“No. I mean the girl in black. The one leading the pom.”
“By jove! Yes. She’s uncommonly smart, isn’t she?”
“Her friend isn’t half bad-looking, either?”
“I don’t think so very much of her, Raife. But Southport at this time of year is always full of pretty girls.”
“Not one of them can compare with the girl in black—she’s ripping!” declared Raife Remington, a tall, well-set up, dark-haired, hatless undergraduate, who, in grey flannels, was walking beside his college chum, Edward Mutimer, at whose father’s house he was staying during the vac. Both were at Trinity, Cambridge, and both, being in their last year, were reading hard for their degrees.
Each morning in those warm August days by the summer sea they came out for a stroll on the seafront; bright with movement and gaiety, taking an airing before settling down to their studies for the day.
On this particular morning, about ten o’clock, the seafront was already full of men in flannels and lounge-suits, and women in garments of muslin and other such flimsy materials usually affected at the seaside, for stifled and jaded Londoners had flocked down there, as usual, to enjoy the sea air and all the varied attractions which Southport never fails to offer.
Raife Remington and his friend were strolling along, chatting about their old college days, idly smoking cigarettes, when they came up behind two well yet neatly-dressed girls, one about twenty, in a white pique coat and skirt with large pearl buttons, cut smartly; the other, about a couple of years her junior, who was fair-haired, very beautiful, and led a little black pom by a silver chain, was in dead black with a neat, close-fitting hat, with a turquoise blue band. Her skirt was short and well adapted for walking, displaying neat ankles encased in black silk stockings, and she wore white kid gloves; yet the only touch of colour was the hat band and the bow of bright cherry ribbon upon the collar of the little black pom.
In every movement, in her gait, in the swing of her carriage and the way she carried her well-poised head, there was ineffable, unaffected grace. Narrow-waisted, slim, delicate, she was the very incarnation of exquisite daintiness and high refinement. Little wonder, therefore, that Raife Remington should have singled her out as the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
He and his friend took several hasty strides forward, in order to glance at her countenance, and in it he was not disappointed. Her soft fair hair was dressed with that smart neatness which characterised her whole attire, and her big, innocent eyes were of that deep child-like blue so seldom seen in a girl after she has reached her teens.
“By jove! What a ripping girl!” Raife again exclaimed in a low whisper of admiration. “I wonder who she can be, Teddy?”
“Ah, I wonder!” echoed his companion, and the two smart, athletic young undergraduates followed the girls unnoticed, for they were chatting together, and laughing merrily, entirely absorbed in their conversation.
Many persons were passing to and fro, as there always are on Southport seafront upon a summer’s morning, and so many smart motor-cars whirling up and down, even though the month of August is not the smartest season.
Raife Remington, eldest son of Sir Henry Remington, Baronet, was not usually impressionable where the fair sex were concerned. Yet from the moment his eyes had first fallen upon this pretty, fair-haired girl in black, he appeared to fall beneath the spell of her remarkable beauty.
Within himself he was longing for an introduction to her, while Mutimer, because they were smart and stylish, had inwardly set them both down as members of some theatrical company. Yet their clothes and shoes were of palpably better quality than those worn by members of musical companies which visited Cambridge. Therefore he, like Raife, was much puzzled. Most girls are aware, by natural feminine intuition, when they are admired, but the pair walking before them were utterly unconscious of having attracted the attention of any one. Mutimer noticed this, and argued that they certainly could not be actresses.
“I wonder where they’re going?” remarked Raife in a whisper, but scarcely had the words left his mouth when a black and tan fox-terrier suddenly darted out from behind a man and, without provocation, attacked the dainty little pom and rolled it over ere any one was aware of it.
The tiny dog’s mistress screamed, and, bending, cried in alarm and appeal:
“Snookie! Oh, my poor little Snooks!”
In an instant Raife was on the spot, and with his cane beat off the savage terrier; then, picking up the little pom, which lay on the ground more frightened than hurt, he restored it to the arms of its frantic mistress.
“He’s not injured I think,” Raife exclaimed.
For the first time the fair-haired girl raised her blue eyes to his, startled and confused.
“I—I’m so very much obliged to you,” she stammered. “That man really ought to keep his horrid dog under control.”
