A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Annesley went to the smoking-room, and read the morning news until the
detective came in. Mr. Paul Asbury was punctual to the moment, and
there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes that spoke of success and
self-confidence.
“Good-morning, Sir Harold,” he said. “I must thank you for remaining in
London at my request, as your presence will very much simplify matters.”
“What news?” demanded Annesley.
“I have traced the person who wrote the threatening letter to Lady
Annesley, and require further instructions from you.”
“Go on.” Sir Harold endeavored to be calm, but his muscles twitched
nervously.
“Must I take steps to make an arrest?”
“Certainly. I mean to make an example of these people. Mr. Asbury,
allow me to congratulate you upon your success.”
The detective looked away for a moment, then he said:
“Before you become too enthusiastic, Sir Harold, I wish you to listen
to a few particulars. From the very first I had no belief in the story
of the vendetta, save in the imagination of Mr. Hamilton. We have
investigated dozens of such stories, and discovered them to be mere
bubbles. Upon leaving you yesterday I telegraphed for particulars of
Lambert Egerton, Count Crispi, and Theresa Ludovic to no less than four
reliable agents stationed in Italy. The replies satisfy me that the
relatives of Count Crispi made a few threats when the surgeon, Lambert
Egerton, ran away with the ward of his illustrious client. There the
matter ended, save in the imagination of Egerton himself.”
Annesley shook his head impatiently.
“But the man who was stabbed in the streets of London--the man who
resembled Egerton?” he asked.
“No such thing ever took place--not as described by Lady Annesley’s
father. My assistants have made an exhaustive search through the
records,” smiled Mr. Asbury. “The fact is Mr. Hamilton--or Mr.
Egerton--became a monomaniac upon that one subject. His mind dwelt upon
it until he thoroughly believed in it.”
Still Annesley was not convinced.
“The badly-scrawled note that I found upon the night of his death. How
do you account for that?”
“Without a doubt he wrote it himself,” the detective said, confidently.
“I have met with similar cases, Sir Harold.”
“Mr. Asbury, I am woefully disappointed,” the baronet said. “Nothing
but theory--not one atom of fact. And yet you talk of making an arrest!”
“Yes; and it depends upon you whether it is wise to take such a step.
You admit having let one other person into the secret--the secret of
this supposed danger that menaces you and Lady Annesley.”
“Well?”
“This person is the author of the last anonymous warning, and if you
insist upon an arrest, you will be called upon to prosecute your
cousin--Miss Margaret Nugent!”
Sir Harold stared at the detective--pale and speechless for a minute.
The monstrous charge against Margaret appeared too much to believe.
Then he thought of what Lady Elaine had said--of Theresa’s dislike, and
exclaimed, huskily:
“Proof! proof!”
“As plain as the nose on my face,” Mr. Asbury smiled. “I submitted
the letter of warning, or whatever the nonsense may be termed, to
one of the best experts in handwriting in all London, together with
an assortment of the letters you gave me. My expert unhesitatingly
declared that the writer of the letters signed Margaret Nugent was
author of the anonymous one delivered here by hand. If you are not yet
fully satisfied we can find the boy who brought the letter, though it
may occupy several days. A reward must be offered, and advertisements
put in the papers.”
“The result has shocked me severely,” Annesley said, after a long
silence, “though I am greatly relieved to find that we have been chased
by a mere shadow. I scarcely know how to break the disgraceful news to
Lady Annesley, and must insist upon Miss Nugent making some sort of a
confession to completely satisfy my wife, whose health her insane folly
has viciously undermined. Mr. Asbury, I must turn the thing over in my
mind for a little while before giving you my final instructions. I am
bitterly annoyed and ashamed.”
“I can understand that, Sir Harold,” the detective said, rising.
“One minute, please,” Annesley said. “I am so well satisfied with your
abilities, Mr. Asbury, that I shall esteem it a favor if you will
undertake another little case in which I am interested.”
“I shall be pleased, Sir Harold, but if you will excuse me for an hour
I shall be glad. I am expecting a cable from New York which must be
answered promptly.”
Sir Harold glanced at his watch. It was exactly eight o’clock.
“If you like, Mr. Asbury, I will walk with you,” he said. “I have
exactly an hour to spare, and I want to think how best to approach my
wife with this shameful story.”
“I am at your service, Sir Harold,” was the respectful rejoinder.
The baronet rang for Stimson.
“I am going out for an hour or two, Stimson. You will tell her ladyship
if she inquires for me.”
Now, it happened that Theresa had dressed, and was standing at the head
of the main staircase when Annesley and the detective went out.
“Bad news,” she thought, “or my husband would come to me at once.”
Then Stimson informed her that his master would not be back for an
hour, and she retired to her sitting-room.
In the meantime, Sir Harold and Paul Asbury walked to Scotland Yard.
The detective’s business with one of his subordinates occupied but a
few minutes, and he left the office, looking well pleased.
“Sir Harold,” he said, “one more question, please. When did Miss Nugent
leave you to return to Ashbourne?”
“Oh, some time before my illness--ten or twelve days since.”
