William Le Queux (continued 2)

They grasped hands, while Shaw exclaimed in his slow deliberate drawl—

“Hulloa, Guy! I thought you had gone up to town?”

“No. I had a wire which put off my appointment until Thursday, so I’ve come over for a cup of tea.” Then she introduced the young fellow to me as Guy Nicholson.

He seated himself in one of the long cane deckchairs, and as Asta handed him some tea the pair began to chat about a tennis tournament which was to be held at a neighbouring house. Presently he turned to me, and we had a long conversation. He had the distinct bearing of a gentleman, smart, spruce, and upright, his handsome smiling face bronzed by the sun, while he seemed brimming over with good-humour.

From the first I instinctively liked him. Shaw explained that the young fellow was a near neighbour, whose father, an ironmaster in the North, had died a couple of years ago, leaving him a handsome fortune.

“He’s always about with Asta,” he added confidently in a low voice. “And I have suspicion that she has grown very fond of him.”

As I glanced across at the pair I saw how well suited they were to each other. She looked the personification of all that is lovely. Her cool muslin blouse and grey skirt fell to her young form prettily; her dark wavy hair shadowed the great brown eyes now that she had removed her motor-bonnet, making them seem to hold in their depths a vague knowledge that should never come to the ken of man, save perhaps at that moment when love would drag from them their slumbering secrets.

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 had finished tea the pair rose and strolled away together through the rosery, towards the flower-garden ablaze with bright blossoms. And as they passed beneath the arches of crimson ramblers and were lost to sight, my host exclaimed, with a sigh and a sad smile—

“Ah! How delightful it would be to find oneself young again—young again like you, Mr Kemball!”

I laughed, and we lit cigarettes and began to chat. I confess that the mystery surrounding this man who had so openly admitted to me that he was an adventurer as well as a county magistrate greatly attracted me. I found myself fascinated by the whole unusual circumstances. One curious fact I had noted was that while Asta was aware of Arnold’s death she had never told the man whom she knew as father. What motive had she in concealing the truth? Again, it seemed very evident that the young man Nicholson little dreamed that Mr Harvey Shaw was anything else than the wealthy idler which he pretended to be. And surely Asta had not undeceived him.

As together we strolled about the beautiful well-kept grounds, and as he showed me his motor garage, wherein stood four cars of various types, his electric lighting plant and electric pumps for the water supply, I tried to obtain from him some further information regarding the man Arnold.

But to all my ingenious inquiries he remained dumb.

Therefore I turned my attention to Asta, and discovered that he had adopted her when she was left alone a little child of eight.

“My life, Mr Kemball, has been very full of change and variety. Sometimes for months I have been compelled to live in strict seclusion—sometimes in places hardly civilised. I spent a year in the mountains of Northern Albania, for instance, living with one of the mountain tribes; and on another occasion necessity compelled me to live for eight months in an obscure village in Corfu. But through it all little Asta has been my companion—ah, yes!—and how often she has cheered my lonely, solitary life!”

I saw that, whatever might be this man’s character, he was devoted to her. While she, on her part, had shown herself to be ever watchful of his interests.

“Then she really is quite a cosmopolitan!” I exclaimed.

“Certainly. She speaks three languages perfectly. Few girls of her age have, like her, seen life in all its various phases, from that of the peasant hut to life here in an English home. But,” he added, “when Arnold spoke to you in confidence did he tell you nothing?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Nothing concerning his past?”

“Nothing.”

“He did not mention me—eh?” asked my companion.

“Only to urge me to carry that letter to you at Totnes.”

“And he gave you nothing else? I understood you to say that he treated you with a certain amount of confidence,” and he looked me narrowly in the face.

“He gave me two objects,” I replied. “A small golden figure of the Egyptian god Osiris—a very ancient relic—and a curious and much corroded cylinder of bronze.”

“Great Heavens! The bronze cylinder!” he gasped, starting and standing before me open-mouthed. His face was blanched at mention of it.

“Yes.”

“He gave you that, eh?” he cried in distinct alarm. “And you accepted the trust—you were fool enough to do that?”

“Of course I did. Why?”

“Ah! You would not have done so had you but known the terrible evil which must now threaten you,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, his manner changing to one of great alarm. He seemed agitated and nervous.

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said, much puzzled at his manner.

“You are, of course, in ignorance, Mr Kemball. But by the acceptance of that executorship—by the holding in your possession of that cylinder you are a doomed man.”

“Doomed? How?” I asked, with an incredulous smile.

“I tell you this quite openly and frankly, because you have already proved yourself my friend,” he said, his face now entirely transformed. We were standing together at the edge of the square croquet lawn, once the bowling-green, where the great old box-trees were clipped into fantastic shapes, while at the end was the long stone terrace with the open park beyond.

“I think you told me that he made you a present in banknotes?” Shaw went on. “Ah! Melvill Arnold knew only too well what dire unhappiness and misfortune, what deadly peril, possession of that cylinder must entail. He therefore made you that payment by way of a little recompense. Did he instruct you what to do with the thing,” he inquired.

“On a certain day I am to hand it over to a person who will come to me and ask for it.”

“To hand it over without question?”

“Yes, without question.”

Shaw was silent for some moments. His brows were knit, and he was thinking deeply, his arms folded as he stood.

“Well,” he exclaimed suddenly, at last, “I never dreamed that he had entrusted the cylinder to you. You, of course, still hold it in your possession?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if I were you, I should be very anxious for the arrival of the appointed day when you are to be relieved of its heavy responsibility. The history of that metal tube is a record of ruin, disaster, and death, for misfortune in one form or another always overtakes its possessor. Its story is surely the weirdest and most terrible that could be related. I knew that Arnold was in Egypt, but I never dreamed that he would dare at last to take the cylinder from its hiding-place and convey it here—to England!”

I recollected how my friend had just before his death declared that its contents would amaze the world, and I made quick inquiry concerning it.

“What it contains I do not know,” he replied. “Only Arnold himself knows, and he has unfortunately carried his secret to the grave. It was found, I believe, in the tomb of King Merenptah, the Pharaoh under whom the exodus of the Israelites took place some twelve hundred years before the Christian era. Arnold himself discovered it at Abydos, but on opening it, dreaded to allow the thing to see the light of day, and in order to preserve its influence from mankind, he again buried it in a certain spot known only to himself; but, no doubt, somewhere near the great Temple of Amon-Ra, at Karnak.”

“Why did he wish to preserve his discovery from mankind?” I asked, much interested.

