CHAPTER V.
A FRUITLESS ERRAND
Matters with Philip Cleeve were not progressing quite to his satisfaction. Upon going down to breakfast one morning, he was surprised to find his mother down before him. A notable thing; for Lady Cleeve was seldom able to rise early. Philip kissed her fondly.
"This is a rare treat, mother," he said. "It seems like old times come back again."
She pressed his hand and smiled tenderly in his bright, handsome face. "I want to have a little talk with you before you go out, Philip. I sat up for you last night, but you came home late."
"Ah, yes, to be sure," replied Philip hurriedly, very conscious that he was too often late. "I went round to George Winstone's lodgings, and the time slipped away."
"So long as you were enjoying yourself, dear, it was quite right," answered Lady Cleeve. In her eyes Philip could do no wrong.
"And what is it, mother, that you have to say to me?" he asked, carelessly taking up a piece of toast and playing with the butter-knife. He was growing vaguely uneasy already.
"I met Mr. Tiplady yesterday," began Lady Cleeve: and Philip put down the knife without using it. His heart sank within him. "I had to call in at Wharton's about my broken spectacles, and there I found Mr. Tiplady having a new key fitted to his watch. We came away together, and I took the opportunity of reminding him of his promise, given so long ago, to take you into partnership. He had by no means forgotten it, he said, and was willing that the question should be brought to a practical issue as soon as I pleased. Of course you will not take a full share at present: he intimated that: only a small one. But it will be a very great thing for you, Philip; and you can afford to wait."
Philip made no comment upon this. Lady Cleeve continued.
"I thanked him for his generosity. It is generous of him," she added, "to admit you with only a poor thousand pounds----"
"He does not want money," interrupted Philip, resentfully. "Tiplady is as rich as can be--and he has nobody to come after him."
"He is none the less generous; many men in his position would not take in a partner under several thousands of pounds," returned Lady Cleeve. "What I wanted to tell you was this, dear--that he will probably speak to you to-day. There need not be any further delay. Mr. Daventry will draw up the deed of partnership, and nothing will then remain but for you to pay over the money."
Philip rose abruptly and pushed back his chair. Then he turned and gazed through the window to hide his emotion. "You have not done breakfast, dear," cried Lady Cleeve in dismay. "You have eaten scarcely anything."
"I have done very well indeed, thank you, mother," he answered from the window. "I have one of my headaches this morning."
"Poor boy! the news is a delightful surprise to him," thought Lady Cleeve. "Philip is just as sensitive as he used to be."
Philip got away from his mother and the house as quickly as possible, walking along the road like a man in a dream. The thousand pounds, or the greater portion of what was left of it, had gone out of his hands to Captain Lennox. Or, rather, to that blessed company that the Captain was just now so eager over. Early though it was, Philip must see him; and he bent his steps towards The Lilacs.
As he went along, the thought struck him that he had not seen Lennox about very lately. The last time Philip called, he was told by the man-servant that the Captain had gone out for the day, and Mrs. Ducie was ill with a cold.
It was a servant-maid who answered Philip's nervous ring at the house this morning. Her master was in London, she said.
"In London!" exclaimed Philip. "When did he go?"
"Rather more than a week ago, I think, sir," was the girl's answer.
"I want to see Captain Lennox particularly," rejoined Philip.
"I dare say he will be back soon now, sir. I've not heard that he means to make a long stay this time."
Philip pondered.
"Can I see Mrs. Ducie? Ask her to pardon the early hour and see me for a minute--if she will be so kind."
"Mrs. Ducie can't see you now, sir," dissented the maid; "she is not yet up. Her cold keeps very bad, and she hardly comes down at all."
"Can you take a message to her?"
"Oh yes, sir, I can do that. Her breakfast is just gone up."
"Give my kind regards to Mrs. Ducie, and ask her if she will tell me when the Captain will be at home."
The maid ran upstairs and soon came down with the return message. Mrs. Ducie's very kind regards to Mr. Cleeve, and she had not the least notion when. Not for a few days, she thought: as his last letter, received yesterday, said nothing about it.
Philip turned away from The Lilacs as wise as he had gone, hardly heeding which way he took, save that it was from the office instead of to it. Knowing what he knew, he asked himself how it was possible for him to face Tiplady's inquiries? Out of the twelve hundred pounds given him by his mother so short a time ago, to be held by him as a sacred trust, only a balance of eighty-five pounds remained in the bank.
