WHY THEY WORE A DISGUISE
Unfortunately, before Arthur could confide to Paul any further
particulars about the deadly vendetta which Duncan Kilroy’s brother
had sworn against him, years ago, when both of them were in very much
the same position in old Allen Palamountain’s business and both were
rivals, running neck and neck to inherit the old man’s wealth, they
were interrupted by the sound of a rattle of keys in the door of the
cell. Another moment, and a burly police sergeant entered, and told
Arthur that the time allowed by the authorities had come to an end,
and that, not only must all conversation cease, but that Paul must
leave the station at once, and Arthur must prepare himself for that
long and tiresome journey to Scarborough.
As a consequence, the two comrades had barely time to exchange
farewell greetings, but, as they were wishing each other good-bye,
they did contrive to arrange that Paul would travel specially down to
Scarborough, and again interview his friend if he should chance to be
detained in the local police station, or would even travel to York
Castle, if that should be selected as his friend’s place of
confinement. Meanwhile, both recognised that they had one most urgent
duty to perform at once--that was, to find out Winifred, and to learn
from the girl herself the reason of her utterly inexplicable silence.
Strangely enough, as the minutes had slipped on, Paul Renishaw had
grown to share Arthur’s fears that something must have gone very
seriously wrong indeed to cause so long and so suggestive a break
between them. Indeed, it was with a heart weighed down with
forebodings, that he clasped the hand of his old companion for the
last time, and, although he did his best to make Arthur think as
lightly of the circumstance as possible, and to look forward to the
time when he should be released with honour, and should be able to go
and find Winifred for himself, he did not succeed in disguising from
himself, that things looked exceedingly black for both of the two
lovers.
Almost immediately afterwards, the heavy iron door of the cell closed
with a clang behind him, and, passing quickly through the bare
white-washed walls of the station for which he had now conceived the
most violent dislike, Paul took his way in the direction of the Strand
and soon scrambled on one of the red buses that run from Liverpool
Street, through Piccadilly, and westwards. At the Circus he dismounted
and stepped briskly towards St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage, where he
discovered one of the maids hard at work, whitewashing the steps.
No doubt his old failure and his new fears for the actual safety of
Winifred lent him quite a fresh reserve of caution. For, this time, he
did not make the mistake of asking for Miss Pontifex at all, but
simply sent in his card as the special commissioner for _The Moon_,
who had called on Mr. Kilroy himself, “with reference to the malicious
reports that had appeared in some of the papers about the scene in St.
Sepulchre’s Church, in the hope that the clergyman would enable him to
publish the exact facts of the affair, and so put both church and
press right with the public.”
Now, clergymen of the stamp of the Reverend Duncan Kilroy--who depend
so entirely on an utterly fictitious popularity to keep together their
congregation, can’t, as Paul had foreseen, afford to flout any mighty
engine of popular opinion, like _The Moon_ undoubtedly was.
Hence, almost before he had crossed the threshold, Paul had the
satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Kilroy would be very glad indeed to
see him. Two or three minutes later, he was formally ushered into the
library, where he found the Reverend Duncan apparently most busy in
the preparation of his next discourse for the Sabbath. Once, however,
he had got him neatly cornered like this, Paul did not hesitate.
“_The Moon_,” said he, with a fine intuition of what was passing in
the minds of that enterprising journal’s conductors, “has sent me to
get an utterly impartial account as to the scene that followed when
that woman attacked you in the pulpit. Some mutual friends have told
us that, close to the steps at the time the woman rushed forward, was
your governess Miss Winifred Pontifex, who, it is understood, is a
niece of that eminent barrister, Mr. Russell Langford. As a
consequence, any statement of hers will be received with considerable
respect, so before I put any question to you, you will greatly oblige
me by sending for Miss Pontifex, so that I can get from her the main
outlines of her story first.”
“I am exceedingly sorry to say,” retorted the Reverend Duncan who, sad
to relate, was never at a loss for any excuse, “Miss Pontifex was so
dreadfully upset by the woman’s violence, and so fearful lest she
should do me some mischief, that she has been made quite ill by the
incident, and has had to take to her bed.”
“Dear me,” retorted Paul sympathetically, although he guessed at once
that the man was telling him a falsehood. “That is indeed unfortunate,
perhaps, however, you would let me send up a little sealed note to
Miss Pontifex, and she could write, herself, an account of what she
witnessed.”
