/o/1000


PAUL
CAMPENHAYE
SPECIALIST IN CRIMINOLOGY
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
Author of “ The Secret Cargo,"
“The Amaranth Club,” etc.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1918


PR GOL
)
L5 P35
1918


CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
PAGE
1.- THE FRENCH MAID
7
II.-THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER .
37
III.—THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP
65
IV.--THE IRISH MAIL
94
V.-
THE TOBACCO-BOX
119
VI.--MRS. DUQUESNE
151
VII.-THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD .
185
VIII.-THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE
210
IX.-THE SETTLING DAY
237
X. --THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET
280





PAUL CAMPENHAYE
CHAPTER I.
THE FRENCH MAID.
IT
T was the fourth day of October, 19“, and
three o'clock in the afternoon. Killingley,
my clerk, had just come back from his lunch. I
heard him moving about in his room—the first
of the three rooms in which I carried on my business
in Jermyn Street. As for myself, I was reading
a new essay on certain characteristics of Napoleon
Bonaparte ; it was clever and, in many respects,
original, and I had no wish to be disturbed. But
just then the outer bell rang.
Killingley came in a moment later,
“A lady wishes to see you, sir," he said.
7


8
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
" In the usual way, Killingley,” I said, rising.
Now, I had a habit, during the comparatively
short time in which I carried on the business, of
taking care to see my clients before they saw me.
I have said that I occupied three rooms; the first
was used by Killingley as a sort of office, and
contained himself, an American roll-top desk, a
typewriter, and Killingley's collection of light
literature; the second was fitted up as a luxurious
waiting-room; the third was my own apartment.
And between it and the second was a cunningly-
devised and quite secret arrangement by which
I, unseen, could take minute stock of any person
who called upon me. Often I kept clients waiting
impatiently in that room while I watched and
studied them; I was all the more ready for them
when I admitted them to my presence.
I was at my post of 'vantage when Killingley
ushered the lady into the waiting-room. A tall
woman of perfect figure and distinguished carriage,
she was so closely veiled that I could see nothing
whatever of her face, but I learnt much in one
minute from her movements. She examined her
surroundings as a caged thing might look around
its den. Impatiently she turned over and tossed
about the newspapers and magazines which lay


THE FRENCH MAID.
9
on the table, impatiently she kept glancing at
the door which led to my room.
From the
quickness of her movements I knew that she was
young, impetuous and ardent; from her impatience
I knew that she was much agitated.
I stepped to my door and opened it, and was
bowing to her before she was aware of my presence.
She passed me quickly with a slight, somewhat
condescending nod, and, entering my room, sank
into the easy-chair which I placed for her.
“I am at your service, madam," I said quietly.
“But perhaps I had better explain that I never
undertake any commission until I am made aware
of my client's identity."
She sat for a moment in silence, her slender
fingers, perfectly gloved, tapping the arms of her
chair. Then, suddenly, she lifted one hand, and
with a gesture almost imperious, swept aside the
thick veil and revealed a face that was as troubled
and agitated as it was beautiful, and-famous.
I bowed once more, in genuine homage.
“I have the honour to receive the Countess of
Langthwaite,” I said.
The Countess inclined her head a little and gave
me a very keen and critical stare.
"I understand, Mr. Campenhaye, that whatever


10
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
is said to you is said in the strictest confidence,"
she began. “Is that so ? "
Whatever is told me by my clients, Lady Lang-
thwaite, is regarded by me as sacred," I answered.
“ But, in return, I expect my clients to tell me
the plain, literal truth, even to the merest detail.”
“II
suppose I had better begin at the
beginning,” she said. "And since you know who
I am, you will know that we—that Lord Lang-
thwaite has a place in Yorkshire."
I nodded.
I left Langthwaite at nine o'clock this morning
on my way to town, and arrived at King's Cross
just after one o'clock," she continued. “My
maid, Antoinette Marcel, was with me. I left
Antoinette in the station she was to lunch in
the refreshment-room. She had with her some
smaller luggage, bags, and-my jewel-case.
"I left the hotel at a few minutes to two and
crossed to the station," she went on. “In the
booking hall I passed a porter who had charge
of my trunks. He told me that Antoinette had left
the smaller bags with him, and had gone to the
refreshment-room. I went there to find her she
was not there. Nor could I find her anywhere
about the station."


THE FRENCH MAID.
II
“Of course, the jewel-case had disappeared
with Antoinette," I said. “But please tell me the
rest, Lady Langthwaite.”
There is nothing, or scarcely anything, to
tell,” she said. “Of course, Antoinette had the
jewel-case. That is why I came to you. I want
to-I must recover it!"
Naturally!” I remarked. “I suppose you in-
formed the station people and the police at once ? "
“No-o," she faltered. “I-I was advised not
to do so.”
Now, Lady Langthwaite,” I said, settling
down to work, "you will bear in mind that you
are to tell me everything. And, first of all, who
advised you not to mention your loss to the railway
authorities and the police ? ”
"A-a friend,” she replied reluctantly.
Man or woman ? I asked.
"A-a man,” she answered, still more reluctantly.
“Who must have had strong reasons for giving
such extraordinary advice,” I commented. “How-
ever, we will leave that for the moment. Now,
what did the jewel-case contain ? "
At this question the Countess almost wrung her
hands, and her beautiful eyes became suffused with
unshed tears.


THE FRENCH MAID.
13
ishment, on this occasion, for my beautiful client
suddenly turned crimson, and drawing out a cob-
webby handkerchief, burst into genuine and
abundant tears. I rose from my chair.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Langthwaite,” I said
gently. “I will leave you for a little while."
I placed a bottle of smelling salts within her
reach and went into the next room. And as I
stood there, waiting until her ladyship got the
better of her emotion, I rapidly memorised all that
I knew of her and her husband, and applied my
recollections to the present situation.
William Guy Carter-Johnstone, sixth Earl of
Langthwaite, was a pretty well-known man. Tall
and clean-shaven, with the face of an ascetic and
a pair of the most piercing black eyes I have ever
seen, Lord Langthwaite was at the time of which
I am writing about forty-eight years of age. It
had often been said of him that he was never going
to marry, but three years previously he had sud-
denly taken to wife the daughter of a north-country
clergyman. Whether it was a mutual love affair
Society was not permitted to know; as the bride-
groom was forty-five and the bride scarcely twenty,
Society thought not. However that may have been,
there was no doubt that the Earl of Langthwaite


14
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
66
was passionately fond of his young wife, whom he
introduced to the world of fashion with great pride.
And this was the lady who sat weeping in my room!
I went back after a decent interval and found
Lady Langthwaite composing herself.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, dabbing her
eyes. “I am very sorry, Mr. Campenhaye.”
We must see what can be done,” I said,
resuming my seat.
“Now, Lady Langthwaite, let us be business-
like. Tell me the truth-all the truth. You said
you were running away from your husband. Why
were you running away from him ? "
“Because--because our tempers are not com-
patible,” she answered with some hesitation.
“I see. And, usually, in these cases, one finds
that there is some one with whose temper one's
own is compatible," I suggested.
She hung her head, and twisted the damp
handkerchief.
“I suppose that is so in your case, Lady
Langthwaite ? ” I said.
She gave me a fluttering glance and bent her head.
“Yes," she murmured.
“And that, I suppose, is the gentleman whom
you met at the Great Northern Hotel ? " I said.


THE FRENCH MAID.
15
She nodded, but said nothing.
“Lady Langthwaite," I said, “
you will have
to tell me his name if I am to help you."
She glanced at me quickly, hesitated, and hung
her head again, while her fingers tugged nervously
at the handkerchief.
Captain Molesworth,” she said at last.
I betrayed no surprise there, at any rate. But
I made a mental contrast between the worth of
Lord Langthwaite and the utter worthlessness
of Captain Molesworth, whose reputation was
known to me.
“ Then, of course, it was Captain Molesworth
who sent you to me?” I said.
She nodded an affirmative.
“ And counselled you not to tell the police and
the railway people ? ” I continued.
“He said it would not be wise until I had seen
you,” she answered.
I considered a good many things in a remarkably
short space of time, having more on my mind than
the mere finding of Mademoiselle Antoinette and
the jewel-case.
“Does Captain Molesworth know what was in the
jewel-case?" I asked.
She looked at me with some surprise.


16
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
CC
No-o," she answered. “I told him that it
contained the bank-notes and my own personal
jewellery, but I did not tell him about-about
the pearls.”
But you were or are-running away with
Captain Molesworth,” I pointed out. Why bring
the family pearls—heirlooms ? ”
She almost tore the handkerchief at that, and
her face expressed something like physical pain.
“Don't torture me, please !” she exclaimed.
“What am I to do? What is to be done? I
dare not~dare not tell Lord Langthwaite--it
would kill me!”
“Dare not tell him—what, Lady Langthwaite ?
That you have lost the pearls, or that you were run-
ning away with Captain Molesworth ? ” I asked,
watching her keenly.
She made no answer to that, but regarded me
as if I, and I alone, were the arbiter of her fate.
“I am wondering,” I continued, “ if we cannot
work out a little plan which will save the situation.
Can you not go to Lord Langthwaite, invent some
little story of a sudden necessity for coming to
town, and of bringing the pearls with you for safety ?
Then we might get the police to work in a search
for your maid.”


THE FRENCH MAID.
17
She pondered this proposition for a moment
and then shook her head.
“Lord Langthwaite would not believe that
Antoinette had stolen the jewel-case,” she said.
"
We had implicit faith in Antoinette—she has
been with me ever since since I was married.”
“But Antoinette and the jewel-case are missing,”
I said. “Now, tell me this--did your maid know
that you were running away?”
“No! No!” she answered.
“ Did she know the precise contents of the jewel-
case ?
I asked.
The Countess shook her head.
“No ?” I continued. “She would merely think,
then, that it contained just the ordinary amount
of jewellery with which you travel usually—which
would not be much ?--that is, in comparison with
what really was in the jewel-case ? ”
· Yes,” she answered.
“ Lady Langthwaite," I said suddenly, a new
idea having occurred to me, “where did you get
those bank-notes?"
“ From the bank at Saxonstowe yesterday,”
she answered. “ The Saxonstowe and Norman-
chester bank, where I have an account.”
“Of course, you haven't the numbers of the
B


18 :
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
notes ? ” I suggested. “No, I thought not-
fortunately, the bankers will have them.”
And I seized a telegram form and wrote out a
message.
The message was in Lady Langthwaite's name,
and requested her bankers to wire her at once
the numbers of the notes. I went out and sent
Killingley off with it; then returned to ask her a
few more questions.
"When, Lady Langthwaite, did you mention
to Captain Molesworth that you had this money
and your personal jewellery in the jewel-case ? ” I
enquired. Was it before or after you missed it ?
Oh, as we were walking across to the hotel.”
she replied. “I said to him that I hoped An-
toinette and the jewel-case would be all right and
mentioned what was in it."
“Didn't Captain Molesworth think it a dangerous
thing to risk valuable property in that way?
I asked.
“No; he said Antoinette was not likely to let
anybody rob her.”
“By the by,” I said, “ did Antoinette see you
with Captain Molesworth ?"
“Oh, yes ! ” she answered. 'He met us in
the booking hall at King's Cross.”
>)


THE FRENCH MAID.
19
This is rather a delicate question, Lady Lang-
thwaite," I said, “ but it is easily answered. Was
this maid of yours in
your confidence ? »
“No!” she replied promptly.
“She knew
nothing."
And suspected nothing ?” I suggested.
“I do not see why she should,” replied Lady
Langthwaite.
“During the time you were in the hotel at King's
Cross did Captain Molesworth ever leave you,
Lady Langthwaite?” I enquired.
“ He left me for a little time while he went to
send a telegram,” she replied.
“How long ? ” I asked.
“ About a quarter of an hour,” she said, staring
at me. Then suddenly bursting out, she exclaimed,
almost angrily : “Why do you ask these questions
about Captain Molesworth ? What has he got
to do with it?"
“ Those are questions which you must not ask
me, Lady Langthwaite," I answered. “Let us
forget that you have asked them. One more, and
I have done. You, of course, lunched with Captain
Molesworth in a private room at the hotel ? Now,
after you entered that room, did you leave him
alone in it?"


20
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
She stared at me more wonderingly than ever.
“Yes, for a few minutes,” she answered.
“That was before he went out?” I asked.
· Yes,” she replied, half peevishly.
I rose from my desk.
Very good, Lady Langthwaite," I said. “That
is all we can do at present. Your object is to
recover your jewel-case and to avoid all knowledge
of its loss coming to the ears of Lord Langthwaite ? "
“Yes-oh, yes ! ” she exclaimed.
And yet,” I said, “if your original plans had
been carried out, Lady Langthwaite, the Earl
would have heard of his loss in less pleasant
fashion."
She hung her head at that and said nothing.
“I am to understand, I suppose, that the original
plans will now be altered, or postponed ?”
I asked, regarding her keenly.
“Oh!" she burst out. “I don't know what
to do-I am so wretched, so miserable! Every-
thing has gone wrong. Even if I were to go and
tell Lord Langthwaite-I am frightened to death
of doing so—he has so often been so very angry
with me for allowing Antoinette to take charge of
the jewel-case, and only last week I promised that
I would never allow it out of my sight.”


THE FRENCH MAID.
21
your trunks?
“ Ah!” I said. “I see I see! Well, now,
Lady Langthwaite, be guided by me.
Where are
In the left luggage office at King's
Cross ? Very good-now, go there, collect them,
and drive to some hotel and remain there until
you hear from me this evening--and, in the mean-
time, see no one, not even Captain Molesworth.
What hotel will you go to ?”
“I will go to Claridge's,” she answered. “But
-why may I not see Captain Molesworth ? He
will be anxious to know the result of my interview
with you.”
“I will inform him of that myself," I replied.
Leave all to me, Lady Langthwaite. Go to
Claridge's, and remain in absolute quiet until I
call this evening. I hope--and I believe I shall
be able to relieve your anxiety in some way. But
you must obey my wishes."
She hesitated a little, but finally promised to
do what I wished, and after she had drawn her
thick veil about her face, I took her downstairs
and put her in a cab for King's Cross. And that
done, I went back to await the wire from Saxon-
stowe, and to reckon up the precise value of the
information I had received from my weak and
foolish client.


22
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Captain Molesworth! Well, that gentleman was
known to me. I knew nothing of an absolutely
criminal nature against him, but I did know that
he was on his last legs from a financial point of
view, and that the country was getting a bit too
hot for him. A friend of mine, engaged in similar
pursuits to my own, had told me only a few days
before this adventure that Captain Molesworth
was very much in Queer Street; and could it be
possible that at such a juncture he was going to
saddle himself with all the trouble which would
necessarily arise from running away with a young
peeress, the wife of a famous nobleman ? My
own opinion was that he was after what ready
money the Countess of Langthwaite could get
together.
Naturally, I had formed a conclusion while
Lady Langthwaite was with me. That conclusion
may seem a very obvious one, but obvious con-
clusions are usually safe ones. I believed that
Molesworth had gone off with Antoinette and the
jewel-case. It seemed to me that it came to this :
he had known that his cousin could carry away
with her a considerable sum in cash and in jewels;
he had found out that all this wealth was in the
jewel-case left with the maid. Leaving Lady


THE FRENCH MAID.
23
Langthwaite in the hotel he had gone back to the
station and arranged matters with Mademoiselle
Antoinette, who had forthwith taken her departure.
Packing his cousin off to me, where he knew she
would be engaged for some little time, he had
repaired to the Frenchwoman, and they were now,
no doubt, on the first stages of a flight.
Such was my theory, and I think most people
would have formed it on facts. Obviously, with
such a theory, I must seek Captain Molesworth.
But first I wanted the telegram from Saxonstowe.
It came
soon after four o'clock. The five
thousand pounds had been paid to Lady Lang-
thwaite in fifty notes of one hundred pounds each,
the numbers of which were given in the telegram.
I had my own idea as to the precise value of this
telegram. I put it into my pocket-book and went
off to the Bank of England.
That solemn establishment was already closed,
of course; but I had means of entrance to its high
places. And within a very short time I discovered
that Lady Langthwaite's notes had been exchanged
for gold at the West End branch of the Bank of
England at ten minutes past three-just about
five minutes after the time at which the Countess
began to unfold her woes to me in Jermyn Street.


24
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I suddenly saw what I conceived to be the true
light on this matter. Molesworth, when he left
Lady Langthwaite at the hotel on the pretext of
sending a telegram, must have gone straight to
Antoinette, procured the jewel-case on some pre-
text, abstracted the notes, and returned the jewel-
case to the maid. This upset my first theory,
but it was obviously more correct, this second one.
But if it was where was Antoinette ?
To convince myself that it really was Molesworth
who had dealt with the notes I set off to the West
End branch, where they had been exchanged for
gold, taking with me from Threadneedle Street
certain credentials which immediately procured
me audience of the agent. His staff was still on
hand, and I had no difficulty in getting the infor-
mation I wanted. The notes had been brought to
the bank by a commissionaire, who, assisted by
the driver of a taxi-cab, had carried away the gold
in a strong leather bag. The clerk who had dealt
with the matter gave me a description of the com-
missionaire, and in less than half an hour I ran him
to earth outside a famous restaurant in the St.
James's district. And then I found that it was
certainly Captain Molesworth who had dealt with
the five thousand pounds' worth of notes. He


THE FRENCH MAID.
25
I
was well known to the commissionaire, whose
return from the bank he had awaited at the St.
James's Street end of Jermyn Street. A cool cus-
tomer, I thought, to carry on his operations under
the unconscious nose and eyes of his beautiful and
much-duped cousin !
A man cannot conveniently carry five thousand
pounds in gold about him, much as most of us would
cheerfully do so for the mere possession of it. What
had Molesworth done with this gold? Why had
he been in such haste to change the notes ?
learnt from the commissionaire (who was com-
municative enough when I disclosed my identity)
that he had gone off in the very taxi-cab in which
the gold had been brought from the bank. And
the commissionaire added that he knew the driver
of that cab very well by sight, and that he was bound
to come back to a stand in St. James's Street, sooner
or later.
As luck would have it, the driver came back while
the commissionaire and I were talking. Questioned,
he made no objection to giving me the information
I wanted. He had driven Molesworth to a certain
well-known bureau de change, had helped him to
carry the gold inside, had been paid off, and had
left him. How long since was that? Oh, well


26
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
he had had two fares since. It would be about
half-past three, he said, when he set Molesworth
down. I glanced at my watch; it was now well
past five o'clock.
I told this man to drive me to the bureau de change.
There I met distinct opposition, a direct rebuff. They
showed me, not quite metaphorically either, the door.
I walked out into a by-street, wondering what
to do. I felt confident as to what Molesworth
had done. He had changed that gold into Conti-
nental paper money-most likely French bank-
notes. He would be off to the Continent. But,
when, where, and how ? He was scarcely likely
to go openly from Charing Cross, or Victoria, or
any of the London stations, for he would know
that sooner or later suspicion must fall upon him.
For it seemed to me that the position was now
clear-the thief was Molesworth, and the loss of
the five thousand pounds was a mere fleabite
in comparison with the loss of the famous Lang-
thwaite pearls.
But where was that Frenchwoman-Antoin-
ette ? Was she in it, or was she out of it? Well
Molesworth was certainly in it, and I must go for
him. I jumped into the car, and bade the driver
take me to Claridge's Hotel.


THE FRENCH MAID.
27
I purposely assumed a very solemn and serious
expression of countenance as I was shown into
Lady Langthwaite's sitting-room.
As the door was closed behind me she came
forward with eager eyes.
“You have heard something ! she exclaimed.
You have discovered something !”
“Yes, Lady Langthwaite," I replied at last.
“ Yes, I have heard something--and discovered
something. Please sit down and hear what I have
to say. My news is very serious.”
“You have heard of Antoinette ?" she said,
sinking into an easy-chair and regarding me with a
tense expression.
“No," I said, “I have heard nothing of An-
toinette, Lady Langthwaite. But I have dis-
covered who abstracted the bank-notes from your
jewel-case this afternoon—have discovered it with
ridiculous ease."
· Yes ! Yes!" she exclaimed.
Who was
it?"
I watched her keenly for a few seconds, and
then decided to tell her the truth straight out.
Captain Molesworth," I answered abruptly.
If I had had any doubts as to the Countess of
Langthwaite's possession of spirit, I had none now.


THE FRENCH MAID.
29
away with
'Did he ask you what money you could bring
you
?” I went on.
' Yes, because he had so little,” she answered.
“ We meant to realise on my jewels."
“And on the pearls ?" I suggested.
“No! No!” she exclaimed. “Indeed, no ! I
was mad to bring them. I meant to send them
back.”
“I'm afraid that is too late," I said, rising.
“Now, Lady Langthwaite, let me give you the
soundest advice you could possibly hear from
anyone. Go and tell your husband everything.
Then we can put the police on this man's track.”
She stood tapping her foot on the hearthrug, and
staring at me out of her great, frightened eyes.
And I saw the exact moment wherein to play my
great card had come.
* My own impression," I said carelessly, “is that
Mademoiselle Antoinette is with-your cousin. Tell
Lord Langthwaite the whole truth, and let us set
the police to work. They cannot have got far.”
I saw a dull flame creep into her eyes, and her
hands. clenched themselves.
“Please go away," she said, in a half-choked
voice. “Come back in--in two hours. I will
decide on what to do by then.”


30
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
She closed the door on me herself, and I heard
her lock it.
It seemed to me that that decision could only
take one form. With those pearls missing, the
earl must be informed of what had happened-his
wife must tell him.
I returned to my office as soon as I had dined.
Killingley was the most obliging of clerks; he
never went away as long as there was a chance of
my wanting him. Now, as I entered, he handed
me a sealed letter which was addressed in an
unfamiliar writing.
“ This was brought by special messenger an
hour ago, sir," he said.
I carried the letter into my private room and cut
it open. I drew from it a sheet of notepaper destitute
of any address—the communication upon it was
hastily written in pencil. I glanced first at the
end, and saw that the letter was merely initialed.
The initials were “ G. M."
Captain Guy Molesworth," I said to myself,
spreading the sheet out. “Now for some more
light—or darkness.”
“ DEAR SIR,” ran this precious epistle, “I sent my
cousin to you this afternoon in relation to the loss


THE FRENCH MAID.
31
of her jewel-case at King's Cross Station somewhat
earlier. As I don't wish her to remain in suspense
longer than is necessary, I write to you as to what
I know of this affair. You will kindly communicate
to Lady Langthwaite what I have to say.
“I may as well be brutally frank, and confess
that when my cousin told me of the existence of
the £5,000 in notes in her jewel-case, I made a
very hasty alteration of my plans. It had been
my original plan to obtain the £5,000 from her
this evening; her remark that the sum was in the
jewel-case, left in the maid's custody, showed me
a better way, and also
also a way which would
not involve Lady Langthwaite any further
with me.
On entering the private room at the hotel to
lunch, my cousin left me for a few moments. She
also left, lying under her handbag, a bunch of keys,
one of which I knew was that of the jewel-case. I
took the keys, made an excuse to her when she
returned, and went back to the station. The maid,
who knew me very well, made no objection when
I said that her mistress wanted the jewel-case.
She handed it over at once, and I carried it to the
hotel, possessed myself of the notes, and took the
case back to Antoinette. I saw Antoinette then


32
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
pass into the refreshment-room carrying the case
with her.
“When Lady Langthwaite and I went to the
station after lunch, we found that Antoinette had
disappeared. I immediately saw that it would be
very awkward for me to join in any search for her.
My own object was attained, and after sending my
cousin to you, I set about my own business.
That business is now finished, and I am off.
I may as well tell you that it would be as impossible
to track me, or to find me, as to resuscitate Queen
Anne. My plans are perfected. I shall never be
seen again ; I am starting a new life. But I want
you to let my cousin know that wherever they may
have got to, I did not appropriate her jewels. All
I wanted was the £5,000. With that I shall make
myself a man again.
That's all-except that I hope Antoinette and
the jewel-case will come to hand. I understand
that it only contained my cousin's personal adorn-
ments—what a catastrophe if the celebrated Lang-
thwaite pearls had been in it !-G. M."
I folded this communication into its cover and,
having looked at my watch, departed for Claridge's.
The two hours stipulated for by Lady Langthwaitę


THE FRENCH MAID.
33
had gone by, and I was prepared to give her my
final advice.
The letter from Molesworth I regarded as a piece
of bluff—the most impudent bluff I had ever known
of. Did he really think that I was to be taken
in by it?
I was admitted at once to Lady Langthwaite.
It seemed to me that she had been through a scene
with herself ; she was very pale, and her eyes were
unnaturally bright. I lost no time in handing her
Molesworth's letter. She read it through and
handed it back to me without comment.
“ Well ? " she said.
“ Lady Langthwaite," I replied, “there is only
one thing to do. Lord Langthwaite must be
informed of all that has happened. You must
inform him yourself in your own way. I have no
doubt whatever that Molesworth and your maid
were in collusion, and that they met after he left
you. The police must be employed, and in order
that they may be called in, you must tell your
husband of what has happened.
Then I shall have to tell him everything," she
said, “and that will mean-oh, I don't know what
it will mean! I have been a fool-and now
“Pardon me,” I said; “but I don't know that
с


34
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
everything need be told. It was natural for you
to travel to London; it was natural that your
cousin should meet you. If he and the maid were
in collusion, what better proof of your innocence
can you have ? And again "
Before I could proceed further, there came sounds
outside the door ; a deep voice said, “ This room ? "
the door opened, and a tall man walked in.
The Earl of Langthwaite !
It was said that the Earl had a reputation for
cynical humour which was really not ill-natured.
He smiled now as he nodded to his astonished wife
and looked rather slyly at me.
"Well, my dear," he said pleasantly, “ as I was
passing I thought I would call in and ask if you
intend staying here or coming 'round to Berkeley
Square. I see, however, that you are engaged with
Mr. Campenhaye-I know you by sight, Mr. Campen-
haye, as I do by reputation-and I have no doubt
it is on important business."
I bowed to Lord Langthwaite and turned to his
wife. She had flushed a little, but she regarded
her husband steadily. And with a sudden resolve
she came straight to the point.
“ William," she said, “I have lost my jewel-
case.”


36
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Antoinette and the jewel-case are at Berkeley
Square-safe. You see, I happened to go to King's
Cross this afternoon to meet a friend, and I
encountered Mademoiselle Antoinette strolling out
of the refreshment-room with the jewel-case, and
as I remembered your promise, my dear, and my
warning, I determined to give you a sharp lesson.
So I bundled Antoinette into my motor-car without
ceremony. She and the jewel-case are quite in safe
keeping. Now put your things on and we will go
to them.”
The Countess left the room in a great hurry, and
the Earl turned to me.
“ You can keep secrets, Mr. Campenhaye,” he
said, “so I'll tell you an interesting one. My wife
thinks that the real Langthwaite pearls are in that
case. They are not. What is in there is a magni-
ficent imitation set, which only real experts could
tell not to be the real ones. I keep that set down
at Langthwaite. But the real ones--ah, they are
safely locked up in the vaults of the Bank of
England.”
-


CHAPTER II.
THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER.
S the little local train wound slowly along the
narrow and tortuous valley to which I had
hastily travelled down from London in
response to an urgent summons received that day
at noon, I thought, looking around and above me
from the carriage window, that I had rarely found
myself amidst wilder surroundings. I was aware
that I was penetrating into the heart of the Penine
Range at its highest and bleakest point, but I had
never until then realised that we possess scenery
in England which, under certain circumstances, can
justly be termed savage. Although it was yet early
autumn, the evening was cold and gloomy; over-
head the sky was dull and grey; the treeless,
verdureless sides of the hills loomed black and
forbidding. Blackness and greyness, indeed, were
37


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 39
tall man, slender, slightly-bearded, very well attired
in black, appeared before me and extended a hand.
Behind him followed a man who seemed from his
dress to be a groom, and at a sign from the other
took charge of my baggage.
“Mr. Harthwaite?" I said, as I took the offered
hand.
“Mr. John Harthwaite,” he responded, as if there
were some reason for giving his Christian name.
“I am much obliged to you for responding so
promptly to my telegram. My motor-car is out-
side, let my man see to your things. And,” he
added, giving me a side-glance as we walked along
the narrow, wood-paved platform, as to why
I brought you down I will tell you in a few minutes
-when we are alone."
We made our way through the greyness of the
little town in silence ; the people were going home
from the mills and factories, and the clatter of
their wooden clogs made weird noises on the pave-
ments. Then the road turned sharply, running
along the side of the great overhanging hills until
houses and mills were left behind and before us
there was nothing but the hills to be seen. Then
came another curve, and high above us, on the
hillside, I saw a house, perched on a series of


40
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
terraces. My companion said a word to his
chauffeur ; the car stopped.
“If you have no objection, Mr. Campenhaye,"
said Mr. Harthwaite, “we will walk up to my
house through the gardens—the car will have to
go some distance round-we have little level ground
in this corner of the world."
I made no reply to this but left the car and
followed my guide through a wicket-gate which
led to a winding path. He ascended this until
we came to the first of the terraces; then he paused
and turned as if to contemplate the view in the
valley beneath us. And he stretched out his hand
and pointed to two objects-one, the great mass of
a manufactory immediately below; the other, a
house on the opposite hillside which, so far as I
could see in the dusk, appeared to be the counter-
part of the one we were approaching.
“ You see that mill, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said
suddenly. “That is the works of John and James
Harthwaite, cotton spinners. And you see the
house over there—that is where James Harthwaite
lived. I say lived—at present he is lying dead
within it. Dead-murdered !"
There was some curious feeling in his voice, and my
own sounded strangely commonplace when I spoke.