It is true that if Captain Lennox's prognostications respecting the splendid future of the Hermandad Silver Mining Company should prove to be correct, Philip Cleeve would more than recoup himself in the whole sum which he was now deficient. When Lennox first bought the shares for him, he had assured Philip that no further calls would be made: but despite this assurance two heavy calls had since had to be met, for "expenses;" calls which had gone far towards exhausting Philip's remaining resources. Captain Lennox had made no secret of his own disappointment and annoyance, but he was as sanguine as ever of ultimate success, and he had put it so strongly to Philip whether it would not be wiser to double his venture, rather than forfeit the sum already invested, that the latter had agreed to meet the calls, although not without a sadly misgiving heart.
As matters, however, had now turned out, he must find Lennox at once and show him the necessity for the shares being disposed of without delay. In that, Philip anticipated no difficulty, as the shares were so much sought after. Or else he must get Captain Lennox to go with him to Lady Cleeve and Mr. Tiplady, and explain to them how well the money was invested, and persuade them that in view of the splendid profits sure to accrue before long, it would be folly to sell out just now. Evidently the first thing to be done was to find Captain Lennox.
A little comforted in mind by the fact of having arrived at some sort of a decision, he made his way with hesitating steps to the office. It was a relief to him to find that Mr. Tiplady had started by an early train for Norwich, and would not be back till night. This gave Philip breathing-time, for which he was thankful.
Getting his dinner away, he spent the evening with some friends; and was careful not to reach home until sure his mother would be in bed. That night, on his sleepless pillow, he decided on his plans.
Early in the morning, before Lady Cleeve could be downstairs, Philip snatched a hasty breakfast and went out. He left a note for his mother, in which he told her that he had to go suddenly to London on business, and she was not to be surprised or alarmed if he did not return till the evening of the following day. Then he despatched a nearly identical note to Mr. Tiplady, which Philip thought a clever hit. Lady Cleeve would take it that he was away on business connected with the office; while Mr. Tiplady would be sure to imagine that it was on some affairs of his mother he was despatched to London. Making his way to the railway-station, Philip caught a passing train, and was whirled away to the metropolis.
When in London, Captain Lennox generally stayed at his favourite hotel, the Piazza, in Covent Garden; this Philip knew, and he drove there direct from the station. The urbane individual who was fetched to answer his inquiries, and who had more the look of a church dignitary than of a head waiter, told Philip that, although Captain Lennox was, as he surmised, frequently at the hotel, he had not been there lately. For the past six weeks, or so, they had not seen him, neither were they in a position to afford any information as to his whereabouts. All that Philip could do was to dissemble his disappointment and go.
This seemed to Philip a worse check than the one at The Lilacs the previous morning. Halting in the street, he bethought himself what he could do--where look for Lennox. Only one place presented itself to his mind: and that was the office of the Hermandad Company. It was situate in the City, New Broad Street. If he did not see the Captain there, he should at least hear where he was to be found. But Philip thought he most likely should see him.
Half an hour's drive in a hansom cab took him to Broad Street; and to the proper number, at which the cabman readily drew up. But Philip could not so easily find the office he was in search of. On a large board outside the doorway were painted up the names of some thirty or forty different firms or companies, each of them occupying offices in the same building. Philip at length discovered the name he wanted, the last but two on the list, and was directed to mount to the third floor.
On the third floor--and a very dingy, unwholesome-smelling floor it was, for the building was an old one--he found the Hermandad office. Philip's imagination had led him to fancy the offices of so important a company as rather grand and imposing: this did not look like it. The door was shut, and he could not open it. He knocked again and again, but without response. While wondering at all this, and standing to think what he could do next, an opposite door was opened, and a sharp-looking youth came out.
"Nobody at home here apparently," remarked Philip, pointing to the door. "What's the best time to find them in?"
"Don't know," answered the youth, twisting his mouth into a grin. "Nobody been here for a fortnight, but a boy to fetch letters."
"Nobody been here for a fortnight!" exclaimed Philip.
"Nobody else. Not likely. Silver-mining company, hey! Oh, Jemima!"
Philip could have wrung the boy's neck.
"Are you one of the green 'uns?" continued he. "Lots of 'em come. No use, though; not a bit; only have to go away again. Fishy--awful! Next akin to smashing up."
With these strange remarks, the boy shot off, sliding down the banisters; leaving Philip feeling sick at heart.
The Hermandad mine had evidently failed, and its company come to grief. A suspicion stole over Philip that Captain Lennox might be more hardly hit than the world suspected, and was keeping out of the way.
What to do, he knew not. Was there anything that he could do next, except go back home and reveal everything to his mother? He had tasted nothing all day, save his morsel of breakfast; and, although he had no appetite, he felt so faint that he knew he must take refreshment of some kind if he did not wish his strength to break down. Turning into the nearest restaurant, he called for a glass of wine, and tried to study the carte; but the names of the different dishes conveyed no definite ideas to his mind.
