I had to go up to London that night. My lawyers had written some days
previously that they must see me personally at the earliest possible
moment on some matter to do with my investments, which they controlled
entirely, and the letter had been left lying at my flat in King Street
before being forwarded. And as the Oakham police had impressed upon me
that my presence would be needed in Oakham within the next day or two, I
had decided to run up to London, see my lawyers and get my interview
with them over, and then return to Rutland as soon as possible.
Again and again, as the night express tore through the darkness towards
St. Pancras, Vera's fair face and appealing eyes floated like a vision
into my thoughts. I must see her again, at once--but how could I find
her, and where? Would the police try to find her, and her father and
mother? But why should they? After all, perhaps Sir Charles and Lady
Thorold's flight from Houghton did not mean that they intended to
conceal themselves. What reason could they have for concealment?
Then, all at once, an idea occurred to me. I smiled at my stupidity in
not thinking of it before. There was the Thorolds' house in Belgrave
Street. It had been shut up for a long time, but perhaps for some
reason they had suddenly decided to go back there. On my arrival at St.
Pancras I would at once ring up that house and inquire if they were
there.
But I was doomed to disappointment. While the porter was hailing a taxi
for me, I went to the station telephone. There were plenty of Thorolds
in the telephone-directory that hung inside the glass door, but Sir
Charles' name was missing.
Determined not to be put off, I told the driver to go first to Belgrave
Street. The number of the Thorolds' house was, I remembered, a hundred
and two. By the time we got there it was past midnight. The house bore
no sign of being occupied. I was about to ring, when a friendly
constable with a bull's-eye lantern prevented me.
"It's empty, sir," he said; "has been for months and months, in fact as
long as I can remember."
"But surely there is a caretaker," I exclaimed.
"Oh, there's a caretaker, a very old man," he answered with a grin.
"But you won't get _him_ to come down at this time of night. He's a
character, he is."
There had been nothing in the newspapers that day, but, on the morning
after, the bomb burst.
AMAZING STORY
WELL-KNOWN FAMILY VANISH
BUTLER'S BODY IN THE LAKE
Those headlines, in what news-editors call "war type," met my eyes as I
unfolded the paper.
I was in bed, and my breakfast on the tray beside me grew cold while I
devoured the three columns of close-set print describing everything that
had occurred from the moment of Sir Charles' disappearance until the
paper had gone to press.
I caught my breath as I came to my own name. My appearance was
described in detail, names of my relatives were given, and a brief
outline of my father's brilliant career--for he had been a great
soldier--and then all my movements during the past two days were
summarised.
I had last been seen, the account ran, dining at the _Stag's Head Hotel_
with a gentleman, a stranger, whom nobody seemed to know anything about.
He had come to the _Stag's Head_ on the evening of Monday, April 1,
engaged a bedroom and a sitting-room in the name of Davies, and he had
left on the night of Wednesday, April 3. He had intended, according to
the newspaper, to sleep at the _Stag's Head_ that night, but between ten
and eleven o'clock he had changed his mind, packed his suit-case, paid
his bill, and left. Where he had come from, none knew; where he had
gone, or why, none knew. How he had spent his time from his arrival
until his departure, nobody had been able to discover.
"All that is known about him," ran the newspaper report, "is that he was
a personal friend of Mr. Richard Ashton, and that he dined at the
_Stag's Head Hotel_ with Mr. Ashton on the Wednesday evening, his last
meal in the hotel before his hurried departure."
This was horrible. It seemed to convey indirectly the impression that I
knew why the Thorolds had disappeared, and where they had gone. More, a
casual reader might easily have been led to suppose that I was
implicated in some dark plot, involving the death of the butler. I
appeared in the light of a man of mystery, the friend of a man who
might, for aught I knew, be some criminal, but whose name--this
certainly interested me--he apparently intended should remain secret.
I turned over the page. Good heavens--my portrait! And the one
portrait of myself that of all others I detested. Anybody looking at
that particular portrait would at once say: "What a villainous man; he
looks like a criminal!"
I remembered now, rather bitterly, making that very observation when the
proofs had been sent to me by the photographer, and how my friends had
laughed and said it was "quite true," and that it resembled a portrait
in a Sunday paper of "the accused in Court."
There were also portraits of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, and a pretty
picture of Vera, the best that had ever been taken of her. But the one
portrait that I felt ought to have been reproduced, though it was not,
was one of the bearded giant, who had given his name as Davies.
Thoroughly disgusted, I turned without appetite to my tepid breakfast.
I had hardly begun to eat, when the telephone at my bedside rang.
Was that Mr. Richard Ashton's flat? asked a voice. Might the speaker
speak to him?
Mr. Ashton was speaking.
"Oh, this was the office of _The Morning_. The editor would greatly
appreciate Mr. Ashton's courtesy if he would receive one of his
representatives. He would not detain him long."
I gulped a mouthful of tea, then explained that I would sooner not be
interviewed. I was extremely sorry, I said, that my name had been
dragged into this extraordinary affair.
The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I am
at the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally I
rang off.
A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what?
"The editor of the--"
"No," I answered as politely as I could. "I am extremely sorry. You
see, I have just refused to be interviewed by _The Morning_, and it
would hardly be fair to that journal if... Oh, _The Morning_ was a
paper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, but
still... no... no... I was really sorry... I could not... I..."
I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were four
gentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if--
"Tell them," I interrupted, "that I cannot see them. And, John--"
"Sir?"
"I am not at home to anybody--anybody at all. You understand?"
"Quite, sir."
I noticed that his tone was not quite as deferential as usual. I knew
the reason. Of course he had seen this odious paper, or some paper more
odious still. Probably he and the other servants in the building had
been discussing me, and hazarding all sorts of wildly improbable stories
about me.
The telephone bell rang again. I forget what I said. I think it was a
short prayer, or an invocation of some kind. My first impulse was not
to answer the 'phone again at all, but to let the thing go on ringing.
It rang so persistently, however, that in desperation I pulled off the
receiver.
"Who the dickens is it? What do you want?" I shouted.