William Le Queux (continued 3)

He was silent for a moment; then, bending across the table to me, said—

“It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have just been discussing.”

“In fear of her?”

“Yes. One circumstance made it quite plain. A little over a month ago, I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an appointment on the Sunday which he could not break. I urged him to go, but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o’clock, and did not return until two in the morning. I chaffed him next morning. But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant. ‘No, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole. I’m in one—a woman, as you can guess. And I had to keep that appointment. I couldn’t refuse her, for we had some serious business to transact. Ah,’ he sighed, ‘if I could only think that I’d never see her again, by Gad! I’d be a different man!’”

“And you guessed that he met the widow?” I said.

“I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings.”

“Then she had some hold upon him?”

“Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal affairs.”

“That was over a month ago, eh?”

“Perhaps six weeks.”

I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery.

We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply.

I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice.

The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime.

Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.

“If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I’ll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be,” he said.

I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club.

It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something.

Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty, old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty or so, and they were taking tea.

From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!

Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.

The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a party on the following day.

“Sir Charles will be there, so do come,” the girl urged.

“I’m afraid I have to go to the Reids’ with my brother,” the widow replied. “He accepted their invitation a month ago.”

And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother, George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey—the husband Earnshaw, who sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes as a servant!

As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was just as clever and refined as his alleged sister. He had just returned from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described the pleasant time he had had.

When at last Mrs Olliffe’s visitors rose and left, I requested a word with her alone.

“Certainly,” she said—not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room—a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.

When we were seated, I began without preamble—

“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”

“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that—well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”

“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.

“Had he any enemies—any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“And you suspect them of—”

“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”

“Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion,” I said. “I was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I remained with him nearly the whole time until the end.”

“Nearly. You were absent sometimes.”

“Of course. I was not with him both night and day.”

“And therefore you can’t say with absolute certainty that his enemies had no access to him,” she said.

“But even if they had, they can have profited nothing,” I said.

“How do you know? Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy. Where is it all? Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed.”

I shook my head and smiled.

“I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild. Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that effect.”

“I’ll never believe it,” she declared. “If there had not been foul play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known. He was a friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for speaking quite frankly.”

“You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with authority that his end was due to natural causes.”

“It is curious that he should have trusted you—a perfect stranger,” she said, with coolness. “You did not explain the nature of your trust.”

“It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you to-day,” I said. “Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain Mr Alfred Dawnay, and—”

“To Alfred Dawnay!” she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour faded from her face. “He wrote to him?” she cried. “Then—”

She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have fallen.

I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she had never dreamed—something which upset all her previous calculations.

“Tell me, Mr Kemball,” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice, scarce above a whisper, “tell me—what did he write?”

“Ah! I do not know. I was merely the bearer of the letter.”

“You have no idea what Arnold told that man—what he revealed to him?”

“I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold’s death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay.”

“To Dawnay! His worst enemy and his—”

“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”

The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.

“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him—to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance—after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.

“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.

“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”

“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.

“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.

“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.

“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”

“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.

But she was distrustful and evasive.

“An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would cause the whole world to stand aghast,” replied the woman, in a low, hollow voice.

Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

What could that secret be?

Chapter Sixteen.

The Sign of the Hand.

The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtain no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold. His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.

Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune. Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands. Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him. Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the dead man’s riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey Shaw was really Arnold’s friend and not his enemy, as the woman had alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!

I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed. Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.

Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead of healing the wound caused by Guy’s sudden end, only served to aggravate it. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes I endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and silence.

To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least sound seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared as though she had something upon her conscience—some secret which she feared moment by moment might be betrayed.

One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.

“Yes,” he sighed, “you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I’ve noticed it too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants a change. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of it. Now, however, I’ve induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in France. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne, thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding the pavé of Paris, by Versailles, Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you ever been there?”

“No. It must be a very fine run,” I said.

“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 minutes later her face brightened, and she turned to me, saying—

“Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball. Dad has often been on the Continent with the car, but he has never taken me before. He thought that the long runs might be too fatiguing.”

“Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place,” he said, with a laugh. “You must have a change, or else you’ll be ill.”

Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for an hour. Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while with Asta in the drawing-room to get cool. She looked very sweet in her simple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes. Exertion had heightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expression had returned to her eyes.

As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.

I listened. The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the room above.

“It’s Dad,” the girl said. “Of late he seems to have taken to whistling like that. Why, I can’t tell, for we have no dogs.”

We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill call of a peculiar note. Apparently he was in his room directly over the drawing-room—which was the bedroom—and the window being open we could hear distinctly.

Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shouted up—

“Who are you calling, Dad?”

“Oh, nobody, dear,” was his reply. “I—I didn’t know you were there. I thought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden.”

The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenly recollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on the occasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similar whistle. It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quickly forgotten.

We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Asta exclaimed—

“Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad? One could understand it if we had dogs. But to whistle to nothing seems so idiotic.”

“All, so it is, dear,” he replied, laughing. “But I was not whistling to nothing. I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window. I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellow gets very deaf nowadays.”

Such was Shaw’s explanation. It was surely not an unusual circumstance, yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwards transpired.

As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over those fine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he had uttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at Titmarsh Court.

A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swung down the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in the Côte d’Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old château, now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there under Coligny in 1570. Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, the echoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before the long, low-built Hôtel de la Poste, a building painted grey, with jalousies of the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, like many of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways of France—the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadays bear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.

We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had become almost her old self. The complete change of surroundings had wrought in her a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her pale mauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat. Shaw wore dark spectacles, pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes. But I had shrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiously enough, of an evening he never removed them.

What did he fear in France?

That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at the Grand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Fôret de Fontainebleau, had lunched at the Hôtel de l’Épée in busy Auverre, and then spun away over the straight wide route nationale through Vermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the rich vinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that place and Arnay-le-Duc.

It was our intention to get on to Mâcon, a hundred kilometres farther, that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentious little salle à manger, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets, washed down by an old and perfect bottle of Beaune, Harris, the chauffeur, who had been hired for the tour because he knew the French roads, came and informed us of a slight breakdown of the engine, which would take him at least a couple of hours or so to repair.

“Then we can’t get on to Mâcon to-night, that’s very certain,” remarked Shaw.

“That’s a pity, Dad,” exclaimed Asta, “for I wanted to spend a few hours there. I’ve heard it is a wonderful place to buy antiques, and I want some old crucifixes to add to my collection.”

“Never mind, dear,” he said, “we will lunch there to-morrow. We can’t expect to go through France without a single mishap. Very well, Harris,” he added, “we’ll stay here to-night.”

Three travellers in the wine trade, men who tucked their serviettes into their collars, and who ate and drank heartily, were our table companions, and soon we were all chatting merrily in French, while Madame and her two daughters waited upon us.

The room was at the back, and looked out upon the spacious old courtyard into which, in days bygone, the dusty Lyons mail used to rumble over the cobbles. It was bare, with highly polished oak floor, a mirror on the walls, and an old buffet, as is the style in French inns, while when we ascended to our rooms we found the same bareness and cleanliness pervading.

My window looked out upon the village street. The floor was carpetless and polished, the bed an old-fashioned wooden one, and besides a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washstand, the only other furniture was a japanned iron stand of hooks upon which to hang coats—that article which is common in every hotel from Archangel to Reggio, and from Ekaterinburg to Lisbon.

After a wash, we met below and strolled about the village, which, three hundred kilometres distant from Paris, and two hundred from Lyons, was, we found, a charming old-world place, once important, but now, alas! decayed and forgotten in the mad hurry of our modern world. In the heart of the wine-country, with the vines in lines with great regularity everywhere, it is still a place with a certain amount of commerce, but surely not so important or busy as in the days when on an average two hundred travelling coaches passed through daily.

We idled in the old courtyard watching Harris making his repairs, and after a final smoke upon the bench outside, we all retired about ten o’clock, at which hour the whole village seemed already in profound slumber.

Shaw’s room was, I found, next to mine, but the communicating door was shut and bolted, while Asta was at the farther end of the corridor. The long journey and the fresh air had caused a great drowsiness to overcome me, and I was exceedingly glad to turn in. A peal of old bells were clanging somewhere as I blew out my candle, and a few minutes later I must have dropped off to sleep.

