The letter, written upon the notepaper of R.M.S. _Miltiades_, was dated
four days prior to our arrival in London.
Perhaps I cannot do better than reproduce it in its entirety.
"To Lionel Kemball, Esquire.
"Dear Mr Kemball,--Now, after my death, I desire here to place on
record my great indebtedness to you for your kindness and sympathy. You
knew nothing of me, yet you took pity upon my lonely and unfortunate
self. You have, in addition, made solemn promise to me to act as I
direct. At the outset I desire to be perfectly frank with you and to
confess that I was not what I represented myself to be. Certain
chapters of my eventful life must be for ever hidden, even from you, who
are acting as my friend. This I greatly regret, but to reveal all must
only bring unhappiness upon one who is innocent. For that reason I die
carrying my secret with me.
"How long I shall continue to live after penning this request I cannot
know. Therefore, I will make matters as plain as possible, and
earnestly request you to act as follows:--
"To be present at the railway station of Totnes in Devon at five o'clock
on the evening of the 20th of June next, and there meet a certain man
who will come in secret in search of you. He will wear a red tie, a
carnation in his coat, and will carry an ebony walking-stick. He may be
watched, therefore do not approach him unless he unbuttons his gloves
and removes them. To him hand the enclosed letter, and if you wish
further to serve the interests of one who herein expresses his deepest
and most heartfelt gratitude, watch him, become his helper, and act as
he directs--but do not trust him implicitly.
"Some of the circumstances may strike you as extraordinary and
unwarrantable, but I beg of you not to attempt to solve mysteries which
must, for ever, be hidden. The person in question may be in sore need
of a friend to give assistance and advice, therefore rest assured that
such favour shown to him will not go unrewarded.
"As regards the bronze cylinder, be extremely careful of it, and in all
security hold it unopened in trust for me until six months from the date
of this letter--namely, on 3rd November--when you will hand it without
question to the person who comes to you and lays claim to it.
"What is enclosed addressed to yourself please accept as a trifling
token of the great esteem in which you have been held by the lonely and
forgotten man who, in later life, was known as--
"Melvill Arnold."
I tore open the envelope addressed to myself, and therein found four
Bank of England notes for five hundred pounds each. My mysterious
fellow-traveller who had money to burn had presented me with the sum of
two thousand pounds.
The other enclosure, a letter secured by three seals of black wax, was
addressed to "Arthur Dawnay, Esquire."
My trust was indeed a strange one, increased by the dead man's request
that I should befriend a man who was friendless, and at the same time
warning me against placing too great a trust in him.
I tried to conjure up in my mind what kind of person I was to meet so
mysteriously away in Devonshire. Why, I wondered, could not Mr
Arnold's affairs be settled in a proper manner by his lawyers? But
perhaps, so mysterious was he, that to trust solicitors would be to
reveal his identity. One thing, however, was evident. He had already
made a secret appointment with Mr Dawnay. In all probability he had
travelled to England expressly to see him.
From him I should probably learn something concerning the Man from
Nowhere who had made me that very welcome present of two thousand
pounds.
That the grey beard was not his own, and that he was somewhat younger
than the age he had assumed, were, in themselves, facts which caused me
a good deal of deep reflection. He was a complete mystery, and more
could not be said.
Many times had I taken the ancient cylinder in my hand wondering what it
really contained. As far as I could judge it was of metal, half an inch
thick, for the cylinder was well made, and had apparently been drilled
out of a solid block. The welded end had been very carefully and neatly
closed, and it had evidently lain in the damp, or more probably under
water, for many years, judging from the rough corrosion upon it.
My instructions were to guard it with all zeal, yet I was to hand it
without question to whoever, on the 3rd of November, should ask for it.
I turned it over in my hands time after time, wondering what could be
the nature of this, the greatest treasure of a man, who had undoubtedly
been wealthy.
I confess to you that I entertained certain misgivings. Out of mere
pity I had made the acquaintance of Melvill Arnold, never dreaming that
I should be led into so strange an executorship. Again, there being no
will, I began to wonder what was my actual position in law.
The mystery surrounding the dead man had been increased both by the
discovery of his disguise and by the frankness of his letter, in which
he plainly admitted that he was not what he had represented himself to
be. Why had that letter been sent to him threatening revenge for the
sentence upon the adventuress who called herself Lady Lettice Lancaster?
What connection could he have had with such swindlers?
The whole affair formed a complete enigma. Perhaps I had acted very
foolishly in mixing myself up with a perfect stranger, and as day
succeeded day this thought became the more and more impressed upon me.
I suppose in order that you should understand matters aright I ought
here to say something concerning myself.
I, Lionel Kemball, was aged twenty-seven. My father, a well-known
London surgeon, who had been knighted for his services in the interests
of surgical science, had died two years ago, leaving me with a
comfortable old house, called Upton End, near Newport Pagnell, in
Buckinghamshire, and an income of about a couple of thousand a year.
Three years prior to his death he had retired and given up the house in
Cavendish Square, preferring life in healthier and quieter surroundings.
