The Lost Million

“And Mr King?”

“He’s been away too. Ridgehill’s been shut up and half the servants away on ’oliday.”

“And they are back now?”

“Yes; Mrs Olliffe’s been abroad – so the butler told me yesterday. But there – ” and his lips closed suddenly, as though he had something to say, but feared to utter it.

“Rather a funny lot – so I’ve heard, eh?” I remarked.

“Yes. Nobody can quite make ’em out – to tell the truth. Only the night before last, or, rather, about a quarter to five in the morning, Mrs Olliffe, her brother and another gentleman went by ’ere in a car on their way ’ome. They’d been out all night, so the chauffeur told me yesterday. Mr King drove the car.”

“Out all night!” I echoed, in sudden wonder.

“Yes. And they’d been a long way, judging from the appearance of the car. I ’appened to get up to see the time, and looked out o’ my window just as they came past. It isn’t the first time either that they’ve been out all night. The village knows it, and every one is asking where they go to, and what takes ’em out o’ their beds like that.”

“Who was the gentleman with them?” I inquired eagerly.

“Ah! I couldn’t see ’im very well. He was in a big frieze coat, and wore a black-and-white check cap. I didn’t catch his face, but, by his clothes, he was a stranger to me.”

“You’ve only seen him on that occasion.”

“Only that once, sir. The chauffeur told me, however, that ’e isn’t staying at Ridgehill, and that nobody saw him. So ’e must ’ave got out after passing through the village. Perhaps it was somebody they were givin’ a lift to. I’ve seen Mrs Olliffe a-takin’ notice of some queer people sometimes. And funnily enough, only yesterday a gentleman came in ’ere and was a-making a lot of inquiries after her. ’E was a foreigner – a Frenchman, I think.”

“A Frenchman!” I cried. “What was he like?”

“Oh! Like most Frenchman. ’E ’ad finnikin’ ways, was middle-aged, with a brown beard which he seemed always a-strokin’. ’E ’ad lunch ’ere, and stayed all the afternoon smokin’ cigarettes and lookin’ through this window as though he hoped to see ’er pass. ’E was so inquisitive that I was glad when ’e’d gone. I suppose,” the man added, “’e’s somebody she’s met abroad, eh?”

But I knew the truth. His inquisitive visitor was Victor Tramu!

Chapter Twenty Four

A Woman’s Word

A hot, dusty walk took me beside the telegraph wires back to Bath, and the remainder of the day I spent in idleness in the hotel.

If the great French detective were in the vicinity then I had no desire to be seen by him. Therefore I deemed it best to lie quite low until nightfall.

At four o’clock, after great delay I got on to Tucker on the telephone, and inquired if there had been any letters or messages for me.

“The police have been here again, and there’s a telephone message, sir,” replied the old man’s voice. “It came about eleven o’clock, from a lady, sir. I took it down.”

“Read it over,” I said.

Then, listening intently, I heard the old man’s voice say —

“The message, sir, is: ‘Please ask Mr Kemball to ring up, if possible, 802 Bournemouth – the Royal Bath Hotel – at six o’clock this evening – from Miss Seymour.’”

My heart gave a bound of delight.

“Nothing else, Tucker?”

“No, sir. That’s all the lady said. She seemed very anxious indeed to speak to you.”

“All right, Tucker. I’ll be back in a day or two. By the way, send on my letters to the Grand Hotel, Bournemouth.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And tell the police not to worry any further over the burglary. Tell them I will see the inspector in Newport Pagnell on my return.”

“All right, sir.”

And then I hung up the receiver and rang off.

Asta was at Bournemouth! My first impulse was to start at once to see her, but recollecting the reason I had come there to Bath, I managed to curb my impatience, eat my dinner in the quiet, old-fashioned coffee-room, and afterwards wait until darkness fell.

I had no fixed plans, except to approach the Manor-House unobserved. I longed to call boldly upon the woman whom I knew to be an adventuress, but I could not see what benefit would accrue from it. If any conspiracy were in progress, she would, of course, deny all knowledge of Shaw’s whereabouts.

Therefore I bought some cigars, which I placed in my case, and when the autumn twilight had deepened into night I put on my motor-cap, and taking my stick, set out again to cover the three miles or so which lay between the hotel and the residence of the wealthy widow.

