IS MORE MYSTERIOUS
I stood there aghast, staggered, open-mouthed. The man was walking
slowly towards the house whence issued the gay _chanson_, the house
where, in the great bay window, shone a bright light across the tiny
strip of lawn which separated it from the roadway.
I watched him like a man in a dream. As he approached the house he trod
lightly on tip-toe, unaware of my presence behind the bushes. In a flash
the recollections of that strange affair by the North Sea, in Cromer,
recurred to me. I remembered that green-painted seat upon the cliff,
where the coast-guard, in the early dawn, had found him lying dead, of
his strange disguise, and of the coroner's inquiry which followed. I
remembered too, all too well, the puzzling incidents which followed; the
presence of the notorious Jeanjean in that quiet little cliff-resort;
the disappearance of the man of master-mind; the discovery of his hoard
of gold and gems, and how, subsequently, it had been spirited away in a
manner which had absolutely flabbergasted the astute members of the
Norfolk Constabulary, unused as they were to cases of ingenious crime.
Truly it was all amazing--utterly astounding.
I watched Craig's receding figure in startled wonder, holding my breath,
and trying to convince myself that I had been mistaken in some
resemblance.
But I was not. The man who had passed me was Edward Craig in the
flesh--the man upon whose death twelve honest tradesmen of Cromer had
delivered their verdict--the man who had been placed in his coffin and
buried.
Was ever there incident such as this, I wondered? Had ever man met with
a similar experience?
By the light of the street-lamp I saw him glance anxiously up and down
that quiet, dark road. Then satisfying himself that he was unobserved,
he crept in at the gate, crossed the lawn noiselessly, and peered in at
the window through the chink between the windowframe and the blind.
For fully five minutes he remained with his eyes glued to the window. In
the light which fell upon him I saw that his face had assumed an angry,
vengeful look, and that his gloved hands were clenched.
Yes. He certainly meant mischief. He was watching her as she sat, all
unconsciously, at the piano, singing the gay _chansons_ of the
boulevards, "Mimi d'Amour," "Le tic-tac du Moulin," "Petit Pierre," and
others, so popular in Paris at the moment.
The family of the retired excise-officer knew but little French, but
they evidently enjoyed the spontaneous gaiety of the songs.
That Edward Craig, after his mysterious death, should reappear as a
shadow in the night was certainly most astounding. At first I tried to
convince myself that only a strong resemblance existed, but his gait,
his figure, his face, the manner in which he held his cane, and the
slight angle at which he wore his hat--the angle affected by those
elegant young men who in these days are termed "nuts"--were all the
same.
Yes. It was Edward Craig and none other!
And yet, who was the man who so suddenly lost his life while
masquerading in the clothes of old Gregory Vernon?
Aye, that was the question.
With strained eyes I watched and saw him change his position in order to
obtain a better view of the interior of the room. There was no sign of
Rayner, who, I supposed, had not risked following him, knowing that I
was lurking close to the house.
That his intentions were evil ones I could not doubt, and yet the light
shining upon his countenance revealed a strange, almost fascinated
expression, as his eyes were fixed into the room, and upon her without a
doubt.
The music had not ceased. Her quick fingers were still running over the
keys, and in her sweet contralto she was singing the catching refrain--
"_Mimi d'amour,
Petite fleur jolie,
Oui pour toujours
Je t'ai donné ma vie.
Les jours sont courts
Grisons-nous, ma chérie,
Petit' Mimi jolie,
Mimi d'amour!_"
Her voice ceased, and, as it did so, the silent watcher crept away,
gaining the pavement and walking lightly in my direction.
As he passed, within a couple of feet of where I was concealed, I was
able to confirm my belief. There was no doubt as to his identity. By
this discovery the cliff-mystery at Cromer had become a more formidable
and astounding problem. Who could have been the actual victim? What
facts did Lola actually know?
So well organized and so far extended the ramifications of the criminal
association of which Gregory Vernon was the head and brains, that I
became bewildered.