“He ought—the brute!” chimed in Teddy Mutimer. “What a darling little dog,” he added admiringly, stroking the fluffy little animal admiringly.
“Poor little Snookie!” exclaimed his mistress, stroking her pet’s head, while the little animal wagged his bushy tail and turned up the whites of his big round eyes with an expression so pitiful as to cause all four to laugh.
The owner of the terrier, an over-dressed, caddish-looking man, had strolled on in utter unconcern, though well aware of what had happened.
“That fellow must be a fearful outsider,” declared Raife, “or he would apologise. He looks like a ratcatcher—or perhaps a dog-stealer. All dog-stealers wear straw hats and yellow boots, like his!”
Whereat the three others laughed.
Snookie, duly examined by his dainty little mistress, was declared to have suffered no damage, therefore after Raife had asked permission to walk with them—as they were going in the same direction—they all four found themselves chatting merrily as they strolled along, Raife at the side of the pom’s mistress, and his chum with her foreign-looking companion.
Already Raife and his fair unknown, to whom his introduction had come about so suddenly and unusually, were chatting without reserve, for, as an undergraduate, he had the habit of contracting quick friendships, and his careless, easy-going manner she found attractive.
In the pleasant morning sunshine they sat for about half an hour, when at last Mutimer and the other girl rose from their chairs to walk together, leaving Raife, to his evident satisfaction, alone with his divinity in black.
“Do you live here?” Raife inquired, after they had been gossiping for some time.
“Oh dear, no,” was his companion’s reply, in that voice he found so refined and musical. “We’re staying at the Queen’s. Do you live here?” she inquired in turn.
“No; I’m staying with my friend. He’s up at Cambridge with me, so I’m spending part of the vac. with his people.”
“Oh, you’re at Cambridge!” she exclaimed, “I was at the ‘University Arms’ with my uncle, about two months ago. We went round and saw the colleges. I was delighted with them.”
“Where do you generally live?” he asked, after she had told him that her name was Gilda Tempest.
“My uncle and I live a great deal abroad,” was her reply; “indeed, more than I care to—to be frank. I love England. But my uncle travels so much that we have no home nowadays, and live nearly all the year round in hotels. I get horribly tired of the eternal table d’hôte, the music and the chatter.”
“Rather pleasant, I should fancy. I love travelling,” remarked the young man.
“I grow sick to death of it,” she declared, with a sigh. “We wander all over Europe. My uncle is a wanderer, ever on the move and most erratic.”
“Are you staying in Southport long?” he enquired eagerly.
“I really don’t know. We may stay for a day—or for a month. I never know where we’re going. I have not been home for nearly two years now.”
“Home? Where do you live?”
“Father has a house in France—in a quaint little village called By— on the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. Do you know Fontainebleau?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I went there from Paris once, with the guv’nor. We stayed at the Hotel de France—I think it was—at Fontainebleau. We went over the old palace and drove out to Barbison, and to Marlotte. Awfully charming places.”
“Ah! Barbison. That is the colony of artists. I know, I love it, and have often cycled over there, where I have friends. Father is a bit of a recluse, so I travel and look after my uncle.”
“And Marlotte—by the river. Do you know the picturesque little hotel there, and its al-fresco café—the garden with all the little summer-houses?”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “Do you know it, too? How gay it is on Sundays in summer. All the artists come out from Paris for the day.”
“It reminds me of Monkey Island, on the Thames. We used to go up there when I was at Eton.”
She looked at him suddenly with a fixed expression, and then said:
“You haven’t told me your name. I only know you as Snookie’s rescuer—you know,” and she laughed.
“My name’s Remington—Raife Remington,” he replied. “The guv’nor lives at Aldborough Park, not far from Tunbridge Wells.”
Her face changed in an instant. She seemed to suddenly hold her breath, though quite imperceptibly. For a moment all the colour left her soft cheeks, but as quickly she recovered all her self-possession, and exclaimed, in a changed tone:
“Is your father Sir Henry Remington?”
“Yes. Why? Do you happen to know him?”
“I—er—oh, no, I don’t!” she replied, endeavouring to conceal her consternation at the discovery. “Only—well—I—of course, had no idea that you were the son of a gentleman so well-known as Sir Henry.”