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 41
“I suppose that is why you have brought me
here, Mr. Harthwaite?” I said.
“ That is why I have brought you here, Mr.
Campenhaye,” he replied. “I have heard of your
abilities, and I have no great faith in the police,
however well they are trained. And I want to
know who killed my brother."
“Naturally, you do," I said. “I hope I shall
be of some use."
He was still staring fixedly at the house on the
opposite side of the valley, and for a moment he
remained silent, but suddenly he spoke again.
“Will you hear of it now ? ” he said. .
" There is
still time before dinner, and perhaps I can tell you
about it more clearly outside four walls. And it
is not a long story."
“Now, by all means," I answered, for I saw that
he was wanting to unbosom himself. “I am eager
to hear everything and at once.”
Sit down there,” he said, pointing to a rustic
seat, “and smoke a cigar. I will smoke one myself
- it will be the first since yesterday. Now," he
continued, when he had produced a cigar-case and
we had begun to smoke. “I will try to be concise
and plain. You must know, Mr. Campenhaye,
that my brother James and myself were twins,


42
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
We were thirty-seven a few days ago, and we never
married, and had no intention of marrying. These
facts may make it strange to you that we did not
live together. But we had different tastes, and
when we succeeded to the business on my father's
death, each built himself a house—this is mine ;
yonder is his. We each had our own hobbies ;
but we were good and affectionate brothers."
He paused a moment as if reflecting on his next
words.
“One of James's great hobbies," he continued,
was exploring these hills and moors which you
see about us. He was never tired of them-I
suppose he knew them better than any man living.
He knew all their ins and outs, their wildest and
loneliest places. He knew all the Druidical
remains on them, of which there are many; all
the burrows, the rocking-stones-everything. He
spent as much time as he could spare on these
heights-and up there he was killed. Somehow,
I always had an idea that he might meet his death
in that way. But your main object is to know how
he met it. Very well. Four days ago, James
set out on a week's exploration of his favourite
country. He was going to wander about after
his usual fashion, between here and the Peak


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 43
district; he knew lonely places, inns, farmsteads,
where he could spend his nights. He left his house
yonder, as was his custom, before daybreak-to be
precise, at half-past two in the morning. I never
heard of him again until yesterday-late in the
afternoon."
Again he paused, seeming to reflect.
“And to make things clear," he resumed, “ this
is how I heard. About four o'clock yesterday
afternoon, a young man, a respectable person, who
is a bank clerk in Hallaton, the big town over
yonder, walked into our police-office here and said
that in crossing High Gap, at the head of the range,
across which he had come in returning from a holiday
walking tour, he had found the dead body of a
gentleman lying in a very lonely place, into which
he himself had turned to light his pipe, there being,
as usual, a strong wind blowing there. He con-
ducted the police back to the spot. They imme-
diately recognised the body as that of my brother.
He had quite evidently been killed by a terrible
blow on the back of the head-killed, the doctor
says, instantaneously. There were no signs of any
struggle. There were no footprints. His watch
and chain-valuable-were gone; his purse-in
which he always carried some twenty or thirty


44
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
)
phasis.“
pounds in gold-was also gone. And, naturally,
the police believe that he was murdered for the
sake of robbery by some of the rough folk who
now and then make their way across this range of
hills in summer. But I don't.”
He uttered the last two words with such con-
viction that I started. To me the police theory
seemed the correct one; it was one that I
myself should have adopted on the prima facie
evidence.
" You do not ?" I said.
“I do not !” he responded, with renewed em-
“My brother has wandered about these
moors and hills for twenty years and had never
known molestation. What is more, he was a strong
man, and he always carried a stout stick with him,
and if any tramp had assailed him, that tramp
would have had the worst of it. No, Mr. Campen-
haye, my brother was not murdered for what he
had in his pockets—there was some design in his
murder. Of that I'm certain."
“Do you suspect anyone?” I asked.
He rose, and motioned me towards the house above
us, in which lights were now twinkling.
I suspect no one,” he answered. “I wish I did
-I should have more peace of mind. But come,


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 45
you know the main facts now, and it is time you
dined.”
Mr. Harthwaite led the way into a house which
it was easy to see had been built, equipped and
furnished in accordance with the very latest ideas
of modern architects and apostles of health and
comfort. It was one of those places in which it is
impossible for dust to accumulate, wherein labour
is saved by ingenious device, and to which air and
sunlight have every possible access. Such houses,
it is true, lack something of the cosiness and comfort
of the old-fashioned ones, yet this was by no means
cold with the coldness which so often accompanies
the latest developments of scientific housing. There
were books and pictures and other matters which
made me conclude that whatever James Harthwaite's
hobbies other than pedestrianism had been, his
brother was certainly of a literary and artistic
nature.
Nothing was said during dinner of the terrible
catastrophe which had brought me to Wolverdale ;
my host talked easily and pleasantly of many matters
of interest, and though no other person was present,
and I should have excused anything that came from
him because of his sorrow, he behaved as if he had
no trouble in the world, and as though he was doing


46
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
his utmost to entertain an expected guest. And
when we had gone into his study, where coffee was
awaiting us, he turned to me with a meaning look.
“I am expecting the local superintendent of
police any minute,” he said, “and I have a pretty
good idea that he will bring a certain detective with
him whom he spoke of bringing over from Arthford
-a man in whom he has great faith. Now, I do
not want either of these men to know who you are,
Mr. Campenhaye, so I propose to merely mention
you as an old friend who is staying with me. There-
fore, suppose you sit still while they are here, listen,
and say nothing?"
Admirable !" I replied.
replied. “And exactly what
I should wish. Let them talk as much as they
please. I should prefer to make my investigations
in my own way.”
The two police officers, on their arrival, were
quite prepared to talk. They agreed in the original
theory—that Mr. James Harthwaite had been
murdered by some person or persons, who had slept
out all night on the moors and had taken him
unawares; but so far such persons seemed to have
vanished into thin air. The police and the public
had been notified of the murder throughout a wide
area, but nobody had so far reported anything of
66


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 47
any suspicious character ; nobody had been spoken
of as having displayed money not likely to be theirs ;
no attempt to pawn or sell the dead man's watch had
been heard of.
“But then, you know, Mr. Harthwaite," said the
local superintendent, “we've got to remember that,
according to the doctor's reckoning, a good four
days elapsed between the actual murder and the
finding of the body. That may seem strange—but
it isn't strange-those rocks, where your poor
brother was found, sir, are just off, and only just
off, the beaten track, but nobody would turn aside
to them. If the young man that found him hadn't
wanted to light his pipe just there, and had seen
a chance of shelter from the wind, the body might
have been there now, Mr. Harthwaite, undiscovered.
And as you know, sir, a man could make off across
the moors in a dozen different directions, and reach
any one of from twelve to twenty good-sized towns,
and-vanish.”
The detective cleared his throat.
“ If there was only the least bit of a clue now !'
he said. “The merest bit of a clue. But I've
examined the place and the surroundings thoroughly,
and I couldn't find as much as a footprint. You
know what a dry season it's been, gentlemen, and


88
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
the grass up there is that firm, wiry mountain stuff
-a heavy man makes no more impression on it
than a child would. And as the superintendent
there says, there was four days' start. Four
days !”
They had nothing to tell-nothing, at least,
beyond the fact that news of the murder had been
spread far and wide, and that the world and his
wife had been requested to jog their memories in
the endeavour to think of any suspicious character
who had been seen coming away from the moor near
High Gap on the early morning of a certain day.
And from what I heard, there would be nothing
more to tell, nothing—just then, at any rate.
My host turned to me when we were alone. His
face--a handsome, slightly cynical face-expressed
something like boredom.
“You see !” he said, and spread out his hands.
.
Well," I replied, “ let us give them their due.
I don't see that they could say or do any more.
There is no clue, and there was a start of four days
in the criminal's favour. On the face of things they
have done all they could.”
He looked at me keenly.
“But-you ?” he said meaningly.
I may go on different lines,” I answered. And


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 49
before I go on any at all, I want to ask you
a few questions. First, had your brother any
enemies ? "
“I would take my oath that he had not one,” he
replied with emphasis. “He was universally liked
and respected."
“He had no business quarrels---no business
enemies?" I asked.
Mr. Harthwaite shrugged his shoulders.
“His business was mine," he said. “I can assure
you that we have neither quarrels nor enemies in
connection with our business."
My next question is of a delicate nature," I
said. “Had he any secret affairs—whether of love
or of anything else ?"
“I do not believe that he had any secrets from
me of any nature whatever,” he answered. “As
for love affairs, I am positive that he had none.
He devoted himself entirely to three things-
the business, his love of wandering about, and
a passion for inventions ; his spare time at home
was given up to invention. Only the night before
he left home I was talking to him at the works
about an invention which he believed would revolu-
tionise the spinning industry. He was full of it,
enthusiastic about it."
D


50
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
He had no secrets, no enemies, no mysteries ? ”
I said, looking at him keenly in the face.
“None!” he answered.
“ Then why," I asked, “why do you believe
that there is some secret, some mystery, about his
murder, instead of accepting the commonplace, but
eminently reasonable, theory of the police that he
was waylaid, murdered and robbed, in a lonely place,
by some ruffian who has had ample opportunity
to make good his escape ? I say, why, Mr. Harth-
waite?"
He made no immediate answer ; instead, he pulled
himself up in his chair, and bit his lip. Eventually, ,
he shook his head.
“I cannot explain,” he replied. “It is—a feeling.
I am sure of what I feel. Perhaps it is-shall we say,
instinct ? At any rate, I am sure of it, I tell you.
He was murdered of design. Design !—not for what
he had on him. I--you may think me a fool, Mr.
Campenhaye, but how do I know that he isn't
impressing this conviction upon me-from-from
beyond ? Remember—we were twin brothers.”
I bowed my head.
“I don't think you a fool, Mr. Harthwaite,” I
answered gravely. “Far from it. I only wanted
you to explain. Now do not let us say any more


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 51
about the matter until I have something to say to
you. All I have to say at present is that I wish to
see the scene of your brother's death to-morrow
morning as early as possible. And I wish to see
it alone—I don't even want a guide if you will tell
me the way.”
He looked at me for a moment, then rose, and
silently motioned me to follow him. He led me
outside the house to the end of the uppermost of the
terraces. It was a brilliantly moon-lighted night ;
the road which led up the valley wound away
to the gloom of the hills like a silver stream. “Follow
the road,” he said. “ About a mile from here you
will come to a gate in a stone wall, close to a ruinous
sheep-fold. Pass through the gate and follow a
path which is well defined through the heather and
the bracken. At the extreme ridge of the hill you
will see a mass of grey rock—the path will lead you
to within a few yards of it. It was on the side of the
rock furthest from you that he was found.”
He went back to the house. In the hall I held out
my hand.
Good-night," I said. “Tell your people to take
no notice if they hear me leave the house in the
early hours of the morning. I mean to be up there
at sunrise."


52
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
As a matter of fact I was at the heights of High
Gap well before the sun rose-to be precise, I was
at the mass of rock where James Harthwaite's
body was found at five o'clock. In the grey light
of the September morning the place was awful in
its wildness and loneliness. On every side the
heather-clad moors stretched away in sheer desolation
-shrouded here and there in clinging mist, here and
there rising sharply to some bluff or eminence.
As the light grew stronger I began to make out
the contour of far-off mountains to the north and
south, and to see far down in the valleys where
the great manufacturing towns lay beneath their
canopies of smoke. But what most impressed me
was the silence and solitude of the place. I could
picture to myself the dead man, lover of nature that
he evidently was from all that I heard of him,
coming up here in the early morning, full of the
strange and weird charm of the lonely heights,
standing for awhile to gaze round him across the
vast stretch of unawakened life, and being struck
down to death, unawares. In that loneliness, well
known to him, he would suspect nothing. And of
one thing I quickly convinced myself—the police were
right when they said the miscreant could escape in
a dozen different directions without fear of detection.


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 53
The sun rose with a sudden burst over a long
range of hills which rose on the further edge, of
the moors, and I began to look around me. But I
quickly recognised that even systematic examination
of the place would yield little of value. The entire
surface of the ridge was covered with strong, sturdy
heather, and with bracken of an unusual height.
The path by which I had come, by which, too,
James Harthwaite had come to his death, was a
mere sheep-track through the vegetation; it passed
the mass of high rocks at about ten yards distance.
I saw no sign that the body had been dragged from
the path to the rocks, and I at once came to the con-
clusion that the dead man had been in the habit
of resting at these rocks after the stiff climb from
the valley and that he was struck down as he rested.
And that argued a further conclusion-that the
murderer was some one familiar with his habits.
I was turning away with a casual look round
when I suddenly espied at a little distance some
object which was shining brightly in the glancing
sunlight—not one of the myriad beads of dew on
the heather hills and the leaves of the bracken, but
something that shone like gold. I had no other
thought in my mind as I walked towards it than
that it was a scrap of quartz, a fragment of mica


54
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
lying in the dark soil beneath the fronds of the
bracken. But what I found was a small case of
leather, oval in shape, the sort of thing in which
jewellers place rings between pads of satin ; what
I had seen shining in the sun's rays was certain
gilt lettering on the lid—“ Armstead, Optician,
Hallaton."
I pressed open the snap lid of the tiny case.
Within, packed in a layer of wool padding, lay an
artificial eye. It stared at me with an expression
that was almost human.
I was as sure as I was that the sun had risen
that in the object which I held in the palm of my
hand, I had a clue to the true facts of the murder
of James Harthwaite. I blessed the sense of
advertisement which had made the oculist put his
name and address on the little leather case. And
then, putting the case in my pocket, I glanced
across the moors and the valley to where in the
distance I could see the smoke rising from Hallaton's
great chimneys, and, without more ado, I hastened
down the hillside to Wolverdale.
John Harthwaite was pacing up and down the
terrace outside his house when I reached it. He
came to me with an air of anxious expectancy.
“ Well ?” he said. “You have been up there?”


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER.
55
“I have been up there," I answered. “But don't
ask me any questions about it at present. What
I want just now are two things-first, breakfast;
second, the loan of
your motor-car and its
driver for an hour or two. After that, we can
talk."
He turned aside-a little disappointedly, I thought
-and led the way to the house. “ Breakfast will
be ready in a few minutes,” he said. " What time
would you like this car ?"
“How long," I said, “ will it take to run into
Hallaton ?"
“ Three-quarters of an hour,” he replied, looking
very much as if he wished to know why I wished
to go to Hallaton.
“Then, half an hour after breakfast is over," I
said. “And, by the by, if we have a few minutes
to spare before breakfast there is something I want
you to do for me. It is to write a letter--which I
will dictate."
He led me into his study and sat down at his
desk in silence, drawing paper and pen towards
him.
“You are, of course, well known in Hallaton,
Mr. Harthwaite ? " I said. “Everybody, I suppose,
knows you ?


56
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
of my
“I
I suppose so," he answered laconically. “They
ought to.”
' Begin then,” I said. “Private and confidential.
DEAR SIR, -The bearer of this letter is Mr. Paul
Campenhaye, the famous specialist in criminology,
who, at my request, is investigating the circumstances
late brother's death. Be good enough to give
him any information he asks of you and to treat
the matter as one of strict secrecy. That is all,
except for your signature.”
“But to whom is this to be delivered ?” he asked.
That, for the present, I won't tell you,” I
replied. “It is to form my credentials. No one
in Hallaton knows me, you know.”
He folded the letter into an envelope and handed
it to me in silence. We went to breakfast; neither
of us talked much as we ate and drank; when the
meal was over, I made ready for my ride. Mr.
Harthwaite was in the hall when I came down,
lounging restlessly about. I motioned him into
the study.
There was a question I thought of this morning,"
I said. “I ought to have asked it last night. Who
was the last person who saw your brother alive ?
As he rose so early that morning, it would be some
servant, I suppose ?"


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 57
was
"No," he answered, “he never troubled his
servants with his early rising. He carried a Thermos
flask, made ready the night before, and some food
in his knapsack, and he used to get breakfast at
one of the moorland farmhouses. The last person
who saw him alive was our chief mechanician,
Ollershaw, who went up that night to my brother's
house to discuss some drawings of machinery with
him, and was with him until midnight.”
“I should like to have some conversation with
Mr. Ollershaw when I return,” I said. “By the
by, what was there actually left on your brother's
body—I mean personal effects—when he
found ?"
Nothing," he said. “ His watch and chain,
purse, ring, and pocket-book were all gone. The
knapsack was still strapped to his shoulder.”
I nodded, and went out to the motor-car which
had just run up to the hall door. Mr. Harthwaite
followed me out.
Where shall he drive you ?” he asked.
“To the best hotel in Hallaton," I answered.
He gave the driver an order. A moment later
we were speeding around the spiral curves which led
down to the road in the valley. And then I put
the Harthwaite matter out of my mind and gave


58
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
myself up to contemplating the strange scenes
through which we passed until we ran into the grime
and greyness of the great manufacturing town and
pulled up in the courtyard of an old-fashioned hotel.
“I want you to wait here until I return,” I said
to the driver. “I may be half an hour. I may be
an hour."
Then I went out into the unfamiliar streets, making
for a principal thoroughfare which the car had
crossed a few minutes previously. I had a sure
prescience that the firm I wanted would be found
somewhere about the heart of the town, and without
troubling to ask anyone for help, I speedily dis-
covered the place—evidently, from its exterior, the
shop of a first-rate optician.
An elderly, grave-faced man was behind the
counter when I entered, and gave me a courteous
bow and an enquiring look.
“Mr. Armstead?" I said.
“ The same, sir,” he answered, again bowing.
What can I do for you, sir ? !
I drew out my own card, and the letter which John
Harthwaite had written, and handed them to him
in silence. I saw his face change and his eyebrows
go up as he read the letter, and he came round
the counter and waved me to the half-open door at


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 59
the back of the shop, at the same time saying a
word to an assistant who stood near. The next
moment we were closeted together in a small room.
“ What can I do for you, Mr. Campenhaye ?
he asked, with a little tremor as of anxiety in his
voice. “ It's not-not, I hope, about poor Mr.
James ? "
" That, Mr. Armstead, is precisely what it is,"
I answered. “Now, remember, we speak together
in the strictest secrecy ?”
"Oh, yes, yes, sir--of course!” he exclaimed. .
“I understand. But-what can I tell you, Mr.
Campenhaye ? ”
I drew out the little leather-covered case, and
held it out to him, open.
“This," I said. “For whom did you make, or
to whom did you supply, this artificial eye ?
I thought for an instant that he was going to
fall, for he swayed visibly, and his face became
very pale. But he steadied himself and took the
case from me, his hand trembling visibly.
“My God!” he muttered. “It-it can't be
possible ! You don't suspect, sir—"
“Never mind what or whom I suspect, Mr.
Armstead,” I said. “Answer my question.”
He put the case down on the table and stared


60
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
at it in wonder. I knew that he already suspected
somebody.
“Yes, sir," he said, “I'll answer your question.
I supplied this artificial eye—this, and a duplicate
one for use in case this one was lost, or vice versa,
as the case might be, you know—to Mr. Ollershaw,
who has some important post at Harthwaites'.
He lost an eye some years ago, and I had two made
for him one to wear, the other in case, as I have
just said. He-oh, my God !--you surely don't
suspect-
I put the case and its contents back in my pocket
and held up my hand.
“Remember what we said about secrecy, Mr.
Armstead," I said. And-pull yourself together.
Now, just tell me what you know of this Ollershaw
-what sort of man is he?”
The optician made a strong effort to be calm.
“I know little, sir, except that I supplied him
with this, and with his spectacles-he wears tinted
glasses—and that he sometimes comes in to buy
little matters," he said. “He's a quiet, queer
sort of fellow-morose, I should say, and with
little to say for himself--an inventive genius, Mr.
Campenhaye-he's once or twice done things
for me."


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER. 61
“ Ah ! an inventor ? I said. “Very well.
Now, good morning, Mr. Armstead, and thank you.
You will see me again--and in the meantime-
silence !"
I hurried back to the hotel, hurried into the car,
bade the driver go back as quickly as he could.
But by the time we reached John Harthwaite's
house I had assumed as cool and as nonchalant
an air as I was capable of at that moment.
There ! ” I exclaimed, as Mr. Harthwaite came
out to the terrace. We were not so long, you see,
after all. By the by, wouldn't it be well, now that
the car is here, if I went to see the man you spoke
of-Ollershaw ?”
“I was just going down to the mill myself," he
'Get in again, and we'll ride down. We
shall find him there."
But when we came to the office at the big mill
in the valley, Ollershaw was not therehe had
gone up to the cottage at which he lodged to fetch
something, somebody said.
We'll ride up," said Mr. Harthwaite.
not far out of the village, and if you want to talk
to him, you'll be quieter there. I don't see that he
can tell you anything, though, that I couldn't. He
told me all he knew yesterday."
said.
66
" It's


62
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I made no answer to that, and we rode on in
silence until the car was clear of the village. Then,
on the hillside, near the place where the footpath
turned up the hillside towards High Gap I saw a
desolate cottage. As we neared it, a man came out
into the road before us. He made as if to cross
it to another footpath which led to the mill.
“ There's Ollershaw !” exclaimed my companion.
“Hi! Ollershaw !"
The man turned, stared, and then came slowly
towards us. He was a fellow of about thirty,
dressed in a much-worn, much-stained, tweed suit,
which he seemed to have thrown upon himself.
His chin and mouth were hidden by a curly, unkempt,
black beard; his eyes were concealed by smoked
spectacles. Above them was a high, white fore-
head which bulged far too much; above it dense,
black hair protruded from beneath an old cricket
cap, worn far back on the back of his head. Some-
thing in the set of his shoulders, the turn of the
lips, suggested a sullen defiance, an indefinable
dislike of-what ?
“A queer-looking chap, but wonderfully clever,"
whispered Mr. Hurthwaite. “Ollershaw, I want
to speak to you. This gentleman is investigating
the circumstances of my brother's death, and as you


THE YORKSHIRE MANUFACTURER.
63
were the last to see him alive, he wants to ask
you a question or two."
I got out of the car; the figure before us betrayed
in every line a sullen dislike and indifference.
"Just step aside with me a moment, Mr. Oller-
shaw,” I said, leading him to the side of the road.
“I only want to ask you a question or two. You
were the last person to see Mr. James Harthwaite
alive, weren't you?
So it seems,” he answered gruffly.
“We haven't
heard of anybody who saw him after I did.”
“Just so," I said. And when did you last see
him alive ? Was it," I continued, getting very
close to him and putting my fingers in my pocket
for a certain object," was it at his house, or was
it on High Gap, where you lost—this ?
And I held out before him his artificial eye.
I knew I had hit the right nail on the head, then.
The man made one strange, inarticulate sound,
clapped his hand to a certain pocket in his waistcoat,
lurched, and collapsed, fainting, in my arms.
Good God! what's this?” exclaimed Harth-
waite, as he and the driver sprang from the car.
“ What is it, Campenhaye ?
“ It's only that this is the man who killed your
brother," I answered, as I laid Ollershaw down,


64
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
and slipped my hand into the inner pocket of his
coat. “And here," I added, as I drew out a tight
wad of thin papers, "here's what he killed him for
-the secret of the invention of which you said
your brother had spoken the night before his murder.
Now, then, let's bring him round-and let's be
thankful, too, Mr. Harthwaite, that the fellow was
so careless about his clothing that he went about
with this hole in his waistcoat pocket. For if it
hadn't been for that, he'd have gone as free as
the wind !"


CHAPTER III.
THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP.
IT
T was two o'clock on a dull day in January.
My faithful clerk, Killingley, was out; con-
sequently, when the telephone bell began
ringing furiously in the outer office I was obliged
to respond to it myself. As I crossed the floor I
expressed a firm wish that the call might not
necessitate my immediate attendance anywhere, for
I was hungry, and was on the point of setting off
to the Ritz for lunch. But no man knows what
he is going to hear when he picks up the receiver
of a telephone.
“This is Mr. Campenhaye," I said.
A voice which seemed a little familiar came along.
“I am Major Valentine. You remember me?"
it said.
“Oh, yes, perfectly!” I answered.
“Mr. Campenhaye, will you come round at
once-at once-to Vienna Mansions-number fifty-
65
E


66
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
one ? ” said Major Valentine.
“I want your
assistance most urgently—a strange affair."
What is it ? ” I enquired.
That it was something out of the common I felt
assured-Major Valentine's voice was so very
agitated.
“I do not know," he answered. “ But I fear it
is murder-some subtle form of murder. Will
you come ?"
“ At once!” I answered.
Within two minutes I was making my way out
of Jermyn Street in a taxi-cab. Granted we had
a fairly clear course, we should be at Vienna
Mansions (one of those vast, barrack-like blocks of
flats which have sprung up between Bloomsbury
and Tottenham Court Road) within a quarter of an
hour. Meanwhile I refreshed my memory about
the man who had called me up so peremptorily.
I knew little of Major Valentine. In fact, all that
I had known until a few days previously could be
put into one sentence-he was a man of good family
and of considerable wealth, an officer in one of
the Guards' regiments, popular in Society, and of
excellent record, and he had once employed me in
a delicate case which concerned a brother officer
who had got himself into a mess which Major


68
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I stopped him before we reached the lift. He
was a big, muscular man, and I had heard of daring
deeds of his during the South African War; but
he was now trembling and shaken, and heavy beads
of sweat were gathered on his forehead-in fact,
he showed all signs of intense fear.
“Tell me what has happened ? ” I said.
“ Yes, yes,” he said, “I'll tell you! It's Felicie,
Miss Braye's maid, you know. .
She's dead-
poisoned, I think. Yes, it must have been
poison. Must have been !”
“Take your time, Major," I said.
He made an effort and pulled himself together.
“I'll try to tell you," he said, wiping his forehead.
“ You see, Miss Braye and her mother live here.
They have four servants -- cook, parlourmaid, house-
maid, and Felicie, who was lady's maid and Miss
Braye's dresser. This morning Mrs. Braye was
out till lunch time; so was Miss Braye, who was.
shopping with me. According to the other servants,
Felicie went into the dining-room, where the table
was laid for lunch, about five minutes before Miss
Braye and I came in—went in alone. They never
heard anything, but we found her dead!”
“ Dead!” I exclaimed.
“Stone dead!” he answered.
" She had cer-


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 69
tainly not been dead many minutes-perhaps
seconds—but she was gone, poor girl!”
You were on the spot first, then,” I said. “ Did
you observe anything ?”
Nothing !” he replied with emphasis. “She
just lay on the floor as if she'd suddenly sunk down.
There was nothing else to observe.”
It seemed to me that the maid had probably died
from heart failure, and I began to wonder why
Major Valentine had attributed her death to murder
by poison. But that was not the time to question
him. I wanted to see things for myself.
“ Let me go up,” I said.
Miss Braye's flat-a large and commodious one-
was a scene of unusual activity. There were several
police officials there ; there were two doctors; and
there was my friend, Inspector Wyemond, from
Scotland Yard, who smiled at the sight of me and
presently drew me aside. In a quiet corner he
tapped me familiarly on the arm.
“This is a case of much ado about nothing,
Mr. Campenhaye,” he whispered. “I think Major
Valentine must have lost his head in sending for
us. There seems no doubt that the poor girl died
from natural causes-heart failure. Of course, we
can't tell until there's been an autopsy, as there


70
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
will be. But that's what I should say it is—a clear
case of heart failure.”
I went with him to look at the dead girl, whose
body was just about to be removed to the mortuary,
and I gathered from the doctors that they shared
Wyemond's opinion as to the cause of death. And
in a few minutes the body had been removed, the
little crowd of officials had gone, and the flat seemed
suddenly very quiet. Major Valentine looked at
me enquiringly.
“You are wondering if I share their opinions,
Major ? " I said. "But I have not begun thinking
about opinions yet. Take me into the dining-room.”
Now that the unwelcome visitors had left the
flat and the dead woman's body had been removed,
the dining-room looked pretty much as all such
rooms do look when people of taste and refinement
live in them.
The table, gay with flowers, and shining with silver,
was laid for three ; on the sideboard were some
dishes of fruit. One of these dishes contained a
magnificent bunch of large golden-hued grapes; the
sight of them, unusual just then, roused some
chord of memory in me.
Where had I seen grapes
just like those, recently? I tried to think, but could
not remember; never mind, it would come back,


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 71
and there was more important business on hand. I
turned to Major Valentine.
“I think you said that the maid's body was dis-
covered by you and Miss Braye ? ” I said.
'Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Braye found it,”
he answered. "She came in first. I was hanging
up my overcoat and hat in the hall there. I heard
Miss Braye cry out in alarm and came in."
Where was the maid lying ? ” I asked.
“Just where you are now standing,” he replied.
“ You are on the exact spot.
“ That is to say, between the table and the side-
board,” I said. You, of course, picked her up ?
Yes,” he answered, with something of a shudder.
“I lifted her on to that couch. She-she was quite
warm, but I am sure she was dead then."
“I think you said the door was shut-that Miss
Braye opened it while you were taking off your
coat and hat?" I said.
He nodded his reply.
“Are you sufficiently acquainted with the habits
of the household to form any opinion as to why
the maid came in here and shut the door on herself ? '
I asked him.
"Well, Mr. Campenhaye,” he answered with some
hesitation, “if I am to tell you the truth, it flashed


72
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
across me that Felicie had possibly entered to get
a dram of brandy from the cellaret there in the
sideboard."
“Had you any reason for such a surmise ? ” I
asked.
“Yes, I had,” he answered. “I caught her
doing it one day recently. And before anything in
that cellaret is touched, I shall insist upon a proper
analysis being made."
"You think some poison may have been intro-
duced into whatever the cellaret contains, eh,
Major ? ” I said. “Let us see what it does contain."
However, the cellaret contained next to nothing.
There was a small decanter of brandy, another of
whisky; the glass stoppers had certainly not been
removed from either that day. As for the rest,
there were some bottles of sparkling hock and some
of claret; every bottle was corked and sealed.
I closed the cellaret without comment. The
Major regarded me expectantly. .
“Now, who is the best person to give me some
information as to the dead woman's movements
this morning ? ” I asked.
"I should say Florence, the parlourmaid,”
replied Major Valentine. "I know she was the
last to see Felicie alive."


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 73
I
Then bring Florence here to me, if you please,
Major,” I said. And leave us alone. I can always
get more information out of these people if there
is no third person present.”
Oh, of course, of course!” he answered. “I'll
fetch her.”
“ And after that I want to have another talk
with you," I said.
The parlourmaid was a smart and sensible-
ooking young woman, who had evidently been
much upset by the recent tragic occurrence.
asked her to sit down and not to distress herself,
and told her that I merely wished to ask her a
few questions about the events of the morning.
“I think you were the last person to see Felicie
alive?” I said. Just tell me when that was.”
“ It was from five to ten minutes before Miss
Braye and Major Valentine came in, sir," she
answered. “Leastways, a very little time before.
I saw her come in here and close the door. The
next I heard was Miss Braye's call for help.”
Do you know why Felicie came in here?” I
asked.
"No, sir, I don't know," the girl said. “But,
then, she often came in here. It might be to fetch
something, or to bring something.”


