“But, Harley,” I said, “assuming that he knew his victim would be the
next occupant of the room, how could he know------?”
I stopped. Suddenly, as if a curtain had been raised, the details of
what I now perceived to be a fiendishly cunning murder were revealed to
me.
“According to his own account, Knox,” resumed Harley, “Major Ragstaff
regularly passed along that street with military punctuality at the same
hour every night. You may take it for granted that the murderer was well
aware of this. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that he was. We
must also take it for granted that the murderer knew of these little
dinners for two which took place in the private room above the Cafe
Dame every Wednesday--and sometimes on Friday. Around the figure of the
methodical major--with his conspicuous white hat as a sort of focus--was
built up one of the most ingenious schemes of murder with which I have
ever come in contact. The victim literally killed himself.”
“But, Harley, the victim might have ignored the disturbance.”
“That is where I first detected the touch of genius, Knox. He recognized
the voice of one of the combatants--or his companion did. Here we are.”
The cab drew up before the house in Hamilton Place. We alighted, and
Harley pressed the bell. The same footman whom I had seen admit the
woman opened the door.
“Is Lady Ireton at home?” asked Harley.
As he uttered the name I literally held my breath. We had come to the
house of Major Ragstaff's daughter, the Marchioness of Ireton, one of
society's most celebrated and beautiful hostesses!--the wife of a peer
famed alike as sportsman, soldier, and scholar.
“I believe she is dining at home, sir,” said the man. “Shall I inquire?”
“Be good enough to do so,” replied Harley, and gave him a card. “Inform
her that I wish to return to her a handbag which she lost a few days
ago.”
The man ushered us into an anteroom opening off the lofty and rather
gloomy hall, and as the door closed:
“Harley,” I said in a stage whisper, “am I to believe------”
“Can you doubt it?” returned Harley with a grim smile.
A few moments later we were shown into a charmingly intimate little
boudoir in which Lady Ireton was waiting to receive us. She was a
strikingly handsome brunette, but to-night her face, which normally,
I think, possessed rich colouring, was almost pallid, and there was a
hunted look in her dark eyes which made me wish to be anywhere rather
than where I found myself. Without preamble she rose and addressed
Harley:
“I fail to understand your message, sir,” she said, and I admired the
imperious courage with which she faced him. “You say you have recovered
a handbag which I had lost?”
Harley bowed, and from the pocket of his greatcoat took out a
silken-tasselled bag.
“The one which you left in the Cafe Dame, Lady Ireton,” he replied.
“Here also I have”--from another pocket he drew out a diamond
ring--“something which was extorted from you by the fellow Meyer.”
Without touching her recovered property, Lady Ireton sank slowly
down into the chair from which she had arisen, her gaze fixed as if
hypnotically upon the speaker.
“My friend, Mr. Knox, is aware of all the circumstances,” continued
the latter, “but he is as anxious as I am to terminate this painful
interview. I surmise that what occurred on Wednesday night was
this--(correct me if I am wrong): While dining with Mr. De Lana you
heard sounds of altercation in the street below. May I suggest that you
recognized one of the voices?”
Lady Ireton, still staring straight before her at Harley, inclined her
head in assent.
“I heard my father's voice,” she said hoarsely.
“Quite so,” he continued. “I am aware that Major Ragstaff is your
father.” He turned to me: “Do you recognize the touch of genius at
last?” Then, again addressing Lady Ireton: “You naturally suggested to
your companion that he should look out of the window in order to learn
what was taking place. The next thing you knew was that he had fallen
into the street below?”
Lady Ireton shuddered and raised her hands to her face.
“It is retribution,” she whispered. “I have brought this ruin upon
myself. But he does not deserve------”
Her voice faded into silence, and:
“You refer to your husband, Lord Ireton?” said Harley.
Lady Ireton nodded, and again recovering power of speech:
“It was to have been our last meeting,” she said, looking up at Harley.
She shuddered, and her eyes blazed into sudden fierceness. Then,
clenching her hands, she looked aside.
“Oh, God, the shame of this hour!” she whispered.
And I would have given much to have been spared the spectacle of this
proud, erring woman's humiliation. But Paul Harley was scientifically
remorseless. I could detect no pity in his glance.
“I would give my life willingly to spare my husband the knowledge of
what has been,” said Lady Ireton in a low, monotonous voice. “Three
times I sent my maid to Meyer to recover my bag, but he demanded a price
which even I could not pay. Now it is all discovered, and Harry will
know.”
“That, I fear, is unavoidable, Lady Ireton,” declared Harley. “May I ask
where Lord Ireton is at present?”
“He is in Africa after big game.”
“H'm,” said Harley, “in Africa, and after big game? I can offer you one
consolation, Lady Ireton. In his own interests Meyer will stick to his
first assertion that Mr. De Lana was dining alone.”
A strange, horribly pathetic look came into the woman's haunted eyes.
“You--you--are not acting for------?” she began.
“I am acting for no one,” replied Harley tersely. “Upon my friend's
discretion you may rely as upon my own.”
“Then why should he ever know?” she whispered.
“Why, indeed,” murmured Harley, “since he is in Africa?”
As we descended the stair to the hall my friend paused and pointed to a
life-sized oil painting by London's most fashionable portrait painter.
It was that of a man in the uniform of a Guards officer, a dark man,
slightly gray at the temples, his face very tanned as if by exposure to
the sun.
“Having had no occasion for disguise when the portrait was painted,”
said Harley, “Lord Ireton appears here without the beard; and as he is
not represented smiling one cannot see the gold tooth. But the painter,
if anything, has accentuated the slanting eyes. You see, the fourth
marquis--the present Lord Ireton's father--married one of the
world-famous Yen Sun girls, daughters of the mandarin of that name by an
Irish wife. Hence, the eyes. And hence------”
“But, Harley--it was murder!”
“Not within the meaning of the law, Knox. It was a recrudescence
of Chinese humour! Lord Ireton is officially in Africa (and he went
actually after 'big game'). The counsel is not born who could secure
a conviction. We are somewhat late, but shall therefore have less
difficulty in finding a table at Prince's.”