"Bring me anything you have ready." he said wearily to the waiter; "a basin of soup will do." And then he lay back in his chair and shut his eyes.
The waiter had just put some soup before him, and was about to take off the cover, when Philip started to his feet with an exclamation. "By heavens! I never thought of that!" Staring around, he sat down in a little confusion: for the moment he had forgotten where he was. The waiter looked askance at him, to discover whether he was mad.
But the fact was that Philip had had what seemed to him nothing less than a flash of inspiration. He had suddenly remembered that there was such a person as Freddy Bootle in existence. Why not go to him in his trouble? Freddy was rich, and as kindhearted as he was rich; he was not the sort of man to allow a friend to sink for want of a helping hand: in any case Philip felt sure of his sympathy and advice. Eating his soup with some degree of relish, he paid, and drove off in a hansom to Mr. Bootle's rooms in Bond Street.
Philip felt desperate. Especially at the thought of having to reveal his folly to his mother, and her consequent distress. That seemed worse than the loss of the money itself. Never had his conduct, his almost criminal weakness, presented itself to him in so odious a light as now. Had the money been absolutely his own, had it been bequeathed to him by will or come to him by any mode other than that by which it had come, he could have borne to lose it with comparative equanimity. But when he called to mind the fact that the sum which it had taken him so short a time to dissipate was the accumulation of long years of patient pinching and hoarding on the part of his mother, that it represented many a self-denied luxury, many a harmless pleasure ruthlessly sacrificed, and that all this had been done to ensure the advancement in life of his worthless self, he was almost ready to think that the sooner the world were rid of him the better for everyone concerned. How could he ever bear to face again that mother and her thoughtful love?--how witness her pained face when he should declare his folly? Must she be told? If only Freddy Bootle would give him a help in this strait, what a different man he would be in time to come!
It was a break in the bitterness of his thoughts when the cab drew up at Mr. Bootle's lodgings. Philip was not kept long in suspense. An elderly man answered his knock and ring. The elderly man was sorry to say that Mr. Bootle was in Rome at present, and was not expected back till after Christmas.
"Was there ever so unlucky a wretch as I?" murmured Philip to himself, as he turned, more sick at heart than ever, from the door. His one and only hope had failed him.
The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the lamps were being lighted as he turned into Piccadilly. He wandered about aimlessly for some time, into this street and that, stopping now and again to stare into a shop-window, or at the unending procession of vehicles in the busier streets, and then wandering on again without seeming to see anything.
All at once he was startled into the most vivid life. Coming towards him, but yet a little distance away, and with several of the hurrying crowd between them, he saw Captain Lennox. The light from a shop-window shone full on his pale, strongly-marked features, and there could be no mistake. Philip sprang forward eagerly, and the sudden movement seemed to have the effect of attracting the Captain's glance towards him. For one brief moment there came, or Philip thought there did, a gleam of recognition into those steel-blue eyes; the next, they and their owner were alike hidden by the intervening crowd.
Philip Cleeve shouldered his way along more roughly than he had ever done before; in a few seconds he was standing on the exact spot where he had seen Lennox, but that individual was no longer visible. He had vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. Philip stared about him, like a man suddenly moonstruck, unheedful of the jostling and elbowing of the passersby. Up the street and down the street he gazed, but no Captain Lennox was to be seen. What could have become of him?
"Surely he need not hide himself from me!" thought Philip. "We are both in the same boat."
Looking about for the Captain, in a sort of amazed doubt, Philip saw that he stood close before the open door of a large drapery emporium, Was it possible that Lennox had taken refuge inside? No sooner did the thought flash across Philip's mind, than he marched boldly into the shop. There were several people there, customers and assistants, but no signs of the man he was seeking. A civil assistant came up to ask what they could serve him with, and Philip frankly avowed the cause of his entering. A friend--a gentleman--had suddenly disappeared before he could reach him; he could only think he had entered the shop.
"Very possibly," the young man replied; and as he was not to be seen in it now, he might have passed through it, and left by the opposite door.
Then Philip saw that the shop was what might be called a double one; that is to stay, that it had a door and window opening into another street. Had Lennox walked in at one door and out at the other, without stopping to purchase anything? It was the conclusion Philip came to. He recognised the uselessness of further pursuit of Lennox. It was clear that the Captain had purposely evaded meeting him: the reason for such evasion was not far to seek. Philip purchased a pair of gloves, and then pursued his aimless way, weary and downcast.