74
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
"Just so," I said. “But in that case, she would
scarcely have shut the door upon herself. You are
sure there was no one in this room when she
entered it?"
The girl stared at me in astonishment.
I'm certain there wasn't, sir,” she exclaimed.
I'd only just left it after laying the table for
lunch. Besides, nobody could have come into the
flat unless I'd let them in—that is, except Mrs. and
Miss Bray with their keys. And this morning I
only answered the door twice.”
“Who came?” I asked her.
Nobody came, sir,” she replied, “at least,
nobody to come in. One was a telegram for Major
Valentine; the other was a fruiterer's boy with
those grapes."
“ Where was he from?" I said.
"I don't know, sir," replied Florence, staring
at me as if she considered the question foolish. “I
never even glanced at him. I just took the grapes
and arranged them on the stand.”
I see,” said I.
“ All right, that will do, thank
you. Just ask Major Valentine to come to me.'
When the girl had left the room, I went over to
the sideboard and picked up the great bunch of
amber-tinted grapes by the stem. Looking it over
:


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP.
75
minutely, I saw that an under tendril had been
snapped off by somebody's fingers—the ragged
edges were still wet. I put the bunch back. Once
again a chord of memory was struck. Where,
recently, quite recently—within the last twenty-
four hours-had I seen grapes likes those-yes,
like that very identical bunch ? Where?
Major Valentine came in-to find me in a brown
study.
“Well ? ” he said anxiously.
I came out of my meditation with a start.
Major," I said, “I do not want-and there is
no need—to intrude myself upon Miss Braye or
upon her mother. But will you be kind enough to
go to them and ask them-particularly—if either
of them bought or ordered, or know anything
whatever about those grapes ? I say—particularly.”
Major Valentine had no sooner left the room
than I suddenly remembered where and when I
had seen grapes similar to those at which I was
gazing. Only the previous afternoon I had had
business in Covent Garden ; arriving too early for
my appointment, I had spent a few minutes in
looking at the fruit and flowers in the centre arcade.
And in one shop I had noticed a basket which
contained some remarkably fine grapes, almost


76
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
golden in hue, and over them a boldly-written
placard : “Muscats from Alexandria.”
“That's it!” I said to myself. “That's where
I saw them. Now, I wonder how many of them
there are on the market?
Major Valentine came back. He glanced at me
and then at the grapes.
Neither Mrs. nor Miss Braye ordered those
grapes," he said.
“In fact, they know nothing
about them. They didn't even know they were
in the house. I suppose they have been overlooked
in the confusion."
"The parlourmaid took them in not very long
before you and Miss Braye returned,” I said:
But
she does not know who sent them. Naturally, she
thought that they had been ordered, and she did
not even glance at thc boy who brought them.”
“You attach some importance to them ?” he
said, looking a little surprised.
I motioned to him to take a seat, and I took one
myself.
“ Before I say anything on that point, Major,"
I said, “I want to ask you a few questions. And
I must remind you first of my great principle in
dealing with all my clients. I told you of it, you
will remember, when you came to me two years


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 77
ago. I expect the fullest confidence and no
reservations."
He looked at me a little nervously, but he inclined.
his head.
“I will answer any question put to me, Mr.
Campenhaye,” he said. "I will
will make no
reservation.”
“ Thank you,” said I. Well, now, how soon
after you found this girl dead was it that you
telephoned to me?'
“ Within twenty minutes," he answered.
“Tell me briefly exactly what you did after the
discovery," I continued ; " that is, up to the time
of telephoning to me.”
“Well," he said, “when we saw that we could
not resuscitate Felicie I telephoned for a doctor.
Then I telephoned to Tottenham Court Road police-
station for the police. Presently I sent for you.'
"I quite understand your sending for a doctor,"
I said. “That is what everybody does in such
circumstances. But I do not understand your
sending for the police. That is what one does not
do in such circumstances--as a rule. Now, Major
Valentine, is it not the fact that as soon as you
discovered that the maid was dead you suspected
foul play?"


78
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, that's true.”
“Murder, in fact?” I said.
He nodded his head, and began to tug at his
big moustache.
“ Yes, yes !” he said. "Murder !"
Am I wrong then in supposing that what was
really in your mind was this : that the maid was
an innocent victim, and that the intended victim
was—Miss Braye ? ” I said.
He glanced at me quickly, and I saw that my
supposition was correct. That was what
what was
on his mind--and there was more, much more,
behind it.
“Yes, you're quite right there,” he said ner-
vously. "Quite right, Mr. Campenhaye, quite
right; though how you thought of it I'm hanged
if I know.”
“ I'm afraid you might easily be hanged, Major,"
I said. “Now, then, answer me straight out-
who is the other woman ?”
This direct question made him jump to his feet,
turn very red, and stare at me as if I were some-
thing superhuman.
" The other woman!” he exclaimed.
The
Shall I tell you what really is in your mind,


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP.
79
Major Valentine ? ” I said, interrupting him. “What
is there is the consciousness that there is another
woman whom you may or may not have jilted in
favour of Miss Braye; but who, at any rate, has
threatened to be revenged on Miss Braye for getting
you. Come, now ?”
He sank limply into the seat and stared at me
still more.
“Yes, that's true also,” he said ; "quite true.”
I leaned back in my chair. .
Now, Major, you had better tell me all about
it,” I said. “And remember my first principle-
no reservations."
Oh, I'll make a clean breast,” he replied.
fact is, Mr. Campenhaye — you know what life is
-I have been alarmed since my engagement to
Miss Braye because of some dire threats made
against both of us by a certain lady who thinks
that she has a claim upon me.”
'Just so," said I.
Her name?
The Major looked at me somewhat sheepishly.
Olympia Bianchi,” he murmured, with a covert
glance at the door.
What, the Italian dancer ?” I exclaimed.
Yes," he muttered, “exactly. For some reason
or other Signorina Bianchi thinks that I have
“ The


80
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
treated her badly, and as soon as my engagement
to Miss Braye was announced, she favoured me
with a letter in which she swore that the marriage
should never take place. Since then I have had
two more, still more threatening, and
You have been frightened,” I said, “badly
frightened !”
“Well, I have," he admitted. “Those Italian
women are such-such devils. And they are adepts
at poison, you know. I thought that the Bianchi
might-might be up to all sorts of games-eh ?
Poison the wine, you know, or-
“Or the brandy, or the whisky," I said rising.
Very good. Now, Major Valentine, don't say a
word of what we have talked about to a soul. And,
to be practical, look in that cupboard and find
me an empty biscuit-box. There is one ? That's
good! Now, you may be mystified; but, you see,
these grapes—which are muscats from
Alexandria-in the box, and I now proceed to seal
the box-thus. And now, Major Valentine, I am
going, and you are to regard your lips as sealed, too,
until you hear from me on the telephone, either here
or at your chambers, or at your club, this evening.”
Then I went off, carrying the biscuit-box and its
contents with me.
I put


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 81
When I got out of Vienna Mansions I repaired
in the first place to the house of a famous analytical
chemist, who was a personal friend of mine, and,
in the second, to the police surgeon who would make
one of those present at the post-mortem examination
on the body of the dead girl. With the great
analyst I left the grapes ; to the police surgeon I
made a certain request. And these things done,
I set off to Covent Garden.
I was by this time quite certain that the French
maid had been poisoned, and that the poison had
been conveyed in the grapes ; I was just as certain
that the poison was not intended for her but for
her mistress. It seemed to me that matters were
becoming very clear. The poisoned grapes arrived
at the flat a little before lunch, and were taken in
by the parlourmaid, who immediately arranged
them on the sideboard; she was no doubt well
accustomed to seeing little presents of this nature
arrive for Miss Braye. Then Felicie came upon
the scene--very probably bent upon the errand
which Major Valentine had suggested. Felicie
saw the magnificent bunch of grapes; Felicie was
tempted. She snapped off a few grapes from
amongst the thickest part of the bunch and ate them.
And then Felicie died-died as swiftly and as surely
F


82
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
as people do die when they are poisoned by a very
subtle poisoner. There had been no bungling
about it, it was the work of a master hand. One
moment, nay, one second, Felicie had been alive-
in the course of the next Felicie was dead.
And now the question was—Who sent the grapes ?
Certainly Major Valentine was quite right in saying
that Italian women have a reputation for being
adepts at poisoning, and it was obvious that he
thought the Bianchi meant to carry out her dire
threats of vengeance. But, personally, I was not
greatly inclined to that theory. I had had the
pleasure of meeting the Signorina Bianchi two or
three times in private life, and, queen of the terpsi-
chorean art as she certainly was while on the stage,
she did not strike me as being remarkably clever
or brilliant when off it; she was, in fact, a very
good average specimen of her countrywomen, with
abundant capacities of love and hate, but not, I
thought, of cunning, which would amount to skill.
Now, whoever had poisoned those grapes had done
so in a highly skilful, not to say extremely scientific,
manner.
However, there was no good to be done by specu-
lating overmuch on that point just then. My
object in going to Covent Garden was to find out,


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 83
if possible, what quantity of these particular grapes
had been on the market on the previous day; my
own impression, from what I recollected of the
price, was that the supply could only have been
limited. It would narrow down the limits of the
field of enquiry if I found this particular out; the
next thing to do would be to hit on the particular
shop from which the grapes were sold and to en-
deavour to run down the purchaser. That they
had been delivered from any shop direct, I did not
believe for a moment; my own theory was that
the poisoner had given them to some boy, picked
up in the neighbourhood of Vienna Mansions, and
had then disappeared.
I made two or three inquiries in Covent Garden
before I reached the shop in which I myself had
noticed the muscats from Alexandria only the
previous day, and I speedily learnt that the supply
of those particular grapes had been very limited.
Going on to the shop itself and glancing into the
window to see who was within it, I was suddenly
brought face to face with a remarkable object.
Hanging from the central rail of the window was a
large sheet of paper, on the upper portion of which
some hand had printed the word “ Found " in very
large, rough letters. Also dependent from the


84
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
rail, and backed by the white paper, hung a
medallion about the size of a half-crown, and set
in gold. I drew nearer to examine it, and found
myself gazing at a beautifully-painted miniature
of one of my old masters, the late Dr. Allison,
who had been well known to me in my student
days at University College.
There was nothing on the sheet of paper beyond
the word “ Found," and it needed no great amount
of intuition to come to the conclusion that the
medallion had been picked up in the shop. I went
inside, fully intending to ask some information
about the portrait, simply because I had known
Dr. Allison ; but first I attended to my own busi-
ness, which was to find out about the grape supply
of the previous day. And suddenly I was face to
face with a new situation, nothing surprising, as
anyone who has followed my profession is well aware.
No, they were very scarce, very scarce indeed,
those muscats were yesterday," said the shopman.
Then he added, with a nod and a smile : “ It was
the lady as I sold my little lot to as dropped that
portrait what I've hung up in the window. I
thought she'd have been in for it before now. It's
mounted in real gold, is that—at least, I take it
to be real gold.”
00


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 85
He reached into the window for the medallion
portrait, unhooked it, and placed it in my hand.
I turned it over ; on the back was an inscription :
Honoria, from her Father.”'
"Oh, yes ! this is solid gold," I said, handing
it back. “I suppose it's quite safe in your
window?"
“As the Bank of England," he said, replacing
his find. “You see, the lady'll no doubt come
looking about at all the places she'd been to, and
when she sees it in the window she'll jump for
joy. I know it was her as bought the muscats,
'cause I noticed it on a chain as she wore round her
neck. Found it lyin' in one of them baskets when
I was closing last night.”
I went out of the shop, certain that I had lighted
upon a clue. I had been sure--sure to the point
of absolute assurance
that the grapes which I
had seen on Miss Braye's sideboard were those
which I had noticed and admired in this very
window the day before. I was convinced now
that the woman who had bought them was the
poisoner—if my poison theory proved to be correct.
And-my old friend and master, Dr. Allison, had
in his time been the leading expert on toxicology.
What mystery was this? What had Honoria,


86
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
who was obviously his daughter, to do with Miss
Braye and Major Valentine ?
I got on to the telephone at once. Major Valen-
tine was still at Vienna Mansions. Within twenty
minutes he joined me under the church clock in
Covent Garden, and I gave him some instructions.
"Just walk down the right-hand side of the
arcade, Major," I said. “ You will come to a shop
in the middle of which a medallion portrait is
hanging. Take a good look at it, and then come
back to me.”
He returned in a minute
in a minute or two, looking
surprised.
“Do you recognise the portrait ?" I asked him.
“ Certainly !” he answered. “It's a miniature
of my late uncle and godfather, old Dr. Allison.
What's more, I know to whom it belongs. It
belongs to his daughter. I'd have gone in and told
the shop-people so, but you asked me to come
back to you at once.”
This took me aback. Now the circle was narrow-
ing! But what was I yet to hear from Major
Valentine ?
Belongs to the late Dr. Allison's daughter,
eh?” I said. "Is-is her name Honoria ? '
The Major stared at me in surprise.


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 87
name
“Yes,” he answered. "Yes, her
is
Honoria. But
I drew Major Valentine a little out of the crowd
of pedestrians.
Listen !” I said. “The woman who dropped
that medallion in the shop where you have just
seen it is the woman who sent the muscats to
Miss Braye !”
That I was yet to learn more from Major Valen-
tine I was assured by the effect of this announce-
ment. He turned white to his lips, and, big and
strong man though he was, he staggered a little, and
put out his right hand as if to find some support.
"My God !” he exclaimed. “I-I was engaged
to Honoria Allison !
Now I was coming to it! I clutched his arm
and moved him away round the corner into King
Street.
“Now, Major," I said quietly, “you remember
our compact. No reservations ! Come, now, let me
hear all about it. When did you—for I am pretty
certain it was you—break off this engagement ? '
About-about a month ago !” he muttered.
Why did you break it off ? " I went on.
Why?"
The Major made an effort and pulled himself


88
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
together, but it was plain that he had suffered
a great shock and a great surprise.
“ Because she was such an awfully jealous
woman !” he exclaimed. “I began to see that
I shouldn't have a moment's freedom or liberty.
She was so very exacting, and"
“Just so," said I. “That's enough just now,
Major. By the by, I think I have heard that Miss
Allison used to help her father in his very interesting
experiments in poisons ?
The Major, who was mopping his forehead as we
walked along the street, nodded vehemently.
“ Yes, yes, she did !” he answered. “And she
experiments still; she's kept the old man's labora-
tory on. My God! Campenhaye, you don't think
she did this—you don't ? ”
“That is exactly what I do think then, Major
Valentine !” I replied. “What else can I think?
You tell me that you have jilted this lady-you
tell me that she is of an exceedingly jealous tempera-
ment. Jealousy and revenge usually go hand in
hand. I naturally conclude that she inclined to
revenge. Then you tell me that she is an expert
on poison-and I am already aware that she sent the
grapes to Vienna Mansions. It will not take much
to convince a jury of her guilt, I think.”


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 89
"A jury ? ” he gasped. Oh, I say, will it
come to that ? "
"Most likely,” said I. “But, come, it's no use
hanging about here. You had better come with
me, Major."
I got him into a taxi-cab at the top of Bedford
Street and bade the driver take us to the place where
I had asked the police surgeon to meet me.
He
was rather late in turning up; when he arrived
he looked somewhat mystified. He glanced dubi-
ously at my companion.
“ You can speak freely before Major Valentine,”
I said. “In a certain sense, he is as much inter-
ested in the case as we are. Now, what is the result
of the autopsy ?”
"Well,” he replied, shaking his head," there's no
manifest proof of any cause of death! The organs
were sound and healthy—in fact, it's a mystery.”
“No trace of poison ? ” I asked.
"No immediate sign,” he answered.
Dr. Inverkeith will make further search; but he says
he doesn't expect to find any trace. Frankly, the
three of us are mystified."
One question, then, before we go," I said.
“Had the girl been eating grapes ?”
He nodded, and looked at me as if he would have
“Of course,


90
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
liked to question me, but I said “Good-night,”
and took Major Valentine away. Outside I tapped
him on the arm.
“I am beginning to think that the poisoner is
a person of an almost diabolical ingenuity, Major,”
I said. “You had better prepare yourself for all
sorts of eventualities.”
The Major groaned heavily.
“ This is awful !” he said. “It's the worst corner
I've ever been in. Where are we going now?
I took him to the house of my friend, the famous
analyst. The great man had us shown at once
into his presence. He was obviously in a seventh
heaven of delight.
He began to talk rapidly as soon as I had managed
to make him understand who Major Valentine
Even then he was not particularly concerned
about the Major or about Felicie's death-his mind,
like that of your true investigator, was running on
a new discovery.
“I say, I say, Campenhaye !” he exclaimed,
rubbing his hands. “I have had a most exciting
afternoon with those grapes ! By gad, I haven't
enjoyed myself so much for ages! My dear fellow,
those grapes are charged with the most subtle
poison I have ever come across !”
was.


THE COVENT GARDEN FRUIT SHOP. 91
Just so," said I. “Well, and what is the
poison ?'
The great man threw up his hands.
"Oh, my dear Campenhaye ! ” he exclaimed.
“I wish I knew! I have tried every test I have at
my disposal, but I have not been able to find out
what it is. But I will go on-I will go on! But
as to its effects-oh, my God! I always have
some live stock here, as you know, for experiments.
Well, I threw one of your beautiful grapes to a
dog who would snatch at anything; he just lay down
and died in exactly thirty seconds. Then I drew off
the juice of another grape and injected it into a
rabbit; he died in precisely seventeen seconds.
Since then
“For God's sake, sir, stop!” exclaimed Major
Valentine. Campenhaye, let's get out—let me,
at any rate, get out of this. I can't stand
it!”
I made a hurried and whispered communication
to the analyst and took the Major away. But once
outside the house I spoke plainly and perhaps a
little sternly.
“Now, Major Valentine," I said, "there is only
one thing to do now. You must go to your cousin.
And I shall go with you."


92
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
He flinched for a moment, and then threw up
his head.
“I'd rather face a crowd of niggers on the
rant !” he said. “But you're quite right, Cam-
penhaye.”
Miss Allison lived in South Kensington-all
the way there the Major kept silence. When at
last the taxi-cab drew up before a big, gloomy
house he groaned again; the events of the day
were certainly not being pleasant for Major
Valentine.
It seemed a long time before anybody answered
the bell. There came a woman who was obviously
a caretaker. Was Miss Allison at home ? No,
Miss Allison wasn't at home, nor likely to be, seeing
as she'd gone to foreign parts for the rest of the
winter. When had she gone? Why, that very
day as ever was—leastways, she, the caretaker,
had come in about noon, and she was gone then.
Major Valentine heaved a great sigh of relief as
we went away.
" Thank God!” he said. “I-I hope I shall
never hear of her again !
That pious hope has so far been fulfilled. For
the authorities, not being able to find any trace of
poison, arranged a verdict that allayed all suspicion


CHAPTER
IV.
THE IRISH MAIL.
THE
HE afternoon boat from Kingstown to Holy-
head was furnished that day with a bigger
complement of passengers than usual. It
was the day after the wind-up of Punchestown
Races, and a goodly proportion of English sporting
visitors were returning. A good many had already
gone by the early morning boat; those who had
lingered in Dublin until noon were chiefly of the
leisured class, to whom a few hours' difference in
travelling is of no importance. I myself, having
had business to transact at a country house near
Kingstown, had motored out from the Shelbourne
Hotel before noon, and I was on the boat when the
train from Westland Row came alongside Kingstown
Pier. Leaning over the rail, I lazily regarded the
passengers bound for England—they were chiefly
sporting folk of degree, varying from peers to
fashionable jockeys. There were Society leaders,
94


THE IRISH MAIL.
95
well known at Newmarket and Ascot; bookmakers,
whom you would find at Tattersall's ; trainers, who
were in evidence on an English racecourse, on
Wednesday, and at Chantilly or Longchamps the
following Sunday; there was also the evidence of
that curious, indefinite element which seems to
drift wherever horse-racing is going on. And
amongst all these people, as they streamed over
the gangway and distributed themselves about the
steamer, I recognised the tall figure and good-
humoured, indolent, slightly-bored face of his Grace
the Duke of Craye.
The Duke of Craye, as every one knows who knows
him, is something of a character. He is immensely
rich, he is an unusually good and popular landlord,
he is a statesman and a sportsman, and he com-
municates the idea of being the laziest and most
easy-going man in Europe. He has been known
to yawn in the middle of an important speech in
the House of Lords, and to nod, if not actually
to fall asleep, in the stand at Epsom when one of
his own horses was running in the Derby-wherever
he is seen, he always looks as if he declined to be
hurried or flurried. His imperturbability is cele-
brated; nothing can ruffle or disturb him, and
the probability is that if his man woke him in the


96
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
middle of the night, with news of an earthquake
in Berkeley Square, he would ask to have further
information supplied with his morning cup of tea,
and go instantly to sleep again.
So far as I could see, the Duke, who was attired
in his usual inconspicuous, not to say almost shabby
fashion-a suit of tweeds and much-worn over-
coat-was unattended. He was carrying a bag or
valise, which, from its ancient appearance, had no
doubt been in his possession since his schooldays
at Eton, and he took it and himself below as soon
as he stepped aboard. Folks of much less degree
were travelling with great fuss and many servants ;
the Duke of Craye loved to go about unobtrusively,
being, in fact, a great lover of his own personal
liberty. He hated the trammels and conventions
of high rank, and he was never so happy as when he
was down at Craye, and could chat easily and un-
affectedly with one of his tenant-farmers. I myself
had had some experience of his simple manners,
for he had once employed me to get a certain young
relative of his out of a scrape, and I had been obliged
to interview him personally several times.
In a few minutes after the train from Dublin
had come alongside we were off, and as soon as we
were clear of the harbour I went down to the saloon


THE IRISH MAIL.
97
for luncheon. And at the foot of the stairway
I came face to face with the Duke of Craye, and, for
at least once in his life, his Grace looked somewhat
disturbed out of his usual phlegmatic condition.
In short, he looked as if something had upset him.
The Duke recognised me in the same moment in
which I encountered him, and it seemed to me that
his expression changed to one of relief. At any rate,
he smiled quietly and he held out his hand.
“Ah, Campenhaye !” he said. “ This is odd,
but I was just thinking of you."
“I am proud to be remembered in your Grace's
thoughts," I said.
“Oh, well, I thought of you because something
has occurred which made me reflect that you might
be useful,” he remarked in his usual off-hand way.
“Look here !-have you got a minute to spare ? "
As many as your Grace desires,” I replied.
Come along here, then—I've got a cabin some-
where,” he said. “Not that I want it, or mean to
use it, but these people seem to think that a duke
must needs have separate accommodation, and be
put in a sort of cattle-pen. Here we are walk in,
Campenhaye. Now, look here,” continued his Grace,
when we were inside the private cabin and had the
door closed on us. “Look here-I've been robbed."
G


98
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Robbed ?" I exclaimed. When—where ?"
Just now—since I came on board," he answered.
“In fact, within this last few minutes. An old
pocket-book, Campenhaye ; but it contains about
fifteen hundred pounds in banknotes.”
“Will your Grace give me the details ? " I said.
Details !” he exclaimed. There aren't any !
When I came aboard, I went into the lavatory
along there outside to wash my hands. I took off this
overcoat, and hung it on a peg—the pocket-book
was in the inside breast-pocket. When I put the
overcoat on again—the pocket-book was gone.
“Are you really sure it was there ? " I asked.
"I'm certain it was there,” replied the Duke
with some emphasis. “I had it at Westland Row
when I took my ticket; I got a ten-pound note
out of it then. Just before I got out of the train
here at the pier I slipped the ticket inside the elastic
band of the pocket-book. I know it was there
when I hung my overcoat up, because I saw it
protruding above the top of the pocket.”
“ And when did your Grace miss it ? ” I inquired.
As soon as I left the lavatory," he answered.
“I meant to transfer it then to my coat pocket,
and felt for it. But it had gone. Somebody had
collared it while I was washing my hands."
(6


THE IRISH MAIL.
99
“ Were there many others in the lavatory at the
time?" I asked. “ And would your Grace recognise
them again?”
“There were other men in there," said the Duke
reflectively. “Yes, I think there may have been
six or seven men in at the time. I don't know
that I could recognise them. I didn't take any
particular notice of them.”
' Has your Grace the numbers of the notes?'
I asked.
But his Grace shook his head. No, he had not the
numbers of the notes, and he did not remember
when he received them. It was his habit, he said,
to carry a considerable sum in banknotes.
There's a thief on board,” he grumbled. “No
doubt, he saw me pull out the pocket-book at
Westland Row, and he followed me. It would be
the easiest thing in the world to abstract the pocket-
book when my back was turned. Of course, it's
my own fault. However, I thought I'd tell you,
Campenhaye. And now I'm off to get some lunch.
Are you coming ?”
• Not until I've had a look round," I replied.
"I shall see your Grace later in the afternoon.”
While the Duke of Craye lounged off in his usual
leisurely fashion in the direction of the dining-saloon,


IOO
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I began an indefinite inspection of the boat. I
wanted to make myself acquainted with the folk
it carried. It was only too likely that Punchestown
Races, and the gaieties attendant upon that classic
event, should attract some of the light-fingered
gentry, and I felt quite sure that if any one of them
had seen the Duke pull out a wad of bank notes
in paying for his ticket, a brave attempt to secure
that wad would certainly have been made. And
obviously it had been made, and successfully made,
and the thief must be on board.
I, naturally, had something of an acquaintanceship
with some of the best known of the swell crooks of
London, and I wanted to see if I could recognise any
of them amongst my fellow-passengers. I might,
and I might not; I probably should not, but I was
going to attempt it. And, as luck would have it,
I had no sooner set foot on deck than I met Barney
Flint.
Now, Barney Flint was a gentleman who had a
history, a deeply interesting history, which was well
known to me. In his younger days Barney had
been associated with, and the leading spirit of, a
particularly smart gang of London sharpers, who
accomplished some very clever deeds, and managed
to keep clear of the police, Master Barney-who,


THE IRISH MAIL.
IOI
needless to say, was not known by that name in
those days—was remarkably adroit; but, like all
very clever people, he went a little too far in his
cleverness, and at last he was laid by the heels.
He received a smart sentence, and when he had duly
served it he was a changed man.
Some said Barney had been converted, but the
fact was that Barney had had time to reflect and
to weigh things up. He changed his name and he
changed his profession; he blossomed out as a
bookmaker. What is more, he quickly became
known as a straight man. And at the time of which
I am writing Barney Flint had several years of
straight conduct behind him, and the naughtiness
of his youth were matters of the past. But some
people knew of them, and I was one of those people,
Barney knew me and I knew him, and we under-
stood each other. He regarded me with an obser-
vant eye as I approached him where he stood in
a quiet place, smoking a cigar. He was a little,
clean-shaven, sharp-eyed fellow, who was generally
taken for a music-hall artist.
'Hallo, Mr. Campenhaye !” said he. “How
are you, sir?"
Hungry, Barney," I replied, “ hungry. But I
want a word with you before I lunch. Look here


102
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
now; I've done you more than one good turn,
do me one."
Anything you like,” said he. Give it a name.”
· The Duke of Craye is on board,” said I.
“I saw his Grace ten minutes since," said Barney.
“And he has been robbed,” I continued.
Barney nodded, and flicked the ash off his cigar.
“ I shouldn't wonder,” he observed calmly. “I
saw his Grace take his ticket at Westland Row
Station, and he pulled out a lot of notes, and handled
them as if they were tissue paper. Somebody's
spotted that, and followed him."
Just so," said I. “ You haven't seen any
gentlemen of fortune about-eh, Barney ? ”
Barney shook his head, which was in a white hat.
Well, and I have not, Mr. Campenhaye,” he
answered. “No, I haven't seen a single one.
That is, one that I know. But, lord love you, sir,
there's plenty that I don't know! Why, I've been
robbed myself before to-day! Oh, yes ! ”
“Well, keep your eyes open, Barney, will you ? "
I said. “And if you see anybody, just put me up
to it, eh?”
“ All right, Mr. Campenhaye,” replied Barney.
“I'll just stroll about, finish this cigar, and go
downstairs for lunch. See you later."


THE IRISH MAIL.
Io3
I left Barney and continued my own peregrina-
tions. A quarter of an hour afterwards I entered
the saloon. Most of the passengers had already
satisfied their hunger and were clearing out, and
there was now plenty of room. The Duke of Craye
sat munching cheese and celery at a far table.
He caught sight of me, and beckoned me to a seat
at his side.
“I've recognised one of the men who was in
the lavatory when I was washing my hands,
Campenhaye,” he said, when the steward had taken
my order and we were alone. " There he is
the man in the corner over there, the dark man
in the Homburg hat."
I looked across the saloon in the direction indi-
cated, and immediately recognised a man in whom
I was just then much interested, whom, in fact,
I had been over to Ireland to see. He was a Captain
Mardyke, who had a small patrimony on the edge
of the Wicklow Mountains and a comfortable flat
in Mayfair, and the London flat saw a good deal
more of him than the Irish demesne did. I had
called on him at Ballinaphoca just before noon that
very day, and had spent half an hour with him,
and he had given me no indication of his intention
of proceeding to England there and then.


104
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
66
Yet here he was on the same boat as myself,
lunching away with all the ease in the world, in
spite of the fact that he had gone through a pretty
bad time with me. For I had had business relations
with Captain Mardyke, and they were not of a pleasant
sort-at any rate, so far as he was concerned.
“Yes, I remember seeing that man,” repeated
the Duke. “I remember his uncommonly dark
complexion.
Oh, I know that gentleman!” I answered care-
lessly. "He's a sort of Irish squireen-a Captain
Mardyke. He's on the reserve of officers-used to
be in the Wildshire Light Infantry.”
“Well, his is the only face that I have any recol-
lection of,” said the Duke lugubriously. “I don't
suppose I shall ever see those bank-notes again.
And I don't mind much about the bank-notes,
Campenhaye; but I'd had that pocket-book ever
since I went to school-it was a present from my
nurse. Of course, it's all my own stupid fault;
I always was careless.'
I made no answer to this ducal observation. I
just then became aware of the entry of little Barney
Flint, who, after a look round, took a seat at the
next table to that which was occupied by Captain
Mardyke and a friend to whom he was chatting.