“My misfortune, perhaps,” he laughed, airily. “The guv’nor has brains—has been a member of Parliament for twenty years, and all that—I haven’t any.”
“You have.”
“They say I haven’t, at Cambridge.”
She was silent for some moments. What strange freak of Fate had thrown them together—he, the very last man on earth she desired to meet. And yet, she had found him such a bright, cheerful companion!
Her eyes were turned to where Mutimer and her friend, Maud Wilson, were strolling along the seafront.
The young fellow at her side was actually the son of Sir Henry Remington! The baronet’s name burned into her brain—it was branded there, as though seared by a red-hot iron.
The amazing revelation staggered her. That man seated so idly in the chair, his legs stretched out, displaying the latest make in ’Varsity socks, was actually the son of Sir Henry!
She could not believe it.
Raife, on his part, was not exactly blind to the fact that mention of his father’s name had unduly surprised her.
“I fancy you know the guv’nor—eh?” he exclaimed, chaffing her. “Do you? Tell me. Perhaps you’ve met him somewhere? He’s at Upper Brook Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there.”
“No, Mr Remington, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your father,” was her rather strained response. “But all the world has heard of him. One sees his picture in the papers very often. I only read yesterday his scathing criticism in the House of Commons on the Navy estimates, and his serious warning regarding the new super-dreadnought—which is building on the Clyde—the vessel which is to be the most powerful battleship afloat.”
“You know more than I do, Miss Tempest,” he laughed. “I never read the guv’nor’s speeches. I heard too much about ships at home, before I went up to Cambridge.”
“I suppose so,” she laughed, and then, as though uneasy and anxious to get away, she added: “Look! Your friend is coming back with Maud. We must go,” and she rose, a tall, graceful figure in neat black.
“No. Don’t go yet,” he urged, still remaining seated. “You surely aren’t in such a great hurry! It’s only just past ten.”
“I have to go back to the hotel,” she declared.
“Have you so very much to do—and is my society so terribly boring?” the young fellow asked, with a mischievous laugh.
“Certainly not,” was her reproachful reply, and, as though against her will, she re-seated herself. “You really ought not to say that,” she added.
“But you seem very anxious to get away. Why?” The girl held her breath, and her great blue eyes were downcast. No. She dare not raise her gaze to his lest he should suspect the terrible truth—he, the son of Sir Henry Remington!
“Well,” she replied at last. “Because I have some letters to write, and—and to tell the truth, I have a dressmaker coming at half-past ten.”
“I suppose in a woman’s life one’s dressmaker is set upon a very high pedestal. All women must bow to the Goddess of Fashion.”
“You are horribly philosophic.”
“My philosophy is induced by your attitude towards me, Miss Tempest,” he declared. “You are a mystery. You were bright and merry until you knew my name, and then—well, then you suddenly curled into your shell. Really, I confess I can’t make you out!”
One more experienced than he would probably have discerned that a great and staggering blow had fallen upon his newly-found little friend. She was at a loss how to act—or what to say.
Her heart was thumping hard within her. What if he should discover the terrible secret which she alone knew! Fearing lest he should grow suspicious, she was all anxiety to get away—to place him and his memory behind her for ever.
Yet, somehow, he had fascinated her, and she sat there quite unable to leave him. Though the sunshine, the life and gaiety about her were brilliant, the whole earth had, for her, grown dark in one single instant. She hardly knew what she did—or what she said.
“I really must go,” she declared, at last, hitching up her pom from beneath her arm.
“Well, if you must, you must, I suppose, Miss Tempest,” he responded at last, with great reluctance. “I fear you don’t care for my society,” he added, with a sigh.
“How very foolish!” she cried. “Of course, I do—only, as I have explained, I have an engagement which I can’t possibly break. My dinner-dress is a positive rag.”
“Then let us meet later to-day,” he suggested. “This evening—at any time you like,” he urged. “Will you see me again? Do,” he implored.
For some time she made no reply. She was reflecting deeply. At last, with pale face, and striving to preserve a bold front, she replied rather frigidly: “No, really, Mr Remington, I am sorry, very sorry, but I cannot meet you again. I thank you ever so much for saving my little Snookie, but, in our mutual interests, it is far the best that we should not meet again.”
