Transcriber's Note:
1. Source: This is an emended copy of this book as transcribed by
Walter Moore for Project Gutenberg Australia.
https://gutenberg.org.au/ebooks17/1700341h.html
[Illustration: Front Cover]
THE GENTLEMAN WHO VANISHED.
A Psychological Phantasy.
BY
FERGUS HUME,
Author of
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE
PICCADILLY PUZZLE," "MADAME MIDAS," "MISS
MEPHISTOPHELES," "THE MAN WITH A SECRET," ETC.
'Tis ill to tamper with the unseen world
Lest those habitate the sphere's invisible
Should make us sport for their ironic jeers,
And by some trick beyond the thought of man
Entangle all the issues of our lives.
_IN ONE VOLUME_
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
1890.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. Flying From Justice
II. The Recluse
III. The Dissection Of A Soul
IV. A Curious Transformation
V. New Wine In An Old Bottle
VI. The Tortures Of Hell
VII. The Woman He Loved
VIII. The Man She Hated
IX. The Philosophy Of Mr. Dentham
X. Teddy Rudall's Ideas
XI. A Modern Judas
XII. A Perilous Situation
XIII. A Startling Discovery
XIV. Dentham Makes Terms
XV. Resurgam
Chapter I.
Flying From Justice
It was an oppressively hot night towards the end of June, and the
heavy still atmosphere surcharged with electricity was full of
premonitions of storm. Here in London the glare and glitter of myriad
lamps seemed to be crushed down by a lowering sky, in which the stars
were almost hidden by great masses of sombre clouds. Every now and
then a thin thread of lightning flashed ghost-like through the murky
air and the low hoarse roll of the thunder which followed, seemed to
warn mankind that Nature was in one of her angry moods. So hot,
terribly hot, one could hardly breathe in the crowded streets, where
throngs of people, well-dressed and otherwise principally otherwise
were sweeping along intent on business and pleasure, paying no
attention to the sultry heavens pressing so cruelly down upon the
panting earth.
The signs and tokens of heaven were not for them, with their sordid
souls longing for gold, or their empty stomachs yearning for bread, as
they worked, danced, sang, and busied themselves with the material
things of this life, the same to-day as their forefathers centuries
ago on the eve of that Deluge they did not believe would ever come.
In a handsomely-furnished room, in a large house which stood in one of
the fashionable streets off Piccadilly, sat two young men playing
cards. The windows of the apartment were open on to a flower-decorated
balcony, from whence one could see the people walking, and the cabs
flashing past. The rhythmical beat of the horses' hoofs, the quick
tread or weary dragging gait of passers-by, the subdued murmur of
distant voices and the sultry air of the hot night, penetrated into
the room, but the occupants were too busy with their game to pay any
attention to outside disturbances. A handsome room it was, but
evidently that of a bachelor, as in the picturesque confusion there
was wanting that subtle touch of refinement and order which indicates
the hand of woman. Curiously-patterned carpets of Turkish workmanship
were scattered about on the polished floor and here and there stood
small tables laden with photographs in chased silver frames, books,
principally consisting of English and French novels, flowers and other
things too numerous to mention. A pipe rack, fencing foils and boxing
gloves over the mantelpiece, pictures of race-horses and pretty women
on the walls, and plenty of plush-covered lounging-chairs placed in
luxurious corners, with spirit-stand, glasses, pipes, cigarettes and
tobacco jars, handy to anyone who sat down.
In the centre of all this confusion was a green covered table at which
sat the two young men aforesaid in evening dress, with several packs
of cards scattered at their feet and their eyes intent upon the game,
which seemed to be rather an expensive one, judging by the pile of
gold pieces that lay on the green cloth.
One of the players was tall, with clearly cut features, dark hair,
closely cropped, and a small dark moustache, beneath which gleamed
regular white teeth when he smiled, which he did not seem inclined to
do at the present moment. Adrian Lancaster was not at all pleased, as
luck was dead against him, and he frequently took deep draughts of a
brandy-and-soda which stood near him, in order to console himself for
his bad fortune. His friend Philip Trevanna was short, fair, and
insignificant-looking, so much so that not even the well-cut clothes
he wore could give him a distinguished appearance.
