As We Forgive Them

As it was, we only told them of one, the legacy of two hundred pounds apiece, which Blair had left them, and this had of course caused them the most profound gratification.

Having deposited Mabel at Grosvenor Square, and taken lingering leave of her, I returned at once to Great Russell Street and found that Reggie had just returned from the warehouse in Cannon Street.

Acting upon my sweet little friend’s appeal I told him nothing of the exciting incident of the previous night. All I explained was the searching of Blair’s writing-table and what we had discovered there.

“Well, we ought I think to go and see that house by the crossways,” he said when he had seen the photograph. “Doncaster is a quick run from King’s Cross. We could get there and back to-morrow. I’m interested to see the house to discover which poor Blair tramped all over England. This must have come into his possession,” he added, handling the photograph, “without any name or any clue whatever to its situation.”

I agreed that we ought to go and see for ourselves, therefore, after spending a quiet evening at the Devonshire, we left by the early train next day for Yorkshire. On arrival at Doncaster station, to which we ran through from London without a stop, we took a fly and drove out upon the broad, snowy highroad through Bentley for about six miles or so, until, after skirting Owston Park we came suddenly upon the crossroads where stood the lonely old house, just as shown in the photograph.

It was a quaint, old place, like one of those old toll-houses one sees in ancient prints, the old bar being of course missing. The gate-post, however, still remained, and snow having fallen in the night the scene presented was truly wintry and picturesque. The antique house with its broad, smoking chimney at the end had apparently been added to since the photograph had been taken, for at right angles was a new wing of red brick, converting it into quite a comfortable abode. Yet, as we approached, the old place rising out of the white, snow-covered plain breathed mutely of those forgotten days when the York and London coaches passed it, when masked gentlemen-of-the-road lurked in these dark, fir plantations which stood out beyond the open common at Kirkhouse Green, and when the post-boys were never tired of singing the praises of those wonderful cheeses at the old Bell in Stilton.

Our driver passed the place and about a quarter of a mile further on we stopped him, alighted and walked back together, ordering the man to await us.

On knocking at the door an aged old woman in cap and ribbons, opened it, whereupon Reggie, who assumed the position of spokesman, made excuse that we were passing, and, noticing by its exterior that the place was evidently an old toll-house, could not resist the inducement to call and request to be allowed to look within.

“I’m sure you’re very welcome, gentlemen,” answered the woman, in her broad, Yorkshire dialect. “It’s an old place and lots o’ folk have been here and looked over it in my time.”

Across the room were the black old beams of two centuries before, the old chimney-corner looked warm and cosy with its oaken, well-polished settle, and the big pot simmering upon the fire. The furniture, too, was little changed since the old coaching days, while about the place was a general air of affluence and comfort.

“You’ve lived here a long time, I suppose?” Reggie inquired, when we had glanced around and noted the little lancet window in the chimney-corner whence the toll-keeper in the old days could obtain a view for miles along the highroad that ran away across the open moorlands.

“I’ve been here this three-and-twenty years come next Michaelmas.”

“And your husband?”

“Oh! he’s here,” she laughed, then called, “Come here, Henry, where are you?” and then she added, “He’s never left here once since he came home from sea eighteen years ago. We’re both so very attached to the old place. A bit lonely, folks would call it, but Burghwallis is only a mile away.”

At mention of her husband’s return from sea we both pricked up our ears. Here was evidently the man for whom Burton Blair had searched the length and breadth of England.

Chapter Nineteen

Which Contains a Clue

A door opened and there came forward a tall, thin, wiry old man with white hair and a pointed grey beard. He had evidently retired on our arrival in order to change his coat, for he wore a blue reefer jacket which had had but little wear, but the collar of which was twisted, showing that he had only that moment assumed it.

His face was deeply wrinkled with long, straight furrows across the brows; the countenance of a man who for years had been exposed to rigours of wind and weather in varying climates.

Having welcomed us, he laughed lightly when we explained our admiration for old houses. We were Londoners, we explained, and toll-houses and their associations with the antiquated locomotion of the past always charmed us.