“Why? I really don’t understand you!” he exclaimed, much mystified.
“I am sorry, I repeat, Mr Remington—very sorry indeed—but I can’t meet you again,” she said, in a hard, determined tone. “I do not dare to.”
“Engaged, I suppose—and fear tittle-tattle—eh?” he sniffed.
“No, I’m not engaged,” was her rather haughty response, her cheeks colouring slightly.
“Then why cannot we meet? What prevents it?”
She looked at him with a strange, almost weird expression in her big luminous eyes.
“A barrier lies between us, Mr Remington,” she said, in a low, very earnest voice. “We must never meet again after to-day—never?”
“But, Miss Tempest—you—”
“I have told you the truth,” she said, firmly, rising with little Snookie tucked beneath her arm. “Please do not ask me the reason. Come, let us rejoin Maud and your friend.”
She started off, and he, being helpless in the face of her determination, was compelled to follow her.
What, he wondered, was the mysterious motive of her refusal to see him again?
On entering old Mr Mutimer’s house a telegram addressed to Raife lay upon the hall-table. Tearing it open, he read the brief summons. “Come at once, urgent.—Mother.”
The words were startling in their brevity. Turning to his friend, he exclaimed in alarmed accents: “Something serious has happened at home, old man. See what the mater has wired.” He handed the telegram to Teddy.
Teddy read it and gave it back. “I’m awfully sorry, Raife. There’s a good train in about an hour from now. While you are waiting, you might ring up home and find out what’s the matter.”
“A good idea,” said Raife. And at once he entered the study, and, taking up the telephone receiver, got a trunk call.
In less than five minutes he was speaking with Edgson, the old butler at Aldborough Park, his father’s fine place near Tunbridge Wells.
“Is Lady Remington there?” asked Raife, eagerly. “Tell her I want to speak to her.”
“She’s—oh, it’s you, Master Raife, sir! She’s—I’m sorry, sir, her ladyship’s not well, sir.”
“Not well? What’s the matter?” asked the young fellow, speaking eagerly into the mouthpiece.
“Oh, sir, I—I—I can’t tell you over the ’phone,” replied the old servant. “Her ladyship has forbidden us to say anything at all.”
“But, Edgson, surely I may know!” cried the young man, frantically.
“We thought you were on your way home, sir,” the butler replied. “Can’t you come, Master Raife?”
“Yes, of course, I’m leaving now—at once. But I’m anxious to know what has happened.”
“Come home, sir, and her ladyship will tell you.”
“Go at once and say that I am at the ’phone,” Raife ordered, angrily.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t,” was the response. “I have very strict orders from her ladyship, but I’m sorry to have to disobey you, sir.”
“Can’t you tell me anything? Can’t you give me an inkling of what’s the matter?” urged Raife.
“I’m very sorry, sir, I can’t,” replied the old man, quietly, but very firmly.
Raife knew Edgson of old. With him the word of either master or mistress was law. Edgson had been in his father’s service ever since his earliest recollection, and though fond of a glass of good port, as his ruddy nose betrayed, he was the most trusted servant of all the staff.
He would give no explanation of what had occurred, therefore, Raife, furiously angry with the old man, “rang off.”
The train journey from Southport seemed interminable. His mind was in a whirl. The brief words of the telegram, “Come home at once, urgent,” kept ringing in his ears, above the roar of the carriage wheels. He had the sensations of a man in a nightmare. What could have happened, and to whom? His mother had sent the “wire,” and therefore it most probably concerned his father.
And ever and again, at the back of his mind, racked with this horrible suspense and uncertainty, was the image of the mysterious girl whose acquaintance he had made on the Southport front. He could hear the low, sweet tones of her musical voice, he could see the grace of her dainty figure. Should he ever meet her again? Would she ever be to him more than a fascinating acquaintance?
When at length he got into London, he felt he could not bear the slow torture of another railway journey. He went to a garage close to the station and hired a motor-car. From there to Tunbridge Wells seemed but a short distance: at any rate, there was action in the movement of the throbbing car, as opposed to the monotony of the train.
But even though the speed limit was exceeded many times in the course of that journey, it seemed hours to his impatient mood before they reached the lodge gates and raced up the stately avenue.
