The Italian was glaring out of a window when they entered the room.
He turned instantly, with a waspish ferocity.
“So, madam.” he cried, “not content with deceiving me from the first moment we met, you have left your home in company with your lover!”
Margaret looked at Robert beseechingly. The sailor’s face was like granite. Only his eyes flashed a warning that Capella might have noted were he less blinded by passion.
“Do not attempt to shield yourself by the presence of others!” screamed Capella. “I know that Miss Layton and her father are here. That is part of the game you play. As for you, Mr. David Hume, or whatever you call yourself, your own record is not so clean that you should endeavour to cloak the misdeeds of others.”
The Italian had never before seen Robert to his knowledge. He only met David for a few moments during an angry scene at Beechcroft, when Brett did most of the talking. The mistake he now made was a natural one.
“It does not occur to you,” said Robert, in a voice remarkable for its calmness, “that not content with grossly insulting your wife, you are attacking the reputation of a man whom you do not know.”
“Pooh!” Capella, in his excitement, snapped his fingers. “You Hume-Frazers are very fond of defending your reputations. A fig for them! You are not worthy to consort with honourable people. I feel assured that when Mr. Layton and his daughter know the truth about you they will decline to associate with you.”
Whatever else might be urged against the Italian, he was no coward. Such language might well have led to a fierce attack on him by a man so greatly his superior in physical strength. But Robert sat down, near the door.
“You have some object in coming here to-day,” he said. “What is it?”
Margaret remained standing near the fire-place. Capella produced a bundle of papers.
“I am here,” he said, “to unmask the woman who unfortunately bears my name, and at the same time to prevent you from getting Miss Layton to marry you under false pretences.”
“A worthy programme!” observed Frazer suavely. “You may attain the second part of your scheme, I admit, but the first seems to be difficult.”
“Is it? We shall see!”
Capella flourished his papers and began a passionate avowal of the “treachery” practised on him in the matter of Margaret’s parentage, ending by saying:
“That woman’s mother was the affianced bride of my father. She deceived him basely. On his death-bed he made me vow my lifelong hatred of her betrayer and all his descendants. To you, a cold-blooded Englishman, that perhaps means nothing. To me it is sacred, imperishable, dearer than life. And to think that I have been tricked into a marriage with the daughter of the man who was my father’s enemy. How mad I was not to make inquiries! What a poor, short-sighted fool! But I will have my revenge! I will expose your accursed race in the courts! I will not rest content until I am free from this snare!”
Margaret would have spoken, but her cousin quickly forestalled her.
“You bring two charges against your wife,” Robert said. “The first is that she deceived you before marriage; the second that she is deceiving you now. You contemplate taking divorce proceedings against her?”
“I do.”
“But you are lying on both counts. There is no purer or more honourable woman alive to-day than she who stands here at this moment. You are a mean and despicable hound to endeavour to take advantage of circumstances attending her birth of which she was in profound ignorance.”
“She can tell that to a judge,” sneered the Italian. “I know better.”
Robert rose, his face white with anger.
“Margaret,” he said, “you have heard your precious husband’s views with regard to you. What do you say?”
She looked from one to the other—no one knows what tumultuous thoughts coursed through her brain in that trying moment—and she answered:
“I am his true and faithful wife, Robert. I have never been otherwise in word or deed.”
Capella started, as well he might, when he heard the Christian name of the man who was treating him with such quiet scorn.
“So,” he laughed maliciously, “I have again been fooled. You are not David, but—”
Frazer strode towards him, and the words died away on his lips.
“Listen, you blackguard!” he hissed. “Were it not for the presence of your wife I would choke the miserable life out of you. Go! We have done with you! You have unmasked your real character, and I cannot believe that a spark of affection can remain in your wife’s heart for you after your ignoble conduct. Go, I tell you! Do your worst. Spit your venom elsewhere than in this hotel. But first let me warn you. If you dare to approach Miss Layton, I cannot promise that my cousin David will treat you as tenderly as I propose to do. He will probably thrash you until you are unconscious. I simply place you outside this room.”
He grabbed the Italian by the breast with his right hand, lifted him high in the air, gathered the papers from the table in his left hand, and carried his kicking, cursing, but helpless adversary to the door.
Then he set him down again, opened the door, and remembering Brett’s advice, assisted him outside, flinging the documents after him and closing the door.
With impotent rage in his heart, Capella rushed from the hotel and caught the last train to the south. He had not been in Whitby two hours, but he was now embarked upon his vengeful mission, and bitterly resolved to push it to the uttermost extremity.