How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly by feeling a strange touch upon my cheek, soft, almost imperceptible, yet chilly—a peculiar feeling that I cannot adequately describe. The contact, whatever it was, thrilled me, and as I opened my eyes I saw the grey light of dawn was just appearing. My face was towards the window, and as I looked I saw distinctly upon my pillow the silhouette of a dark and shadowy hand—a hand with weird, claw-like fingers.

Startled, I sat up in bed, but when I looked it had vanished.

It was as though the hand of the Angel of Death himself had touched me! At that instant I recollected the words written by Melvill Arnold before he died.

Holding my breath, and wondering at first whether I had not been dreaming, I looked about me. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing.

My first impulse was to shout, alarm Shaw, and tell him of my uncanny experience, but I could hear him snoring soundly in the adjoining room. So I crept out of bed and examined the communicating door. It was still bolted, just as I had left it.

Yet I still recollected most distinctly that touch upon my cheek. And I still had the black silhouette of that phantom hand photographed indelibly upon my memory.

I tried to persuade myself that the incident was but a mere chimera of my overwrought imagination, but, alas! to no avail.

I had actually seen Something with my own eyes!

But what could that weird Something have been?

Of what evil had Melvill Arnold desired to warn me when he had scrawled those curious final words before expiring?

Chapter Seventeen.

A Further Problem.

I had seen the sign of the Hand against which Melvill Arnold had warned me with final effort before he expired.

I could not close my eyes again. Thoroughly awakened, I lay trying to convince myself that it was but a bad dream. Yet so distinct had been that touch, that I still felt the repulsive contact that had thrilled me and left upon me such a lasting impression.

In the uncertain light of early morning one’s brain is often full of weird fancies, and as I lay there wondering, a thousand curious unreal conjectures floated through my mind.

I was not old, yet in my life I had probably travelled more, and seen more, than most men of my age. Of little love affairs I had had, of course, one or two. None of them had been serious—none, until the present.

Yes, I may as well here confess it. I loved Asta Seymour.

From the first moment that she had met me in that lonely country road, and I had sat by her side in the car, she had exercised over me a strange and fatal fascination. I found myself beneath the spell of her bewitching beauty.

I was drawn towards her by some strange, irresistible, unknown power—drawn to her as the moth is drawn towards the candle.

Fascinated alike by the mystery surrounding her foster-father and by her sweet pensive face, I had been constantly in her company. My thoughts were ever of her, to the oblivion of all else in the world. She was all in all to me, and I was now involuntarily her slave, so entangled had I become in the net of her sweet and wondrous charm. Ah yes! I loved her—loved her with all the strength of my being, with all the passion of my soul.

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 possession of some strange if not guilty secret.

Yet how could I reveal my heart to her while recollections of poor Guy still, filled her mind? No, I must wait and watch in patience, my heart tortured constantly by the burning fires of unspoken love.

Thinking, reflecting, pondering, resolving, I still lay there, when suddenly I became conscious that my friend in the adjoining room was no longer snoring.

I heard a curious sound. He gave a quick, loud gasp, as though of alarm, followed by a murmured growl. Was he speaking in his sleep? I listened attentively until my ears caught another sound. He had risen and was moving about his room.

I was rather pleased than otherwise, for it relieved the tension, and I breathed more freely. The apparition of that claw-like hand before my face had, I believe, somewhat upset my nerves.

“Is that you, Shaw?” I called out, but there was no response.

All was quiet. The movement in the adjoining room had ceased.

Already I had satisfied myself that nobody could enter my room, both doors being bolted on the inside, but I slipped again out of bed, and, going to the communicating door, rapped upon it, crying—

“Shaw! Shaw! Are you asleep?”

“Hulloa?” growled a sleepy voice. “Why, what’s up, eh?”

“Nothing,” I laughed. “Are you still in bed?”

“Of course I am, why? What’s the matter? Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing,” I replied. “Only I heard you groaning, that’s all. Talking in your sleep, I expect.”

“I—I didn’t know,” he said. “Sorry, Kemball, if I disturbed you.”

“All right,” I laughed, and then returned to bed again.

I pondered over the fact that while he certainly had been upon, his feet—for I distinctly heard the creaking of the beeswaxed boards—a moment before I called, yet he made pretence of being asleep. The only explanation was that, while asleep, he had got out of bed, a not unusual circumstance with some people, and with that surmise I had to be content.

Truly, that night had been fraught with a strange inexplicable terror. Though dawn spread slowly, and from where I lay I could see the first flush of crimson in the sky heralding the sun’s coming, yet I could not rid myself of that phantom hand, those thin skeleton fingers that had touched my cheek and left a chilly impression upon it.

I rose and looked into the tiny oval toilet-glass, startled when I saw evidence that my experience was an actual tangible one.

Upon my left cheek was a faint red mark, almost like a scratch, where the chilly hand had touched me!

Carefully I examined it, but there seemed no abrasion of the skin. By the deadly contact it had been irritated, inflamed—seared, it seemed, by the chill finger of the dreaded Unknown.

Moving without a sound, so as not to attract Shaw’s attention, I made a minute survey of the apartment, examining the walls to assure myself of no hidden doorway such as are common in old houses of that description. But there was none. The only modes of ingress were both securely locked and bolted.

Soon after six o’clock I dressed and went out. I could remain in that chamber no longer. I wandered through the quaint old village, already agog, for Arnay-le-Duc retires early and is astir with the rising of the sun. Ascending the hill, I had a look at the round frowning towers of the ancient stronghold of the Counts d’Arnay, now, alas! grey, weather-beaten, and ruined. In them a last stand was made by a party of the 79th Regiment of Infantry against the Prussians in 1870, when the latter brought some field-pieces to bear upon the place and completed the ruin which time had long ago begun. Part of the village had afterwards been burned by the enemy, who had already devastated the whole of the smiling countryside of the Côte d’Or, and laid bare the valley of the Yonne with fire and sword.

As I stood beneath the battered walls where great ugly holes showed as mute evidence of the destruction wrought by the German guns, a beautiful panorama of sloping wine-lands, of river and rich pastures spread before me, while behind lay the long open road to Lyons, fringed on each side by high poplars planted at regular intervals and running straight as an arrow across the blue distant plain to old-world Mâcon.

Over that road we sped two hours later at a speed which would never be allowed in England, and raising a perfect wall of dust behind us. Asta, seated between Shaw and myself, seemed unusually bright and happy, for she laughed merrily, and declared herself delighted with the novelty and change of the journey.

“What was the matter with you early this morning, Kemball?” inquired my host presently with a laugh.

“You woke me up suddenly, and I believed that you were unwell!”

“No,” I said. “On the contrary, I was awake, and I heard you sigh and groan, therefore I believed you were ill.”

“You were awake?” he echoed, regarding me sharply through his dark spectacles. “Then—then I must have had the nightmare or something, eh?”

“Probably you had,” I said. Then I added, “I didn’t pass a very good-night myself.”

“I hate sleeping in strange beds,” Asta declared.

“One has to get used to them on a motor-tour,” remarked Shaw, leaning back again, his face set straight before him.

I was half inclined to relate my weird experience, yet I felt that if I did Asta might only regard me as a frightened fool.

Therefore the subject dropped when next moment, as the road ran over the hillside, we burst forth into admiration of the wide and magnificent panorama with a splendid old château with numberless round-slated turrets, perched upon a huge rock rising from the valley in the foreground—a huge, mediaeval fortress, yet still inhabited. Below clustered the sloping roofs of a small village within the ponderous walls of the château, entrance to which was by two ancient gates, with guard-houses built above them—a place which long ago had been the stronghold of one of the robber-barons of the Yonne.

Truly the Lyons road is full of variety and picturesqueness, running, as it does, through those rich vinelands and mountains of the Côte d’Or, before descending to the valley where the broad Saone flows south to join the mighty Rhone.

Passing through the beautiful Saussey forest, where the thick trees met in many places overhead, we shot through Ivry village, and, fifty kilometres after leaving Arnay-le-Duc, were compelled to slow down on entering the busy agricultural town of Chalons-sur-Saone. There we came to the river-bank, following it through a number of villages well-known in the wine-country, St. Loup, Beaumont, Tournus, and Fleurville, until at last we found ourselves passing slowly over the uneven cobbles and among the curious high-gabled houses of old-world Mâcon.

