Great was his astonishment at finding the pretty villa overlooking
the moonlit Mediterranean in possession of the police, amongst whom he
observed the shabby furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to
Hugh in the side street of Nice.
The chief official approached him and addressed him in excellent
English. “We sent you a rather guarded message, Mr. Lydon, as we felt
we could break the news better to you when you came here. A very
terrible tragedy has occurred.”
Lydon held his breath. He knew now that the mystery about Hugh Craig’s
frequent disappearance which had so puzzled him was about to be solved
by this bland, courteous official.
“A terrible tragedy?” he faltered. “In Heaven’s name what has
happened?” The man proceeded to explain. “This house is tenanted by a
Madame Makris, a widow. Her husband was a Greek merchant, she is an
Englishwoman. She lived here with her daughter, Mademoiselle Elise
Makris, the only child of the marriage. Mademoiselle and your friend,
Mr. Hugh Craig, were very close friends; according to the mother’s
statement, they were more than friends, very devoted lovers. It seems
a few days ago they had a violent quarrel--I am still quoting Madame
Makris--the cause of which was not divulged. To-night Mr. Craig dined
here, and after dinner he and the young lady went and sat on the
veranda, according to their usual custom on the occasions when he
visited the house.”
Lydon interrupted with a question. “There are only three nights on
which he has dined away from the hotel where we were staying together.
I suppose he paid several day visits?”
“Madame Makris tells me hardly a day has passed that he did not come
here, staying for longer or shorter periods. The young people have
known each other for some five years. Well, the mother upon those
occasions did not intrude herself very much; she left the lovers alone
as much as possible. She followed her usual course this evening,
occupying herself in writing letters and attending to her household
accounts.
“Suddenly she was startled by the sound of shots proceeding from the
veranda where Mr. Craig and her daughter were seated. She rushed
hastily from the room in which she was sitting and was horrified at
the sight which presented itself. Mademoiselle was bleeding from a
wound in the neck. After shooting her, the young man turned the pistol
on himself and sent a bullet through his brain. The young woman was
still alive, Mr. Craig was dead when she reached him. The second shot
had done its work instantaneously.
“Madame Makris at once rang up the police. We came with a doctor and
Mademoiselle was taken to the hospital behind the railway station. For
the unfortunate young man nothing could be done. After Madame had made
her statement to us, we telephoned to you to come up.”
Dazed as he was by the tragic occurrence, Lydon could grasp the fact
that, although Hugh had never breathed to his friend a word of his
secret connection with the denizens of the Villa des Cyclamens, he had
been perfectly frank with them as to his relations with Lydon.
Otherwise, how did Madame Makris know that they were staying together
at the same hotel?
So the volcano which he had always suspected was slumbering under that
placid exterior had suddenly burst into flame with these awful
consequences to Elise Makris and the man himself.
“Can Madame suggest any explanation of this frenzied act?” was Lydon’s
next question.
The courteous official shook his head. “Madame says she knows nothing,
that the whole thing is inexplicable to her.”
“Mademoiselle Makris is in the hospital, you say. Do they give any
hope of her recovery? Is the wound a serious one?”
“Very serious, I am told,” was the reply. “They can pronounce no
definite opinion at the moment. From what I can gather she seems to be
hovering between life and death. Perhaps you would like to see the
body; we have laid it in one of the bedrooms?”
Leonard went to the chamber, and gazed upon the pallid features of the
friend whom he had last seen in full health and strength. As he stood
there, looking down on the rigid form, he felt overcome by the
memories of their long association. They had been intimate so many
years.
A little under the age of fifteen they had foregathered at Harrow,
drawn together by that strange attraction which sometimes unites
totally opposite temperaments. They had gone up form by form in
company. Hugh the mental superior, beating his friend at the last lap
of all, and attaining the proud position of Head of the School. In the
same year they had been put into the cricket eleven and had done
battle against Eton at Lord’s. At Balliol, whither they both
proceeded, the intimacy grew stronger, and here again history repeated
itself. They both represented their University in cricket against
Cambridge, as they had represented Harrow.