Margaret had not uttered a sound during the final scene. She stood as one turned to stone. Robert did not dare to speak to her. How could he offer consolation to a woman whose tenderest feelings had been so wantonly outraged?
“Robert,” she said at last, “he spoke of getting a divorce. I believe he can do this by Italian law. Here it should be impossible.”
“In that case,” he said calmly, “you and I will go and live in Italy.”
She placed her hands before her face, and burst into a tempest of tears.
“Now, my dear girl,” he murmured, “try and forget that pitiful rascal and his threats. You are well rid of him. I will leave you now for a little while. In half an hour we will go and listen to the band until dinner. Really, we have had a most enjoyable afternoon.”
He went out, placid and smiling, and Margaret sobbed plentifully—until it became necessary to go to her room and remove the traces of her grief. So it may be assumed that her tears were not all occasioned by grief for the contemplated loss of her ill-chosen mate.
When the others returned from their excursion, Frazer explained to them all that was needful with reference to Capella’s visit. Helen was very outspoken in her indignation, and even the rector condemned the Italian’s conduct in plain terms.
He warmly approved of the resolution arrived at by Robert and David to return to London next day, and not leave Brett until a definite stage had been reached in the strangely intricate inquiry they were embarked on.
They sat late into the night, discussing the pros and cons of the situation; yet among these five people, fully cognisant as they were of nearly every fact known to the able barrister who had taken charge of their affairs, not one even remotely guessed the pending sequel.
Whilst they were talking and hoping for some favourable outcome, the night express from York was hurrying Capella to a weird conclusion of his efforts to discredit his wife. Had he but known what lay before him he would have left the train at the first station and hastened to Margaret, to grovel at her feet and beg her forgiveness for the foul aspersions cast upon her.
It was too late.
Thenceforth, as the French say, events marched. Robert Frazer faithfully recounted Margaret’s statement to the barrister and the detective. The “documents,” copies of which Ooma sent to the ill-fated woman whose sudden accession to wealth had proved so unlucky for her, were evidently those stolen from the drawer in the writing-desk at Beechcroft.
Here, at last, was the motive of the murder laid bare.
The Japanese, by some inscrutable means, became aware that the young baronet possessed these papers, and held them in terrorem over his reputed sister. In the hands of a third person, an outsider, they were endowed with double powers for mischief. He could threaten the woman with exposure, the man with the revelation of a discreditable family secret.
He visited the library in order to commit the theft, probably acting with greater daring because he mistook the sleeping David for his cousin. Having successfully wrenched open the drawer and secured the papers, still holding in his hand the instrument used for slipping back the tiny lock, he turned to leave the room by the open window, and was suddenly confronted by the real Sir Alan, who recognised him and guessed his object in being present at that hour.
Brett had gone thus far in his spoken commentary on the affair as it now presented itself to his mind when Winter asked:
“Why do you say ‘recognised’ him, Mr. Brett? We have no evidence that Sir Alan had ever seen Ooma?”
“What, none? Search through your memory. Did not the stationmaster see a third David Hume leave the station that day when the movements of only two are known to us. What became of this third personage during the afternoon? Where did he change into evening dress? Why did Sir Alan leave documents of such grave importance in so insecure a hiding-place?”
“There is no use in asking me questions I can’t answer,” snapped the detective.
“Perhaps not. I think you said that you amused yourself in your Middle Street lodgings by taking to pieces a small electrical machine fitted together by your companion?”
“Yes, sir; but what of that?”
“Let us suppose that, instead of a complex machine he built a small arch of toy bricks, and you were well acquainted with the model whilst each brick was numbered in rotation, don’t you think you could manage to reconstruct the arch after repeated efforts?”
“I expect so.”
“Well, my dear Winter, we have now got together every material stone in our edifice. Mrs. Capella’s yielding to blackmail is the keystone of the arch. Every loose block fits at once into its proper place. The Japanese, Ooma, must have met Sir Alan and discussed this very question with him. The baronet must have unwittingly revealed the family secret, and the Jap was clever enough to perceive its value. Further, the murder was unpremeditated, the inspiration of a desperate moment, and the weapon selected shows a sort of fiendish mandate suggested by family feud. Ooma is undoubtedly—”
But Smith entered, apologetic, doubtful.
“Mr. Holden is here, sir, and says he wishes to see you immediately.”
Holden’s news was important. Capella had left Liverpool Street half an hour ago for Beechcroft, and in the same train travelled Ooma.
“Are you sure of this?” demanded Brett, excitedly springing from his chair.
“Quite certain, sir. Mr. Winter’s mate followed him to the station, and told me who the Japanese was. Besides, no one could mistake him who had ever seen either of these two gentlemen.”
