The Secret of the Screens
The library door closed upon the three prisoners. Goodall’s mouth was
set in lines that were grim and hard—the man-hunting game is no
occupation for the squeamish. “Clegg and his men will have them in the
cells in no time,” he declared. “And the papers will sell well
to-morrow morning.”
But his remark evoked no response from the others—all eyes had gone to
Charles Stewart. He had sunk into a chair—the very chair, as it
happened, where his father had been sitting when he had met his
death—thoroughly overcome by the events of the evening. “Butterworth,”
he muttered incredulously in a broken voice—“Butterworth! A man that
my father would have trusted with anything”—he put his head into his
hands and his shoulders shook in his emotion.
“Come—come,” said Anthony, “you mustn’t break down like
this—personally I was somewhat relieved to find that it was
Butterworth whom we were trailing and not anybody else.”
Stewart lifted up his face and looked at Anthony searchingly. “You
were _relieved_?” he queried. “Didn’t you know then till to-night?”
“Some time before to-night, Mr. Stewart,” replied Bathurst with a
sympathetic movement of the head. “You see I had some occasion to
suspect him from the very first.”
Stewart looked at him again blankly and a trifle doubtfully. “To me,”
he continued, “it has come as a very great shock. I don’t think I
shall ever be able to forget it.”
Anthony patted him on the shoulder and went across to the others in
the room. Goodall picked up the two screens—the two objects that had
been engaging the attention of Alice Mortimer as she knelt upon the
floor just prior to the arrest. He placed them on the table—in its
center—Anthony removing everything else to obtain clear room-space.
Then he looked carefully at the screens. There they stood——the one
that had come back to the house from which it had been removed—the
other just as Peter Daventry had seen it in the Hanover Galleries
before the murders. The first had been the property of Laurence P.
Stewart, who had been murdered. The second had been the property of
Lord Clavering, who had died in his bed. The screens were as they had
been for over three hundred years—they had defied Time, and up to now
had defied also the challenging and predatory lusts of men. Stewart’s
screen was of the dark bronze-like metal work that Marjorie Lennox had
described. It stood about four feet high, with the Queen’s Lion in the
top left-hand corner and the “fleur-de-lis” in the corresponding
position on the right. In the middle could be read the two words from
Virgil—“_Timeo Danaos_”—they had been scratched on with infinite care
and patience. Below them swam the fish just as Miss Lennox had
pictured it. At the bottom, in the two corners, were the Leopards and
Lilies of England—the Leopards directly beneath the Lion and the
Lilies below the “fleur-de-lis.” Lord Clavering’s screen, that had
traveled to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ and thence to Mr. and Mrs.
“Snoop” Mortimer, stood perhaps an inch or two higher—upon a carved
wood pedestal. The glass-shielded tapestry was just as Peter Daventry
remembered it. It was the counterpart of the other as regards
decoration and ornament, save for its centerpiece. The colored beads
took the place of the Latin words—they were all that there was
there—“JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.” Peter pointed to the fourth
word, “It is written in full,” he exclaimed, “just as I told you.”
Anthony nodded.
“Yes—that’s all right. I’ve abandoned that particular theory.” He
turned to the others, who were beginning to be infected with his
strange combination of eagerness, enthusiasm and excitement. “Judging
from the faces of the little gathering that we were discourteous
enough just recently to interrupt,” he declared, “I don’t fancy that
the lady had successfully interpreted the riddle that her father had
put in front of her.”
“Her father,” interjected Goodall, “you mean her husband, Mr.
Bathurst!”
“I don’t,” smiled Anthony, “I mean her father, as I said—you will find
that Alice Mortimer was _née_ Butterworth—she met her esteemed husband
in the States.”
Charles Stewart gasped and Peter Daventry raised his eyes in
astonishment.
“Assuming therefore,” continued Anthony, “that the secret of the
screens still remains unsolved, I purpose putting a little idea of
mine to the test—I think you will find it interesting, gentlemen.” He
walked to the French doors. “O’Connor,” he called. The black-bearded
giant stepped smartly into the room.
“At your service, Mr. Bathurst—what is it that you’re wantin’ of me?”
Anthony pointed to the smaller of the two screens. “You know a good
deal about metal work, O’Connor,” he exclaimed, “have a look over
here, will you?” Michael O’Connor strode across to the table. “What
would be the effect, O’Connor, of heavy blows upon this metal work?”
O’Connor ran his fingers over the embossed surface of the screen. Then
he ran them through his hair. “Would it be with a hammer that you
mean?” he questioned doubtfully.
“Yes—something of that kind.”
“Well”—he scratched his head still more doubtfully—“you could beat it
and beat it and kape on beatin’ it. You could knock it into all shapes
and that ’ud be about all you could do—you couldn’t knock holes into
it. It’s old and hard that metal work is—and it ’ud stand all the
banging you could give it. That’s my opinion, sir.” He paused and
looked round at them, as though inviting either a criticism or a
confirmation of what he had stated.
From Anthony there came the latter. “Just my own opinion, O’Connor,”
he declared, “it would stand as much hammering as you chose to give
it.” He walked up to the table and inspected the two screens intently.
Goodall and Peter Daventry joined him, while Charles Stewart came
round to the other side of them. Suddenly Bathurst put his finger on
the point of the metal work that comprised the eye of the swimming
fish. But to no purpose—and his circle of spectators saw something
like a gleam of disappointment cross his face. Then he tried a second
time—the forefinger of his left hand pushing on the fish’s eye and the
forefinger of his right pressing on its tail! There was a sudden
clicking sound and a sharp exclamation of amazement from Charles
Stewart. As though by magic the embossed body of the fish on the
reverse side of the screen to which Bathurst had pressed, swung
away—revealing a cavity in the metal work the size of a man’s hand.
Anthony plunged his hand into it and drew out what looked like a wad
of discolored cotton wool.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, with dramatic triumph, “allow me to introduce
you to the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine.’”