“How can I tell? After his discovery he returned post-haste to England, an entirely changed man. He would never reveal to me, his most intimate friend, what the cylinder actually contained, save that he admitted to me that he held it in awe—and that if he allowed it to go forth to the world it would have caused the greatest sensation in our modern civilisation, that the world would stand still in amazement.”

“What could he have meant by that?”

“Ah!” replied my companion, “I cannot tell. All I know is, that together with the cylinder he discovered some ancient papyri recounting the terrible fate which would befall its possessors, and warning any one against handling, possessing, or opening it.”

“A favourite method of the ancients to prevent the rifling of their tombs,” I remarked with a laugh.

“But in this case Arnold, who was a great archaeologist, and could decipher the hieroglyphics no doubt, investigated the weird contents of the cylinder and satisfied himself that they were such that no mortal eye should gaze upon without bewilderment. Those were the very words he used in describing them to me.”

“And did anything terrible happen to him as a result?” I asked.

“From the moment of that investigation misfortune dogged his footsteps always. His friends died one by one, and he himself was smitten by that infection of the heart, which, as you know, has terminated fatally.”

“How long ago is it since he made this discovery in King Merenptah’s tomb?” I asked.

“About four years,” was Shaw’s reply, and I saw that he was trembling with excitement. “And from that day until the day of his death poor Melvill Arnold was, alas! never the same man. What he found within the Thing, as he used to call it, made such a terrible impression upon him that he, bold and fearless and defiant as he used to be, became suddenly weak, timid, and nervous, lest the secret contained in the cylinder should be revealed. That message of the hieroglyphics, whatever it was, haunted him night and day, and he often declared to me that, in consequence of his foolish disobedience of the injunction contained in the papyri, he had become a doomed man,—doomed, Mr Kemball!” he added, in a low, strange voice, looking straight and earnestly into my lace—“doomed, as I fear, alas! that you too are now doomed!”

Chapter Nine.

Reveals Guy’s Suspicions.

All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the mysterious cylinder proved unavailing. Apparently he was entirely in ignorance of its actual contents—of the Thing referred to by the man now dead.

Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled about the beautiful gardens in the sunset. He was a bright, merry, easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition for foreign travel. He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.

Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who had spent many thousands on improvements. My father had known him but slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much gratified to know his son.

From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed friendship towards each other. We were both bachelors, and I saw that we had many tastes in common. His airy carelessness of manner and his overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the devoted slave of the pretty Asta.

Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone with Nicholson on the terrace.

“Have you known Asta long?” he asked me suddenly.

My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of his question—if he were not jealous of her.

“I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?”

“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. He’s rather a good fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy—”

“Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends, and all that,” he interrupted. “But—but what I want you to tell me is, what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a mask?”

“I don’t quite follow your meaning,” was my reply.

“May I speak to you in entire confidence?”

“You certainly may. I shall not abuse it.”

“Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman’s bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name.”

“Why should any word be said against him?”

I queried. “Is he not your friend, as well as mine?”

“Granted, but—well, he has been here several years, and I have known Asta all the time. Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her. But were it not for her I would never darken his doors.”

“Why?” I asked, much surprised.

“Well,” he said with hesitation, lowering his voice. “Because there’s something wrong about him.”

“Something wrong? What do you mean?”

“What I allege. I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil.”

“Then you have suspicion of him, eh? Of what?”

“I hardly know. But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly. I do not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta. They are glances of hatred.”

“My dear fellow,” I laughed. “You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so.”

“Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?”

“Why should he? She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever since her childhood.”

“I know. You are Shaw’s friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion there may be against him. Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing.”

“But what causes you to suspect this?” I asked, looking at him very seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun.

“Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball. I have proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I allege,” he cried, in a low, confidential tone. “This man Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be.”

I was silent. What could he know? Surely Asta had not betrayed her foster-father! Of that I felt confident.

“But you say you have proof. What is the nature of the proof?”

“It is undeniable. This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained all these years, has changed towards her. There’s evil in his heart.”

“Then you fear that—well, that something may happen, eh?—that he might treat her unkindly. Surely he is not cruel to her!”

“Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him.”

“But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be.”

“Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret.”

I held my breath. What could he know?

“Well?” I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.

“I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago—I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence—I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards.”

“Well, and what do you make out from that incident?” I asked.

“That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed him to be on the Continent.”

“But the disguise?”

“Ah! there you are! Surely a gentleman doesn’t go about in shabby clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister motive. The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was making his way to pay a secret visit.”

“Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?”

“Quite confident.”

“You told her nothing?”

“Of course not. I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes very wide-open. Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is not what he pretends to be.”

The situation was, I saw, a most critical one. The young man loved Asta very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse. This was curious, having regard to Arnold’s written words of caution. The latter’s suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in London.

“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” I asked him.

“Not to a soul.”

“Then if I may be permitted to advise,” I said, “I should say no word to anybody—not even to Miss Seymour. I will assist you, and we will continue to watch and act together.”

“Good!” he cried. “Your hand upon it, Kemball.” And we grasped hands.

“I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta,” he said in a low hoarse voice. “I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem to have a distinct presage of evil.”

“Personally, I don’t think you need have any uneasiness upon that score,” I said. “Miss Seymour is his sole companion—probably his confidante—for he has but few friends.”

“Exactly. But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?”

I had not looked at the matter in that light. My companion’s discovery was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but suspicion of Shaw’s hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd. But when a man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.

“Well,” I said, “now that you have been frank with me so far, and have taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you really do suspect?”

“You are Shaw’s friend. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,” he said.

“I am no more his friend than you are,” I replied, recollecting Arnold’s warning regarding the Hand—whatever that might be. “Have I not agreed with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised to help you to watch? What actual conclusions have you formed?”

“H-s-s-h!” he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me, and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.

“They’re worrying Dad on the telephone from London,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “He gets so out of patience with it. But really it is awfully trying sometimes. They ring you up and then keep you half an hour waiting.”

“I know,” laughed Guy. “My own experience is exactly the same. Why, only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an hour.”

As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked inexpressibly dainty and charming. Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man. They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked Shaw for her hand. Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion which had entered his mind.

I saw the love-light in her magnificent brown eyes, she stood laughing with him, while he took from his case a cigarette, tapped its end lightly, as is the habit of some men, and lit it.

A few moments later Shaw joined us, smiling merrily, and as he came up he clapped Guy on the back heartily, saying—

“You two fellows will stay and have dinner, won’t you? I’m glad you are friends, as you ought to be.”

“I really think I must go,” I said. “It will take me hours to get home by train.”

“Train! Why, Gray will drive you back, of course,” he cried. “No, never mind about dressing. Asta will excuse us, and you’ll stay.”

