That night Phil Poland glanced longingly around the well-furnished
dining-room with its white napery, its antique plate, and its great
bowl of yellow roses in the centre of the table between the silver
candelabra with white silk shades. Alone he sat at his dinner, being
waited upon by Felix, the thin-faced, silent Frenchman in black who
was so devoted to his master and so faithful in his service.
It was the last time he would eat his dinner there, he reflected. The
choice of two things lay before him--flight, or arrest.
Sonia was on a visit to an old school-fellow in London, and would not
return until the morrow. For some reasons he was glad, for he desired
to be alone--alone in order to think.
Since the abrupt departure of his visitor he had become a changed man.
His usually merry face was hard and drawn, his cheeks pale, with red
spots in the centre, and about his clean-shaven mouth a hardness quite
unusual.
Dinner concluded, he had strolled out upon the lawn, and, reclining in
a long deck-chair, sipped his coffee and curaçao, his face turned to
the crimson sundown showing across the dark edge of the forest. He was
full of dark forebodings.
The end of his career--a scandalous career--was near. The truth was
out!
As he lay back with his hot, fevered head upon the cushion of the long
cane chair, his dead cigar between his nerveless fingers, a thousand
bitter thoughts crowded upon him. He had striven to reform, he had
tried hard to turn aside and lead an honest life, yet it seemed as
though his good intentions had only brought upon him exposure and
disaster.
He thought it all over. His had, indeed, been an amazing career of
duplicity. What a sensation would be caused when the truth became
revealed! At first he had heaped opprobrium upon the head of the man
who had been his friend, but now, on mature consideration, he realized
that Du Cane's motive in exposing him was twofold--in order to save
himself, and also to curry favour in certain high quarters affected by
the mysterious death of the young Parliamentary Under-Secretary who
had placed to his lips that fatal cigar. Self-preservation being the
first instinct of the human race, it surely was not surprising that
Arnold Du Cane should seek to place himself in a position of security.
Enormous eventualities would be consequent upon solving the mystery of
that man's death. Medical science had pronounced it to have been due
to natural causes. Dare the authorities re-open the question, and
allege assassination? Aye, that was the question. There was the press,
political parties and public opinion all to consider, in addition to
the national prestige.
He held his breath, gazing blankly away at the blood-red afterglow.
How strange, how complicated, how utterly amazing and astounding was
it all. If the truth of that dastardly plot were ever told, it would
not be believed. The depths of human wickedness were surely
unfathomable.
Because he, Phil Poland, had endeavoured to cut himself adrift from
his ingenious friends, they were about to make him the scapegoat.
He contemplated flight, but, if he fled, whither should he go? Where
could he hide successfully? Those who desired that he should pay the
penalty would search every corner of the earth. No. Death itself would
be preferable to either arrest or flight, and as he contemplated how
he might cheat his enemies a bitter smile played upon his grey lips.
The crimson light slowly faded. The balmy stillness of twilight had
settled upon everything, the soft evening air became filled with the
sweet fragrance of the flowers, and the birds were chattering before
roosting. He glanced across the lawns and well-kept walks at the
rose-embowered house itself, his harbour of refuge, the cosy place
which Sonia loved so well, and as his eyes wandered he sighed sadly.
He knew, alas! that he must bid farewell to it for ever, bid farewell
to his dear daughter--bid farewell to life itself.
He drew at his dead cigar. Then he cast it from him. It tasted bitter.
Suddenly the grave-faced Felix, the man who seldom, if ever, spoke,
and who was such a mystery in the village, came across the lawn, and,
bowing, exclaimed in French that the curé, M'sieur Shuttleworth, had
called.
"Ah! yes," exclaimed his master, quickly arousing himself. "How very
foolish of me! I quite forgot I had invited Mr. Shuttleworth to come
in and smoke to-night. Ask him to come out here, and bring the cigars
and whisky."
"Oui, M'sieur," replied the funereal-looking butler, bowing low as he
turned to go back to the house.
"How strange!" laughed Poland to himself. "What would the parson think
if he knew who I am, and the charge against me? What will he say
afterwards, I wonder?"
