano voice, and knowing French so well, she sang them with wonderful vivacity.
Gordon said nothing to the widow of his intentions of the morrow, for fear of paining her, and about eleven o’clock he bowed over the hands of the two ladies, saying:
“A division is expected about midnight, so I have to get across to the House again,” and, wishing them good-night, he kissed Maidee in the hall, and, entering the taxi which had been telephoned for, drove away.
Next afternoon, just before the House went in to prayers, a small knot of members stood in the lobby discussing Cunningham’s question upon the paper.
“Most injudicious at this moment!” snapped a stout, bald-headed man representing a Scottish constituency.
“Merely for self-advertisement!” declared a younger man, jealous of Gordon’s fame. “It’s scandalous that the time of the House should be taken up like this.”
“Well,” exclaimed another, a short, rather ill-dressed man, “there’s some mystery about Sir George Ravenscourt’s death, no doubt. I, for one, would like to see it satisfactorily cleared up. There are some funny rumours in the clubs.”
“No mystery at all,” asserted the bald-headed man. “He committed suicide. That was proved at the inquest.”
“We shall see,” replied the member for South-East Berkshire.
The lobby was the centre of an animated scene, as it always is before the Speaker takes the chair; members chattering eagerly, bustling to and fro, obtaining their correspondence from the post-office, giving instructions to their secretaries, or seated aside on the benches in private discussion. Two men, members of the public, were standing together in the corner of the lobby. One was a fair-haired young man—the other the thin, sad-faced Italian priest, now dressed in dark tweeds.
At last the members went into prayers, after which the Press and strangers were admitted to the galleries, and the House opened with a loud and commanding:
“Order-r-r! Order!” from the Speaker.
On each side of the House question-papers fluttered in the hands of members as, one after another, the questions were replied to by the Government, ever strenuous to retain the confidence of the country.
There were some very awkward ones regarding certain events in India, until at last Gordon Cunningham rose and called attention to the question put down in his name.
It was to ask the Home Secretary “if his attention has been directed to the suspicious and mysterious death of Sir George Ravenscourt, Baronet, a member of this House, who died in London on the night of January the seventeenth; whether it is not a fact that the coroner’s jury have returned a verdict of suicide; whether it is not a fact that all the evidence pointed conclusively to murder; whether the authorities have not taken strenuous steps to hush up the matter, and whether the police have not in their possession a certain document or documents of a very remarkable nature bearing upon the case?” He also asked whether the police had, in face of the verdict of the jury at the inquest, taken any steps to investigate the strange affair.
When Gordon resumed his seat, the Home Secretary rose from his seat on the Treasury bench, annoyance plainly apparent upon his clean-shaven countenance.
Gordon, breathless in expectation, sat looking at him on the other side of the House, with its rows of lounging members in all sorts of indolent attitudes.
The Minister was in the act of fumbling among his many papers, preparatory to replying, when a note was suddenly thrust into Cunningham’s hand.
The young man took it, tore it open, and glanced at its ill-written, ill-spelt contents. Then, with a strange look upon his face, he crushed it quickly into his jacket pocket.
A low cry escaped his lips next second, and several members seated near saw him half rise from the bench, then reel and fall heavily forward in a crumpled heap upon the floor, striking his head as he collapsed.
In an instant there was considerable confusion, and the Home Secretary, wondering what had occurred, resumed his seat without answering the question.
“The honourable member has fainted!” shouted someone, addressing the Speaker; and the proceedings were stopped while Cunningham was carried forth into the open air.
“Ah! nervous breakdown!” many members declared, shaking their heads wisely. “He’s been overworked,” said some; “Been burning the candle at both ends for a long time,” exclaimed others. “Poor Cunningham!” exclaimed several old parliamentary hands. “Feared he was too brilliant a young fellow to last! They say he takes drugs!”
And as he lay unconscious, with a doctor at his side, there, crushed in his jacket pocket, reposed a half-sheet of thumbed note-paper, blotted and scrawled, which gave plainly the cause of his sudden faintness—a message which, at any moment, might be discovered and read!
CHAPTER XVII.
TO PAY THE PRICE
Two hours later, in the gathering London twilight, Gordon Cunningham was sitting alone beside the fire in his Eastern room at Bruton Street, silent and thoughtful.