So, having glanced at each other meaningly, we both accepted, and very soon were seated in the long handsome dining-room, where the table, laden with splendid old silver, was decorated tastefully with roses.

Wheaton served us with due stateliness, yet as I sat watching his grey clean-shaven face, I felt somehow that there was a strange mysterious craftiness in its expression, unusual in the countenance of a gentleman’s servant. The manner in which he performed his service was, however, perfect. More than once, during the merry meal, I glanced across at Guy Nicholson, and wondered what were his thoughts.

Fortunately he betrayed nothing in his face, for he joked and laughed with his host, and praised the excellent claret which Wheaton had served with such dignity.

The girl had eyes only for her lover, while Shaw himself, seated at the head of the table, was full of fun and overflowing geniality. How very strange was the situation!

After dinner we took our coffee and liqueurs on the verandah, for the night was breathless and balmy, and the air full of the sweet scent of the flowers.

Then after a long gossip alone with Shaw, at half-past ten the car was ordered for me and came round to the front entrance.

Before leaving I managed to obtain a word alone with Nicholson.

“You’ll come over and see me,” I asked. “Now, don’t disappoint me, will you?”

“No, I won’t.” Then he whispered quickly: “I told you that I had certain proofs. I’ve been upstairs. When I come I will show them to you. They will astound you, and they are fully corroborated by what I have noticed to-night. Perhaps it escaped you. Beware of Wheaton. He’s only been here six months, but I know something—have seen something?”

And we shook hands and parted.

Chapter Ten.

The Evil of the Ten Plagues.

In the days that followed I was intensely anxious to visit Lydford Hall again, but I had received a warning note from Shaw, urging me not to do so without taking every precaution. I might be followed, for the danger of detection was not yet at an end.

Therefore I remained in eager expectancy of Guy’s visit. He had vaguely promised to come over “in a day or two.” But as a week passed and I heard nothing from him, I wrote, and by return of post received a reply that he would motor over and lunch with me on Sunday.

“I have something of greatest importance to tell you,” his letter concluded; “so I hope you can make it convenient to be in on that day.”

I received the letter on Thursday morning, and at once replied that I would be at home. I would await his visit with keenest impatience.

The warm breathless days at Upton End passed but slowly. Truth to tell, I found life there extremely dull. I had many friends in the neighbourhood, but they were mostly elderly persons, or angular girls of superior education. I had little in common with them, and already found myself longing to travel again.

More than once when smoking my lonely cigar before going to bed, I had taken out the mysterious cylinder from the big safe built in the wall of the library and held it in my hand pondering. What could be the Thing it contained—the thing which would amaze the world!

The weird story told to me by Shaw concerning it haunted me; yet what evil could its possession bring upon me? I had heard, of course, of authenticated stories of certain Egyptian mummies which have brought disaster and death to those who disturbed their long sleep; yet in my case I had become the unwilling agent of another.

On the night of receiving Nicholson’s letter, after every one had retired, I was sitting as usual smoking, with the long window open to the verandah, for the air was close and oppressive. Outside the night was glorious, the moon shone brightly, and not a breath of wind stirred.

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 Lancaster.

It was all mysterious, but surely most mysterious of all was that bronze cylinder. Why should the dead man have feared to expose its contents to the world?

Civilisation would be staggered by the revelation, it was declared. What terrible secret of ages past could be therein contained? Why had the dead man called it a Thing? Was it really some living thing imprisoned in that strong unbreakable casing?

I carried it across to the green-shaded lamp upon my writing-table, and taking up a strong magnifying glass examined it closely, and at last determined that the welding by which it had been closed had been done ages ago. As far as I could detect it had never been opened. How, therefore, could Arnold have known what it contained?—unless the papyri that had been discovered with it had given an explanation.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the existence of any papyri of great interest would probably be known in the Egyptian Department of the British Museum. Therefore by inquiry there I might perhaps learn something. So I resolved, after Guy’s visit, to run up to London and see one of the officials. As Arnold was an Egyptologist, he would, no doubt, be known and his discoveries noted.

I was holding the cylinder in my hand, carrying it across the room to replace it in the safe, when my eye caught a dark shadow thrown across the lawn. So quickly, however, did it disappear that I stood half inclined to believe it to exist only in my imagination. It seemed to be a long shadow, as though some person had crossed in the moonlight the high bank on the opposite side. Yet my collie, who would bark at the slightest sound in the night, lay near and uttered neither bark nor growl. I went out to the verandah and looked about me; but all was perfectly still. The world lay asleep beneath the great full moon.

For a few moments I stood puzzled. No intruder should be there at that hour. Yet the fact that Prince had not been disturbed reassured me, so I closed the window, locked the cylinder and the correspondence carefully in the safe, and then went upstairs to bed.

My room was directly over the library, and something prompted me to watch. So I extinguished my light and sat peering through the chink between the blind and the window-sash. For nearly half an hour I waited, my eyes fixed upon the great wide, moonlit lawn.

Suddenly I saw the shadow again, plainly and distinctly—the dark silhouette passed by again.

It was probably a poacher from the wood beyond. I knew that my rabbits were being trapped with wires; therefore resolving to tell Johnson, the keeper, in the morning, I retired to bed.

Next day, among my letters, I found one from my solicitors, which made it necessary for me to go at once to London; and after doing my business in Bedford Row, I strolled along to the British Museum.

I had but little difficulty in discovering Professor Stewart, whose knowledge of Egyptology is probably the widest of any living man.

Without telling him too many details, I related the story I had heard of the finding of a bronze cylinder in the tomb of King Merenptah, and that certain papyri were discovered with it. Could he give me any information upon the subject.

“Well—a little,” replied the tall, grey-bearded, bald-headed man, looking at me through his spectacles with great deliberation. “It is true, I believe, that an interesting cylinder of metal was found in the tomb of Merenptah, coeval with Moses, and with it were some fragments of papyri fairly well-preserved, but on examination they were found not to be of the nineteenth dynasty, as would have been expected.”

“Who examined them?” I asked eagerly.

“I did myself, about two years ago, if I recollect aright,” replied the Professor. “They were brought to me one day for my opinion by a man whose name I now forget. He was elderly, grey-bearded, and apparently possessed considerable knowledge of Egyptian subjects. He left them with me, so that I might decipher them, as he wished to compare his own decipher with mine. But, curiously enough, I have never seen him since. The papyri I have still locked away, awaiting his return.”

“Then they are here?” I cried eagerly.

“Certainly. Would you like to see them?”

