At half-past six a train left Rathclare for Dublin. The evenings were
now cold and short. It was getting near winter, the end of autumn. As
the train was about to start from the platform, a man with the collar
of a large boat-cloak turned up about his ears, and a soft felt hat
pressed low over his brows, stepped into an unoccupied first-class
compartment, and took his seat.
He did not speak to the guard who checked his ticket, nor had the
guard any opportunity of seeing his face, as the man in the cloak kept
his face carefully averted. He sat muffled up in the corner without
moving, hour after hour, as the train sped on through the darkness.
Every time the speed slackened and they drew near a station at which
they were to stop, he shook himself slightly, straightened his hat
down over his eyes, and pushed up the collar of his cloak. All the way
from Rathclare to Dublin fortune favoured him, if he desired to be
alone. For, although they stopped several times, and came to a
junction where he had to change, he succeeded in making his journey in
solitude.
On three occasions the door of the compartment in which he sat had
been opened, and a passenger was about to step in. On each occasion
that passenger drew back, repelled by the motionless, dark figure, and
by a sense of solitude surrounding that figure. Not one of the three
passengers knew what it was which gave the air of this solitude, and
yet each had felt that around that motionless figure were gloom and
loneliness which startled and repelled. Yet the reason was very
simple. Between that muffled form and the surrounding world there was
no link, no band of union, however slight. There was an absolute
figure, set in the absolute vacuity of the compartment. Beside, above,
or beneath that figure was no article such as is usually seen by a
traveller. No baggage of any kind; no stick; no umbrella; no
newspaper; no rug; no book; no bag. Nothing but the bare figure and
the bare compartment.
Under that hat and cloak a form of terror or of danger might lie
hidden, and it would not be pleasant to sit there, when practically
beyond human aid, speculating on what that hat and that cloak hid. It
would be still less pleasant if suddenly that cloak and that hat
revealed what they hid, and it was found to be a figure of menace or
of danger.
At the Kingsbridge Terminus, Dublin, the solitary man got into a cab,
and said briefly to the driver: "Westland Row Station."
When he arrived there he learned he was a couple of hours too soon for
the Holyhead mail. He paid the cabman, and went to a hotel close by,
where travellers may wait up for the mail, and have food and drink
while they wait. Here he ordered some light refreshment, and getting
into a corner of the large coffee-room, and turning his back to the
room, he ate and drank without removing his cloak or hat.
When it was announced that it was time to be stirring for the mail,
the cloaked man rose, walked rapidly to the station, and took a
first-class single ticket to Euston. When he got on board the boat he
secured a berth, lay down, and did not move until the passengers were
summoned for landing.
Late in the forenoon he got into the train at Holyhead. Here he was
not so fortunate as he had been in his Irish journey. He had to share
a compartment with three others.
Still he remained muffled up, silent, motionless. Hour after hour went
by, and he never moved, beyond occasionally adjusting the collar of
his cloak or his soft felt hat.
On his arrival in London he seemed undecided for a while as to what he
should do, for he walked up and down the platform at Euston until all
the other passengers had left. He spoke to no one. He did not answer
any of the porters who asked him if he wanted a cab, and, finally, he
left the terminus on foot, and, taking a southerly direction, walked
straight on for half-an-hour.
It was now quite dark, and had been dark for some time. He did not
look to the right or the left, but kept straight on through a line of
dingy third-class streets. Then, coming out on a busy thoroughfare, he
took a hansom and gave the address of a quiet hotel in the City.
When he arrived at his destination he said he needed no refreshment,
and desired to be shown at once to a bedroom.
Had the gentleman no luggage?
No luggage.
The man seemed to hesitate. At this the traveller held out a handful
of gold, saying: "Take some of this; I shall be here a few days."
The man still seemed to waver.
"Be good enough to keep five pounds for me until I want them, and let
me have a bed at once."
He was then shown to a room. He bolted and locked the door on the
inside, and no more was heard of him till morning. Then he rang his
bell, and asked if he could have breakfast in a private room.
He was told he could. He ordered his breakfast, and came down at the
time he was told it would be ready for him.
He remained in all that day, and passed the time in reading newspapers
of the current day and of a few days back. When it was night he went
out, drove to a street off the Strand, and asked at a house there if
Mr. Dominique Lavirotte was in.
Mr. Lavirotte was not in. He was still in the hospital, and would not
be home until the third day from that.
The traveller, still wearing the cloak and hat, drove back to his
hotel, and spent the remaining three days indoors reading the
newspapers.
In the meantime, the inquest on the body of Lionel Crawford had taken
place. The jury had returned an open verdict, and the mortal remains
of Lionel Crawford had been committed to earth under the management of
Mr. John Cassidy.
Lavirotte had been brought from the hospital to where the inquest was
held, and told his story. The medical evidence was that there was no
sign of violence before death on the body. The cuts and bruises
discovered were consistent with Lavirotte's story--that is to say,
they might have been inflicted after death by the falling stones and
wood.
But the police were not quite satisfied. They had ascertained from the
police at Glengowra the particulars of the case in which Lavirotte had
played a part some months ago. They shook their heads, deplored the
fact that the medical evidence was in accord with Lavirotte's story,
and had grave suspicions that what the medical evidence called syncope
might have been the result of a drug and not of mere unaided nature.
In fact, the police inclined to the belief there had been foul play.
At about seven o'clock on the evening of the fourth, day after the
traveller called first at Lavirotte's lodgings he once more drove
there, and without sending up a name asked if he might see Mr.
Dominique Lavirotte.
Word came down that the gentleman was to be shown up.
When he was shown into the room, where Lavirotte sat alone in an
easy-chair, he threw aside his hat and cloak and said:
"Dominique Lavirotte, you are suspected of murdering Lionel Crawford,
as you are suspected of having attempted to murder my son. As I came
along this street, and while I was delayed at the door, I saw two men
idling about--I took them for detectives."
"For God's sake, what do you mean, Mr. O'Donnell?"
"That the police are watching you; that in all likelihood you will
swing for the murder of that old man in that lonely tower; and that
you deserve to swing for your attempt to murder my son, and your
deliberate trifling with me in my cruel necessity."
"I never trifled with you, Mr. O'Donnell," cried Lavirotte feebly.
"You lie, sir!" cried the old man, suddenly flushing up, drawing his
right hand from his back pocket and placing the muzzle of a revolver
within three feet of Lavirotte's breast.