Where should he go, and what should he do? He knew not, and he did not greatly care. He was there alone in the huge wilderness of London, without one living creature that knew him or that cared for him. It was not too late to take the last train home; but he had a fixed repugnance against doing so. Why hasten to meet his mother's reproachful eyes, and Mr. Tiplady's incisive questionings? And yet, if he stayed the night in London, he must face those ordeals on the morrow. What could the morrow bring him, more than to-day had brought? Still he wandered aimlessly on, through one mile of street after another, his thoughts brimming over with bitterness at the recollection of all his mad folly. What now to him but mad folly seemed those nights at The Lilacs when, flushed with wine, he had staked his mother's savings on the turn of a card, and had seen the gold, hoarded by her for his sake, swept almost contemptuously into the pockets of such men as Camberley and Lennox, who, the moment his back was turned, probably sneered at him as a jay parading in peacock's plumes? What now to him, but folly, seemed the spells which he had allowed to be woven round him by the witcheries of Margaret Ducie? In his heart of hearts he had never really cared for her, however much at the time he might fancy that he had--not even when her hold over him had seemed the strongest. And now, when he looked back, she assumed in his thoughts the semblance of one of those specious phantoms, lovely to look upon, but who seem sent only to lure weak-minded fools to destruction.
Poor Philip! From the burning thoughts within him rose next another phantom. Nothing specious about her, but pure and saint-like as a lily steeped in dew--the image of Maria Kettle. Had he indeed lost her? He knew now how much she was to him; that he had never loved but her.
Yes, she was surely lost to him for ever. He would have no home to take her to, and no prospect of winning a position for himself: a life of commonplace drudgery, of separation from the only woman he had ever loved, or could love, was all that now lay before him.
Still onward, ever onward, went he in his pain.
"Oh, my darling, you might have saved me if you would!" he cried. "You might, you might!"
Still onward, ever onward. From tower and steeple the hours were clanged out one after another, but he heeded them not. It was close upon midnight when he found himself standing on one of the great bridges that span the Thames. Far away into the blackness on either side of him the great city spread itself out, seeming to his imagination, at that hour, like some huge monster that was slowly settling itself down to sleep. Silently below him ran the sullen river, stealthily carrying its dread secrets down to the sea. Here and there a few feeble lamps mocked the darkness.
Philip Cleeve stood and gazed over the parapet into the black-flowing stream below. How many unhappy men might not have flung off life's bitter burden at that very spot! How easy the process! A leap, a plunge, a minute's brief struggle, and then the deep, deep sleep that knows no waking. Could it be really wrong to throw away that which was no longer of any value, that which had become a burden and for which he no longer cared? The question kept coming back to him with a sort of dreadful fascination. He could hear the faint lapping of the tide against the piers; and, the longer he gazed down at the water, the more it seemed to whisper to him of peace and rest, and a quiet ending to all his troubles. Why not quit a world in which there no longer seemed a place for him? Why not?
Suddenly there arose a sound behind him, as of the quick patter of feet. Before Philip had time to interfere, before he well knew what had happened, a female figure, scantily clad, and with hair flying to the winds, had sprung on one of the stone seats, and thence on to the parapet. For one brief instant she stood thus, dimly outlined against the starlit sky; then, with hands clasped above her head, and a low, wild cry, she sprang headlong to her death.
A little crowd gathered, as if by magic, where there had seemed to be scarcely anyone a minute before. Faint at heart, dizzy with the sudden horror of the thing, Philip Cleeve fell back from the rest. What were his little troubles compared with those which must have driven that poor desperate creature to destruction? The black, sullen river had suddenly become hateful to him, and he made haste to leave it far behind.
CHAPTER VI.
COUNSEL TAKEN WITH MR. MEATH
Anxious revelations were those which Ella Winter had to pour into the ears of her lover! For he was by her side now, not to leave her for long together again. The cloud, which during the last few months had been lowering over her life, was lightened at last; the burdens which had been growing too heavy for her to bear, were lifted now upon shoulders stronger and more able to sustain them. Suspense and distress lay around her still; but, compared with what had been, she walked in sunshine, gladness in her eyes and in her heart, and Love's sweet whispers in her ears.
Edward Conroy took up his quarters at the hotel in Nullington, whence he walked over frequently to Heron Dyke. Mrs. Toynbee, back at the Hall now, was not slow to perceive the state of affairs. She wrote to her friend and patroness, Lady Dimsdale, that she was afraid she should have to look out for another home before long: for, unless she was much mistaken, Miss Winter was about to marry. The gentleman, she was good enough to say, was a very pleasant, nice-mannered person, named Conroy; but it seemed to her a great pity that Miss Winter had not chosen someone more nearly her equal in the social scale.