“Scarcely that,” replied the Reverend Duncan. “I don’t think I should
like to disturb her. You see the doctor has only just left her, and
without his sanction, I fear it would be inhuman of me to give her
brain and nerves any fresh shock, such as the enquiry you suggest.”
It is wonderful how easy lies like these rise to the lips of
unprincipled scoundrels such as the Vicar of St. Sepulchre’s! Happily,
Paul was now on his guard, and determined to meet artifice by
artifice, a course that has much to commend it when one is compelled
to fight people like the Reverend Duncan, who are utterly destitute of
honour or of truth. As a consequence, he did not reply for some
seconds, but contented himself by looking very grave, and then, as
though some sudden resolution had come to him, he pushed his hand into
an inside pocket and produced therefrom the bulky letter-case which he
always carried.
“It is exceedingly unpleasant for me to have to say, Mr. Kilroy,” he
went on, letting a perplexed frown gather upon his forehead, “but _The
Moon_ has another reason in requesting you to let me see Miss
Pontifex. As it happens, they have received two or three very
extraordinary letters, marked ‘private and confidential’ from servants
in your own house, alleging that you had a most terrible quarrel with
that young lady, and in collusion with Mr. Ventris Blake, you have
actually made her a prisoner.”
Duncan Kilroy’s face went suddenly very white. “It--it is
preposterous,” he spluttered, starting excitedly to his feet and
advancing towards the door, “_The Moon_ has been tricked. Tell me the
names of the servants, and I will bring them before you, and show you
that the whole story is absurd.”
Here, unfortunately, Paul made his great mistake. Instead of telling
the Reverend Duncan that the names of the servants had nothing
whatever to do with the allegation, that the point was, was Winifred
Pontifex a prisoner or not, he attempted to bluff the Reverend Duncan
just one point further--and failed.
“_The Moon_,” he said grandiloquently, “is not accustomed to act on
communications upon which it cannot place the utmost reliance. I
therefore demand, sir, that you should produce Miss Pontifex to me,
and that I should thus be given an opportunity of finding out for
myself how this extraordinary report was set about.”
“And I absolutely decline,” snarled the Reverend Duncan, seizing the
only genuine opportunity he had had of bringing the interview to an
end. “Indeed I am astounded now at the patience with which I have
listened to you. I consider your charges both malicious and
impertinent--and I beg you to instantly leave my house.” And throwing
open the library door he called one of the servants that happened to
be passing, and directed the girl to show Mr. Renishaw off the
premises.
Inwardly cursing his own stupidity, Paul left the Vicarage and paced
moodily down Piccadilly, realising that on two occasions this
unscrupulous parson had been too much for him. For a time too, he
could not see how he could get level with his victorious adversary;
but none the less, he felt more certain than ever that all was not
well with Winifred, and it behoved him now, more than ever, to see her
and to find out precisely what indignities had been put upon her.
Baffled and perplexed, he thought at one time of slipping down to
Scotland Yard, and of seeing some of the heads of the departments
there, whom he knew from old experience, were good and reliable
friends. On second thoughts, however, he felt that it would be unwise
to make any scandal just at present, and that difficult though it
might prove, he must trust to his native wit to extricate him from
this new reproach of his own blundering failure.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea occurred to him. All at once he recollected
how he had managed to inspect the scene of a notorious murder, by
pretending to be a workman employed to repair the line belonging to
the National Telephone Company; and instantly he resolved to adopt the
same expedient for gaining admission to any rooms he wished to enter
in St. Sepulchre’s Vicarage.
Now, as everyone who is acquainted with the crooked life of London
knows perfectly well, the men who are the best hands at fitting up a
disguise are not, as is generally supposed, the men who make a
business of supplying wigs and false noses and impossible-looking
beards, and wildly extravagant fancy dresses to the public. As a rule,
indeed, they are usually men who follow some other more peaceable,
and, perhaps, more law-abiding occupation.
One of the best of these in the entire metropolis at the present
moment, is a gentleman who answers to the name of “Larry Owen,” but
who speaks with the strongest French accent, has an unmistakable
French figure and countenance, and, when he is not pottering about
Scotland Yard, disguising some of our best detectives, who is to be
found in a dirty little shop off Seven Dials, where you can purchase
anything from a white mouse, a lizard, a green parrot, up to the most
repulsive-looking bull-dog. Long ago Paul had been able to do this man
some slight service in _The Moon_, when a gang of Hooligans, who had
got wind of his popularity with the police, turned up in force and put
all his pets to death, and smashed every breakable thing in his shop;
and so no sooner did he decide to disguise himself, than he decided to
avail himself of the services of the redoubtable Larry Owen.