The haggard look upon his pale countenance was sufficient index to his mind.
The doctor and one of his friends had brought him home in a taxi, and, now he had recovered, they had left him to rest. The fainting fit had, the medical man declared, been due to overwork, and complete rest was the only remedy.
Suddenly Newton opened the door noiselessly and brought in the evening paper which his master had ordered. Gordon glanced eagerly at it, and read the description of the scene and the expressions of regret at his unfortunate seizure.
“I was a fool—a cursed fool!” he cried fiercely, when his man had left the silent room, with its dark decorations and embroidered hangings. “I ought not to have trusted myself. And yet,” he added breathlessly, “I wonder—I wonder——”
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and in doing so felt a piece of paper. The contact caused him to start. He had not recollected it before!
He drew forth the dirty half-sheet of note-paper, and held it between his trembling fingers.
“I—I quite forgot it!” he gasped. “I ought to have destroyed it, but there wasn’t time. I don’t know what came over me—I seemed to be stricken down as though someone had dealt me a blow. And no wonder!”
He opened the paper, and his eyes again fell upon those ill-written lines, evidently in the round, bold hand of a child, by whom the original, written by a foreigner, had been copied.
They read:
“Sir,—Why do you dare ask a question upon a matter about which you yourself know sufficient? Instantly withdraw your impudent reflections upon the police, or you will receive a sudden surprise. Only you prevent your own exposure by withdrawing. If the question is asked, then the consequences will be swift and just, and the disgraceful truth will be known by the world.”
It was undated and unsigned—the mysterious message which had been handed along to him as he lolled upon the leather-covered bench, and had apparently come from nowhere.
Who had sent it?
Again he held his breath as he re-read those ominous lines, his thin, white lips pressed tightly together. What could it mean?
Surely it was not a trick on the part of the Government to evade an awkward inquiry?
No. Somebody knew! But who that somebody could be was a complete enigma. Was this Tulloch’s revenge?
What if one or other of his political friends had noticed him read that note and crush it into his pocket before his seizure! What if the curiosity of anybody had been aroused, and it had been taken out and read during his unconsciousness! What then?
From the report of that afternoon’s sitting of Parliament it appeared that the business of the House had been at once resumed after his removal, the Home Secretary refraining from replying to the question in the absence of the questioner.
The House had regarded the incident as somewhat curious, but not really more curious than many incidents which sometimes occur during its deliberations. Besides, it was known by everyone that young Cunningham was leading a terribly strenuous life, and a breakdown was not at all unexpected.
As he sat there, staring at the mysterious missive, the telephone bell rang sharply, and he rose and answered.
It was Maidee. She had just seen the report in the paper, and inquired anxiously whether he were now all right.
“Oh! I’m quite myself again, dearie,” he replied cheerfully over the ’phone. “The House seemed unusually close this afternoon, and I suppose I fainted—that’s all. It was at a most unfortunate moment. I’m very sick that I haven’t been able to get answers to my questions.”
“Never mind,” she exclaimed. “As long as you are right again, what matters, Gordon? You’ll be able to tackle the Home Secretary to-morrow. Are you coming round this evening? Do, if you feel well enough—won’t you, dear?”
“If I feel all right I will, of course. I shan’t go back to the House to-day.”
“That’s right,” was the reply. “You must really have a change. I insist upon it. I warned you the other day that you looked as if you wanted one. And now I do hope you’ll take my advice before you get really ill.”
“Well,” he laughed, “I’ll see. We’ll talk it over when I come round after dinner. Au revoir, dearest.”
And then he rang off.
“Ah! Maidee! Maidee!” he cried, wringing his hands as he paced the dim room in his feverish agony. “What can I do? How can I act? Gradually, by slow degrees, my enemies are now closing upon me. Soon—very soon—they will rise and crush me. I took one false step, and from it I have never been able to draw back. The evil powers of the one behind me pushed me forward irresistibly, until now I stand upon the very brink of the abyss. Ah! if you only knew the truth, Maidee——” he cried, covering his hard, drawn face with his hands. “If you only knew the truth you would pity me!”
Suddenly he halted, as though recollecting that he still held the strange warning.
“Who could have sent this?” he again asked himself. “What new enemy has now arisen against me? But, whoever it is, he knows something—the mysterious, unknown person who sent this holds me in the palm of his hand!”
