Considering the amount of brandy that I had consumed, I awoke next
morning feeling remarkably well. The first thing that met my eyes
was the canopy of the bed. I stared at it in a kind of vague
surprise, wondering how on earth it had got there. Then, with a
sudden shock, the events of the previous evening came racing back
into my mind. I realised that I was in Northcote's bedroom, and that
someone was knocking gently but persistently at the door.
Jumping out, I thrust my feet into a pair of slippers that lay on the
white sheepskin rug, and, crossing the room, unlocked the door. I
expected to find Milford, but in place of that obliging retainer I
was confronted by a pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in a print
costume and cap. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some
letters on it.
"Oh, come in," I said, seeing that she was hesitating. Then, kicking
off my slippers, I clambered back into bed.
She came across and laid the tray down on the table beside me.
"I have brought you up your tea, sir," she said. "Mr. Milford is not
at all well this morning."
"Oh!" I replied. "I'm sorry for that. What's the matter with him?
He was all right last night."
She shook her head. "I don't know, sir; but he seems very poorly."
"Is he in pain?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. He seems to be suffering a great deal."
"Well, you'd better send for the doctor at once," I said, pouring
myself out some tea.
This was distinctly awkward. I certainly didn't want to be deprived
of the services of the one person Northcote had told me I could trust.
"Shall I send for Dr. Ritchie, sir?" asked the maid.
I nodded. "Ask him to come round as soon as he can. I'll look in
and see Milford after breakfast."
The girl finished her various duties in the room, and then withdrew.
When she had gone I sat up in bed and began to examine the small pile
of letters which lay on the tray. Most of them were obviously bills
and circulars, but one which bore a crest on the back of the envelope
seemed of more importance. I tore it open.
"105 BELGRAVE SQUARE, S.W.
"MY DEAR NORTHCOTE,--I had an interview yesterday with Rosedale, and
as far as I can see, everything is plain sailing. Rosedale suggests
the first week in October for launching the Company. There are one
or two matters still I should like to discuss with you, but we shall
have an opportunity on Wednesday night.
"By the way, I've taken your advice and bought the _Seagull_. Morton
wanted a devilish stiff price for her, but he was ready to take
something on account. He'll have to wait for the rest till the
Company's out!--Yours sincerely, SANGATTE."
When I came to the ill-written, sprawling signature, I whistled
gently to myself. Stranger as I was to England, I knew Lord Sangatte
very well indeed by reputation. And a pretty unsavoury reputation it
was, too.
I reached out for Northcote's notebook, which I had taken out of my
pocket the night before, and turned up his engagements for Wednesday.
There were two or three cryptic references to appointments in the
morning and afternoon, and then, scribbled in at the end in pencil,
"Sangatte's dance."
"I shall certainly be there," I said to myself complacently.
That Sangatte and Northcote were promoting a Company was an
interesting bit of information. As a commercial undertaking it
should be out of the common. If rumour was correct, Sangatte was
about as ripe a scoundrel as the English Peerage could show; while
such knowledge of Northcote as I possessed scarcely led me to believe
that over-scrupulousness was one of his besetting virtues. On the
whole, Wednesday night promised to be quite entertaining.
I got up leisurely, feeling very well satisfied with myself. In the
sunshine, which was streaming pleasantly in through the open window,
my adventure wore a much more cheerful and convincing aspect than it
had done on the previous night. All my nervousness seemed to have
vanished--in place of it I only felt a mischievous and highly
enjoyable curiosity as to what would happen next.
Routing out Northcote's plan of the house, I discovered that the
bathroom was three doors down, on the right-hand side of the passage.
A proper full-length bath was a luxury to which I had not been
introduced since my arrival in England, so with pleasurable
anticipation I draped myself in Northcote's dressing-gown and set off
along the corridor.
I found the bath already filled with warm water, while shaving
materials of every kind were laid out on the table at the end of the
room. With delightful deliberation I dallied over my toilet, smoking
a cigarette and enjoying myself to the very limit of my ability.
Then, refreshed and contented, I sauntered back to my bedroom,
looking forward to the entertaining occupation of inspecting
Northcote's wardrobe.
It proved to be on the same spacious scale as the rest of his
belongings. After careful consideration, I selected a well-cut blue
serge suit and a pair of Dobbie's brown boots, polished to a
harmonious but unobtrusive richness that bore testimony to Milford's
professional abilities.
Thus equipped, I strolled leisurely downstairs to the dining-room.
Breakfast was laid for me at the end of the big table, a pleasing
combination of gleaming silver, fresh-cut flowers, and spotless
napery. After the crude service of my lodgings, the sight of these
unwonted accessories gave me a really enviable appetite.
I had just seated myself, when the girl who had called me came
noiselessly into the room, carrying several dishes and a fragrant urn
of coffee.
"Dr. Ritchie is coming round as soon as possible, sir," she said,
putting down the tray and beginning to arrange its various contents
in front of me.