The avenue was three-quarters of a mile long, but at last, Raife Remington, at a bend in the drive, came in view of his home—a great, old, ivy-covered Tudor mansion, with quaint gables, high, twisted chimneys, and two pointed towers. At one end was the tall, stained-glass window of the private chapel, while at the other were domestic offices of later date, and in other forms of architecture.
Passing the inner gate, and between the lawns, where the flower beds were gay with geraniums, the car entered the great open gateway, and drew up in the ancient courtyard, around which the grand old place was built—that same quiet courtyard where the horse’s hoofs of King Henry the Seventh had so often echoed upon the uneven cobbles, where Sir Henry Reymingtoune, Chancellor to Elizabeth, had bowed low and made his obeisance to his capricious royal mistress, and where Charles the Second, in later days, had idled, surrounded by his elegant, silk-coated sycophants.
The Remingtons had, ever since the fourteenth century, played their part in England’s government: once a great and powerful family, and even to-day a notable and honourable house.
As the car drew up at the door, Raife sprang out, and rushing through the great stone hall, the flags of which were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and where stood the stands of armour of dead Reymingtounes, he came face to face with old Edgson, grave and white-haired.
“Ah, Master Raife!” cried the old man, “I’m so glad you’ve come, sir. Her ladyship is in the boudoir awaiting you.”
“What’s happened, Edgson?” demanded the young man.
“Please don’t ask me, sir. Her ladyship will tell you,” was the old servant’s response, in a half-choked voice, and he turned away.
A few moments later, Raife entered the small, cosy little room, with the high, diamond-pane windows, whereon were stained-glass escutcheons. Two women were there, his mother seated with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly, and, beside her, her faithful companion, an elderly spinster named Miss Holt, who had been in the family for many years and had, indeed, been at school with Lady Remington.
Miss Holt, who was on her knees trying to comfort Raife’s mother, rose as the son entered.
“Mother!” he cried, rushing towards her. “What’s the matter? Tell me—for heaven’s sake! Edgson will tell me nothing.”
But all the response from the agonised woman was a long, low groan.
“Miss Holt,” he said, turning to her companion. “Tell me, what has happened?”
The angular woman, whose face was pale and thin, raised a warning finger, and pointed in silence to the sobbing lady. Then she whispered:
“Come into the next room, and I will tell you.”
Both passed into the inner room, and when Miss Holt had closed the door, she said:
“I am sorry to have to break the awful news to you, Mr Raife, but a most remarkable and terrible affair occurred here, early this morning. From what I am able to gather, your father, who—as you know—sleeps over the library, was awakened about three o’clock by an unusual noise, and, listening, came to the conclusion that a slow, sawing process was in progress in the library—that some one was below.”
“Burglars!” ejaculated Raife.
“Your father took his revolver and the little electric flash-lamp which he always has in his room, and, preferring to investigate before ringing and alarming the household, crept downstairs and noiselessly opened the library door. Inside, he saw a small light moving. In an instant, a man who had already opened the safe, drew a revolver and fired point blank at your father.”
“Shot my father!” gasped Raife, staring at her. “Yes. Unfortunately the bullet struck Sir Henry. He fell, but while on the ground, and before the burglar could escape, he fired and shot him dead. We were all alarmed by the shots—and for the rest, well, you had better ask Edgson. He will tell you. I must go back to your poor mother.”
“But my father?”
“Alas! he is dead,” was the thin-faced woman’s hushed response.
“Dead!” gasped Raife, staggered. “Then the fellow murdered him!”
Miss Holt nodded in the affirmative.
At that moment old Edgson entered with a message. The doctor had returned to see her ladyship.
Raife barred the old servant’s passage, saying:
“Miss Holt has told me, Edgson. Explain at once what had happened when you were all alarmed.”
“Well, Master Raife, I rushed down, sir,” replied the old fellow, white-faced and agitated. “Burton, the footman, got down first, and when I rushed into the library I found the poor master lying on the carpet doubled up, with blood all over his pyjama-jacket. He recognised me, sir, and declared, in a low, weak voice, that the thief had shot him. At first I was so scared that I couldn’t act or think. But, on switching on the lights, I saw the body of a stranger—an elderly man, wearing thin indiarubber gloves—lying near the French window.”
