I sprang out into the corridor without a second's hesitation and rapped
upon the door, crying--
"What's the matter. Let me in."
In a few seconds she unbolted the door, and opening it I encountered her
in a pale pink _robe-de-chambre_, her luxuriant chestnut hair falling
about her shoulders, her large dark brown eyes haggard and startled, her
hands clenched, her countenance white to the lips.
"What has happened, Miss Seymour?" I asked, glancing quickly around the
room.
"I--I hardly know," she gasped in breathless alarm. "Only--only," she
whispered, in a low voice, "I--I've seen the hand--the Hand of Death--
again!"
"Seen it again!" I echoed; but she raised her finger and pointed to her
father's door.
"Tell me the circumstances," I whispered. "There is something very
uncanny and unnatural about this which must be investigated. Last night
it appeared to me a hundred and twenty miles away, and now you see it
to-night. Are you quite sure you saw it."
I asked the latter question because it was still dark, and she had
switched on the electric light.
"I felt a cold rough contact with my cheek, and waking saw the hand
again! I burn a night-light--as you see," and she pointed across to a
child's night-light in a saucer upon the washstand.
"And it vanished as before?"
"Instantly. I thought I heard a slight sound afterwards, but I must
have been mistaken."
"Yes," I said, making a quick examination of the room, and looking
beneath the bed. "There is certainly nothing here."
I noted that the communicating door between her room and her father's
was still secured by the small brass bolt.
"Well," I declared, "it is utterly inexplicable." My voice evidently
awakened Shaw, for we heard him tap at the door and ask in a deep,
drowsy voice--
"What's the matter in there, Asta?"
"Oh, nothing at all, Dad," was the girl's reply. "Only I fancy there
must be a rat in my room--and Mr Kemball is looking for it."
"Didn't you scream?" he asked wearily.
"Yes," I said, as she unbolted the door, and her father entered. "Miss
Seymour's scream woke me up."
"Did you see the rat?" Shaw asked me.
"No," I laughed, in an endeavour to conceal our fear. "I expect if
there is one it has got away down its hole. I've searched, but can find
nothing."
"Ah!" growled the man awakened from his sleep. "That's the worst of
these confounded Continental hotels. Most of them are overrun with
vermin. I've often had rats in my room. Well, dear," he added, turning
to Asta, "go to bed again, and leave your electric light on. They won't
come out then."
The girl and I exchanged glances, and after a hearty laugh at the
frightened spectacle we all three presented, we again parted, and I
returned to my room.
What was the meaning of that inexplicable apparition of the hand? Why
had the dying man warned me of it?
I could quite see Asta's reluctance to tell her father what she had
seen, knowing well how he--plain, matter-of-fact man--would laugh at her
and declare that she had been dreaming.
But it was no dream. I myself had seen the Thing with my own eyes,
while my own cheek only a few hours before had borne witness to its
actual existence.
I saw how horrified she was at its reappearance, and what a terrible
impression it had produced upon her already overwrought nerves. I knew
that she would not again retire that night--and indeed, feeling that
some unknown evil was present, I slipped on my clothes and spent the
remainder of the night in an armchair, reading a French novel.
Dawn came at last, and as soon as the sun rose I descended, and went out
for a long, invigorating walk beside the Rhone.
On my return I met Asta strolling alone under the trees in the Place
near the hotel, and referred to the weird incident of the night.
"Ah, Mr Kemball, please do not recall it!" she implored. "It is too
horrible! I--I can't make out what it can be--except that it is a sign
to us of impending evil."
"A sign to us both," I said. "But whom are we to fear?"
"Perhaps that woman."
"Is she still in Lyons, I wonder?"
"Probably. About seven o'clock this morning Dad sent an express message
to somebody. He called a waiter, and I heard him give the letter, with
instructions that it was to be sent at once."
I said nothing, but half an hour later, by the judicious application of
half a louis to the floor waiter, I ascertained that the note had been
sent to a Madame Trelawnay, at the Hotel du Globe, in the Place
Bellecour.
Trelawnay was, I recollected, one of the names used by the pseudo Lady
Lettice Lancaster. Therefore, after my _cafe au lait_ I excused myself,
stepped over to the hotel, and there ascertained that Madame, who had
been there for two days, had received the note, packed hurriedly, and an
hour later had left the Perrache Station by the Paris express.