The weather was mild and open for the time of year, and Conroy and Ella were much out of doors. During these rambles, the conversation often turned upon past affairs--and many a consultation took place as to what could be done to bring to light all that still remained doubtful and obscure.
There was so much of it--taken as a whole. So many points that presented their own difficulties. The doubt as to whether Ella was the legal inheritor of Heron Dyke; the disappearance of Katherine Keen, and the superstition that arose out of it; the murder of the ill-fated Hubert Stone, and the robbery of the jewels: all these were matters of grave perplexity, upon which no light had yet been thrown.
Edward Conroy was puzzled by it all--just as Mr. Charles Plackett had been. He seemed never to tire of questioning Ella on this point and on that, and made notes sometimes of her answers: but he was none the nearer seeing his way to any elucidation.
"Have you fully calculated what the result to yourself will be if it is discovered that fraud has been at work?" he said to her one day, when they had been speaking of what had happened at Heron Dyke during her absence.
"Fully," replied Ella.
"Home, money, and lands--all will go from you."
"I know it. But would you have had me act otherwise than as I have acted?--would you have had me keep the doubt to myself?"
"Not for worlds."
"I think--I think, Edward, you are as anxious to discover the truth as I am."
"Quite as anxious."
"Although it be against your own interest. After all, it may be that you will have a penniless wife, compared with the rich one you expected."
"So much the better. She will owe all the more to me, and the world cannot then say that I have married her for her fortune."
"As if you cared for anything the world might choose to say!"--and to this remark Mr. Conroy slightly laughed in answer.
He had not been more than a day or two at Heron Dyke, when Miss Winter put into his hands the malachite and gold sleeve-link which Betsy Tucker had sent her by Mrs. Keen. Betsy was recovering slowly from her illness; all danger was over.
"I should like to see the young woman, and question her," observed he, turning the link about in his hand, as he examined it critically.
"There will be no difficulty," said Ella. "Betsy has been out for one airing, and she can come here. Why do you look at the trinket so attentively? Have you ever seen it before?"
"Never. But it is one of rather remarkable workmanship."
A fly brought Betsy Tucker to the Hall. There, in the presence of Mr. Conroy, she was requested to point out the place, as nearly as she could recollect it, where she had picked up the link. It was within a few yards of the spot where Hubert Stone was found. The girl had nothing more to tell, and sobbed out her contrition for her fault. Miss Winter was everything that was kind; but Mr. Conroy, speaking sternly, warned her not to disclose a word to anyone about the affair or there was no telling what the consequences to herself might be. The girl, with many tears, promised faithfully to keep the secret, and seemed only too glad to be let off so easily.
The sleeve-link had not belonged, so far as could be ascertained, to Hubert: whether it had, or had not, been the property of his assailant, was another matter. If so, it must have been wrenched from his sleeve during the scuffle; and, as Edward Conroy shrewdly remarked, it proved that the assailant was a gentleman. No man in an inferior station would be likely to wear such a link.
"I shall run up to town to-morrow," said Edward Conroy to Ella, when the interview was over and they were alone.
"To town! For anything in particular?"
"Merely to put this malachite and gold trinket into certain hands," he added. "If this link can be traced out to its owner, it may lead to some discoveries."
Mr. Conroy accordingly went to London. This, it will be noted, was within two or three days of his first arrival at Heron Dyke. He returned from London the following day, having put matters, together with the sleeve-stud, as he informed Miss Winter, into efficient hands. Taking up his abode, as before, at Nullington, he passed a considerable portion of his time at Heron Dyke.
Months before this, Conroy had heard tell of the strange disappearance of Katherine Keen; but only now was he made aware that the Hall was supposed to be haunted by her presence. He listened to the story of how the two maids, whom Aaron Stone had afterwards discharged in consequence, had positively asserted that they saw her looking down upon them from the gallery; he heard the story of Mrs. Carlyon's fright, and of Maria Kettle's strange experience not long ago. The evidence, taken collectively, was too strong to be altogether ignored, despite his inclination so to treat it.
"I wish the ghost would favour me with a visit!" he heartily exclaimed. "I would do my best to put its unsubstantiality to the proof."
"I know not which would be the worse: to find that Katherine is in the Hall in the flesh--that she is not dead, as her poor sister believes--or that the house is haunted by her spirit," breathed Miss Winter in answer.
"Have you any objection to my exploring this north wing?" he inquired, after a pause of thought.
"Not the least. I should be thankful for you to do so."