He indicated Robert and David.
“Quick,” shouted the barrister. “We must all catch the next train to Stowmarket. Winter, have you your handcuffs? This time they may be needed. Smith, run and call two hansoms.”
He rushed to a bureau and produced a couple of revolvers. He handed one to Holden.
“I can trust you,” he said, “not to fire without reason. Do not shoot to kill. If this man threatens the life of any person, maim him if possible, but try to avoid hitting him in the head or body.”
To the Frazers he handed the heaviest sticks he possessed. He himself pocketed the second revolver, and picked up the peculiar walking-stick which Ooma dropped in Northumberland Avenue.
“Now,” he said, “let us be off. We have no time to lose, and we must get to Beechcroft with the utmost speed.”
Winter and he entered the same hansom.
“Why are you so anxious to prevent Capella and Ooma meeting, sir?” asked the detective, as their vehicle sped along Victoria Street.
“I do not care whether they meet or not,” was the emphatic reply. “It is now imperatively necessary that the Japanese should be placed where he can do no further harm. The man is a human tiger. He must be caged. If all goes well, Winter, this case will pass out of my hands into yours within the next three hours.”
The detective smiled broadly. At last he saw his way clearly, or thought he saw it, which is often not quite the same thing. In the present instance he little dreamed the nature of the path he would follow. But he was so gratified that he could not long maintain silence, though Brett was obviously disinclined to talk.
“By Jove,” he gurgled, “this will be the case of the year.”
The barrister replied not.
“I suppose, Mr. Brett,” continued Winter, with well-affected concern, “you will follow your usual policy, and decide to keep your connection with the affair hidden?”
“Exactly, and you will follow your usual policy of claiming all the credit under the magic of the words ‘from information received.’”
Winter could afford to be generous.
“Mr. Brett,” he cried, “there is no man would be so pleased as I to see you come out of your shell, and tell the Court all you have done. You deserve it. It would be the proudest moment of your life.”
Then the barrister laughed.
“You have known me for years, Winter,” he said, “yet you believe that. Go to! You are incorrigible!”
The detective did not trouble to extract the exact meaning from this remark. He understood that Brett would never think of entering the witness-box. That was all he wanted to know.
“Are you quite certain,” he asked, with a last tinge of anxiety in his voice, “that Ooma will be arrested to-day?”
“Quite certain, if we can accomplish that highly desirable task.”
Winter pounded the door of the hansom with his clenched fist
“Then it is done!” he cried. “I’ll truss him up like a fowl. If he tries any tricks I’ll borrow the leg-chains from Stowmarket police station.”
At Liverpool Street they all made a hasty meal. They caught the last train from London and passed two weary hours until Stowmarket was reached.
There on the platform stood the station-master. He approached Brett and whispered:
“A man who came here by the preceding train told me that you and some other gentlemen might possibly follow on. He intended to telegraph to you, but he asked me, in case you turned up, to tell you that the Japanese has gone on foot to Beechcroft, and that Mr. Capella has not arrived.”
“Not arrived!” cried Brett. He turned to Holden. “Can you have been mistaken?”
Holden shook his head. “I saw him with my own eyes,” he asseverated, “and to make sure of his destination I asked the ticket examiner where the gentleman in the first smoker was going to. It was Stowmarket, right enough.”
“There can be no error, sir,” put in the stationmaster. “Mr. Capella’s valet came by the train, and assured me that he left London with his master. Besides, the carriage is here from the Hall. It was ordered by telegraph. There is the valet himself. He imagines that Mr. Capella quitted the train on the way, and will arrive by this one. But there is no sign of him.”
The mention of the carriage brought a look of decision into the barrister’s face.
“One more question,” he said to the official. “Did you see the person described as the Japanese?”
“Yes, sir, I did. As a matter of fact, I thought it was somebody else. It was not until the stranger who arrived by the train used that name to distinguish him that I understood I was mistaken.”
The stationmaster looked into Brett’s eyes that which he did not like to say in the presence of the Frazers. Of course, he had fallen into the same error as most people who only obtained a casual glimpse of Ooma.
Brett hurried his companions outside the station. There they found the Beechcroft carriage, and a puzzled valet holding parley with the coachman and footman. David Hume’s authority was sufficient to secure the use of the vehicle, and Brett made the position easier for the men by saying that, in all probability, they would find fresh instructions awaiting them at the Hall.
Before the party drove off Winter noticed a local sergeant of police standing near.
“Shall I ask him to come with us, sir?” he said to Brett.