I did not hurry, and as I approached the village and passed the inn with the red blinds I kept a wary eye, fearing lest Tramu might be in the vicinity.

That it was he who had been making inquiry of the landlord there was no doubt. In what manner the French police had gained knowledge of the woman Olliffe’s address I knew not, and why he was in England watching her, was equally a mystery. One fact was evident – namely, that the Paris Sûreté had some serious charge against her; and further, that she must be all unconscious of the presence of the renowned police-agent.

Should I discover any hint or gain anything by giving her warning? I asked myself.

No; she was far too clever for that. If, as I had suspected, she had had any hand in poor Guy’s death, then it was only right that the inquiries and action of the police should not be interfered with. Again, was it not a highly suspicious circumstance that, with her husband – the man King, who posed as her brother – together with a stranger, she had returned home at that early hour in a car, a few hours after a car had left the King’s Wood, half a mile from my own house?

I passed through the village unobserved, and out again up the steep hill, until I came to that low wall behind which lay the part surrounding Ridgehill Manor – that same wall from which a few weeks before I had obtained my first sight of the house of the adventuress. Fortunately, the night had become cloudy, threatening rain, and the moon was hidden. So, mounting the wall, I entered the park and walked across towards the broad lawn in front of the manor. A dry ditch separated the lawn from the park to prevent cattle from approaching, and this I presently negotiated, at last standing upon the lawn itself. Near by, I saw a weeping ash, and beneath its bell-like branches I paused and there waited.

From where I stood I could see into the big lighted drawing-room, the blinds of which were up, but there was no one within, though the French windows stood open.

I could hear voices – of the servants, most probably – and the clatter of dishes being washed after dinner. But the night was very still; not a leaf stirred in the dark belt of firs which lay on my left, and which presently afforded me better shelter, allowing me to approach nearer the house.

The night-mists were rising, and the air had become chilly. Certainly this woman of many adventures, even though she were a convicted criminal, managed to live amid delightful surroundings.

As the evening wore on I caught a glimpse of her crossing the room in a black low-cut dinner-dress edged with silver – a truly handsome gown. She swept up to the piano, and next moment there fell upon my ear the music of one of the latest waltzes of musical comedy.

Then her husband, cigar in hand and in well-cut evening-dress, came to the French window, looked out upon the night, and retired again.

But after that I saw nothing until an hour later, when the butler closed the window carefully and bolted it, and then one by one the lights in the lower portion of the fine mansion disappeared and those upstairs were lit. Two windows, evidently the double windows of a corner-room opposite me, were lit brilliantly behind a green holland blind, but half an hour later they also were extinguished.

I glanced at my watch. It was then half-past eleven, and the house was in total darkness. Yet I still waited, wondering vaguely if Tramu were still in the vicinity.

I found an old tree-stump, and sitting upon it, waited in watchful patience, wondering if the agent of French police would make his appearance. Suddenly, however, a bright stream of light, evidently from an electric torch, shot from one of the upstairs windows, and continued for some seconds. Then it was shut off again, only to be renewed about a minute later.

It was a signal, and could be seen from the high road!

My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, and I moved cautiously across the lawn to such a position that I could see any one leaving or approaching the house by the drive.

Again I waited for fully twenty minutes, when a slight movement caused me to turn, and I saw the figure of a woman hurrying along the side of the lawn in the shadow of the belt of firs. At first I was puzzled as to who it might be, but presently, when she was compelled to pass out of the shadow into the grey light cast by the clouded moon, I saw that it was the woman who called herself Olliffe. She wore a dark dress with a dark shawl thrown over her head.

In her eager hurry she had not noticed my presence as I stood there in the shadow; therefore, when she had passed out into the misty park with its dark clump of trees, I quickly followed with noiseless tread over the dewy grass.

She had evidently signalled to somebody, unknown to her husband!

Straight across the wide grass-lands I followed until she gained a spot where a stile gave entrance to a dark wood on the opposite side of the park. There she halted, and I was only just in time to draw back in the shadow and hide myself.

I watched, and a few minutes later I was startled at hearing that peculiar whistle of Shaw’s, and next moment he emerged from the wood and joined her.