There, at the Hotel Terminus, we lunched, and afterwards, while Shaw sat smoking, I went forth with Asta to an antiquarian, to whom we were recommended, in order to buy antique crosses.

In the musty old shop, down in the older part of the town, kept by a short, bald-headed, but urbane Frenchman, we found several treasures, beautiful old crucifixes of carved ivory and mother-of-pearl which Asta at once purchased in great delight and at moderate prices.

I bought an old thumb-ring and a couple of other trifles, and having plenty of time at our disposal we strolled into the old cathedral and had a look round the market-place.

Ah! how delightful it was to be her escort; how sweet to have her even for one single hour alone!

As we retraced our way to the hotel with halting steps, I resolved to tell her of my weird experience of the previous night.

“A curious thing happened to me last night—or rather very early this morning,” I said, turning to her as we walked.

She looked quickly into my face and her lips were pressed together. But only for a second.

“What was that? Tell me,” she said.

“Well. Do you see upon my left cheek a long red mark? It’s going away now, but it was very plain this morning,” I said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I noticed it when we started. It hardly shows at all now.”

“Well, its cause is quite inexplicable—a mystery,” I said. “I am in no way superstitious, and I am no believer in the supernatural, but in that inn at Arnay-le-Duc there is a Something—something uncanny. I was sound asleep when, just before night gave place to day, a cold hand touched my cheek—a phantom hand that left the mark which you see?”

“A hand?” she gasped, staring at me, her lips pale and cheeks suddenly blanched. “Explain it. I—I can’t understand.”

“I awoke quickly at the chill death-like contact, and saw the hand a few inches from my face—thin, claw-like, and yet a dark shadowy phantom which disappeared in an instant, even before I, so suddenly awakened, could realise what it actually was. But it was a hand—of that I am absolutely positive.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, in a low, hoarse voice, nodding her head and pausing as though reflecting deeply. “Yes, Mr Kemball, you were not mistaken. I—I, too, strangely enough, had a very similar experience about six weeks ago, while staying up at Scarborough with Louise Oliver, an old schoolfellow of mine. I, too, saw the terrible Thing—the Hand!”

“You!” I gasped, staring at her. “You have seen it!”

In response she nodded, her eyes set straight before her, but no word escaped her white, pent-up lips.

Chapter Eighteen.

I Make a Discovery.

The Terminus Hotel at Lyons is, as you know, a large, artistically furnished place at the Perrache Station, an hotel with a huge and garish restaurant below, decorated in the style known as art nouveau. It is a busy spot, where rushing travellers are continuously going and coming, and where the excitable Frenchman, fearing to lose his train, is seen at his best.

It was there we arrived about six o’clock, and at seven we sat together, a merry trio, at dinner. The cooking was perfect, the wines excellent, and after dinner Shaw mentioned that he had letters to write. Therefore I seized the opportunity to stroll out with Asta, for it was pleasant to walk after so many hours in the car.

She was dressed neatly in black coat and skirt, and a small straw hat trimmed with black ribbon—mourning for Guy Nicholson—and as we wandered out our careless footsteps led us across that wide square called the Cours du Midi, and down upon the Quai de la Charité beside the broad, swiftly flowing Rhone, the water of which ran crimson in the brilliant afterglow.

A hot, breathless evening, in which half Lyons seemed to be taking an airing along the Quais of that winding river-bank which traverses the handsome city. We had turned our backs upon the high railway bridge which spans the river, and set our faces towards the centre of the city, when I noticed that Asta seemed again very silent and thoughtful.

I inquired the reason, when she replied—

“I’ve been thinking over your curious experience of last night. I—I’ve been wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“I’ve been trying to discern what connection your experience had with my own up in Yorkshire,” she said. “I saw the hand distinctly—a thin, scraggy hand just as you saw it. But I have remained silent because—well, because I could not convince myself that such a thing was actually a reality.”

“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 second floor, in the front facing the sea, and my experience was almost identical with that of yourself last night. I was awakened just before dawn by feeling a cold touch upon my cheek. And opening my eyes I saw the hand—it seemed to be the horrible hand of Death himself!”

“Most extraordinary!” I ejaculated.

“Since then, Mr Kemball, I have wondered whether; that touch was not sent as warning of impending evil—sent to forewarn me of the sudden death of the man I loved!”

I was silent. The circumstances, so curiously identical, were certainly alarming. Indeed, I could see that the narration of my extraordinary experience had terrified her. She seemed to have become suddenly most solicitous regarding my welfare, for after a slight pause she exclaimed anxiously—

“Do, Mr Kemball, take every precaution to secure your own safety. Somehow I—well, I don’t know how it is, but I feel that the hand is seen as warning—a warning against something which threatens—against some evil of which we have no expectation, or—”

“It warned you of the terrible blow which so soon afterwards fell upon you,” I interrupted. “And it has warned me—of what?”

She shook her head.

“How can we tell?” she asked.

In a flash the remembrance of that bronze cylinder and the dire misfortune which had befallen every one of its possessors occurred to me. I recollected the ancient hieroglyphics upon the scraps of brown crinkled papyri, and their translation. But surely the apparition of the Hand could have no connection with what had been written long ago, before our Christian era?

“Did you actually feel the cold touch of the Hand?” I asked her in eagerness.

“Yes. It awakened me, just as it awakened you.”

“And there was no one else in the house but the persons you named. I mean you are positive that you were not a victim of any practical joke, Miss Seymour?” I asked.

“Quite certain. The door of my room was locked and bolted. It was at the head of the stairs. There were four rooms on that floor, but only mine was occupied.”

“The window? If I recollect aright, most of the houses on the Esplanade at Scarborough have balconies,” I remarked.

“Mine had a balcony, it is true, but both windows were securely fastened. I recollected latching them before retiring, as is my habit.”

“Then nobody could possibly have entered there!”

“Nobody. Yet I have a distinct recollection of having been touched by, and having actually seen, the hand being withdrawn from my pillow. I rushed out of the room and alarmed the house. In a few moments every one came out of their rooms, but when I told my story they laughed at me in ridicule, and Louise took me back to bed, declaring that I must have had a bad dream. But I could sleep there no longer, and returned home next day. I did not tell Dad, because I knew that he would only poke fun at me.”

For some moments I did not speak. Surely ours was a strange conversation in that busy modern thoroughfare, amid the café idlers seated out in the roadway, and the lounging groups enjoying the cool air from the river after the heat and burden of the day.

Strange it was—very strange—that almost the same inexplicable circumstances had occurred to her as to me.

Had I been superstitious I certainly should have been inclined to the belief that the uncanny hand—which was so material that it had left its imprint upon my flesh—was actually some evil foreboding connected with the bronze cylinder—the Thing which the papyri decreed shall not speak until the Day of Awakening. Was not the curse of the Wolf-god placed upon any one who sought knowledge of the contents of that cylinder, which had been placed for security in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings? Even contact with the human hand was forbidden under pain of the wrath of the Sun-god, and of Osiris the Eternal.

As I walked there I recalled the quaint decipher of those ancient hieroglyphics.

Yes, the incident was the most weird and inexplicable that had ever happened to me. The whole problem indeed defied solution.

I had not attempted to open the cylinder, nor to seek knowledge of what was contained therein. It still reposed in the safe in the library at Upton End, together with that old newspaper, the threatening letter, and the translation of the papyri.

We wandered along the quay, Asta appearing unusually pale and pensive.

“I wonder you did not recount your strange experience to your father,” I exclaimed presently.

“It happened in the house of a friend, and not at home. Therefore I resolved to say nothing. Indeed I had grown to believe that, after all, it must have been mere imagination—until you described what happened to you last night. That has caused me to think—it has convinced me that what I saw was material and real.”

“It’s a mystery, Miss Seymour,” I said; “one which we must both endeavour to elucidate. Let us say nothing—not even to your father. We will keep our own counsel and watch.”