Mr. Conroy lost no time. That same afternoon he ascended to the north wing; and did not come down until he had visited every nook and corner of it. Room after room, passage after passage, closet after closet, he examined, and satisfied himself that no person or thing was hidden in them. Taking the precaution to lock the doors, he brought the keys away with him.
"Troubled spirits never walk by daylight, I believe," remarked Mrs. Toynbee to him. She had never relished the superstitious tales. "We must look for them by dark, Mr. Conroy, if at all."
"That is just what I mean to do," replied Conroy.
And accordingly he took to rambling about the north wing in the dusk of evening, in the hope that, one time or another, he should encounter the supposed ghost. He would sit for half an hour at a time, silent and immovable, in the darkest corner of the gallery, with no company but the mice busy at work behind the wainscot. "I may have to wait for weeks," he said to Ella, "but if there be any ghost at all, I shall be sure to see it by-and-by."
One evening when dusk was creeping on, a certain Mr. Meath arrived at the Hall, a telegram to Conroy having given previous notice that he might be expected; and he was at once admitted.
The stranger was the chief of a well-known inquiry-office in London: it was to him that Conroy had confided the sleeve-link. He was a tall, lanky, angular-boned man of sixty, with dyed hair and a slow, deferential smile. He always dressed in black, as being the most becoming wear for a gentleman, and that he invariably looked the latter Mr. Meath was fully persuaded; whereas he had in fact more of the air of a prosperous undertaker than of anything else. In his peculiar profession he was known to be a shrewd and practised man.
He was shown into one of the smaller drawing-rooms. No sooner had Edward Conroy entered it and sat down, than Mr. Meath arose and satisfied himself that the door was really shut, and that no one was hidden behind the curtains.
"Excuse these little precautions, sir," he said with his deferential smile, "but I have more than once had occasion to prove the value of them."
"Oh, no doubt. Your telegram stated that you had some news for me, Mr. Meath," added Conroy.
"I have some news for you, sir--news which may prove of importance. Before proceeding any further in the matter, I thought it would be as well to let you know the result already arrived at, and take your instructions with regard to future proceedings."
Hitching his chair nearer the table, Mr. Meath drew forth a little box from one of his pockets. "Here is the sleeve-link," he said, as he opened the box. "You have doubtless observed, sir, that it is of rather a curious and uncommon pattern?"
"Yes. If you remember I said so when I saw you in town."
"On examining this under a powerful glass," continued Mr. Meath, "I presently detected what I felt nearly sure could be nothing less than the private mark of the firm that had manufactured it. I took the link to the foreman of a large firm of jewellers with whom I had had some transactions previously, and he at once confirmed my view. 'There could be no doubt it was the manufacturer's mark,' he said. The question was--who were the manufacturers?"
"He did not know."
"He did not know, sir. But he thought he might be able to find out, if I would leave the link with him for a couple of days. Which I agreed to."
"And did he?" asked Mr. Conroy.
The private-inquiry officer solemnly nodded.
"At the end of the couple of days he sent for me, sir, and told me he had discovered the private mark to be that of Messrs. Wooler and Wooler, of Piccadilly. An eminent firm--as perhaps you know, Mr. Conroy."
"I have heard the name."
"To Messrs. Wooler I accordingly went, disclosed as much of the affair to them as was necessary, and stated what I wanted to know. They were most obliging, and at once promised to consult their books. Yesterday they sent for me. They had found from their books that the sleeve-link I now hold in my hand was one of a pair which, together with various other articles of which they were good enough to furnish me with a list and description, had been supplied by them about four years ago to a certain Major Piper, then living at Cheltenham. May I ask you, sir, whether you happen to be acquainted with any such gentleman; or whether he is known in this neighbourhood?" concluded the speaker, after making a brief pause.
"I am not. And I cannot tell you whether he is known in the neighbourhood: I am nearly a stranger to it myself. But I can inquire of the ladies here," added Conroy, rising to quit the room.
He returned, saying that Miss Winter did not know anyone of the name. Mrs. Toynbee did. She had met a Major Piper once or twice in society, but not lately; and she believed him to be a highly respectable man. "I have the Major's address at Cheltenham in my pocket-book," said Meath; "or rather what was his address four years ago. It is quite possible that he may have gone away from the town, or have died in the interim.
"Very possible indeed," answered Conroy.
"It rests with you to decide whether you think it worth while to proceed any farther in the case. If this Major Piper be still at Cheltenham, there will not be any difficulty in finding him: if he is not, there may be, especially should it turn out that he is what we call a shady individual. Difficulty, and also expense."