And now this life, so full of promise and opportunity, had been
blotted out by his own rash act. And, even more terrible, Hugh Craig
had gone to his last account with the sin of murder, or at least
attempted murder, on his soul. What terrible thing was it that had so
unhinged his mind?
The police had found the pistol clutched firmly in his dead hand. This
fearful deed, then, was not due to some sudden temptation of the
moment. It must have been premeditated or he would not have taken a
loaded weapon with him to this peaceful villa. When Hugh had bade his
friend good-bye, he must have had murder, and afterwards
self-destruction, in his mind.
When the young man had left the death-chamber, he inquired after
Madame Makris, and was informed that she was prostrated with grief, as
was quite natural. He exchanged a few words with the furtive-looking
man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street a short time
ago.
“I saw you together the other day,” he said, “but you did not see me,
and I hastened as quickly as possible out of sight, as I did not wish
to appear to be spying upon my friend. Do you know anything that can
throw light upon this?”
The shabby individual lowered his eyes as he answered. “No, monsieur,
I am sorry to say, nothing. My acquaintance with Monsieur Craig was
very slight.”
If the man was not actually lying, it was obvious there was nothing to
be got out of him. Lydon impatiently asked him if he was one of the
regular police. To this question he replied that he was not, that he
followed the profession of private inquiry agent, as it would be
called in England. That he was naturally in the course of his business
frequently in communication with them, and that having heard of the
terrible tragedy at the Villa, he had begged permission to accompany
them there.
Later on, Lydon put himself into communication with the dead man’s
family, and Hugh’s elder brother came over to Nice at once to
superintend the arrangements. Geoffrey Craig, a rather severe-looking
man, who held a minor Governmental post, was as much bewildered by the
catastrophe as Lydon himself. He had never heard of the Makris family
in connection with his brother.
Hugh Craig was buried in the beautiful English cemetery out beyond the
Magnan, what time the girl whom he had tried to kill was lying between
life and death in the hospital.
Lydon was obliged to defer his departure for a few days in consequence
of these tragic happenings. Before he left he called upon Mrs. Makris,
who was now sufficiently recovered to receive him.
She was a stoutly-built, rather over-dressed woman, with a face which
still showed traces of good looks. He had been told by the police she
was an Englishwoman, and her thoroughly British accent confirmed the
fact. But he had a shrewd suspicion that Jewish blood ran in her
veins.
While he was waiting in the pretty _salon_ of the Villa des Cyclamens
for the unhappy mother, he noticed upon a writing table a gorgeous
carved sapphire made into a pendant, the stone worn upon the
breastplate of the High Priest of the Hebrews as the sign of Issachar.
He rather marvelled that such a valuable article was allowed to lie
there. In the distraction occasioned by the tragedy, it was of course
possible that neither Madame Makris nor any other member of the
household had heeded it.
The Jewish-looking woman bore upon her still good-looking face the
deep traces of her grief. When Lydon murmured a few words of sympathy,
the ready tears fell immediately.
“My darling Elise was all the world to me; we were devoted to each
other,” she said in a broken voice. “And this state of suspense is
awful. Two whole days have passed, and still they are not certain
whether she will live or die.”
Lydon again expressed his deep sympathy. “I have been very terribly
shocked too, although I cannot for a moment pretend to compare my
feelings with yours. Hugh Craig and I have been friends from boyhood,
and I should have judged him the last man in the world to have given
way to such an awful impulse. Have you no inkling of the cause which
led to such an unexpected catastrophe?”
Madame Makris shook her head, a head covered with thick dark hair in
which there was not a trace of grey, in spite of her years, which
might have been anything from forty-five to fifty.
“Not the slightest, Mr. Lydon. There had been some disagreement
between them a little time previously, for I discovered my poor girl
in tears after he had left. I pressed her to tell me the reason of her
agitation, but she parried all my efforts to extract the truth from
her. She assured me it was quite a trifling matter, and that she would
not have been affected by it, except for the fact that she was in low
spirits.”