When we returned to the hotel we found Shaw awaiting us. Asta, being fatigued, retired to her room, and afterwards he and I strolled down to one of those big cafés in the Place Bellecour. A string band was playing a waltz, and hundreds of people were sitting out upon the pavement drinking their bock or mazagran.

Darkness had fallen, and with it the air became fresher—welcome indeed after those long hours on the white, dusty road of the Bourgogne. My host, in the ease of straw hat and grey flannel suit, still wore his dark glasses, and as we sat together at one of the tin tables near the kerb a man and a woman at the adjacent table rose and left, so that we were comparatively alone and in the shadow.

After we had been chatting merrily—for he seemed in the best of spirits and full of admiration of the way in which the French roads were kept—he removed his spectacles and wiped them.

As he did so he laughed across at me, saying in a low voice—

“It’s a nuisance to be compelled to wear these—but I suppose I must exercise caution. One has always to bear the punishment of one’s indiscretion.”

“Why?”

He smiled grimly, but remained silent.

Even though he had admitted that he was not what he represented himself to be; even though I knew that he was an adventurer, and even though the dead man Arnold had urged me not to trust him implicitly, yet I somehow could not help liking him. He was always so full of quiet humour, and his small eyes twinkled merrily when those quaint remarks and caustic criticisms fell from his lips.

“I thought that the danger which existed that evening in Totnes had passed,” I remarked.

“Only temporarily, I fear. Thanks to your generous aid, Kemball, I was able to slip through their fingers, as I have done on previous occasions. But I fear that the meshes of the net may one day be woven a trifle too closely. I shouldn’t really care very much if it were not for Asta. You know how devoted I am to her,” he added, leaning his arms upon the small table and bending towards me as he spoke.

“And if any little contretemps did happen to you?” I asked.

“Asta would, alas! be left alone,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “Poor girl! I—I fear she would find a great change in her circumstances.”

It was upon the tip of my tongue to acknowledges to him how madly I loved her, and of my intention of asking her to be my wife, yet somehow I hesitated, fearing, I think, lest he might scorn such a proposition, for I remembered how, after all, she was his sole companion, and that without her he would be lonely and helpless. She was the one bright spot in his soured life, he had declared to me more than once. Though scarcely yet out of her teens, she directed the large household at Lydford with all the genius and economy of an experienced housewife. Yes! hers had been a strange career—the adopted daughter of a man who was so often compelled to go into hiding in strange guises and in strange places.

“Let us hope nothing will happen,” I said cheerfully. “Why should it?”

His face broadened into a meaning grin, and he readjusted his hideous round spectacles and lit a fresh cigar.

“Really, Mr Shaw,” I said, “your dark forebodings and your strange declarations puzzle me. True, I have endeavoured to serve your interests, and I regard you as a friend, heedless of what I cannot help suspecting. Yet you are never open and frank with me concerning one thing—your friendship with Melvill Arnold.”

He started at mention of the name—a fact which caused me to ponder.

“I hardly follow you.”

“Well,” I said. “Shortly before leaving England I received a visit from a certain Mrs Olliffe—a lady living near Bath. I believe you know her?”

“Yes!” he gasped, grasping the edge of the table and half rising from his seat. “Then she has seen you!” he cried. “What did she tell you?”

“Several things,” I replied. “She alleges that you were not Arnold’s friend—but his fiercest enemy.”

“She has told you that!” he cried bitterly. “And what else has that woman said against me?”

“Nothing much.”

“Come,” he exclaimed boldly. “Tell me, Kemball, man to man, all that woman has said.”

I saw that his manner had changed, his small eyes were flashing with fire, while upon his pale cheeks showed two scarlet patches.

Through my brain surged recollections of the woman’s allegations, but, seeing him in such anger, I did not desire to irritate him further, therefore I declared that whatever the lady had said was in no way derogatory to him.

“You are not telling me the truth, Kemball,” he declared, looking straight into my eyes. “I know her too well. She has lied to you about me.”

“Probably,” was my reply. “I happen by a curious chance to know the character of the lady, and it is hardly such as would inspire me with confidence.”

“You know her then!” he exclaimed, staring at me hard.

“I know that at one time she passed as Lady Lettice Lancaster, and was sentenced to penal servitude as an adventuress.”

“Who told you that? How do you know that?” he asked quickly.

“It is surely common knowledge,” was my reply. “Therefore please dismiss from your mind that anything she might say to your detriment would impair our friendship.”

“Ah yes!” he cried suddenly, taking my hand and wringing it warmly. “I know, Kemball, that you, being my friend, will refuse to be influenced in any way by evil report. That woman is, as you rightly say, an unscrupulous adventuress. I knew her once—before her conviction—but I have since lost sight of her. Yet, I know she is my enemy, and—well, if it were to her interest she would have no compunction in giving me away to Scotland Yard.”

“Then she is your enemy?”

“My worst enemy.”

“Ah! Then I understand the reason of her allegations,” I said, and a moment later the subject dropped.

We returned to the hotel just before midnight, and I ascended in the lift to my room. Shaw shook my hand and turned into his own room.

From my window I found that I commanded a wide, view of the great Place Carnot and the adjacent streets, picturesque with their many lights. I had not switched on my light, and was standing gazing below, when, of a sudden, I distinguished Shaw hurrying out of the hotel again and crossing the Place towards the Pont du Midi, the iron bridge on the right which spans the Rhone.

He had in a moment changed both hat and coat, I noticed, and therefore his sudden exit, after having led me to believe he was about to turn in, struck me as curious. So, without hesitation, I, too, slipped on another coat, and putting on a golf cap descended in the lift, and was soon speeding away in the direction he had taken.

When halfway across the bridge I saw him walking slowly before me, therefore I held back and watched. I followed him across the river, when he suddenly turned to the left along the Quai Claude Bernard, until at the foot of the next bridge, the Guillotière, he turned to the left along the Cours Gambetta until he came to a small square, the Place du Pont.

There he suddenly halted beneath a lamp and glanced at his watch. Then he idled across to the corner of one of the half-dozen dark, deserted streets which converged there, as though awaiting some one.

For a quarter of an hour he remained there calmly smoking, and quite unsuspicious of my proximity.

But his patience was at last rewarded, because from the shadow there emerged a female figure in dark jacket and skirt, to which after a moment’s hesitation he went forward with words of greeting.

They met beneath the light of a street lamp, and from where I stood, hidden in a doorway, I was sufficiently close to get a view of her countenance.

I held my breath.

It was that of the woman who had stood in the dock of the Old Bailey and been convicted of fraud—the woman who now lived in such style at Ridgehill Manor, and who was known in Bath as Mrs Olliffe.

For a moment they stood there in the night, their hands clasped, neither uttering a single word.

And yet Shaw had only an hour before declared her to be his most bitter and dangerous enemy!

Chapter Nineteen.

Falling Shadows.

I watched Shaw strolling slowly with, the woman through the ill-lit back streets of Lyons, speaking rapidly with her. She, however, appeared to listen in silent obstinacy.

He grew angry, yet she seemed to remain obdurate.

She was dressed plainly in tweed skirt and blouse à la touriste, and wore a hat with a long veil in the fashion so often adopted by American women visiting Europe.

They traversed the working-class district on the eastern side of the Rhone, where from behind the dingy red blinds of the cafés came the sounds of music and laughter, and where many groups of factory hands were idling about enjoying the cool night air. It was a noisy bizarre district, which favoured me, for I could watch the pair unobserved.

At the corner of the Place Morand they halted for a few moments, while he emphasised his words by striking his palm with his clenched fist, and she stood listening, her gaze turned towards the ground. Then, together, they crossed the big square to the left and traversed the bridge, passing beneath the deep shadows of the high, handsome Hôtel de Ville.

Though at times I was quite near them, yet I could not, of course, catch a single word uttered by either. Only by their actions and gesticulations could I judge, and it appeared plain that she had met him under compulsion, and was refusing to act as he desired.

And yet he had only that very evening declared the woman to be his worst and most dangerous enemy!

I reflected as I strode slowly on, keeping the two dark figures in sight. Shaw had, after all, never concealed from me the fact that he was wanted by the police for some offence. His sportsmanlike attitude, combined with his deep devotion to Asta, caused me involuntarily to like him. Perhaps it was because I loved her and he was her foster-father, always kind, indulgent, and solicitous for her welfare, that I really held him in esteem, even though he might be an adventurer.

