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35 chapters
Chapter One.
Chapter One.
“See! It’s—it’s in my kit-bag, over there! The thing—the Thing at which the whole world will stand aghast!” The thin, white-faced, grey-bearded man lying on his back in bed roused himself with difficulty, and with skinny finger pointed at his strong but battered old leather bag lying in the corner of the small hotel bedroom. “The keys—on my chain—Mr Kemball—” he gasped faintly, his face slowly flushing. “Open it, quick!—ah no! you can’t deceive me, my dear fellow. I’m dying! I heard what the doc
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Chapter Two.
Chapter Two.
Presently I bent to the dead man’s bag—and examining it thoroughly, discovered that one letter had remained unburned—a letter which, by the London postmark upon it, had been written two years ago. It was addressed in a fine, angular, woman’s hand to “Arnold Edgcumbe, Esquire, Post Office, Kingswear, South Devon.” The name caused me to ponder. Had not he admitted that Melvill Arnold was not his real name? Was it not to be supposed that his actual name was Edgcumbe? The letter was, to say the leas
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Chapter Three.
Chapter Three.
“What is enclosed addressed to yourself please accept as a trifling token of the great esteem in which you have been held by the lonely and forgotten man who, in later life, was known as— “Melvill Arnold.” I tore open the envelope addressed to myself, and therein found four Bank of England notes for five hundred pounds each. My mysterious fellow-traveller who had money to burn had presented me with the sum of two thousand pounds. The other enclosure, a letter secured by three seals of black wax,
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Chapter Four.
Chapter Four.
The wording of Mr Arnold’s injunction was “to be present at the railway station of Totnes at five o’clock.” It did not mention the platform or the booking-office. Examination of the time-table showed that no train arrived at or left Totnes between the hours of four p.m., when the Plymouth train arrived, and the five-fifteen up-train to Exeter and Taunton. There were several expresses, of course, Totnes being on the Great Western main line between Plymouth and London. By this fact it seemed that
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Chapter Five.
Chapter Five.
“And what if I am? What business is it of yours?” he asked resentfully, and in evident alarm. “My business is with you if your name is Alfred Dawnay,” I said. “Mr Melvill Arnold is, I regret to say, dead, and—” “Dead!” he gasped, lowering his weapon and staring at me, the colour dying from his face. “Arnold dead! Is this the truth—are you quite certain?” “The unfortunate gentleman died in my presence.” “Where? Abroad, I suppose?” “No; in a small hotel off the Strand,” was my reply. The news I ha
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Chapter Six.
Chapter Six.
“Abroad, yes. In Italy it is the favourite ruse of burglars, Tucker. But here in England we are much more secure.” And then, watering-can in hand, the faithful old fellow passed out, while I sat down to my lonely breakfast. A week after I had written to the Charing Cross Post Office I received a note, dated from the Hôtel de la Boule d’Or at Provins, a small town some sixty miles east of Paris. “I am delighted to have your address,” it read. “At the present moment my movements are very uncertain
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Chapter Seven.
Chapter Seven.
“I scarcely think there is further danger—at least at present,” she answered. I was puzzled at her reply, but not for long, as I will relate. The car slipped through Rockingham, and when about two miles farther on swung abruptly through a handsome pair of lodge-gates and into a broad, well-timbered park, at last pulled up before a long, old-fashioned Jacobean mansion which commanded from its grey stone terrace fine views of the green undulating hills and rich pastures around. The old ivy-clad pl
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Chapter Eight.
Chapter Eight.
But that was only one of Asta’s moods, and almost before I had taken notice of it she was laughing merrily with her companion as she handed him the cake. I saw that her eyes did not flinch from the steady gaze of those others, but I knew that there was a certain quick thumping beneath the pretty blouse that made her realise she was not quite so adamant as she had believed. She believed that her secret was her own. It did not matter about her heart. No one could see, and so no one knew. When we h
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Chapter Nine.
Chapter Nine.
“Oh yes,” I replied lamely. “We’ve been acquainted for some little time.” Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes unusually serious. Then, after a pause, he said— “Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers were. I want to speak very frankly with you.” “Well?” I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner. “I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of Harvey Shaw?” “My opinion,” I echoed. “Well, I hardly know. H
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Chapter Ten.
