Bentwood led the way from the dining-room up a back staircase, and
paused before what looked like a portion of the wallpaper. There was a
little discoloured spot about half way between the dado and the floor,
and on this the doctor pressed a shaking thumb. A part of the wall fell
away and disclosed a small room beyond. The room had evidently been
occupied lately, for there was a fire in the grate and the remains of a
meal on the table. The room itself was empty.
"Well, I'm hanged," Bentwood cried. "Gentlemen, I can't tell you now.
You asked to see the body of Sir Charles Darryll, and I have done my
best to satisfy your curiosity. The last time I saw the body it was
here. It seems to have vanished, and I know no more than the dead what
has happened. I'm telling you no more than the truth."
That the man was telling the truth was evidenced by the expression of
his face. Field had no more questions to ask, because he was quite sure
of the fact. On the table lay a letter, which the inspector first
glanced at and then placed in his pocket.
"I am just a little disappointed," he said, "because I fancied that I
had the complete and crowning surprise for you here tonight, Colonel.
You had better go off with my men, because I have no further need of
your services for the present, Dr. Bentwood. Perhaps to-morrow I may
have the pleasure of calling upon you. Good night."
The doctor vanished from the house, which was empty now, save for
Berrington and Field. The latter put out the lights and prepared to
leave by way of the front door.
"What are you going to do next?" Berrington asked.
"Go back to headquarters and report progress," Field explained. "The
rest is a matter of chance. I fancy I can see my way pretty clearly as
to what has happened. Come along, sir; on the whole we have no call to
be dissatisfied."
But the events of the night were by no means over yet. A battered
constable at the Yard who had just had his head bandaged up had a story
to tell. The prisoners from No. 100, Audley Place, had not been conveyed
to durance vile without one accident that had been attended with a fatal
tragedy. The officer told his story painfully.
"It was that little devil by the side of the driver," he said. "It's
lucky for me that he was not a big man instead of a bag of bones. We'd
come about half way when he turned and half throttled the driver and
then put speed on the motor. There was a struggle for the steering gear,
and then the whole show came to grief on a bridge. We were all pitched
out, but we hung to our prisoners, who are a pretty sight, sir. Mr.
Richford pitched over the side of the bridge on to the metals of the
railway lines below and he was killed on the spot. I don't want another
game like that."
Surely enough Richford had been killed. His neck had been broken, and he
had died without the slightest pain. Berrington, listening gravely to
the story, felt no shock from the recital that he had heard. The world
was well rid of a poisonous scoundrel, and Beatrice would be free now to
marry the man of her choice.
"Was Sartoris hurt?" he asked, a little ashamed to feel that he would
have been glad to hear so for Mary's sake. "A delicate man like
that----"
"Internally, the doctor says," the officer went on; "been spitting blood
ever since he has."
Berrington expressed a desire to see the cripple, who received him
without any sign of feeling. He was lying back in an arm chair, his face
white and set.
"You need not condole with me," he said. "Don't ask me to make a
deathbed confession, for that kind of thing is sheer waste of time. I
know that I'm dying. I know that I may fall back at any moment, and then
there will be the end. I'm full of blood inside. I might have told that
fool of a doctor what he had come to find out--that a broken rib has
pierced the lung, and I'm bleeding away quietly. Feel my hands."
Berrington touched the cold, clammy fingers. They were icy with the
touch of death.
"_Rigor mortis_," Sartoris said. "Only a few minutes now. It's a good
thing for you, and it's a good thing for Mary, who has been cursed with
a brother like me. It's, it's----"
Sartoris said no more. There was a bubbling kind of sigh, blood welled
from his mouth and ran down his coat, his head dropped on one side, and
he was gone. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done. On the
whole it was just as well.
"It's a ghastly business altogether," Berrington said to Field. "Old
soldier as I am, I have had quite enough of horrors for one night. I
understand that Miss Grey returned to the _Royal Palace_ with Mrs.
Richford. I had better go and tell them both what has happened."
Field agreed, and Berrington departed on his errand. It was not much
past eleven yet, so there was plenty of time. Mary and Beatrice had gone
back to the hotel in care of Mark Ventmore. They were seated in the
drawing-room when Berrington arrived.
Beatrice crossed the room quickly. She wanted to have a few words with
Berrington before the others joined in the discussion; she wanted to
know if anything had been discovered.
"About my father?" she asked. "This suspense is horrible. Have they not
got on the track yet? Why did they want to do that disgraceful thing at
all?"
Berrington explained as far as possible. Beatrice was quick to see the
meaning of it all. The recital of the story made her a little easier in
her mind.
"Possibly by this time to-morrow," Berrington said. "Meanwhile I have
something to tell both you and Miss Grey that will be a shock to you,
though personally it would be hypocritical to regard it in the light of
a deplorable event. There was an accident to the motor car."
