"Perhaps, Mr Kemball, I may tell you briefly what I know of our client
Mr Melvill Arnold's rather eccentric action. He lived mostly abroad in
recent years for certain private reasons, and one day, early this year,
we received from him a somewhat curious letter upon the notepaper of the
Carlton Hotel, saying that he had returned to England unexpectedly, and
that he had entrusted a certain bronze cylinder, containing something
very important, to the care of a friend. That friend was, curiously
enough, not named, but he instructed us to advertise to-day--the third
of November. We made inquiry at the Carlton, but he was unknown there.
To-day we have advertised, according to our client's instructions, and
you are here in response."
"There is considerable mystery surrounding this affair, Mr Fryer," I
exclaimed in reply.
"I do not doubt it. Our client, whom I have known for a good many
years, was a very reserved and mysterious man," replied the solicitor,
leaning back in his padded chair.
"Well," I said, "I met him on board ship between Naples and London," and
then in detail described his sudden illness, how he had induced me to
accept the trust, and his death, a narrative to which Mr Fryer listened
with greatest interest.
"Then the letter must have been written on the afternoon of his arrival
in London. He probably wrote it in the smoking-room of the Carlton.
But why he should seek to mislead us, I cannot imagine," exclaimed the
solicitor.
"I recollect," I said. "I was with him in a taxi, when he stopped at
the Carlton and went inside, asking me to wait. I did so, and he
returned in about a quarter of an hour. In the meantime he must have
written to you. He was very ill then, and that same evening he died."
"He did not mention us?"
"He made no mention whatever of any friends, save one--a Mr Dawnay, to
whom I afterwards delivered a note."
"Dawnay?" repeated Mr Fryer. "You mean Harvey Shaw?"
"Exactly. So you know him, eh?"
The solicitor nodded in the affirmative, the deep lines upon his thin
face becoming more accentuated.
I then told him of his client's wilful destruction of a large quantity
of English banknotes which he had compelled me to burn, whereat the man
seated at his table laughed grimly, saying--
"I do not think we need regret their destruction. They were better
burnt."
"Why?"
"Well--because they were not genuine ones."
"But surely--your client was not a forger!" I cried.
"Certainly not. He was a great man. Cruelly misjudged by the public,
he was compelled in recent years to hide his real identity beneath
another name, and live in strictest retirement. His actions were put
down as eccentricities, but he was a great thinker, a wonderful
organiser, marvellously modern among modern men, a man whose financial
schemes brought millions into the pockets of those associated with him,
yet whose knowledge of ancient Egypt and dry-as-dust Egyptology was
perhaps unique. But above all he was ever honest, upright and just."
"He was a complete enigma to me," I declared. "As he was to most
people. I who have been his legal adviser and friend through much
adversity, alone understood him. I was not even aware of his death. If
he took a liking to you I shall not be surprised to find that he has
left you a substantial legacy."
"He gave me a present before he died," I said, and told him of the
banknotes I had found in the envelope, and also that I held the cylinder
in the security of the Safe Deposit Company's vaults in Chancery Lane.
Finding the solicitor was perfectly frank and open with me, I related
the curious and startling circumstances which had occurred within my
knowledge since I had made the acquaintance of Mr Harvey Shaw. As I
sat in the fading light of that November afternoon I narrated the facts
in their proper sequence just as I have herein set them down in the
foregoing pages of this personal history.
The man before me sat with folded arms in almost complete silence,
listening intently to every word. The twilight faded and darkness fell
quickly, as it does in November in the City. He had given orders that
we were not to be disturbed, and he sat silent, so transfixed by my
strange story that he did not rise to switch on the light.
I told him all, everything--until I described to him the discovery of
that venomous tarantula in Asta's bedroom. Then he suddenly struck his
table with his fist, and sprang to his feet, crying--
"Ah! I've been expecting to hear of this all along. The scoundrel
meant to kill the poor girl! There were reasons--very strong reasons--
for doing so."
"What were they?" I demanded quickly. "I have told you everything, Mr
Fryer. Now, be quite frank with me, I beg you--and tell me the whole
truth."
He was silent. I could hardly distinguish his thin, deeply lined face
seated as he was in the shadows, his back to the window, so dark had it
now become.