Of necessity I went down to Upton End in order to see old Tucker and his
wife, who had acted as caretakers in my absence.
Thomas Tucker--a tall, thin, active, grey-moustached man of sixty-five--
was a servant of the old-fashioned faithful school. For thirty-two
years--ever since the day of his marriage--he had lived in the pretty
rose-embowered lodge, and had been taken over by my father as part of
the estate. Indeed, in such high esteem did the governor hold him that
he was given an entirely free hand in all outside matters; while his
wife--a well-preserved, round-faced woman, equally devoted to her
master--was entrusted with the care of the servants and other domestic
affairs.
Hence, when I found myself possessor of the place, I too reposed the
same confidence in the faithful pair as my father had done. But now
that he was dead and I was alone, Upton End seemed, alas! very grim and
silent. True, the old place, with its quaint corners and historic
associations, its dark panelling, polished floors, and antique
furniture, its high box hedges, level lawns, and wealth of roses, would
have delighted the artist or the antiquarian; but modern man that I was,
I failed to find very much there to attract me.
It was a house built for entertainment, and was only tolerable when
filled by a gay house-party. The lawns, gardens, and park were looking
their best in those balmy days of June; yet as I walked about, listening
to Tucker as he showed me some improvements in tree-planting and in the
green-houses, I found myself already reflecting whether, after all, it
was worth while keeping the place up further, now that I scarcely ever
visited it.
The rural quiet of the place palled upon me--so much so, indeed, that
while sitting on the wide veranda smoking in the sunset on the third
evening after my arrival I made up my mind to leave again next day.
This I did, much to Tucker's regret.
The old fellow watched me climb into the dog-cart, and touched his straw
hat in respectful silence. I knew how the poor old fellow hated his
master to be absent.
Again in London, I waited in eager impatience until the nineteenth of
the month, when I left Paddington for Totnes, in Devon. It was, I
found, a quaint old town among green hills through which wound the
picturesque Dart--a town with a long, steep high street, a city gateway,
with shops built over the footpath, like those in the Borgo Largo in
Pisa.
The Seymour Hotel, where I took up my quarters, was situated by the
bridge, and faced the river--a well-known resort of anglers and summer
tourists. But of such things as fishing or scenery I cared nothing on
that well-remembered day--the day appointed for me to keep the strange
tryst made by the man now dead.
The wording of Mr Arnold's injunction was "to be present at the railway
station of Totnes at five o'clock." It did not mention the platform or
the booking-office. Examination of the time-table showed that no train
arrived at or left Totnes between the hours of four p.m., when the
Plymouth train arrived, and the five-fifteen up-train to Exeter and
Taunton. There were several expresses, of course, Totnes being on the
Great Western main line between Plymouth and London.
By this fact it seemed that the mysterious man whom I was to meet would
already be in Totnes, and would come to the station in order to meet me.
All day, therefore, my eyes were open for sight of a man wearing a red
tie or a carnation in his coat.
Mr Arnold had held suspicion that he might be watched. Why? What did
he fear?
I was not to approach him unless he unbuttoned his gloves and removed
them.
All that well-remembered day I idled by the cool rippling river,
lingered by the rushing weir, watching the fishermen haul in their
salmon-nets, and strolled about the quiet old-world streets of the
rather sleepy place, eager for the arrival of five o'clock.
The station being some distance from the town, I walked down to it about
half-past four. The afternoon was blazing-hot, and scarcely anyone was
astir, even the dogs were asleep in the shadows, and the heat-slumber
was over everything.
A hundred times had I tried to picture to myself what Mr Arthur Dawnay
could be like. In the High Street, earlier in the day, I had seen a
young man in tweed Norfolk jacket, obviously a tourist, wearing a red
tie, but no carnation, and had followed him unnoticed to a house out on
the outskirts of the town, where he was evidently lodging. Was his name
Dawnay, I wondered! If he were actually the man whom I was to meet,
then he certainly was a very prosaic looking person.
Still I possessed my soul in patience, and with the dead man's letter in
my breast-pocket I walked through the booking-office and on to the
platform.
Several persons were about--ordinary looking individuals, such as one
sees every day at the station of a small provincial town--but there was
no man wearing either a red cravat or a carnation.
I lit a cigarette and strolled up and down the platform where the
booking-office was situated. The gate of the up-platform being kept
locked, he would be compelled to pass through the booking-office.
Twice expresses with ocean mails from Plymouth to London roared through,
and slowly the hands of the big clock approached the hour of five.
The appointment must have been made long ago by the man now dead--weeks
ago, when he was still abroad; for the letter, I recollected, had been
written on board the liner between Naples and London. But the principal
point which puzzled me was the reason why the dead man's letter should
be delivered in such secrecy.
A man with a red tie is very easily distinguishable, and I flatter
myself that I possess a very keen eyesight; yet though minute after
minute went by till it was already a quarter-past the hour, still no man
answering the description given by the late Mr Arnold put in an
appearance.
Presently, on the opposite platform, the express from Plymouth to
Bristol came in; and suspecting that he might arrive by it, I dashed up
the stairs, two steps at a time, and across the footbridge. When
halfway down the stairs I halted, for I could see all over the
up-platform.