“Yes,” he said, in a rather refined voice for such a rough exterior, “they were exciting days, those. Nowadays the motor car has taken the place of the picturesque coach and team, and they rush past here backwards and forwards, blowing their horns at every hour of the day and night. Half the time we have a constable lying in wait in the back garden ready to time them on to Campsall, and take ’em to the Petty Sessions afterwards!” he laughed; “and fancy this at the very spot where Claude Duval held up the Duke of Northumberland and afterwards gallantly escorted Lady Mary Percy back to Selby.”

The old fellow seemed to deplore the passing of the good old days, for he was one of what is known as “the old school,” full of narrow-minded prejudices against every new-fangled idea, whether it be in medicine, religion or politics, and declaring that when he was a youth men were men and could hold their own successfully against the foreigner, either in the peace of commerce or in the clash of arms.

To my utter surprise he told us that his name was Hales – the same as that of Mabel’s secret lover, and as we chatted with him we learned that he had been a good many years at sea, mostly in the Atlantic and Mediterranean trades.

“Well, you seem pretty comfortable now,” I remarked, smiling, “a cosy house, a good wife, and everything to make you happy.”

“You’re right,” he answered, taking down a long clay pipe from the rack over the open hearth. “A man wants nowt more. I’m contented enough and I only wish everybody in Yorkshire was as comfortable this hard weather.”

The aged pair seemed flattered at receiving us as visitors, and good-naturedly offered us a glass of ale.

“It’s home-brewed, you know,” declared Mrs Hales. “The likes of us can’t afford wine. Just taste it,” she urged, and being thus pressed we were glad of an excuse to extend our visit.

The old lady had bustled out to the kitchen to fetch glasses, when Reggie rose to his feet, closed the door quickly, and, turning to Hales, said in a low voice —

“We want to have five minutes’ private conversation with you, Mr Hales. Do you recognise this?” and he drew forth the photograph and held it before the old man’s eyes.

“Why, it’s a picture o’ my house,” he exclaimed in surprise. “But what’s the matter!”

“Nothing, only just answer my questions. They are most important, and our real object in coming here is to put them to you. First, have you ever known a man named Blair – Burton Blair.”

“Burton Blair!” echoed the old fellow, his hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned forward intently. “Yes, why?”

“He discovered a secret, didn’t he?”

“Yes, through me – made millions out of it, they say.”

“When did you last see him?”

“About five or six years ago.”

“When he discovered you living here?”

“That’s it. He searched every road in England to find me.”

“You gave him this photograph?”

“No, I think he stole it.”

“Where did you first meet him?”

“On board the Mary Crowle in the port of Antwerp. He was at sea, like myself. But why do you wish to know all this?”

“Because,” answered Reggie, “Burton Blair is dead, and his secret has been bequeathed to my friend here, Mr Gilbert Greenwood.”

“Burton Blair dead!” cried the old man, jumping to his feet as though he had received a shock. “Burton dead! Does Dicky Dawson know this?”

“Yes, and he is in London,” I replied.

“Ah!” he ejaculated, with impatience, as though the premature knowledge held by the man Dawson had upset all his plans. “Who told him? How the devil did he know?”

I had to confess ignorance, but in reply to his demand I deplored the tragic suddenness of our friend’s decease, and how I had been left in possession of the pack of cards upon which the cipher had been written.

“Have you any idea what his secret really was?” asked the wiry old fellow. “I mean of where his great wealth came from?”

“None whatever,” was my reply. “Perhaps you can tell us something?”

“No,” he snapped, “I can’t. He became suddenly rich, although only a month or so before he was on tramp and starving. He found me and I gave him certain information for which I was afterwards well repaid. It was this information, he told me, which formed the key to the secret.”

“Was it anything to do with this pack of cards and the cipher?” I inquired eagerly.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen the cards you mention. When he arrived here one cold night, he was exhausted and starving and dead beat. I gave him a meal and a bed, and told him what he wanted to know. Next morning, with money borrowed from me, he took train to London and the next I heard of him was a letter which stated that he had paid into the County Bank at York to my credit one thousand pounds, as we had arranged to be the price of the information. And I tell you, gentlemen, nobody was more surprised than I was to receive a letter from the bank next day, confirming it. He afterwards deposited a similar sum in the bank, on the first of January every year – as a little present, he said.”