"Having gone so far, I certainly think we ought to go farther," answered Conroy. "Are you not of that opinion yourself?"
"I am, sir: but, as I say, it is for you to decide. We have got hold of a clue of some sort. Whether it will lead us up to what we want to know, time and perseverance only can prove."
"I certainly think Major Piper ought to be found. As to expense, I gave you carte-blanche for that when I was in London."
"Then I will proceed in the matter without delay," said Mr. Meath, rising. "And I hope, sir, I shall shortly have something further to report to you."
"You will take something before you go away," said Conroy, ringing the bell.
Putting down the hat he had taken up, Mr. Meath acknowledged that he would be glad of something. A tray of refreshments was brought in; and presently he had departed as silently as he had come.
A few days elapsed, during a portion of which Edward Conroy was away upon his own affairs. Close upon his return, Mr. Meath again made his way to Heron Dyke, calling, as before, in the dusk of the evening. Miss Winter had grown anxious as to the result of the inquiries, and she told Edward Conroy that she should like to be present during the interview, if there were no objection.
There was no objection, Conroy said, and took her into the room with him. They all sat down together.
"I have been more successful than I ventured to anticipate," began Mr. Meath, in his slow way--which Edward Conroy somewhat impatiently interrupted.
"Then you have found Major Piper?"
"I have found Major Piper, sir: I had very little difficulty in finding him. He is not at Cheltenham now; he is at Bath; though Cheltenham is his general place of residence. Major Piper is a retired Indian officer, well known and respected."
And the account of the interview may possibly read less complicated if related as it took place, instead of as repeated by Mr. Meath.
He saw Major Piper at his lodgings at Bath: a little man, who had one of his gouty feet swathed in flannel. Mr. Meath disclosed his business, and put the malachite and gold sleeve-link into his hands. The Major recognised it at once, and smiled with pleasure.
"Ah," said he, "I don't forget this. It formed one out of a dozen, or so, small articles of value which disappeared from my dressing-case at Cheltenham under mysterious circumstances. It was about--yes--about four years ago. I had bought the jewellery in London, intending it as a present to my nephew on his twenty-first birthday. However, the very evening before it was to have been sent off, the things disappeared from my dressing-case."
"Had you any suspicions as to who could have taken them?" inquired Mr. Meath.
"No, I was utterly nonplussed: and am so still when I think of it," answered the Major. "I had some friends that night at my rooms, just enough to make up a couple of rubbers, all gentlemen of position who were more or less known to me. Early in the evening, when telling them what I had bought for my nephew, my man Tompkins brought in the dressing-case at my desire, and passed round the jewellery for the different guests to look at. After that, Tompkins took it away and put it back where he had found it--in one of the deep drawers in my dressing-table, but without locking it up; not, indeed, seeing any necessity for doing so. He----"
"I presume, sir, your man was trustworthy?" interrupted the listener.
"Perfectly so. Tompkins had been with me for years in India, and is with me still. The loss troubled him, I think, more than it troubled me. Not, of course, that I cared to lose the things!"
"Did any of the gentlemen enter your dressing-room during the evening?"
"Dear me, yes. It adjoined the sitting-room, and some of them were in and out. Candles were alight in it. Well, the next day, when the small case of jewellery came to be looked for, it was nowhere to be found; nor, so far as I am aware, has anything been heard of it from that day to this."
"Sir," said Mr. Meath, "was it possible that any person could have had access to your dressing-room in the course of the evening, while you and your visitors were busy at the card-table?"
"No, that could not be," answered Major Piper. "To get access to the dressing-room, they must have passed through the room where we sat, or else through a little anteroom on the other side of the dressing-room, and Tompkins sat in the ante-room the whole evening long."
"Did you put the matter into the hands of the police?" inquired Mr. Meath.
"I had it inquired into privately by the police," replied the Major, "but I would not allow it to be made public. On the one hand it was impossible for me to suspect my servant; while on the other I did not choose to have it thought that I suspected any of my guests. It was a most disagreeable affair, and worried me a good deal at the time. I was always hoping that something might turn up; but I suppose it has grown too late in the day to expect it now."
"I don't know that," said Mr. Meath. "This sleeve-link may prove the connecting link between your robbery and the still darker crime recently enacted at Heron Dyke: that is, it may lead to the discovery of both perpetrators, who may prove to have been one and the same man. Will you, sir, oblige me with the names of the gentlemen, so far as your memory serves, who made up your card-party on the night of the loss?"
"There can be no objection to my doing that," said the Major; "and I hope with all my heart it may prove of use to you. I can tell you every name, for the night and its doings lie with unfaded impression on my memory."