"Mr. Sartoris, I mean Mr. Grey, has he escaped?" Beatrice cried. "Yes?"
"I don't think that he was trying to escape. I fancy it was more in the
spirit of diabolical mischief than anything else, but he attacked the
driver and made a grab for the steering wheel. The result was a smash on
a bridge, and the motor was upset. Stephen Richford was pitched clean
over the bridge on to the lines, and--and----"
"Killed on the spot?" Beatrice asked quietly. "Would that I could say
that I am sorry. It is the best thing that could have happened. And the
rest of them?"
"There was not much damage done, except to Sartoris, or Grey, rather.
The body of the car struck him on the chest, and a rib stuck into his
lung. He bled to death. I was the last person to see him. To the end he
was as hard and callous as ever. Will you tell Mary, please? It would
come better from you."
Berrington and Ventmore stood talking quietly together whilst Beatrice
performed her sad task. Mark listened to all that Berrington had to
tell.
"And yet all this bother might have been saved," he said. "My father
knew all about those concessions, and he has a pretty good idea of the
value of them. Only yesterday he was talking to me about it. If Sir
Charles had gone to him, he could have got every penny that he required.
But you see, I was not on good terms with my father at the time, though
that is all forgiven and forgotten now. At any rate I think we should
ask my father's assistance if only to clear the good name of Sir
Charles, and make a provision for Beatrice. Now that Richford is dead,
something will have to be done. Don't you think so?"
"I am quite sure that you are right," Berrington said. "Your father is
rich, and a remarkably good man of business. He is the very one to put
matters on a proper footing, and see that the money is returned to the
company that Sir Charles was entangled with. You say that those ruby
mines are really a good property?"
"My father says that they are splendid," Mark replied. "Enough to give
Sir Charles a large income, pay his debts, and provide for Miss Decie
besides. I shall see my father to-night, and will go thoroughly into the
question with him."
The thing was left at that, and Berrington made his preparations to
depart. Mary was crying quietly now with the keen edge of her grief
taken off. Mark and Beatrice drew aside, so that the others could talk
in private.
"What shall I say to you, Mary?" Berrington asked.
"What can you say?" the girl asked in a gentle tone. "You are a good
man, Phil, and it is good to know that you have loved me so devotedly
and sincerely. I shall be able to come to you now and take up the thread
of my happiness, where I deliberately snapped it three years ago. If my
brother had not been misled by a designing woman----"
"Mary," Berrington said with firmness. "You are utterly wrong. I have
had the story from Field only to-night, who has heard it from the lips
of Miss Decie herself. She is a girl as good and pure as yourself. From
first to last she was deceived. If Frank Leviter, the man who sacrificed
his life for her sake and whom she loved, had lived, the mask would have
fallen from your eyes. Your brother treated Violet Decie as he treated
you, as he treated everybody. He was bad to the core of his being, and
he has been saved from a shameful death by an accident. If you will try
to get all that into your mind you will be a happier woman. You have
lost three of the best years of your life--years that belonged to me as
well as to you--in pursuit of a mistaken sense of duty. This must be
clearly understood between us if the path of our married life is to be
free from care."
Mary bent her head and said nothing. And yet, deep down in her heart she
knew that Berrington had said no more than the truth. She placed her
hand in his.
"I am ready for you when the time comes, Phil," she whispered. "Only one
thing I ask. Never let this be mentioned between us again."
"That I faithfully promise," said Berrington. "It is what I was going to
suggest. Do you stay here to-night with Beatrice Darryll?"
Mary replied that that was the arrangement. Meanwhile Mark had been
discussing the future with Beatrice. She had warmly approved of all that
her lover had said about his father. She was glad to know that old Mr.
Ventmore would not oppose the marriage, and that her love for him would
not tend to keep Mark a poor man.
"So perhaps you had better let me have all those papers that Sartoris
was so anxious to get hold of," Mark concluded. "Could you let me have
them now?"
"Of course I can," Beatrice said. "I'll go and get them for you from my
room. Mary Grey is sharing my bed with me to-night--to-morrow I shall
arrange for her to have my father's room. I'll get the papers at once if
you will wait."
The papers were found with some little delay, and Beatrice was preparing
to come downstairs again when it seemed to her that she heard a noise in
the room next to her, the bedroom that had been occupied by Sir
Charles. It was a creeping kind of noise followed by what was most
unmistakably a sneeze.
Beatrice hesitated just for a moment, for her nerves had been much
strained lately. Then she put her fear from her and walked into the next
room. Only one of the electric lights gave a feeble glimmer over the
room. A man stood there, a man who was changing his upper garments.
Beatrice gave a little cry and staggered back into the doorway. The man
turned at the same time, and saw that he was observed. His face was as
white as that of Beatrice.
"Father!" the girl said, "father! Is it possible that I am not dreaming
and that you are in the flesh before me again? Oh, father, father!"