The fact that it had been copied by a child was sufficient to show that the one who sent the warning intended to remain hidden.
“I must see Tulloch!” he gasped after a long silence. “He knows all secrets. I must seek his advice. But—but where is he? He left me no address. And yet if he sees to-day’s incident in the paper he most surely will return. Yes—I must once again seek the advice of the man who is my bête noire, the man in whose power I am so utterly and completely. Vainly I believed that his evil influence had passed out of my life for ever—that I was free at last. But alas!” he whispered hoarsely, “that cannot be now—now that I——”
Newton entered with letters, but Gordon tossed them aside unopened. The man had switched on the light, and was lowering the blinds when his master said:
“Mr. Tulloch may call—that elderly gentleman who waited for me. If he comes again I particularly want to see him, Newton. Tell him to wait.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man gravely as he withdrew.
Under the dim, shaded lights in the Moorish arches of the room Gordon Cunningham looked very ill, and terribly worn. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks blanched, and his whole expression was as of one haunted by some terrible dread.
He crossed the room, examined himself in a long mirror, and his eyebrows contracted.
“Ah!” he sighed. “If I could only find Tulloch! I must see him.”
Then he took up the telephone, and after some delay made inquiry of three different men whom he knew to be friends of the man he had believed to be dead.
All these expressed surprise that they should be asked such a question. They each apparently regarded Gordon as a little eccentric, in view of the fact that Tulloch was known to have died in Italy.
The man was evidently avoiding his friends. He had always some ulterior motive, which was usually a sinister one.
Presently Gordon burned the strange note that had been put into his hand, together with its envelope, and then, passing into his bedroom, he leisurely dressed for dinner.
A dozen times the telephone bell rang, and Newton was kept busy answering anxious inquirers who had seen the accounts of his master’s illness in the evening papers.
Suddenly the man opened the door of Gordon’s room, and said:
“There’s Mr. Tulloch on the telephone, sir. He wishes to speak to you.”
“Tulloch!” echoed his master excitedly. Rushing to the instrument eagerly, he found that his enemy was at an office in the City.
“Come over at once and see me,” he urged. “I must speak with you without delay. Something serious has occurred.”
“All right,” replied Tulloch’s voice; “I’ll come immediately. I hope it’s nothing bad, Gordon—eh?”
“Come—and I’ll tell you all about it,” the young man said, and then returned to complete dressing.
He was all impatience until, twenty minutes later, Tulloch stood in the dimly-lit apartment and grasped the young man’s hand.
“What does all this mean—eh?” he asked. “I read it in the paper. What an infernal contretemps this afternoon!”
“Yes,” replied the other in a low voice as he sank upon one of the soft lounges. “But mine was not an illness, Tulloch. I fainted from—well, from fear.”
“From fear!” cried his friend in surprise. “Fear of what?”
Gordon explained in detail all that had occurred, adding: “I wish I had kept the note, but I very foolishly burned it only a few minutes before you rang up. I ought to have kept it for you to see.”
“It being in a child’s hand would not convey any clue as to who actually wrote it,” Tulloch remarked with a dark, thoughtful look as he slowly rubbed his chin. “The wording was evidently that of a foreigner.”
Well and smartly dressed, with a monocle dangling from a silk cord, and still wearing his overcoat, Tulloch presented the appearance of a prosperous City man as he lay back in the big saddle-bag chair, his legs stretched out towards the fire.
“Well,” Gordon exclaimed, “I want your opinion. How shall I act?”
The man before him did not reply. How much did he really know? Gordon wondered. From him no secret, however closely guarded, was ever safe; therefore he was hoping that by his aid he would be able to identify the person who had sent that mysterious warning coupled with threats.
“Somebody knows. That’s very evident,” Tulloch remarked at last.
“Do you think so?” gasped the unhappy young fellow. “Is my secret really out?” Or, flashed into Gordon’s mind, had Tulloch sent it himself?
“Well, I’m very much afraid that it seems so,” replied the elder man. “Have you no enemy whom you suspect?”
“I’ve been racking my brains to think, but cannot fix upon anyone.”
Tulloch looked across the dimly lit apartment at the young man’s agitated face.
“No rival for Maidee’s affections, for instance?”