Then, a few moments later, a thin, grey-faced, rather ascetic-looking
clergyman, the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, rector of Middleton, came
across the grass and grasped his host's hand in warmest greeting.
When he had seated himself in the low chair which Poland pulled
forward, and Felix had handed the cigars, the two men commenced to
gossip, as was their habit.
Phil Poland liked the rector, because he had discovered that,
notwithstanding his rather prim exterior and most approved clerical
drawl, he was nevertheless a man of the world. In the pulpit he
preached forgiveness, and, unlike many country rectors and their
wives, was broad-minded enough to admit the impossibility of a sinless
life. Both he and Mrs. Shuttleworth treated both chapel and
church-going folk with equal kindliness, and the deserving poor never
went empty away.
Both in the pulpit and out of it the rector of Middleton called a
spade a spade with purely British bluntness, and though his parish was
only a small one he was the most popular man in it--a fact which
surely spoke volumes for a parson.
"I was much afraid I shouldn't be able to come to-night," he said
presently. "Old Mrs. Dixon, over at Forest Farm, is very ill, and I've
been with her all the afternoon."
"Then you didn't go to Lady Medland's garden-party?"
"No. I wanted to go very much, but was unable. I fear poor old Mrs.
Dixon may not last the night. She asked after Miss Sonia, and
expressed a great wish to see her. You have no idea how popular your
daughter is among the poor of Middleton, Mr. Poland."
"Sonia returns from London to-morrow afternoon," her father said. "She
shall go over and see Mrs. Dixon."
"If the old lady is still here," said the rector. "I fear her life is
fast ebbing, but it is reassuring to know she has made peace with her
Maker, and will pass happily away into the unknown beyond."
His host was silent. The bent old woman, the wife of a farm-labourer,
had made repentance. If there was repentance for her, was there not
repentance for him? He held his breath at the thought.
Little did Shuttleworth dream that the merry, easy-going man who sat
before him was doomed--a man whose tortured soul was crying aloud for
help and guidance; a man with a dread and terrible secret upon his
conscience; a man threatened by an exposure which he could never live
to face.
Poland allowed his visitor to chatter on--to gossip about the work in
his parish. He was reviewing his present position. He desired some one
in whom he could confide; some one of whom he might seek advice and
counsel. Could he expose his real self in all his naked shame; dare he
speak in confidence to Edmund Shuttleworth? Dare he reveal the ghastly
truth, and place the seal of the confessional upon his lips?
Twilight deepened into night, and the crescent moon rose slowly. Yet
the two men still sat smoking and chatting, Shuttleworth somewhat
surprised to notice how unusually preoccupied his host appeared.
At last, when the night wind blew chill, they rose and passed into the
study, where Poland closed the French windows, and then, with sudden
resolve and a word of apology to his visitor, he crossed the room and
turned the key in the lock, saying in a hard, strained tone--
"Shuttleworth, I--I want to speak to you in--in strictest
confidence--to ask your advice. Yet--yet it is upon such a serious
matter that I hesitate--fearing----"
"Fearing what?" asked the rector, somewhat surprised at his tone.
"Because, in order to speak, I must reveal to you a truth--a shameful
truth concerning myself. May I rely upon your secrecy?"
"Any fact you may reveal to me I shall regard as sacred. That is my
duty as a minister of religion, Poland," was the other's quiet reply.
"You swear to say nothing?" cried his host eagerly, standing before
him.
"Yes. I swear to regard your confidence," replied his visitor.
And then the Honourable Philip Poland slowly sank into the chair on
the opposite side of the fireplace, and in brief, hesitating sentences
related one of the strangest stories that ever fell from any sane
man's lips--a story which held its hearer aghast, transfixed,
speechless in amazement.
"There is repentance for me, Shuttleworth--tell me that there is!"
cried the man who had confessed, his eyes staring and haggard in his
agony. "I have told you the truth because--because when I am gone I
want you, if you will, to ask your wife to take care of my darling
Sonia. Financially, she is well provided for. I have seen to all that,
but--ah!" he cried wildly, "she must never know that her father
was----"
"Hush, Poland!" urged the rector, placing his hand tenderly upon his
host's arm. "Though I wear these clothes, I am still a man of the
world like yourself. I haven't been sinless. You wish to repent--to
atone for the past. It is my duty to assist you." And he put out his
strong hand frankly.