The barrister considered the point for an instant before replying:
“Perhaps it would be better, as we have not got a warrant.”
Winter grinned broadly again.
“Oh yes, we have,” he cried. “Mr. Ooma’s warrant has been in my breast-pocket for three days.”
“What a thoughtful fellow you are,” murmured Brett. “In that case we can dispense with local assistance. We five can surely tackle any man living.”
“What can have become of Capella?” said David Hume, when they were all seated and bowling along the road to Beechcroft.
“It is impossible to say what such a mad ass would be up to,” commented his cousin. “He has probably gone back to London from some wayside station, and failed to find his servant to tell him before the train moved on.”
“What do you think, Mr. Brett?” inquired Winter.
“I can form no opinion. I only wish Ooma was in gaol. For once, Winter, I appreciate the strength of your handcuffing policy.”
It was almost dark by the time they reached the lodge gates. Brett, moved by impulse, stopped the carriage in the main road. The others alighted after him. Mrs. Crowe, the lodge-keeper’s wife, opened the gates, and evidently wondered why the carriage did not enter.
“Good evening, Mrs. Crowe,” said Brett, advancing. “Have you seen a telegraph messenger recently?”
“Lawk, sir,” she cried, “I didn’t recognise you in the gloom! No, sir, there’s been no messenger, only—”
Then she uttered a startled exclamation.
“Why, there’s Mr. David an’ Mr. Robert! I could ha’ sworn one of you gentlemen walked up to the house five minutes ago, an’ I wunnered you never took no notice of me. Well, of all the strange things!”
“It was a natural mistake,” said the barrister quietly.
Then he told the coachman to wait where he was until a message reached him from the house.
He did not want to disturb the visitor who had caused Mrs. Crowe to “wunner,” nor was there any use in sending the carriage back to Stowmarket. Somehow, he felt that Capella would not come to Beechcroft that night.
The five men went rapidly and silently up the avenue. As they approached the lighted library, they could see a servant parleying with the Japanese.
A motion of Brett’s hand brought the party into the shade of the sombre yews.
“You and Holden,” he said to Hume, “go round to the main entrance, proceed at once to the library door, enter the room, and lock the door behind you. Be ready with your stick, and do not hesitate to lunge hard if Ooma attacks you. You, Holden, keep the revolver handy. It must only be used to save life. The moment you appear at the door we will rush to the window, which is open. Ooma must have entered that way. You both understand?”
They nodded and walked off, clinging to the line of the trees. The others closed up. Timing their approach with perfect judgment, they crept over the gravelled road at the bend, and gained the turf in front of the window.
Ooma’s back was towards them. They could hear his voice—a queer, high-pitched, yet strident voice—whilst he questioned a somewhat scared footman as to the whereabouts of his mistress.
The man had evidently perceived the remarkable resemblance borne by this uncanny stranger to the Frazer family. His replies were respectful, but stuttering. He was alarmed by those fierce eyes, more especially because his inability to give satisfactory information seemed to anger the new-comer.
“You are not a child,” they heard Ooma say, with menace in his tone. “You must have heard, from her maid or some other source, where Mrs. Capella has gone to?”
“N—no, sir,” stammered the man. “I really ’aven’t I t—t—thought Mrs. C—Capella was in London. The b—butler says we are all to ’ave a ’oliday next week.”
“Is there no way in which I can find out where your mistress is at this moment? I must see her. My business is important. It cannot wait. It is of the utmost importance to her.”
Brett, straining without like a hound in the leash, could note a slight accentuation in the perfect English spoken by Ooma. There was just a suspicion of the liquid “r” so strongly marked in Jiro’s utterance. What an uncanny thing is heredity! It even alters the shape of the roof of the mouth. The Japanese of English descent could necessarily pronounce English better than the pure-born native.
The servant within seemed to rack his brains for a favourable reply.
“You might ask Mr. Capella, sir,” he said at length, with some degree of returning confidence. “He was expected here by the last train, but missed it in London, I expect. He is sure to come to-night, and he will tell you, if you care to wait.”
“Mr. Capella! Coming by the last train! What is he like?”
“Do you mean in appearance, sir? He is a small, dark-complexioned gentleman, with wavy black hair and a very pale face. He—”
But Ooma turned away from the man, and looked through the window, with the lambent glare of a wild animal in his eyes. He instantly saw the three motionless figures, Brett, Winter, and Robert Hume-Frazer.
They sprang forward. Robert was quickest, and reached the open window first. The Japanese jumped back and made for the door, but it opened in his face, and David entered the room. Behind him was Holden, who made no secret of the fact that he carried a revolver.