I stood gazing over the hedge watching Craig disappear back towards the
main road, where at the corner a small red light now showed.
When he had got a safe distance from me, I emerged and, crossing the
road quickly, hastened after him. Rayner was in waiting and would, no
doubt, take up the chase.
Yet when he approached the corner I saw that he suddenly crossed to
where the red light showed, and entering the car, which was evidently
waiting for him, was driven swiftly off to the right in the direction of
Christchurch.
Rayner met me in breathless haste a few moments after the car had turned
the corner, saying--
"I didn't know that car was waiting for him, sir. It only pulled up a
moment ago."
"Was anybody in it?"
"Only the driver."
"Did you take the number?"
"Yes, sir. It's local, we'll soon find out its owner."
"You must do so," I said. "The police will help you. But do you know who
that man was?"
"No, sir. He's a stranger to me," Rayner replied.
"Well," I said, "he's Edward Craig."
"Edward Craig!" echoed Rayner, staring at me as we stood at the street
corner together. "Why, that's the man who was murdered at Cromer!"
"The same."
"But he died. An inquest was held."
"I tell you, Rayner, that Edward Craig--the man who is supposed to be
nephew of old Gregory Vernon--is still alive. I could identify him among
ten thousand."
Rayner was silent. Then at last he said--
"Well, sir, that's utterly astounding. Who, then, was the man who was
killed?"
"That's just what we have to discover," I replied. "We must find out,
too, why he wore old Vernon's clothes on that fatal night."
Thoughts of the footprint, and the tiny shoe which had so exactly fitted
it, arose within me, but I kept my own counsel and said nothing.
Having told Rayner to inquire of the police regarding the mysterious
car, and to return to the hotel and await me, I retraced my steps along
that quiet, eminently respectable road, inhabited mostly by retired
tradespeople from London or the North of England, who live in their
"model" villas or "ideal homes" so pleasantly situated, after the smoke
and bustle of business life.
When I entered the pretty little drawing-room where Lola was, she sprang
to her feet to receive me, holding out her small white hand in glad
welcome.
In her smiling, sweet face was a far healthier look than when I had
taken leave of her, and returned to London, and in reply to my question,
she declared that she felt much stronger. The sea air had done her an
immense amount of good. Yes, she was a delightful little person who had
been ever in my thoughts.
She anxiously inquired after my health, but I laughingly declared that I
was now quite right again.
Her hostess, Mrs. Featherstone, with her daughter, Winifred, and a young
fellow to whom the latter was engaged, were present, so I sat down for a
chat, all four being apparently delighted by my unexpected visit. Mr.
Featherstone had, I found, gone to London that morning and would not
return for three days.
Presently mother and daughter, and the young man, probably knowing that
I wished to speak with Mademoiselle alone, made excuses and left the
room.
Then when the door had closed I rose and walked over to where Lola, in a
simple semi-evening gown of soft cream silk, was reclining in an
arm-chair, her neat little shoes placed upon a velvet footstool.
"To-night," I said in a low voice in French, as I stood near her chair,
my hand resting upon it. "To-night, Lola, I have made a very startling
discovery."
"A discovery!" she exclaimed, instantly interested. "What?"
"Edward Craig is still alive!" I answered. "He did not die in Cromer, as
we have all believed."
"Edward Craig!" she echoed, amazed. "How do you know? I--I mean--_mon
Dieu_!--it's impossible!"
"It seems impossible, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, Lola," I declared
in a low, earnest tone as I bent towards her. I had watched her face
and, by its expression, knew the truth. "And you," I added, slowly,
"have been aware of this all along."
"I--I----" she faltered in French, opening her big blue eyes widely, as
the colour mounted to her cheeks in her confusion.
"No," I interrupted, raising my hand in protest. "Please do not deny
it. You have known that Craig did not die, Lola. You may as well, at
once, admit your knowledge."