On returning I told Asta this, and at eleven o'clock we were again on
the white dusty highway--that beautiful road through deep valleys and
over blue mountains, the Route d'Italie, which runs from Lyons, through
quiet old Chambery, to Modane and the Alpine frontier. In Chambery,
however, we turned to the left, and ere long found ourselves in that
scrupulously clean and picturesque summer resort of the wealthy,
Aix-les-Bains.
Shaw, who was in the best of spirits, had laughed heartily over Asta's
adventure with the rat, and as we arrived at our destination he turned
to me, expressing a hope that we all three would enjoy "a real good
time."
I had been in Aix several years before, and knew the life--the bains,
the casino, the Villa des Fleurs, the fetes and the boating on the Lac
du Bourget, that never-ending round of gaiety amid which the wealthy
idler may pass the days of warm sunshine.
And certainly the three weeks we spent at the old-fashioned Europe--in
preference to a newer and more garish hotel--were most delightful. I
found myself ever at Asta's side, and noted that her beauty was
everywhere remarked. She was always smartly but neatly dressed--for
Shaw was apparently most generous in the matter of gowns, some of which
had come from a well-known dressmaker in the Place Vendome.
I wondered sometimes, as we sat together in the big _salle a manger_ or
idled together under the trees in the pretty garden, whether she still
thought of poor Guy Nicholson--or whether she was really pleased when
alone with me. One fact was quite plain--that the visit had wrought a
beneficial change in her. Her large dark eyes were again full of life
and sparkle, and her lips smiled deliciously, showing how she enjoyed
the brightness and gaiety of life.
Shaw had met accidentally at the Grand Cercle a Frenchman he knew named
Count d'Auray, who had a chateau on the edge of the Lake, and one day he
went over to visit him, leaving us to have luncheon together alone.
As we sat on the verandah of the hotel to take our coffee afterwards, I
glanced at her. Never had I seen her looking so charming. She was
entirely in cream serge, relieved with the slightest touches of pale
blue, with a large white hat, long white gloves, and white shoes,--the
personification of summer itself. Ah, yes! she was exquisite, I told
myself. Yet how strange that she should be the adopted daughter of a
man who, though actually a Justice of the Peace, was nevertheless an
undesirable.
Time after time had I tried to induce her to reveal to me the reason why
Shaw went in such terror of arrest. But she would not betray his
secret. For that I admired her--for was she not devoted to him? Did
she not owe everything to his kindness and his generosity? Like many
another man, I suppose he had been fooled or tricked by a woman, and
had, in consequence, to lead a celibate life. In order to bring
brightness and youth into his otherwise dull home, he had adopted little
Asta as his daughter.
We had been speaking of a forthcoming fete on the following day when, of
a sudden, she turned in her chair towards me, and with a calm, serious
look upon her face said--
"Do you know, Mr Kemball, I am greatly worried?"
"Over what?" I asked quickly.
"Well, this morning, when I was walking back from the milliner's, I saw
Earnshaw--that woman's husband. Fortunately, he did not see me. But
she is, I suspect, here in Aix-les-Bains."
"Why should you fear even if she is?" I asked.
"I--well, I really do not know," she faltered.
"Only--to tell you in confidence--I believe some evil work is in
progress--some base conspiracy."
"What causes you to suspect that? You do not believe that your father
is implicated in it?"
"How can I tell?" she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "I am filled with
fear always--knowing in what peril he continually exists."
"I know," I said. "Why he does not act more judiciously I cannot think.
At home, at Lydford, he is surely unsuspected, and in security."
"I am always telling him so, but, alas! he will not listen."
"You said that he is now under the influence of that woman."
"I fear so," was her low reply, as she sighed despairingly.
We rose and strolled out together to the car which was waiting to take
us for a run over the hills and among the mountains by the Pont de la
Caille to Geneva, seventy kilometres distant. The afternoon was
glorious, and as we sat side by side we chatted and laughed merrily,
both of us forgetting all our apprehensions and our cares.
Ah, yes! those days were truly idyllic days, for I loved her devotedly,
and each hour I passed in her society the bond became stronger and more
firmly forged.
But could she reciprocate my affection? Ay, that was the great and
crucial question I had asked myself--yea, a thousand times. I dared not
yet reveal to her the secret of my heart, for even still she thought and
spoke of that honest, upright fellow whose untimely end was so
enshrouded in mystery.
We dined at Geneva, in the huge _salle a manger_ of the Beau Rivage,
which overlooked the beautiful lake, tranquil and golden in the sunset,
with Mont Blanc, towering and snow-capped, showing opposite against the
clear evening sky. We strolled for half an hour on the terrace, where
the English tourists were taking their coffee after dinner, and then, in
the fading twilight, Harris drove us back again to Aix, where we arrived
about ten o'clock, after a day long to be remembered.