I replied eagerly in the affirmative, and he left me for some minutes, returning with a big cardboard portfolio, which he opened, showing half a dozen pieces of brown crumbling paper-like substance covered with puzzling hieroglyphics. With them were several sheets of blue foolscap, upon which he had written his translation.

“Here is what the record contains,” he said.

“Perhaps, if you are interested in such matters, you would like to read it. It is a curious piece of literature of apparently the Pharaonic dynasty of the Ptolemies—or 323-30 B.C., which ended with Cleopatra.”

I took the folios of modern paper in my hand and from them read as follows, written in the Professor’s own crabbed writing:—

”...For of a Verity death, sickness, and sorrow, who knoweth which, may fall upon thee. Therefore, beware of the wrath of Ra, beware lest this cylinder of bronze be opened and its secret be revealed to men, for therein lieth the Thing that shall not speak until the Day of Awakening.

“For:

“He that seeketh knowledge of that which is hidden is accursed of Amon with the ten plagues and doeth so at his own risk, and must meet his fate being cursed of the wolf-god Osiris, ruler of the underworld. Truly, cutting off the head of, or the forsaking life is better than the satisfaction of curiosity of what is therein contained.

“Touch not the cylinder with thine hand, for if...

“Let it remain here in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings, Lord... wherein it has been placed to slumber until released by Osiris, to whom all kings and princes bow the knee and to whom...

“Observe, He is all-glorious, on whose pleasure fortune waiteth, in whose valour victory, and in whose anger death.

“Since:

”...a gem be tied at the feet and a piece of glass be worn upon the head, yet still glass is glass, and gems are gems.

“It is said:

“Wisdom is of more consequence than strength. The want of it is a state of misery. And as in the night darkness is kept at a distance by the lord of shades (the moon) thus love by seeing and being seen delights the young. The woman...

“Again:

“Women are never to be rendered faithful and obedient; no, not by gifts, nor by honours, nor by sincerity, nor by services, nor by severity, nor by precept!... What women eat is twofold; their cunning fourfold; their perseverance sixfold; their passions eightfold; and their patience tenfold. Wherefore the understanding which upon unexpected occurrences remaineth unaffected, may pass through the greatest difficulties. He who hath sense and worshippeth the Sun-God hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? Where hath...

“To the unkind the ruin of the worthy bringeth delight, and...

“It is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.

“For:

“Upon the great river the city of Thebes there was in the days of Sekhomab a city where... called Aa-tenen, the inhabitants of which used to believe that a certain giant crocodile, whom they called Nefer-biu, infested the waters. The fact was this: a thief, as he was swimming away with a bell he had stolen, was overcome and devoured by a crocodile, and the bell, falling from his hand, was washed upon the river-bank there and picked up by some apes, who every now and then used to ring it in the trees by the river... The people of the town, finding a man had been killed there, and hearing continually the noise of the bell, used to declare that the giant Nefer-biu, being enraged, was devouring a man and ringing a bell, so that the city was abandoned by all the principal inhabitants.

“And so...

“At length, guided by the god Horus... of Stars of Sopdu, a certain poor woman, having considered the subject, discovered that the bell was rung by the apes. She accordingly went unto King Sekhomab, loved of Ra, favourite of Mentu, and before the priests of Amon, and said: ‘If, O King. Lord of both Lands, I may expect a very great reward, I will engage to silence this Nefer-biu.’ The King was exceedingly well pleased, and gave her some silver. So having described some circles and exhibited the worship of strange gods in a conspicuous manner, she secretly provided such fruits as she conceived the apes were fond of and went unto the river; where, strewing them about, they presently quitted the bell and attached themselves to the fruit. The poor woman, in the meantime, took away the bell and carried it into Sekhomab, who honoured her and gave her great reward. And in the city of Aa-tenen she became an object of adoration to its inhabitants, and her cartouche was inscribed upon the Temple of Amon-Ra... and of the Sun-God...

“Wherefore I say that it is not proper to be alarmed at a mere sound when the cause of that sound is unknown.

“And wherefore, I repeat that, for fear of great disaster to thyself, let not thine hand touch this brazen cylinder which containeth the Thing which shall remain imprisoned therein in the realms of Tuat (the underworld) until released by Osiris on the Day of Awakening... this 25th of the month Tybi.

“Be ye therefore warned, for by disobedience assuredly the anger of the Sun-God and of Osiris the Eternal will fall heavily upon thee. And Harnekht shall smite them.

“May disaster happen but in the house of thine enemies. May traitors, day by day, be led by Time to their destruction, and may they remain for ever in Amentet, the place of gloom...”

“Curious,” I said, looking up to the Professor’s grave bearded face as he peered over to me through his glasses.

“Yes. The fable is very interesting. I have not yet decided the actual date of the papyri. But it is certainly much later than King Merenptah,” he said. “We have many cartouches of his time here in the Museum, and there are many others about Europe, as St. Petersburg and Darmstadt. But in certain ways the hieroglyphics are different. Hence I am of opinion that the bronze cylinder referred to—if it has been found and still exists—was placed with these papyri in the tomb at a much later date.”

“You have no knowledge of the person who brought this to you?” I asked.

“Only that his name was Arnold—I see that I made a note at the time—and that he was staying at the Savoy Hotel.”

“Strange that he did not return to claim his find.”

“Very. My own idea is that he may have been called abroad suddenly, and will return one day. He seemed extremely intelligent.”

“And the cylinder. What do you think it could have contained—what is the Thing to which the papyri refers!”

The old professor shrugged his shoulders.

“How can we tell if the cylinder is non-existent? Probably it was rifled from the royal tomb a thousand years ago and broken open by sacrilegious persons who were unable to decipher these writings, and who cared nothing for the curse of the ten plagues placed upon them,” he laughed.

Then Mr Arnold had evidently not revealed to the Professor the existence of the cylinder. Why? Because he had already again hidden it in fear.

“We have many records of objects concealed, but most of the things referred to in the papyri have disappeared ages ago,” added the great Egyptologist, who, taking me along the gallery, showed me the mummy of the great Pharaoh Merenptah himself, in whose tomb the fragments of papyri were found.

The Professor was extremely kind, and lent me his decipher to copy them. After finding that I could obtain nothing further concerning the man Arnold, and that he was not known as an Egyptologist, I thanked him and left without telling him of the existence of the cylinder.

That same night, I returned to Upton End with intention to show Guy Nicholson the curious record when he visited me on Sunday.

Next morning—which was Saturday—I opened my newspaper, which, as usual, I found on the library table after breakfast, when my eyes fell upon a heading which caused my heart to stand still.