“Many fellows are jealous of me, I expect,” replied Gordon. “Maidee is much admired and very popular, as you know. But I can think of no one likely to have discovered the truth—the truth as known to you and me,” he whispered.
“An enemy is not likely to show his hand—at least at present,” remarked Tulloch grimly. “It is certainly curious that your mysterious opponent should wish to hush up the affair. One would have thought that if he had ideas of secret vengeance he would have waited until the question had been answered, and then——”
“Yes, and then have spoken the truth,” Gordon said slowly. “He might have had a complete and terrible revenge if he had so wished. But you see I am fighting in the dark. I do not, unfortunately, know the identity of my enemy.”
A strange look crossed his visitor’s features, an expression which, in the dimness of that apartment, Gordon could not distinguish.
“Yes,” he agreed; “it is unfortunate—most unfortunate, my dear Cunningham. We fondly believed that our secret was quite safe, didn’t we?”
“I only dared to ask the question because you compelled me, Tulloch,” declared the unhappy man in despair. “And in acting boldly I have, alas! brought destruction upon myself.”
“Not destruction,” the other asserted. “The situation is certainly a trifle critical for you. But we must discover the identity of the person who thus utters threats. And having done that, we must form some counter-plot—to silence him. He must be silenced—at all hazards.”
“Can you really do that?” cried the young man eagerly. “I know your marvellous power of getting to know men’s secrets, Tulloch. Discover who this enemy of mine really is—and—and save me,” he implored.
“It might be done—if Maidee did not suspect,” the elder man said reflectively.
“But she doesn’t suspect now. I took your advice, and in acting boldly I have removed her suspicions.”
Again an evil shadow fell across Tulloch’s countenance.
“Very well,” he said. “I will see what I can do on your behalf. And yet—yet when last I was here you said some rather hard things of me, didn’t you?”
“No, no!” cried Gordon in quick eagerness. “Forget it all. Name your own price, Tulloch—but save me!”
The man’s face relaxed into a sinister grin of triumph, while his dark eyes shot a keen, inquisitive look at the unhappy man seated huddled before him. Gordon, driven to despair, was now ready—nay, anxious—to resume friendship with his visitor—the man who held him in his toils so utterly and so completely. The day of reckoning was near.
Little did he dream the actual truth. Indeed, if Tulloch had at that moment revealed the real, astounding facts to him he would have flatly refused to believe.
“Well,” said his visitor, “I will help you—but remember,” he added in a slow, meaning voice, “I am not a philanthropist.”
Gordon knew that he wanted money—as always. If he required his aid, then he must pay the price.
Ah! And what a price!
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MARBLE FACE
The early days of March.
The afternoon was dull and wintry, with a dispiriting greyness hanging over London.
Big Ben, high above, had just chimed, and the great bell had boomed forth three o’clock.
In Parliament Square, that little oasis of green grass in Westminster, the traffic of motor-’buses and taxi-cabs was increasing, and foot passengers, wrapped warmly against the east wind, hurried to and fro up Victoria Street, Whitehall, and over Westminster Bridge.
Within Westminster Abbey, in the grand old north transept—the entrance to which is in Parliament Square—all was hushed, gloomy and gradually darkening. The huge old pile stood mysterious and full of deep shadows on that grey, depressing, windy afternoon.
The noise of the traffic did not penetrate within those time-mellowed precincts, where the dim light struggled red, blue and orange through the magnificent rose-windows, showing the figures of the apostles in ancient glass. The high groined columns, the vaulted roof, and the dark, solemn interior, vast and gloomy, with its many splendid monuments and statues standing forth in relief, impressed the small crowd of sightseers which, year in, year out, are never absent from England’s most historic abbey.
In the Statesmen’s Corner—just as one enters from the hurry of Parliament Square—many visitors of various tongues came and went. They paused, conversing in whispers before the two rows of life-sized statues of the departed great; Gladstone, Beaconsfield, the Cannings, Pitt, Peel and the others, reflecting, admiring and remembering, for that, and Poets’ Corner in the south transept, opposite, are the two most sought-for spots by the hundreds of thousands of strangers who annually make a pilgrimage to Westminster.
The double row of illustrious British statesmen, each upon his circular pedestal, and each in characteristic attitude, stood silent, impressive, almost ghostly, in the gloom, while those who entered stood by, consulting their guide-books.