His host drew back. But next instant he grasped it, and in doing so
burst into tears.
"I make no excuse for myself," he faltered. "I am a blackguard, and
unworthy the friendship of a true honest man like yourself,
Shuttleworth. But I love my darling child. She is all that has
remained to me, and I want to leave her in the care of a good woman.
She must forget me--forget what her father was----"
"Enough!" cried the other, holding up his hand; and then, until far
into the night, the two men sat talking in low, solemn tones,
discussing the future, while the attitude of Philip Poland, as he sat
pale and motionless, his hands clasped upon his knees, was one of deep
repentance.
That same night, if the repentant transgressor could but have seen
Edmund Shuttleworth, an hour later, pacing the rectory study; if he
could have witnessed the expression of fierce, murderous hatred upon
that usually calm and kindly countenance; if he could have overheard
the strangely bitter words which escaped the dry lips of the man in
whom he had confided his secret, he would have been held
aghast--aghast at the amazing truth, a truth of which he had never
dreamed.
His confession had produced a complication unheard of, undreamed of,
so cleverly had the rector kept his countenance and controlled his
voice. But when alone he gave full vent to his anger, and laughed
aloud in the contemplation of a terrible vengeance which, he declared
aloud to himself, should be his.
"That voice!" he cried in triumph. "Why did I not recognize it before?
But I know the truth now--I know the amazing truth!"
And he laughed harshly to himself as he paced his room.
Next day Philip Poland spent in his garden, reading beneath the big
yew, as was his wont. But his thoughts ever wandered from his book, as
he grew apprehensive of the evil his enemy was about to hurl upon him.
His defiance, he knew, must cost him his liberty--his life. Yet he was
determined. For Sonia's sake he had become a changed man.
At noon Shuttleworth, calm and pleasant, came across the lawn with
outstretched hand. He uttered low words of encouragement and comfort.
He said that poor Mrs. Dixon had passed away, and later on he left to
attend to his work in the parish. After luncheon, served by the silent
Felix, Poland retired to his study with the newspaper, and sat for two
hours, staring straight before him, until, just after four o'clock,
the door was suddenly flung open, and a slim, athletic young girl,
with a wealth of soft fair hair, a perfect countenance, a sweet,
lovable expression, and a pair of merry blue eyes, burst into the
room, crying--
"Hallo, dad! Here I am--so glad to be back again with you!" And,
bending over him, she gave him a sounding kiss upon the cheek.
She was verily a picture of youthful beauty, in her cool, pale grey
gown, her hair dressed low, and secured by a bow of black velvet,
while her big black hat suited her to perfection, her blue eyes
adoring in their gaze and her lovely face flushed with pleasure at her
home-coming.
Her father took her hand, and, gazing lovingly into her eyes, said in
a slow voice--
"And I, too, darling, am glad to have you at home. Life here is very
dull indeed without you."
That night, when seated together in the pretty old-fashioned
drawing-room before retiring to bed--a room of bright chintzes, costly
knick-knacks, and big blue bowls of sweet-smelling pot-pourri--Sonia
looked delightful in her black net dinner-gown, cut slightly
_décolleté_, and wearing around her slim white throat a simple
necklace of pale pink coral.
"My dear," exclaimed her father in a slow, hesitating way, after her
fingers had been running idly over the keys of the piano, "I want to
speak very seriously to you for a few moments."
She rose in surprise, and came beside his chair. He grasped her soft
hand, and she sank upon her knees, as she so often did when they spoke
in confidence.
"Well--I've been wondering, child, what--what you will do in future,"
he said, with a catch in his voice. "Perhaps--perhaps I may have to go
away for a very, very long time--years perhaps--on a long journey, and
I shall, I fear, be compelled to leave you, to----"
"To leave me, dad!" gasped the girl, dismayed. "No--surely--you won't
do that? What could I do without you--without my dear, devoted dad--my
only friend!"
"You will have to--to do without me, dearest--to--to forget your
father," said the white-faced man in a low, broken voice. "I couldn't
take you with me. It would be impossible."