The printed words danced before my bewildered eyes. For a second I stood like a man in a dream. I held my breath and eagerly read the half a dozen lines of brief announcement—a report which caused me to clap my hand to my fevered brow, and to involuntarily ejaculate the words—

“My God! It can’t be true—it can’t be true!”

Chapter Eleven.

A Sensation in the County.

The paragraph I read was truly a startling one, brief, but amazing.

Apparently few details had arrived in London, for it read thus—

“Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat remarkable circumstances. It appears that he entertained some guests at dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and the last of his friends to depart left about midnight. About two o’clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man’s piercing shrieks, as though of horror. He listened, and heard a loud thumping sound below. Then all was quiet. It being the first time he had been a guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for over an hour dropped off to sleep again. In the morning, however, the maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside, as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours. Considerable mystery attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular.”

What could actually have happened!

I read and re-read that paragraph. Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur, on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.

Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must have been spent by Guy’s father in the way of improvements. It was a splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of chestnuts, which met overhead.

A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw’s grey car standing against the garage, and inquired for him.

In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat surprised, I think, at my presence there.

“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.”

“Ah yes?” I sighed. “She was very fond of him; I realised that the other day.”

Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room—the morning-room I supposed it to be—and there I was introduced to a fussy elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby. He was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting doctor of the grass-country.

“Well, Mr Shaw,” he exclaimed briskly, “Doctor Petherbridge, from Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the conclusion that death was due to natural causes—inflammation of the brain. We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace whatever of foul play.”

“Nor of suicide—by poison, for instance?” asked Shaw, leaning with his back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale blue carpet.

“Certainly not. We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach into Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy ourselves. Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly collapsed. Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon.”

“But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard,” I remarked.

“Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the hammering, it seems,” replied Shaw. “The poor fellow was in the best of spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past eleven. We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them. The judge was talking with him on the steps when we left.”

“Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one might suspect ptomaine poisoning,” remarked the doctor from Northampton, a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the room. “My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes.”

“And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner to-morrow, eh?” Shaw asked.

“Precisely. I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of course. Indeed, I’m just off to Northampton for that purpose. But I do not anticipate finding anything. Young Nicholson was not the kind of fellow to take his own life.”

“No,” I said; “he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies towards suicide. Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most mysterious.”

“Oh, the papers!” laughed Shaw, derisively. “They’re always sensational. A good story means hundreds of pounds to them. But,” he added, “I must be off, Kemball. I was just going when you came. I have to be on the Bench this morning at twelve.”

“Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour,” I said. “You and I will meet again soon, no doubt.”

“My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like. Better ring me on the ’phone to see if we are at home, for we’re often out in the car this fine weather.”

And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench, gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand. Yet almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an adjoining room. Shaw was whistling to himself—even though the house was a house of mourning!

Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that I was a friend of the man now dead.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you very much, Mr Kemball. Captain Cardew, who was Nicholson’s guest, is in the library. At least I left him there a little time ago; let’s go and find him.”

So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the floor to the panelled ceiling. At the table a tall, fair-haired, military-looking young man was seated writing letters.

I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to answer any questions, as I was poor Guy’s friend, the doctor, having some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone. When he had gone I closed the door. Then, turning to the dead man’s guest, I said in a low voice—“I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you in absolute confidence?”

“Certainly,” he said; “we are mutual friends of poor Guy’s.”

“Well,” I exclaimed; “first, will you tell me, frankly, your private opinion of this terrible affair? Has there been foul play?”

I saw that he hesitated.

“Well,” he replied, “there are certain curious circumstances which no doubt point to such a conclusion, although I understand that the doctors have had no hesitation in pronouncing death to be due to natural causes.”

“Would you mind describing to me, as far as you are able, what you heard in the night?” I said. “I have a reason for asking this. No doubt you have already several times told your story.”

“Yes. To the medical men and also to the police,” he said. “Well, it was like this. I’m quartered at Canterbury, and Guy, who was in my regiment and retired a year or so ago, asked me to spend a few days with him. I came here three days ago and found him in the highest of spirits, and very keen about tennis. He took me over to see a man named Shaw, and his daughter, of whom he was, I know, very fond. The night before last he gave a little dinner to a few people, and Shaw and the girl were here. After dinner we all went out on to the lawn for coffee. The place was hung with Chinese lanterns and looked charming, but all Guy’s attention was devoted towards entertaining Shaw’s daughter. I saw them cross the lawn in the moonlight and stroll into the grounds together; and when they came back I overheard Shaw expressing his annoyance to her at her absence. Shaw chatted with Justice Michelmore a good deal, while I had a Mrs Vane, a rather stout person, put upon me for the evening. I tell you I envied Guy, for the girl is really delightful.”

“Was there any bridge?”

“Yes, for about an hour in the drawing-room. Shaw and the Judge did not play. Before eleven the guests began to depart, and the Vanes, the last to leave, went about midnight. After they had gone I sat in the library with Guy for half an hour, and had a cigar. He was full of Asta Seymour, and when I asked him why he did not propose to her he reflected a moment, and then told me, in strict confidence, that he would do so at once—but for a certain circumstance.”

“Did he explain that circumstance?” I asked eagerly.

“No. I pressed him, but he refused to tell me. ‘It is my secret, Teddy,’ he said. ‘A secret which, alas! bars my happiness for ever.’ As we smoked, I noticed that, contrary to the rule, the long window yonder was open, and remarked upon it. He rose, and saying that the servant had probably forgotten it, closed it himself and barred the shutters. You’ll see they are strong shutters, and they were found in the morning closed and barred just as he had left them. Indeed, I unbarred them myself.”

“Then you left him here?” I asked.

“No. He turned off the light and came out with me, locking the door after him, for it seems he’s always careful to have every door on the ground floor locked at night. He came upstairs with me, wished me a cheery good-night outside my own door, and, promising to motor me into Oakham on the morrow, went along to his room. That is the last time he was seen alive.”

“What did you next hear?”

“I was awakened by a loud, piercing shriek—a man’s shriek of intense horror, it seemed. No one else slept in this wing of the house, or they must certainly have heard it. I roused myself at the unusual sound, for I was thoroughly startled and awakened by it. The clock on my mantelshelf struck two. I waited for some minutes, when I heard a noise which seemed to be below in the library, as though some one were moving about trying the door and hammering upon it. This caused me to wonder, and I held my breath to listen further. I suppose I must have lain like that for fully an hour. It was my intention if I heard anything further to go along to Guy’s room. I had, of course, some hesitation in arousing the household. But as I heard nothing further, I suppose I fell asleep, for the sun was shining when I awoke again. I got up, and was crossing to the window to look out when I heard a woman’s cry for help. So I rushed out in my pyjamas, and, descending the stairs, found poor Guy lying just here,” and he crossed to a spot about four yards from the door, and pointed to the red carpet.

