The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtain
no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold.
His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his
possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.
Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was
wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which
he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune.
Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands.
Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had
been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him.
Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the
dead man's riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey
Shaw was really Arnold's friend and not his enemy, as the woman had
alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I
not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!
I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed.
Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and
straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both
him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined
with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long
summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the
elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.
Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead of
healing the wound caused by Guy's sudden end, only served to aggravate
it. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes I
endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and
silence.
To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least sound
seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared as
though she had something upon her conscience--some secret which she
feared moment by moment might be betrayed.
One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at
Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.
"Yes," he sighed, "you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I've noticed
it too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants a
change. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of
it. Now, however, I've induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in
France. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne,
thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding the _pave_ of Paris, by Versailles,
Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you ever
been there?"
"No. It must be a very fine run," I said.
"Then why don't you come with us?" he suggested. "I'm taking the sixty,
and there'll be plenty of room."
I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. My
own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey.
"Ah!" he laughed, noticing my indecision. "Of course, you'll come.
Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow."
"Very well," I said, "I'll come, if you really mean that there'll be
room."
And so it was arranged.
When he told Asta a few minutes later her face brightened, and she
turned to me, saying--
"Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball. Dad has often been on the
Continent with the car, but he has never taken me before. He thought
that the long runs might be too fatiguing."
"Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place," he said, with a
laugh. "You must have a change, or else you'll be ill."
Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for an
hour. Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while with
Asta in the drawing-room to get cool. She looked very sweet in her
simple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes. Exertion had
heightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expression
had returned to her eyes.
As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.
I listened. The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the room
above.
"It's Dad," the girl said. "Of late he seems to have taken to whistling
like that. Why, I can't tell, for we have no dogs."
We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill call
of a peculiar note. Apparently he was in his room directly over the
drawing-room--which was the bedroom--and the window being open we could
hear distinctly.
Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shouted
up--
"Who are you calling, Dad?"
"Oh, nobody, dear," was his reply. "I--I didn't know you were there. I
thought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden."
The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenly
recollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on the
occasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similar
whistle. It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quickly
forgotten.
We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Asta
exclaimed--
"Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad? One
could understand it if we had dogs. But to whistle to nothing seems so
idiotic."
"All, so it is, dear," he replied, laughing. "But I was not whistling
to nothing. I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window.
I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellow
gets very deaf nowadays."
Such was Shaw's explanation. It was surely not an unusual circumstance,
yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwards
transpired.
As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over those
fine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he had
uttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at Titmarsh
Court.
A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swung
down the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in the
Cote d'Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old chateau,
now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there under
Coligny in 1570. Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, the
echoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before the
long, low-built Hotel de la Poste, a building painted grey, with
_jalousies_ of the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, like
many of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways of
France--the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadays
bear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.
We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had become
almost her old self. The complete change of surroundings had wrought in
her a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her pale
mauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat. Shaw wore dark spectacles,
pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes. But I had
shrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiously
enough, of an evening he never removed them.
What did he fear in France?
That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at the
Grand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Foret de
Fontainebleau, had lunched at the Hotel de l'Epee in busy Auverre, and
then spun away over the straight wide _route nationale_ through
Vermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the rich
vinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that place
and Arnay-le-Duc.
It was our intention to get on to Macon, a hundred kilometres farther,
that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentious
little _salle a manger_, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets,
washed down by an old and perfect bottle of Beaune, Harris, the
chauffeur, who had been hired for the tour because he knew the French
roads, came and informed us of a slight breakdown of the engine, which
would take him at least a couple of hours or so to repair.
"Then we can't get on to Macon to-night, that's very certain," remarked
Shaw.
"That's a pity, Dad," exclaimed Asta, "for I wanted to spend a few hours
there. I've heard it is a wonderful place to buy antiques, and I want
some old crucifixes to add to my collection."
"Never mind, dear," he said, "we will lunch there to-morrow. We can't
expect to go through France without a single mishap. Very well,
Harris," he added, "we'll stay here to-night."
Three travellers in the wine trade, men who tucked their serviettes into
their collars, and who ate and drank heartily, were our table
companions, and soon we were all chatting merrily in French, while
Madame and her two daughters waited upon us.
The room was at the back, and looked out upon the spacious old courtyard
into which, in days bygone, the dusty Lyons mail used to rumble over the
cobbles. It was bare, with highly polished oak floor, a mirror on the
walls, and an old buffet, as is the style in French inns, while when we
ascended to our rooms we found the same bareness and cleanliness
pervading.
My window looked out upon the village street. The floor was carpetless
and polished, the bed an old-fashioned wooden one, and besides a chair,
a chest of drawers, and a washstand, the only other furniture was a
japanned iron stand of hooks upon which to hang coats--that article
which is common in every hotel from Archangel to Reggio, and from
Ekaterinburg to Lisbon.
After a wash, we met below and strolled about the village, which, three
hundred kilometres distant from Paris, and two hundred from Lyons, was,
we found, a charming old-world place, once important, but now, alas!
decayed and forgotten in the mad hurry of our modern world. In the
heart of the wine-country, with the vines in lines with great regularity
everywhere, it is still a place with a certain amount of commerce, but
surely not so important or busy as in the days when on an average two
hundred travelling coaches passed through daily.
We idled in the old courtyard watching Harris making his repairs, and
after a final smoke upon the bench outside, we all retired about ten
o'clock, at which hour the whole village seemed already in profound
slumber.
Shaw's room was, I found, next to mine, but the communicating door was
shut and bolted, while Asta was at the farther end of the corridor. The
long journey and the fresh air had caused a great drowsiness to overcome
me, and I was exceedingly glad to turn in. A peal of old bells were
clanging somewhere as I blew out my candle, and a few minutes later I
must have dropped off to sleep.
How long I slept I know not, but I awoke suddenly by feeling a strange
touch upon my cheek, soft, almost imperceptible, yet chilly--a peculiar
feeling that I cannot adequately describe. The contact, whatever it
was, thrilled me, and as I opened my eyes I saw the grey light of dawn
was just appearing. My face was towards the window, and as I looked I
saw distinctly upon my pillow the silhouette of a dark and shadowy
hand--a hand with weird, claw-like fingers.
Startled, I sat up in bed, but when I looked it had vanished.
It was as though the hand of the Angel of Death himself had touched me!
At that instant I recollected the words written by Melvill Arnold before
he died.
Holding my breath, and wondering at first whether I had not been
dreaming, I looked about me. But there was nothing--absolutely nothing.
My first impulse was to shout, alarm Shaw, and tell him of my uncanny
experience, but I could hear him snoring soundly in the adjoining room.
So I crept out of bed and examined the communicating door. It was still
bolted, just as I had left it.
Yet I still recollected most distinctly that touch upon my cheek. And I
still had the black silhouette of that phantom hand photographed
indelibly upon my memory.
I tried to persuade myself that the incident was but a mere chimera of
my overwrought imagination, but, alas! to no avail.