Luckily too, when he reached the Dials, he found this master of
disguises playing dominoes with an ugly little son in the back parlour
of his shop. Luckily too, Larry was not the kind of man on whom it is
necessary to waste many words of explanation, but with the pride of a
genuine artist, he set to work, and turned Paul into as disreputable
looking a telephone man as one could wish to meet west of the Tower
Bridge.
A few minutes’ reflection while this work was in progress, showed Paul
that he was perhaps risking too much in going to St. Sepulchre’s
Vicarage alone. Hence, he decided to take Larry himself with him, as
a brother workman, and this, it need hardly be said, was quietly
arranged directly an extra sovereign had passed. Larry too, did not
waste much time in making himself up, and punctually by five o’clock,
the two confederates found themselves in Piccadilly, with all the
paraphernalia of itinerant telephone men, knocking at the door of St.
Sepulchre’s Vicarage.
This time, Larry undertook to act as spokesman, and so well did he
play his part, that without a moment’s hesitation, the maid told them
to go upstairs, and to get through their work as quickly as possible,
as she was busy and hadn’t time to bother to show them the ins and
outs of their own business.
Naturally, Paul and Larry did not require a second permission. Almost
as soon indeed as the girl opened the door to them, they stalked up
the stairs, and, with the skill of practised burglars, they tried door
after door, as they mounted steadily upward.
Only one door defied their efforts, on the topmost floor, and behind
that they caught the sound of two voices raised in excited argument.
One was Winifred’s! The other the voice of the clergyman!
This time Paul did not waste any time on useless ceremony. Directly he
found that the door was closed and locked, he pressed his shoulder
against the woodwork, and with such good effect, that he himself went
tumbling headlong into the room where the Reverend Duncan and Winifred
were standing.
“Rescue me, rescue me,” she cried, in a voice charged with emotion,
and then, worn out by the hours of torture and imprisonment she had
been through, she sank into a chair near the fireplace, and began to
sob hysterically.
The Reverend Duncan Kilroy turned and cast an angry glance in her
direction. His first impulse, evidently, was to say something cutting
and stern to her, but suddenly he became afraid of what might follow,
and he swung round and faced the intruders.
“Go outside,” he said, raising his arm in the direction of the door,
“you have no right, my men, in this room at all. If you want the
telephone wires you should go up the ladder at the top of the
staircase, and that will give you access to the roof. There is no
passage through here. As for this poor girl, who has just been talking
that rubbish to you, I am sorry to say she is not quite _compos
mentis_. We must leave her alone, and then she will quickly recover.”
“Not a bit of it, guv’nor,” stolidly interjected Larry Owen, who,
guessing at once that this was the girl Paul had risked so much to
save, put down the coil of wire and brazier he was carrying, and
placed his arms defiantly akimbo. “Just you understand this we ain’t
the kind of men to swallow any fairy tale that may be told to us. We
know enough of life to know that blood ain’t a nice thing to see on a
young gal’s face, like this, and I ain’t agoin’ to leave the young
lady, until I know what made you knock her about.”
And Paul whose first impulse had been to seize this greasy, overfed
parson by the scruff of his neck, and throw him headlong down his own
stairs, choked down his rising indignation, and struck in with a
sentiment most suitable to his assumed station: “Them’s my opinions to
a T.” And with a good deal of unnecessary noise, he flung his bag of
tools upon the floor with a loud thud.
The worthy Duncan’s expression of disgust at this unexpected attack
was really so patent, so complete, that it was almost ludicrous. For a
moment he puffed out his cheeks like a grampus, and seemed to dance
half way across the room in a series of bewildering little storms of
rage.
“‘Knock her about,’ you vulgar fellow,” he spluttered clawing the air
with his hands. “Did I hear you aright; did you say ‘knock her
about’.”
“You heard what I said, guv’nor, right enough,” observed Larry, in a
tone of the most irritating condescension. “So just chuck out your
chest and explain.” And he folded his arms in the attitude of his
favourite hero, Napoleon, as that Emperor appeared in a gaily coloured
chromo-lithograph he treasured in a little room at the back of his
shop.