“Was the room in any disorder?” I asked.

“Not as far as I could see. The shutters yonder were closed and barred, so I opened them and then tried to rouse my friend. But, alas! I saw by the ashen look upon his face that he was already dead. He was still in his dinner-jacket—just as I had left him. Of course you can well imagine the scene and the horror of the servants. Poor Guy—he was one of the very best.”

“What is your theory, Captain Cardew?”

“Theory! Well, I hardly know. I was a fool, and I shall never forgive myself for not raising an alarm when I first heard his shriek. I ought to have known that something was wrong. But there are moments in one’s life when one, being awakened suddenly, acts foolishly. It was so with me.”

Chapter Twelve.

The Cry in the Night.

“After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the library,” I said to Cardew. “Were all the lights out when he came up with you?”

“By Jove! No, they were not,” he replied. “He didn’t turn out the light in the passage here just outside the library door. I have not remembered that point until this moment!”

“Did you see any newspaper about?”

“Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there,” and he pointed to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the unfortunate man had arisen from it.

“Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to return to the library and read his paper as usual,” I said. “He did so, and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read.”

“And while reading, he had the fatal seizure—eh? That, at least, is the theory of the police,” the Captain said.

“But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found the door locked from the outside?” I remarked. The reason I cannot tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain’s manner. Was he telling all he knew?

“Yes,” he said. “It was undoubtedly locked from the outside—a most mysterious fact.”

“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 in.”

“But you have suspicion of foul play,” I said; “you may as well admit that, Captain Cardew.”

“Well, I see no good in concealing it,” he said, with a smile. “To tell the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of the medical men.”

“And I agree with you,” I declared. “One point we have to consider is what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o’clock. He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper.”

“No, but he might have been reading something else. He was not writing letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any letters he might have written, but I could find none.”

“The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet somebody there in secret,” I exclaimed. “They may have passed in by the window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by the front door.”

His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.

“By Jove! I’ve never thought of that!” he gasped. “Then your theory is that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh? What causes you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball? I’ve been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with me?”

“Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest of certain persons that he should die suddenly,” I said; “that’s all.”

“Will you not name the persons?” he asked.

“Not until I obtain proof. I may be mistaken. I may be grossly misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific charge against anybody,” was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and the park was spread. It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in which the previous owner—a great politician and writer—had spent many studious hours.

“But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put them to the police?”

“And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate inquiry! Scarcely, I think,” I replied, with a smile, still looking about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world room during the silent watches of that fatal night.

“Nothing has been touched here,” Cardew remarked. “I picked up the newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down at hearing the housemaid’s horrified cry.”

The room was certainly in no disorder. On the big square table, covered by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a great silver bowl filled with roses. The writing-table—an old-fashioned mahogany one—was, I noticed, littered with letters, bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument. Strange that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.

“The hammering you heard—was it quite distinct?” I inquired.

“Quite. It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out of this locked room.”

The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me considerably. But a fresh suggestion arose within me—namely, that after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them. Yet she would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light still burning. No: the only explanation was that the key had been turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her master’s return there, and while on her way to bed.

Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most remarkable features. There was mystery—a great and inexplicable mystery—somewhere.

And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.

With that object in view, I interviewed the housemaid who found the body of her young master, and listened to her story from her own lips. Probably the whole household considered me to be highly inquisitive; nevertheless, I pointed out to them the earnest necessity of clearing up the matter to everybody’s satisfaction, and both to the housekeeper, a witty woman, and to the other servants, I declared that the facts were full of grave suspicion.

The inspector of County Constabulary was not highly intelligent, and as soon as the medical men had given their opinion he ceased to take any further professional interest in the affair. It was a sudden death, and with such occurrences the police have only to attend the inquest and formally report.

The officer was, I think, rather piqued at the persistency of my inquiries, for when I pointed out to him the suspicious circumstance of the locked door, he point-blank told me that the medical declaration was quite sufficient for him.

The girl, Kate Hayes, who discovered her master—a dark-haired, good-looking maid, about twenty-six—had been eight years at Titmarsh Court. It was Mr Guy’s habit always to read his paper before going to bed, she told me, as we stood in the long servants’ hall.

“I often find the library door unlocked before I go to my room, sir, and the night before last it was unlocked.”

“Did you lock it?” I asked quickly.

“No, sir. I once locked Mr Guy in, so I always look inside now, before securing it,” she replied. “I looked inside, and found Mr Guy there. He was then taking a book down from one of the shelves near the window. I apologised for intruding, and wished him good-night. ‘Good-night, Hayes,’ he replied, and I closed the door and left him. I heard nothing in the night. But when I went to the library door next morning I found it locked. I recollect it was locked, because at first the key would not turn. At last I succeeded in opening the door, when the first sight that met my eyes in the faint grey light through the chinks of the shutters was poor Mr Guy lying crouched up, his knees nearly touching his chin and quite dead.”

“You are absolutely certain that the window was quite securely closed?” I asked.

“Captain Cardew opened it, sir. I ran away to fetch the other servants.”

Here again the Captain showed some disinclination thoroughly to probe matters, for he interrupted, saying—

“I don’t see how questioning the servants will assist us. We already know all that they know.”

“What we want to discover is whether poor Nicholson received any visitor clandestinely during the early hours of the morning,” I said. “To me, it seems very much as though he did.”

“Then you are directly opposed to the medical theory?” he exclaimed.

“And so are you, are you not?” I remarked.

“In a manner, yes—but not altogether. We must credit doctors with a certain amount of knowledge where death is concerned.”

“I credit them with every knowledge,” I hastened to assure him; “only in this case, I fear they have not sufficiently weighed over all the known and indisputable facts.”

“If there had actually been foul play, there would be traces of it,” he said.

“Not always,” I replied. “Many cases of secret assassination have been declared by doctors to have been deaths from natural causes.”

I saw that the servants, all country-bred, ridiculed my suspicions. Doctor Redwood had said that their master had died of brain disease, and that was sufficient. The police, too, were quite satisfied, and the young man’s relations, two of whom arrived in hot haste while I was there, of course accepted the verdict of the medical men—the evidence which would be given at the inquest on the following day.

To me, it was a curious circumstance that Cardew, when he heard the shriek, had not attempted to investigate its cause. True, he had listened, and the cry was not repeated. I should have regarded his apathy as suspicious if I myself had not more than once, when dreaming, awakened suddenly, believing that I had heard a cry of distress.