I had studied medicine, and had passed my preliminary examinations at
Edinburgh, when I found myself troubled slightly with my lungs, and had
been advised to take a trip to Australia. To my satisfaction I had
returned in the very pink of health and perfectly cured.
I had visited Ceylon, the cities of Sydney, Brisbane, and Perth, had
witnessed some of the wonders of New Zealand, and now, on my return, had
become involved in this most curious and perplexing romance.
The day on which I opened Mr Arnold's strange letter was the 8th of
June, therefore twelve days had to elapse before I could go down to
Devonshire to meet the mysterious Mr Dawnay.
Those were hot, exciting days. Such blazing weather in June had not
been experienced in London for years. It was hot by day, succeeded by
oppressive, breathless evenings, with that red dust-haze seen only in
our great metropolis. The Derby had been run and London hotels were
crammed. The colossal Cecil, at which it was my habit to stay, was
filled to overflowing by crowds of Americans, and the West End ran riot
with gaiety and extravagance, as it always does each season.
Perhaps fortunately for me, for it prevented my mind being too much
concentrated upon my remarkable trust, I found myself involved in some
trouble concerning some land down at Upton End, and I had a number of
interviews with my late father's solicitors. A lawsuit was threatened,
and it looked much as though I should be the loser by several hundreds a
year.
My mother died when I was but ten, and though I was fond of a country
life, yet, somehow, since my father's decease, I had not cared for the
loneliness and solitude of the quaint old house. It was certainly a
delightful old place, with several oak-panelled chambers, and clinging
to it were all sorts of quaint legends of Roundheads and Cavaliers. Its
old bowling-green and its gardens ablaze in summer with crimson ramblers
were charming; yet it was, after all, only a white elephant to me, a
bachelor. So I had kept on a couple of the old servants, who together
with Tucker, the head-gardener, and his assistant, kept the place
going--for I had secret thoughts of letting it furnished.
My trouble over the ownership of the piece of land forming a portion of
the farm attached to the house, and several other matters which had been
neglected owing to my absence in Australia, kept my hands pretty full;
nevertheless, I found time one evening to take a taxi up to Highgate
Cemetery in order to see that the grave of my dead friend had been
properly closed and put in order.
It was about six o'clock in the evening when I arrived, and there were
many friends and relatives tenderly watering the flowers on the graves
of their loved ones. Without much difficulty I found the newly made
mound of brown earth, but to my surprise I also saw that a magnificent
cross of white flowers had been laid upon it.
This I eagerly examined, but no card was attached.
Surely whoever had placed it there had mistaken the grave, for Mr
Arnold possessed no friends, and I had been the only follower. His
decease had not been advertised; therefore surely none could know of his
death.
For a few minutes I stood there, gazing upon the emblem, and pondering.
Suddenly I saw the cemetery-keeper, and walking up to him pointed out
the grave and asked him if he knew anything of the cross that had been
placed upon it.
"Oh, you mean Mr Arnold's grave, I suppose, sir," exclaimed the man.
"How do you know it is Mr Arnold's!" I asked.
"Well, sir, the day after the funeral a young lady came to me and
inquired where a Mr Melvill Arnold had been buried. So I looked it up
in the books and told her. She's been here every day since, and put
fresh flowers there."
"A young lady! What was she like?" I inquired. "Oh, well, she's about
twenty, I should say--pretty, with dark hair, and dressed in mourning,"
he replied. "She comes each day about five, generally in a private
motor-car--a big grey car. The flowers cost her a tidy lot, I should
think, for they're not common ones."
"About five o'clock!" I exclaimed. "Has she been here to-day?"
"No. And she didn't come yesterday either," was the man's reply.
"Perhaps she'll come later on. We don't close till half-past seven just
now."
So I waited in patience in the vicinity, eagerly watching for the advent
of the one person beside myself and the undertaker who knew of the last
resting-place of the mysterious man who had deliberately destroyed his
fortune.
I wandered among the graves for a full hour, until of a sudden the
cemetery-keeper approached me, and in a low voice said--
"Look, over yonder, sir! That tall young lady in black with the
chauffeur carrying the wreath: that's the lady who comes daily to Mr
Arnold's grave."
I looked, but, curiously enough, she had turned and was leaving the spot
without depositing the wreath she had brought.
"Somebody's watching her, sir," remarked the man, "Perhaps she
recognises you. She's taking the wreath away again!"
The chauffeur was walking close behind her along the central avenue as
though about to leave the burial-ground, when of a sudden she crossed
the grass to a newly made grave, and there her man deposited the wreath.
She had detected somebody watching--perhaps she had suspicion of the
keeper in conversation with myself; at any rate, she resorted to the
ruse of placing the wreath upon the grave of a stranger.
Fortunately, I had been able to obtain a good look at her handsome,
refined features, and I decided that hers was a countenance which I
should recognise again anywhere.
I looked around, but could see no one in the vicinity to arouse her
suspicion--nobody, save myself.
Why did she hold me in fear? By what manner had she been aware of the
mysterious man's death, or that I had been his friend?