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 lost her lover, but whom I had grown to love so truly and so well.

Suddenly I turned upon my heel and abandoned pursuit of the pair. What mattered it to me? Their affairs, whatever they might be, were their own. I loved Asta. Indeed, because of my deepening affection for her I had accompanied them upon that tour which had for its object my love’s forgetfulness of the black tragedy which had so suddenly overshadowed her young life.

Guy Nicholson had promised to reveal something to me in strictest confidence, but, alas! his lips had been mysteriously closed before he had had opportunity. Closed by whom?

I turned down upon the quays and, following the Rhone bank, was soon back at the hotel.

I left my hat in my own room and, on entering our private sitting-room found, to my delight, that Asta was still there. She had been reading and had just risen as I entered, for she stood by the pale-green curtains at the window, holding a fold of them in her hand, and looking forth into the starlit night, her slim young figure clearly outlined against their dull soft green, a becoming rose-flush upon her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes bewitchingly bright.

“I’ve been waiting for Dad, Mr Kemball,” she said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Out, I think,” was my reply. “I suppose he’s smoking in one of the cafés. He believed that you had gone to bed, I expect.”

And I threw myself lazily into a chair.

I thought that her eyes filled with tears as she turned back towards the long open windows and gazed out into the Place below. And I confess that this surprised me.

“You are upset!” I said softly, rising and standing at her side. “What’s the matter, Miss Seymour? Tell me, confide in me—your friend.”

“I—I hardly know,” she faltered, in a strange hoarse voice. I took her hand, and found it trembling. “But—”

“But what?” I asked. Her face was turned away from me towards the night.

“Well,” she said, after a long pause, as though reluctant to tell me, “I fear that Dad has gone out to meet some one. When we arrived in this hotel I saw among his letters a handwriting which I recognised.”

“The writing of a woman, eh?”

She started, turning to me quickly.

“How did you know?” she gasped.

“Well—I guessed,” I laughed.

“You guessed correctly. And I have suspicion that he has gone out to-night to meet her in secret—to—”

I waited for her to conclude her sentence, but her lips closed with a snap. The colour had left her cheeks while in her eyes was a strange wild look of fear.

“In confidence, Miss Seymour, I may as well tell you that I saw him half-an-hour ago walking with a lady—a person who lives near Bath under the name of Olliffe.”

“Then my suspicions are correct!” she cried. “That woman has regained her power over him. My poor Dad! He has fallen into her clutches. Ah, Mr Kemball, if you only knew all!” she added. “If only I dare tell you!”

“Why not tell me? Surely I am your friend! You may trust me not to betray any secret,” I said in deep earnestness.

“They have met to-night. There is some mischief brewing. She is cruel, evil, unscrupulous.”

“I know—and a convicted criminal.”

“You know her, then?” she asked quickly, looking into my eyes.

“Yes. I am acquainted with Lady Lettice Lancaster, as she was once called, and I know that she was sentenced at the Old Bailey for a series of remarkably ingenious frauds. Is she an associate of your father’s?”

“She was once, I believe—before her sentence,” replied the girl. “She exercised over him a strange, incomprehensible fascination, as an evil woman so often can over a man. He acted at her bidding, and—well, I know but little, Mr Kemball, but, alas! what I know is, in itself, too much. I am surprised that Dad, knowing the woman’s character, should dare to again associate himself with her.”

“She introduced me to her brother, George King. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He sometimes passes as her brother and sometimes as butler or chauffeur. But he is her husband, Henry Earnshaw, sometimes known as Hoare.”

“And your father assisted them in their frauds, eh?”

“That is my supposition. I have no actual knowledge, for it was several years ago, when I was but a girl,” was her reply.

“And you fear that the outcome of the meeting to-night may be another mutual arrangement?”

She nodded sadly in the affirmative.

“The combination of Dad and these people would, indeed, be a formidable one,” she said. “Ah! if he would only take my advice and end it all! He has sufficient to live upon comfortably. Why does he court disaster in this way? He has always been, so very good to me, ever since I was a tiny child, that I cannot help loving him.”

I did not reply. What could I say? I longed to speak frankly to her and take her out of that atmosphere of evil. Yet what could I do? How could I act?

“I have a suspicion that poor Mr Arnold was a friend of that woman,” I said a few moments later, as she stood against the table before me.

“Yes,” was her reply. “He was her friend and benefactor, I believe. He did all he could for her defence before the judge, but to no avail.”

“Somebody betrayed her into the hands of the police?”

“Dad told me so once. He believes it to have been her own husband, the man Earnshaw.”

I did not speak for a few moments. I was thinking of that strange letter which had threatened vengeance against the mysterious scholar, Mr Arnold. The latter had been accused of what he had not done, yet that very accusation had given me a clue to some very curious circumstances, and had forewarned me as to the true character of the wealthy widow of Ridgehill Manor.

“Has your father any ground for declaring the woman’s conviction to be due to Earnshaw?”

“Yes, I believe so; but he has never told any one, except myself.”

“But if he and Mrs Olliffe become on friendly terms again, he will doubtless reveal what he knows.”

“Probably. Then the man Earnshaw will turn against her—and against Dad also. In that lies the great peril for Dad which I apprehend.”

I realised how far-seeing she was, how carefully she had weighed all the consequences, and how anxious she was for her father’s safety. On the other hand, however, Shaw was certainly not a man to run any unnecessary risks. From what I had seen of him, he appeared full of craft and cunning, as became one who lived upon his wits.

“Tell me what you know concerning Mr Arnold’s association with this woman of a hundred different names,” I urged. “I have a reason for my curiosity.”

“I know but little. Once, when I was about fifteen, Dad and I travelled with Mr Arnold from Vienna to Territet, and met her at the Hôtel des Alpes there. She was very affable and nice to me, and she told me what an excellent friend Mr Arnold had been to her. I recollect the incident quite well, for on that day she bought me a little chain bracelet as a present. I have it now.”

“Your father quarrelled with Arnold, I believe?”

“Yes,” she said. “They had some difference. I never, however, ascertained the real facts. He evidently wished to see me, for he wrote to me making an appointment; and when I went to the hotel for that purpose, I learnt, alas! that he was dead.”

“Had he lived, his intention was to meet your father in secret at Totnes in Devonshire. Why in secret, I wonder?”

“That same question has been puzzling me for a long time, Mr Kemball,” she said quickly. “I have arrived at the conclusion that he feared lest Mrs Olliffe might know of his arrival in England and set some one to watch his movements. He feared her.”

“Then there may have been some reason why the woman desired that they should not meet, eh?”

“Apparently so.”

I reflected. Mrs Olliffe now knew that I had borne a message to Shaw from the dead man who had destroyed a fortune. Did she fear its results, and was she, for that reason, holding out to Shaw the olive branch of peace?

I suggested that to Asta, and she was inclined to agree with me.

“We must do what we can to break off your father’s friendship with this woman,” I declared. “It is distinctly dangerous for him.”

“Yes, Mr Kemball,” she cried. “I only wish we could! I only wish—”

Her sentence was interrupted by a sound which startled both of us. We listened, looking into each other’s serious face without uttering a word. The sound emanated from the next room—Shaw’s bedroom—the door of which was closed.

It was that low, peculiar whistle which I had first heard on the morning I had visited Titmarsh after poor Guy’s mysterious death, and had heard on a second occasion when visiting at Lydford.

“There’s Dad again?” she cried, in a strained voice. “He evidently doesn’t know we are still up.” The whistle was again repeated—a low, long-drawn, peculiar sound, in a high shrill note.

It was not the unconscious whistle of a man thinking, but a sound full of meaning—a distinct call, which even as we listened in silence was repeated a third time.

Chapter Twenty.

The Man with the Crimson Button.

Pale and startled, she raised her finger in a gesture of silence, and we both stole noiselessly from the room, closing the door behind us.

Upon the thick carpet of the corridor we crept past Shaw’s door, and Asta disappeared into her own chamber, which adjoined, while I went on to mine.