THE IRISH MAIL.
105
And Barney summoned a steward with a flick of
his finger, and, whatever his thoughts may have
been, became apparently absorbed in the question
of lunch.
The Duke presently drank off the last mouthful
of the bottled ale which he had been consuming,
and remarking that he was going to smoke a pipe
on deck, went off in his heavy, leisurely way. As
for me, I took my time over my lunch and, having
nothing else to do, amused myself by watching
Captain Mardyke, concerning whom I had indulged
certain theories since my interview with him that
morning. He had finished his lunch by that time,
and he was giving some instructions to a steward
which seemed to amuse the man who sat by him.
The steward went awayếten minutes later he came
back with a small square parcel, which he handed
to Mardyke, who, regarding his companion with a
smile, bestowed it in the pocket of a light raincoat
which lay on the seat at his side. Then the two
rose and left the saloon.
Presently, I, too, left. In going, I went up to
Barney Flint's table and leaned over it. Barney
spoke before I could say a word :
"You're going through to Euston, of course ? "
he said. “Now, I might want to see you on the


106
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
train, Mr. Campenhaye. Be in the first-class dining
car at eight o'clock. Understand ? "
I did not quite understand, but I nodded assent.
We were a good way past the Kish lightship
when I went on deck again; the Wicklow Moun-
tains, on the one hand, and the Hill of Howth, on
the other, were fading in the grey distance, and
the wind, having been steadily freshening all the
morning, the sea was beginning to get decidedly
choppy. There were, accordingly, few people on
deck, for most had gone to lie down in their cabins
and berths. I saw nothing of the Duke of Craye,
but behind one of the awnings which the sailors
had put up, Captain Mardyke and his companion
were comfortably ensconced, smoking cigars. I
sought out a similar refuge for myself, and, leaning
back in a deck-chair, prepared to take things easily
until we ran into Holyhead Harbour. And as I sat
there, I thought over the business which had brought
me to Ireland.
That business, as I have already said, was con-
nected with Captain Mardyke. The fact was that
that gallant officer, in addition to being a pretty
well-known man about town, was not altogether
unconnected with certain fashionable gaming-clubs,
the doings at which were not above suspicion,


THE IRISH MAIL.
107
and there was a strong belief in certain quarters
that he sometimes played the part of rook to young
gentlemen who were gullible enough to figure in
the rôle of pigeon. And the real truth as to my busi-
ness with him was that he held a certain amount of
paper which had been signed by a sprig of nobility,
who now insisted that he had never had proper value
or consideration for it. There is no need to go
more fully into that matter here-it is quite another
story—but a great deal that was very serious
depended upon that paper being recovered from its
holder, and I had been sent over to Ireland to
endeavour to recover it at a reasonable figure.
And I had seen Captain Mardyke that very morning,
and I had failed to effect any settlement with him.
He was adamant.
Now, I had made it my business to find out all that
I could about Mardyke, and I was astonished that
he did not close with the really generous offer which
I had been empowered to make him by the foolish
young gentleman's friends. I knew that Mardyke's
little estate in Wicklow was mortgaged to the value
of the last penny, and that there was imminent
danger of the mortgagees foreclosing ; I also knew
that he was in debt in London. The sum which I
had been instructed to offer him in cash was a con-


108
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
siderable sum--at any rate, to a man who was being
hard pressed for ready money—and I wondered
that he did not take it. It was quite true that,
if he liked to hold out, he would doubtless get the
full value of the papers which he held, but he would
not get it for at least three years, whereas, if he
had closed with my offer, I was empowered to
pay him there and then. His firmness had made
me think that there must be somebody behind him
--probably some firm of London moneylenders.
At any rate, he had been impervious to the cheque
which I had shown him, filled up and signed. He
wanted his full pound of flesh.
We were nearing Holyhead, and I was gazing at
the Anglesey coast line, when Captain Mardyke
suddenly approached and dropped into a chair
next to mine.
“A word with you, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said.
“I have changed my mind somewhat since we
conversed this morning. I then told you that I
would not take a penny less than eighteen
thousand.”
“ And I told you," I said, " that my clients
will not go beyond ten thousand.”
Quite so," said he. “But, as I said, I have
changed my mind. I am willing to meet you."


THE IRISH MAIL.
109
“Will you take ten thousand ? " I suggested.
“Not at all!” he answered sharply. "I said I am
willing to meet you. We must both concede some-
thing. I will take fourteen thousand-cash.”
“In other words," said I, “ you want to split
the difference?"
“ Just so,” said he," that's only fair. You go
up-I come down. Quite a fair proposition.”
“It's one that I can't agree to, Captain Mar-
dyke," said I. “I have already told you that my
powers do not go beyond ten thousand pounds.
If you'll take it, the cheque's in my pocket-book."
“No,” he answered, “fourteen thousand. I'll
give your clients until ten o'clock on the day after
to-morrow ; if they won't agree to my terms by
that time, I shall let it be known in other quarters-
you know what I mean, Mr. Campenhaye—that I
hold this paper, and how it was got. That's my
price-fourteen thousand.”
I made no answer, and he rose, turned on his heel
and went away. The boat ran into the smooth
water of Holyhead Harbour.
The train which was to carry us to Euston was
one of unusual length, because of the unwonted
number of passengers, and there was a good deal
of bustle and confusion amongst people scurrying


IIO
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
about to get comfortable seats. I was engineering
my way to the neighbourhood of the first-class
dining saloon when I felt a hand on my arm, and
turned to meet the Duke of Craye, who was lugging
his weather-beaten valise along. Amidst all the
noise and bustle he was as cool, as imperturbable,
and as bored-looking as ever.
“Come with me, Campenhaye,” he said. “I've
got a reserved compartment somewhere, and I
daresay it will be big enough for two. Seen or
heard anything ?” he continued, when we had found
the compartment and settled ourselves. “I expect
not, eh? Don't see how you could.”
We were alone, and the Duke was a man of the
strictest honour and the sternest rectitude. I told
him of my meeting with Barney Flint, and of that
gentleman's cryptic remarks to me just after lunch
on the boat.
The Duke woke out of his usual half-somnolent
state and betrayed an interest that was very nearly
keen. His eyes lighted up and almost sparkled.
“ That's interesting--and amusing!” he said.
“Illustrates the wisdom of the old adage, 'Set a
”
* Mr. Flint, however, is now a highly respectable
gentleman," I remarked. “He has gone very
-;'


THE IRISH MAIL.
III
straight indeed since his
his first unfortunate-
accident.”
“Won't have forgotten his ancient wisdom all
the same," said his Grace with a chuckle. “You
think he had some motive in his head, Cam-
penhaye ?"
“I don't think Barney Flint would give me
mysterious messages for nothing,” I answered.
“He has probably seen somebody or noticed some-
thing; he is an uncommonly keen-eyed and very
observant little man."
“ It would be good fun to have one's property
restored in that way,” mused the Duke. 'Quite
an original way, I think.”
Then he picked up a sporting magazine and began
to read, while I turned to the English newspapers,
and presently we set off on our long run to London.
Nothing happened until nearly eight o'clock,
when the Duke awoke from one of his characteristic
naps
and suggested that we should dine. We
accordingly repaired to the table which he had
reserved, and we had only just taken our places at
it when I became aware that, at a little distance,
another table was occupied by Barney Flint, Captain
Mardyke, and the man with whom I had seen
Mardyke on the boat. They were all evidently on


II2
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
good terms with each other, and were laughing and
talking joyously.
Barney Flint took no notice of me. The three
men were dining in advance of the Duke and myself ;
they were busied, indeed, with coffee and liqueurs
when we were consuming our soup. Presently they
all left the restaurant-car together. But a moment or
two later Barney Flint came strolling back, went to
the table which he had just left, as if he were looking
for something, and returning up the aisle of the car,
slipped a folded note into my hand. Without a
word or look he was gone.
The transfer of the bit of paper from Barney's
hand to mine had been so quickly and quietly made
that my companion had not seen it. And while he
was busied with his roast mutton, I smoothed out the
note on my knee, and made myself acquainted with
its contents. It was well that I have accustomed
myself at not showing surprise at anything, for
the little bookmaker's communication was startling.
I know where those notes are,” Barney Flint
had scribbled on what was obviously a leaf torn
out of an account-book, “and I'm keeping an
eye on them. When you and the great man
have dined, stroll along to the second car behind


THE IRISH MAIL.
II3
the restaurant. You'll find me in a first-class
with the two men you saw me with just now,
playing cards. I'll ask you in. After that you
must take your cue from me."
I read this message twice, and then, with an ex-
planatory word as to how I had come by it, passed
it across the table to the Duke. When he had
mastered its contents, he glanced eagerly at me.
“Of course we'll go ?” he said. “ It promises-
an adventure."
“It might be an unpleasant one," I observed.
" I don't know whether your Grace ought-
“Oh, nonsense, Campenhaye!” he broke in
quickly. “ I'm going. The note has excited my
curiosity.”
I took the note from him and tore it into in-
finitesimal fragments.
" Very well,” I said. As your Grace pleases.
I have no doubt that Barney Flint will provide us
with entertainment. But if what I am beginning
to suspect proves right, we may have a lively five
minutes—even in the circumscribed quarter of an
express railway train.”
The Duke of Craye did not suffer Barney's com-
munication to hurry him. He sipped his coffee
H


114
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
and his liqueur at his usual rate of doing anything
-slowly. He gave me a cigar out of his own case,
and began to smoke one himself as if he meant
to make it last an hour. But at length he pulled
his big frame out of his seat.
“Well, shall we stroll along ? ” he remarked non-
chalantly. “May as well. You go first, Campenhaye.”
I led the way along the dimly-lighted corridors,
swaying to and fro with the motion of the express,
which was now running at top speed. There were
several men lounging about the corridors, for the
train was very full, and the night was warm and
close. A great many compartments had been
reserved, and the doors of most of them were closed.
But the door of that in which Barney Flint sat with
his two companions was open, and as we reached it
Barney hailed us with a shout. He was just in the
act of dealing out cards upon a patent travelling-table,
and he flung down the cards at sight of me.
“Hi, Camp, old sport !” he exclaimed,
in and take a hand, and bring your friend in, too ;
I'll sit quiet for a while.” Then, as we passed in,
he started, and his comical face assumed a look
of horror. “Blessed if it isn't the Duke!” he
murmured. ' Beg pardon for speaking
familiarly, your Grace, but”
come
SO


THE IRISH MAIL.
115
“Oh, all right, all right !” said the Duke.
Pleased to meet a friend of Mr. Campenhaye's.
Don't let me interrupt-"
By a swift movement Barney Flint, who was
always as agile as a monkey, screwed his way past
us, and closed the door of the compartment. At the
same moment his hand went up to the rail on which
light articles were stowed, and it fell on a raincoat
which I recognised as that which I had seen in
Captain Mardyke's possession in the dining-room
on the boat; and I also saw Mardyke half rise from
his seat, as if to make for Flint. But the Duke
and I were between him and Flint-and we were
both big men.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Barney Flint, “there's
a little business to be done, and we'd best do it
quickly. Mr. Campenhaye, keep your eye on the
gentlemen in the corner there. Your Grace lost a
pocket-book this morning, I think_with bank-notes
in it, I believe, to the tune of fifteen-hundred ?”
Barney had firm hold of the raincoat by this time,
and Mardyke's face had grown livid. He sprang
to his feet with a snarl, and made as if he would
spring at the little bookmaker.
Drop that coat !” he growled.
Barney drew back. His right hand slid into the
)


THE IRISH MAIL.
117
Barney laughed. In the midst of his laughter the
Duke spoke, and his voice had lost all its indolence.
There was something in it which was very hard and
cold and terrible. He fixed Mardyke with one look.
“Well, who are you?” he asked.
Before Mardyke could answer I had drawn the
Duke a little aside, and in a few words had told
him-more than Mardyke would ever have told.
And Mardyke sat in his corner and watched us, and
I never saw any wretch in the dock, waiting to hear
his doom, tremble as he trembled when the Duke
at last turned to him.
“Ah!" said the Duke. · Well, I think we can
deal with this matter here. Now you, sir-first of
all you will hand over to Mr. Campenhaye all those
papers and signatures he wants of you, and you
will accept whatever Lord Sheddlecombe's guardians
think proper to give you. Do that at once."
Mardyke, white to the very lips, pulled out some
papers from a despatch-box and handed them to me.
I looked them over, and signified to the Duke that
they were correct. The Duke turned to the culprit
again.
“ Very good," said he. “I know Lord Sheddle-
combe's guardians, and I shall advise them to give
you just what you are legally entitled to-which


118
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
)
is very little. Now for myself, I shall not give you
in charge to-night, but first thing to-morrow morning
you will resign your commission. If you have not
done that by noon to-morrow, you had better blow
out your brains !”
Then he stalked out of the compartment, and I
followed him, and Barney Flint picked up his small
impedimenta and followed me. And the other man
followed Barney, and Mardyke was left alone.
His Grace the Duke of Craye never spoke until.
we reached Euston, and there he bade me good-night.
But before he stepped into his motor-brougham he
took Barney Flint aside and talked earnestly to him.
When the Duke had gone, Barney came up to me.
“Blessed if I ever knew such a rum 'un as his
Grace is !” said Barney. “Look here ! He forced
me to take five hundred of that oof-wouldn't hear
of no denial. And what do you think's troubling
him, Mr. Campenhaye ? "
Well ?" I asked.
“The loss of that old pocket-book, which Mardyke,
no doubt, threw away when he planked the notes in
that packet of sandwiches,” replied Barney. “Says
his old nurse gave it to him when he was a nipper.
Lord, what a sentimental world this is !"


CHAPTER
V.
THE TOBACCO-BOX.
WHEN I set out for Leycaster that morning,
I had no idea in my mind as to the reason
which had made my old friend, Danthorpe,
send for me so suddenly and hurriedly, conveying
his message in four single words: “ Come here
at once.” But Danthorpe was not only town clerk
and a solicitor of standing at Leycaster, but a sharp
man of the world, who never wasted time or money
of his own, and was certainly not likely to waste
mine, and so I obeyed his summons and thought
no more of it until I reached the quaint old town
by the sea, whereat I had sometimes . visited him
on pleasure. And as soon as I caught sight of his
fące on the station, I knew that Danthorpe had
something in hand to which he thought it worth
while to draw my professional attention.
“Come straight to the Castle Hotel, Campenhaye,"
he said, taking my arm.
" I've ordered lunch in a
119


I 20
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
private room. There is a mystery waiting for you
here which seems to me about as queer a one as I
ever encountered. I say 'seems'; it may be that
you will think little of it. Anyway, it will give the
people of this place plenty to talk of for at least the
proverbial nine days--perhaps longer."
I thought as I looked around me at the familiar
sights and scenes of Leycaster that it could never
require much to stir the folk of so quiet a town.
Leycaster, as all people know who have visited it,
is one of the most ancient, as it is also one of the
most picturesque, boroughs in the country. It is
old, and worn, and grey-as grey as the waters of
the North Sea which beat against its cliffs and
headlands, It is built on a bold promontory;
the Norman tower of its ruined castle may be seen
for a wide stretch over land and sea; it has an
ancient church, and queer streets and alleys; the
houses in its market-place are of bygone centuries;
there is scarcely anything modern in it; it has
a small sea trade; it has a herring-fishery ; but the
tourist and tripper leave it alone. Every year
a few artists set up their easels in its nooks and
corners; a few people who love quiet and the
smell of the sea visit it, but for all other purposes
it is still ort of the world. Leycaster is, in short,


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
I21
what the old topographers call a decayed town.
But even in such a place things can happen.
Danthorpe is a wise man. He refused to say
a word of business until we had luncheon. But as
soon as we had come to the coffee and the cigars,
he drew his chair closer to mine.
“ Now then, Campenhaye," he said, “ we'll start
out on this affair. You are sufficiently acquainted
with the geography of Leycaster to remember
our castle ? Very well. - Last night, about dusk,
a woman, who lives in one of the cottages in Outer
Ward, was passing through the castle grounds
and came across the body of a man, which lay
at the foot of Siward's Tower. She immediately
fetched assistance from the lodge. The body was
warm, but the man was dead. There was no
mystery as to how he met his death. You have
been up Siward's Tower with me more than once,
and
you
will no doubt remember that here and there,
all the way to the top, there are ancient embrasures,
or openings, fenced in by low railings. According
to our Castle Committee, these railings are constantly
tested, and should be absolutely safe ; but it is
impossible to deny the fact that the dead man
evidently leaned on one of the upper ones, that
it gave way with his weight, and that he was


122
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
precipitated some sixty or seventy feet to the
path below."
You are sure the railing gave way? You are
sure he did not throw himself over?” I asked,
mentally making notes of all that Danthorpe told me.
There is no doubt that the railing gave way.
The upper rail was broken completely out of its
socket, and the wood was rotten," replied Danthorpe.
“ If the man was leaning heavily upon it, as he no
doubt was, looking at the view over the bay and
the harbour, he would have no chance at all. Our
Castle Committee, or their subordinates, will get
into hot water over this, I assure you. However,
that is another matter. Let us go on.
Let us go on. The man
was removed to the mortuary. I myself saw him
a few minutes later. The doctor said he had been
killed instantaneously. He was a good-looking,
gentlemanly-appearanced man of, say, forty-five, well
but quietly dressed,with good linen, good boots, clean-
shaven, slightly grey of hair. He would have passed
for a professional man-doctor, lawyer, anything of
that sort. But on examining his clothing there was
nothing whatever upon him to show who he was.”
Danthorpe paused, and looked at me in a fashion
which was significant of his astonishment. I only
nodded, and bade him to continue.


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
123
Not a
Nothing whatever upon him!” he repeated.
But I'll tell you exactly what there
was on him. There was a pocket-handkerchief,
unmarked. There was a cigar-case, containing six
or seven cigars of very good quality. There was a
silver matchbox. There was a pocket-knife. There
was a gold watch, with a gold chain attached. In
one pocket of the trousers there was a leather purse,
containing twenty-three pounds in gold; in the other,
some loose silver. There was not a mark upon
linen or clothing to show to whom they belonged,
or where they had been bought or made. The only
other thing upon the body was—this.”
Here Danthorpe produced something wrapped in
tissue paper, and, laying it on the table, placed his
hand on it.
“ I'll tell you about this later," he said. “It's this
that I've really brought you down to see, Campen-
haye. But first let me finish about the dead man.
Of course, we wanted to find out who he was. In a
little place like this that was easily done. We soon
discovered that he arrived here—from London,
remember, though it seems of no importance--
at half-past five yesterday afternoon. He carried
a small suit-case, and walked straight to his hotel
and booked a room in the name of John Smith.


124
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
He had some dinner prepared for him at once,
and as soon as he had eaten it, he strolled out.
The lodge-keeper admitted him to the castle, and
saw him wandering about. After that he was never
seen until the woman found him dead. Now, upon
finding this out, we examined the suit-case, and
an overcoat which had been taken up to his room.
This search was as unproductive of result as the
first. We found no papers, letters or visiting-cards.
None of the linen was marked ; there was absolutely
nothing to reveal the man's identity. Who he is, why
he came here, is a mystery. But there is something
here, Campenhaye, which I want you to look at.”
He slowly tore away the wrappings of tissue paper
from the object which he had produced, and at last
revealed an old silver tobacco-box, rounded to
comfortably fit into a pocket, and evidently of
considerable age, being worn and of great smoothness
all over its surface.
“You see what this is ? " said Danthorpe. “An
old tobacco-box of solid silver. Now open it, and
look inside the lid."
The lid of the box opened by the pressure of a
spring. The interior was as brightly polished
as the exterior. And on the lid, scratched into
the silver by some sharp instrument, was a sort


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
127
>>
We had him photographed this morning, and we
are sending copies out to the principal papers and
police headquarters.”
Very good. Now, let us take this box to the
photographer's and have copies made of these
markings,” I said. “ These copies shall be sent out
in the same way, with a note appended, in which
we will ask any person who can explain them or
throw any light upon them to communicate with you,
Danthorpe. And after that you can take me to see
the dead man, on the mere chance of my recognising
him-a very, very mere chance, I'm afraid.”
“I suppose somebody will recognise him," said
Danthorpe. “It seems a most extraordinary thing
that a man should come to a strange town without
so much as a letter in his pocket.”
That was precisely why I thought there might
be the veriest off-chance of my knowing the man.
He might be one of the better sort of the criminal
class, who, bent on some enterprise or other, had
taken care that in the event of arrest no immediate
means of identification should be found upon him.
It was certainly unusual that a well-dressed man,
with money in his pockets, should be devoid of even
a visiting-card ; it looked as if everything of that
sort had been purposely got rid of. And as I, in


128
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
my professional capacity, had come across a vast
number of strange characters, there was the possi-
bility that I might recognise this mysterious stranger.
But when I came to see the dead man I did not
know him at all-I knew that I had never seen him.
And so there was nothing to be done until the
circulation of the description and the photographs
produced some result. It was impossible that
they should produce none—the man was sure to be
known by somebody. When that somebody came
forward, we should no doubt learn the object of his
visit to Leycaster.
Danthorpe and I were sitting in his study that
night, smoking a final cigar before going to bed,
when his parlourmaid came in to say that a Mr.
Pentiman particularly desired a few minutes' con-
versation with him. He bade the girl show Mr.
Pentiman in at once.
“ An old and much respected tradesman of the
town—a jeweller,” said Danthorpe, turning to me
as he rose and moved towards the door. “I wonder
what he wants at this hour ? Ah, come in, Mr.
Pentiman! Glad to see you," he continued, meeting
and welcoming an old-fashioned, elderly-looking
man, who entered bowing and smiling.
is my friend, Mr. Campenhaye, of London,
“ This


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
129
Mr. Pentiman. Mr. Campenhaye, one of our most
honoured townsmen.”
The old gentleman bowed and smiled again, and
dropped into the easy-chair which Danthorpe pushed
forward.
'You'll think it strange that I should call at this
hour, Mr. Danthorpe,” he said; “but the fact is
I have had my curiosity aroused. I've been talking
to the police superintendent at the club, sir, and he
has been telling me about the silver tobacco-box
which was found on the poor man who fell out of
Siward's Tower yesterday.”
Danthorpe glanced sharply at me.
“Oh,” he said, “what about it, Mr. Pentiman ?”
“Well, little except that he described it, Mr.
Danthorpe, and said that it was in your possession,"
replied the old gentleman. And the fact is,
sir, I dropped in on my way home to ask if you
would allow me to look at that tobacco-box.”
Danthorpe turned to a locked drawer in the desk
by which he was standing.
Why, certainly, Mr. Pentiman," he replied.
“Here it is."
He handed the small parcel over to the old man,
and we both watched him curiously as he took off
the tissue-paper wrappings. His wrinkled old face
I


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
131
63
was
doubt of it. See, there's my private mark and
number, just inside the curved rim. Oh, yes, that's
the box. But " He paused and looked critic-
ally at the markings within the lid, and he shook
his head.
When I gave
this box to James
Meadows,” he went on, “those queer marks were
not there. I wonder what they mean?'
“When did you give that box to Meadows ? '
asked Danthorpe, who evidently much
impressed.
“ About a year, sir, before the-the unfortunate
affair," answered. Mr. Pentiman.
“ Did you ever see it afterwards ? "
“No, sir, I can't say that I did. As I say,
wanted to give Meadows a little acknowledgment,
and I had this box in hand-it's an old eighteenth-
century box, Mr. Danthorpe."
“I wonder how it came into this unknown man's
possession ? ” said Danthorpe.
That seems strange, sir," said the old man.
“ But I've known many strange things. We don't
know who this man is. Meadows may have given
it to him. Meadows may have sold it, and the man
picked it up in some second-hand shop. But
there's one thing certain, Mr. Danthorpe—that's
the box I gave James Meadows ten years ago."
I


132
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Then Mr. Pentiman went away, and Danthorpe
saw him out, and came back to me with a greatly
puzzled countenance.
“ Campenhaye,” he said, pulling his chair towards
mine, “that's one of the most extraordinary things
I have ever known. The mystery of this affair,
Campenhaye, is in this box. You heard the old
gentleman speak of James Meadows ? "
“I did. Who is, or was, James Meadows ? "
“A man who made history in this town before
you knew it. He was manager of the Leycaster
Bank. And just about ten years ago-not quite
so much-he got ten years' penal servitude for
embezzlement. That's who James Meadows was ! ”
" Then in that case," I said, “ James Meadows
is at large again.”
Danthorpe considered matters.
“Yes, that's so," he replied. “I can't remember
the exact dates off-hand, but, of course, I have the
full details at the office. But Meadows would
certainly be released some little time ago."
“Is there no one in the town who knows anything
of him?" I asked. “Has he no friends or relations
here?”
"No," replied Danthorpe. “He
"He wasn't a
Leycaster man. He came here from somewhere in


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
133
the Midlands. He was then about thirty, and he
had been here fifteen years when what old Pentiman
calls the unfortunate affair happened. Meadows
was one of those men who steadily build up a
character for probity and then suddenly rob the
very people who trust him implicitly. There wasn't
a man in the town who had a higher reputation.
Yet he robbed the bank of over fifty thousand
pounds. And what's more, the bank recovered
nothing, and Meadows obstinately refused to give
any information as to what he had done with the
missing funds. It was commonly believed at the
time that he had been hard hit on the Stock Ex-
change, but it was impossible to get a word out of
him. It was by mere chance that he was detected,
and if that mere chance hadn't come off, Meadows
would probably have got clean away with more
of the bank's property. And the bank was not
the only loser.”
Townspeople, eh?” I suggested.
Only to a slight extent; he had certainly
realised on some securities which had been entrusted
to him," answered Danthorpe. “No; a very queer
matter happened, Campenhaye. I think I've shown
you the Earl of Lowthorpe's place, haven't I ?”
“Oh, yes, I remember it very well,” I answered.


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
135
Why unfortunately ?
“ As events turned out, it was very unfortunate.
The countess got into her furs, and waited his
return. He had only to go across the market place
and round the corner ; but he was so long away that at
last she sent the footman to find him. He was found a
little time after, lying in the street, unconscious.”
“ Violence ?"
There was no violence. It was a seizure-a
fit of some sort. He was carried back to the Castle
Hotel, and doctors were sent for. While they
were busied with the patient, nobody, of course,
thought of anything else. Before morning the
earl died, never having recovered consciousness.
And the news of his death quickly spreading about
the town, Meadows came hurrying to the Castle
Hotel to ask for the countess. He wanted to know
if the diamonds were safe. Because, said he,
although he had sat up until four o'clock for him,
the earl had never come, and he had formed the
conclusion that the earl and countess were staying
the night at the hotel, and had the diamonds in
their own keeping. On rising, Meadows said, he
had been informed of the events of the night, and
so he had hastened to her ladyship.”
Danthorpe paused for a moment, and looked at


136
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
me as if he wondered what I thought. I motioned
him to continue.
“Well, of course, there was a fine to-do,” he said.
“ Meadows did no rowing, swearing, nor protesting ;
he merely said quietly and positively that the old
earl had most certainly not brought the diamonds
back to him ; if he had done so, he said, he should
have given him a receipt for them. And there was
no receipt upon the earl's body. And as nobody
at that time doubted the probity of Meadows, the
theory gained ground that some one had seen the
earl fall in a fit, and had robbed him. And this
theory was all the more strengthened by the fact
that, a day or two later, the case in which the
diamonds had been kept was found-empty, and
the patent lock forced-on the side of the railway,
about a mile out of the town. From that day to
this, Campenhaye, those diamonds have never been
heard of."
“Just so," I said. Now, what about the people
who suspected Meadows ? Some people must have
suspected him.”
Danthorpe shook his head.
“I don't think a soul suspected him at the time,"
he answered. You see, he hadn't been found out.
But when the embezzlement came to light, people


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
137
began to talk. It suddenly struck some of us that
it was a strange thing that Meadows didn't step
across to the hotel when the earl was so late in
calling. Then it came out that before Meadows
saw the countess he had heard all about the events
of the night from one of the doctors, and knew
that the earl had never recovered consciousness
from the moment of his seizure. How does the
thing strike you, Campenhaye ? '
“ The thing strikes me as being very simple,”
I said. “The earl gave the diamonds to Meadows.
He took no receipt for them. When Meadows
heard the news from the doctor he saw that nothing
could prove that the diamonds had been handed
to him. He had nothing to do but to appropriate
them. He threw the case away. That's how it
strikes me, Danthorpe."
“Well, and I daresay that's correct. But,”
continued Danthorpe, as we both rose, “those
diamonds have never been heard of since. Meadows
got his ten years for the other affair, and wherever
he
may
be now
He finished with an expressive shrug of the
shoulders, implying that Meadows had probably
taken himself off to the Antipodes, or to some
inaccessible island in the Pacific.


138
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“Nobody'll ever hear of Jim Meadows again,”
he added, as we lighted our candles.
“But we'll find out to-morrow when he was
discharged from Portland, at any rate,” I said.
That, of course, was easily done. After looking
over certain records at Danthorpe's office, I wired
to Portland, and within two hours received the
news I wanted. James Meadows had earned the
full amount of remission. He had been discharged
from Portland just five weeks since. Of course, the
convict prison authorities knew nothing as to his
whereabouts; all they knew was that he had left
them for London.
We progressed no further in the elucidation of
the mystery of the dead man on that, the second
day after my summons to Leycaster. The inquest
was opened at the Coroner's Court that day, and
was adjourned after the available evidence had been
taken. That evening, photographs of the deceased
began to appear in some of the London and pro-
vincial evening newspapers ; next morning they
appeared all over England, and side by side with
these were printed reproductions of the extra-
ordinary marks which had been discovered within
the lid of the tobacco-box. And by breakfast time
on that morning, Danthorpe received a wire from


140
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“Yes, that would be so," said the warder ;“ there
would not be a week's difference between the release
of one and that of the other, anyway."
Did he know whether Meadows-whom he knew
quite well--and Lewes were acquainted while at
Portland ? Well, he had no particular remembrance
that they were, but it was more than likely. It
was also quite likely that they knew they were to
be released about the same time, and could make
arrangements to meet in London or elsewhere.
Danthorpe and I left the warder to be entertained
by the police, and went home. In the hall we were
met by the parlourmaid, who presented her master
with a card.
“ The gentleman is in the library, sir,” she said.
Danthorpe passed the card to me. I gave one
glance at it: Professor Craig-Johnstone, St. Fridolin's
College, Cambridge.
The same thought instantly occurred to Danthorpe
and myself : this visit had to do with the queer
marks on the lid of the tobacco-box. I, in fact,
was sure of it, for though I had never met him,
I knew Professor Craig-Johnstone by name and
reputation. I drew Danthorpe aside as we walked
towards the door of the library.
“I know who this man is," I said. “ He's the


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
141
greatest living authority on palæography and
epigraphy. And he's come to tell you what those
marks mean.”
Danthorpe looked his astonishment.
“By George !” he exclaimed.
“Well, come
along, let's hear what he's got to say."
Professor Craig-Johnstone sat in an easy-chair
in a thoughtful attitude. In appearance he was
not exactly what one would expect a very learned
man to be---that is to say, he was neither old nor
snuffy, nor careless of his dress. On the contrary,
he was a good-looking person, with a clean-shaven
face, clad in an irreproachably cut suit of grey.
tweed; he looked, in short, a country gentleman,
or a well-to-do tourist, and his manners were pleasant
and easy. And when the preliminary introduction
had been gone through, he sat down and chattered
to us in quite a friendly and informal fashion.
“I came down to see you, Mr. Danthorpe,” he
said, “because of the diagram which you caused
to be published in this morning's newspapers.
Now, before I say anything further, will you let
me see the tobacco-box on which these marks are
cut, or scratched ?”
Danthorpe at once produced the box, and Professor
Craig-Johnstone examined it with evident interest.


