"Latest inquiries to-night tend to show that there is a good deal behind
the death of Colonel Napier. The police are certain that the murderer
has some other object than theft, at which task it was said that he must
have been disturbed by the sudden tapping on the door by the valet,
Richardson. It is rumoured that the appearance of Detective Naylor on
the scene was of set design. Naylor, as was stated in the papers a few
days ago, has the warrant in hand for the arrest of the murderer of
young George Sutton, a man who, it will be remembered, fled to this
country from a monastery in Mexico after he had committed the deed. Now
the two crimes are connected in the minds of the police for some reason
they will not divulge; and it is whispered freely at Scotland Yard that
a man who puts his hands on the murderer of Sutton will at the same time
arrest the assassin of brave Colonel Napier. Unfortunately, the quest
is highly complicated, and at the clubs there are some wild, romantic
stories afloat, which connect the deaths with stories of vast, hidden
treasures and diplomatic intrigues, party jealousies, and mystery-loving
Mexicans. For our own part, we advise the public to take little heed of
these wild romances until they contain something which looks a trifle
more substantial. A milkman, for instance, has been found who declares
he was passing Whitehall Court about the time the murder must have been
committed, and he swears positively that he saw a young, dark-looking
foreigner, aged about twenty-five, run from the direction of Embankment
Mansions and disappear up Northumberland Avenue. He says, also, that he
saw the man's features quite distinctly, and that he will be able to
recognise them again in any circumstances and after any lapse of time.
Now clues like these are worth a thousand of the utterly preposterous
yarns they are whispering in Clubland to-night about Jesuits and
parliamentary personages who are much too busy to be mixed up with all
the numberless scandals and tarradiddles that affect the House of
Commons under its present party _regime_."
Surely, if this theory pointed to anyone it did most certainly to Jose
Casteno!
Further speculation, however, was cut short by the arrival of a
telegraph messenger. With trembling fingers I tore open the envelope,
and found that, after all, the Spaniard had kept his word and had wired
me, most fully, news of his whereabouts and wishes:
To Hugh Glynn, 99 Stanton Street, London, WC.
"Have accompanied our good friend to Green Dragon Hotel, Shrewsbury. At
Birmingham he met a clever but needy aeronaut named Captain Sparhawk.
This man has invented a flying machine which he has arranged to show at
Great Shropshire Floral Fete here on Monday. Z. has promised to finance
him and to ascend with him to test the machine's capacities. Two other
seats were on sale in the town at twenty pounds each. I have bought
them, and propose you and I ascend with them disguised as military men
in undress uniform of engineers; otherwise fear, if the machine travels
far, Z. may do a bolt to some other district. If you don't wire me, c/o
Post Office, shall assume you will come.--C."
"Certainly I will come," I said to myself grimly as I folded up the
message and placed it in my pocket-book. "It would be a pity for you,
Master Jose, to undertake any fresh adventures without my personal
assistance. You might come to some harm before we had cleared up the
mystery of the death of Colonel Napier, and that would be a pity, a
great pity, indeed."
And snatching up the travelling-bag which I always kept ready packed for
such emergencies I dashed off to a costumier I knew who lived near, in
Wellington Street. Then I made for Euston, and catching the night mail
to the Midlands, contrived such a good use of my time, that, before
church time, I found myself in Shrewsbury, scrambling up the hill that
led from the main railway station to the far-famed Green Dragon Hotel,
where I understood both Zouche and Casteno were.
On the way down, however, I had effected certain changes in my
appearance. A dark wig was on my head. A black moustache hid my mouth.
My plain civilian clothes had given place at the costumier's to the
uniform of a sergeant of royal engineers. I had done this to deceive
the hunchback, and to satisfy Casteno I had brought no disguise for the
Spaniard.
I did not think he would need one after I had finished my first
conversation with him!
And as I turned into the courtyard of the hotel he came out and met me
with outstretched hand.