I could not get that peculiar whistle out of my ears. It seemed as though it were a signal to somebody; yet though I went back to Shaw’s door and listened there for a full hour, I heard no sound of any movement. The room was in darkness, and he was, no doubt, already asleep.

When I turned in, I lay a long time thinking over the reason of Shaw’s friendship with the woman Olliffe. What Asta had told me only seemed to increase the mystery, rather than diminish it.

I must have dropped off to sleep about two o’clock, puzzled and fagged out by the long hours on the road, when I was suddenly awakened by hearing a loud, shrill scream.

I started up and listened. It was Asta’s voice shrieking in terror.

I sprang out into the corridor without a second’s hesitation and rapped upon the door, crying—

“What’s the matter. Let me in.”

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 again!” I echoed; but she raised her finger and pointed to her father’s door.

“Tell me the circumstances,” I whispered. “There is something very uncanny and unnatural about this which must be investigated. Last night it appeared to me a hundred and twenty miles away, and now you see it to-night. Are you quite sure you saw it.”

I asked the latter question because it was still dark, and she had switched on the electric light.

“I felt a cold rough contact with my cheek, and waking saw the hand again! I burn a night-light—as you see,” and she pointed across to a child’s night-light in a saucer upon the washstand.

“And it vanished as before?”

“Instantly. I thought I heard a slight sound afterwards, but I must have been mistaken.”

“Yes,” I said, making a quick examination of the room, and looking beneath the bed. “There is certainly nothing here.”

I noted that the communicating door between her room and her father’s was still secured by the small brass bolt.

“Well,” I declared, “it is utterly inexplicable.” My voice evidently awakened Shaw, for we heard him tap at the door and ask in a deep, drowsy voice—

“What’s the matter in there, Asta?”

“Oh, nothing at all, Dad,” was the girl’s reply. “Only I fancy there must be a rat in my room—and Mr Kemball is looking for it.”

“Didn’t you scream?” he asked wearily.

“Yes,” I said, as she unbolted the door, and her father entered. “Miss Seymour’s scream woke me up.”

“Did you see the rat?” Shaw asked me.

“No,” I laughed, in an endeavour to conceal our fear. “I expect if there is one it has got away down its hole. I’ve searched, but can find nothing.”

“Ah!” growled the man awakened from his sleep. “That’s the worst of these confounded Continental hotels. Most of them are overrun with vermin. I’ve often had rats in my room. Well, dear,” he added, turning to Asta, “go to bed again, and leave your electric light on. They won’t come out then.”

The girl and I exchanged glances, and after a hearty laugh at the frightened spectacle we all three presented, we again parted, and I returned to my room.

What was the meaning of that inexplicable apparition of the hand? Why had the dying man warned me of it?

I could quite see Asta’s reluctance to tell her father what she had seen, knowing well how he—plain, matter-of-fact man—would laugh at her and declare that she had been dreaming.

But it was no dream. I myself had seen the Thing with my own eyes, while my own cheek only a few hours before had borne witness to its actual existence.

I saw how horrified she was at its reappearance, and what a terrible impression it had produced upon her already overwrought nerves. I knew that she would not again retire that night—and indeed, feeling that some unknown evil was present, I slipped on my clothes and spent the remainder of the night in an armchair, reading a French novel.

Dawn came at last, and as soon as the sun rose I descended, and went out for a long, invigorating walk beside the Rhone.

On my return I met Asta strolling alone under the trees in the Place near the hotel, and referred to the weird incident of the night.

“Ah, Mr Kemball, please do not recall it!” she implored. “It is too horrible! I—I can’t make out what it can be—except that it is a sign to us of impending evil.”

“A sign to us both,” I said. “But whom are we to fear?”

“Perhaps that woman.”

“Is she still in Lyons, I wonder?”

“Probably. About seven o’clock this morning Dad sent an express message to somebody. He called a waiter, and I heard him give the letter, with instructions that it was to be sent at once.”

I said nothing, but half an hour later, by the judicious application of half a louis to the floor waiter, I ascertained that the note had been sent to a Madame Trelawnay, at the Hôtel du Globe, in the Place Bellecour.

Trelawnay was, I recollected, one of the names used by the pseudo Lady Lettice Lancaster. Therefore, after my café au lait I excused myself, stepped over to the hotel, and there ascertained that Madame, who had been there for two days, had received the note, packed hurriedly, and an hour later had left the Perrache Station by the Paris express.

On returning I told Asta this, and at eleven o’clock we were again on the white dusty highway—that beautiful road through deep valleys and over blue mountains, the Route d’Italie, which runs from Lyons, through quiet old Chambéry, to Modane and the Alpine frontier. In Chambéry, however, we turned to the left, and ere long found ourselves in that scrupulously clean and picturesque summer resort of the wealthy, Aix-les-Bains.

Shaw, who was in the best of spirits, had laughed heartily over Asta’s adventure with the rat, and as we arrived at our destination he turned to me, expressing a hope that we all three would enjoy “a real good time.”

I had been in Aix several years before, and knew the life—the bains, the casino, the Villa des Fleurs, the fêtes and the boating on the Lac du Bourget, that never-ending round of gaiety amid which the wealthy idler may pass the days of warm sunshine.

And certainly the three weeks we spent at the old-fashioned Europe—in preference to a newer and more garish hotel—were most delightful. I found myself ever at Asta’s side, and noted that her beauty was everywhere remarked. She was always smartly but neatly dressed—for Shaw was apparently most generous in the matter of gowns, some of which had come from a well-known dressmaker in the Place Vendôme.

I wondered sometimes, as we sat together in the big salle à manger or idled together under the trees in the pretty garden, whether she still thought of poor Guy Nicholson—or whether she was really pleased when alone with me. One fact was quite plain—that the visit had wrought a beneficial change in her. Her large dark eyes were again full of life and sparkle, and her lips smiled deliciously, showing how she enjoyed the brightness and gaiety of life.

Shaw had met accidentally at the Grand Cercle a Frenchman he knew named Count d’Auray, who had a château on the edge of the Lake, and one day he went over to visit him, leaving us to have luncheon together alone.

As we sat on the verandah of the hotel to take our coffee afterwards, I glanced at her. Never had I seen her looking so charming. She was entirely in cream serge, relieved with the slightest touches of pale blue, with a large white hat, long white gloves, and white shoes,—the personification of summer itself. Ah, yes! she was exquisite, I told myself. Yet how strange that she should be the adopted daughter of a man who, though actually a Justice of the Peace, was nevertheless an undesirable.

Time after time had I tried to induce her to reveal to me the reason why Shaw went in such terror of arrest. But she would not betray his secret. For that I admired her—for was she not devoted to him? Did she not owe everything to his kindness and his generosity? Like many another man, I suppose he had been fooled or tricked by a woman, and had, in consequence, to lead a celibate life. In order to bring brightness and youth into his otherwise dull home, he had adopted little Asta as his daughter.

We had been speaking of a forthcoming fête on the following day when, of a sudden, she turned in her chair towards me, and with a calm, serious look upon her face said—

“Do you know, Mr Kemball, I am greatly worried?”

“Over what?” I asked quickly.

“Well, this morning, when I was walking back from the milliner’s, I saw Earnshaw—that woman’s husband. Fortunately, he did not see me. But she is, I suspect, here in Aix-les-Bains.”

“Why should you fear even if she is?” I asked.

“I—well, I really do not know,” she faltered.

“Only—to tell you in confidence—I believe some evil work is in progress—some base conspiracy.”

“What causes you to suspect that? You do not believe that your father is implicated in it?”

“How can I tell?” she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “I am filled with fear always—knowing in what peril he continually exists.”

“I know,” I said. “Why he does not act more judiciously I cannot think. At home, at Lydford, he is surely unsuspected, and in security.”

“I am always telling him so, but, alas! he will not listen.”

“You said that he is now under the influence of that woman.”

“I fear so,” was her low reply, as she sighed despairingly.

We rose and strolled out together to the car which was waiting to take us for a run over the hills and among the mountains by the Pont de la Caille to Geneva, seventy kilometres distant. The afternoon was glorious, and as we sat side by side we chatted and laughed merrily, both of us forgetting all our apprehensions and our cares.