“I have just received information that she left the Victoria Hotel,
and proceeded to the house of a lady friend in Bayswater, where she
is still staying. Now, the sooner this silly business is exploded the
better, or she may be tempted to perpetrate some new joke. I can now do
nothing more unless I receive instructions from you.”
“Can you furnish me with Miss Nugent’s present address?” demanded
Annesley, savagely.
The detective promptly scribbled a few words on the back of one of his
cards, and gave it to the baronet. This is the address he wrote down:
MRS. NORTON, The Laurels, Bayswater.
“Mrs. Norton is a lady of fashion,” the detective remarked, “and her
place is well known. If you do not object, Sir Harold, I prefer to
discuss the remaining business in the Café Royal. It is close here, and
I have a private room upstairs. We never know who is spying about.”
He stepped briskly along, and suddenly turned into a low archway facing
Trafalgar Square. He opened a door with his passkey, and ran up three
flights of stairs, at the top of which was a small, dingy-looking room.
“Now, sir,” he went on, “one touch upon this electric button and a
waiter appears. I intend having coffee--black and strong. It is the
best nerve sedative I know of.”
“Order two cups,” said Annesley. “I shall not detain you five minutes
with the new business.”
“And then?”
“I am going direct to Bayswater.” Mr. Asbury smiled grimly. He had not
told his client all that he knew.
The coffee was promptly served, and Sir Harold began, briefly:
“It is possible, Mr. Asbury, that you have heard something of the idle
gossip concerning myself and Lady Elaine Seabright?”
“I know the whole story from beginning to end, Sir Harold. Even to the
later scheming of a swell named Rivington to secure the late earl’s
fortune by a marriage between himself and Lady Elaine.”
“Go on.”
“And that there appears to be every probability of his success, luckily
for him!”
“It is false--utterly false!” Annesley said, fiercely. “Lady Elaine
hates the man, and I want you to protect her.”
“I hardly understand you.”
“It is plain enough. I will pay you to keep a man on the watch--to
protect Lady Elaine against any of this villain’s schemes. Any unusual
movement is to be promptly reported to me, as the man made certain
threats yesterday which have made me uneasy.”
“I understand thoroughly, Sir Harold, and I will say this much, in
confidence, that Viscount Henry Rivington is already under police
surveillance. Upon two separate occasions have applications been made
to the lord mayor for warrants for his apprehension. By arrangement
they have not been executed, but his safety depends upon his obtaining
the fortune left by the late Earl of Seabright. His creditors will not
be hoodwinked. It is either the money, for value obtained in many cases
under false pretenses, or his body.”
Sir Harold gave the detective a silent pressure of the hand, as he rose.
“There is no need for me to say more,” he observed, reaching for his
hat; “I am now going to Bayswater, and any communication will reach me
at the Victoria Hotel.”
The detective nodded, said “good-morning,” and Annesley hurried
downstairs and into the streets, which were gradually awakening to the
usual business of life.
“Nine o’clock,” he reflected. “Theresa will wonder what has become of
me. But this disgraceful conduct of Margaret must be promptly punished.
I will never forgive her--never.”
He signaled to the first passing cab, jumped in, and told the man to
drive quickly to the Laurels, Bayswater.
Arrived there, he was informed by a flunkey that the family was out.
“Since when?” demanded Annesley.
“Last night, sir.”
“Miss Nugent, of Ashbourne, has been staying with Mrs. Norton?” he
asked.
“Yes, sir. She and my mistress left for Ashbourne by the six o’clock
train last evening,” the footman replied.
Annesley was bitterly annoyed, but the matter could not be helped, of
course. Unfortunately, he met one or two people who detained him, and
when he reached his hotel it was half-an-hour past noon.
He ran upstairs, and was met in the anteroom by Stimson.
“I was just wondering, Sir Harold, what was best to be done,” he said,
“as I did not know what to order for lunch. I never did feel at home in
a hotel.”
“Why did you not consult Lady Annesley?” demanded Sir Harold,
pettishly, and Stimson stared.
“Her ladyship followed you out, master,” he said, a sense of impending
evil suddenly coming over him.
“Followed me! Nonsense, man! You must be dreaming!” cried the baronet.
“No, Sir Harold! I gave her ladyship your message, and she just had
one cup of tea in her private sitting-room; then she came out, fully
dressed, and told me that she was going out.”
Sir Harold was bewildered. Still, why should not Theresa go for a walk
if she felt inclined?
He stared blankly at his valet for a few moments; then he turned
suddenly, and walked into his wife’s apartments, thinking:
“She may have left some written message for me.”
In this conjecture he was right; a sealed envelope, addressed to him in
Theresa’s handwriting, lay on the table before him.
Snatching it up, he tore open the envelope, took out the letter it
contained, and read as follows:
My darling--my beloved--I am going away from you forever--away into
the unknown shadow land, where I shall be no bar to your happiness in
this world. I have loved you--and shall ever love you, as no other
woman can love--so much that it is infinite misery to me to know that
I am not all in all to you. I am the bar between you and Lady Elaine;
I am even the unhappy fate that causes my king to be menaced by a
cruel death! At last, Harold, my darling, my beloved, it is ended, but
my spirit will be with you. Good-by. Your unhappy
THERESA.