"Certainement, I have not denied it," was her low reply.
"How did you know he was alive?" I asked.
"Well," and then she hesitated. But, after a few seconds' reflection,
she went on: "After that affair at Lobenski's in Petersburg, I was
leaving at night for Berlin, by the Ostend rapide, with some of the
stolen stones sewn in my dress, as I told you, when, just as the train
moved off from the platform, I fancied I caught sight of him. But only
for a second. Then, when I came to consider all the facts, I felt
convinced that my eyes must have deceived me. Edward Craig was dead and
buried, and the man on the railway platform must have only borne some
slight resemblance to him."
Was she deceiving me? I wondered.
"Have you since seen the same man anywhere else?" I asked her,
seriously.
"Well, yes," she replied slowly. "Curiously enough, I saw the same
person once in Paris, and again in London. I was in a taxi going along
Knightsbridge on the afternoon of the day when I afterwards walked so
innocently into the trap at Spring Grove. He was just coming out of the
post-office in Knightsbridge, but did not notice me as I passed. I
turned to look at him a second time, but he had gone in the opposite
direction and his back was towards me. Yet I felt certain that he was
actually the same man whom I had seen as the Ostend Express had left
Petersburg. And now," she added, looking straight into my eyes, "you
tell me that Edward Craig still lives!"
"He does. And he has been here--at this house--to-night!"
"At this house!" gasped the Nightingale, starting instantly to her feet,
her face as pale as death.
"Yes. He has been standing on the lawn outside, peering in at this
window, watching you seated at the piano," I explained.
"Watching me!"
"Yes," I replied. "And, if my surmise is correct, he is certainly no
friend of yours. He has watched you during the _coup_ in Petersburg,
again in Paris, and in London, and now he has discovered your
hiding-place," I answered. "What does it all mean?"
Deathly pale, with thin, quivering lips, and hands clasped helplessly
before her, she stood there in an attitude of deadly fear, of blank
despair.
"Yes," she whispered in a low, strained voice, full of apprehension. "I
believed that he was dead, that----"
But she halted, as if suddenly recollecting that her words might betray
her. Her bosom, beneath the laces of her corsage, rose and fell
convulsively.
"That--what?" I asked in a soft, sympathetic voice, placing my hand
tenderly upon her shoulder, and looking into her wonderful eyes.
"Oh! I--I----" she exclaimed in a half-choked voice. "I thought him
dead. But now, alas! I find that my suspicions are well grounded. He is
alive--and he has actually been here!"
"Then you are in fear of him--in deadly fear, Lola," I said. "Why?" And
I looked straight at my dainty little friend.
She tried to make response, but though her white lips moved no sound
escaped them. I saw how upset and overwrought she was by the amazing
information I had conveyed to her.
"Tell me the truth, Lola--the truth of what happened in Cromer," I
urged, my hand still upon her shoulder. "Do not withhold it from me.
Remember, I am your friend, your most devoted friend."
She trembled at my question.
"If the dead man was not Edward Craig, then, who was he?" I asked, as
she had made no reply.
"How can I tell?" she asked in French. "I thought it was Craig. Was he
not identified as Craig and buried as him?"
"Certainly. And I, too, most certainly believed the body to be that of
Craig," I answered.
For a few moments there was a dead silence. Then I repeated my question.
I could see that she feared that young man's visit even more than she
did either her uncle or the old scoundrel Vernon.
For some mysterious reason the fact that Craig still lived held her in
breathless suspense and apprehension.
"Lola," I said at last, speaking very earnestly and sympathetically, "am
I correct in my surmise that this man, whom both you and I have believed
to be in his grave, is in possession of some secret of yours--some
weighty secret? Tell me frankly."
For answer she slowly nodded, and next moment burst into a torrent of
hot, bitter tears, saying, in a faltering voice, scarce above a
whisper--
"Yes, alas! M'sieur Vidal. He--he is in possession of my
secret--and--and the past has risen against me!"