Ah, yes! those days were truly idyllic days, for I loved her devotedly, and each hour I passed in her society the bond became stronger and more firmly forged.

But could she reciprocate my affection? Ay, that was the great and crucial question I had asked myself—yea, a thousand times. I dared not yet reveal to her the secret of my heart, for even still she thought and spoke of that honest, upright fellow whose untimely end was so enshrouded in mystery.

We dined at Geneva, in the huge salle à manger of the Beau Rivage, which overlooked the beautiful lake, tranquil and golden in the sunset, with Mont Blanc, towering and snow-capped, showing opposite against the clear evening sky. We strolled for half an hour on the terrace, where the English tourists were taking their coffee after dinner, and then, in the fading twilight, Harris drove us back again to Aix, where we arrived about ten o’clock, after a day long to be remembered.

Asta held my hand for a moment in the hall, raising her splendid eyes to mine, and then wishing me good-night, mounted in the lift to her room. Afterwards I went along to the fumoir to find Shaw, but could not discover him. Later, however, the hall-porter said he had complained of feeling unwell, and had gone to his room.

I threw myself into a cane chair in the hall, and lit a cigar, for it was yet early. I suppose I must have remained there perhaps half an hour, when a waiter brought me a note. Tearing it open, I found in it a scribbled message, in pencil, from Asta.

“There is danger, as I suspected,” she wrote. “Be careful. Do not approach us, and know nothing. Destroy this.—Asta.”

I crushed the letter in my pocket and dismissed the servant. What could it mean?

Not more than a quarter of an hour later, as I still sat smoking and pondering, a tall, dark-bearded, pale-faced, rather elegant-looking Frenchman, wearing the crimson button of the Legion d’Honneur in his coat, entered the hall from the street, and glancing round quickly, advanced to the bureau.

A moment later he came towards me and, halting, bowed and exclaimed in good English—

“Pardon, m’sieur, but I have the honour to speak with Monsieur Kemball. Is that not so?”

“That is my name,” I replied.

“I have something of importance to communicate to Monsieur,” he said, very politely, holding his grey felt hat in his hand and glancing quickly around. “May I speak with you privately?”

“Certainly,” I replied; and recollecting a small salon off the hall on the left, led the way thither, and switched on the light.

Then, when he had carefully closed the door and we were alone, he said with a pleasant smile—

“I had perhaps better at once introduce myself to Monsieur. I am Victor Tramu, inspector of the first division of the brigade mobile of Paris, and I have called at the risk of inconveniencing you to put a few questions concerning two associates of yours living in this hotel—namely, Monsieur Harvey Shaw and Mademoiselle Asta Seymour.”

“Associates!” I echoed resentfully. “They are my friends!”

The police-officer smiled as he caressed his silky brown beard—a habit of his.

“Excellent. Then certainly you will be able to give me the information I require.”

“Of what?”

“Of their recent movements, and more especially of their place of residence.”

I was silent, recollecting Asta’s injunctions to know nothing; but the man stood regarding me with calm, searching, impudent glance.

“By what right, pray, do you subject me to this cross-examination?” I demanded in French, full of resentment, as I stood in the centre of the room facing him.

“Ah! so Monsieur is disinclined to betray his friends, eh?” laughed Tramu, whom I afterwards found out to be one of the most famous detectives in France. “You arrived en automobile from Lyons together, and previously from Versailles,” he remarked. “In Lyons your friend Shaw met other of his associates, and again here—yesterday at the Villa Reyssac. You see, I know a good deal of what has transpired and what is just now in progress. Indeed, I travelled from Paris for that purpose.”

“Well, it surely does not concern me!” I exclaimed.

“Pardon. I must differ from Monsieur,” he said, bowing slightly, his hands behind his back. “I desire to know something concerning these persons—of where they live.”

“You had better ask them yourself,” I replied. “It is scarcely likely that I shall give information to the police concerning my friends,” I added, in defiance.

“Bien! Then shall I be frank with you, m’sieur? The fact is that we have suspicions, very grave ones, but we are not absolutely certain of their identity.”

“Then why trouble me?”

“Because you can so easily establish it beyond a doubt.”

“Well, Monsieur Tramu, I flatly refuse to satisfy your curiosity, or assist you against my friends,” I replied, and turned abruptly upon my heel to leave the room.

“Then it is to be regretted. In that case, Monsieur Kemball, you must please consider yourself under arrest as an accomplice and associate of the two individuals in question,” he said, very coolly but determinedly; and as he uttered the words two men, police-officers in plain clothes, who had evidently been listening without, opened the door unceremoniously and entered the apartment.

The situation was both startling and unexpected. I was now faced with a most difficult problem. I was under arrest; my silence had cost me my liberty!

Asta and her stepfather must also have both already fallen into the hands of the police, for were they not upstairs? Truly the coup had been very swiftly and cleverly effected, as it seemed were all coups made by the renowned Tramu, the trusted lieutenant of Monsieur Hamard of the Sûreté in Paris.

The misfortune so long dreaded by Asta had, alas! fallen.

What must the result be? Ay, what indeed! What could be the charge against them?

Chapter Twenty One.

More Mystery.

Ignorant of the fate of my friends, I was unceremoniously bundled into a fiacre and driven to the police bureau, where for nearly three hours I was closely questioned regarding my own identity and my knowledge of Harvey Shaw.

Aix-les-Bains being a gambling centre, it attracts half the escrocs in Europe; hence, stationed here and there are several of the smartest and shrewdest police officials which France possesses. At the hands of Victor Tramu and two of his colleagues I was subjected to the closest interrogation in a small bare room with threadbare carpet and walls painted dark green, the headquarters of the Sûreté in that district. The population of Aix in summer is much the same as that of Monte Carlo in winter—a heterogeneous, cosmopolitan collection of wealthy pigeons and hawks of both sexes and all nationalities.

From the thousand and one questions with which I fenced I tried to gather the nature of the offence of which Harvey Shaw was culpable, but all to no avail. I asked Tramu point-blank if he and his foster-daughter had been arrested, but no information would he give.

“I am asking questions—not you, m’sieur,” was his cold reply.

All the interrogation seemed directed towards ascertaining the hiding-place of Shaw in England.

“You knew him in England,” remarked Tramu, seated at a table upon which was a telephone instrument, while I stood between the two agents of police who had arrested me. “Where did you first meet him?”

“At a railway station.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“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. “Melvill Arnold—an English name. He was an Englishman, of course?”

“Certainly.”

“Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated, gazing blankly across the room. “And he was a friend of the suspect Shaw, eh?”

“I presume so.”

“Arnold!” he again repeated reflectively, as though the name recalled something to his memory. “Was he an elderly, grey-haired man who had lived a great deal in Egypt and was an expert in Egyptology eh?”

“He was.”

Tramu sprang to his feet, staring at me, utterly amazed.

“And he is dead, you say?”

“He is—he died in my presence.”

“Arnold!” he cried, turning to his colleagues. “All, yes. I remember now. I recollect—a most remarkable and mysterious mail. Dieu! what a colossal brain! What knowledge—what a staunch friend, and what a formidable enemy! And he is, alas! dead. Describe to me the circumstances in which he died, Monsieur Kemball,” he added, in a voice full of regret and sympathy.

In response, I briefly told him the story, much as I have related it in these pages, while all listened attentively.

“And he actually compelled you to burn the banknotes, eh?” asked the officer of the Sûreté. “He wilfully destroyed his fortune—the money which I had hoped to recover—the money which he— But, no! He is dead, so we need say no more.”

“Then you knew poor Arnold, Monsieur Tramu?” I remarked.

“Quite well,” laughed the brown-bearded man seated at the table. “For years the police of Europe searched for him in vain. He was far too wary and clever for us. Instead of enjoying the pleasures of the capitals, he preferred the desert and his studies of Egyptian antiques. He moved about so quickly, and with so many precautions, that we never could lay hands upon him. Indeed, it is said that he kept two ex-agents of police, whose duty it was to watch us, and keep him informed regarding our movements. His was, indeed, a master mind—a greater man than your associate, Harvey Shaw.”

“What were the charges against Arnold?” I asked eagerly. “Why were you so anxious to secure his arrest?”