“Then you never saw him after the night that his search for you was successful?”

“No, not once,” Hales answered, addressing his wife, who had just entered, saying that he was engaged in a private conversation, and requesting her to leave us, which she did. “Burton Blair was a queer character,” Hales continued, addressing me, “he always was. No better sailor ever ate salt junk. He was absolutely fearless and a splendid navigator. He knew the Mediterranean as other men know Cable Street, Whitechapel, and had led a life cram-full of adventure. But he was a reckless devil ashore – very reckless. I remember once how we both narrowly escaped with our lives at a little town outside Algiers. He pulled an Arab girl’s veil off her face out of sheer mischief, and, when she raised the alarm, we had to make ourselves scarce, pretty quick, I can tell you,” and he laughed heartily at the recollection of certain sprees ashore. “But both he and I had had pretty tough times in the Cameroons and in the Andes. I was older than he, and when I first met him I laughed at what I believed to be his ignorance. But I soon saw that he’d crammed about double the amount of travelling and adventure into his short spell than ever I had done, for he had a happy knack of deserting and going up country whenever an opportunity offered. He’d fought in half-a-dozen revolutions in Central and South America and used to declare that the rebels in Guatemala, had, on one occasion, elected him Minister of Commerce!”

“Yes,” I agreed, “he was in many ways a most remarkable man with a most remarkable history His life was a mystery from beginning to end, and it is that mystery which now, after his death, I am trying to unravel.”

“Ah! I fear you’ll find it a very difficult task,” replied his old friend, shaking his head. “Blair was secret in everything. He never let his right hand know what his left did. You could never get at the bottom of his ingenuity, or at his motives. And,” he added, as though it were an afterthought, “can you assign any reason why he should have left his secret in your hands?”

“Well, only gratitude,” I replied. “I was able on one occasion to render him a little assistance.”

“I know. He told me all about it – how you had both put his girl to school, and all that. But,” he went on, “Blair had some motive when he left you that unintelligible cipher, depend upon it. He knew well enough that you would never obtain its solution alone.”

“Why?”

“Because others had tried before you and failed.”

“Who are they?” I inquired, much surprised.

“Dick Dawson is one. If he had succeeded he might have stood in Blair’s shoes – a millionaire. Only he wasn’t quite cute enough, and the secret passed on to your friend.”

“Then you don’t anticipate that I shall ever discover the solution of the cipher?”

“No,” answered the old man, very frankly, “I don’t. But what of his girl – Mabel, I think she was called?”

“She’s in London and has inherited everything,” I replied; whereat the old fellow’s furrowed face broadened into a grim smile, and he remarked —

“A fine catch for some young fellow, she’d make. Ah! if you could induce her to tell all she knows she could place you in possession of her father’s secret.”

“Does she actually know it?” I cried quickly. “Are you certain of this?”

“I am; she knows the truth. Ask her.”

“I will,” I declared. “But cannot you tell us the nature of the information you gave to Blair on that night when he re-discovered you?” I asked persuasively.

“No,” he replied in a decisive tone, “it was a confidential matter and must remain as such. I was paid for my services, and as far as I am concerned, I have wiped my hands of the affair.”

“But you could tell me something concerning this strange quest of Blair’s – something, I mean, that might put me on the track of the solution of the secret.”

“The secret of how he gained his wealth, you mean, eh?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, my dear sir, you’ll never discover that – mark me – if you live to be a hundred. Burton Blair took jolly good care to hide that from everybody.”

“And he was well assisted by such men as your self,” I said, rather impertinently, I fear.

“Perhaps, perhaps so,” he said quickly, his face flushing. “I promised him secrecy and I’ve kept my promise, for I owe my present comfortable circumstances solely to his generosity.”

“A millionaire can do anything, of course. His money secures him his friends.”

“Friends, yes,” replied the old man, gravely; “but not happiness. Poor Burton Blair was one of the unhappiest of men, that I am quite certain of.”

He spoke the truth, I knew. The millionaire had himself many times declared to me in confidence that he had been far happier in his days of penury and careless adventure beyond the seas, than as possessor of that great West End mansion, and the first estate in Herefordshire.