Ooma caught the astounded man-servant by the waist, lifted him as though he were a truss of straw, and threw him bodily at Robert Frazer and Winter, bringing both to the ground by this singular weapon.
It was a fatal mistake to attack the readiest means of exit. Had he used his human battering ram against Holden and David he might have escaped. But now he looked into the muzzle of another revolver, and heard Brett’s stern demand:
“Hands up, Ooma! If you move you are a dead man?”
Nevertheless, he did move. He seemed to have the agility as well as the semblance of a carnivorous animal. He bounded sideways towards the wall of the library, picked up the writing-desk, and barricaded himself behind it. In the same second he produced a small, shining article from his waistcoat pocket, and shouted, in a voice now cracked with rage:
“Stand back, all of you. You may shoot me! I will not be arrested!”
Winter, swearing, scrambled from the floor. Robert, too, threw off the yelling servant, and rose to his feet. Alarmed not only by the curious entry made by David Hume and Holden, but also by the racket in the library, other servants were now clamouring at the locked door, for Holden had slipped his left hand behind him and turned the key. Brett similarly closed the window. They were five to one, but the one seemed to defy them.
“That be blowed for a tale!” roared the infuriated detective, whose blood was fired by the manner in which he had been floored. “I arrest you in the King’s name for the murder of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, and I warn you—”
Robert Hume-Frazer waited for no preliminary explanation of an official character. He wanted to feel that man’s bones crack under his grasp. He had the strong man’s ambition to close with an opponent worthy of his thews and sinews. Without any warning, he made for the Japanese, who seemed to await his oncoming with singular equanimity, though otherwise quivering with baulked hate.
But Brett had seen something that aroused a lightning-like suspicion. Twice had the Japanese looked at a small, shining thing in his hand, as though to make sure it was there. So the barrister was just in time to grasp Robert’s shoulder and hold him back.
“No,” he cried, “you must not touch him. I command it. He cannot escape.”
“Then let me have a go at him first,” growled Frazer, whose face was pale with passion.
“No, no. Leave him to me. Winter, do you hear me? Stand back, I say.”
Brett’s imperative tone brooked no disobedience. Thus, in a segment of a circle, the five enclosed the one against the wall—Ooma barricaded by the table, the others ready to defeat any stratagem he might endeavour to put in force.
“Now listen to me, Ooma,” said the barrister sternly. “You must drop that thing you have in your right hand. You must hold both your hands high above your head. If you move either of them again I will shoot you. If you do not obey me before I count five I will shoot you. One! Two! Three!—”
The Japanese, gasping a horrible sort of sob, three times plunged the instrument he held into his left arm. Then he flung it straight at Robert. One would have thought his vengeance would be directed against Brett, whom he must have credited by this time with his capture.
No; he singled out a Hume-Frazer for his last attack. The instrument struck a button on Robert’s coat and fell to the floor, where it lay twisted out of shape by the force of the impact.
It was a hypodermic syringe.
Again Ooma uttered that weird cry.
“This is the end,” he said. “You have not beaten me. It is Fate.”
He folded his arms and looked at them. A change came over his face. He was no longer a tiger at bay, but a human being, calm, dignified, almost impressive.
“I arrest you—” began Winter.
“You fool!” laughed the Japanese, with a quiet contempt in his tone; “I shall be dead in twenty minutes. That syringe contained snake poison, the undiluted venom of the karait. Put away your pistols. They are not wanted.”
Quite nonchalantly he leaned back against the bookcase that lined the wall. He turned his eyes to Robert.
“You have the luck of your race,” he said “If that point had reached your skin no human skill could have saved you. As it is, you are spared, and I must go. The same blood flows in our veins, yet you are my enemy. I wish I could once get my fingers round your throat before my strength fails.”
“Come from behind that table and try,” was the quick rejoinder.
Ooma made to accept the challenge, but Brett intervened.
“If you are telling the truth,” he said, “you can spend your brief remaining span of life to better purpose than in a mad combat with one who has done you no harm. Where is Capella?”
“I killed him,” was the cool reply.
The footman, who had slowly regained his senses, uttered a groan of horror. By this time several men, not alone house servants, but gardeners, grooms, and others, had gathered on the lawn.
“Send away that slave,” cried Ooma impatiently, “and tell those others to go to their kennels. This is no place for such.”
Brett knew that the Japanese was in truth about to die. Afterwards Winter and Holden confessed that they thought the pretence of injecting snake poison was a mere ruse to gain time. Robert and David intuitively agreed with the barrister. It was in their breed to know when eternity yawned for one of them. The very calmness of the criminal, his magnificent apathy, his dislike of vulgar witnesses, foreboded a tragedy.