The Louis Quinze clock on a bracket in one corner of the room chimed
eleven, with a silvery ring, but still the two young men played on
steadily. The savage look on Adrian's face showed that he was losing
still, until at last the look of triumph on his companion's smug
countenance proved too much for his philosophy, and rising from his
seat with a stifled oath he flung down his cards, upset the table by
his sudden movement and lounging over to the fireplace, lighted a
cigarette.
"Hullo," said Trevanna lazily, looking at the overturned table and the
scattered cards with an air of well-bred surprise, "what's the
matter?"
"Nothing," replied Adrian, thrusting his hands into his pockets and
looking down at the debris from his height of six feet odd, "only I'm
sick of playing you've won a deuce of a lot, so unless I want to leave
myself a pauper, I think I'll give the game best for to-night."
"Better luck next time," said Trevanna, rising and stretching himself,
"you're a bad loser."
"There never yet was a philosopher who could bear the toothache
patiently," quoted Adrian with a grim smile.
"You call losing at cards, toothache," murmured Philip indolently, "I
daresay you're right, it's quite as disagreeable at all events."
He glanced complacently over the bundle of I.O.U's he held in his
hand, added the amounts together, then offered them to his companion.
"I'm rather in luck's way to-night," he said in a satisfied tone, "if
you don't mind, old chap, I'd like a cheque for a thousand."
Adrian bit his nether lip angrily, then walking towards his desk, and
pulling out a blank cheque, made it out for the amount named, which he
handed to Philip without a word, then taking the I.O.U's he tore them
up and threw the pieces on the floor.
"That pretty well clears me out of ready money," he said at length,
resuming his position in front of the mantelpiece, while Philip filled
himself a glass of brandy-and-soda, "it will pull me up for a bit."
"Never mind," said Trevanna with an evil smile, "your marriage with
Olive Maunders will put you straight."
"Leave Miss Maunders out of the question," observed Adrian
imperiously, "you've no right to use her name."
"I'll use the name of anybody I like," retorted Trevanna, into whose
head the liquor he had drunk was rapidly mounting.
"Except hers," said Lancaster quietly, although his dark face was
flushed with anger.
Philip Trevanna laughed insolently at the remark and taking up a few
cards, lightly balanced them in his hand.
"A nice one you are, to preach morality," he said scoffingly, "you're
about as bad a lot as there is in Town."
"You're not much better, at all events," observed Adrian wrathfully.
"Look here, Trevanna, shut up--I'm not in the best of tempers, and you
know I've got hot blood in my veins, so when I get angry it's
dangerous. Don't rouse the tiger in me."
"Don't talk bosh," said Trevanna politely, "you know you only want to
marry Olive Maunders for her money."
"Speak for yourself," cried Lancaster, going over to a side table and
taking up a decanter to pour himself out some brandy. "I know you'd
give anything to be in my place."
"Tell you what," said Trevanna, with an ugly look. "I'll play you for
her--if I win, I marry her."
"Hold your tongue," retorted Adrian, grasping the stem of the decanter
in a paroxysm of rage.
"I'll back this thousand against Olive Maunders," observed Trevanna,
ignoring the menacing look of his friend. "Will you play?"
"No."
"Then go to the devil," shouted Philip, losing control of himself and
flinging the cards he was holding into the face of Adrian. "Take
that."
The hot blood flamed in Lancaster's face, and with a stifled roar of
anger he threw the heavy decanter he was holding at Philip Trevanna's
head. It struck him full on the temple, and without a word the young
man fell like a log on the floor, while the decanter, smashing into a
thousand pieces, was scattered over the carpet, and the contents
diffused an odour of spirits through the room.
There was a dead silence for one awful moment, broken only by the
steady tick of the clock. Suddenly a woman in the street laughed
shrilly, and the sound seemed to arouse Adrian out of the lethargy
into which he had fallen. A red mist floated before his eyes and his
limbs seemed paralysed. Even when he strove to cry out his voice died
away in a hoarse whisper, and he stood with a terrible look of anguish
on his face staring at the overturned card-table, the broken pieces of
glass, and the figure lying at his feet so still and deathlike, with
a thin red stream of blood flowing from an ugly wound in the temple.