Chapter Ten.
I opened the steel door in the wall by the fireplace, and from the safe took out the dead man’s letter to me with the heavy cylinder. It was a curious fancy of mine to handle and examine it. I read and re-read that letter traced by the hand of the man whom I had known as Arnold, but whose real name seemed most probably to have been Edgcumbe. Then I read that strange letter threatening vengeance, and held in my hand the old copy of the newspaper which told the curious story of Lady Lettice Lancas
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Chapter Eleven.
Chapter Eleven.
“This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball,” he exclaimed, his face pale. “I only knew of it late last night. The police and doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could.” “I saw it in the paper, and came over at once,” I said. “What is your opinion?” I asked eagerly. “Is foul play suspected?” “I really don’t know,” was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide, old-fashioned hall. “It’s a terrible thing, however. Poor Asta! she is overcome with grief, poor girl.
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Chapter Twelve.
Chapter Twelve.
“Why mysterious?” I queried. “If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should be found behind locked doors. He had only to pass out by the door, lock it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that. I noticed as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door—so that it locks itself when closed!” “Ah! I had not thought of that,” the Captain declared. “Of course, by such proceeding he would have been found locked i
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Chapter Thirteen.
Chapter Thirteen.
“You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour,” I said. “I have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to you.” “Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is, alas! dead—dead!” she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her. “The inquest was held to-day. What have they decided?” “That the poor fellow died of natural causes. He suffered from an unsuspected disease of the brain.” “Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I expected they would say something
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Chapter Fourteen.
Chapter Fourteen.
“I can quite understand her reluctance to take the dead man’s present,” I said. “It is only natural. Is she still very upset?” “Very. I scarcely know what to do with her. She suffers from insomnia, and sits for hours moping and sobbing. I’ve been wondering if a trip abroad would bring about forgetfulness. But she declared that she’s had enough travelling, and prefers her own home. Therefore I’m half afraid to take her away. Redwood advises a journey through Hungary and Roumania, which would be f
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Chapter Fifteen.
Chapter Fifteen.
“Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties.” “What was her husband?” “I fancy he was a banker, or something.” I smiled within myself at his reply. “She’s evidently in rather a good set,” Cardew went on, “for I’ve often seen in the Morning Post accounts of her parties, which seem to include quite a number of distinguished people.” “Well,” I said, “as you know, Cardew, I am busy making my own inquiries. It is a slow
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Chapter Sixteen.
Chapter Sixteen.
“Then why don’t you come with us?” he suggested. “I’m taking the sixty, and there’ll be plenty of room.” I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. My own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey. “Ah!” he laughed, noticing my indecision. “Of course, you’ll come. Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow.” “Very well,” I said, “I’ll come, if you really mean that there’ll be room.” And so it was arranged. When he told Asta a few mi
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Chapter Seventeen.
Chapter Seventeen.
But I had not spoken. My secret was as yet my own. Nevertheless, it was in order to be near her that I, like Nicholson, had accepted Shaw’s invitation; in order also to protect her, for, knowing what I did of the man’s peril of arrest, I had been seized by a strange presage of evil that might befall her. I lay awake, listening to the clanging of the old bells of a monastery near by, and thinking it all over. Yes, in those few weeks I had grown to love her, even though she undoubtedly was in poss
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Chapter Eighteen.
Chapter Eighteen.
“Describe the whole circumstance,” I urged. “On the occasion when you saw it, was the door of your room locked?” “Most certainly,” was her reply. “Louise, who is married to a solicitor in Scarborough, invited me up to stay a week with her, and I went alone, Dad having gone to London. The house was on the Esplanade, one of the row of big grey houses that face the sea on the South Cliff. The family consisted only of Louise, her husband, three maids, and myself, as visitor. My room was on the secon
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Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Nineteen.