Brett motioned to Holden to open the door, and the footman gladly made his escape. In response to a wave of the barrister’s arm the other servants disappeared from view, though they probably only retreated to a greater distance, and could see well enough all that happened.
“Yes,” continued Ooma, “I killed Capella. It was a mistake. Everything is a mistake. It was foolish on my part to kill Alan Hume-Frazer, even though he was my enemy. I should have let him live, and tortured him by fear. You English dread these scandals worse than death. We Japanese fear neither. For I am a Japanese, and I am proud of it, although my ancestor was David Hume of Glen Tochan, who fought and killed the man who robbed his father.”
“But how and why did you kill Capella?” asked Brett.
“I saw him in the station at London. He followed me. I puzzled him, I suppose. He perceived the likeness between me and my dear cousins. We are like one another, are we not, we Hume-Frazers?”
He laughed mirthlessly, and stared at David and Robert alternately. Winter broke in with a hasty question:
“If he is speaking the truth about the snake poison, shouldn’t we send for a doctor?”
No one had thought of this previously. Brett reproached himself for his forgetfulness. So strange are our civilised notions that we strive to save a man’s life in order to hang him by due process at law.
It was Ooma who answered.
“Doctor!” he cried. “Bring him! Bring the whole College of Surgeons. They can watch me die, and tell you learnedly why the blood curdles and the heart refuses to act, but not all their science can beat the venom of the little karait. It is an Indian snake, more deadly than the cobra, with mightier tooth than the tiger. I meant to use that syringe on the whole cursed brood of Frazers in this country. No one would have known what happened to them. But look you, Fate is too powerful. The karait stored his poison for me only. I killed only one of the race, and him I stabbed with a Ko-Katana of my own house.”
Holden left the room to send a messenger post-haste for the village doctor.
“About Capella?” persisted Brett.
“Ah, Capella. He sought his own death. He looked at me so oddly that I thought him a spy. I was alone in a carriage when, half-way here, he ran along the platform at a small station and joined me. He began to question me. I looked out of the window and saw that we were coming to a viaduct over a stream between deep cliffs, so I took the little man and cracked his neck. Then I flung him over the bridge. It was a mistake. He should have left me alone.”
He described this cold-blooded murder of the unfortunate Italian with the weary air of one who recites a tedious episode. The lids drooped heavily over his eyes.
“I am tired,” he said. “That was a good little snake. He knew his business. He could make the best of poison.”
“Surely,” said the barrister solemnly, “you are not so utterly inhuman that at the very point of death you still maintain the attitude of a disappointed avenger. What wrong had all these people done you to demand your murderous hate?”
Ooma seemed for a moment to rouse himself from lethargy. Once again the black eyes sparkled with their menacing gleam.
“It is you,” he cried, “you, the thinker, who question me. I never gave a thought to you, or I would not now be slowly sinking into death. I might have guessed that a higher intelligence was at work than that which saw the Ko-Katana with its motto, and yet failed to read its story. You ask my motives. Can a man explain heredity? Here”—and he threw a packet of papers on the writing-desk—“are the proofs of my identity. It is not long ago, only one hundred and fifty years, since David Hume was robbed of his birthright, and what is such a period to the old families of England and Japan? There are men living in Japan to-day who saw his son in the flesh. I am his lawful descendant. I came to England and resolved to be an Englishman. But I needed money. Do you remember our motto, ‘A new field gives a small crop’? The first Japanese Hume did not prosper. He was a good fighter, but he saved no yen. So I applied to my family. I came here on the New Year’s Eve, and Sir Alan Hume-Frazer saw me walking up the avenue. He stepped out through that window to meet me. He was surprised at my appearance, and thought I was his cousin Robert, whom he had not seen for years.”
At this remarkable statement the four listeners chiefly concerned looked wonderingly at each other. The main incidents of the family feud were repeating themselves in a ghostly manner.
Ooma paid no heed to their amazement. He staggered unsteadily to a chair and sank into it limply. It was the chair which David Hume occupied when he slept, and dreamed. Not even Winter saw cause for suspicion in the act. Ooma was dying. His yellow skin was now green. His lips were white. His whole frame was sinking. At this phase he became a Japanese, and lost all likeness to the Frazers.
He continued, with an odd cackle:
“I kept up the error. I demanded money as my right, and from his words I gathered that the Frazers had been at their old tricks and defrauded another relative.”
Robert started.
“Do you hear?” he murmured to Brett. “That accounts for Alan’s strange reception of me the same day.”
Brett held up a warning hand. Ooma was still talking.