142
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“Yes," he said. Now, you, gentlemen, do not
know what this marking is?”
We shook our heads.
“Very well; I am here to tell you. It is a rude,
but I should say, a quite accurate drawing of an
inscription written on some stone or slab in Ogham.
If you do not know what Ogham is, I must explain,
It is one of the earliest known forms of writing
upon stone. Without troubling you with details,
I may point out that it has as its basis a main, or
medial line ; the characters you see, branch off from,
or transect, that line. Now, this Ogham writing was
practised in these islands more than two thousand
years ago ; there are many examples of it in Ireland,
there are a few_very few-in England, and they are
on this coast. Without doubt, gentlemen, this dia-
gram, incised roughly on the lid of this silver box, is
a drawing of an Ogham inscription on some stone. I
will stake my professional reputation upon it.”
Danthorpe and I looked at each other. I think
the same notion, or ghost of a notion, rose up within
our-minds at that moment. And Danthorpe turned
to his visitor.
“You say, professor, that the known stones on
which this writing is found in England are all on
this East Coast?" he said.


144
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
we
it with this diagram. And,” continued the professor
with enthusiasm, “it seems to me that, if you know
of any ancient place hereabouts—the ruins of an old
religious house, old churchyard, or similar remnant
of antiquity, you had better search thoroughly
and see if you cannot find a stone which bears
marks corresponding to these."
Again Danthorpe and I glanced at each other.
We were beginning to see things. And from glancing
at each other we glanced at the door.
“ If you will excuse Mr. Campenhaye and myself
for a moment, professor,” said Danthorpe,
will just consult on a matter which seems, to my
mind, to bear on your theory, and on which I am
inclined to ask your advice."
The professor bowed, and Danthorpe and I went
out and into the next room.
Campenhaye,” said Danthorpe, “what do you
think of that? It seems to me that this chap has
hit the right nail on the head. That diagram shows
where Meadows hid the Lowthorpe diamonds."
“ It seems very like it," I replied. “Uncommonly
like it."
“Very well. The thing is--shall I tell our
visitor the story of the diamonds ? "
Why ? "


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
145
“Because it seems to me that you and I, not being
experts, nor archæologists, nor antiquarians, might
search these parts for a year and a day without coming
across that stone. He is an expert; he knows what he
is talking about, and he would be of the greatest help.
Come, shall we take him into our confidence ?"
I reflected for a moment. A noted professor-
a Cambridge man-a man of substance and reputa-
tion. Why not?
· Yes,'.
' I said. “I think we may."
We returned to the library, and found Professor
Craig-Johnstone inspecting a map of the town and
neighbourhood which hung on the wall. Danthorpe
produced cigars, and some of his famous brown
sherry, and, sitting down again, we put the visitor
in possession of the whole story of Meadows, the
Lowthorpe diamonds, and of Charles Lewes.
The Professor was a model listener. He never
interrupted with a question or a remark, but his
keen eyes showed that he took in every point. And
at the end of the story he nodded his head with an
expressive gesture.
“Oh, of course, the affair is plain," he said.
“ Meadows, when he appropriated the diamonds,
was running the chance of detection on the other
matter of embezzlement every day. He accordingly
K


1.46
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
· planted' the diamonds as quickly as he could,
and, without a doubt, under a stone bearing these
marks, and one of many stones similarly marked.
Foreseeing that it might be some time before he
could recover them, he hastily scratched a rough
drawing of the markings of that particular stone
on the inside of his silver tobacco-box. Soon after-
wards, as you say, he was sent to prison. In prison
he made the acquaintance of Lewes. They were
released about the same time. Meadows dare not
come down here, where he would have been recog-
nised. He sent Lewes. Or Meadows may be dead
and have left the secret to Lewes. What is sure,
is that Lewes had the tobacco-box in his possession,
and that here he came. The matter, gentlemen, is
clear. And there is now only one thing to be done."
“And what is that ? ” asked Danthorpe eagerly.
Why, to think of the place in this neighbourhood
where such stones as these are likely to be found,”
replied the Professor with an indulgent smile.
“ As I said, I am an absolute stranger, and know
nothing of the district. But you-
“I am not much versed in antiquities,” said
Danthorpe;" but while you have been talking I have
been thinking of the place called Old Leycaster."
"And what is that?"


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
147
Danthorpe took down the map, and pointed to
a spit of land which runs out into the sea, about a
mile and a half south of the town.
“The most forlorn and desolate spot in existence,"
he said. You see these marks on this triangular
bit of coast ? Well, that is Old Leycaster. What it
is, is a collection of heaps of ruinous masonry, and
that sort of thing. Once there was an old church,
or a monk's cell, or something of that sort there.
Now I come to think of it, I have only once been there
-for no townsfolk ever go—there are stones within
and without the ruins which are very ancient.
The whole place is so desolate, so overgrown with
bramble and bush and weed that
The Professor held up a forefinger.
“My dear sir,” he said in a hushed whisper, " this
is probably the very place. It was most likely the
first landing-place of the folk from overseas who
subsequently founded your ancient borough. It
should be examined. Now, as the Long Vacation
is with us, I am master of my time. Shall I be of
any use to you ? Say, to-morrow."
“The greatest,” responded Danthorpe. “And I
am infinitely obliged to you. Let's arrange matters.”
So we arranged that the three of us should go
out to Old Leycaster next morning to make an
1


148
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
examination of the ruins. Nothing was to be said
to the police; we were to keep the matter to our-
selves until we had made a thorough investigation,
which it was best to conduct privately.
Denthorpe begged his visitor to stay to dinner, but
the Professor declined. He had ordered his dinner at
the Castle Hotel; afterwards he was going to drive
out to a village a few miles off, where he wished to
renew acquaintance with an old college friend whom
he had not seen for some years. But he would be in
readiness for us at the hotel at precisely eleven o'clock
next morning. And on that understanding we parted,
and Danthorpe was much excited during the rest of
the evening over the prospects of the morrow.
We were both at the Castle Hotel at the appointed
hour; Professor Craig-Johnstone, however, was not
there. In fact, said Mrs. Cooke, the landlady, he
had not been there since dinner-time the previous
evening. He had booked a room, it was true, but
he had mentioned to her that he was going out
to see a friend at the village of which he had spoken
to us, and might possibly spend the night there.
We concluded that he was a little late, and we waited,
but he had not returned at noon, nor at one o'clock.
And Danthorpe began to pull a long face, and I
began to grow suspicious, and eventually, having


THE TOBACCO-BOX.
149
swallowed a glass of sherry and a sandwich, we
left, and with a mutual understanding, walked off to
Old Leycaster.
Danthorpe was very silent. I understood his
silence—I myself was silent. It seemed to me that
we had been somewhat premature in revealing so
many secrets to a complete stranger, even though he
was a famous man. And I had an uncomfortable
idea that we were going to solve more secrets than one.
Old Leycaster proved to be one of the most
desolate spots I have ever seen-a mere collection
of grey, time-worn walls and stones, on a spit of
forlorn marshland, over which the sea-birds were
calling in their most mournful fashion. But amidst
the desolation of what was certainly the ruined
shell of some old building of the most hoary antiquity,
we found several stones and slabs on which were just
traceable the outlines of the Ogham writing—and
beneath one of them was a small excavation which
had been freshly carried out. And in it was a lėtter
addressed to Messrs. Danthorpe and Campenhaye.
It was a letter of the most consummate imper-
tinence : its audacity was colossal. But here it is :
“ GENTLEMEN-I have found what, after our
conversation of last night, I felt sure I should find.
Accordingly, I am off! You will never see me


150
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
again. I am obliged to you for your help. When
I saw the diagram in the papers, I immediately
formed the theory of which I told you, and I set
out for Leycaster. But I was wise enough to know
that, unaided, I might spend days in searching for
a place where Ogham writing was likely to be
found, or in getting information as to valuable
missing property. And so I boldly called upon
you at once, and you did me an inestimable benefit
by telling me all you knew. Your information
about the diamonds, and your suggestion about
Old Leycaster, supplied the missing links in my
chain. I always was a good hand at theorising.
This theory was--an inspiration !
“I am not Professor Craig-Johnstone, though I
am interested in his subjects. Never mind who I
I was once an honest man. And I am still,
as I have shown to you, a scholar, and
“A MAN OF BRAINS.”
Danthorpe looked at me long and sadly.
“It strikes me, Campenhaye,” he said at last,
that our visitor of last night was, in his way, a
genius. And the question is—what is to be done
am.
now ?”
But for once in my life I had no answer ready.
The Man of Brains had bowled me out first ball!


CHAPTER
VI.
MRS. DUQUESNE.
THE
HERE was nothing much to occupy my
attention at the office that June afternoon,
and I was just thinking of spending the rest
of it at Lord's, where a particularly interesting
match was in progress between Middlesex and
Yorkshire, when my clerk brought in a telegram,
the wording of which caused me to make an imme-
diate alteration in my plans. The phraseology of
that message was somewhat old-fashioned ; I
smiled as I read it :
“ The Duke of Saxonstowe presents his compli-
ments to Mr. Paul Campenhaye, and will be greatly
obliged if Mr. Campenhaye will come to Saxonstowe
by the 3.15 train from Marylebone, as he wishes to
consult him on an affair of the most serious and
urgent importance. The Duke will meet Mr. Campen-
haye at Elmford Station, at 5.30, unless Mr. Cam-
penhaye replies to this message in the negative."
151


152
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
To seize a telegraph form and dash off an
affirmative answer was the work of a moment; to
get out a portmanteau which I always kept at the
office, packed ready for any emergency, the task
of another; within five minutes I was off to the
Great Central Railway, and at the time when I
might have been in the pavilion at Lord's, was
rushing through the London suburbs towards the
North. I had leisure to wonder a little why I
was being summoned in such haste.
Oddly enough, the Duke of Saxonstowe-Henry
John Domfreville, twenty-first Duke of Saxon-
stowe, and holder of at least half a dozen titles, of
Saxonstowe Park, in Nottinghamshire, 175, Berkeley
Square, in London, and Domfreville Castle, in
Scotland_was one of the very few English great
peers with whom I was not even acquainted by
sight. That was probably because his Grace was
very young, and had been little known or seen
about town. There was no need, however, for me
to turn up the “Debrett " which I always carried
in my hand-bag-—it was my business to know all
about the members of the peerage. The Duke of
Saxonstowe, I therefore reminded myself, was at
that time twenty-four years of age. He had
been educated at Eton and at Christ Church, Oxford.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
153
After leaving Oxford with a more than usually
good degree, he had travelled a great deal in
North and South America. He was understood to
be studious and reserved ; no one had ever heard
of him in connection with either the ladies of the
chorus or the gentlemen of the money-lending
profession. If he was not a multi-millionaire, he
was, at-any rate, very rich; and if he had no very
great reputation as a sportsman, he was making
one as a collector of books and pictures. I was
prepared, therefore, to meet a young gentleman
who was inclined to the passive rather than to the
active side of life.
However, when I left the train-specially stopped
for my benefit--at the little roadside station of
Elmford, I found myself greeted by what most
people would call the beau-ideal of a youthful
country squire. The duke was a sandy-haired,
fresh-coloured, tallish young man, dressed in a well-
worn tweed suit, an old cap, and stout boots ; he
carried an ash-plant stick, and was attended by two
business-like fox-terriers. His hand was as big
and strong as a blacksmith's, and his smile ready
and kindly. But I saw at once that he was greatly
troubled in mind about something, and that he would
be uncommonly glad to make me his father-confessor.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
155
in me," I said, “I think you will not regret it.
Let me hear everything. That is the only stipulation
I make with all my clients.”
“Oh, yes !” he answered. “Yes, of course, I
shall tell you everything. Let me begin at the
beginning. I may as well say, Mr. Campenhaye,
that I have no great love for London in spring and
summer, and that I prefer this to anything London
can give me. That is why I am here during the
season. But I am not a hermit, and now and then
I gather small parties of friends round me. I have
just had one such party staying with me, and out
of that the trouble has arisen. I must give you
the names of the people. There was, and is, my
aunt, Lady Louisa Ashe, who has acted as hostess ;
then Professor Ridsdale, of Oxford, and his wife ;
then Colonel Polkard, with whom I was travelling
last year in Patagonia; my cousin, Horace Dalrymple
he and I were at school and college together-and
my friends, Mrs. Duquesne and Miss Manning."
I noticed that he gave me some indication of who or
what all the members of this house-party were, with
the exception of the last-named two ladies ; I also ob-
served that he spoke their names with some hesitation.
“And who," I asked, "are Mrs. Duquesne and
Miss Manning ?


MRS. DUQUESNE.
157
case.
me that the ring had been stolen from her jewel-
She had placed it in its usual place, in her
maid's presence, on retiring the previous night;
having occasion to look in the jewel-case next day,
she found that it had disappeared.”
I made no comment, and the duke, having
walked a little way in silence, resumed his story.
“ I dare say you have had this sort of thing brought
before your notice a good many times, Mr. Campen-
haye,” he said. “I never had until then, and I
was very much upset. I did not know what to do. "
Before I could do anything, Mrs. Duquesne took
action. She communicated that very night with
the authorities of Scotland Yard.”
“Ah!” I said, “sending them, no doubt, a full
description of the ring."
Just so," replied the duke, looking at me as
if he were a little surprised that I should think of
that. “She did ; and the result was that the
Scotland Yard people found that the ring had
been pledged that very morning, at half-past ten
o'clock, with a firm named Leiter & Nott, who are,
I understand, very well-known pawnbrokers in
London.”
Quite so," I said.
“And by whom had the ring
been pledged ?"


158
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
We were just then in a very lonely part of the park,
but the duke looked around him and lowered his
voice, as if he were afraid of even the red deer
hearing what he was about to say.
“It had been pledged,” he replied, “ by Arthur
Manning the brother of Miss Manning, of whom
I have spoken. And—I am to tell you the whole
ugly truth, Mr. Campenhaye—it had been sent to
Arthur Manning by his sister, by registered post,
the previous night, from our local post office. There,
Mr. Campenhaye, that is the truth—and my
trouble !"
I stopped and regarded him searchingly. He met
my gaze with steady, grief-stricken eyes.
“Why,” I said at last, "why is it your Grace's
particular trouble ?”
He threw out one hand with an instinctive gesture
and his face flushed. “Why?” he exclaimed.
Why, because I love Miss Manning with my
whole heart, and unless she is cleared of this I shall
never know a moment's happiness in life! That's
why, Mr. Campenhaye, that's why ? "
The duke was so obviously moved that I refrained
from asking him more at the moment. We walked
some little distance in silence; at last he resumed
the subject himself.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
159
" The
“I had better finish the wretched story up to this
present time, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said.
officer who had been placed in charge of the matter
by the Scotland Yard authorities communicated
at once with Arthur Manning, who is a subaltern
in one of the Guards regiments, and in consequence
of this they both came down to Saxonstowe im-
mediately to see Miss Manning. Now, I beg you to
observe, Mr. Campenhaye, that both Manning and
his sister have been most candid, most straight-
forward, most anxious to keep nothing back. They
have told all they could. Their story is this : A
few days before the disappearance of the opal
ring, Arthur Manning-who is only a boy---lost
more money at cards than he could afford to pay,
for he and his sister are by no means well off. He
was very much upset about this, and he wrote to
Stella—to Miss Manning. Miss Manning possesses
a valuable diamond ring—which was quite recently
left to her by a distant relative. Anxious to
help her brother out of his difficulties, she sent
him this ring, and told him to raise sufficient
money on it to pay his debts. Arthur Manning
received, not that ring, but Mrs. Duquesne's
ring—"
“Pardon me," I said, interrupting him. “Did


160
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Mr. Manning know that his sister's ring was set with
diamonds ? "
“No," replied the duke," he did not; more's
the pity! He knew that a valuable ring had been
bequeathed to his sister, but did not know whether
it was of diamonds, pearls, or what. In her letter
to him, Miss Manning merely said that she sent
him Mrs. Trevarthen's ring, and begged him to
pledge it in such a way that he and she could redeem
it between them. He, finding an opal ring in the
registered packet which his sister sent him, naturally
concluded that it was the ring to which she
referred.”
Quite so," said I.
" Your Grace has more to
tell me yet ? ”
“Yes,” he replied, with a sigh, “ there is more.
.
All this came out before my aunt, Lady Louisa
Ashe, and Mrs. Duquesne. I am sorry to say that
Mrs. Duquesne took a very strong line. She im-
mediately accused Miss Manning of having stolen
her ring. It then turned out that Mrs. Duquesne
had been conducting some investigations on her
own part, and that she had found that one of the
maids had seen Miss Manning enter Mrs. Duquesne's
room during the afternoon on which the ring was
stolen. At that time Mrs. Duquesne and the other


MRS. DUQUESNE.
161
.
ladies of the house-party were all on the lawn,
playing croquet. She had also discovered that Miss
Manning had taken the trouble to walk to Saxon-
stowe village to register her packet; our usual plan
with such things is to hand them to the postman,
who calls at six o'clock. And Mrs. Duquesne was,
I am sorry to say, indignant, and perhaps somewhat
unreasonable.”
“What followed?" I asked.
The duke shook his head sorrowfully.
“What I should like to forget,” he answered,
and what I want you to clear up. Miss Manning
—who had acknowledged that she went into Mrs.
Duquesne's room to fetch a book which had been
promised to her, and stayed there several minutes
because she could not readily find it-protested that
the ring which she sent to her brother was her
Mrs. Duquesne thereupon dared her to pro-
duce the case in which Miss Manning usually kept
the ring—dared her, I mean, to send for it there
and then, and open it before us without previous
interference from herself. Miss Manning accepted
this challenge at once.”
Readily ? Without demur ?" I asked.
“ With the utmost readiness, with the greatest
alacrity!” replied the duke. “At her special
L
own.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
163
And nothing has happened to enlighten you ? ”
I said.
“Nothing," he replied dolefully. “Nothing !
That is why I wired for you, Mr. Campenhaye.
Something must be done. It is impossible that
Stella Manning could have done this thing—im-
possible! I have wondered ? "
“ Yes ?” I said encouragingly.
“I have wondered if by any possible chance the
rings could have become exchanged the night that
Mrs. Duquesne exhibited hers ? ” he said. “It
seems hardly likely, seeing that one was an opal
ring, the other a diamond. And yet I cannot think
of any other theory-and-
“Oh, we may have half a dozen theories yet!” I
said, smiling. “Now, I want your Grace to tell me
a few things before we reach the house. The Mannings
are at Saxonstowe Vicarage, where I will call upon
them this evening. Where is Mrs. Duquesne ? ”
“She is still here," answered the duke, glancing
towards the house, which was by now in sight.
“Oh!” I said. And the rest of the house-
1
party ?”
“My aunt, of course is still here," he said. “But
the Ridsdales and Colonel Folkard are gone.
cousin, Mr. Dalrymple, is here yet.”.
My


164
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“ Now for some questions of a more personal
nature,” I said. “ Your Grace has treated me with
your confidence as regards your affection for Miss
Manning. That, I suppose, is quite a secret
matter?"
“Oh, quite, quite !” he replied hurriedly.
“Yet your liking for Miss Manning may have been
made evident," I remarked. “ Women are naturally
very sharp-eyed and sharp-eared in those matters.
Now, I want to ask your Grace frankly-do you
think Mrs. Duquesne has a prejudice against Miss
Manning ? ”
The duke stopped and stared at me hard. I
recognised then that he was a very simple-minded
young man, and quite guileless.
“But why should she, Mr. Campenhaye ?” he
asked.
I shook my head and smiled.
“ Mrs. Duquesne is a young and doubtless a
charming woman,” I said.
“She is certainly charming—and beautiful,” he
acknowledged. “And, of course, she is young."
Mrs. Duquesne may aspire to the rank of a
duchess?" I said.
The duke flushed as hotly as any schoolgirl.
Oh, no, no !” he exclaimed. “I-Ị do not
66


MRS. DUQUESNE.
165
think-surely you do not mean to suggest, Mr.
Campenhaye, that-
"I don't mean to suggest anything at present,
I answered, and as we were just then entering the
gardens, I began to talk about the cultivation of
roses, and endeavoured to take my companion's
thoughts away from the theft of the ring. On
that matter I had already formed what I called a
possible theory, of which I was going to say nothing
—just then, at any rate.
The duke himself took me to the rooms which
had been prepared for me, and later presented me
to his aunt. Lady Louisa Ashe was a well-preserved
lady of between fifty and sixty, who was palpably
dubious as to how she ought to treat me—whether as
a superior policeman or a professor of legerdemain.
Finding that I was quite an ordinary person, who
moved and spoke like all other persons, she became
easier in her manner and gave me a cup of tea.
Oh, I didn't tell you that Helena had flown !
she suddenly exclaimed, turning to the duke.
“Helena! Flown ?” he said. " Where and
when ?”
“A telegram came for her soon after you set
off to meet Mr. Campenhaye,” replied Lady Louisa.
Somebody wanted her that instant in town. So


166
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
(6
me.
she looked out the trains and motored to Notting-
ham. She was sorry to go off so hurriedly."
Hum !” said the duke. Lady Louisa is
speaking of Mrs. Duquesne,” he added, turning to
' It's a pity she has gone so suddenly. By
the by, that is a photograph of her-a very good
one."
But I had already seen it. And I had some
notion that the flight of Mrs. Duquesne from the
ducal roof was not unconnected with the fact of my
arrival, for I had recognised the photograph as that
of a lady with whom I was acquainted. Only—
I did not know her as Mrs. Duquesne.
There was very little to do at Saxonstowe Park
in respect to the theft of Mrs. Duquesne's opal
ring. While the daylight lasted, I examined the
room from which the ring had been taken, and
had a conversation with the maid who had seen
Miss Manning enter it in Mrs. Duquesne's absence.
There was not much to be gained from her or from
staring at the room; I was much more interested
in the thought of interviewing Miss Manning and
her brother. And after dinner the duke took me
across the park by a short cut which led to the
vicarage garden. There he left me, thinking it
best that I should see the young people by them-


168
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I have heard all about this business, and, of course,
I am sure you did not take Mrs. Duquesne's ring.
Equally, of course, the Duke of Saxonstowe doesn't
think so, either, and never did.”
The girl's face flushed, and I saw a very sus-
picious moisture start into her eyes. The boy flushed,
too, and his lips were compressed for a moment.
Thank you, sir," he said. “This is a terrible
business, though, and we both feel it awfully. And
it's all my fault—if I hadn't been such an ass I
should never had got Stella into this mess. How-
ever, I've sworn I'll never touch a card again as
long as I live."
"Well, that's a good resolution, anyway,” I said,
smiling Now, I want to ask you both some simple
questions, and I hope you both have good memories.
Miss Manning, I'll begin with you. You received
your brother's letter, telling you of his little diffi-
culties, on the morning of the seventh June ?
Yes, it was the seventh," she answered.
And, naturally, you immediately began to
consider ways and means of helping him, and as a
result decided to send him the diamond ring, which
had been bequeathed to you by Mrs. Trevarthen?”
said I.
“Yes," she replied.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
169
Now, I want you to tell me exactly what you
did about sending that ring,” I continued. “I
don't suppose I am far wrong in thinking that you
set about it soon after breakfast ? ”
“No, you are not at all wrong," she answered,
smiling. - "I went to my room almost immediately
after breakfast. I wrote to Arthur, telling him that
I was enclosing the ring; that I was quite sure he
could easily raise the money he needed on it, and
asking him to do it in such a way that we could
redeem it. Then I put the ring in a small cardboard
box in which I had placed a layer of cotton wool,
folded the letter round the box, and put box and
letter into a registered envelope which I happened
to have in my writing-case. That was all."
“ All up to that point,” said I.
" Then I suppose
you addressed the envelope ? Well, what did you
do with it, then ?"
"I placed it in the drawer of my writing-table,”
she replied.
“Did you lock the drawer ?" I asked.
She shook her head rather guiltily.
“ 'No," she answered. "I didn't."
“Well, what did you do after that ? ” I asked.
“How did you spend the rest of the morning-
for instance, up to lunch ? "


170
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“I was playing golf the whole morning with the
duke,” she replied.
“What were the other ladies of the house-party
doing—so far as you know ? ” I enquired.
"I don't know," she answered. “Lady Louisa
used to write letters in the mornings; Mrs.
Wridsdale usually read or worked on the lawn ;
Mrs. Duquesne used to spend a good deal of time
on the lake. Sometimes we played croquet with
Professor Wrids dale."
“Now, what time did you see your registered
packet again ? " I said.
“Very soon after tea,” she replied. “That
would be about half-past five. I went upstairs to
get it, intending to take it to Saxonstowe myself.”
-"Was it where you had placed it ? Did it look
as if it had been tampered with ? " I inquired.
“It was exactly where I had left it, lying on a glove-
box, and I saw nothing to show that it had been
tampered with,” she replied.
“So you went straight off and registered it ? "
said I.
She nodded her assent and waited to hear my
next question.
“Where did you leave your keys while you were
playing golf that morning, Miss Manning ? " I asked.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
171
She smiled and looked rather guilty.
“ I'm afraid I have a bad habit of leaving my
keys about,” she said. “I daresay I left them
on the writing-table or on the dressing-table that
morning-I cannot be sure.”
Quite so," said I. · Then the probability is
that you did. Now, Mr. Manning, a question or
two with you. When you received the registered
letter, did you notice anything to make you think
it had been tampered with ? "
"Oh, no!” he answered. “I noticed nothing."
“What did you do with the registered envelope
and the cardboard box in which the ring was
enclosed ?" I asked.
“Threw them in my waste-paper basket," he
replied.
“That's equivalent to saying they're lost, then,"
I said. And I'm sorry, for I should have liked
to carefully examine them."
His face brightened suddenly.
" By Jove, you can do that, sir !” he exclaimed.
The basket had not been emptied when I got leave
and came away, and I know nobody's been in my room
since, because I have the key. I'm going to town by
the first train in the morning, Mr. Campenhaye, and
I'll find both envelope and box, and send them to you."


172
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Thanks," I said, “but you needn't.
I am
going to town myself by the midnight mail, and I
will call on you--Wellington Barracks, I think ?-at
noon to-morrow. Now, Mr. Manning, until I come
keep a jealous eye on that waste-paper basket.
Don't let your servant remove it; don't touch it
yourself. Leave it for me to examine. Now, I am
going. The next time I see you, Miss Manning,
which will, I hope, be within twenty-four hours-
I trust to tell you that I have solved the mystery."
I thought those two young people would have
wrung my hand off as I said good-night to them.
I walked across the park thinking of my schemes
for the morrow, and was still developing them
when I walked into the house. There a quiet
domestic scene met my eyes. Lady Louisa was
steadily progressing through a game of Patience,
the duke was reading the Fortnightly Review, Dal-
rymple, a sporty young gentleman who had quietly
eaten a very big dinner, was asleep in a deep chair
with the Field on his knees. The duke looked
up and smiled—and I think he half winked.
Perhaps you can offer professional consolation to
my aunt, Mr. Campenhaye," he said. “She has
lost something."
"I hope nothing of value, Lady Louisa ? ” I said.