Mr. Meath took down the names from his dictation, as well as the date when the robbery occurred. They all appeared to be men of standing--most of them of undeniable connections.
"Two of them, Dr. Backhouse and my old comrade, Sir Marcus Gunn, are dead," remarked the Major. "Of the others, two are living in Cheltenham; one lives abroad, attaché to an embassy; and one or two have passed out of my knowledge. They may be living anywhere: the world is wide."
"Will you point out those one or two to me?" asked Mr. Meath--and Major Piper did so.
Such was the substance of the narrative Mr. Meath had now to relate at Heron Dyke.
"I have brought the list of names with me," he added to Mr. Conroy, when he finished. "Perhaps, sir, you and this lady will be good enough to look at it, and to tell me whether any one of the gentlemen is known in this neighbourhood."
Edward Conroy took the paper handed to him, and ran his eyes over the list, but without the least expectation of finding on it any name that he should recognise. Mr. Meath watched him with a kind of suppressed eagerness.
"'Admiral Tamberlin,'" read out Conroy, in a muttered tone, "'Doctor Backhouse, Sir Gunton Cleeve----'" and, before speaking the next name, he came to a dead standstill. Mr. Meath, the suppressed eagerness still in his eyes, smiled grimly to himself when he saw Conroy's start of surprise.
For a moment Conroy stared at the name, which he had not yet spoken, in speechless amazement. Then, recovering himself, he passed the paper to Miss Winter without a word, simply pointing with his forefinger to the name.
"Oh, impossible!" exclaimed Ella, her tone full of fright, her face turning white as death.
"Madam," interposed Mr. Meath, detecting her emotion, "it does not follow that because a gentleman may have been wearing these sleeve-links now, he was the one to steal them from Major Piper. The thief may have sold them, and he bought them legitimately."
"But see you not, sir," cried Ella, grasping the case mentally, "that if this gentleman made one of the Major's guests that evening, and it was he who lost the link in the struggle here with Hubert Stone----"
She paused, unable to continue. Mr. Meath slowly nodded his head.
"Yes, madam, I see the difficulties--if this gentleman is indeed known here----"
"Known here! why, he lives here," interrupted Ella. "Oh, Edward, it cannot, cannot be!"
"My dear, you go to Mrs. Toynbee," whispered her lover. "Say nothing to her. Leave me to deal with this."
"But, Edward--surely you will not accuse him!" she cried aloud.
"Of course I will not. It may be that this dreadful suspicion can be cleared away. Mr. Meath"--looking at that able man--"must make it his business to ascertain first of all, if he can, whether grounds for accusing him exist."
And, opening the door for her to pass out, Conroy resumed his seat at the table.
Again Mr. Meath left the Hall as quietly as he had entered it. Edward Conroy joined the ladies, and found that not a word had been spoken to Mrs. Toynbee. He stayed to dine with them.
The winter afternoon had deepened to a still, close evening, when Mr. Conroy once more took his way to the north wing--for his watchings there had not ceased--before quitting the Hall for the night. The incident of the afternoon had disturbed him greatly, while Miss Winter felt thoroughly upset. His thoughts were bent upon it as he passed silently through the passages: of Katherine Keen this night he never once thought. Perambulating the still and deserted corridors, his mind utterly preoccupied, he came last of all to the gallery. He knew every nook and corner of the wing by this time, and could find his way about it in the dark almost as readily as by daylight. In one corner of the gallery was an old oak chair, and on this he now sat down, almost without being aware of what he did. Meath's news was working in his brain, bringing him disquiet and perplexity.
He might have sat for five minutes or for twenty, he could not tell which afterwards, when the deathlike silence that brooded over the place was suddenly broken. All at once a low, sweet, wailing voice spoke through the darkness--a woman's voice, with tears in it: "Oh! why don't you come to me? How much longer must I wait?"
Only those few words, and then utter silence again. Conroy started to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. He had been so immersed in his sombre meditations, he was so utterly taken unawares, that he was altogether at a loss to know from which direction the voice had come, whether from the right hand or the left, whether from above or below. He stood without moving for what seemed to him a number of minutes, hoping to hear the voice again, or the sound of footsteps, or some other token of a living presence; but in vain he listened. He heard a far-away door clash faintly in another wing of the house, but nothing more. He was alone with the silence and the darkness.
By-and-by, when convinced that his remaining there longer would be useless, he went slowly down the dark, shallow stairs which led below. It would never do to tell Ella in what manner he had been disturbed. She had enough of other troubles to occupy her thoughts at present.
None the less was Edward Conroy determined to fathom the mystery of the north wing; if it were possible for man to do so.