Mr. Kilroy was now spluttering like some swimmer, who had overtaxed
his strength, and was trying vainly to reach the land. “Don’t you see
I am a clergyman,” he cried, his voice growing hysterically feminine
under the pressure of his continued astonishment, and sweeping his
arms about like a windmill, he tried to call the imperturbable Larry’s
attention to his collar and to the cut of his clothes.
“Indeed, I do,” Larry assured him. “And I don’t mind telling you, that
is why I am so keen about it. After all, parsons ain’t no better than
other people. Often indeed they are worse, so you needn’t work any of
that game on my mate and myself. A gal’s a gal, bless her! and if she
wants to walk out of this place, that there sweet young lady by the
table can do it, and we’ll stand by, and if you interfere, Mr. Parson,
we’ll just knock your bloomin’ head off.”
And again Paul felt nothing better to do than to act the part of the
chorus, and to chime in with a very fervent “hear, hear!”
The Reverend Duncan did not, however, lack a certain amount of
magnificent assurance, and he turned round and relied on this in
speaking to Winifred.
“You hear what these rude fellows have said, Miss Pontifex. Please ask
them to go away, so that I may tell you very fully the important news
I have got for you, direct from Mr. Hudson.” And his cunning little
eyes gleamed, as he uttered this last little invention. It was an
artistic little touch of his own, and he did not see how it could fail
to succeed.
Indeed, as poor Winifred rose unsteadily to her feet, she did indeed
waver. True, she had suffered cruelly since this unscrupulous man had
made her a prisoner--but woman-like, she feared the Unknown; and then,
what would she not risk to receive a message from Arthur himself?
Paul saw what was passing through her mind, and, elbowing his way past
the astonished clergyman, (with a good deal of unnecessary roughness,
we regret to add, for he gave the gentleman quite unnecessarily a
violent punch in the ribs, that sent him in turn spinning against the
bookcase,) he made his way to Winifred’s side, and bent down and
whispered quickly in her ear:--“Don’t take any notice of him, he is
lying as usual. Don’t look surprised either, but I am Paul Renishaw,
come in this disguise to rescue you,” and then pretending that
Winifred had been talking to him, he again faced the Reverend Duncan.
“I have spoken to the young lady,” he said in rough workmanlike tones,
“and she tells me she ain’t agoin’ to stay here, so if you don’t want
my mate to go and fetch a policeman, you had better let her go quietly
with us--”
“Or,” put in the repressible Larry, who was beginning to feel his
conversational powers being silent were being wasted, “we’ll knock
your ugly face in.” And indeed he looked, for a moment, so capable of
doing this, that with a snarl, Mr. Kilroy turned and hurried
precipitately down the staircase, with the avowed intention of
consulting his wife. “As poor Miss Pontifex must really have gone
quite mad.”
Winifred, however, was so overjoyed at the prospect of this speedy
release, that she soon managed to staunch some blood that was flowing
from her cheek, and to draw the wound together by the aid of some
flesh-coloured sticking-plaster. Then she seized her hat and her
cloak, and hastened down the staircase, Paul going in front, and Larry
followed behind her, to see that she was not seized again and immured
in any other room in the Vicarage.
Fortunately, Piccadilly was reached without any interruption, and
seeing how upset Winifred was, Paul forebore to question her, but
insisted on taking her to some tea rooms in Bond Street, realising
that half an hour spent in quiet surroundings like those would do more
for the poor distracted girl than even a brief visit to a doctor. As a
consequence, he and Larry, heedless of what the fashionable people
they met might chance to think, escorted her to this retreat, and then
they chartered a cab and hastened back to the Dials, so that Paul
could change his things and return and explain all that had happened
to Winifred.
Punctually, at the time agreed, Paul returned to the tea-rooms in the
ordinary garb of civilisation, and was delighted to find that Winifred
had recovered most of the obvious effects of the shock she had
experienced during her imprisonment, and was keen to hear how Arthur
had fared since she last saw him in his office in Cheapside.
It was a long and melancholy story that Paul had now to relate to her,
but he did it with such kind earnestness and consideration, that
somehow the horror of it all seemed to vanish, and, in place of that,
he made it appear that all the consequences, tragic though they might
seem at first, were inevitable, and yet only led to the complete
vindication of Arthur and his swift and complete triumph.
