"It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I
reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have
just been discussing."
"In fear of her?"
"Yes. One circumstance made it quite plain. A little over a month ago,
I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to
come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an
appointment on the Sunday which he could not break. I urged him to go,
but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o'clock,
and did not return until two in the morning. I chaffed him next
morning. But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant.
`No, old chap,' he said. `Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole.
I'm in one--a woman, as you can guess. And I had to keep that
appointment. I couldn't refuse her, for we had some serious business to
transact. Ah,' he sighed, `if I could only think that I'd never see her
again, by Gad! I'd be a different man!'"
"And you guessed that he met the widow?" I said.
"I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop
casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings."
"Then she had some hold upon him?"
"Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal
affairs."
"That was over a month ago, eh?"
"Perhaps six weeks."
I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of
that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in
such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor
so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon
mystery.
We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big
smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when
he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and
pondered deeply.
I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through
those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta,
loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting
me to bring the culprit to justice.
The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy
Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the
accomplishment of the crime.
Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.
"If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me.
I'll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be," he said.
I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he
descended the steps of the club.
It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with
Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something.
Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty,
old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the
widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was
a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty
or so, and they were taking tea.
From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after
being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from
the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!
Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed
with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace
of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her
extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in
her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.
The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a
party on the following day.
"Sir Charles will be there, so do come," the girl urged.
"I'm afraid I have to go to the Reids' with my brother," the widow
replied. "He accepted their invitation a month ago."
And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven
man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother,
George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of
whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey--the husband Earnshaw, who
sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes
as a servant!
As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was
just as clever and refined as his alleged sister. He had just returned
from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described
the pleasant time he had had.
When at last Mrs Olliffe's visitors rose and left, I requested a word
with her alone.
"Certainly," she said--not, however, without a slightly startled glance,
which I did not fail to notice. "Come in here;" and she led me through
to her own little sitting-room--a charming, cosy place, very tastefully
furnished and restful.