The girl was silent; her slim hand was clutching his convulsively; her
eyes filled with the light of unshed tears.
"But what should I do, dad, without you?" she cried. "Why do you speak
so strangely? Why do you hide so many things from me still--about our
past? I'm eighteen now, remember, dad, and you really ought to speak
to me as a woman--not as a child. Why all this mystery?"
"Because--because it is imperative, Sonia," he replied in a tone quite
unusual. "I--I would tell you all, only--only you would think ill of
me. So I prefer that you, my daughter, should remain in ignorance, and
still love me--still----"
His words were interrupted by Felix, who opened the door, and,
advancing with silent tread, said--
"A gentleman wishes to speak with m'sieur on very urgent business. You
are unacquainted with him, he says. His name is Max Morel, and he must
see you at once. He is in the hall."
Poland's face went a trifle paler. Whom could the stranger be? Why did
he desire an interview at that hour?--for it was already eleven
o'clock.
"Sonia dear," he said quietly, turning to his daughter, "will you
leave me for a few moments? I must see what this gentleman wants."
The girl followed Felix out somewhat reluctantly, when, a few seconds
later, a short, middle-aged Frenchman, with pointed grey beard and
wearing gold pince-nez, was ushered in.
Philip Poland started and instantly went pale at sight of his visitor.
"I need no introduction, m'sieur. You recognize me, I see," remarked
the stranger, in French.
"Yes," was the other's reply. "You are Henri Guertin, chief inspector
of the sûreté of Paris. We have met before--once."
"And you are no doubt aware of the reason of my visit?"
"I can guess," replied the unhappy man. "You are here to arrest me--I
know. I----"
The renowned detective--one of the greatest criminal investigators in
Europe--glanced quickly at the closed door, and, dropping his voice,
said--
"I am here, not to arrest you, M'sieur Poland--but to afford you an
opportunity of escape."
"Of escape!" gasped the other, his drawn countenance blanched to the
lips.
"Yes, escape. Listen. My instructions are to afford you an easy
opportunity of--well, of escaping the ignominy of arrest, exposure,
trial, and penalty, by a very simple means--death by your own hand."
"Suicide!" echoed Poland, after a painful pause. "Ah! I quite
understand! The Government are not anxious that the scandal should be
made public, eh?" he cried bitterly.
"I have merely told you my instructions," was the detective's
response, as, with a quick, foreign gesture, he displayed on his left
hand a curious old engraved amethyst set in a ring--probably an
episcopal ring of ages long ago. "At midnight I have an appointment at
the cross-roads, half-a-mile away, with Inspector Watts of Scotland
Yard, who holds a warrant for your arrest and extradition to France.
If you are still alive when we call, then you must stand your
trial--that is all. Trial will mean exposure, and----"
"And my exposure will mean the downfall and ruin of those political
thieves now in power--eh?" cried Poland. "They are not at all anxious
that I should fall into the hands of the police."
"And you are equally anxious that the world--and more especially your
daughter--shall not know the truth," remarked the detective, speaking
in a meaning tone. "I have given you the alternative, and I shall now
leave. At midnight I shall return--officially--when I hope you will
have escaped by the loophole so generously allowed you by the
authorities."
"If I fled, would you follow?"
"Most certainly. It would be my duty. You cannot escape--only by
death. I regret, m'sieur, that I have been compelled to put the
alternative so bluntly, but you know full well the great issues at
stake in this affair. Therefore I need say nothing further, except to
bid you _au revoir_--till midnight."
Then the portly man bowed--bowed as politely as though he were in the
presence of a crowned head--and, turning upon his heel, left the room,
followed by his host, who personally opened the door for him as he
bade him good-night.
One hour's grace had been given Philip Poland. After that, the
blackness of death.
His blanched features were rigid as he stood staring straight before
him. His enemy had betrayed him. His defiance had, alas! cost him his
life.
He recollected Shuttleworth's slowly uttered words on the night
before, and his finger-nails clenched themselves into his palms. Then
he passed across the square, old-fashioned hall to the study, dim-lit,
save for the zone of light around the green-shaded reading-lamp; the
sombre room where the old grandfather clock ticked so solemnly in the
corner.