“Then my father was still conscious?”
“Quite. I sent Burton to the telephone to ring up Doctor Grant, in Tunbridge Wells, while I did all I could to restore the poor master. He was then quite sensible. With Burton’s aid I managed to get him on to the couch in the bedroom, and then he spoke several disjointed sentences while we waited for the doctor’s arrival. He asked for you, sir, and told me to give you a message.”
“A message, Edgson! What message did he leave for me?” asked the son, eagerly.
“His words were these, sir: ‘Tell Master Raife that the blackguard deliberately shot me! Tell him—to be careful—to be wary of the trap. I—I hesitated to tell the boy the truth, but now, Edgson, alas! it is too late!’”
“The truth!” ejaculated young Remington. “What did he mean, Edgson? What did he mean about being careful of the trap?”
“Ah! I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the old servant, shaking his head gravely. “Some secret of his, no doubt. I pressed the master to reveal it to me; but all he would reply was: ‘I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, Edgson. This is mine!’ Then he murmured something about ‘her’ and ‘that woman’—a woman in the case, it struck me, Master Raife.”
“A woman!” echoed young Remington.
“So it seemed. But, Master Raife, in my position I couldn’t well inquire further into the poor master’s secret. Besides, her ladyship and others came in at the moment. So he uttered no other word—and died before Doctor Grant could arrive.”
“But what does this all mean, Edgson?” asked the dead man’s son, astounded.
“I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the grave-faced old man. “I really don’t know, sir.”
“To my mind, it seems as though his secret was, in some mysterious way, connected with the fellow who shot him,” declared the young fellow, pale and anxious. “My poor mother does not know—eh?”
“She knows nothing, Master Raife. In the years I have been in the service of your family, I have learnt discretion. I have told you this, sir, because you are my master’s son,” was the faithful man’s response.
“You had no inkling of any secret, Edgson?”
“None in the least, sir, though I have been in Sir Henry’s service thirty-two years come next Michaelmas.”
“It’s a complete mystery then?”
“Yes, sir, a complete mystery. But perhaps you’d like to see the master’s murderer? We’ve taken his body over to the empty cottage at the stables. I’m expecting the detectives from London every minute. Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard for assistance.”
“Yes. Take me over there, Edgson,” said Raife, boldly. “I wonder if I know him! This secret of my father’s which he intended to reveal to me, though prevented by death, I mean to investigate—to unravel the mystery. Come, Edgson.”
And the young master—now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet—followed the grave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive, where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock of which, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out the hour.
Upon a bench in the front room of the artistic little cottage, the exterior of which was half hidden by Virginia creeper, lay the body of the stranger.
He was of middle age, with a dark, well-trimmed moustache, high cheek-bones, and hair slightly tinged with grey. He was wearing a smart, dark tweed suit, but his collar had been disarranged, and his tie removed, in the cursory examination made by the police when called.
Upon his cold, stiff hands were thin rubber gloves, such as surgeons wear during operations. They told their own tale. He wore them so as to obviate leaving any finger-prints. Upon his waistcoat there was a large damp patch which showed where Sir Henry’s bullet had struck him.
Old Edgson stood beside his young master, hushed and awed.
“He’s evidently an expert thief,” remarked Raife, as he gazed upon the dead assassin’s calm countenance. The eyes were, closed and he had all the composed appearance of a sleeper. “Have they searched him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied the old man.
“Then I will,” Raife said, and, thereupon, commenced to investigate the dead man’s pockets.
The work did not take long. From the breastpocket of his jacket he drew out a plain envelope containing three five-pound notes, as well as a scrap of torn newspaper. The young fellow, on unfolding it, found it to be the “Agony” column of the Morning Post, in which there was, no doubt, concealed some secret message. There were, however, a dozen or so advertisements, therefore which of them conveyed the message he was unable to decide. So he slipped it into his pocket until such time as he was able to give attention to it.
In the dead man’s vest-pocket he found the return half of a first-class ticket from Charing Cross to Tunbridge Wells, issued four days previously, while in one of the trousers-pockets were four sovereigns, some silver, and in the other a bunch of skeleton keys, together with a small, leather pocket-case containing some strange-looking little steel tools, beautifully finished—the last word in up-to-date instruments for safe-breaking.