The shriek of terror—nay, of horror, Cardew described it—was, in itself, a most peculiar circumstance. There is a distinct difference between a cry of pain and a shriek of horror.

No; I felt certain that the medical men had not sufficiently considered that very singular point. But when I tried to argue with the Captain, he merely declared that the cause of the shriek would never be explained. Perhaps it was the sudden knowledge that he was dying that had terrified him.

I intended, however, to seek further explanation. It was ever upon my mind that the man who had died so mysteriously intended to visit me on Sunday, and to reveal to me something—something concerning Harvey Shaw.

Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before, accompanied by Asta. It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and re-visited Titmarsh Court.

I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime. Hence, I spared no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circumstances—in doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.

I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and covered with a sheet. I did not remove the shroud. I was too horrified. A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for the arrival of the coffin.

What had the dead man intended to reveal to me? He had evidently discovered something detrimental to Shaw. Of that I felt assured, for had he not admitted as much?

“Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?” I asked Cardew some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room wherein he had died. The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of mystery.

“Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his manner at the time. But since—now that I have reflected—I recollect that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw’s daughter—as though he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair.”

At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to see him. Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded opportunity to examine it.

I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the silent watches of the night. Why had he given vent to that shriek of horror? What had he seen?

Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man’s lips.

I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity—nothing had been tampered with.

My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room. Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.

But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?

Chapter Thirteen.

One Point is Made Clear.

On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court, and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master had died of natural causes.

I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night. But the official coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only weigh the medical evidence.

Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst, had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for arsenic with the Marsh apparatus. The result in all cases had been negative. Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.

After the verdict of “death from natural causes,” I drove Shaw, who had also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan and pale in her deep mourning. She was seated in a low chair in her own pretty room, full of books and flowers—an artistic, cosy little apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale blue.

The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside. But as she took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that she had recently been crying.

I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held her small hand in mine. Her heart, however, was too full for words, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head sadly in her profound sorrow.

I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her shoulder and strove to calm her.

“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 like that. But—” and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.

“You dined with him only a few hours before,” I remarked; for I had gone there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence, fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.

“Yes. Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never see him again?”

“You left before the Vanes, did you not?”

“Yes. My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most delightful evening. The weather was bright, and everything had been done to perfection. On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his head, and I became alarmed. Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor Redwood. But he would not hear of it. He begged me to go to bed, but I remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o’clock.”

“Until three o’clock?” I echoed. “And you did not leave him at all?”

“No. Because he seemed so very queer. I mixed him some brandy and water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not.”

“What was his objection against summoning the doctor?”

“Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past.”

“And after three o’clock you retired to bed?”

“It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn—quite unlike his usual self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o’clock next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then—then—just after ten o’clock last night—Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling him of the—the awful discovery at Titmarsh?”

Her story made one fact entirely plain—namely, that Shaw, whatever he might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.

“Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?” I asked. “Did he not tell the doctors?”

“No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with poor Guy’s death, he said.”

She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black, which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.

I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.

Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father. She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and she was certainly not deceiving me.

As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me, and in confidence make certain revelations. My feelings towards Shaw had been mixed ones. He had been open and straightforward with me, and had told me that he was leading a double life. Asta had treated me as a friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson as far as possible. Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to know what he had actually discovered—how far he had ascertained the truth.

His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife. He loved her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and marrying the girl of his choice.

Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which I did. But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one. Asta, full of thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

“The Coroner was an idiot,” I declared in the course of our discussion of the events of the morning. “He would scarcely allow any mention of poor Guy’s cry of horror heard by Cardew.”

“Ah, my dear Kemball,” my friend replied, “in many cases inquests are worse than useless. Coroners so often override the jury and instruct them as to what verdict they should return. In almost every case you will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the man who attends themselves and their families. If they are ill, they call him in and accept his dictum. They do just the same at a Coroner’s inquest. They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves.”

“Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that night,” I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he glanced across at the girl in annoyance.

“Yes,” he said, with a light laugh. “I didn’t feel over grand—a bad headache, just as I used to have years ago. But it was nothing. It didn’t arise from anything I ate or drank. I knew that, and for that reason did not ’phone to Redwood. Yes,” he added, “I spent a rather poor night. Asta became quite alarmed.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, “what is your theory regarding the poor fellow’s death?”

“Theory! Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury, what can one think?” he asked. “There are certainly many curious points in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was found locked in the room.”

“That’s just my point. He could not have locked himself in.”

“Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he was locked in. In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have been deceived, and thought the key had been turned.”

I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his suggestion caused me to ponder. But next second I asked—

“If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get out?”

“But did he hammer?” queried Shaw. “Sounds in the night are always distorted, remember.”

“Please don’t discuss the horrible affair further, Dad,” cried Asta, appealingly.

“My dear, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, turning to her hastily. “I know I ought not to have mentioned the matter. Both Kemball and myself deeply condole with you in your grief. You never mentioned to me your affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago. I told Kemball about it, didn’t I?” and he glanced across at me.

“Yes, you did,” I said.

“Ah, poor Guy!” he sighed. “He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy. But, alas! the Fates have willed it otherwise.”

“I—I feel bewildered, Dad,” exclaimed the girl. “I can’t believe that he is really dead,” and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and with uneven steps left the room.

“Poor child!” remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone. “It is indeed a terrible blow for her. I had no idea that she was so devoted to him. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was evidently the one to whom she was most attached. And, between ourselves, Kemball,” he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised between his white fingers, “he was one of the most eligible young fellows in the whole county—eight thousand a year, as well as a half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield. I had dreams of seeing Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court. But, of course, I never told her so. I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life. Love affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly.”

And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded. He could not possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow’s untimely end.

He could not know of Guy’s secret intention to make certain revelations to me—and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware that he was leading a double life. No; when I carefully weighed over the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before me—mysterious though he might be—had every motive that Guy Nicholson should live. I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him. It certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.

The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange affair.

Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken, and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury misled?

The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural death. Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of that fateful night.

Chapter Fourteen.

Contains Another Suggestion.

A week went by—a breathless, anxious week.

I had attended poor Guy’s burial in the pretty churchyard of Titmarsh village, and as I turned from the grave I could not help wondering about what he had intended to tell me, had he but lived to speak.

Yet his lips were sealed. Some one had known of his intentions, and had forced silence upon him.

My mind was ever full of dark thoughts and black suspicions, and yet I had so clearly proved that Harvey Shaw, against whom his intention was to speak, had had no hand in the matter. Of one thing, however, I was convinced: poor Nicholson had been cruelly murdered.