Few passengers had alighted, but among them I instantly discerned a man
wearing a cravat of scarlet satin. He was smartly dressed in a grey
lounge-suit, and in his coat he wore a pink carnation. In his hand was
an old-fashioned black ebony cane with silver knob.
He was standing looking up and down the platform, as though in search of
somebody. Therefore I sped down the remaining stairs and quickly
approached him, though I had not seen his face distinctly.
Suddenly, as I was within six yards of him, I recollected the dead man's
written words, and halted short.
He was still wearing grey suede gloves. He had not removed them;
therefore he was suspicious of being watched!
I lit another cigarette, and with careless air sauntered past him in
order to gain a good view of his features.
He was, I saw, of middle height, and aged about fifty. His clean-shaven
face, with heavy, square jaws, was pimply and rather bloated--a face
which somehow filled me with repugnance, for it was the countenance of
one who was a fast liver and who indulged a little too freely in
alcohol. His grey suit, grey soft felt hat, and grey gloves gave to him
a certain air of smartness and distinction; yet those small brown eyes,
with a peculiar, indescribable expression searching up and down the
platform, were the eyes of a man full of craft and double cunning.
From the first moment I turned my gaze upon him I held him in distinct
suspicion; while he, it appeared, in turn held somebody else in
suspicion. I looked around, but could not discern anybody who might
arouse his misgivings. About us were all honest Devon folk.
The fact that he had not taken off his gloves still remained. My
injunctions were not to approach him if he failed to remove them. He
had the air of a _bon vivant_, even to the manner in which he tucked his
ebony cane beneath his arm in order to light a choice cigar.
Most of the passengers crossed the bridge on their way out, while others
made their exit by the little wicket, some of them entering the dusty
motor-'bus which plies to Paignton.
Once, only once, his small narrow brown eyes met mine, and I saw in them
a look of quick inquiry and shrewd cunning.
Then, still wearing his gloves as sign to me to hold aloof, he leisurely
crossed the bridge to the down-platform, and strolled along the hot,
dusty road into the town.
As far as I could discern, nobody was watching his movements at all;
nevertheless, I could only suppose that he had great cause for
precaution, otherwise he would have allowed me to approach and speak to
him.
True, there was a queer, insignificant-looking old lady in rusty black,
who had been on the platform when I had arrived, who had crossed the
bridge and waited for the train from Plymouth, and who was now making
her way back into Totnes in the direction we were walking.
Could it be possible that he feared her?
It struck me that he might have recognised that I had travelled there to
meet him in place of the man now deceased; therefore I hurried on and
got in front so that he might, if he so wished, follow me to the Seymour
Hotel.
But judge my chagrin when at last we entered the main street, and while
I turned down towards the bridge, he turned in the opposite direction,
thus showing that he had not detected my anxiety to speak with him. And
the old lady had followed in his footsteps.
Suddenly a thought occurred to me. It was surely more than probable
that Mr Dawnay was there to meet the man Arnold, in ignorance of his
death. Therefore, having allowed him to get on some distance, I turned
upon my heel and followed him.
His movements were certainly curious. He was undoubtedly avoiding the
unwelcome attentions of the old lady, who now seemed to be acting in
conjunction with a dark-haired, middle-aged man with beetling brows, who
wore a shabby brown suit and a last year's straw hat.
The man with the red cravat entered an inn in Fore Street, and remained
there a full hour, the other man watching in the vicinity. Then, on
emerging, he went to a chemist's, and afterwards turned his footsteps
back towards the station.
I saw that his intention was to leave Totnes. Therefore, in preference
to following on foot, I drove to the station in a fly.
He had never once removed those grey suede gloves, though the day was so
hot, for on the up-platform the man in the straw hat was still idling
behind him. A number of people were waiting for the train, and I,
discerning Mr Dawnay's intention of travelling, entered the
booking-office and bought a ticket for Exeter.
At last the London express came roaring into the station, when the man
whom I was there to meet quickly entered a first-class corridor
compartment, and while I remained vigilant, I saw the mysterious watcher
enter a carriage a little way behind. Then, just as the train was
leaving, I sprang into the compartment next that of Mr Dawnay.
I allowed the train to travel for about ten minutes, and as we slowly
ascended the steep incline to Stony Coombe, between Totnes and Newton
Abbot, I passed along the corridor and entered the compartment of the
fugitive.
His quick, wary eyes were upon me in an instant, and I saw him start
visibly in alarm, as I shut the door behind me leading to the corridor.
"I believe," I exclaimed next moment, "that you are Mr Arthur Dawnay?"
In an instant--before, indeed, I was aware of it--I found myself looking
down the big barrel of a heavy Browning pistol.
"Well?" asked the man with the red tie, without moving from his seat,
yet covering me with his weapon. "And what if I am, eh?"
Upon his face was a hard, evil grin, and I saw that he certainly was not
a man to be trifled with.
"You think you've cornered me this time, eh?" he said in a hard, dry
voice. "But raise a finger, and, by Gad! I'll put a bullet through
you. So you'd best own yourself beaten, and let me slip out at Newton
Abbot. Understand?"
Then, next moment, the train unfortunately entered the tunnel, and we
were plunged in complete darkness.