Yet why had this woman Olliffe—as she now called herself—declared that Shaw had been Arnold’s bitterest enemy? Surely it had been through my host himself that the woman knew of my existence, and my friendship with the dead man of mystery! But even while I watched them turn the corner by the Hôtel de Ville, and stroll up that broad, deserted thoroughfare—in day so busy with its rows of fine shops, but now quiet and deserted—towards the Place Bellecour, my thoughts reverted to Asta, she who had lo
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Chapter Twenty.
Chapter Twenty.
In a few seconds she unbolted the door, and opening it I encountered her in a pale pink robe-de-chambre , her luxuriant chestnut hair falling about her shoulders, her large dark brown eyes haggard and startled, her hands clenched, her countenance white to the lips. “What has happened, Miss Seymour?” I asked, glancing quickly around the room. “I—I hardly know,” she gasped in breathless alarm. “Only—only,” she whispered, in a low voice, “I—I’ve seen the hand—the Hand of Death—again!” “Seen it agai
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Chapter Twenty One.
Chapter Twenty One.
“I had a message to deliver—a letter from a dead friend.” Tramu smiled incredulously, as did also the two other officials at his side. “And this dead friend—who was he?” asked the renowned detective. “A man whom I had met on a steamer between Naples and London. He was a stranger to me, but being taken ill on board, I tried to do what I could for him. He died in London soon after our arrival.” “His name?” “Melvill Arnold.” Victor Tramu stroked his brown beard. “Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated. “Melv
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Chapter Twenty Two.
Chapter Twenty Two.
“Poor Nicholson’s death was a most mysterious one,” I exclaimed, looking the solicitor full in the face; “I don’t believe that he died from natural causes.” “Well, I fear we cannot get away from the medical evidence,” replied the matter-of-fact, grey-faced man, peering through his spectacles. “Of course the locked door was a most curious circumstance—yet it may be accounted for by one of the servants, in passing before retiring, turning the key. Or, as you suggested at the inquest, the servant w
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Chapter Twenty Three.
Chapter Twenty Three.
I pondered for a moment. Either Shaw was a past-master in the art of preparing a coup , or else Guy’s surmises were wrong. Here, in the intimacy of the family, it was declared that Shaw was devoted to Asta. Certainly my own observations went to confirm that supposition. “I wonder who knows Mr Shaw’s whereabouts?” I said presently. “I want to communicate with him upon a very important matter.” “Well, sir, it’s very funny that he hasn’t written to me. He’s never been silent so long before.” “How l
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Chapter Twenty Four.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“Nothing else, Tucker?” “No, sir. That’s all the lady said. She seemed very anxious indeed to speak to you.” “All right, Tucker. I’ll be back in a day or two. By the way, send on my letters to the Grand Hotel, Bournemouth.” “Very well, sir.” “And tell the police not to worry any further over the burglary. Tell them I will see the inspector in Newport Pagnell on my return.” “All right, sir.” And then I hung up the receiver and rang off. Asta was at Bournemouth! My first impulse was to start at on
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Chapter Twenty Five.
Chapter Twenty Five.
“I don’t exactly know. He left me at Burford Bridge Hotel, at Box Hill, last Monday, and I came here to await him. Five days have gone, and I’ve had no letter.” “Then he hasn’t been to Bournemouth?” “No.” “Well,” I said, “do not go out of the hotel until I arrive, will you?” “Not if you wish me to remain in,” was her reply; and then, promising I would be with her at the earliest moment, as I wished to see her on a matter of gravest importance, I rang off. Half an hour afterwards I paid my bill,
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Chapter Twenty Six.
Chapter Twenty Six.
