Mr. Felix Marl
Jack Beardmore looked round, scanning the country. The only human
being in sight was a man who was walking slowly away from them,
carrying a bag in his hand. Jack shouted, and the man turned.
“Who are you?” demanded Jack. Then, “What are you doing here?”
The stranger was a tall, stoutish man, and the exertion of carrying
his grip had left him a little breathless. It was some time before he
could reply.
“My name is Marl,” he said, “Felix Marl. You may have heard of me. I
think you are young Mr. Beardmore, aren’t you?”
“That is my name,” said Jack. “What are you doing here?” he asked
again.
“They told me there was a short cut from the railway station, but it
is not so short as they promised,” said Mr. Marl, breathing
stertorously. “I’m on my way to see your father.”
“Have you been near that tree?” asked Jack, and Marl glared at him.
“Why should I go near any tree?” he demanded aggressively. “I tell you
I’ve come straight across the fields.”
By this time Harvey Froyant arrived, and apparently recognised the
new-comer.
“This is Mr. Marl; I know him. Marl, did you see anybody near that
tree?”
The man shook his head. Apparently the tree and its secret was a
mystery to him.
“I never knew there was a tree there,” he said. “What--what has
happened?”
“Nothing,” said Harvey Froyant sharply.
They came to the house soon after, Jack carrying the visitor’s bag. He
was not impressed by the big man’s appearance. His voice was coarse,
his manner familiar, and Jack wondered what association this uncouth
specimen of humanity could have with his father.
They were nearing the house when suddenly and for no obvious reason
the stout Mr. Marl emitted a frightened squeal and leapt back. There
was no doubt of his fear. It was written visibly in the blanched
cheeks and the quivering lips of the man, who was shaking from head to
foot.
Jack could only look at him in astonishment--and even Harvey Froyant
was startled into an interest.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Marl?” he asked savagely.
His own nerves were on edge, and the sight of the big man’s
undisguised terror was a further strain which he could scarcely
endure.
“Nothin’--nothin’,” muttered Marl huskily. “I’ve been----”
“Drinking, I should think,” snapped Froyant.
After seeing the man into the house Jack hurried off in search of
Derrick Yale. He discovered the detective in the shrubbery sitting in
a big cane chair, his chin upon his breast, his arms folded, a
characteristic attitude of his.
Yale looked up at the sound of the young man’s footsteps.
“I can’t tell you,” he said, before Jack had framed his question, and
then, seeing the look of astonishment on his face, he laughed. “You
were going to ask me what scared Marl, weren’t you?”
“I came with that intention,” laughed Jack. “What an extraordinary
fellow you are, Mr. Yale! Did you see his extraordinary exhibition of
funk?”
Derrick Yale nodded.
“I saw him just before he had his shock,” he said. “You can see the
field path from here.”
He frowned.
“He reminds me of somebody,” he said slowly, “yet I cannot for the
life of me tell who it is. Is he a frequent visitor here? Your father
told me he was coming, and I guessed it was he.”
Jack shook his head.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him,” he said. “I remember now,
though, that father and Froyant have had some business dealings with a
man named Marl--dad mentioned him one day. I think he is a land
speculator. Father is rather interested in land just now. By the way,
I have seen the mark of the Crimson Circle,” he added, and described
the newly-painted “O” he had found on the elm.
Instantly Yale lost interest in Mr. Marl.
“It was not on the tree when I went down into the valley,” said Jack.
“I’ll swear to that. It must have been painted whilst I was talking
to--to a friend. The trunk is out of sight from the boundary fence,
and it was quite possible for somebody to have painted the sign
without being seen. What does it mean, Mr. Yale?”
“It means trouble,” said Yale shortly.
He rose abruptly and began pacing the flagged walk, and Jack, after
waiting a little while, left him to his meditations.
In the meantime, Mr. Felix Marl was comparatively a useless third of a
conference which dealt with the transfer of lands. Marl was, as Jack
had said, a land speculator, and he had come that morning bringing a
promising proposition which he was wholly incapable of explaining.
“I can’t help it, gentlemen,” he said, and for the fourth time his
trembling hand rose to his lips. “I’ve had a bit of a shock this
morning.”
“What was that?”
But Marl seemed incapable of explanation. He could only shake his head
helplessly.
“I’m not fit to discuss things calmly,” he said. “You’ll have to put
the matter off until to-morrow.”
“Do you think I’ve come here to-day for the purpose of listening to
that sort of nonsense?” snarled Mr. Froyant. “I tell you I want this
business settled. So do you, Beardmore.”
Jim Beardmore, who was indifferent as to whether the matter was
settled then or the following week, laughed.
“I don’t know that it is very important,” he said. “If Mr. Marl is
upset, why should we bother him? Perhaps you’ll stay here to-night,
Marl?”
“No, no, no,” the man’s voice rose almost to a shout. “No, I won’t
stay here, if you don’t mind--I would much rather not!”
“Just as you like,” said Jim Beardmore indifferently, and folded up
the papers he had prepared for signature.
They walked out into the hall together, and there Jack found them.
Beardmore’s car carried the visitor and his bag back to the station,
and from there on Mr. Marl’s conduct was peculiar. He registered his
bag through to the city, but he himself descended at the next station,
and for a man who so disliked walking, and was by nature so averse
from physical exercise, he displayed an almost heroic spirit, for he
set forth to walk the nine miles which separated him from the
Beardmore estate--and he did not go by the shortest route.
It was nearing nightfall when Mr. Marl made his furtive way into a
thick plantation on the edge of the Beardmore property.
He sat down, a tired, dusty but determined man, and waited for the
night to close down over the countryside. And during the period of
waiting, he examined with tender care the heavy automatic pistol he
had taken from his bag in the train.