Asta held my hand for a moment in the hall, raising her splendid eyes to
mine, and then wishing me good-night, mounted in the lift to her room.
Afterwards I went along to the _fumoir_ to find Shaw, but could not
discover him. Later, however, the hall-porter said he had complained of
feeling unwell, and had gone to his room.
I threw myself into a cane chair in the hall, and lit a cigar, for it
was yet early. I suppose I must have remained there perhaps half an
hour, when a waiter brought me a note. Tearing it open, I found in it a
scribbled message, in pencil, from Asta.
"There is danger, as I suspected," she wrote. "Be careful. Do not
approach us, and know nothing. Destroy this.--Asta."
I crushed the letter in my pocket and dismissed the servant. What could
it mean?
Not more than a quarter of an hour later, as I still sat smoking and
pondering, a tall, dark-bearded, pale-faced, rather elegant-looking
Frenchman, wearing the crimson button of the Legion d'Honneur in his
coat, entered the hall from the street, and glancing round quickly,
advanced to the bureau.
A moment later he came towards me and, halting, bowed and exclaimed in
good English--
"Pardon, m'sieur, but I have the honour to speak with Monsieur Kemball.
Is that not so?"
"That is my name," I replied.
"I have something of importance to communicate to Monsieur," he said,
very politely, holding his grey felt hat in his hand and glancing
quickly around. "May I speak with you privately?"
"Certainly," I replied; and recollecting a small salon off the hall on
the left, led the way thither, and switched on the light.
Then, when he had carefully closed the door and we were alone, he said
with a pleasant smile--
"I had perhaps better at once introduce myself to Monsieur. I am Victor
Tramu, inspector of the first division of the _brigade mobile_ of Paris,
and I have called at the risk of inconveniencing you to put a few
questions concerning two associates of yours living in this hotel--
namely, Monsieur Harvey Shaw and Mademoiselle Asta Seymour."
"Associates!" I echoed resentfully. "They are my friends!"
The police-officer smiled as he caressed his silky brown beard--a habit
of his.
"Excellent. Then certainly you will be able to give me the information
I require."
"Of what?"
"Of their recent movements, and more especially of their place of
residence."
I was silent, recollecting Asta's injunctions to know nothing; but the
man stood regarding me with calm, searching, impudent glance.
"By what right, pray, do you subject me to this cross-examination?" I
demanded in French, full of resentment, as I stood in the centre of the
room facing him.
"Ah! so Monsieur is disinclined to betray his friends, eh?" laughed
Tramu, whom I afterwards found out to be one of the most famous
detectives in France. "You arrived _en automobile_ from Lyons together,
and previously from Versailles," he remarked. "In Lyons your friend
Shaw met other of his associates, and again here--yesterday at the Villa
Reyssac. You see, I know a good deal of what has transpired and what is
just now in progress. Indeed, I travelled from Paris for that purpose."
"Well, it surely does not concern me!" I exclaimed.
"Pardon. I must differ from Monsieur," he said, bowing slightly, his
hands behind his back. "I desire to know something concerning these
persons--of where they live."
"You had better ask them yourself," I replied. "It is scarcely likely
that I shall give information to the police concerning my friends," I
added, in defiance.
"_Bien_! Then shall I be frank with you, m'sieur? The fact is that we
have suspicions, very grave ones, but we are not absolutely certain of
their identity."
"Then why trouble me?"
"Because you can so easily establish it beyond a doubt."
"Well, Monsieur Tramu, I flatly refuse to satisfy your curiosity, or
assist you against my friends," I replied, and turned abruptly upon my
heel to leave the room.
"Then it is to be regretted. In that case, Monsieur Kemball, you must
please consider yourself under arrest as an accomplice and associate of
the two individuals in question," he said, very coolly but determinedly;
and as he uttered the words two men, police-officers in plain clothes,
who had evidently been listening without, opened the door
unceremoniously and entered the apartment.
The situation was both startling and unexpected. I was now faced with a
most difficult problem. I was under arrest; my silence had cost me my
liberty!
Asta and her stepfather must also have both already fallen into the
hands of the police, for were they not upstairs? Truly the _coup_ had
been very swiftly and cleverly effected, as it seemed were all _coups_
made by the renowned Tramu, the trusted lieutenant of Monsieur Hamard of
the Surete in Paris.
The misfortune so long dreaded by Asta had, alas! fallen.
What must the result be? Ay, what indeed! What could be the charge
against them?