“Well, what’s the fear?” I heard him ask her quickly. “I had your wire this morning, and got to Bath by the last train. Couldn’t you have written?”

“No; it was highly dangerous,” was her low response; and then she uttered some quick explanation which I could not catch.

Was it possible that she had learnt of Tramu’s visit, for I distinctly heard him cry —

“You fool! Why did you bring me here? Why weren’t you more wary?”

But in her reply she turned her back upon me, so that I could not distinguish her words.

They stood close together in the darkness, conversing in low tones, as though in earnest consultation, while I, holding my breath, strove in vain to catch their words.

The only other sound was the mournful hooting of an owl in the trees above; for the dead stillness of the night was now upon everything.

“Exactly,” I heard the woman say. “My own opinion is that he suspects. Therefore you must act quickly – as before.”

“I – I am hesitating,” the man’s voice replied. “I can’t bring myself to do it. I really can’t!”

“Bosh! Then leave it to me,” she urged, in a hard, rasping voice. “You’re becoming timid – chicken-hearted. It isn’t like you, surely.”

“I’m not timid,” he protested. “Only I foresee danger – great danger.”

“So do I – if you don’t act promptly. Get her away from Bournemouth. Go anywhere else you like.”

They were speaking of Asta! I strained my ears, but her further words were inaudible.

In a moment, however, I became conscious of a slight stealthy movement in the bushes near where I was standing, and turned my head quickly.

The next second I realised that only a few yards distant from me the dark figure of a man had come up through the undergrowth, but so carefully that he had made no noise.

He stood ten yards away, peering out at the pair, but all unconscious of my presence there. He was watching intently, and by his silhouette in the darkness I recognised the bearded face of none other than the great agent of the Paris Sûreté, Victor Tramu!

Chapter Twenty Five

In the Night

Fearing lest his quick eye should detect my presence, I stood there motionless as a statue.

The pair, in earnest conversation, suddenly strolled away over the fallen leaves at the edge of the wood, whereupon Tramu emerged silently from his hiding-place and crept after them, I being compelled to remain where I was.

So the French police had traced Shaw to his place of concealment!

I longed to give him warning, but was unable. What should I do? How should I act?

Asta was at the Bath Hotel at Bournemouth. At least I could ring her up on the telephone, and tell her what I had seen! So the watcher and the watched having disappeared, I hurried across the park until at length I gained the main road, and went on at a brisk pace till I was back again at my hotel.

It took me a full hour to get on to Bournemouth, and after long delay I at last heard her sweet, well-remembered voice at the instrument.

I expressed regret at awakening her, but told her that I was leaving by motor in half an hour to meet her.

“Where is your father?” I inquired.

“I don’t exactly know. He left me at Burford Bridge Hotel, at Box Hill, last Monday, and I came here to await him. Five days have gone, and I’ve had no letter.”

“Then he hasn’t been to Bournemouth?”

“No.”

“Well,” I said, “do not go out of the hotel until I arrive, will you?”

“Not if you wish me to remain in,” was her reply; and then, promising I would be with her at the earliest moment, as I wished to see her on a matter of gravest importance, I rang off. Half an hour afterwards I paid my bill, even though it were the middle of the night, and going out to the garage, started my engine, and with my bag in the back of the car sped away in: the drizzling rain eastward out of Bath.

I chose the road through Norton St. Philip, Warminster, and Wilton to Salisbury, where I had an early breakfast at the old White Hart, and then, striking south, I went by Downton Wick and Fordingbridge, through Ringwood and Christchurch, past the grey old abbey church and on through suburban Boscombe until, just after nine o’clock, I pulled up before the big entrance to the Bath Hotel in Bournemouth.

Into the pretty palm-court, where I waited, Asta, my lost love, came at last with outstretched hand, smiling me a welcome greeting. She looked dainty in blue serge skirt and muslin blouse, and there being no one else in the place at that early hour, – the idlers not yet having arrived to read the papers and novels, – we sat together in a corner to chat.

By the pallor of her soft, delicate countenance, I saw that she was nervous and troubled, though she showed a brave front, and affected a gay lightheartedness that was only feigned.

“Tell me, Miss Seymour,” I said presently, bending to her very seriously, “what happened to you on that night in Aix?”