“Oh, there were a dozen different charges,” he replied. “But now he is dead, let his memory as a very remarkable man rest in peace. Our present action concerns the man Shaw. Where did you visit him in England?”

“He visited me at my house, Upton End.”

“And you did not visit him?”

“I saw him twice at the Carlton Hotel in London, and once at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool.”

“And you declare that you have no knowledge of his offences?” asked the official shrewdly.

“If I had, I certainly should not have accepted his invitation to come here on a motor-tour,” was my quick reply.

“And the girl? You mean to say that you have no suspicion of her offence?”

“Her offence!” I cried. “Tell me—I beg of you to tell me!—what allegation there is against her.”

“Ah, my dear m’sieur, of that you will know soon enough,” replied the detective, again stroking his beard. “I fear that, if your ignorance of the truth is not feigned, the revelations forthcoming will—well, greatly astonish you.”

“But surely Mademoiselle is not a criminal!” I cried, staring at him in dismay.

“Wait and hear the evidence against her.”

“I will not believe it.”

“Ah! because you are enamoured of her—eh, Monsieur Kemball?” exclaimed the great detective, with a shrewd twinkle in his large brown eyes. “A man is always loath to believe that his well-beloved can do wrong. Bien! I urge you to wait and see what the revelations bring forth—to carefully weigh over the hideous story before giving further thought to her.”

“I need no advice. Monsieur,” I protested angrily. “If you make allegations, you should surely tell me their nature.”

“That is for you to discover,” he answered, with a crafty smile. “You have refused to assist me; therefore I, in turn, refuse to satisfy your curiosity.”

“You have arrested me because I happen to be on friendly terms with this man and his daughter. Therefore surely I may be told the offence alleged against them,” I protested in anger.

“The fact you have revealed—namely, that Shaw and Melvill Arnold were friends—is quite sufficient to prove what I really suspected. The man’s identity is made entirely plain, even though you refused to give me information.”

“They are my friends,” I remarked resentfully.

“Perhaps they will be so no longer when you know the actual truth concerning them,” he said, smiling grimly.

“And what is this terrible charge against them, pray?”

“Have I not already told you that you will know quite soon enough?” was the prompt reply of the renowned detective, whose name was as a household word in France; and his two companions smiled.

The telephone bell rang, and one of them took up the receiver and listened.

Then he handed it to Tramu, who, from his words, I gathered, was speaking with the commissary of police at the Gare du Lyon, in Paris, asking that an incoming train should be carefully watched.

“Thank you. Advise me as soon as it arrives,” he added, and placing the receiver down, he rang off.

Again he returned to the attack, endeavouring to discover from me where in England Shaw had hidden himself. But I was just as evasive as he was himself. I was fighting for the woman I loved. I told him vaguely that they lived in the North of England in order to mislead him, but I declared I did not know their actual place of residence.

But he only smiled incredulously, replying—

“Monsieur is enamoured of Mademoiselle. I have watched you both for two days past, and I know that you are aware of her address in England.”

This man had actually been watching us, while we had been all unconscious of espionage! Fierce anger again rose within me. I admitted to myself that I had acted foolishly in associating with a man whom I knew to be a fugitive from justice; but it certainly never occurred to me that I might be subjected to such an ordeal as that I was undergoing.

Alternatively threatening, coaxing, warning, and gesticulating, Tramu, a past-master in the art of interrogation, cross-examined me until the first rose-flush of dawn showed through the window. But he obtained nothing more from me. I told him frankly that, as he refused to give me any information, I, on my part, would remain dumb.

His annoyance was apparent. He had expected me to meekly relate all I knew, but instead he found that I could be as evasive in my answers as he was clever in putting his questions. In turn quite half a dozen police officials entered the room and regarded me with considerable curiosity, until in anger I cried—

“This action of yours, Monsieur Tramu, is disgraceful! I know this is your abominable French police system, but I demand that word of my arrest be sent to the British Consul, with whom I shall lodge complaint.”

“My dear m’sieur,” laughed the man with the tiny red button in his lapel, “that will be quite unnecessary. I think at this late hour we may now! dispense with your further presence. You are free to go;” and addressing a man in uniform, he added, “Bring in the chauffeur.”

I turned upon my heel and left the room, but as I went along the corridor I saw at the farther end Harris seated between two uniformed officers.

Surely they would obtain no information from him, for he had only been engaged for the tour, and knew nothing further of Harvey Shaw or of Asta except—ah! he might know their address at Lydford!

So I shouted along the corridor to him:

“Harris! Don’t tell them Mr Shaw’s address in England, whatever you do.”

“Right you are, sir,” he replied cheerily. “This is a funny job, ain’t it, sir? They arrested me in bed.”

“Where’s Mr Shaw?”

“Don’t know, sir. I suppose he and Miss Asta are in here somewhere,” was his reply, as they ushered him into the room where the great Tramu awaited him.

On my return to the hotel the sleepy night-porter admitted me.

No; he had seen nothing of Monsieur Shaw or of Mademoiselle.

Hastily I ascended the stairs to our suite of apartments, but they were not there. The beds had not been slept in, but their baggage had been piled up—evidently by the police, in readiness for removal and examination. The drawers and wardrobes had evidently been searched after their arrest, for the rooms were in great disorder.

In my own room, during my absence, everything had been turned topsy-turvy. The lock of my steel dispatch-box had been broken and its contents turned out upon the bed. In France, when the police make a domiciliary visit, they certainly do it most thoroughly.

Was it possible that in examining the effects of Shaw and Asta the police had ascertained the address of their hiding-place in England?

I stood in the centre of the room gazing at the heap of papers and letters upon the bed, apprehensive and bewildered.

Returning below, I induced the big Swiss night-porter to rouse the manager; and some ten minutes later the latter came to me in trousers and coat, evidently not in a very good-humour at being disturbed.

He seemed surprised to see me there, and I said with a laugh—

“I suppose you believed I had been arrested?”

“Well,” he replied, “the police took you away.”

“For interrogation only,” I replied. “But I am in search of my friends.”

“And the police are in search of them also, I believe,” he replied abruptly. “It does no good to the reputation of the hotel to have such visitors, m’sieur.”

“Then they have not been arrested!” I cried in delight.

“No. Mademoiselle, I believe, must have recognised the inspector of the Sûreté from Paris as she was coming downstairs. She rushed back and told her father, and hastily seizing her dressing-case, while he took a small bag, they both descended the service stairs and made their exit by the back premises. There was a door below which is always kept locked, but Monsieur Shaw had somehow provided himself with a key in case of emergency, for we found it in the lock. When the police, after arresting you, went upstairs to take the pair, they found they had already flown. They must have rushed down to the station and caught the Paris night express, which was due just about the time they would arrive there.”

“And the police are furious,” I said. “They must be.”

“They have, I believe, just missed a most important, capture.”

“What was the charge against them?” I inquired “Ah, they would not tell me,” was his reply. “They seemed to be acting with great caution and secrecy. They made a careful examination of everything, and only left about three-quarters of an hour ago.”

And with that I was compelled to remain satisfied.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Secret of Harvey Shaw.

For three days I remained in Aix, awaiting some news or message from the fugitives—but none came.

Tramu called and saw me twice, evidently astounded at the channel of escape which Shaw had so cunningly prepared. He had, no doubt, obtained an impression of one of the servants’ master keys, and had one cut to fit the locked door which prevented visitors from passing out by any other way save by the front hall. He had anticipated that flight might be necessary, and the fact that he had prepared for it showed that he was both cunning and fearless.

Asta’s injunctions to me to say nothing showed plainly that they intended still to keep their hiding-place a secret. And if Shaw was the adventurer I believed, it was not likely that either he or she would carry anything by which to reveal their more respectable identity.

So at length, full of grave apprehensions, I left Aix, sickened by its music and summer gaiety, and travelled home, halting one night at the Grand in Paris, and duly arrived at the Cecil in London. There I found a batch of letters sent on to me from Upton End, and among them was a formal letter from a firm of solicitors called Napier and Norman, 129, Bedford Row, W.C., stating that they were acting for the late Mr Guy Nicholson of Titmarsh Court, and asking me to call upon them without delay.