“I taunted him with thriving on the plunder of his own people. That made him furious. He raved about the world being in league against him. The only relative he loved, one who was more than brother, had stolen the woman he wished to marry; his sister was a living lie; his cousin a blackmailer. I laughed. ‘Do you disown your sister, then?’ I asked. He took from his breast-pocket some papers—you will find them there, on the table—and told me, in great anger, that he possessed proof that she was not his sister. I was cooler than he, and saw the value of this admission. I pretended to go away, but hid among the trees and saw him walk about the library for nearly an hour. I meant to enter the house if an opportunity presented itself, and, trusting to my appearance, go to his bedroom, if he changed his clothes and went out. But he helped me by placing the papers in the drawer which I afterwards broke open. I saw him meet you”—he feebly pointed to Robert. “I saw you arrive in the carriage,” and he indicated David. “Then I determined to wait until the night. I went back to Stowmarket, where I left a portmanteau at a small hotel”—Brett knew that Winter stole a look at him, but he ignored the fact—“and changed my clothes. In England, at night, a man in evening dress can enter almost any house. When I returned I carried my bag with me, as I did not know how I might wish to get away subsequently. I saw the preparations for the ball. They helped me. David Hume’s unexpected appearance at midnight upset my plans. Waiting near the gate, I witnessed Alan’s meeting with a girl in a white dress. Whilst they were talking, I ran up to the house and found David asleep in the library. I resolved to act boldly. Even he would not know what to do if he suddenly discovered another Frazer in the room. To force open the drawer I picked up the Japanese sword, and knew it as belonging to my house by the device on the handle of the Ko-Katana. The thing inspired me. I obtained the papers, and was going out when I met Alan. He had seen what I was doing. He called me a cur, and the memory of my ancestor’s vengeance rushed on me, so I struck him with the knife, and left it resting in his heart as he fell. Afterwards it was easy. No one knew me. Those who had seen me thought that I was either David or Robert Hume-Frazer. I depended on the police and the servants to complete the mystery. They did. I saw David meet the same girl in a white dress near the lodge, so I sent the post-card which I made Jiro write for me. He wrote it badly, which was all the better for my purpose. I meant David to be hanged by the law; then I would marry Margaret. That is all. Give me some brandy. I am dreaming now. I can see curling shapes. Ah!”
He gulped down half a tumblerful of raw spirits hastily procured by Brett. Again he attempted to shake off the torpid state that was slowly mastering him. He lifted his eyes feebly to Brett’s face, and his face contorted in a ghastly smile.
“You!” he croaked. “I should have killed you! You carried my stick that night in Middle Street. Why was I not warned? Did you follow the girl from the hotel? I was a fool. I tried to stop the inquiry by getting rid of David Hume-Frazer. As if he had brains enough to get on my track! About that girl! She believes in me. She does not know anything of my past. Do not tell her. Try to help her. She is coarse, one of the people, as you say here, but she has courage and is faithful. Help her!”
His head drooped. The action of the brandy, whilst momentarily stimulating the heart, helped the stupefaction of the brain. It was a question of a minute, perhaps two.
“Why did you come here to-day?” asked Brett quickly.
“To see Margaret. She would give me money. I was going away. That man—I threw from the train—was her husband? He was not—a proper mate—for a Frazer—or a Hume. We are—an old race—of soldiers. We know—how to die. Four of us—fell fighting—in Japan. I am dying! What a pity!”
His head sank lower. His breath grew faint. His voice died away in unintelligible words. After a brief silence he spoke again.
The words he used were Japanese. In his weakened consciousness all he could recollect was the language he learnt from his Japanese mother—the mother he despised when he became a man and knew his history.
Winter and Brett were now holding him. The others drew apart. They afterwards confessed that the death of this murderer, this tiger-cub of their race, affected them greatly. He was fearless to the end. The way in which he quitted life became him more than the manner in which he lived.
There was a bustle without, and the local doctor entered. He looked wise, profound, even ventured on a sceptical remark when the barrister explained that Ooma had injected snake-poison into his arm. But he lifted the eyelids of the figure in the chair and glanced at the pupils.
“Whatever the cause of death may be, he is undoubtedly dead!” was his verdict.
Winter and Holden were invaluable during the trying hours that followed. Acting in conjunction with the local police, they caused a search to be made for Capella’s body. It was found easily enough. Only once did the line cross such a place as that described by Ooma, and a bruised and battered corpse was taken out of the boulder-strewn stream beneath the viaduct.
Meanwhile Winter, writing from Brett’s dictation, drew up a complete statement of all the facts retailed by the Japanese in relation to the murders of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer and the unfortunate Italian.