About eight days after the funeral, Shaw, one hot afternoon, drove over alone in his car, and found me smoking in a deck-chair beneath a tree. The object of his visit was to tell me of Guy’s will. It had been found, he said, that the young man had bequeathed the sum of ten thousand pounds to Asta.

“He was infatuated with her, poor fellow,” Shaw declared, in a tone of slight annoyance. “Of course she will not touch a penny of it. How could she? Ah! when he made that will, only two months ago, he never dreamt that he would meet with such a sudden end.”

“No,” I sighed, my mind full of wonder. At that moment many strange things flitted across my brain. “We all of us foolishly believe that we have many years to live.”

“As soon as Asta heard of the legacy, she declared that she would not accept it,” he remarked, “But I suppose she must, even though she transfers it to some charity, as is her intention.”

“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 fresh ground for her. But at present I’m undecided.”

He remained with me for a couple of hours, and afterwards left, when that same evening I was called by telephone up to London to see my lawyer regarding the pending action concerning a portion of my land.

Fortunately, at the inquest, I had met the dead man’s solicitor, Mr Sewell, and in order to ascertain whether Shaw’s statement was correct, I called upon him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. From what I gathered it seemed that the bulk of the property had passed to a cousin, and that Asta had declined to accept her legacy, and had given instructions for it to be divided between three London hospitals.

The solicitor, like myself, disagreed with the finding of the Coroner’s jury. Yet he could form no theory as to the manner in which his client had met with his untimely end.

On the afternoon of my return to Upton End, four days later, I was in the library scribbling a letter to catch the post, when a card was brought to me bearing the name, “Mrs Charles Olliffe.”

“The lady has come by car, sir, and wishes very particular to see you,” the girl said.

I was not over-pleased to have a visitor at that moment; nevertheless, I ordered her to be shown in, and in a few moments found myself confronted by a tall, well-built, good-looking, well-dressed woman of about forty-five, wearing a smart motor-bonnet and dust-coat. The latter was open, revealing a fine diamond brooch in her white silk blouse.

As our eyes met, I held my breath; but next moment I managed to recover myself, and bowing, offered her a chair.

“I hope, Mr Kemball, that you will pardon my intrusion. I am a stranger to you, but I wished to see you upon a matter of the greatest importance to myself.”

“There is no necessity for apology,” I assured her. “I am at your service.”

My eyes were fixed upon her in wonder, for I had, on the instant I had seen her, recognised her as the original of the newspaper photograph I had locked away in my safe—the picture of Lady Lettice Lancaster!

She certainly had the air and manner of a lady, and surely none would have suspected her to be a convicted criminal. Notwithstanding her age, she was extremely well-preserved. She spoke low and with refinement, whilst her bearing was that of a well-bred woman. Her smile, too, as she spoke to me, was good-humoured, almost fascinating.

“The fact is, Mr Kemball,” she said, as I seated myself and bent towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her identity, “I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine.”

“Who is that?” I asked quickly.

“Mr Melvill Arnold.”

Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady Lettice.

“Yes. It is true that I knew Mr Arnold,” I said slowly.

“It is about him that I have ventured to call. I live near Bath, but I motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you,” she said. “I heard from a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold’s death, and that he entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate. It was an honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody.”

Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was “pumping” me, I knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my replies.

Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.

I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so completely hidden.

I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness, and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet, from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the police.

And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in prison! It seemed utterly incredible.

Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether Arnold had made a will. But I told her that, so far as I knew, there was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.

“I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors,” she said. “He would not trust them.”

“Then who is in charge of the dead man’s estate?” I asked, hoping for some information.

“Ah! That’s a complete mystery, Mr Kemball,” was her reply. “That Mr Arnold was wealthy—tremendously wealthy—there is no doubt. Yet he was as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income. It was derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware.”

“He was a complete mystery in many ways.”

“In every way. I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess that I was most puzzled always. He lived in secret, and it appears that he has died in secret,” replied Mrs Olliffe. “I had hoped, Mr Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in which he has disposed of his property.”

“Unfortunately, I know nothing,” was my reply. “He merely asked me to perform several little services for him after his death; and having done them, there my knowledge ends.”

She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd, deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said—

“I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will. But, on the contrary, I know full well that I should not. All I can tell you, Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold’s, then only evil can result.”

“Why?” I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before me.

“Because Arnold was a worker of evil.”

“Then you were not his friend, eh?”

“Yes, I was. Only I have warned you,” was her quick reply.

Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar assertion. Had he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it in their possession?

I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting. As I sat chatting with her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey, and of her curiously romantic life. Now that she was free, she was, without doubt, again carrying on her old game. Once a woman is an adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.

Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance with the dead man Arnold.

More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a mystery complete and profound. She had known him intimately, yet she would tell me very little concerning him.

“He was, of course, very eccentric,” she declared. “One of his fads was that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession. He was constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the appearance of being poor.”

“Where did he live usually?” I asked.

“Half his time he was abroad—in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover.”

I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently, after she had taken tea with me, she left.

Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near Kelston, about three miles out of the city.

At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.

“Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe’s a widow,” said the stout, white-bearded landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. “She’s been here close on two years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven’t been very many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson—and he’s always there, more or less.”

“Nicholson!” I cried, startled at mention of the name. “Was he Mr Guy Nicholson, from Titmarsh?”

“I don’t know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He hasn’t been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work for Mrs Olliffe. He’s a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only wish there were a few more of his sort about.”

“He’s a friend of Mrs Olliffe’s, you say? Has he been coming here for long?”

“Ever since she’s been here. They used to say he came to see Miss Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes just as much since she’s left. Ah!” he added, “now I recollect. Only a week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was.”

I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.

When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor. It was, I found, a splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely timbered park, and in full view from the high road. Would the country folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the curious truth?

While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled, ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw back into a hedge. In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.

But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of thought.

Guy had been that undesirable woman’s friend. Was it possible that she had been implicated in the poor fellow’s mysterious end?

That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking—thinking very deeply.

Chapter Fifteen.

Contains some Fresh Facts.

I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with me at the club.

“You were poor Guy’s intimate friend,” I remarked as we sat together. “Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere near Bath?”

“Oh yes,” was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem. “He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe.”

“Have you ever met the widow?” I asked.

“Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy.”

“Where is the young lady now?”

“Somewhere in India, I think. Her father’s a civilian out there.”

“But this Mrs Olliffe,” I said. “Don’t you know any thing about her?”

“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, tedious process, but I am hopeful of success. I intend to discover by what means poor Guy was killed; therefore his friends interest me—especially his women friends. For that reason I am trying to discover all I can concerning Mrs Olliffe.”