“May I ask, madame, if they had known each other for long?”
“Some few years,” was the answer. “There was no regular engagement
between them, but it was understood that they would marry as soon as
they could. Elise was always rather reticent on the subject, but I
gathered that there was some difficulty in the way with regard to Mr.
Craig’s family. It was a very old and honourable one, and it was
expected of him that when he did marry he would choose somebody of his
own order. We are, of course, quite middle-class people, and by no
means wealthy. My husband was a merchant.”
Lydon pointed to the writing-table. “That is rather a valuable thing
to leave lying about, if I may say so, madam.”
The dark-haired woman looked at it with an air of indifference. “I had
forgotten it in the preoccupation of my great trouble. It belongs to
Elise. Her uncle, Monsieur Lianas, gave it to her on her twenty-first
birthday. She was wearing it when the tragedy occurred. I only brought
it back from the hospital this morning, and heedlessly laid it down
there. But you are quite right; it is too valuable to be left lying
about. I will lock it up directly. Heaven knows if my poor child will
ever wear it again,” she concluded with a burst of tears.
Leonard went back to England the next day, very sad at heart at the
loss of his lifelong friend. He pondered much over the meagre
information that Madame Makris had given him. The young people had
known each other for some years. There had been no formal engagement
between them, but it was an understood thing they were to be married
as soon as they were in a position to do so.
And during those years, although they had met so frequently, Craig had
never dropped a word about Elise or her mother to his friend. So
strange a silence passed beyond the bounds of ordinary reticence.
There must be some reason for it, most likely some mystery behind it.
He could quite understand that Hugh might find some difficulty in
reconciling his family to his marriage with a foreigner of no
particular position. But it was strange that a man should be in love
and never say anything about it to his closest friend.
As was natural under such painful circumstances, his thoughts of
Gloria Stormont had been temporarily pushed into the background; but
after a little, when the first violence of the shock had passed away,
her charming image again recurred to him.
What a beautiful girl she was, and how delightfully unaffected! Was it
likely he would ever come across her again? Her uncle had spoken of it
as a probability when he remarked that after all the world was a small
place.
And a fortnight later, Howard Stormont’s prophecy was fulfilled. Lydon
suddenly made up his mind to run down for a week-end to the
_Metropole_ at Brighton. As he ascended the steps of the well-known
hotel about an hour before dinner-time, the first person he
encountered in the vestibule was the genial Stormont, looking more
prosperous and rubicund than ever.
Nothing could have been more hearty than the greeting Lydon received.
“Well met, my dear fellow, glad to see you. I said it would not be
long before we ran across each other again. My sister and Gloria are
with me. Are you alone? Good, you must join our table. Well, as soon
as you have settled about your room, let us celebrate the occasion
with a cocktail. Good old _Metropole_, you can’t beat it. I’m not very
busy just now, so we’re here for a week. My sister is a bit run down,
and the sea breezes will set her up.”
What a good-hearted fellow he was, Lydon thought. Gloria had said of
him he was one of the kindest and most generous of men. Over their
cocktails the young man told him of the tragic happenings at the Villa
des Cyclamens. But Stormont had read it in the papers. Of course it
was impossible that anything could be kept quiet in the case of a man
of Hugh Craig’s position.
“A very mysterious affair, and I suppose nobody will ever know the
rights of it,” he remarked when Leonard had communicated all the
details he knew, which, as we know, were somewhat meagre. “Well, I
cannot say I ever took very kindly to your poor friend, for the reason
probably that he took very little pains to conceal his dislike of me.
But it is a terrible ending to a promising career. I suppose, in the
course of time, he would have ended up as an ambassador. The Clandon
family have a knack of falling into soft jobs. Now, you won’t see the
womenfolk before dinner, as they are in their rooms, and I shan’t
mention I have met you. When you walk up to our table it will be a
pleasant surprise for them. We all took a great fancy to you at Nice.”