“Look here,” exclaimed Hales, suddenly, glancing keenly from Reggie to myself, “I give you warning,” and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “You say that Dick Dawson has returned – beware of him. He means mischief, you may bet your hat on that! Be very careful of his girl, too, she knows more than you think.”

“We have a faint suspicion that Blair did not die a natural death,” I remarked.

“You have?” he exclaimed, starting. “What causes you to anticipate that?”

“The circumstances were so remarkable,” I replied, and continuing, I explained the tragic affair just as I have written it here.

“You don’t suspect Dicky Dawson, I suppose?” the old fellow asked anxiously.

“Why? Had he any motive for getting rid of our friend?”

“Ah! I don’t know. Dicky is a very funny customer. He always held Blair beneath his thumb. They were a truly remarkable pair; the one blossoming forth into a millionaire, and the other living strictly in secret somewhere abroad – in Italy, I think.”

“Dawson must have had some very strong motive for remaining so quiet,” I observed.

“Because he was compelled,” answered Hales, with a mysterious shake of the head. “There were reasons why he shouldn’t show his face. Myself, I wonder why he has dared to do so now.”

“What!” I cried eagerly, “is he wanted by the police or something?”

“Well,” answered the old man, after some hesitation, “I don’t think he’d welcome a visit from any of those inquisitive gentlemen from Scotland Yard. Only remember I make no charges, none at all. If, however, he attempts any sharp practice, you may just casually mention that Harry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming up to London to pay him a morning call. Just watch what effect those words will have upon him,” and the old man chuckled to himself, adding, “Ah! Mr Dicky-bird Dawson, you’ve got to reckon with me yet, I fancy.”

“Then you’ll assist us?” I cried in eagerness. “You can save Mabel Blair if you will?”

“I’ll do all I can,” was Hales’ outspoken reply, “for I recognise that there’s some very ingenious conspiracy afoot somewhere.” Then, after a long pause, during which he had re-filled his long clay, and his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon mine, the old man added, “You told me a little while ago that Blair had left you his secret, but you didn’t explain to me the exact terms of his will. Was anything said about it?”

“In the clause which bequeaths it to me is a strange rhyme which runs —

”‘King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens.He’d one short of seven – and nine or ten scenes!’

“and he also urged me to preserve the secret from every man as he had done. But,” I added bitterly, “the secret being in cipher I cannot obtain knowledge of it.”

“And have you no key?” smiled the hard-faced old seafarer in the thick reefer.

“None – unless,” and at that moment a strange thought flashed for the first time upon me, “unless the key is actually concealed within that rhyme!” I repeated the couplet aloud. Yes, all the cards of that piquet pack were mentioned in it – king, eight, knave, queen, seven, nine, ten!

My heart leapt within me. Could it be possible that by arranging the cards in the following order the record could be read?

If so, then Burton Blair’s strange secret was mine at last!

I mentioned my sudden and startling theory, when the tall old fellow’s grey face broadened into a triumphant grin and he said —

“Arrange the cards and try it.”

Chapter Twenty

The Reading of the Record

The envelope containing the thirty-two cards reposed in my pocket, together with the linen-mounted photograph, therefore, clearing the square old oak table, I opened them out eagerly, while Reggie and the old man watched me breathlessly.

“The first mentioned in the rhyme is king,” I said. “Let us have all four kings together.”

Having arranged them, I placed the four eights, the four knaves, the queens, aces, sevens, nines and tens, in the order given by the doggerel.

Reggie was quicker than I was in reading down the first column and declared it to be a hopeless jumble entirely unintelligible. I read for myself, and, deeply disappointed, was compelled to admit that the key was not, after all, to be found there.

Yet I recollected what my friend in Leicester had explained, how the record would be found in the first letter on each card being read consecutively from one to another through the whole pack, and tried over and over again to arrange them in intelligible order, but without any success. The cipher was just as tantalising and bewildering as it had ever been.

Whole nights I had spent with Reggie, trying in vain to make something of it, but failing always, unable to make out one single word.

I transcribed the letters backwards, but the result upon my piece of paper was the same.