MRS. DUQUESNE.
173
Oh, it's nothing, nothing !” answered Lady
Louisa, a little testily. “Dear me, duke, why
do you make such a fuss about it?”
“Why, my dear aunt," said the duke, "you've
been turning half the house upside down about it !”
" Then it must be of value," I remarked.
Lady Louisa looked annoyed.
"No, no!” she said. "Merely a little trinket-
an amulet which I wore on a platinum chain. No
value at all—but it was a keepsake. It's really of
no consequence-no consequence !”
So I sat down, merely remarking to myself that if
Lady Louisa Ashe had known as much of the world
as I did, she would have been aware that everything
is of great consequence.
I was in town again by three o'clock in the morn-
ing, and I went to bed for exactly four hours. At
eight o'clock I was at the corner of a certain small
but fashionable street on the north of Hyde Park,
and was greeting my faithful clerk, Killingley, to
whom I had sent a long telegram of instructions
in my private cypher from Saxonstowe Park soon
after my arrival there.
Well, Killingley ? " said I.
“We have kept a strict observance on the house
since the receipt of your wire, sir,” replied Killingley,


174
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
reeling off his report with his usual automatic-like
precision. “The lady went out at seven last
night, dined at the Ritz, went on to the Haymarket
Theatre, and drove straight home from there.
She has not been out since.”
Very good, Killingley,” said I. “Remain here
until I return."
Proceeding to the house which had been indi-
cated to me by the Duke of Saxonstowe as Mrs.
Duquesne's town address, I rang the bell, and
handed to the sleepy-looking footman, who seemed
much astonished and disgusted to see me, a note
in which I informed Mrs. Duquesne that it was
necessary that I should see her at once, and asking
her to name her own time within the next two
hours. As I had anticipated, I had not long to
wait. Ere many minutes a smart French maid
tripped downstairs into the hall.
“Madame will see monsieur at precisely nine
o'clock," she announced, regarding me closely.
• Tell madame that I will wait upon her at that
hour,” I replied, and went away to dismiss Killing-
ley and take a walk in the park. There was no need to
keep Mrs. Duquesne under observation ; I knew that,
having made an appointment with me, she would keep
it. It would not have paid her to do otherwise,


MRS. DUQUESNE.
175
At one minute after nine I was in Mrs. Duquesne's
boudoir, and Mrs. Duquesne herself was confronting
me in a wonderful morning-gown. She was a very
beautiful woman, but her expression just then
was not quite pleasant to look at-she looked as
hard as steel, and utterly defiant.
“I had an idea that you would visit me after
your visit to Saxonstowe, Mr. Paul Campenhaye,”
she said. “I knew what conclusion anybody of
your acumen and skill would come to, and I judged
that the duke would send you to me to ask for
mercy. And so I may as well tell you that I shall
have none-I am going to take out a warrant this
morning. That is what I came to town for."
I could scarcely believe my ears. What did
the woman mean ? My objects and intentions in
visiting her were of a very different nature to what
she was thinking of. Then I suddenly conceived the
notion that she was trying to bluff me. I smiled.
“We seem to be at cross-purposes, Mrs.
But how am I to call you ? ” I said.
My name, Mr. Campenhaye, is Mrs. Duquesne,"
she answered. “If I chose to spend a few weeks at
Monte Carlo under another name, and to become
unfortunately and unavoidably involved in
matter into which you were brought
a


MRS. DUQUESNE177
.
.
more than Mrs. Duquesne was aware about the
Monte Carlo matter, and for that reason I was not
going to mince my words, having my knowledge in
reserve. Accordingly, I put on my severest air.
Mrs. Duquesne," I said, “I do not believe that
Miss Manning stole your ring. I believe that you,
anxious to prejudice the Duke of Saxonstowe
against Miss Manning, opened the packet addressed
to her brother, substituted your ring for hers, and
placed hers in its usual place. You did this because
with your unusually sharp eyes you had seen that
the young and fascinating Duke of Saxonstowe
was deeply in love with Miss Manning.”
She turned white to the lips, but she stared at me
with eyes in which there was more surprise than
fear.
You believe-that ? she said. “ You?"
“Yes, I do believe it," I answered.
clever trick, but you gave yourself away when you
told the Scotland Yard people to make immediate
inquiry of the leading London pawnbrokers. You
had read Miss Manning's letter to her brother,
and you knew that he was to pledge the ring. So
by your knowledge you made certain of the where-
abouts of your property, and at the same time
you struck your rival a deadly blow.”
It was a
M


MRS. DUQUESNE.
179
as if it would greatly profit by a thorough sweeping
and dusting. He himself was keeping watch over
the waste-paper basket, which I saw at the first
glance to be full of odds and ends of all sorts.
No one has touched anything, Mr. Campenhaye,”
he said, as we shook hands. "There's the basket,
just as I left it.”
" Very good,” said I. Now, tell me, where were
you standing or sitting when you received and
opened your sister's registered packet, and what did
>
you do ? "
"I was sitting here!” he answered, indicating
an easy-chair by the hearth. “I opened the enve-
lope, drew out and read the letter, took the ring
from the cardboard box, and threw box and
envelope into the basket here."
“All right,” I said ;“now I'll examine the contents
of the basket here.”
“I have to go across to the orderly room for
a few minutes,” he remarked. “I shall not be
long.”
Drawing off my gloves, I proceeded to examine
the odds and ends one by one. There were torn-up
letters, tradesmen's bills, circulars, catalogues ;
at last I came across the registered envelope, ad-
dressed in a pretty, feminine handwriting. Near


180
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
it lay the cardboard box, which, it appeared, had
originally contained curling pins. And close by
me a thickish wad of cotton wool; that, of course,
in which the ring had been enclosed.
Now, my object in securing the envelope and
the cardboard box was to subject both to micro-
scopic investigation. I did not want the cotton-
wool ; nevertheless, I picked it up. And suddenly
I saw something hanging to it, the mere sight of
which made me jump to my feet with a sharp
exclamation, which was caught by Arthur Manning,
who was just then re-entering the room.
What is it ? ” he said, staring at me, no doubt
seeing that I looked excited.
“ Found anything,
Mr. Campenhaye ? ”
“Never mind,” said I, hastily smuggling what I
had found into my trousers pocket. "Hum !
well, I have finished with your waste-paper basket.
Now, are you staying in town, or returning to
Saxonstowe?"
“Returning to Saxonstowe,” he answered. “I
have arranged more leave. Of course, I must be
with my sister until this affair is cleared up."
Then we will go down together by the next
train," I said.
We were at Elmford station in the middle of


MRS. DUQUESNE.
181
the afternoon. I set out across the park; young
Manning went off to the vicarage, where I asked
him to remain with his sister until I came over for
them. I said nothing to him of what was going
to happen, but I think he guessed that I had dis-
covered something in Miss Manning's favour.
The Duke of Saxonstowe was out when I reached
the house ; he had motored to some adjacent town
on business. But Lady Louisa was at home, and
I asked to see her, and in due course was ushered
into her sanctum. I do not think she was particu-
larly pleased to know that I had returned, or to be
asked for; ladies of her temperament are always
doubtful of people who live by their brains-or,
as they term it, wits.
Oh, I had no idea that you would return so
soon!” she said. “ The duke is away for the
afternoon.'
“So I have recently been informed," I replied.
But I did not wish to see his Grace--at least, not
just now. I returned specially from town to see you,
Lady Louisa.'
Lady Louisa's colour rose; she looked at me
speculatively, perhaps a little haughtily. After
all, she was still regarding me as no more than a
superior sort of detective officer.


182
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
(
“ Oh !” she said. But--really, I don't know
why you want to see me, Mr.--er-Campenhaye.”
“No," I said. 'Well, you see, Lady Louisa,
I am one of those men who deal in strange reasons
for their doings. I wanted to see you in reference to
the amulet which you and the duke spoke of last
night—the amulet which you recently lost."
“ You don't mean to say you have found it !” she
exclaimed.
“The amulet is a very small opal, set in curious
old gold work,” I said, watching her narrowly.
“Yes, yes!” she said.
“ I have found it, Lady Louisa," I said.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. How clever of you !
But where ?-I suppose somewhere in the house or
about the grounds. I always feared that I should
lose it from that chain.”
I am afraid that it was a desire to impress her,
and to introduce a little theatrical effect that made
me walk across to the door, open it a little way,
glance outside, close it carefully, and then address
her in low tones.
" Lady Louisa," I said gravely, “ I went specially
to town last night to examine the cardboard box
in which Mrs. Duquesne's opal ring was forwarded
to Mr. Arthur Manning. The box had been thrown


MRS. DUQUESNE.
183
away,
but it had never been touched. The cotton-
wool wrapping was in it. And here is the identical
cotton-wool, and attached to it is—your once lost
amulet.”
The blow came so unexpectedly, so suddenly,
that it might have been a physical one. Lady
Louisa gasped, fell back; her blanched face pro-
claimed her agitation and her guilt. She stared at
me as if I were something possessed of the power of
seeing through stone.
Now, Lady Louisa,” said I, “the thing is very
plain. When you worked out, and carried out this
wicked plot, this amulet, unnoticed by you, slipped
amongst the folds of the cotton wool, and you,
all unsuspectingly, packed it up with the ring.
Am I right in believing you guilty ? Ah ! of course,
Lady Louisa, I am an extremely inquisitive man-
why did you do this ? "
She glared angrily at me for a moment, but she
knew that I had the whip-hand, and at last she
answered my straightforward question.
“ I didn't want the duke to marry the Manning
girl," she muttered. “I wanted him to marry
one of my own girls-his cousins. And I knew
that Helena Duquesne would make a row—she
hates Stella Manning! And so—"


184
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
"I quite understand," I said, and bowed myself
out of the room.
When I left Saxonstowe Park next day the Duke
of Saxonstowe and Stella Manning were engaged
to be married, and I had an invitation to the wed-
ding. I did not think much about that just then ;
I had to see Mrs. Duquesne. And when I found
myself alone with her, I went straight to the point.
“Mrs. Duquesne," I said, “I have come to ask
your pardon. I accused you yesterday of being the
author of what we will call the ring mystery. I
have discovered that you are absolutely and entirely
innocent. I humbly beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Duquesne eyed me keenly.
“Of course, you know who did it?" she remarked
coolly.
“Oh, of course I do!" said I.
"Not Stella Manning ? ” she said.
“Most certainly not Miss Manning," I replied.
Then, after an interval of silence, I added softly :
"Miss Manning is to be married to the Duke of
Saxonstowe very shortly."
Mrs. Duquesne turned away from me and picked
up her fancy-work.
“Good-day!” she said.
“ You can find your
I found it.
way out."


CHAPTER VII.
THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
THAT
HAT the most desperate adventures of our
lives are those into which we are plunged
without warning is, I fancy, the belief of all
men in whose careers adventure has played a con-
siderable part. There are times when a man is
prepared for adventure of the supremely dangerous
sort, and as often as not those times yield nothing
very exciting; there are others when he is expecting
nothing but the ordinary, and suddenly finds him-
self confronted by a situation that will try his
nerve to the last degree of endurance. Certainly,
the most desperate situation I ever found myself
in, during my career as a specialist in criminology,
was forced upon me as suddenly as a lightning
flash breaks out of a summer sky. At one moment
I was wrapped in a confident security, the next I was
facing death.
It was in the late summer of 19- that I had
185


186
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
occasion to travel down to the North of England
in connection with a certain notorious blackmailing
case. My business obliged me to remain overnight
in a small seaside resort, Greyscale, the one place
of any size (and it was no more than a village) on
Wearcombe Bay, an inlet of the Irish Sea, which
has a reputation for its sudden and violent storms.
The season at Greyscale was over ; it had been a
particularly wet and unfriendly summer, and in
the little hotel to which I betook myself there was
no other guest. And as it was barely five o'clock
when I arrived within its doors, I decided, rather than
wait for dinner, to have an old-fashioned, north-
country high tea, and afterwards, the September
evening then promising to turn out finely, to explore
the neighbourhood as well as I could while the
light lasted. Over an excellent cold ham I asked
the waiter what there was of special interest in the
vicinity. He shrugged his shoulders.
“No old ruins-castles, churches, eh?” I asked.
Nothing nearer than Burton Abbey, and that's
twenty miles off, sir,” he answered. "No, sir,
there's nothing to see here; and nothing to do,
either,” he added with another shrug.
“What do the people do who come here, then ? ”
I asked.


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD. 187
There are only two sorts do come here, sir,”
he answered. “One's invalids and the other's
children. The children play on the beach, and the
invalids go driving to the Head.”
“ The Head ? What's that?” I enquired.
He turned, pointing out of the coffee-room
window to where a great, black, frowning promon-
tory jutted out into the sea at the northern arm of
the bay. It was shaped like a whale, and there was
something in its appearance that was sinister and
forbidding. It looked strangely mysterious.
“Hardress Head, sir," said the waiter. Parties
is very fond of driving up there. Splendid views
from the top, sir. They do say as how you can
see the Welsh mountains from there. I ain't never
seen them myself, but I've seen the Isle of Man."
There was a solitary fly standing in front of the
hotel when I went out, and I got into it and told
its driver to take me up to the Head. The road
lay along the northern shore of the bay, and at first
was flanked by the usual rows of seaside houses and
villas. But before we had gone a mile it became
solitary enough, and I begun to realise that before
Greyscale had sprung into existence, Wearcombe
Bay, on that side, at any rate, must have been a
veritable wilderness.


188
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Now and then we passed a fisherman's cottage ;
then we came to a wide-spreading marsh, at the
foot of the promontory, on which there was not
even a hut to be seen; the promontory itself, seen
at close quarters, looked wilder, gloomier, more sinis-
ter than ever. I have, however, a strong liking
for the wild, and I began to be fascinated by this vast
mass of earth-clad rock, which lay between land
and sea like some mighty survival of the long-
dead ages, silently watching for its prey.
There was a winding road up the promontory
at the end of the houseless marsh, and at its foot
my driver dismounted, and began the ascent, walk-
ing at the side of his horse. The horse was a poor,
nearly worn-out animal; I soon recognised that I
could walk thirty miles while it staggered up ten.
And so I sprang out of the ramshackle conveyance,
told the man I would walk, and drew out some
loose silver wherewith to pay him.
He looked at
me in some surprise.
"Don't you want me to come up to the top and
wait, sir ?” he asked.
“No, thank you," I answered. “ I shall walk back.
I want a walk."
He stared at me again, and then looked up at
the sky


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
189
• This is a queer part of the world for storms,
sir,” he said. “ I'm thinking there may be one
to-night. And it'll be dark soon, and the Head's a
wild, queer place. You'd better let me wait."
Now, the evening was as fair as an evening in
the first week of September well could be, and I saw
no sign of any storm. And so I dropped some silver
into his hand and moved off.
“ All right, my man,” I said. “I don't want
you any more. I shall walk back."
And I strode away up the winding road, and at the
next turn saw the decrepit horse picking its slow
way down to the marshland and Greyscale. I
was glad then to be free of it and its driver, but
I was very soon on the summit of the Head, and
at once rewarded for my journey. On that summit,
the resemblance to a whale was more striking than
ever. It was a long, whale-backed expanse of
wiry turf, with here and there a patch of purple
heather and a cluster of grey, rain-worn rocks;
here and there, too, I saw sheep of the mountain
sort, thin and shy; in one place was a cairn of
stones. But of any sign of human life or habitation
there was nothing. And of that I was glad. What
I wanted was the wildness, the solitude of it all;
and I had it in plenty. All around lay the sea


190
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
north and south I could make out where lay the
little towns along the coast; north-west I saw the
range of the Lake mountains ; south-east, the long,
rounded outlines of the Penine Range. And, in
front, over a belt of shining gold, the sun was sinking
in the distance in which lay Ireland and the Atlantic.
I remained rambling about the Head for a long
time after the sun was set. I wandered along the
edges on both sides, and found that they were pre-
cipitous, going down by sheer straight falls of
cliff to the sea-lapped beach below. But a road,
fairly well made, and in good repair, ran straight
across the turf and the heather to the extreme
point; and after a time I followed it, desirous of
seeing all that I could before the daylight went.
And when I came to the end of this road I found that
the Head was not, after all, without human habi-
tation.
Instead of dropping to the sea precipitously, the
western extremity of the great promontory shelved
gradually downwards, and in a crescent-shaped cove
just beneath the point to which I had come I saw
a house of grey stone, standing with grey stone
walls upon a plateau of green lawn. It was a square-
built house; and when I looked more closely at it
I was struck by the fact that its occupants had made


192
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
arm, and without hesitation I dashed open the gate
of the house, and ran helter-skelter towards the
only shelter I could think of. I had come to the
conclusion, in looking at it, that the house was
empty; for there was no sign of smoke issuing
from the chimneys and no glimmer of light in the
windows. But I had noticed that over the front
door there was a portico, and for this I made and was
thankful to reach it. Already the light overcoat
which I had hastily slipped on was soaked through.
The storm hurtled and screamed around that
portico with a force and fury that was truly hellish.
I stood partly protected, at any rate, and looked
out upon the sea, which was now lashed and beaten
into a rage as fierce as that of the wind above it.
I should scarcely had thought that a man could have
made himself heard by shouting in that pandemo-
nium, but suddenly I heard a soft, silky voice at
my very ear :
“Will you be pleased to walk in and shelter, sir ? "
I turned as if I had been shot, and found myself
confronting a gigantic, full-blooded negro, clothed
in immaculate evening dress.
I was so much astonished, so utterly taken aback,
at the sight of this unexpected figure that I seemed
to lose all power of speech, and for a moment could


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD. 193
only stand stupidly staring at the man. He smiled,
showing a set of magnificent teeth, and bent down
to me from his great height.
“My mistress says, will you walk in and shelter,
sir ?” he repeated. “This storm is likely to con-
tinue some time, sir."
Then my wits came back to me.
This was
evidently the butler.
“Oh, thank you !” I said, stepping within the
door which he held open. " It is very kind of your
mistress."
The negro bowed and smiled again, and, closing
the outer door, led me across the hall to another,
which he opened with another bow.
“ Please to be seated, sir,” he said.
If you will
allow me, I will dry your overcoat, sir.”
I gave him the coat and entered the room. It
was a small, snugly-furnished apartment, evidently
a breakfast-parlour, and from the window there
was a view of the bay which I had not seen from
the Head But the storm was now at its height,
and everything outside was a tempest of black-
I turned from the window to the cheery fire
which burnt in the open grate. It struck me as
being strange that within this house, which had
looked so cold and desolate from without, there
N
ness.


194
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
should be warmth and human life, and I wondered
who the black man's mistress was that she should
elect to live in such a lonely and deserted spot.
And, while I was wondering, I heard the door
quietly opened, and I turned from warming my
chilled hands to see a lady enter the room, and
advance towards me with a stately bow. And as
soon as I saw her, I had a curious but quite vague
impression that somewhere, a long time ago, I had
seen her before.
She was a woman of nearly middle-age, and in her
time she had been very beautiful ; and she was still
very handsome in a regal and commanding fashion.
There were streaks of grey in her dark hair, and many
lines of bygone passions and emotions on her cheek
and brow, but she was a woman to look at and to
wonder about, and the flash of her eye was as keen
as that of a hawk's.
She smiled very graciously as she entered the room,
but I had an instinctive feeling that she could
look lightnings if her mood inclined her, and that
she was of an imperious temper. And once more
I found myself wondering if I had ever seen her
before, and, if so, where.
“I am afraid you are fairly caught in one of our
famous storms," she said pleasantly, as she stopped


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
195
half-way across the room, and, resting one shapely
hand on the table, looked at me with a curiously
steady and penetrating glance. “They come on
very suddenly."
"So I perceive," I answered. “I was warned,
but foolishly gave no heed to the warning. It is
very kind of you to give me shelter," I continued.
“I ran for your porch, believing the house to be
empty.”
She nodded and, turning to the window, drew
aside the curtain and looked out on the storm-
tossed bay.
“No," she said, “ this house is never empty,
though I daresay it looks so from the outside. I
suppose you were exploring the Head ? "
“I had been walking about it," I replied. “I am
obliged to remain overnight in Greyscale, and as
there was nothing to see there I set out for-this.”
“And this will last for some time," she said.
“We who live around the bay know these storms.
Some of them are over very quickly ; some last for
hours. This is one of the lasting sort. They are
always worst, and longest, when they come on with
such startling suddeness. So," she continued,
turning from the window, you are a prisoner,
for, at any rate, an hour or two; and as I was just


196
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
about to dine, may I offer you some dinner to while
away the time?"
This was said with such ready and genuine
hospitality that I could only bow as ready an
acceptance.
“You are most kind," I replied. “I-I really
believe that I am hungry."
She smiled and moved to the door, which she
had left open.
"I will send for you in a few minutes," she said,
and sailed out.
Left alone, I again looked around the room.
This was certainly an adventure-to be caught in
a storm on a lonely and wild headland of the Irish
Sea, to find a comfortable house and a hostess of
gracious and distinguished manners, and to be asked
to dine. But any man who has led the strange life
that I have led is always ready for surprises, and I
congratulated myself that I was within four walls,
warm and dry, instead of huddling under some rock,
half-starved to death, or trudging across that
storm-swept promontory soaked to the skin.
Within a few minutes the negro appeared and
conducted me to another room, wherein was a table
laid for two. It was a small, cosy room, furnished
with a sort of simple luxury, and there was no light in


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD. 197
it but the shaded candles on the dinner-table. I
had a general impression of pictures and books and
old china as I took my seat opposite my hostess
near the cheery hearth; I had a clearer one of spot-
less linen, shining silver, and delicate glassware.
And in that room there was nothing to be heard of
the storm that raged without.
There were three things that I remember to this
day about that dinner, to which I had been invited
so unexpectedly. First, that, though simple, it was
exquisitely, perfectly cooked. Second, that it was
served swiftly, silently, by the giant negro, who
was the deftest hand at his work that I have ever
encountered. And third, that my hostess proved
herself a most agreeable and fascinating one, a
ready and clever conversationalist on all the topics
of the day, showing herself thoroughly conversant
with the more important social and political questions
which were then to the front. But as we were
sipping some coffee, which was equal to anything
I have ever tasted in the Near East, she gave me
a surprise. We were speaking of some event that
had recently happened in London, and I asked her
if she had witnessed it. She flashed a quick look, ,
accompanied by a strange smile, across the table.
“I have not been in London for ten years," she


198
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
said. 'Indeed, with the exception of my going
about in my yacht in the bay there, and in the
Channel, I have never been off this Head for ten
years. All my knowledge of the outside world is
got from newspapers—or by hearsay.”
I scarcely knew what reply to make to this. I
daresay my glance at her smartly-gowned figure
showed my surprise. She laughed softly and looked
across the room. The negro, who in spite of his
enormous bulk, moved about with the lightness of
a fairy, came forward with a decanter.
Still,” she said, “we are not quite out of the
world. I can always ask a guest to eat good food
and drink good wine. I have been out of things
so much, though, that I scarcely know whether
gentlemen still drink port after dinner. If they do,
let me ask you to drink my health in some that
my grandfather laid down in 1842. I have had
a bottle decanted in your honour."
I bowed my acknowledgments; the negro filled
my glass. He was passing round the table to his
mistress, when she suddenly stopped him.
“I have no port glass,” she said quietly, looking
down at her cover.
The man turned to the sideboard, which was hidden
in the shadows at the side of the room, and I heard


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
199
I knew,
a tinkle of glass. He came back and helped my
hostess to wine out of what looked to be the same
decanter from which he had served me.
when too late, that in that moment, so cleverly
contrived, he had changed the decanters, and that
what he gave her, was not what he had given me.
She took her glass by its slender stem, delicately
poised it in her slim fingers, and bent to me graciously
across the table, the rosy glow from the shaded
candles gleaming on the purple of the wine.
To your health, my guest!” she said.
I entered into her mood.
“ To your health, my hostess !” I answered.
“No heel-taps !” said she.
“No heel-taps !” said I.
She raised her glass with a daring smile and
drained it. I followed her example.
It was the last thing that I remember except
that I have some vague and misty recollection of
hearing a woman's mocking laughter as I slipped
away into a sea of black, surging waters that drew
me down into their very depths.
I do not know how long it was before I regained
consciousness. Slowly, as a man wakes from the
more stupefying forms of sleep, I woke and stirred
and looked around me; and, although I was only


200
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
partially conscious, my brain reeled at what I saw,
and I closed my eyes, again sick with fear. But
within the moment, my will had asserted itself,
and I opened them again, and looked steadily at my
surroundings.
I found myself lying on a sort of truckle or camp
bed, in a room which was more like a cell in a prison
than an apartment in a private house. The walls
were of cement; the window was of dull glass and
heavily barred, only one half of it was above ground
level. In one corner of the place there was a wash-
stand; close by it was a plain, wooden stool. On
a shelf were two or three simple drinking utensils;
ranged alongside them were a Bible and some
commonplace works of fiction. Whether this was
a prison cell or not, it was plain that it either was,
or was meant to resemble, one, and under any
other circumstances I should have smiled at the
resemblance. I could almost smell the prison
atmosphere.
But I myself? I was clad in an old, much-worn
suit of yellow tweed, a knickerbocker suit, finished
off with rough stockings. My own underclothing
and all linen had disappeared ; beneath the old suit
was nothing but a coarse shirt of grey flannel. And
I was in chains !


202
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
together. And I know what I had to deal with,
and I recognised that my chances of getting out of
that house alive were very small. In fact, I gave
myself up for lost. And yet, in that moment, my
will reasserted itself, and I felt no fear but rather
a desire to deal with the situation as if I still had
an equal chance in its possibilities.
" You know me?” said the man.
I nodded my head carelessly.
“I know you. The last time I saw you was in the
dock at the Old Bailey,” I replied.
“Where you had brought me, after tracking me
down mercilessly,” he said, with a flash of his eye
that boded no good to me.
“I did my duty,” I said. And I should do it
again."
“What duty was it of yours ? ” he asked fiercely.
You were not of the police. You took it up as
what you call yourself—an expert in criminology,
and you hunted me like vermin until you had
trapped me."
“ It was at the request of the family of one of your
victims, as you are aware," I answered, “and you
richly deserved the ten years' penal servitude you
got, Mr. Vansittart, or Captain Molyneux, or
whatever you now call yourself.”


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
203
And you
He came nearer, and for a moment I thought he
was going to strike me.
Anyway, we have trapped you,” he said sullenly.
“I little thought when I happened to catch sight of
you in Greyscale this afternoon that we should have
the pleasure of entertaining you. But there you are.
You don't know how rejoiced my wife and I were
when we saw you approaching this house.
see how, while she played hostess, I made your
apartment ready!”
“Don't be a fool, man!” I said. " You know
as well as I do that you can't keep me here. There
will be a search-
They both laughed scornfully.
“ You fell over the rocks during the storm,"
said the man. You will never be seen again.
That's literally true, Campenhaye.”
So you mean to murder me?” I said.
“ We mean to give you a taste of what you gave
me," he answered.
“You shall have practical
knowledge of imprisonment. When we are tired
of you-well, then, probably, we shall put you out
of the way very quietly."
'You are bringing more trouble on yourself,"
I said. " This will be found out!"
It will not be found out,” he replied with quiet


204
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
assurance. There are three of us in this house-
my wife, myself, and our devoted servant. We shall
say, if we are asked about you, that we saw you
blown over the cliffs, and we shall be believed.
We are much respected here as a quiet couple,
living a retired life and having no interest in any-
thing but ourselves, our books, and our yacht. None
will doubt our word. You are dead, Campenhaye.
This room is sound-proof, and you are as far from
civilisation and man as if you were in one of the old
oubliettes of the Bastille. You will have a lot
of time to reflect upon what you have brought
me to.”
I looked steadily at the two of them. There was
no pity in either face, especially in the woman's.
And I remembered, then, how on the trial of the
man on a particularly infamous charge—made all the
worse because of his social position-she had sat at
the Old Bailey watching me with hatred in her face.
No; I should find no mercy, now that I had fallen
by mere chance into their hands. But I was not
going to show the white feather.
"We shall see," I said.
Then they went away and left me to silence.
Into that place there never came even the sound of
the sea beneath the cliffs, nor the crying of the


THE HOUSE ON HARDRESS HEAD.
207
They added to the torture of my confinement by
enforcing idleness upon me. The negro brought
.my food, which was carefully contrived to resemble
prison fare. At first I tried to talk with him,
hoping that I might eventually bribe him. But he
was stolid and forbidding ; it was plain that he was
in truth a devoted servant, and therefore hated
me. And once, when almost driven desperate, I
offered him a thousand pounds to effect my release,
he struck me heavily over the mouth. And after
that I never spoke to him again. Indeed, I began
to take refuge in silence. The man and woman
came every day to gloat over me; eventually I
took no heed of them.
“Don't sulk, Campenhaye,” said the man one
morning, “that's the way towards madness. I
nearly went mad that way when you put me away.
Don't you try it : be cheerful. Perhaps we shall
kill you very soon. But not to-day-to-day we're
going out in the yacht. It will be delightful out on
the open sea, to think of you fastened up here with
your skilly and your thoughts and your conscience.
Don't you wish you'd never tracked me down,
Campenhaye ?”
There came a morning when no one came near
me.
I have already said that my prison was as


208
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
silent as a grave; all that day I never heard a
sound. Night came and I was still left alone ;
for twenty-four hours I had not touched food.
And the next morning came, and after it came noon
and then night, and my gaolers still made no appear-
ance. I began then to suspect that they were going
to starve me to death; and I think I went mad
at the thought, and tried to break my chains.
But that night went by, and another morning
came and the pains of starvation were beginning
to get acute.
I got the idea, then, that they were watching
my agonies through the spy-hole in the door, and
I suppose I lost all self-control, for I burst into
shoutings and denunciations. I must have lost
consciousness after that, for I suddenly came to
myself to find two men bending over me, while a
third was busied with my fetters. In one of them
I recognised the police superintendent at Greyscale,
with whom my business had been when I came down
there. Horror-stricken enough he and the others
looked. And one of them put brandy to my lips.
“Why, Mr. Campenhaye, how on earth came
you here ? ” asked the police superintendent. “We
thought you were all drowned !”
"I was trapped," I answered, when I could


CHAPTER VIII.
THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
IT
was a somewhat dull and featureless afternoon
in October that my clerk, Killingley, an
individual who had the rare faculty of never
wasting words, though he was naturally inclined
to volubility, came into my private office with a
small armful of the early editions of the evening
newspapers, all folded and heavily marked with
blue pencil, and laying them on my desk, put a
forefinger on the topmost blue mark, and retired
without a word. I knew that Killingley never
wasted my time; I accordingly picked up what
he had brought me and began to read. In this way,
and within the space of the next half-hour, I made
myself acquainted with what I will call the surface
facts—the plain, obvious features, of the affair
which centred around a bottle of dry champagne.
For some time previous to this October which
I have just mentioned (to be quite precise, for a
210


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
211
>
period of three years), there had resided in a flat
in the best part of Shaftesbury Avenue, a gentleman
who was known to the agents, the caretaker, and to
the tradesfolk as Mr. Charles Becker. He was a man
of apparently thirty-five years of age; a tall,
tall, well-
built, good-looking man; a little inclined to stout-
ness, as if from love of good living ; a man of ready
and pleasant manner, well liked by all with whom
he came in contact. The various rooms of his
flat-a much more commodious one than is usually
required by a bachelor-were furnished with a
comfort which was closely akin to luxury; he
possessed fine pictures, quantities of books, and a
miniature grand piano. But from all that was seen
of him by his neighbours it would appear that Mr.
Becker had luxurious tastes; he was invariably
well and carefully dressed in the height of fashion ;
he was known to possess a rare discernment in
the matter of food and wine and tobacco. And
during the three years of his residence in Shaftesbury
Avenue, all who met him considered him to be a
man of considerable means.
According to such information as the newspaper
people had been able to obtain, with a view to
elucidating the mystery which had led them to
publish special editions, nobody knew anything of


212
PAUL, CAMPENHAYE.
Mr. Becker's business or profession. He appeared to
be absolute master of his own time, but it was also
believed that he went into the city every day, if ly
for an hour or two. He was a member of two
West-End clubs of semi-Bohemian nature, but
nobody knew much of him at either of them, except
that he was a pleasant, good-natured, rather quiet
clubmate. In short, up to the time of the publica-
tion of the special edition to which I have just
referred, Mr. Becker's history was of the negative
order--a little was known of it.
Now, why did the newspapers publish special
editions in relation to this Mr. Charles Becker, of
No. - Shaftesbury Avenue, on this particular day
of October, 191-? For a simple reason. At
eight o'clock this morning Mr. Becker was found
lying dead on the floor of his sitting-room. What was
more, it was very evident that he had been murdered.
There was no great amount of mystery about the
obvious facts of Mr. Becker's murder. According
to custom, William Felton, a man who acted as
valet and servant to Mr. Becker, but who slept
away from the premises, entered his employer's
flat at eight o'clock that morning, and was at once
surprised to see that the electric light was turned
full on in the sitting-room, the door of which stood


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
213
wide open. Walking within this apartment, Felton
was horrified to see Mr. Becker lying in a crumpled-
up attitude on the floor between the centre table
and the sideboard. A single glance, a mere bending
over the body, showed him that life was extinct;
he immediately summoned the police, and fetched
a doctor from a neighbouring flat.
Now, very fortunately, one of the police first on
the scene was a man who had the excellent gift of
close observation, and knew to a certain extent
the meaning and significance of what he saw; he
was, moreover, able to tell the newspaper people
what he saw. And what he saw was this: The
apartment was furnished after the conventional
fashion of an ordinary dining-room. There were
easy-chairs, occasional chairs, a sofa, side-tables,
small odds and ends of furniture. Upon one of
the chairs lay the dead man's cloak, hat, gloves.
There were no signs of any scuffle or disturbance;
all seemed in order. Upon the centre-table stood
a box of cigars with the lid thrown back; near it
was an ashtray in which lay a cigar which had
evidently been lighted only a little time before being
placed there; the ash on it was about half an inch
long. Also, upon the table stood a full-sized bottle
of champagne of a well-known brand, uncorked.