By this means, he got Winifred interested in the network of crime and
intrigue into which he had fallen, from quite a new
standpoint--interested, as all good women like to be interested, in
the best way she could help the man that she loved--and so, almost
before she herself realised what a wonderful change had come over her
attitude, she found herself planning and contriving how best both she
and Paul could work for Arthur’s speedy deliverance.
In this change of mind her experience with the woman who had made that
terrible scene in St. Sepulchre’s Church proved a most wonderful aid.
Paul at once pounced on this circumstance as one that might prove most
momentous in its issues; and, almost as soon as he had got the whole
facts before him, he insisted that they ought to set out to work at
once to discover the identity of this creature, and see whether they
could not persuade her to tell them all that she knew about Ventris
Blake’s villainies.
Determining to lose no time, they made their way at once to the
Belsize Theatre in St. Martin’s Lane, first to satisfy themselves
whether the woman, who Winnie now remembered, produced a card bearing
the name of Flora Kaufmann the actress, was, in reality, Flora
Kaufmann, or was simply somebody authorised to act in her behalf.
On arrival at the stage door, however, they discovered that the
actress had not put in an appearance at the theatre, and was not
expected for another hour at least. A judicious bribe of half a crown
luckily produced her private address in Hart Street, Bloomsbury; but
on calling there, they found themselves again foiled. The landlady
explained that a gentleman with a carriage and a pair of horses had
called twenty minutes earlier for the other Miss Kaufmann, who alone
resided there then--she believed it was Mr. Ventris Blake, the
millionaire--and that he had taken this Miss Eleanor Kaufmann to see
some curious works of his in Queen Victoria Street, at number three
hundred and something, but she had forgotten the exact figures.
Thanking her for her information, Paul and Winifred re-entered the
coupé they had chartered, and the driver was told to make his way too
in the direction of Queen Victoria Street. Personally, Paul would have
preferred to have let the chase stand over at this point until the
morrow; but his promise to go to Scarborough that day to see Arthur
and report about Winifred was sacred to him, and he insisted on them
holding on their course. None the less, try as he would, he could not
conceal his fears from Winifred.
“I tell you frankly, Miss Pontifex,” he said in that quick and
decisive way of his, “I don’t like this sudden friendship between such
deadly enemies as Ventris Blake and this strange woman, who has worked
so hard to ruin him. When the lion and the lamb lie down together, as
the Old Book promises us, I will believe that good can come from a
sudden alliance like this, but not earlier. It seems to me that the
millionaire has got wind somehow of the tremendous efforts that this
woman has been making to unmask him, and that he has decided he must
take some very strong and resolute measures to stop her tongue.”
The coupé drew up with a jerk outside No. 375. With a hurried glance,
Paul inspected all the people passing up and down the pavement, and
satisfying himself that the millionaire was not approaching, he
stepped quickly out of the carriage and assisted Winifred to alight.
Then, dismissing the driver, he hurriedly whispered to his companion
the course of action he had resolved on, as they had driven down from
the rooms in Hart Street where the strange woman lodged. Receiving her
promise that she would bravely carry out his instructions, he turned
and led the way into the building so swiftly and silently that, before
anybody in the place was aware of their presence, they had reached and
entered the caretaker’s rooms at the top, the door of which Arthur
had, luckily, left unfastened on his previous visit.
Strangely enough, however, they heard no sound of voices raised in the
apartment in which they expected to find Ventris Blake and the woman
who had made that dramatic scene in St. Sepulchre’s Church. On the
contrary, indeed, when they took their places at the holes which had
been made in the walls the last time Paul acted as spy on the doings
of the millionaire, they perceived that nobody was in the garret
except Ventris Blake, who was seated in an arm-chair apparently
plunged in the most profound melancholy.
For a moment they suffered themselves to become the prey of a sense of
bitter disappointment; but as the seconds slipped on, and the man did
not move at all from his position, and at times looked as though he
were listening intently for some visitor who had not arrived, they
decided that the strange woman had left him for some reason on the way
down, but had promised to follow him to his room.
To Paul also, the period of waiting was relieved by his observations
of the changes that had been made in the disposition of the different
objects in the apartment. For instance, as his glance travelled round
almost irresistibly to the mantlepiece he saw that some heavy curtains
had been hung over the fireplace, and that no longer there glowered
down from the wall that sombre looking Shield of Black, but that in
its place had been hung two long crimson curtains. What had become of
those Three terrible-looking Glass Eyes?