Surely no corner of our giant London, the hub of the hustling modern world, is so full of memories of the great—of the men who made the British Empire what it is to-day—than that spot, and on that afternoon one overheard expressions of admiration in a dozen tongues.
Of the many who passed by probably not one noticed, back in the deep shadow, just within the door, an elderly, ill-dressed and rather decrepit-looking man, white-haired and white-bearded, and wearing a shabby, snuff-coloured overcoat, who had paused to rest upon one of the old oak benches.
Unseen, he sat motionless, his pale face turned towards one of the high marble effigies—that of a statesman in the robes of a doctor of laws, a noble, handsome-looking man with prominent nose, rather high cheek-bones, his right hand across his breast, and his left at his side. It stood close to the statue of Gladstone, and its circular base bore in great bold, black letters the simple inscription:
ERECTED BY PARLIAMENT
To
The Right Honourable
The Earl of Ellersdale, K.G.,
Twice Prime Minister of England.
Born 1832. Died 1890.
With its back to one of the high, round Norman columns on the left, it stood out in strong relief, with a softly tempered light, shed from a long stained-glass window, revealing the clear-cut profile. The light from the window behind fell directly across it, bringing it into more prominence than the statues on either side, rendering the sculptor’s masterpiece an almost speaking effigy of the dead Premier as he had so frequently been seen in the House of Commons in the act of delivering one of his world-famous speeches.
The shabby old man sitting back in the shadow was well known to the black-gowned vergers. He haunted the precincts of the Abbey at all hours. Often he would remain there a whole day, wandering up and down the nave, or along the ancient cloisters. Sometimes he would wish them a whispered “good-day,” but generally, with his shabby old silk hat in his hand, he would shuffle on aimlessly, now and then sitting upon a bench to rest.
He would have no doubt been warned off as a suspicious character long ago had not the officials known him for years. They called him “Old Chestnut,” on account of the colour of the threadbare overcoat which he had worn summer and winter ever since his first appearance there. He was a trifle eccentric, they declared, like many of those strange characters who frequent our public buildings, and just as harmless as the little old woman in faded black shawl who came every morning for years and sat for one hour upon a certain bench in the south transept before the bust of Thackeray, her lips moving as though in prayer.
“Old Chestnut”—for nobody knew his real name—sometimes entered the Abbey as soon as it was opened to the public and did not leave till closing time, on such occasions surreptitiously consuming dry biscuits from his pocket. Now and then he would join parties of visitors and be conducted by one of the vergers, who explained the various historic portions of the Abbey. This he had done dozens of times, always giving the verger a tip, just like the rest of the sightseers.
On other occasions, apparently in order that the people should regard him as a stranger, he would carry a tattered Baedeker and pretend the greatest interest in all he investigated.
With the man who sold guides and post cards at the stall just outside the north door he was on terms of friendship, and would spend hours chatting with him. Indeed, on occasions he would keep an eye upon the stall if the vendor of guides had reason to absent himself.
Many theories had been put forward by the officials of the Abbey, from the Dean himself down to the sweepers, regarding the reason of the old man’s regular attendance there. As far as could be gathered, there was no special attraction for him in the silent, gloomy interior, save that he seemed to delight in wandering among the monuments of the illustrious dead, at the same time watching the constant stream of the living.
That afternoon as he sat back in the shadow resting, one of the vergers nodded across to him, and he returned the salute with a quiet smile, as though gratified by the recognition. Ever since early morning he had been wandering about, and was now resting in Statesmen’s Corner with the monument to the great Lord Ellersdale straight before him, his eyes half-closed, his thin, clasped hands resting upon his cherry stick, his old silk hat placed carefully at his side.
In the gloom of the great nave the dark figure of a tall man halted and stood watching him, unseen—a thin man with a yellow face—Don Mario.
Only for a moment he watched, then, apparently satisfied, he turned upon his heel and walked out, like an evil shadow, a strange, sinister smile upon his hard features.
Though half asleep, “Old Chestnut” was nevertheless watching with keen interest a party of American women, some of whom wore blue veils, being conducted around by a guide.
“The Statesmen’s Corner,” the man was saying in his parrot-like way; “here are buried the greatest of England’s statesmen during the past two centuries. Gladstone and Beaconsfield you see stand side by side with that smaller monument between them; the Cannings in a group, and that, yonder, is Ellersdale, and is declared by critics to be the finest piece of sculpture of the whole. Perhaps it is owing to its better position, with a better light, that it is the more noticeable—but in any case it is a fitting monument to the great statesman who, in more than one serious crisis, was the saviour of his country.”