214
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
There was no doubt as to the immediate circum-
stances of Mr. Becker's death. The body lay
between the centre table and the sideboard. One
door of the cellaret in the sideboard was open; it
was evident that the dead man was taking two
champagne glasses from it when he was struck
down; one glass, indeed, he had taken, and it lay
broken underneath his body. Also, underneath his
body was a cigar-crushed, of course. But it, like
the cigar on the table, had been smoked to the
extent of about half an inch.
So much for the things on the surface, the obvious
things, some of which, however, many people, per-
haps most people, would not have seen. But how
was Mr. Becker killed ? That question was speedily
settled by the doctors—the doctor whom Felton had
fetched in, and a surgeon who came with the police.
He had been killed by a heavy blow on the back
of the head, which had fractured the skull in a
fashion that would cause instantaneous unconscious-
ness and produce death within a very short time.
And without doubt he had been struck as he bent
down to the cellaret to take out the champagne
glasses, or, rather, just when he had withdrawn
one of them. He had pitched forward on to his
knees, losing his cigar, smashing the glass, and had


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
217
just mastered them, after reading all the newspapers,
when Killingley entered in his usual quiet fashion,
and advanced to my side.
“M. Gourgand wishes to see you, sir,” he said.
“He says you know him."
I threw all the newspapers into a wastepaper
basket as I nodded assent. I had a premonition
that I was going to hear something about the
Becker case at first hand.
Bring him in, Killingley," I answered.
There walked into my private room, at Killingley's
invitation, a little Frenchman, one Monsieur Leon
Gourgand, whom I knew as the proprietor of a very
quiet and select restaurant, café, or private hotel,
where the cuisine was just about twice as good as
you find in much more pretentious establishments,
and who had a select clientèle of his own, no member
of which was
minded to advertise him. M.
Gourgand's establishment, in fact, was of a special
nature; there were few such left in London, and
those who know of them are not keen about making
their whereabouts known, lest fine cooking and
absolute retirement should be driven from the face
of the town. I was one of M. Gourgand's customers
-a fairly occasional one; I had, moreover, once
acted for him in a very difficult and delicate case-


220
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Let us approach it, then,” I suggested,
Monsieur Gourgand waved his cigarette.
“ I saw Becker last night,” he said. “It says
there in this paper that he was at the Discletion
Club last night until nearly eleven. Very good.
It was a little before eight that he came to
me and took me aside. "Gourgand,' says he, ‘I
have important affairs to transact with a friend,
a lady, to-night; I wish to entertain her to a little
supper in a private apartment. I suggest your
little cabinet on the first floor. And,' he continued,
' you can give me the key of your side door ; it is
an affair of the greatest secrecy, Gourgand, and the
lady wishes not to be seen.
I desire that the supper
be ready laid, and all in order, when we arrive at
eleven o'clock-there will be no need for attendance. I
rely on your discretion, my friend, Gourgand,' he says.
And so, of course, Monsieur Campenhaye-
Monsieur Gourgand concluded with an expressive
gesture of his hands.
“And so, of course, you humoured him?" I
said.
“He was an excellent customer, and free-handed
with his money," replied Monsieur Gourgand.
“Well, then, we settled the details of the little
supper, which was to be simple, but of a rare delicacy.


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
221
It was to be placed on the table at precisely eleven
o'clock; Mr. Becker and his friend were to enter
at one minute past that hour to enjoy complete
privacy. And for the wine, Monsieur Campenhaye,
there were to be a white wine and red-of the
very best-and a bottle of —”,
Monsieur Gourgand paused and tapped the news-
paper. His eyes flashed.
A bottle of dry champagne of this rare vintage
specified here, monsieur-here!” he said, with
emphasis. “ It is this very bottle, mentioned here
in the newspaper as having been found on Becker's
table, that I placed in my little cabinet for him
last night-I swear it! Yes, monsieur !"
“ One bottle of a particular brand of champagne
is very much like another bottle, Monsieur Gour-
gand," I remarked.
“ Listen, then, monsieur! Mr. Becker concluded
his arrangements. I prepare the little cabinet
myself. . I lay the table ; at the precise hour I
serve the little supper and make myself invisible.
But I am not so far away that I do not know what
is going on. Mr. Becker returns to the promised
moment; he and his companion enter the room ;
I catch a brief glimpse of them as they do so.”
“ You saw the lady, then ? ” I asked.


222
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“I saw a lady, heavily veiled, who appeared
to be young, graceful,” replied Monsieur Gourgand
conscientiously. “More I did not see. But now!
They remain in the little cabinet scarcely more than
twenty minutes—then I hear them depart! I hear
the private door into the side street close ; I go to
where I can look out; I see Mr. Becker and his
companion walking away down the street. I
think it is strange, and I hurry to the little cabinet.
Figure to yourself, Monsieur Campenhaye, scarcely
have they eaten! There was a veritable creation
-a triumph !-in a chafing-dish-they had trified
with it-trifled, monsieur! And there was—but
no matter! And they had but tasted the white
wine—the red remained unopened. - But, monsieur,
the bottle of dry champagne had—vanished !”
"Ah!” said I.
Vanished, monsieur, disappeared, gone !” ex-
claimed Monsieur Gourgand. “Becker had taken
it with him. Now, Monsieur Campenhaye, do you
believe me that this bottle which the police found
on his table was that which I served up to him
last night, and which he carried off unopened ? '
'It certainly seems like it, Monsieur Gourgand,"
I answered. Let me see, now-how long would it
take for Becker to walk from your place to his flat?


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
223
“A few minutes—six, eight,” replied Monsieur
Gourgand.
'Then it would seem that this meeting was
adjourned from your private room to his," I said,
" and that he took the bottle of champagne away
with him, reflecting that he had none at home.
It would be an interesting thing to search his rooms
and see if that is so.”
Monsieur Gourgand nodded, then shrugged his
shoulders.
“ But that is not the point, monsieur,” he said.
“I have no wish to go to the police ; I dislike the
police in any country; they are officious ; they
ask questions; they poke long noses into every-
thing; they waste my time; so I come to you as
a man of discretion, a man who can, as I, Gourgand,
am well aware, since you acted for me before, who
can keep counsel. Let us approach the point,
Monsieur Campenhaye.”
“ I am waiting for the first prick of it, Monsieur
Gourgand," I responded.
My visitor thrust his hand into some mysterious
pocket and drew out an envelope. He held it up
as if it had been some holy relic; his face became
solemn.
“ Behold, then !” he said in deep tones.
" That


224
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
which is inside this "-here he broke the seal_“I
found in my little cabinet. A small matter, Monsieur
Campenhaye—a lady's handkerchief, of the most
delicate."
And he drew out of the envelope what looked-
and was-a mere scrap of unsubstantial lace.
A faint, scarcely perceptible odour of some unusual
scent clung about it, fragile, delicate as itself.
That, monsieur, crushed into a little ball, lay
beneath the table at the place where, presumably,
the lady had sat," continued Monsieur Gourgand.
“I placed it in my private desk, having then, of
course, no notion of what was about to happen
to Becker. But as soon as I heard of this affair in
Shaftesbury Avenue, I took it out and placed it
in this envelope, and I came to you. For it seems
to me, monsieur-
Speak out, Monsieur Gourgand," I said.
It seems to me that there may be a clue in it,"
he concluded. “It is a small thing, and yet-
He ended with an expressive shrug of his shoulders.
I made no answer to him just then; I was examining
with interest the little handkerchief.
And suddenly I forgot Monsieur Gourgand, and
the dead man Becker, and everything but one fact.
In a corner of the delicate thing which I was fingering


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
225
I saw and stared intently at a tiny bit of embroidery
which represented—a butterfly !
I repeat-I forgot Monsieur Gourgand. I even
forgot that I was sitting at my own desk, in my
own private room. The truth was I had a vision.
I was in a crowded theatre-one of those modern
variety theatres which have superseded the old-
fashioned music-halls. There was hushed excite-
ment, there was music that suggested a springtide
day amidst deep woods. And on the stage was a
dainty and delicate figure, sylph-like in its slimness,
elusive, a seeming creature of the artificial surround-
ings and suggested atmosphere, a mere girl, and
yet a dancer of European fame-La Papillon.
Poor Butterfly!
I came out of that vision with a sudden start,
and turned to my visitor.
“Monsieur Gourgand; you want my advice?
“That is why I came to you, Monsieur Campen-
haye. Of a surety-yes ! ”
“ Then keep your own counsel. Say nothing.
Leave this little article with me. Let all remem-
brance of last night and of Becker be buried very
deep in your breast until you see me. I shall call
on you—it may be before night.”
Monsieur Gourgand picked up his neatly folded
P


226
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
umbrella and his hat. He wagged a forefinger
before his lips.
“I am dumb, monsieur," he said. And as if to
emphasise the fact, he shook hands in silence and
went away. I rang the bell which summoned my
clerk, who was an invaluable person in many ways,
and possessed a very, very comfortable knowledge
of what was what and who was who in the great
world of London.
"Killingley,” I said, “you are always au fait
with all theatrical and musical matters. What is
the real name of the French dancer who has been
appearing at the Megathesium under the stage
name of La Papillon? You have seen her, of
course ? "
Killingley answered promptly.
“ Mademoiselle Odette de Contanges."
Odette de Contanges, of course. And no doubt,
you know, Killingley, where mademoiselle has
her habitation in London, where she can be
found, eh?"
Killingley rubbed his chin.
“She's had a suite at the Carlton," he answered.
But her engagement finished on Saturday night,
and I expect she's gone back to Paris. I haven't
heard of it, though.'


228
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
was leaving for Paris by the evening train, and was
very busy packing. Then I sent up a note : would
she give me but a few moments on urgent business ?
Down to me came a maid : no pert, flighty, young
person, but a Frenchwoman who was rapidly
approaching middle age, and whose black eyes took
stock of me in thorough fashion. She spread out
her hands, but spoke in excellent English.
“But it is impossible, sir !” she said. “ We leave
to-night-we are up to the eyes in packing-
mademoiselle can receive no one.”
“ You can at least hand your mistress a note ?”
I suggested. “I will write it."
“I will write it." And I sat down
and scribbled a few words on the back of one of
my professional cards, which I then fastened up
in an envelope. “Give that to mademoiselle and
say I wait," I said.
Five minutes later the maid showed me into a
big boudoir, and the presence of the dancer, whose
name was famous in half a dozen capitals. Seen
under these circumstances, stripped of all the
atmosphere and glamour of the stage, she looked
nothing more than a mere slip of a girl, and a
frightened, anxious, nervous girl at that. Her great
eyes, fixed upon me with a great apprehension as I
entered, had deep shadows under them; her pretty


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
229
face was worn and haggard; I knew after one
glance at her that little sleep had been hers since
the previous day. And as soon as I was sure that
the door was closed upon us (and I had noted with
satisfaction that it was a double one), I hastened
to speak reassuringly to her.
“Do not be afraid," I said, “I am here for your
own good.”
She looked steadily at me from behind the table
at which she stood. Then she inclined her head
and glanced at my card, which she had crumpled
up in her palm in a strenuous grasp.
“ You are a detective ? ” she said, in a hushed
voice.
“No!” I made haste to answer. “I am nothing
of the sort, mademoiselle. I am a specialist in
criminology. But sometimes matters come in my
way by accident. This has come in my way by
accident. Perhaps it is well for you that it has.
Let me explain. I take it that you have read of
the affair in Shaftesbury Avenue, mademoiselle ? "
It was mere idleness to ask her the question,
for there, opened on the table, was a copy of the
newspaper in which the fullest account of the
affair was given. Watching her closely, I saw
her eyelids quiver, and a ripple of something more
I


230
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
around the muscles of her mouth. Her throat rose
and fell; instead of answering my question, she
inclined her head.
Just so," I said. Mademoiselle, let us come
to business. Last night you supped with Mr.
Becker in a private room at the Café Gourgand.”
She started away from the table on which she
was leaning when I said that, and again the look
of fear and anxiety came into her eyes, accentuated.
I lifted a hand and lowered my voice.
Once more, mademoiselle, do not be afraid,"
I said. “Will you not sit down and listen to
me ? "
She stood staring at me for a full minute; then
she slid into an easy-chair and, clasping her hands
on her knees, looked at me as if she believed I
could read every thought in her mind.
“ You supped-or made pretence to sup—with
Becker in a private room at Gourgand's,” I con-
tinued, taking a chair opposite to her, and keeping
my voice at a level of little more than a whisper,
“and after remaining with him there twenty
minutes you went away with him. In fact,
mademoiselle "-here, of set purpose, I discharged
a bolt at a venture-“ in fact, you accompanied
him to his flat."
>>


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
231
I saw at once that I had been right in my surmise.
She was staring at me now as if fascinated; I
knew that I had stated a plain fact. And I made
haste to follow up the advantage.
“Now, mademoiselle, trust me! I am not a
detective; I have nothing to do with the police ;
I am what I told you I was. I believe there is some
mystery in this affair. I believe that you may have
come into danger through your association with it.
Trust me and I will help you. Tell me, straight
out, do you know who killed Becker ? "
She was twisting and intertwining her fingers
now, and her head dropped lower and lower over
them. Suddenly she spokea mere whisper :
“ Yes, monsieur, I know !”
“Then trust me further, mademoiselle, and tell
me! We are alone."
Just as suddenly as she had spoken, she looked up,
and I saw a quick flash of resolution in her eyes.
She faced me bravely.
“ It was I, monsieur. I killed him!” she said
quietly.
I heard myself gasp. This was an announcement
I had not anticipated ; it had never even been in my
thoughts. What had been in my thoughts was a
suspicion that she might possibly have been in


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
233
possessed of a few letters-only three in all-of
mine. For the past three years, since I have had so
much money, he had steadily blackmailed me on
the strength of his knowledge—Í have paid him
large sums. And recently he found out that on
the termination of my engagement I was going
home to be married.”
She seemed to be on the point of breaking down
then, but again came the flash of the eye which I
had noticed before, and she went steadily on :
“ Then he decided to make a grand, a final coup,
monsieur. He demanded a great sum for the three
letters, a sum which would practically absorb all
my profits on this engagement. It was shameful,
it was cruel ; yet he had me in his power, and I
negotiated with him. And eventually it
arranged that I should meet him last night near the
place you have just mentioned, and that we should
conclude matters. I met him; we went to the
private room to which you have referred. I did
not wish to eat or drink with him; he insisted,
and I made some show of trifling with the supper,
all the time entreating him to come to business.
Then, although I firmly believed him to be lying,
he said he had not the letters with him, that I
should have to accompany him to his flat to get them.
was


234
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I insisted then that we should go at once ; I would
brook no denial. He grumbled; I became the
more insistent. Then he put a bottle of champagne
which stood on the supper-table in the pocket of
his cloak and we left. On, monsieur, how did
you even find out that I had been there? For I
was so thickly veiled!”
“Never mind that just now," I answered. “Pray
continue.”
“Well, I accompanied him to his flat,” she said.
" He appeared ill at ease ; he fidgeted. He lighted
a cigar; he put it down; he forgot all about it;
he lighted another. Then he swore that before
we did any business, I should drink with him ;
we should pledge each other. He had set the
champagne on the table ; he knelt down to get
glasses out of his chiffonier ; but, as he was then
occupied, monsieur, as he was withdrawing a glass,
he made a cruel, a cynical, an insulting remark
about my-my approaching marriage. And before
I was aware of what I was doing, I snatched up
the bottle of champagne and crashed it down upon
his head, and he fell just as—as if he were dead!”
“ Ah!" I murmured, “ the bottle of champagne !
That's another thing I had not thought of. But
proceed, mademoiselle."


THE CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE.
235
“But he was not dead, Monsieur Campenhaye,
for he breathed," she continued. “And then I
saw my chance. And he had lied to me, for the three
letters were in the breast-pocket of his coat. I
took them; I left him where he was ; I hurried
away and came home here, and burnt the letters ;
and not until noon to-day did I hear that he was
dead. I did not mean to kill him. Monsieur
Campenhaye, what shall I do ?”
I remained silent for some time, thinking. I had
no doubt whatever that I had heard the truth.
And in my own heart I rejoiced that the world
was rid of at least one specimen of a particularly
verminous type. I rose at last and drew out the
tiny handkerchief with its embroidered butterfly,
and handed it over to Mademoiselle de Contanges.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “ continue your packing
-make your journey. Let what happened last
night be dead to you. Never speak of it to anyone,
not even your husband, unless you tell him, at
your discretion, in years to come. And rest assured
-you are safe.”
I said good-bye to her then, and repaired to
Monsieur Gourgand, who at once conducted me
into his private room. I slapped him on the
shoulder.


236
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“My friend Gourgand,” said I. “You are a
man of a great judgment and of a ripe wisdom.
Therefore, you will do exactly what I tell you to do,
will you not?”
“I have sufficient confidence in Monsieur Campen-
haye to do whatever he wishes,” he replied.
It is good, friend Gourgand," I said, slapping his
shoulder again. “So you will at once and for ever
forget that you ever served up a supper in your
private cabinet last night ; you will forget that you
found anything there; you will forget all that
you said to me this afternoon. You understand ?
In effect, you have forgotten already."
Monsieur Gourgand spread out his hands.
“ It is as monsieur says," he said solemnly. “I
have already forgotten. Oh, yes, then I remember
nothing !”
Wherefore it is that the police have never found
out who it was that killed Mr. Charles Becker.


CHAPTER IX.
THE SETTLING DAY.
IT
T seemed to me (perhaps because I was but
half-awake) that there was something pecu-
liarly 'sinister in the sudden
sudden ring of the
telephone bell which sounded at my bedside, sharply
and insistently, in the gloom of that December
morning. Incidentally, as I pulled myself up to
answer it, I glanced at the clock on my mantelpiece,
and noticed that it was already past nine. Then I
remembered that I had not got to bed until a long
way past midnight, and must have slept much
more soundly than I usually did. I felt a sense of
comfortable reflection in remembering that, so far
as I knew, I had nothing particular to do that
morning, and, for the moment, I yawned, and
stretched my arms.
The telephone bell rang again. I picked up the
receiver.
237


240
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
things, just as they really are, you know, before we
sent for the police.”
But—why ? ” I repeated.
Cotherstone gave me a queer look which, some-
how, seemed to take in the man who stood, silent,
watchful, still frightened-looking, near the door.
“Come and see for yourself,” answered Cother-
stone.
There was a door across the landing on which
appeared a single name painted in white letters
on the drab background--Mr. C. B. Taplin. Grimes
opened it with a key, which he had carried in his
hand; opened another behind it; led us through
an outer room into an inner one. There the wick
of a tall standard lamp was just flickering out ;
in what illumination it afforded, and in the pale,
fog-laden light which came in between hastily-
opened curtains, I saw the dead man.
You might have fancied from a first glance-
yes, and from a second !--that he was not dead,
but asleep. He sat in a comfortable easy-chair,
drawn up to the hearth, on which there still lingered
the last faint glow of a wood log; his attitude
was that of a man who had dropped into his favourite
seat, and unconsciously relapsed into a nap. At his
side, within convenient reach, stood a small table


THE SETTLING DAY.
243
Cotherstone muttered something to the man, who
thereupon left the room. I looked at Cotherstone;
it appeared to me that he seemed to be experiencing
some sense of dissatisfaction.
There's really nothing to do," I added.
Except that.”
Cotherstone walked towards the door. He hesi-
tated as he got near it, turned, and looked at the
dead man.
“I—I don't believe that was a natural death,"
he said. “He was a very sound and healthy man.
I think—all the same, there aren't any signs of any
foul play, are there, Campenhaye ? '
" I see none. But if you are so anxious about
the matter, get his cousin, the doctor, here. There
will, of course, have to be a post-mortem examina-
tion. Something may be learnt from that. He may,
for instance, have been poisoned. Nothing's been
touched in this room, I suppose ? ”
Nothing. Grimes came up here as usual before
nine, expecting to find Taplin in bed—that's his
bedroom there—and found-this. Then he rushed
to me, and I thought of you ; thought that you
might see something that the police wouldn't see.
You don't. Well—I'll telephone to Francis Taplin.”
I remained in the dead man's chambers with


244
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
Cotherstone until the police came, bringing with them
a police surgeon. They were shortly followed by
Dr. Taplin, who was evidently greatly surprised,
and immediately remarked that he should have
believed his cousin the last man in the world to be
liable to a sudden seizure, adding that he had seen
him in the Law Courts only the previous afternoon,
and that he then seemed to be in the best of health.
He and the police surgeon made a hasty examination
of the body and gave it as their opinion that death
had occurred some six or seven hours previously-
namely, about two or three o'clock in the morning.
And then the police, in their own way, began to take
note of the surroundings, carefully removing the
decanter of whisky, the syphon, and the contents of
the glass. And before removing the body, they
investigated the pockets of the garments, laying
out what they found there in order upon a centre
table. To this part of the proceedings I gave
particular attention; it seemed to me that from
them I might obtain some clue as to where the
dead man had passed the last evening of his life.
There was little that was out of the ordinary
in the various articles which were taken from the
clothing. A dress-watch of an old-fashioned type ;
a gold pencil-case; a gold-mounted cigar-cutter;


246
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
attention to my doings, I appropriated one of
each colour and dexterously slipped the three into
my pocket.
There was, of course, the usual coroner's inquest
in the matter of Charles Taplin's death. There were
no sensational facts brought forward. According
to the evidence of his cousin, of Cotherstone, of
Grimes, of one or two professional friends who knew
him, he was a man of very quiet and sober habits,
of regular life. There seemed to be no reason why
he himself should put an end to his life ; no reason
why anybody should wish to put an end to it.
Nevertheless, I soon saw that there was a suspicion
afoot that this was a case of either suicide or murder.
And the inquest was adjourned until certain patho-
logical experts could give the result of their thorough
investigation of the viscera.
My own impression was that Taplin had died a
natural death, and I said so to Cotherstone as we
came away from the coroner's court. But Cother-
stone shook his head.
“No," he said. “I believe there was foul play,
I do!"
“ And upon what do you found your belief,
Cotherstone ?" I asked, perhaps a little cynically.
“ I suppose you have some grounds,”


THE SETTLING DAY.
247
“None,” he answered. None. It's an-an
intuition.”
“ I'm afraid intuitions don't go for much in these
matters,” I said. “Come—where would your intui-
tion be if these experts tell you that there isn't
the slightest trace of poison in the organs they've
taken away?”
Cotherstone shook his head again.
“I don't care,” he replied. “It's my conviction
there was foul play. I felt, thought it from the
first. That was why I sent for you. And you
don't seem to find anything out of the common
in the affair.”
Now, in plain truth, I did find something out of
the common in the affair, but I was not going to
confess as much to Cotherstone—just then, at any
rate. Ever since I had appropriated them from
the little heap on the table of the dead man's room,
I had been asking myself what those little black, red,
and yellow discs of engraved brass were, and what
they were doing in Taplin's pocket in what you
might call some quantity. I had formulated several
theories about them : there was only one which
seemed to me to be good. I took these things to be
counters which were in use at some house where
cards were played a good deal—or at a gaming


252
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
'To a reasonable amount-yes.”
Tregarthen selected and lighted a second cigar,
and for a few moments smoked as if in deep thought.
Well, I know I can speak freely to you," he said.
“ This place, Campenhaye, is the most secret and
the most exclusive gambling hell in London,
perhaps in Europe. It is run, kept, whatever
you like to call it, by a man who is known to the
world—at least, to a small section of it—as a rich
and benevolent old gentleman who possesses a
marvellous collection of books and a fine gallery
of pictures. He is a character, that man-he has
Spanish, Moorish, and gipsy blood in him—and
his name--the one I know him by, at any rate-
is Mendoba.”
Continue," I said.
“ I can introduce you,” he went on slowly. “ You
will have to pay a hundred guineas entrance fee,
and everybody is expected to play. And play is
-high. It is very high. This is not an ordinary
gambling hell, and things are not done in an ordinary
way. Those counters, now. The yellow represents
five; the red ten; the black twenty-five pounds :
there are others of much higher value. I have
seen fifty thousand pounds lost--and won-in a
night there--yes, in an hour,"


254
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
66
“A racing night?” I said questioningly.
Never mind—you will find out what that
means," he answered. Again, by the by, don't
produce those counters there."
The counters are under lock and key,” I said.
And, when Tregarthen had left, I added to myself :
“ Until they are wanted.”
It was a certain street which lies between Park
Lane and Berkeley Square to which Tregarthen
conducted me just after eleven o'clock on the
following night. He walked round from our club
-the Odalium-in Piccadilly; he wanted, he said,
to give me some particulars of what I was to expect.
“I have already spoken of you to Mendoba,”
he said, as we strolled leisurely along (Tregarthen
was one of those men who insist on leisureliness
in everything). “So there will be no difficulty
about your admission. One thing Mendoba insists
upon-while his clients conceal their identity from
each other by masks and dominoes, he himself
must know each. Of course, he knew who and what
you are."
“And made no objection ?”
“ None. You can pursue your own path—he is
indifferent to what his clients do, so long as they
keep within his rules.”


THE SETTLING DAY.
255
“How does he know that I don't want to expose
him and his place ? ” I suggested.
“Because I gave him my word that you didn't,”
replied Tregarthen coolly. “In fact, as he is a man
to be trusted, I told him the truth. Don't start,
my dear fellow—Mendoba knows a thousand secrets,
And he keeps them.”
I had full confidence in Tregarthen, so I accepted
matters.
“ All right,” I said. Well, what are we going
to do? You said something about this being
a race night?
Yes. Sometimes trente-et-quarante is played ;
sometimes rouge-et-noir. But now and then-as
to-night-there is a form of petits chevaux, which
appears to have a particular fascination for the
I have gone thoroughly into it; as these
things go, it is a perfectly straight business. The
mechanical arrangements are highly ingenious ;
they are also above suspicion. I have convinced
myself—as you may, if you care to take the trouble-
that it is impossible to arrange for the success of any
particular horse of the twelve which run. Here the
element of pure chance is paramount.”
“You back a horse ?”
“You can do which you like. You can turn
women.


256
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
bookmaker, and give the odds. Or you can back
your fancy. Some people prefer one thing ; some
the other. And—remember this—all the ordinary
rules of a racecourse are followed. You can bet
for cash, or you can book your bets, and, as they
do on the real turf, settle up on the next Monday-
at Mendoba's, of course."
“They trust each other as far as that?”
All Mendoba's clients are people of means with
a very big M,” answered Tregarthen sententiously.
“He takes care of that. But-here we are. There
is nothing for you to do but follow me, for I paid
your entrance-fee this afternoon when I called on
Mendoba."
The house which we entered was one of those
modern palaces which have recently sprung up in this
quarter of the town, and the first glimpse of its
interior revealed the elegance which was in keeping
with the promise of the fine architecture without.
In the outer and inner halls there were several
men-servants, in a rich but sober-hued livery;
they bowed respectfully to my companion as he led
me through their ranks and up a wide staircase to
where a tall, elderly man, clad in immaculate evening
dress, and wearing the ribbon of some foreign order
across his breast, stood as if to receive visitors.


THE SETTLING DAY.
257
“Mendoba,” whispered Tregarthen.
I treated myself to a keen look at the keeper
of the gambling-hell, as we ascended the staircase,
and at once recognised him as a man whom I had
seen driving and riding in the park. He was of
commanding presence, dark-skinned, silver-haired
and bearded ; his keen eyes, prominent nose, and
pose of head and body denoted a man of power and
energy. He gave me a polite bow and smile, and
stretched out a hand which was extraordinarily
supple.
You wish to go in at once ? ” he said, addressing
Tregarthen. “Yes-I have given instructions."
He turned to me graciously. “I hope you will
amuse yourself,” he whispered with another smile.
Tregarthen led me along a narrow picture gallery,
heavily carpeted, dimly lighted. At its further end,
two men, muscular and hefty fellows, wearing the
livery which we had seen downstairs, stood near the
door. Their manner was all alert politeness, but I
felt that both gave me a searching inspection as
1 advanced under my companion's ægis. The
door opened; we stepped into another thickly-
carpeted corridor, in which the light was still more
subdued. And presently Tregarthen drew me aside
into an open doorway, switched on an electric light,
R


258
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
women.
and revealed a small dressing-room. On the wall
hung a number of black masks and of dominos-
the latter of black, red, yellow, green, and half
a dozen other colours.
"Make your choice, Campenhaye,” he said with
one of his sardonic laughs. “ Personally, I don't
believe overmuch in this masquerading business,
but it lends an air of mystery to the proceedings,
and pleases some of the customers, especially the
Got what you like ? ”
I selected a mask of black velvet and a black and
white domino ; certainly, these simple things made
a difference.
Come on, then,” said Tregarthen. Keep your
eyes open. But we're early.”
Traversing the rest of the corridor, we passed
through a heavy divided portière into a salon, all
the light in which was deftly thrown upon a long
oval table covered with green cloth and fitted up
like a racecourse, except that stands and paddocks
were absent. But there were starting posts and
winning-posts and number-boards, and the imaginary
furlongs and the “ distance" were marked off, and
there, drawn up at an imitation starting-gate, were
the horses, each with its jockey and its separate
colours. Tregarthen drew me aside as we entered.