“Happened!” she echoed, her dark eyes opening widely. “Ah! It was, indeed, a narrow escape. Had Dad not provided himself with a key to the back stairs in readiness for emergencies, we should have both been arrested – just as you were.”

“Yes,” I smiled. “But I was released. What happened to you?”

“We caught the Paris express – only just as it was leaving; but Dad, fearing that our flight had been telephoned to Paris, decided to get out at Laroche, where we stopped to change engines, and from there we took train by Troyes and Nancy to Strassbourg. Then, once in Germany, we could, of course, escape Tramu’s attentions,” and she smiled.

“And from Germany?”

“We remained a week in Berlin; thence we went to Copenhagen by way of Kiel and Korsor, and ten days ago crossed from Hamburg to Harwich – home again.”

“Your father is certainly extremely clever in evading the police,” I said, with a laugh.

“Our only fear was for you,” she said; “whether they would learn any thing by watching you.”

“They learnt nothing, even though they submitted me to a very close examination. But,” I added, “how did you know Tramu was in Aix?”

“I was ascending in the lift that evening, and as we passed the first floor I saw him talking with the hotel manager. Dad had once pointed him out to me at Monte Carlo. So I suspected the reason of his visit there, and scribbled you a line of warning before we took our bags and slipped away.”

“But for what reason is he so anxious to secure your arrest?” I asked, looking straight into her face. “Cannot you tell me the truth, Miss Seymour? Remember, I am your friend,” I added earnestly.

“Please do not ask me,” she urged. “I cannot betray the man who has been father to me all these years,” she added in a low, pained voice.

“But are you quite certain that he is as devoted to you as he professes?” I asked very gravely.

“Absolutely. Am I not the only real friend he has?”

I recollected that letter written by the man who had loved her, and the allegations he had made.

“Do you know,” I said, “the other night I had burglars at my home. They tried to break open the safe which contains that mysterious cylinder given into my charge by Mr Melvill Arnold.”

“The cylinder!” she gasped, instantly turning pale as death. “Ah! that hateful cylinder, which brings upon its possessor misfortune and disaster. Why don’t you get rid of it, Mr Kemball?”

“I have. It is now in the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults in Chancery Lane.”

She held her breath, her gaze fixed upon me. Then involuntarily she laid her slim white hand upon my coat-sleeve, and said —

“I – I always fear for your safety, Mr Kemball, while that thing is in your possession. Give it away. Destroy it – anything – only get rid of it!”

“But I cannot until the third of November. I accepted a sacred trust, remember, given by a dying man,” I said.

“Yes – but – ”

“But what?” I asked. Then in a low voice, as I bent towards her, I added: “Miss Seymour, I have deep suspicion that your father – a friend of Arnold’s – knows what the cylinder contains, and is extremely eager to get possession of it. Is not that so?”

She was silent. Her lips moved nervously. Her indecision to speak told me the truth. We were friends, therefore she could not deliberately lie to me.

A faint smile overspread her pale, refined features. That was all, but it told its own tale.

“Well,” I said, “the burglars, whoever they were, were experts, and only the electric alarm prevented the theft. What the ancient cylinder really contains I cannot imagine. Indeed, I am filled with anxiety and impatience for the dawn of November the third, when, without doubt, I shall learn the truth.”

“Yes, no doubt,” she said in a slow, tremulous tone. “And the truth will surely be a stranger one than you have ever dreamed.”

Our tête-à-tête was suddenly interrupted by a woman entering the lounge; therefore, as Asta had her hat and coat with her, I suggested that we should walk down to the beach, an idea which she readily adopted.

Then, when there was no one to overhear, I told her of my adventure in the night, of Tramu’s inquiries in the neighbourhood of Ridgehill Manor, and of his surveillance of the movements of Mrs Olliffe and her father.

“Tramu!” she gasped, her face white as death. “Then he has found poor Dad! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I had no wish to alarm you unduly, Miss Seymour,” I said very quietly.

“But Dad may be arrested!” she cried. “Ah! how fatal to associate again with that accursed woman.”

“She is certainly no friend of yours.”

“But she makes great pretence of friendship. I have often been her guest.”

“For the last time, I trust.”

“Yes. But what can we do? How can I warn Dad?” she asked in deep anxiety.