This they signed, and went to obtain the signatures of the two cousins, Holden, and the man-servant, for whom a special short statement had been prepared.
“This is for use at the coroner’s inquest, I suppose?” inquired David.
“Yes,” said Brett. “We must seize that opportunity to publish all the evidence needed to thoroughly acquit you of suspicion in relation to your cousin’s death. By prior consultation with the coroner we can, if you think fit, keep out of the inquiry all allusions to Mrs. Capella.”
“It would certainly be the best thing to do,” agreed David, “especially in view of the fact that Robert and I have burnt those beastly papers.”
He pointed to some shivering ashes in the grate of the drawing-room, for Ooma occupied the library in the last solemn stateliness of his final appearance on earth.
“What!” cried Brett. “Do you mean to say that you have destroyed the documents deposited by the Japanese on the writing-desk?”
“Not exactly all,” was the cool reply. “We picked out those referring to Margaret, and made an end of them. We hope to be able to do the same with regard to papers discovered on Capella’s body or among his belongings. Those bearing on Ooma himself are here”—and he pointed to a small packet, neatly tied up, reposing on the mantelpiece.
“You have done a somewhat serious thing.”
“We don’t care a cent about that. Robert and I have both agreed that what Margaret has she keeps. There may, in course of time, be very good reason for this action. Anyhow, I have acted to please myself, and my father will, I am sure, approve of what I have done.”
Brett shook his head. No lawyer could approve of these rough-and-ready settlements of important family affairs.
“Has anyone telegraphed to Mrs. Capella?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Robert, “I did. I just said ‘Ooma dead; Capella reported seriously ill. Remain in Whitby. I will join you to-morrow evening.’ That, I thought, was enough for a start.”
It certainly was.
Soon there came excited messages from both Margaret and Helen demanding more details, whereupon Brett, who knew that suspense was more unbearable than full knowledge, sent a fairly complete account of occurrences.
During the next few days there was the usual commotion in the Press that follows the opening up of the secret records of a great and mysterious crime.
It came as a tremendous surprise to David Hume-Frazer to learn how many people were convinced of his innocence “all the time.” Being the central figure in the affair, he was compelled to remain at Beechcroft until Capella and Ooma were interred, and the coroner’s jury, at a deferred inquest, had recorded their verdict that the wretched Japanese descendant of the Scottish Jacobite was not only doubly a murderer, but guilty of the heinous crime of felo de se.
Brett, in the interim, saw to the despatch of the Italian witnesses back to Naples. These good people did not know why they had been brought to England, but they returned to their sunny land fully persuaded that the English were both very rich and very foolish.
Winter, in accordance with Brett’s promise, secured a fresh holiday towards the close of August, and had the supreme joy of shooting over a well-stocked Scotch moor.
At last, one day in September, Brett was summoned to Whitby to assist at a family conclave.
He found that Margaret was firm in her resolve never again to live at Beechcroft. She and Robert intended to get married early in the New Year and sail forthwith for the Argentine, where, with the help of his wife’s money, Robert Hume-Frazer could develop his magnificent estate.
Beechroft would pass into the possession of David, and Helen and he, who were to be married in October, would settle down in the house after their honeymoon.
But on one point they were all very emphatic. That ill-fated library window should pass into the limbo of things that have been. Already builders were converting the library into an entrance hall, and the main door would occupy its natural place in the front of the house.
Let us hope that the return of the young couple after their marriage marked a new era for an abode hitherto singled out for tragedy. Their start was auspicious enough, for true love, in their case, neither ran smoothly nor yielded to the pressure of terrible events.
Mr. and Mrs. Jiro went to Japan. With them they took the girl, Rose Dew, and the last heard of them was that the trio were running a boarding-house in Yeddo, where Mrs. Jiro advertised the excellence of the food she supplied, and Miss Dew sternly repressed any attempt on the part of the lodgers to obtain credit.
The last entry in Brett’s note-book, under the heading of the “Stowmarket Mystery,” is dated six months after the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hume-Frazer for the Argentine. It reads:
“To-day is the anniversary of David Hume’s first visit to my chambers. This morning I discovered in a corner, dusty and forlorn, Ooma’s walking-stick. It reminded me of a snake that was hibernating, so I gave it to Smith, and told him to light the kitchen fire with it. Then I telegraphed to old Sir David Hume-Frazer, saying that I gladly accepted his invitation for the 12th. His son, it seems, cannot go North, as he does not wish to leave his wife during the next couple of months. I suppose I shall be a godfather at an early date.”