“He was a fine man, and always a good friend of the United States, anyway,” declared one of the women, and then the party moved across to the south transept—to Poets’ Corner.
The old man’s eyes followed the party, and an amused expression crossed his white face.
The quaint opinions of American tourists often caused him to smile. Sometimes the ignorance of English history displayed by questioners was utterly amazing, and many most extraordinary questions had he overheard in the course of his long years of idling within those time-mellowed, historic precincts. Sometimes—in order to kill the hours, it seemed—he would explain things to a party of country cousins—working people who could not afford to pay the fee for a guide. He knew the Abbey as well as the vergers themselves, and certainly when he spoke it was evident that he possessed a deep and profound knowledge of its history and antiquities.
The party of Americans passed away into the gloom, and the corner where he sat again became silent and deserted. That was no unusual thing. Sightseers usually came in batches. If one person paused before a monument, then another would be attracted to the same spot, and another and another, and so on.
Big Ben had just rung out the notes of the quarter, and so dark had it now become that the electric lights had been switched on in the more remote parts of the nave, the little lamps glowing like stars in the vast, black void of the great interior.
Of a sudden the door close to where the old man was seated opened, and two figures entered from Parliament Square—a man in a dark overcoat, accompanied by a slim, well-dressed young girl in black, wearing a large hat, a long sealskin coat and a veil.
“It is just here,” exclaimed the man briskly, as they passed by where “Old Chestnut” was seated. “See, at the corner—the one standing out there in the light.”
And both walked straight on towards the statue of the dead Premier, the man conversing with his companion in low, hushed whispers.
The man concealed in the shadow regarded them idly, but suddenly it seemed as though in their backs he recognised something familiar, for he bent forward, half rising from his seat, eager and uncertain.
The pair had halted before the statue of the Earl of Ellersdale, and the girl was bending forward as she read the inscription. Then, looking up at it, she stood for a few moments quite motionless.
The man was speaking—whispering rapid questions into her ear. But she neither responded, nor did she move. It seemed as though the marble features of the illustrious deceased held her in strange fascination.
Both their backs were turned to the silent, unseen watcher, and at that distance, in the falling gloom, it had become difficult to distinguish detail.
He saw, however, that the man placed his hand upon the girl’s arm, and pointing upwards, asked her something. She replied, whereupon the man slowly nodded.
Then the girl, suddenly turning her face from the lifelike sculptured features, addressed some quick questions to her companion, to which he made reply.
The old man, even at that distance, could overhear their whispering.
For a few moments the pair stood, their backs still turned, both their faces raised in eagerness to the marble effigy, standing forth white and ghostly in the dim, religious twilight.
The man’s gloved hand was raised, and he spoke to the girl, as though he were pointing out the marvellous handiwork of the most famous sculptor of the day. She whispered rapidly, moving further forward to obtain a better view of the profile of the marble features.
Then he raised his hand again as, side by side, they stood in apparent amazement.
The quick action of “Old Chestnut” at that moment was curious. He had swiftly withdrawn deeper into the shadow beside the door, back into a niche near an old sixteenth century tomb, where he hoped to escape observation.
Sight of the strangers had startled him. His thin lips were pressed together as he stood staring at them, almost terrified, for they had both turned to retrace their steps slowly to the door. Then he turned his back, and became interested in the crumbling old tomb.
His suspicions had become confirmed. He stood aghast.
The serious, earnest girl who had been there to inspect the statue of the late Earl of Ellersdale so closely was none other than Maidee Lambton, while her companion was Detective-Inspector Medland!
The pair, walking together and conversing in low whispers, passed close by the pale-faced, anxious old man who, in the gloom, had his back still turned to them, and then went out again into the noise and bustle of Parliament Square.
And the weird and silent watcher, gazing at the closed door after they had disappeared, stood with a look of abject terror upon his white, haggard countenance.
“Then my secret is out!” he whispered hoarsely to himself. “They know the truth!”
CHAPTER XIX.
MORE ABOUT JOHN AMBROSE
Just after seven o’clock that evening the man Tulloch reappeared unexpectedly at Bruton Street.