260
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
of well-bred voices, from the occasional flashing
of diamonds on white necks and in dainty ears,
from the glitter of rings on slender fingers, I judged
that those who frequented Señor Mendoba's rooms
were folk of as elegant and luxurious tastes as their
present surroundings.
Tregarthen and I shared a pint bottle of champagne
at the buffet as a preliminary to our proceedings;
when we had finished it, the room had filled up;
by that time there must have been quite fifty
people present. And suddenly a silvery bell rang,
and everybody began to wake into activity. And
just as on a real racecourse, those who elected to
play the part of bookmakers began to invite custom
and to call the odds. Above the babel of voices one,
a merry, yet mocking, voice made itself insistent.
“ Come to the old firm, ladies and gentlemen !” it
shouted. “Don't forget the old firm in the Yellow
Hat, and Black Mask, and the Red Domino! Cash
or credit-credit or cash! Two to one on the field
-two to one on the fee-yuld !”
Amidst a cackle of laughter which this evoked,
I turned to look at the person from whom this
appeal, strikingly reminiscent of suburban race-
meeting, proceeded. Standing near the imitation
starting-gate was a man dressed in the fashion


THE SETTLING DAY.
261
" All I
indicated—a high, bell-shaped yellow hat,
a black
silk mask which concealed every feature of his face
save his eyes, the point of his nose, and his lips,
and a domino of brilliant red, which enveloped
him from neck to ankle. He waved an elegantly-
bound note-book, in one hand, a gold-mounted pencil
in the other, and from the way in which my fellow
masqueraders crowded about him, he seemed to
be a favourite.
Of course you don't know who that man is ? "
I asked of Tregarthen.
No more than you do,” he answered.
know is that he never tires of the game. You'd better
have a flutter with him. Pick your beast-every horse
carries its name printed across its jockey's shoulders.”
I gave a careless look at the twelve little horses
and saw one labelled Diabolo. I approached the
queer figure in the brilliant domino ; he had mounted
himself on a stool, and was just then booking a bet
with a lady whose velvet mask was topped by a
wealth of beautiful auburn hair, in which there was
a seductive shimmer of pearls. And, as he raised
his right hand to scribble in his little book, I saw
that he had lost nearly the whole of its index finger ;
it was gone from just beneath the main joint, and
the man wrote with his second digit and his thumb.


262
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
I drew back into the shade. Where had I seen
that maimed hand before ? For I had seen it, and
recently; I had particularly noted the seamed lines
where the flesh had been sewn across the stump.
But when—where? Then with a quick leaping
memory I got it. Francis Taplin, the doctor, Charles
Taplin's cousin ! I had stood by while he examined
the dead body in those quiet chambers in King's
Bench Walk, and had noticed that he had lost the
index finger of his right hand, and wondered how.
And I was sure that he and the Old Firm were one
and the same person, for the curious white seams
in the stump had fascinated me as his fingers moved
the dead man's clothing. The same person !
then, what
“ Aren't you going to have a flutter ?” asked
Tregarthen at my shoulder.
I approached the Old Firm.
“What price Diabolo ? " I enquired jocularly.
“Diabolo is two to one--to you, sir,” he replied
in the same spirit.
“Fifty, then," said I.
Cash or book, sir ?” he enquired.
“Book."
One hundred pounds to fifty, Diabolo,” he said,
opening his book. “What's your club number ? "


THE SETTLING DAY.
263
Tregarthen had presented me with a little silver
badge on which was engraved a letter and a number :
X 23 ; I mentioned letter and number to the Old
Firm, and he mentioned his own-S 21. We
scribbled the bet in our books, and I turned to the
mimic racecourse, round which everybody was con-
gregated. But I was not thinking of the horses; all
my thoughts were on that maimed hand behind me.
I do not know how the machinery of the little
horses was manipulated, but the starting of them
was scrupulously fair. Some of the ladies—any of
them who happened to be near the head of the table
--plunged their hands into a bag in which there
were a number of differently-coloured counters ;
she who drew out the black one then pressed a
button at the edge of the course and the small
steeds moved off. Round and round the white rails
they went, the fortunes of the race varying as in
the real thing, and the excitement growing with
each round. And Diabolo won by a length.
“Didn't I tell you I was a lucky man ? ” I said
to Tregarthen.
I backed a horse named Bingo for the next race,
doubling my stake. And Bingo, metaphorically,
cantered home. Tregarthen, who had lost on both
races, grinned.


THE SETTLING DAY.
265
But Diomede won-by a short head. And the
Old Firm laughed queerly, as I turned to him.
“ Witchcraft !” he said. “ Never mind-you'll
come a cropper, X 23, before the day dawns ! ”
I won't stop, as long as you'll give me the odds,”
I said, and I turned to examine the names of the
horses.
To cut a long story short, I was winning nearly
ten thousand pounds when the proceedings came to
an end. And when the Old Firm, Tregarthen and
I, with two or three more men, including Mendoba,
who had appeared during the night, went to the
buffet for a final drink, and I was being congratulated
and chaffed about my extraordinary luck, I made
the Old Firm a sporting offer. It was nothing less
than to throw a single cast of the dice for double
or quits. One of the masqueraders uttered an
involuntary exclamation-it was evident that he
thought me a fool. But in the eyes of the Old Firm
I saw a sudden gleam ; I also saw his lips tighten.
He was lifting a glass to his mouth, and he arrested its
progress as if his arm had suddenly become paralysed.
“One throw," I repeated. “And double or
quits.”
He raised the glass with an effort, and drained
its contents at a gulp.


268
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
something which caused instantaneous heart failure.
Call it stoppage, paralysis, collapse of the heart,
anything you like—that's what happened. Our
impression is that something was swallowed in his
first drink from the glass of whisky and soda which
stood by his side, almost unconsumed, as you will
remember."
“Well, weren't there any traces in what remained?"
“None. We analysed what was left in the glass,
in the decanter, and in the syphon by every test
we could think of. We found nothing. But we are
convinced that the man was poisoned, and that the
poison used was some subtle drug of which we in
this part of the world as yet know nothing
at all.”
“You think such poisons are existent ? ”
“Of course they are! Some of the Eastern nations
have knowledge of poisons to which we can't pretend.
So have—or had—the gipsies. So have some of the
savage tribes of Africa to which civilisation has
not yet penetrated. All we can do is to test for
poisons of which we're cognisant-we can't say or
do anything about a poison of which we're absolutely
ignorant."
" You'll tell all that at the adjourned inquest,
I suppose ? "


THE SETTLING DAY.
--
269
“Oh, of course! And a lot of people won't
believe us. But I'm dead sure of what I say—the
man was poisoned."
I went away, reckoning things up. This was
Saturday morning. The adjourned inquest was
fixed for Tuesday. And Monday was settling day
at Mendoba's, and the Old Firm—who was, I had
no doubt, Francis Taplin—was liable to me for
nearly twenty thousand pounds.
By this time I had formed a theory and conceived
a plan. And to carry out the plan I decided to
employ help in the shape of my clerk, Killingley,
whom I had good reason to consider one of the very
smartest and most reliable young men in London.
And after I consulted a medical directory and had
made from it a half-sheet of memoranda, I rang for
Killingley and gave him his instructions. They
were brief. From then until I issued further orders
he was to keep an eye on Dr. Taplin, no matter where
he went. He was to lay out whatever money he
liked ; to get what assistance he liked ; to do
anything he liked, but Dr. Taplin was never to be
out of his vision or reach.
When Killingley went out of my private room
I felt as if I had locked Dr. Taplin up in my private
safe. For I knew Killingley. He was a veritable


270
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
leech, a bulldog, a limpet; once let him get hold of
anything, and he would never let go.
I waited in Jermyn Street until Killingley rang
me up from a call-office in the neighbourhood of
Cavendish Square, and said, “All right-I've got
him," which meant, in plain English, that he had
made himself acquainted with Dr. Taplin's identity,
and then I went down to the Temple, and found
Cotherstone. To him I communicated the news
which I had received from my friend the medical
expert. Cotherstone sniffed—a habit of his which
indicated a certain supercilious contempt for other
people's mental abilities.
“Of course!” he said.
he said. “Didn't I tell
“Didn't I tell you from
the very first that there was foul play!”
“ Hang your high-and-mightiness !” said I with
a laugh. “Tell me two things, which are of much
more importance at the moment; that is, if you can."
Well ?” he asked. “What?"
"First-was Charles Taplin a wealthy man ? "
“I should say he was a well-to-do man; perhaps,
a very well-to-do man. He had a very good practice
at the Chancery Bar, and he was a man of simple
life and tastes."
Second-have you any idea who gets his money?"
Well," answered Cotherstone slowly. “I don't


272
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“What are you going to do ?” he asked after a
pause. “Say nothing at the inquest ? ”
" I hope to say-or do—something before that,
I replied. “I think that there will be developments,
possibly on Monday night-settling day.”
Until the Monday night I waited. During the
time of waiting I received regular reports from the
faithful and watchful Killingley. There appeared
to be nothing very remarkable about Dr. Francis
Taplin's daily life, as observed by my clerk. Patients
came to him ; he went to see patients. On the
Saturday evening he was at one of the ultra-respect-
able clubs; and the Sunday evening he dined at the
Ritz in the company of a young and very beautiful
woman. And on the next day Dr. Taplin resumed
his usual round of duties.
I went to Señor Mendoba's house alone that
Monday night, for I had not seen Tregarthen since we
had walked out of it at three o'clock in the morning
of the previous Saturday. But I had not been long
there when Tregarthen came in and joined me.
“Looking out for the Old Firm ?” he said with one
of his sarcastic grins. “Let's see-you've twenty
thousand to draw, eh ?
“Nineteen thousand, six hundred pounds, pre-
cisely," I answered.


THE SETTLING DAY.
273
He laughed, half-jestingly.
Old Firm will have to fork out pretty heavily,
then," he remarked. “I fancy you were not the only
successful punter. There are others here who have
pleasant reading in their bits of books : they followed
your selections.:
He was right there. There was, for example, the
slim and slender beauty (at least, I suppose she was
beautiful) who had asked me for a tip; she seemed
in high glee, and stealing up to me, said sweetly that
she hoped I should be as lucky at trente-et-quarante
(for which the tables were spread) as I had been with
the little horses.
“I've three thousand to draw when Old Firm
comes,” she said. “Do let me sit by you, or I shall
be sure to lose every penny of it before the night's
over-I nearly always do."
But Old Firm was late in making his appearance.
He was not in evidence at half-past eleven, nor at
twelve, nor at half-past twelve.
It was a few minutes after the half-hour had
struck that the famous raid took place which
afforded such splendid copy for the noon editions
of next day's newspapers. It was sprung upon
a roomful of absorbed people with startling abrupt-
All I knew was that the salon suddenly
ness.
S


274
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
seemed to be filled with plain-clothes men; that a
number of the guests, men, threw off masks and
dominos and seized upon fellow-guests; that there
was pandemonium of screams, curses, expostulations,
and that I myself, having managed to draw aside
the inspector in charge, revealed my identity by
divesting my face and figure of their concealment.
The inspector gasped.
You, Mr. Campenhaye ? ” he exclaimed. “Good
God! what are you doing here ? "
Pretty much what you're doing here,” I answered.
"I'm after a certain individual."
And we're after several individuals,” he said.
'You haven't any idea where the grey-bearded
man who calls himself Mendoba is ? "
“I haven't seen him to-night," I replied. “He
hasn't shown up. Of course, I may go.”
Oh, of course! Slip off quietly. Most of our people
know you—if they don't, show them that card.”
I made my way out with little difficulty. Much to
my astonishment Tregarthen joined me as I gained
the entrance-hall. There were a couple of Scotland
Yard men at the front door who knew me and passed
me out; to my surprise, they nodded familiarly to
my companion, who replied with a whispered jest.
Outside I looked at him with a new interest


THE SETTLING DAY.
275
“ Ho, ho !” I said. “So you're also known to
the police, my friend ?
Seems like it,” he answered nonchalantly.
Egad, but that was a surprise, all the same,
Campenhaye! I hadn't expected—”
At that moment a man whom I recognised as one
of Killingley's most trusted satellites plucked my
sleeve, and pushed a twisted scrap of paper into my
hand. I unfolded and read a hastily scribbled note :
“Come at to Wimpole Street-awaiting
once
you.-K."
To take Tregarthen by the arm and hurry him
to the nearest taxi-cab was the work of a moment;
a hurried dash through streets and squares brought
us to a point near Francis Taplin's house. I pulled
up the chauffeur and we descended and went along
on foot, and presently met Cartwright, a man whom
I occasionally employed, and in whom Killingley
had a profound belief. He hurried up, evidently
full of news.
"Mr. Killingley, sir, has followed our man,” he
said hastily; "he left the house, carrying a travelling
bag, about ten minutes ago, and Mr. Killingley had
reason to think he was for Charing Cross. He said,
would you follow him there?”
Come on, Tregarthen," I said, wheeling my


278
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
bearded, that I saw call at Taplin's on Saturday,
force his way through, and go down the platform,
and soon after that a shot was heard, and then
there were cries about a passenger being found dead
-and it's Taplin, as I say. There's a Yard man
at the carriage door that you know, sir-Beeverstone
-get up to him, and he'll let you see.”
Tregarthen and myself, making use of our height
and weight, pushed our way through the crowd to
the door of the compartment. And Beeverstone
recognised us, and presently when the officials had
dispersed the crowd, preparatory to detaching and
removing the carriage, we were admitted.
That Francis Taplin lay before us, dead, there
was no doubt. We recognised him and his maimed
hand at once.
“ But do you know anything of this ? ” asked
Beeverstone grimly. “This was thrown on the
opposite seat.”
And he held up to us something that proved to
be an elegantly-made wig and patriarchal beard,
and we both knew then that Señor Mendoba must
be a past-master in the art of making-up.
Quick work!” observed Beeverstone.
“Must
have followed his man in here, shot him at once,
thrown off his wig and beard-all in one piece, you


CHAPTER X.
THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET.
no
MY
Y reason for going down to Cannon Street at
all that morning was not connected in any
way with crimes and mysteries - I had
idea of either in my mind when I stepped out of
the Underground at the Mansion House Station.
I was on a much pleasanter errand than the solving
of problems arising from crimes; the fact was,
that, having matrimony in view, I was busy in
reconstructing and remodelling a beautiful old
Jacobean house which I had just bought, away out
in a Surrey village, and I had been recommended
by my architect to visit a man in Budge Row who
had some good scheme or idea about patent flooring.
I had meant to have a leisurely half-hour's chat
with him, but as luck would have it, I was not in
Budge Row for the space of five minutes, and I
280
J


282
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
there was a scar that looked very like an old sword-
cut, on one cheek, and his right eye was obsessed
by a black patch. On his tray he displayed a
number of small metal tigers : you pressed a spring
and the tiger's eyes glared and his tail waved ; it
seemed to me that the sudden lighting-up of the
yellow eyes was the only sign of warmth in that
wind-swept street. The vendor cried at intervals
in a hoarse, fog-spoilt voice :
“The real Royal Indian Tiger from Bengal !
One penny !” And as I passed him he muttered
thickly : “Buy a tiger, captain—just the same as
your honour's shot in the jungle—all alive, captain ! ”
I suppose it flatters every civilian to be accused
of relationship with the Army; anyhow, having one
handy in my ticket pocket, I dropped a shilling on
the gazer's tray as I walked by. He picked it up,
spat on it, and thanked me with an eloquent look
which was almost a wink, and fell to crying his
wares still more raucously and loudly.
Where the ancient church of Saint Anthony,
patron saint of the good grocers of London, once
stood in Budge Row, shrining the bones of many
estimable citizens who in their time were aldermen
and sheriffs of our proud city, there are now certain


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 283
of those modern abominations called chambers,
wherein a man may as easily lose himself as a
mouse might in entering a thickly-populated rabbit-
warren. The man I wanted to see had his place of
business in one of these barrack-like buildings, and
my first proceeding, on discovering the set of
chambers which I wanted, was to read the names
on the list of tenants that was posted up at the
door. This occupied some time; there appeared
to be some dozens of floors and scores of separate
offices. And, as I stood in the entry, my hands
behind me, reading steadily down one side of the
list, preparatory to going methodically up the
other, I felt something thrust into my fingers, and
turning sharply round, saw an urchin-throw me a
backward grin as he darted into the street and
vanished in a neighbouring entry.
I glanced at what this impudent gamin had thrust
into my hand. A scrap of paper-creased, damp.
Nevertheless, I opened it, on principle, having long
before made it a strict rule of life to attend to the
smallest details in a day's adventures. There were
words hastily scribbled on that bit of paper; they
ran thus :
· For God's sake, Campenhaye, get out of that
doorway and away from this street, quick! But


284
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
yours with
come, see me at my rooms at four o'clock, and if you
still have him, bring that clerk of
you.
Now scoot--and look neither right nor left.-
TREGARTHEN."
I obeyed this command to the letter : I did not
even wait to fold up the paper. Crushing it in
my hand, I shot hurriedly out of the doorway, up
the street, and into a taxi-cab which happened
to be passing. Not until I was west of St. Paul's
did I begin to ask myself what had really
happened.
Tregarthen !-I had not seen Tregarthen for
three years—not since soon after the affair of the
Taplin mystery. He and I, working independently
of the police, had tried to find Mendoba, the mur-
derer of Dr. Francis Taplin ; like the police, we had
failed to do so. Then I had turned to other matters,
and Tregarthen had gone away somewhere and I
had not heard of him since; he was always
a strangely mysterious person, and so I had not
been surprised at his silence. But here he was in
London again and I knew his peculiar hand-
writing well enough-and yet I had not seen him at
any of his usual haunts--which were also mine-
nor heard of his return.
“This is an affair!” I informed myself. Tre-


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 285
garthen is back. Tregarthen is up to something.
Tregarthen is watching somebody. That somebody
has something to do with those chambers in Budge
Row. Perhaps if I had looked up I should have
seen Tregarthen's striking face confronting me from
one of the opposite windows. However, I have
done as I was told. Now, Tregarthen wants to
see me. Also, which is possibly more important-he
wants to see Killingley. I think-I am disposed to
think—that this means that Tregarthen will be
glad of a little professional assistance.”
I found that astute young gentleman, my clerk
Killingley, improving his knowledge of men and
things by a studious reading of the Sporting
Times. I introduced the matter in hand to him
at once.
Killingley, you remember Mr. Tregarthen ? '
Killingley's sharp eyes gleamed intelligent affirma-
tion.
Case of Taplin and Mendoba," he replied.
“Yes, sir."
“Mr. Tregarthen is back in town. He wants to
see me at his rooms in the Albany at four o'clock.”
Killingley laid one hand on my diary; the other
on his fountain-pen.
Also," I added, “ he desires to see you."
>)


286
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
a
Same time and place, sir ? ” asked Killingley,
making notes.
Same time and place," I answered. We'll
go together."
So, four o'clock found my clerk and myself in
Tregarthen's eminently comfortable parlour in his
excellent rooms. He had not come in, but everything
betokened his immediate arrival. There was
bright, warm fire; there was tea laid out for three ;
there was a soft-footed man-servant ready to do
service whenever he was wanted. And suddenly
there was a sound of footsteps in the little hall, and
the door opened and Tregarthen entered, and
stripping off a big ulster presented to my astonished
eyes the face and figure-minus the eye-patch and
the crutch-of the tiger-selling gazer of Budge
Row.
I was for the moment too much surprised to speak,
for it had never entered my head that Tregarthen
was the man to whom I had given a shilling, much
less that it was from that man that the note came.
And Tregarthen saw my surprise, and laughed as he
went across to a sideboard and helped himself to a
stiff glass of whiskey.
"Ugh!” he exclairned, shivering a little.
“ That's about the coldest job I ever took on,


288
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
>
thousand of the numerous millions in this city,"
I retorted. “And that's a high estimate.”
“You're known well enough to, at any rate, one
man who might have gone in and out of that entry
in which you were standing,” he said calmly. “And
I didn't want that man to see you there.”
“And who's he, pray?" I asked.
Tregarthen took a hearty gulp of tea and looked
over the rim of his cup at Killingley and myself
with eyes that seemed to be sizing us up.
You remember the Francis Taplin case ? he
said suddenly. “Yes, well, it's Mendoba that
I'm after.”
What--again ?" I exclaimed.
Again ? Well, now, I've been after him ever
since, and for a long time before that,” replied
Tregarthen. “But call it again, if you like. Cer-
tainly, it's a new trail.”
“And Mendoba's here in London?” I asked,
greatly surprised.
"I believe he's in Budge Row,” he answered.
“But-So far, I haven't seen him. And I want
to see him. Yes—I want to see that man pretty
badly, Campenhaye. So--you and Killingley must
help me.”
I glanced at Killingley, who was steadily devoting


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 291
near, but he edged himself closer, looking round
as men do when they've something remarkably
confidential to tell you.
Did you ever hear of the Magician of Cannon
Street ?' said he, with another keen look.
Never,' I answered. Who's he?'
“He laughed at that.
"Heaven knows !' he replied. Re-incar-
nation of Confucius or Socrates, or of old Abe
Lincoln-anyhow, he's a wise man, magic or no
magic.'
"And what does he do?'I asked.
“Ah! that's it!' he said. “I guess you're
aware that most of the big bugs in the money world
are uncommonly superstitious ?
“No, I didn't, but I knew that sportsmen-that
is to say, racing-men-are,' I answered.
"Same thing,' said he. 'Well, sir, it's a fact
that this fellow who's known as the Magician of
Cannon Street to a very, very select coterie of
moneyed men who love to speculate, is a swell hand
at telling his clients what their luck's likely to be.
That's a fact-I've proved it.'
What does he exactly do ? 'I asked. “Gaze
into crystals, or consult the stars, or read your palm,
or what?!


292
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
““No hanky-panky,' he answered. “It's all
done without ornament. Supposing you're thinking
of doing this, that, or the other, you go to him
and tell him your schemes. He tells you whether
you're to go in or not. That's all.'
“And do you mean to say that the chap's always
right ? 'I exclaimed. “If he is, it's a big order.'
“No, he isn't always right,' he answered. But
he's a winner five times out of six-or, maybe, nine
times out of ten. You see,' he added, poking his
finger into my ribs, 'you see, I've tried him, and
I know some other men who've also tried him.'
“Well, now, I know, Campenhaye, as I daresay
you know, that there is this sort of thing going on
in town here. I know of two remarkably astute
city financiers who never undertake any serious
deal until they've consulted some sybil or siren who
hangs out in mysteriously lighted and heavily scented
rooms off New Bond Street; but I'd never heard of
this Cannon Street prophet, and I said so again.
Just so,' said my New York friend. 'I knew
you hadn't-he deals with a very, very select coterie.
Now, look here, as you've done me a real good turn,
I'll do you one. I'll give you an introduction to this
man-and if ever you're thinking of doing anything
important go to him for advịce—and for a tip.'


302
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
pens, all new ; on either side of the table were set
two elbow-chairs. The walls were panelled in
dark wood, unrelieved by any picture or ornament ;
the floor was covered by a thick carpet in which
one's feet sank with a sense of luxury; the one
window of the place was filled with old painted glass.
The place was an ideal cabinet in which to discuss
extremely confidential business. And it was sound-
proof. I was close to the heart of the city, just
above one of its busiest thoroughfares along which
rolled a perpetual tide of heavy traffic. But I
could not hear a sound; the silence in that small room
was deeper than any silence I ever knew ; its deep-
ness seemed to be accentuated by the gentle murmur
of a fire which burnt brightly in the grate behind me.
I sat down in one of the elbow-chairs (there were
but two seats in the room) and waited. The silence
became, if possible, deeper ; the murmur of the
fire grew monotonous. And I suddenly conceived
the idea that I was being watched.
That feeling of being alone, in a strange place,
and of being silently looked at, inspected, taken
stock of, from some coign of vantage of which one
knows nothing, is one of the most trying experiences,
one of the most severe nerve-tests, which a human
being can go through. It makes you feel that you


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 303
are at somebody's or at something's mercy. You
cannot move a finger or wink an eye without the
consciousness that it is being seen and noted by a
watchful observer who is stationed you know not
where. It is an uncanny, a weird feeling-like all
such feelings, it grows upon you. In this case the
feeling grew upon me. I suppose I am naturally
highly-strung; certainly my nerves began to feel
the strain of sitting there under this conviction.
In cases where I am face to face with either danger
or difficulty they come readily to the scratch and
are as strong as iron and dependable as steel ; if
any man stared at me I should give him as long
and as steady a stare as he gave me.
But to sit
alone, feeling until you reached the point of absolute
certainty that an eye is on you, and that you do
not know where that eye is—this is enough to dis-
concert even the strongest nerved man, and in this
instance it disconcerted me. For the effect of such
a feeling is to force you to a state of absolute
quietude lest you should betray something in your
face or your attitude, and that is wearing. And in
this case I did not care to think that I was being
watched at all.
I kept quiet, my eyes fixed on the morocco
writing-case. I was thinking. I was endeavouring


304
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
to summon up some notion of what I expected
Mendoba (if this was the man) to be like. I had
only seen him twice, and for a mere moment on
each occasion, at the gambling-hell; he then pre-
sented himself as a tall, well-built man, a very
little inclined to stoutness, with grey hair, a full
grey beard, who wore slightly smoked spectacles.
But I knew that he had discarded beard and wig
in the train at Charing Cross when he shot Francis
Taplin. What was he like then, when they were
removed ? I had nothing to go by but his height
and figure, and they
The door suddenly opened, and as suddenly
closed. I turned to see a young gentleman,
irreproachably garbed after the fashion of that
aristocracy of the City which is particular in matters
of raiment. And as I looked at him, gaining a
general impression of his personality and appearance,
a curious doubt and feeling of difficulty fell on
Could this Mr. Morton-if the young gentle-
man was Mr. Morton—be one and the same person
with the Mendoba of the gambling-hell ?
I took a closer look at him as he came forward.
He was tall and of a spare but athletic figure, which
was well set off by his beautifully cut and shaped
morning coat. He was a handsome young man--
me.


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 305
my first glance at him had showed me an olive-
complexioned skin; black, smooth hair, scrupulously
arranged ; a pair of black, penetrating eyes. Those
eyes fixed themselves upon me as we exchanged
bows. He waved a slim, white hand in the direction
of the chair from which I had risen at his entrance.
“ Mr. Morton ? ” I said interrogatively.
He bowed again; again motioned me to my
chair, and taking that on the other side of the
table, leaned his elbows upon it, put his fingers
together, rested his chin upon their tips, and con-
tinued to regard me with attention. Something in
his eyes disconcerted me; they were so steady, so
penetrating, so very cold and inflexible (these, I
think, are the terms I should use), that I began to
feel uncomfortable. Only once did they move from
my face; that was to glance for the fraction of a
second at the ring on my finger. After that they
never left mine. And-whether I would or no-I
was compelled to keep mine upon them. I say
compelled deliberately—there is no other word
for it.
There was a momentary silence, after my vis-à-vis
had taken his seat. Then he said-using a formal
tone :
“You wish to consult me?"
U


306
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
“Under advice," I answered. “The advice of
the man from whom I procured this."
I was about to say “ring,” but he waved a finger
carelessly.
“ Just so. My preliminary fee, as he no doubt
informed you, is five hundred guineas in cash.
Afterwards, you pay me ten per cent. on the profit
of the deal which you propose to make—that is,
if I advise you to make it.”
I had been coached for all this, and I drew out
the amount of money for which he asked. I handed
him five one-hundred pound Bank of England notes
and five five-pound notes, and he placed them on
the morocco writing-case.
“What do you wish me to advise you about ?
he asked
I was prepared for that, too. But I wanted to
fence with him a little. And for that I was also
prepared. All the same, I began to wish that he
would not stare at me so persistently with those
coal-black eyes !
“ You are famous for a remarkable gift of in-
sight?” I remarked, with what was doubtless a
feeble attempt at a smile.
“I possess a gift of insight, coupled with some
financial knowledge,” he replied.


310
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
that can frighten a man so much as waking suddenly
in a strange room wherein he certainly does not
expect to find himself. I was frightened. I shut
my eyes as soon as I had opened them. But in
that momentary opening I had seen that I was in
the bedroom of an hotel, and I had remembered
the interview of yesterday. Again I heard the
compelling voice of the man with the equally
compelling eyes.
“ Attend to me!”
But-what since then ?
I sprang out of bed, and made for the window
I jerked up the blinds and looked out. Instantly
I recognised the Old Steine, The tramcars were
running on the road beneath; early birds were
walking across the gardens. So I was in Brighton.
But how did I come there?
I turned from the window, and looked around me.
It was quite evident that when I left town I had
known what I was doing. There was a suit-case,
there were toilet articles, duly set out; a winter
dressing-gown lay ready to hand. And-yes, of
course, this
was the
room which I usually
occupied when I visited Brighton, as I often did.
But
once
more--how did I come to be
in it?


THE MAGICIAN OF CANNON STREET. 315
I dropped the newspaper on the opposite seat as
I leaned back in the swiftly-speeding car.
That's Killingley !” I said. Killingley's done
the trick. But how?"
We turned into Jermyn Street well before eleven
o'clock. I dashed straight upstairs to my office-
to find Killingley and Tregarthen closeted together.
And I saw at one glance that neither had been to
bed. Further, I saw that Killingley was in a state
of high concern; he so far lost his usual sang-froid,
indeed, as to rush forward, and shake my hand
violently. After which he relapsed into his usual
normal condition.
'If one may ask a plain question, Campenhaye,"
said Tregarthen, who had watched this little scene
with amused eyes, “we should like to know where
you come from ? Killingley and I have spent most
of our time since yesterday afternoon in searching
high and low for you.”
“I have just come from Brighton," I answered.
“But-as to how I got to Brighton, frankly, I
don't know. But-you may laugh, if you like-
I believe that magician chap put me under hypnotic
suggestion."
Tregarthen, however, did not laugh. He turned
to Killingley


316
PAUL CAMPENHAYE.
(
" Why?
“Tell him," he said. “ It will perhaps make
things clear."
“ There's not such a lot to tell you, sir,” responded
Killingley, turning to me. “ You know that, as
we had arranged, I kept a watch on the hall door
of those chambers in Budge Row. I saw you
enter. About half an hour later I saw you come
out. You came out in company with a tall, dark
young gentlemen. And when I saw him, I was
certain we'd got Mendoba.”
“ You were !” I exclaimed.
“Because, sir, when I watched Taplin's house in
Wimpole Street that night of the murder I saw
Mendoba, and you will remember, though he was
then disguised in his grey beard and wig and smoked
glasses,” answered Killingley. True, sir, I only
saw him for a minute or so, but I noticed a certain
peculiarity which I didn't forget. He has a curious
action of his left leg, something like a mild case of
string-halt in a horse, sir."
Good for you, Killingley,” said I. “ Well ? '
"Well, sir, and so had this man who came out of
Contango Chambers with you. But after I had
seen that, I gave my attention to you.”
Why to me?"
'Because you appeared to be on such friendly
60