In vain he scanned every likely object in the room. He could not
discover a sign of their presence--unless indeed, they had never been
taken down at all, but had been simply masked by the heavy crimson
curtains. A moment later, he saw that the old-fashioned gas-chandelier
that hung from the centre of the ceiling had also been tampered with,
and that the ordinary burners had been removed to allow a kind of
arc-light to be fixed at the bottom of the pendant, flanked by a
reflector that shone with a glint of polished steel.
Near the chair, too, on which Blake was seated stood a small
gate-table, bearing a red mahogany box, attached to which were a
number of wires that looked as though they communicated with some
invisible electrical apparatus. Paul, indeed, was just wondering what
the object of these lines were, when they caught the sound of a
woman’s step on the stairs, and later the rustle of some silken
skirts, and almost immediately afterwards, the strange woman they were
seeking so eagerly entered the apartment. As she did so, she looked
around the place with a certain obvious curiosity, as though it
recalled some half forgotten memories. Then the millionaire rose and
for a time her mind was absorbed by the conversation.
For once the iron audacity of the man seemed to have vanished, and his
manner towards this strange creature was timid and differential. With
an air as though he were apologising for the severity of the
furniture, he drew a chair for her opposite the fire. Then he too
seated himself in the chair he had previously occupied, and whether by
accident or by design, he rested his arm upon the table, in a position
that hid the small mahogany box completely from sight. There was a
pause, and then unconsciously, he raised his voice a little louder, so
that Paul and Winifred could hear quite plainly all that he said.
“How long, Eleanor, is this to go on?” he asked in a tone he meant to
be light, but betrayed in every accent that he was consumed by anxiety
and fear. “Haven’t you pursued me enough? Haven’t you become satiated
with the revenge you have already had?”
The woman did not deign to answer his question, but put another to
him: “Why haven’t you mended your ways, Ventris Blake?” she asked in a
low, weary kind of way, as though the subject had haunted her so long
that there only remained in her a sense of intolerable fatigue.
“Perhaps, one might have forgiven you in those early days, when you
were younger, and poor Helen had only just died--but you have never
really altered, and so it has become a kind of religion with me now to
track you down and to expose you.”
“But,” said the millionaire eagerly, “Flora has forgiven me; she
thinks the best not the worst of me.”
“Flora,” repeated the woman bitterly, “what does Flora care about
anything or anybody, so long as she makes a successful appearance on
the stage, and turns the heads of weak fools like Russell Langford and
that latest dupe of hers, Jules Prendergast, who I see has just
managed to push her out of the star part she had at the Belsize
Theatre? Of course, Flora won’t take any trouble for anybody except
herself--but there! she never cared for poor Helen like I did! she
never had a true sister’s feelings towards her; and when the poor
child was on her deathbed, she never realised what a sacred legacy of
hate Helen bequeathed to us when she called upon us to give you no
peace, until we had avenged her murder.”
“Murder is an ugly word, Eleanor,” repeated the millionaire, with a
shiver.
“A very ugly word,” agreed his companion, “but it’s a true word, and
therefore I don’t think you ought to mind my use of it.”
“But won’t even money do anything to atone for the past?” pursued
Blake softly. “I am not, as you know, particular to a few thousands,
even tens of thousands; I just want to be left in peace.”
“No,” said the woman firmly, “the prospect of being rich doesn’t
appeal to me. As a matter of fact, I shall never live to make any use
either of my vengeance or of your wealth. It was only yesterday I went
and saw Dr. Carpenter, the great heart-specialist in Harley Street,
and then he told me quite frankly that the heart disease I am
suffering from has made almost incredible progress, and that there is
a positive certainty that directly I get any extraordinary fatigue, my
heart may break down, and I shall go out like the flare of a candle.”
Was it fancy, or was it really a fact, that, as the woman revealed
this dark fate by which she was haunted, Ventris Blake’s eyes flashed
for a second, but only for a second, with the light of malignant
triumph? When they came to compare notes afterwards, both of those two
unseen watchers, Paul and Winifred, agreed that they did, and
certainly from that moment, Ventris Blake dropped altogether his soft
whining tones, and spoke out with a new air of power and earnestness.