It was delightful to have her as companion through those sunny hours on the road, and she looked inexpressibly dainty in her close-fitting little bonnet, fur coat, and gauntlet gloves. An enthusiastic motorist, she often drove her father’s car, which I now understood they had been compelled to abandon in the garage at Aix. The police had taken possession of it, but as both the French and English numbers it bore were false ones no clue to the address of its owner would be obtained. Yet though she
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Chapter Twenty Seven.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
“She’s very ill, sir,” was the girl’s reply. “Mr Shaw’s been called on the Bench this morning, but he’ll be back in an hour. Doctor Redwood is here, sir.” “Redwood! Then what’s the matter?” I gasped. “I hardly know, sir. But here’s Mrs Howard!” and looking along the wide hall I saw the grave-faced woman in black standing out of the light. “Oh, Mrs Howard?” I cried, walking up to her. “What’s happened to Miss Asta? Tell me. Is she ill?” “Very, I’m afraid, sir,” replied the housekeeper in a low vo
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Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Both medical men acquiesced, and a telegram was dispatched to the great specialist on brain trouble. As Redwood, seated at the library table, wrote the telegram, his close-set eyes met mine. The glance we exchanged was significant. “How did you know of this terrible affair, Kemball?” asked Shaw, abruptly, a little time afterwards. “I came over to invite you both to dine next Wednesday,” I said, of course concealing the secret message I had received from the woman I had grown to love. In response
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Chapter Twenty Nine.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Yes. He must have carried his dangerous pet in secret in a box, I suppose. And must have taken it away with him when he fled from Aix.” Then, suddenly recollecting that curious whistle of his, I realised how Shaw had used it in order to recall the great spider. “Put out the light, Cardew,” I said. “Have your torch ready. I have an idea.” “But—” he hesitated, in apprehension. “Have no fear. We want to see the hideous thing again—and to kill it,” I said. The next second the room was once more in
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Chapter Thirty.
Chapter Thirty.
What words of sympathy and congratulation I uttered I scarcely know. How can I remember! I only recollect that when the great specialist touched me upon the shoulder as sign to leave her bedside, I bent and kissed her soft white hand. All through the day and all that evening I remained eagerly expecting to hear news of Shaw’s arrest. Yet, knowing what a past-master he was in the art of evading the police, I despaired that he would ever be caught and brought up for punishment. As I sat smoking in
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Chapter Thirty One.
Chapter Thirty One.
“Of that I know very little, except that, before meeting Edgecumbe, he had lived for many years in Ecuador and Peru, where he had been engaged in the adventurous pursuit of collecting orchids and natural history specimens. Probably while there, he knew of the giant venomous tarantula, and had trained one to answer to his call,” was Mr Fryer’s reply. “Apparently, from what you have told me concerning the threatening letter, Edgecumbe’s sister suspected him of betraying her to the police, and, aft
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Chapter Thirty Two.
Chapter Thirty Two.
“Mr Arnold was my father!” she cried, looking at me amazed and stupefied. “I never knew that—I—I can’t believe it—and yet how kind he has always been to me—what beautiful presents he used to buy for me when I was a child—and how tenderly he used to kiss me when we met. Ah yes!” she cried, “I ought to have known; I ought to have guessed. Poor dear father—and he died without betraying to me the secret of my birth.” “He was a lonely man, Asta,” I said in a low voice, calling her by her Christian na
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Chapter Thirty Three.
Chapter Thirty Three.
“Since our conversation last night I’ve been carefully weighing matters. The motive of the cruel and ingenious assassination of your friend Nicholson is perfectly plain. Harford knew that there was a will in existence, for now I recollect Mr Edgecumbe, after getting me to make it, told me that he had revealed its provisions to his friend. They are that his daughter should inherit the whole of his very substantial fortune, but in the event of her death while unmarried it was to go to Harford hims
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Chapter Thirty Four.
Chapter Thirty Four.
“Yes, and not far short of the truth,” replied my friend. “With these suspicions in his mind I wonder what could have been the nature of his letter to Harford which you delivered at Totnes Station?” “It was addressed in the name of Dawnay.” “One of the names he used—one of his actual Christian names. It is evident, however, that, in it, he gave Harford no cause to suspect that he was aware of the existence of the strange pet, otherwise he would not have made that too successful attempt upon Nich
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Chapter Thirty Five.
Chapter Thirty Five.
It appeared, too, that on the day following Harford’s flight Ridgehill Manor was found by the police to be tenantless, and Earnshaw and his clever wife have not yet been found. The police, however, are confident that, possessing only slight funds, they must be heard of again ere long at their old game of passing forged notes to Continental money-changers. Asta, instead of existing upon the charity of a criminal and unwittingly exchanging forged notes for genuine ones and gold, as she had done so
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