"That's all right," I returned. "I'll look in and see Milford as
soon as I've finished."
For an agreeable half-hour I lingered over a couple of kidneys, a
delicious piece of omelette, some toast and marmalade, and a large
slice of hot-house melon. Then, with a faint sigh, I extracted a
Cabana from a box on the sideboard and moved myself into one of the
big easy-chairs in the window looking out over the Park.
A breakfast such as I had eaten is particularly conducive to
meditation, and it was scarcely surprising that my thought turned at
once to the spirited events of the previous evening. Through the
curling smoke of my cigar the beautiful, sorrowful face of my amazing
visitor seemed to rise up again before my eyes. I repeated her name
to myself with a kind of luxurious enjoyment. "Mercia Solano."
It fitted her admirably. A name of music and colour, shot through
with a certain indefinite sadness.
Who could she be, and what red chapter in Northcote's past had led up
to the events of last night? That he had not this girl only to fear
was evident from her own words. Besides, I could not imagine
Northcote running away from a woman, however foully he had wronged
her.
I racked my memory for any clues which last evening's adventure might
suggest. There was her reference to Guarez--whoever Guarez might be.
I wondered again whether he was the gentleman who had been skulking
under the trees opposite, and if so, why he had not taken such a
favorable chance of putting a bullet into me? And what was that
complimentary term she had called me? The Satyr of something or
other--Culebra, if I remembered right.
Where the devil was Culebra? The name seemed to be familiar to me,
but, think as I would, I was quite unable to place it. The only
thing I felt certain about was that it was somewhere or other in
South America.
I began to wonder if the key to the mystery lay there. The names
Guarez and Solano certainly suggested that troubled continent, while
the abrupt end of Mercia's father also seemed thoroughly in keeping
with the same cheerful environment. I decided that I would hunt up
Culebra on the map without any waste of time.
I had reached this point in my meditations when there came a knock at
the door, and my nice-looking parlour-maid again entered.
"I wonder, sir," she began apologetically, "whether you would care to
see Mr. Milford now. He seems a little better for the moment, so I
thought, perhaps--"
"You were quite right," I interrupted, getting up from the chair and
putting down my cigar. "I'll come with you at once."
I felt rather ashamed of myself, but for the time poor Milford's
sudden illness had gone clean out of my head.
I followed her through the door at the back of the hall, and then
down a big, winding stone staircase that led to the basement.
Milford's room was in front, just under the dining-room.
When I entered I found him sitting propped up in bed. He was
breathing with evident difficulty, and his face, which was a nasty
grey colour, was covered with small beads of perspiration.
"Hullo, Milford," I said, "what have you been doing to yourself?"
He gave me a wan smile. "I don't know, sir," he answered feebly. "I
felt rather queer last night, sir, and when I woke up this morning I
was like this."
I felt his pulse, which was about as faint and irregular as a pulse
could very well be.
"Dr. Ritchie's coming round to see you in a minute," I said, with
assumed cheerfulness. "He'll tell us what's the matter. I don't
suppose it's anything very serious. Do you think you ate something
that upset you yesterday?"
He shook his head. "No, sir. I had my dinner here, and after that
all I took was my usual glass of beer at the Granville, round the
corner. I don't think it can be anything--" A sudden spasm of pain
contracted his face, cutting short his words.
"Well, you must lie quite still," I said soothingly, "and not worry
about anything. We can rub along all right; if necessary, I'll get
someone else in to help. All you've got to think about is getting
fit again."
He looked up, a flash of gratitude lighting his suffering face.
"Thank you, sir," he said faintly.
As he spoke, there came a sharp ring at the front-door bell.
"I expect this is Ritchie," I said. "Now we shall find out what the
trouble is."
It was not the doctor, however, that the girl announced when she came
into the room a minute later.
"If you please, sir," she said, "Mr. Furnivall has called. I have
shown him into the dining-room."
For a moment I wondered who the deuce this new visitor might be; then
I suddenly remembered that "Maurice Furnivall" was the name of
Northcote's cousin, about whose good faith my double seemed to
cherish certain dark suspicions.
"Very well," I said, "I'll come up. If Dr. Ritchie calls while Mr.
Furnivall is here, ask him to look in before he goes."
I mounted the stairs again, feeling just a little apprehensive about
the approaching interview. I was still too new to my position to
have complete confidence in my likeness to Northcote, amazingly
successful as it had been up to now; and, with the possible exception
of Milford, Maurice Furnivall seemed the most likely person to detect
any shade of difference. However, this feeling lent a spice to the
situation, and when I entered the dining-room it was with a certain
sense of amused elation.
I took an immediate dislike to Master Maurice the moment I set eyes
on him. A tall, sleek, well-groomed young gentleman, with black hair
carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on each side, he
was lounging comfortably in the arm-chair which I had lately vacated.
"Hullo," he drawled, "you're uncommon early this morning. What's up?"
"Milford's seedy," I said a little curtly.