“That being so,” he proceeded, “why do you interfere in my life, on
behalf of a scoundrel like this Arthur Hudson?”
“For three reasons,” declared the woman coldly. “In the first place,
he is not a scoundrel. In the second place, he was wonderfully good to
me when I was taken ill outside his office in Cheapside, when to all
appearances, I was a poor, weak, hungry-looking woman, without a
friend in the world. He couldn’t have been earning much himself, but I
remember he fetched and paid a doctor for me, and finally insisted on
hiring a cab and driving me to my rooms. No! you needn’t look cynical
like that,” she went on with a sudden burst of fierceness, “he didn’t
flirt with me, he didn’t try to make love to me, he is not that sort
of man. He was just that bright, strong, frank, helpful kind of boy,
we women, who are so weary of the noxious attentions of all sorts and
conditions of people, admire most. Perhaps,” she went on more softly,
“it is the latent instinct of motherhood within us all. At all events,
I felt my heart go out to him and, when I discovered that he was the
object of yet another of your diabolical plots, I made it my business
to speak out boldly for him, both at the church and in the Police
Court.”
The millionaire shifted about uneasily, and finally looked down.
“But,” he said with a nervous little cough, “you haven’t told me yet
your third reason. Is this some other equally heroic and equally
quixotic prompting of your feelings, or do we this time come a bit
nearer a solid foundation of a hard business fact?”
“We come upon a question of absolute fact,” returned the woman, and
now her face grew exceedingly stern. “That third reason you ask me
about is probably the most convincing reason of all. It is this I am
making this grim fight for poor Arthur Hudson, because I happen to
know who it is that did that murder of the poor creature on the Filey
road near Scarborough.”
“You know!” gasped the millionaire, suddenly sitting upright and
grasping the table with both hands, to hide the trembling of his
muscles.
“Yes, I know,” repeated the woman, “and at the right moment I shall
speak.” And so, as though she were desirous to end the conversation,
she rose and pretended to re-examine the different objects in the
room.
Then, as the millionaire did not speak, she began to talk in a
desultory kind of way, as though she would distract his attention.
“Dear me,” said she, “now I come to look at it, this room has a
strangely familiar appearance to me.
“Every object in it seems to remind me of something--some place--some
incident that I have almost completely forgotten.” Then she looked as
though a sudden light had broken upon her: “Surely,” she cried, “this
cannot be the actual room where poor old Colonel Pontifex and that
skulk Russell Langford----”
With a muffled oath, Ventris Blake sprang to his feet. “Enough of
that,” he said roughly. “Let us stick to the matter we were discussing
first. We can deal with this room and what it suggests afterwards.
What I want you to tell me about is the murder of my poor Aimée.”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “Your poor Aimée,” she sneered. “You were
not wont to talk of her like that, when she was alive, and I am sure
that this is almost the first time you have so spoken of her since she
had been dead. None the less, why try to come over me, with this cheap
theatrical bluff? After all, I know who murdered Aimée Blake, it’s
true--but so do you,” and she swept round with a quick movement and
gazed fixedly at the millionaire, who could not stand her scrutiny,
and with a fumbling kind of movement dropped again into the armchair.
“Can’t--can’t we come to terms?” he stammered, playing nervously with
a little red box at his elbow, and taking care all the time to keep
the wires connected with it closely concealed.
Again the woman seated herself and gazed fixedly into the fire.
“Can you bring the dead to life?” she replied, and there was no
passion now in her voice, but her face wore a look of grim
determination.
“I can atone,” he murmured.
“Repentance is not the quality that suits men of your stamp, Ventris
Blake,” she answered with a slow shake of the head. “No! I have sworn
my oath and I shall keep my word. So far as I am concerned, this
conversation is now ended.”
“And so far as I am concerned,” he snarled suddenly, “the business of
this meeting between us, after five years’ vendetta, has only just
begun.” And sweeping round again, in the direction of the table, he
threw open the lid of the box and pressed some knobs connected with
the wires.
There was a rustle as the draperies over the fireplace slowly began to
revolve, coiling themselves upward.
Again he pressed a button--and this time the light seemed to shift,
the reflector fell, and some vivid rays depressed themselves on the
huge Black Shield that had again become visible.
This time the woman shrieked and pressed her hands convulsively to the
side of the chair, as though, by catching sight of The Three Glass
Eyes, she had suddenly become paralysed.