“Ah, Miss Seymour,” I said, after a brief silence, “I fear that you think a little too much of your foster-father, and too little of your own self.”

“Why?” she asked quickly, with some resentment. Again I hesitated. We had wandered upon the pier, but it was as yet early, and few people, save the early-morning exercise men, were about.

“Let us sit here a moment,” I suggested at last. “It is pleasant in the sunshine. I have something to show you.”

Without a word she seated herself where I suggested, on a seat near the empty band-stand, and then I drew from my pocket the letter which Guy Nicholson had written to me on the night of his tragic death and handed it to her.

I watched her sweet face, so pale and anxious. In an instant she recognised the writing of the hand now dead, and read it through eagerly from end to end.

I explained how it had come so tardily into my possession, whereupon she said —

“It is true. He disliked Dad for some inexplicable reason.”

“Apparently he had become aware of some extraordinary truth. It was that truth which he had intended to explain to me, but, poor fellow, he was prevented from doing so by his sudden death.”

Sight of that letter had recalled to her visions of the man whom she had loved so fondly, and next instant I hated myself for having acted injudiciously in showing her the curious missive.

Ah, how deeply, how devotedly I loved her! and yet I dared not utter one single word of affection. That calm, sweet countenance, with those big, wonderful eyes, was ever before me, sleeping or waking, and yet I knew not from hour to hour that she might not be arrested and placed in a criminal dock, as accomplice of that arch-adventurer Shaw – that man who led such a strange dual existence of respectability and undesirability.

“I cannot understand what he discovered regarding the apparition of the hand,” she exclaimed at last, still gazing upon the letter in a half-dreamy kind of way.

“It seems as though, by some fact accidentally discovered, he arrived at the solution of the mystery,” I said. “It was to explain this to me that he intended to come over to Upton End, but was, alas! prevented.”

“But why didn’t he tell me?” she queried. “It surely concerned myself for I had seen it, not in our own house, remember, but in the house of a friend at Scarborough.”

“And I saw it in an obscure French inn,” I said; “and previously I had been warned against it.”

“Yes, I agree, Mr Kemball. It is a complete mystery. Ah! how unfortunate that poor Guy never lived to tell you his theory concerning the strange affair. But,” she added, “our present action must concern dear old Dad. What do you suggest we should do? How can we give him warning?”

“I can suggest nothing,” was my reply. “Tramu is watching them both. Probably he is fully aware of some ingenious conspiracy in progress.”

“Ah! I foresaw danger in his association with her,” the girl declared, pale and anxious in her despair.

“But why has not your father returned to Lydford? Surely while his whereabouts could be preserved from Tramu he would be safer there than anywhere!”

“You might be watched, and if you visited us, you might be followed. Tramu is, as you know, one of the most famous detectives in Europe.”

“And he has, in your father, one who is a past-master in the art of evasion. But,” I added, “tell me frankly, Miss Seymour, do you anticipate that he is anxious to possess himself of the bronze cylinder?” She hesitated again.

“Well – yes. As you ask me for a plain reply, I tell you that I believe his intention is to gain possession of it.”

“Why?”

“Because of the great secret therein contained.”

“And of what nature is this remarkable secret?” I demanded eagerly, much puzzled by her response.

“Ah! how can we tell? It is a secret from all, save to the person who shall dare break it open and examine it.”

“And dare you break it open, Miss Seymour?” I asked.

“No – a thousand times no!” she cried, alarmed at the very suggestion. “I would rather see it taken up and cast deep into the sea. Why don’t you do that, Mr Kemball? Take it out in a boat and sink it deep in the waters, where no man – not even divers – could ever recover it. Sink it deeply,” she urged, “so that all fears may be dispelled, and peace and love may reign.”

But I shook my head, expressing regret at my utter inability to accede to her desire.

And then very slowly we retraced our steps back to the hotel, where an unexpected surprise was, we found, awaiting us.

Chapter Twenty Six

Contains an Ominous Message

As we re-entered the pretty winter garden the hall-porter gave Asta a telegram, which she tore open hastily and read, afterwards handing it to me in silence.

To my surprise, I found it to be from Shaw, informing her that he was on his way to Lydford, and asking her to return home that day. The message had been handed in at Bath Railway Station, therefore it appeared that he was already on his way.