Raife, holding them in his hand, carried them to the window and examined them with keen curiosity. It was, indeed, a neat outfit and could be carried in the pocket without exciting the least suspicion. That the unknown assassin was an expert thief was quite clear.
Old Edgson was impatient to return to the house.
“Perhaps her ladyship may be wanting me, sir,” he suggested. “May I go, sir?”
“Yes, Edgson,” replied the young man. “Tell my mother, if you see her, that I’ll be back presently.”
And the old servant, with his mechanical bow, retired, leaving his young master with his father’s murderer.
Raife gazed in silence upon the face of the dead stranger. Then, presently, speaking to himself, he said:
“I wonder who he is? The police will find out, no doubt. He’s probably known, or he would not have been so careful about his finger-prints. By jove!” he added, “if I’d met him in a train or in the street I would never have suspected him of being a criminal. One is too apt to judge a man by his clothes.”
The local police had evidently gone through the man’s pockets for evidence of identification, but finding none, had replaced the articles in the pockets just as they had found them. Therefore, Raife did the same, in order that the London detectives might be able to make full investigation. The only thing he kept was the scrap torn from the Morning Post.
He turned the body over to get at the hip-pocket of the trousers, when from it he at length drew a bundle of soft black material, which, when opened, he found to be a capacious sack of thin black silk, evidently for the purpose of conveying away stolen property.
This he also replaced, and when, on turning the body into its original position, the shirt became further dragged open at the throat he noticed around it something that had probably been overlooked by the local constable who had opened the dead man’s clothes in an endeavour to discover traces of life—a very fine silver chain.
Suspended from the chain was a tiny little ancient Egyptian charm, in the form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head the royal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side.
He removed it from the neck of the unknown, and, holding it in his palm, examined it. The modelling was perfect as a work of ancient art. It was cut in camelian about an inch and a quarter long, and, no doubt, five or six thousand years old. Up the back, from head to foot, were inscribed tiny Egyptian hieroglyphics, the circle of the sun, the feather, the sign of truth, a man kneeling in the act of adoration, a beetle and an ibis, the meaning of which were only intelligible to an Egyptologist.
“He wore this as a talisman, no doubt,” remarked Raife, speaking to himself. “Perhaps it may serve as a clue to his identity. Who knows?”
And, gathering the little goddess and its chain into his palm, he transferred it to his pocket.
Just as he did so, voices sounded outside the cottage. Edgson, with three men in overcoats and bowler hats were coming up the garden path.
They entered the room without ceremony, and old Edgson, who accompanied them, said:
“These are the gentlemen from London, Master Raife.”
Two of the men respectfully saluted the young baronet—for he had now succeeded to the title—while the third, Raife recognised as Inspector Caldwell from Tunbridge Wells.
“Well, Caldwell,” he said. “This is a very sad business for us.”
“Very sad, indeed, sir,” was the dark-bearded man’s reply. “We all sympathise with you and her ladyship very deeply, sir. Sir Henry was highly respected everywhere, sir, and there wasn’t a more just, and yet considerate, magistrate on any county bench in England.”
“Is that the popular opinion?” asked Raife, thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir. That’s what everybody says. The awful news has created the greatest sensation in Tunbridge Wells. I wonder who this blackguardly individual is?” he added.
The two detectives from Scotland Yard had crossed to where the dead man was lying, his white face upturned, and were scrutinising him narrowly.
“I don’t recognise him,” declared the elder of the pair. “He’s done time, no doubt. Look at his gloves.”
“An old hand, that’s quite certain. We’ve got his finger-prints in the Department, you bet,” remarked the other. “We’d better take off his gloves and take some prints as soon as we can; they will, no doubt, establish his identity. Mr Caldwell, will you please telephone to a printer’s somewhere near for a little printing-ink?”
“Certainly,” replied the inspector. “I’ll ’phone back to Tunbridge Wells and have it sent out by a constable on a bicycle.”
The three officers then proceeded to make a minute examination of the body, but Raife did not remain. He returned to the house, accompanied by Edgson.