“No,” remarked old Hales, “you haven’t got hold of it yet. I’m sure, however, you are near it. That rhyme gives the key – you mark me.”

“I honestly believe it does if we could only discover the proper arrangement,” I declared in breathless excitement.

“That’s just it,” remarked Reggie, in dismay. “That’s just where the ingenuity of the cipher lies. It’s so very simple, and yet so extraordinarily complicated that the possible combinations run into millions. Think of it!”

“But we have the rhyme which distinctly shows their arrangement: —

”‘King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queen,He’d one short of seven and nine or ten – ’

“That’s plain enough, and we ought, of course, to have seen it from the first,” I said.

“Well, try the king of one suit, the eight of another, the knave of another – and so on,” Hales suggested, bending with keen interest over the faces of the pigmy cards.

Without loss of time I took his advice, and carefully relaid the cards in the manner he suggested. But again the result was an unintelligible array of letters, puzzling, baffling and disappointing.

I recollected what my expert friend had told me, and my heart sank.

“Don’t you really know now the means by which the problem can be solved?” I asked of old Mr Hales, being seized with suspicion that he was well aware of it.

“I’m sure I can’t tell you,” was his quick response. “To me, however, it seems certain that the rhyme in some way forms the key. Try another assortment.”

“Which? What other can I try?” I asked blankly, but he only shook his head.

Reggie, with paper and pencil, was trying to make the letters intelligible by the means I had several times tried – namely, by substituting A for B, C for D, and so on. Then he tried two letters added, three letters added, and more still, in order to discover some key, but, like myself, he was utterly foiled.

Meanwhile, the old man who seemed to be fingering the cards with increased interest was, I saw, trying to rearrange them himself by placing his finger upon one and then another, and then a third, as though he knew the proper arrangement, and was reading the record to himself.

Was it possible that he actually held the key to what we had displayed, and was learning Burton Blair’s secret while we remained in ignorance of it!

Of a sudden, the wiry old seafarer straightened his back, and, looking at me, exclaimed, with a triumphant smile —

“Now, look here, Mr Greenwood, there are four suites, aren’t there? Try them in alphabetical order – that would be clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades. First take all the clubs and arrange them king, eight, knave, queen, ace, seven, nine, ten, then the diamonds, and afterwards the other two suites. Then see what you make of it.”

Assisted by Reggie, I proceeded to again resort the cards into suites, and to arrange them according to the rhyme in four columns of eight each upon the table, the suites as he suggested, in alphabetical order.

“At last!” shouted Reggie, almost beside himself with joy. “At last! Why, we’ve got it, old chap! Look! Read the first letter on each card straight down, one after the other? What do you make it spell?”

All three of us were breathless – old Hales apparently the most excited of all – or perhaps, he had been misleading us and pretending ignorance.

I had, as yet, only placed the first suite, the clubs, but they read as follows: —

King. B O N T D R N N C R O A U I T

Eight. E I T Y G O J T A E N N W N H

Knave. T N H J E N T Y N D J O I D E

Queen. W T E S J T H F D T O L L T C

Ace. E W J I W H E O E H N D L H R

Seven. E H L X H E F U F E E E F E O

Nine. N E E P E F I R E R W O I O S

Ten. T R F A R I F J N E I N N L S

“Why!” I cried, staring at the first intelligible word I had discovered. “The first column commences ‘Between.’”

“Yes, and I see other words in the other columns!” cried Reggie, excitedly snatching some of the cards from me in his excitement, and assisting me to rearrange the other suites.

Those moments were among the most breathless and exciting of my life. The great secret which had brought Burton Blair all his fabulous wealth was about to be revealed to us.

It might render me a millionaire as it had already done its dead possessor!

At last the cards being all arranged in their proper order, the eight diamonds, eight hearts and eight spades beneath the eight clubs, I took a pencil and wrote down the first letter on each card.

“Yes!” I cried, almost beside myself with excitement, “the arrangement is perfect. Blair’s secret is revealed!”

“Why, it’s some kind of record!” exclaimed Reggie. “And it begins with the words ‘Between the Ponte del Diavolo!’ That’s Italian for the Devil’s Bridge, I suppose!”