THE MARK OF THE BEAST.
A sudden quick cry broke from Ravenspur's lips. He fairly staggered
back, his white face was given over to a look of peculiar horror.
Then, as he became aware of the curious glances of his companion he
made a great effort to regain his self-control.
"I--I don't understand," he stammered. "A stiletto made of glass! A
long, slender blade like an exaggerated needle, I presume. Yet, now I
come to think of it, I recollect that, when I was painting a 'Borgia'
subject once, my costume dealer spoke of one of those Corsican
daggers. I did not take much interest in the conversation at the time.
And so you have an idea that this is the way in which my poor friend
met his death?"
Ravenspur was speaking quietly and easily now. He had altogether
regained control of himself save for an occasional twitching of his
lips. He paced up and down the room thoughtfully for some time,
utterly unconscious of Dallas' sharp scrutiny.
"I suppose there is nothing more you have to tell me?" he said at
length. "This is evidently going to be one of those crimes which
thrill a whole community for a week, and then are never heard of
again. Still, if there is anything I can do for you, pray do not
hesitate to ask for my assistance. I suppose we can do no more till
after the inquest is over?"
Without waiting for any reply from his companion Ravenspur quitted the
room, and went back to his brougham. He threw himself into a corner,
and pulled his hat over his eyes. For a long time he sat there
immersed in deep and painful thought, and utterly unconscious of his
surroundings. Even when the brougham pulled up in Park Lane he made no
attempt to dismount till the footman opened the door and addressed him
by name.
"I--I beg your pardon, Walters," he said, "this terrible business
prevents my thinking about anything else. I am going into my own room
now, and I am not to be disturbed by anybody. If I am dining out
tonight, tell Mr. Ford to write and cancel the engagement. Oh, here
is Ford himself."
The neat, clean-shaven secretary came forward.
"Your lordship seems to have forgotten," he said. "You are giving a
dinner here tonight yourself. You gave orders especially to arrange
it, because you were anxious for some of the Royal Academicians to
meet the young Polish artist----"
"I had clean forgotten it," Ravenspur said, with something like a
groan. "Entertaining people tonight will be like dancing in fetters.
Still, I must make the best of it, for I should not like that talented
young foreigner to be disappointed. In the meantime, I am not at home
to anybody."
With this admonition Ravenspur passed up to his own private rooms, and
carefully locked the door behind him. He took a cigar from his case,
and lighted it, only to fling it away a moment later in disgust. He
stood just for a moment with his hand on a decanter of brandy, and
then with a smile for his own weakness poured out a glassful, which he
drank without delay.
"I am a fool and a coward," he muttered. "What can there be to be
afraid of after all these years? Why do I hesitate in this way when
boldness and decision would avert the danger?"
Ravenspur sat there, looking moodily into space. He heard the house
resounding to the sound of the luncheon gong, but he made no movement.
The mere suggestion of food was repulsive to him, clean as his habits
were and robust as his appetite usually was. The Lane and the Park
were gay with traffic now; the roar of locomotion reached the ears of
Ravenspur as he sat there. Presently the noise of the newsboys came
again, and the name of Delahay seemed to fill the air to the exclusion
of everything else. Ravenspur rang his bell, and asked for a paper.
The flimsy, ill-printed sheet fairly reeked with the latest and most
ghastly of London tragedies. Nothing else seemed to matter for the
moment. Seven or eight columns were given over to an account of the
affair. Before he set himself down to read it steadily through,
Ravenspur glanced at the last paragraph, to find that the preliminary
inquiry had been adjourned for a week. Most of the florid sensational
paragraphs contained nothing new. The only point that interested the
reader was the medical evidence.
This was compact and to the point. Death had been undoubtedly due to a
stab over the heart which had been inflicted by some long, pointed
instrument, not much thicker, apparently, than a needle. So far as the
police doctor could say, the weapon used had been an Italian stiletto.
There was practically no blood. Indeed, the whole thing had been
accomplished in a cool and deliberate manner by a man who was not only
master of his art, but who must have possessed a considerable
knowledge of anatomy. Evidently he had chosen a spot to inflict the
wound with careful deliberation, for the deviation of half an inch
either way might have produced comparatively harmless results. It was
the opinion of the doctor that, had the fatal thrust been made through
the bare skin, all traces of it might have been overlooked. It was
only the adherence of the dead man's singlet to the tiny puncture that
had caused sufficient inflammation to attach suspicion to the point of
impact. All this pointed to the fact that the crime had been clearly
premeditated and carried out coldly and deliberately.
For the moment, however, the great puzzle was to discover how the
murderer had been aware that he would be in a position to find his
victim at Fitzjohn Square. It was proved conclusively enough that
Louis Delahay had come back to England on the spur of the moment, and
that equally on the spur of the moment he had made up his mind to
visit his house, and, therefore, nobody could possibly have known
besides his wife when he had left the Grand Hotel. On this point
public curiosity would have to wait, seeing that Mrs. Delahay was in
no condition to explain. In fact, she was in the hands of a medical
man who had prescribed absolute quiet for the present.
Ravenspur tossed the paper impatiently aside, and rang for his tea.
The slow day dragged along until it was time for him to dress and
prepare for the reception of his guests. He came down presently to the
drawing-room, where one or two of the men had already assembled. His
old pleasant smile was on his face now. He was once more the polished,
courtly man of the world. He steeled himself for what he knew was
coming. Practically the whole of his guests were artists of
distinction. And the death of Louis Delahay would be the one topic of
conversation. The blinds were down now, for the young spring night had
drawn in rapidly and it was perfectly dark outside. The clock struck
the hour of eight, and the butler glanced in inquiringly. Ravenspur
shook his head.
"Not quite yet, Simmonds," he said; "we are waiting for Sir James
Seton. As he is usually the soul of punctuality he is not likely to
detain us."
"You can take his place if necessary," one of the guests laughed.
"When I see Seton and our host together I always feel quite
bewildered. Two such public men had no business to be so absurdly
alike."
"There is no real 'resemblance,'" Ravenspur laughed, "though people are
constantly making absurd mistakes. It is excusable to mistake one for
the other in the dark, but not in the daylight. Besides, Seton is a
much taller man than I am, and much slimmer. We should hear nothing
about this likeness, but for certain gentlemen of the Press who make
their living out of little paragraphs."
"Well, they have got plenty to occupy their attention now," another
guest remarked. "This business of poor Delahay's is likely to give
them occupation for some time. Tell us all about it, Ravenspur. I hear
that you were down at Fitzjohn Square this morning. Is there anything
fresh?"
Ravenspur groaned in his spirit. All the same, his manner was polished
and easy as he turned to the speaker. But before he had time to give
any details there was a sound of excited voices in the hall outside,
the banging of a door or two, and then a tall, elderly man staggered
into the room, and fell into a seat. There was an ugly scar on the
side of his face, a few drops of blood stained his immaculate
shirt-front.
"Good Heavens!" Ravenspur cried. "My dear Seton, what is the matter?
Simmonds, bring the brandy here at once."
"No, no," the newcomer gasped; "I shall be all right in a minute or
two. A most extraordinary thing happened to me just now. I was coming
towards the Lane by the back of Lord Fairhaven's house on my way here
when a man came out from under the shadow of the trees, and commenced
a violent attack upon me. Fortunately, I was able to ward him off with
my stick, but not before he had marked me in the way you see. Somebody
happened to be coming along, and my assailant vanished. Still, it was
a nasty adventure, and all the more extraordinary because the fellow
evidently mistook me for our friend Ravenspur. He actually called me
by that name."
All eyes were turned in the host's direction, for a strange, choking
cry burst from his lips.