He had been down at Brighton for the past few days, he told Gordon, as he stood with him in that dim Oriental room. He had telephoned to him at the House, and the young man had rushed home in a taxi in order to meet him.
“Well?” he inquired, “have you discovered anything, Tulloch?”
“Not yet.”
Gordon sighed disappointedly. This man of secrets constantly appeared and disappeared, yet his story was ever the same. He could discover nothing concerning the strange threat—or its author.
“Every day increases my peril, Tulloch,” declared the young man, glancing to see if the door were closed. “Only last night Maidee was asking me why, now that I am well again, I do not put the question in the House.”
“Don’t,” urged his visitor, glancing at him narrowly. “I somehow don’t like that mysterious note you received. Whoever wrote it means mischief.”
“Neither do I. We’re fighting in the dark.”
“That’s just it,” remarked Tulloch. “And another contretemps has happened. Yesterday, while walking along the King’s Road at Brighton, I met a man who recognised me. Like you—he believed me to be dead. My appearance caused him a terrible shock, I can tell you. And——”
“And what?”
“Well. There are reasons, Gordon, why I should leave the country at once. I expect by this time he has gone to the police, and told them an amazing story of a dead man being alive.”
“Leave the country—and leave me?” gasped the young man in dismay.
“I’m sorry that I must. I’m compelled to go as soon as ever I can, for——well, the fact is, the little affair is so serious that I’m unable to stay and face the music. Therefore I shall go back again—to my tomb in Italy.”
“But without you, Tulloch, I can do nothing. Ruin—nay, death—stares me in the face! Somebody knows my secret, and must be silenced—by fair means or by foul.”
The elder man, smart and spruce as usual, slowly nodded. Then he said:
“To save myself I must fly. As you know, I haven’t exactly a clean sheet,” he laughed a trifle nervously. “I sailed near the wind in the city once or twice, and some people haven’t forgotten it.”
“And how do you manage to live now, Tulloch?” asked his friend.
“Well,” he hesitated, “in a certain set on the Continent there are various ways of earning a living which, if not exactly honest, are scarcely criminal. One meets many pigeons to pluck in Paris, Vienna, or Rome.”
“Ah! The old game, then?”
“Yes; cards chiefly. I, and a friend of mine—a woman—make a neat little coup now and then. It is a safe game providing the police haven’t your photo, and you are not in the gallery of photographs published in the Rats d’Hôtel. But once be arrested for sharp practice with cards, and your picture is taken and circulated to all hotels by that infernal international system they have nowadays, and, of course, the game is up. I was nearly caught in Carlsbad last season through being a trifle careless. I had to submit to heavy blackmail, and pay up nearly every farthing I possessed.”
“Yours is not exactly an exemplary life, Tulloch, is it?” remarked Gordon. “Have a cigar?”
The other man took the weed offered him and lit it, while the young man, lying back upon a lounge, wondered how he should act.
“I’ve half a mind to come abroad with you,” he said.
“My dear fellow, you’d better not. Remember what you are—and what I am. A secret friendship is all very well, but you couldn’t go about openly with me. Besides, I should have attention directed towards me, and, in all probability, find myself arrested. No. You must keep clear of me, at all costs.”
“Well, Tulloch, what shall I do?” asked the young man. “Suggest something.”
“I could suggest lots, if it were not for Maidee. She’s the most difficult problem,” said Tulloch. “While you don’t put that question she will still remain suspicious that you are in possession of some facts which ought to be revealed.”
“You compelled me to put the query to the Home Secretary.”
“Yes, I did. I admit that I made a great mistake. Yet had you not put the question, the consequences might have been much worse,” he said slowly.
“How?” asked Cunningham instantly. “I don’t follow you.”
“I merely say that by putting the question you misled certain other people who were ready to think evil of you, Gordon. So congratulate yourself that, though I might have acted foolishly in compelling you to demand the truth from Scotland Yard, yet by so doing you saved yourself.”
“But I have not saved myself. Remember that threat!” he cried.
“While you do not repeat the question, the mysterious person who threatened will say nothing.”
“Why?”
“Ah! that I can’t tell, my dear fellow. It is the motive I’ve been trying to discover. If I found that, the rest would be quite easy. The worst is, however, that I have to clear out of the country in order to save myself.”