Once more the woman laughed, and Adrian rapidly sprang to the windows,
in a stealthy manner, closed them and pulled down the blinds so as to
shut out this terrible sight from the eyes of the prying world.
A sullen roll of thunder startled him, and with a hurried glance
around he crept towards the still form of his friend.
"Philip," he whispered, kneeling beside Trevanna's body, "Philip."
No answer! Adrian opened Trevanna's shirt and placed his hand on the
heart--it did not beat--he leaned his face downward to the slightly
parted lips; there was no breath, and then, for the first time, a
sense of what he had done seemed to break on him.
"Dead!" he whispered with ashen grey lips, in a paroxysm of terror,
clasping his hands. "Dead!--I've killed him."
He arose slowly to his feet, looked vacantly round the room, at the
still, white face, at the stream of blood, then staggering to a side
table he snatched up a bottle of whisky, and without waiting to fill a
glass placed it to his lips. The fiery spirit put new life into him,
and as his blood coursed swiftly through his veins, he braced his
muscles, shook his head to clear the clouds which seemed to fog his
brain, and nerved himself for action.
"I can't stay here," he whispered to himself, putting one hand up to
his throat, "they would arrest me for murder--I would be hanged--Oh,
God, the disgrace--poor Olive!"
The storm so long threatening had burst at last over the city, and the
rain was pouring down with tropical violence, while every now and
then, through the interstices of the Venetian blinds, gleamed the
blueish flash of the lightning, and the deep roll of thunder which
followed seemed to the ears of Adrian like the voice of an accusing
angel denouncing him as a murderer.
There was no time to be lost, for at any moment someone might come up
to his rooms and discover his crime; he would have to fly--but where
could he fly to? where, in all this great city, was there a refuge for
a murderer? Still, he dare not stay; he could give no plausible
explanation, the evidence of his guilt was too strong; the police
would come up, he would be arrested, then the inquest, the trial, the
verdict--with the rapidity of lightning the possibility of these
things flashed across his mind--and with a hoarse cry he sprang past
the body on the floor into his bedroom.
There he put on a heavy ulster, which, reaching nearly to his feet,
effectually hid the evening clothes he had no time to change. Then he
put on a soft hat, pulled it down over his eyes, caught up a heavy
stick and stole out again into the sitting-room, half thinking that it
was all some hideous dream. But no, it was only too true--there on the
floor lay the body of the man he had killed, and he, Adrian Lancaster,
was a murderer.
The clock struck twelve with a silvery chime as he slowly pulled the
dead man's cloak off the back of a chair, and with a sudden movement
flung it over the body as if terrified to look upon his handiwork. He
turned out the gas which was flaring in the pink globes, and then
crept towards the door in the darkness, carefully avoiding the place
where the body lay. Once outside the door, which opened with a loud
creak as if to denounce him, he locked it, and dropping the key into
his pocket stole stealthily downstairs out into the stormy night,
feeling that on his brow burned the mark of Cain, which, from
henceforth, would make him a hunted fugitive on the face of the earth.
He walked slowly down the street towards Piccadilly, not heeding the
direction, but only longing to get as far away from the scene of his
crime as he could, and when a hansom suddenly drew up at the side of
the pavement he felt a sudden convulsion of terror at hearing the
voice of the driver asking if he wanted a cab. For a moment he
hesitated, then, without a word, sprang in and flung himself back
among the cushions, closing the doors, as if he could thus hide
himself from the eyes of Justice.
"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, peering down through the trapdoor
in the roof of the cab.
Where to, indeed? Was there any sanctuary in this mighty London where
he could hide? No, he could think of none; but with that instinct of
self-preservation which is strong in the breast of every human being,
he wished to fly as far away as he could, so said at a venture the
first name that came into his head.
"Hampstead!"
"Right sir," said the driver, and closing the trapdoor with a bang he
let down the glass and drove off.
The wheels spun round, the lights of the gas-lamps flashed dully in
through the blurred windows, and the man shrinking back among the
cushions clenched his teeth and stared out at the night, painting with
vivid fancy on the curtain of the dark the hideous scene from which he
was flying.