The young man had no reason to complain of his welcome at the hands of
the two ladies when he met them at dinner. Mrs. Barnard told him it
was a most agreeable surprise, and although Gloria did not make
flattering speeches, she flushed prettily and her eyes looked very
bright when she shook hands with him.
They spent a very delightful evening together. Early the next morning
Stormont expressed his intention of taking his sister a long motor
drive, with a view of getting as much fresh air as possible; they
would be back to luncheon.
“You two young people can do what you like with yourselves,” he said
gaily. Certainly, he was a most complaisant person. Lydon was rather
surprised that he should throw them into each other’s society like
this. Surely he must have ambitious views for his niece’s future. And
he could not help wondering what it was his friend Hugh had seen in
the man which made him dislike him so intensely. Little vulgarisms in
speech and manner peeped out now and again, but surely those were not
enough to account for such a fierce aversion, more especially as
Craig, in spite of his aristocratic lineage, was rather a democratic
sort of fellow at heart, and a thorough cosmopolitan.
The two, thus dismissed to their own resources, went on to the West
Pier, where they sat for some little time, then they walked up and
down the Parade for a couple of hours, till it was time to return to
the hotel. During these happy and precious moments Leonard felt that
he was making great headway with the charming girl. She talked to him
with as much freedom as if they had been friends of old standing. She
told him all about her uncle’s place, Effington Hall, and of her mode
of life there. According to her account, it was a very beautiful
place, with lovely gardens, and the rather commonplace-looking Howard
Stormont appeared to dwell in great luxury, with a large retinue of
servants. As he listened, he wondered if he would ever be asked to
join the numerous company which the owner invited there.
Stormont did not seem to mind his enjoying the girl’s society on a
casual visit to the seaside, but would he draw the line at the
familiarity born of a long stay in a country house? Had he been in the
uncle’s place, he was inclined to think he would.
His visit did not terminate with the week-end. He stayed on another
couple of days, being pressed to do so by Stormont himself during this
extension of time. The brother and sister left the young couple very
much to themselves, and Lydon made splendid running with Gloria. So
much so that, before he left, she had promised to run up to town from
Effington soon after they returned there, and lunch with him in town.
Lydon had suggested it with rather a shamefaced air. “I don’t feel I
have the cheek to ask you in front of your uncle and aunt after such a
short acquaintance,” he explained. “I expect they would think it
confounded impertinence on my part.”
Gloria had blushed very becomingly when she answered him. “Well, one
cannot be quite sure. They are pretty modern, considering all things,
but perhaps not quite so modern as you and I. I often run up to shop;
it is really no distance from London. I will give you good notice when
I am coming, and I can tell them about it later when we have all got
to know each other better.”
Lydon went back to London very delighted that the girl liked him well
enough to take the bold course of meeting him secretly. In due course,
when he went in to breakfast in his comfortable chambers at Ryder
Street, he found the expected note from Miss Stormont appointing two
days later for their luncheon.
There was another letter from the well-known firm of Shelford &
Taylor, solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, asking him to give them a
call, as they wished to hand him a communication from one of their
clients.
He knew these people had attended to the affairs of most of the
members of the Clandon family, Hugh included. Greatly wondering, he
called on them that morning, and was received by the head of the firm,
who handed him a bulky letter.
“This was received from our client, and your friend, the Honourable
Hugh Craig, very shortly after the terrible tragedy, with instructions
to hand it to you after the lapse of a certain period which has now
expired. I am filled with curiosity to know if this letter, dispatched
to us on the morning of the day on which this awful thing occurred,
throws any light upon the affair.”
Leonard read slowly through the long communication, and, laying it
down, met the inquiring gaze of the solicitor.
“Yes,” he said, in a sad voice. “This reveals the motives which
impelled him to attempt the life of Elise Makris, and make an end of
his own. I will tell you.”