"What's the matter with the fellow?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I've just sent for Ritchie."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're doing him in style. A
Harley Street specialist for a butler sounds all right. I should
have called in someone a bit cheaper."
"I've no doubt you would," I said.
Something in my tone must have warned him that I was not feeling
particularly amiable, for a distinct change came over his manner.
"I was only joking," he said a little lamely. "I'm sorry the poor
fellow's off colour. A beastly nuisance for you, too."
I felt a strong desire to kick him, but my promise to Northcote
restrained me.
"Yes," I said, "it's rather a bother. Have a cigar?"
He helped himself from the box which I held out.
"Any news?" he inquired.
I don't know why--he said it quite naturally--but it suddenly flashed
across my mind that under this apparently innocent question there
lurked a considerable amount of meaning. Could it be possible, I
reflected rapidly, that he knew something about Mercia's midnight
visit? It seemed wildly unlikely, but I made up my mind to test him.
"Yes," I said coolly. "I had rather a curious experience last night."
I was watching him as I spoke, and I could have sworn I noticed a
slight tightening of the muscles in his face.
"Really?" he drawled. "What was that?"
I laughed lightly. "On second thoughts," I said, "perhaps I ought to
keep it to myself for the present."
If he was really disappointed, he concealed it admirably. "That's
just like you," he said, with a yawn; "you're always so confoundedly
mysterious. I suppose it's the result of living under a wrong name."
This was news indeed, but I flatter myself I received it with
admirable composure.
"I expect it is," I answered, selecting another cigar in place of the
one I had discarded.
There was a brief pause in the conversation.
"Well, what about coming down to Ashton?" said Maurice, crossing his
legs and leaning back in his chair.
I remembered Northcote's advice that I should refuse, but some
obstinate streak at the back of my nature suddenly asserted itself.
I think perhaps it was a feeling that Northcote's suspicions
concerning the sleek young man in front of me were based on very good
grounds that really decided me. I don't like running away from
danger.
"When do you expect me?" I inquired carelessly.
Something very like a momentary flash of triumph leaped into his eyes.
"How about Thursday?" he suggested. "There's a good train from
Liverpool Street at 2.30, and I'll meet you at Woodford."
"Thursday would do all right," I said.
"We shall have a pretty festive crowd," he went on, knocking some ash
off his coat. "Sangatte and York have both promised to come, and I
think George Vane will most likely turn up. And then, of course,
there'll be the Baradells." He looked at me with a sort of sly
half-grin as he mentioned the latter name. Evidently my acquaintance
with the Baradells had some special significance.
"That sounds tolerable," I said.
"At all events," he finished, "we ought to have some decent shooting.
Reece tells me that the partridges are good, and there are always
plenty of duck about."
I nodded thoughtfully. It struck me that if there was going to be
any shooting I should be devilish careful whom I stood next.
I had just arrived at this sound conclusion when, through the open
window, I saw a beautifully appointed limousine car glide up to the
door.
"Here's Ritchie," I said. "I'll just see what he's got to say."
Maurice made no attempt to rise. "Right you are," he answered
languidly. "I'll wait and hear the verdict."
I again felt a rich desire to box his ears, but, consoling myself
with the reflection that it was possibly only a pleasure delayed, I
walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I met the doctor in the hall. A grey-haired, clean-shaven man of
about fifty, with a pompous but rather kind face, he came forward at
once and shook my hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said. "I'm sorry to hear your
butler's ill. A most excellent fellow, I should think."
"Yes," I said; "Milford is by way of being rather a treasure. Come
along down and have a look at him, doctor. I'm afraid he's really
bad."
I led the way down the stone staircase, and we entered the room
together.
If anything, Milford looked worse than when I had seen him before.
There were mottled patches on his grey face and his lips were twisted
with pain. When he saw us, however, he made a faint effort to raise
himself in bed.
Ritchie stepped forward at once. "No, no," he said kindly; "you must
lie quite still."
Then, pulling up a chair, he began to ask a few curt questions, at
the same time taking a brief examination of his patient's eyes and
pulse. His face was rather grave.
"I am afraid you have eaten something that has disagreed with you
very badly," he said at last.
Milford lay back on the pillow, his lips twitching faintly.
"Am I going to die, sir?" he whispered.
"Oh, dear, no," said Ritchie, with an encouraging smile. "We shall
have you perfectly well in a week or so. Just for the moment,
however, you'll have to keep very still and do exactly what you're
told. I shall send you round a nurse at once, and look you up again
myself this afternoon."
Milford made a feeble motion as if to protest against this luxury.
"That's all right, Milford," I said. "You are to do just what the
doctor tells you, and not bother your head about anything."
He thanked me with a faint smile, and after tucking him up in bed, we
left the room.
As soon as we were in the passage, I turned to Ritchie.
"Well," I said, "what's the matter?"
There was a short silence.
"The matter," said Ritchie, very quietly, "is that the man has been
poisoned."