Sonia had returned to the drawing-room as he let his visitor out. He
could hear her playing, and singing in her sweet contralto a tuneful
French love-song, ignorant of the hideous crisis that had fallen,
ignorant of the awful disaster which had overwhelmed him.
Three-quarters of an hour had passed when, stealthily on tiptoe, the
girl crept into the room, and there found her father seated by the
fireplace, staring in blank silence.
The long old brass-faced clock in the shadow struck three times upon
its strident bell. Only fifteen minutes more, and then the police
would enter and charge him with that foul crime. Then the solution of
a remarkable mystery which had puzzled the whole world would be
complete.
He started, and, glancing around, realized that Sonia, with her soft
hand in his, was again at his side.
"Why, dad," cried the girl in alarm, "how pale you are! Whatever ails
you? What can I get you?"
"Nothing, child, nothing," was the desperate man's hoarse response.
"I'm--I'm quite well--only a little upset at some bad news I've had,
that's all. But come. Let me kiss you, dear. It's time you were in
bed."
And he drew her down until he could print a last fond caress upon her
white open brow.
"But, dad," exclaimed the girl anxiously, "I really can't leave you.
You're not well. You're not yourself to-night."
As she uttered those words, Felix entered the room, saying in an
agitated voice--
"May I speak with you alone, m'sieur?"
His master started violently, and, rising, went forth into the hall,
where the butler, his face scared and white, whispered--
"Something terrible has occurred, m'sieur! Davis, the groom, has just
found a gentleman lying dead in the drive outside. He's been murdered,
m'sieur!"
"Murdered!" gasped Poland breathlessly. "Who is he?"
"The gentleman who called upon you three-quarters of an hour ago. He's
lying dead--out yonder."
"Where's a lantern? Let me go and see!" cried Poland. And a few
moments later master and man were standing with the groom beside the
lifeless body of Henri Guertin, the great detective, the terror of
all French criminals. The white countenance, with its open, staring
eyes, bore a horrified expression, but the only wound that could be
distinguished was a deep cut across the palm of the right hand, a
clean cut, evidently inflicted by a keen-edged knife.
Davis, on his way in, had, he explained, stumbled across the body in
the darkness, ten minutes before.
Philip Poland had knelt, his hand upon the dead man's heart, when
suddenly all three were startled by the sound of footsteps upon the
gravel, and next moment two men loomed up into the uncertain light of
the lantern.
One was tall and middle-aged, in dark tweeds and a brown hat of soft
felt; the other, short and stout, wearing gold pince-nez.
A loud cry of dismay broke from Poland's fevered lips as his eyes fell
upon the latter.
"Hallo! What's this?" cried a sharp, imperious voice in French, the
voice of the man in pince-nez, as, next moment, he stood gazing down
upon the dead unknown, who, strangely enough, resembled him in
countenance, in dress--indeed, in every particular.
The startled men halted for a moment, speechless. The situation was
staggering.
Henri Guertin stood there alive, and as he bent over the prostrate
body an astounding truth became instantly revealed: the dead man had
been cleverly made-up to resemble the world-renowned police official.
The reason of this was an entire mystery, although one fact became
plain: he had, through posing as Guertin, been foully and swiftly
assassinated.
Who was he? Was he really the man who came there to suggest suicide in
preference to arrest, or had that strange suggestion been conveyed by
Guertin himself?
The point was next moment decided.
"You see, m'sieur," exclaimed Poland defiantly, turning to the great
detective, "I have preferred to take my trial--to allow the public the
satisfaction of a solution of the problem, rather than accept the
generous terms you offered me an hour ago."
"Terms I offered you!" cried the Frenchman. "What are you saying? I
was not here an hour ago. If you have had a visitor, it must have been
this impostor--this man who has lost his life because he has
impersonated me!"
Philip Poland, without replying, snatched at the detective's left hand
and examined it. There was no ring upon it.
Swiftly he bent beside the victim, and there, sure enough, upon the
dead white finger was revealed the curious ring he had noticed--an
oval amethyst engraved with a coat-of-arms surmounted by a cardinal's
hat--the ring worn by the man who had called upon him an hour before!