SADIE MAXELL was as white as the paper on which she had been writing.
“How did you get in here?”
Timothy did not answer. He stepped round so that he was between the
woman and the door.
“Where is Cartwright?”
“Cartwright?” she repeated. “What do you want to know of him?”
“Lower your voice, if you please,” said Timothy sharply. “What is
Cartwright to you?”
She licked her dry lips before she spoke. Then:
“I married Cartwright or Benson in Paris—years ago,” she said.
Timothy took a step back.
“You married Cartwright,” he said incredulously. “That explains why you
came away?”
She was looking at him steadily.
“If it wanted any explanation—yes,” she said. “What are you going to
do?”
“I’m going after the man you have upstairs, the fake Moor, who came into
this house half an hour ago, and I’m going to hand him to justice.”
Before he knew what had happened, she gripped him by his coat with both
hands.
“You are not going to do anything of the kind, Mr. ‘Take A Chance’
Anderson,” she said between her teeth, and her voice trembled with
passion. “I hated him once, but that was before I knew him. I would
sooner see you dead as the other man died than that you should bring him
more trouble.”
“Let me go,” said Timothy, trying to press loose her hands.
“You’ll leave this house and forget that you were ever here. Oh, you
fool, you fool!”
He had wrenched himself clear of her and flung her backward.
“I have a few words to say to your friend,” he said, “and I think you’d
better stay here whilst I’m saying them. I hate having family quarrels
in public, anyway.”
He had not heard the door open behind him and it was the “swish” of the
loaded cane which warned him. It did not strike him fair on the head, as
was intended, but caught him a glancing blow and he fell on his knees,
turning his face to his attacker. He knew it was Brown even before the
blow fell.
“Shall I settle him?” said a voice as the stick went up again.
“No, no!” cried the woman, “for God’s sake, no!”
It was at that moment that Timothy low-tackled his assailant. Brown
tried to strike, but he was too late and went crashing to the floor, his
head against the wall. He made one effort to rise, and then with a groan
collapsed.
Timothy rose, shaking himself and rubbing his bruised shoulder. Without
a word, and with only a look at the woman, he made for the door and
banged it in her face. His head was swimming as he made his way up the
stairs, swaying at every step. From the broad landing at the top led
three doors, only one of which was closed. He turned the handle and went
in.
A man was standing by the window, which overlooked the calm expanse of
ocean, glittering in the light of the rising sun. From shoulder to heel
he was clad in a long white mantle and a dark blue turban encircled his
head.
“Now, Cartwright,” said Timothy, “you and I will settle accounts.”
The man had not moved at the sound of the voice, but when Timothy had
finished he turned.
“My God!” cried Timothy. “Sir John Maxell.”
CHAPTER THE LAST
“TIMOTHY,” said Mary, “I was just thinking about that beautiful house
you took me to see at Cap Martin.”
“Were you, dear?” said Timothy without any show of interest.
They were on the cross-Channel boat and Boulogne was astern.
“Yes,” said the girl. “Do you know, I had a feeling that you had taken
me there to show me to somebody, some friend of yours perhaps. All the
time I was walking about the garden I had a sense of being watched. It
is not an uncomfortable sensation, but just that overlooked feeling one
has sometimes. I love Monte Carlo. Do you think we shall go back there
after—after——”
“It is likely,” said Timothy.
The girl rose and went forward along the deck to get a view of a passing
destroyer. Timothy took a letter from his pocket and read it for about
the twentieth time. It was undated and began:
“MY DEAR ANDERSON,—I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you
for your kindness and for the big, generous sympathy you have
shown me. Especially am I glad that you brought Mary so that I
could see her again, for I just hungered for a sight of the
child. Won’t you please forgive Sadie? She acted without my
knowledge but in my interests, as she thought, in trying to keep
you away from Monte Carlo after she had planned to bring the
girl so that I could see her.
“Yes, I killed Cartwright, but I shot him in self-defence. His
body lies at the bottom of a disused well in the garden of my
house. It is perfectly true that I had been associated in
business with him and that I was in his Moorish syndicate and
heavily involved. I was so very deeply involved at one time, and
so near to ruin that, deceived by some statement which had been
made to Sadie’s fortune, I made her acquaintance and married
her. During the past year I have never ceased to thank God that
I did so, for she had been the most loyal companion and friend
that a man could desire.
“It was I who fired the shot through my own window. I
contemplated flight from Cartwright, and was manufacturing
evidence against him in advance—God forgive me. Sadie guessed,
and when she watched me drawing from the well the bag containing
proof that Cartwright’s charge was not wholly false, she knew
the end was near.
“I am perfectly happy, and spend most of my time developing my
property in Morocco, under the protection of El Mograb, an old
Moorish friend of mine, and the supreme protection of the
Sultan, who, as the Pretender, received considerable help from
me. I am six months of the year with Sadie, for Sadie either
lives on the Riviera or at Cadiz and is easily reachable in my
hired yacht.
“I think it best for all concerned, and especially for our dear
Mary, that I remain as dead. Some day the whole story may be
told, but no useful purpose would be served by publishing it
to-day. The card with the message was intended for her, but I am
glad that it fell into your hands. As you guessed, it was I who
flung Mary’s money into your room—I dared not post it to her
for fear I was betrayed by my writing, and I knew that you were
safe. God bless you both and bring you happiness and prosperity,
to which I hope this property of mine will one day contribute.”
Timothy folded the letter and was putting it in his pocket, then changed
his mind and took it out. He read it again, then tore it into pieces and
flung it over the side of the ship.
Then he too went forward to the wife he had married in Paris—much
against the wishes of a scandalised Mrs. Renfrew—who nevertheless
termed it “a pretty romance” in the article she wrote for the _Bath
County Herald_.
THE END
_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_
A Wonder for
Wise Men
By
Wallace B. Nichols
THOUGH an historical romance, this book is much more than
that, for its theme touches present-day ideas in a remarkable
manner, especially as concerns the hideous uselessness of war.
It is set in the reign of Henry VII and deals with the aftermath
of the Wars of the Roses. The principal character becomes one of
the King’s most trusted instruments in the founding of modern
England, and the story marches to an emotional and uplifting
close. This is an historical novel where the characters are not
puppets of impossible romance, but living human beings as real
as the people about us every day.
_By the same Author_:
SECRET MARKET
“This is a first novel by one of our younger poets, and it is a
novel which equally plainly shows him to be an artist. The plot
is cleverly developed, and the story ends at once dramatically
and artistically.”—_The Glasgow Herald._
BRITTLE GLORY
“Wallace B. Nichols deserves congratulation. He has demonstrated
a capacity for expression, in terms of strength, beauty and
sincerity, through two mediums. It is an uncommon book with an
outstanding quality: it never ceases to be readable.”—_The
Observer._
⁂ “Mr. Nichols has all the gifts of a great novelist: an unerring sense
of character, and a distinguished literary style.”—_The Referee._
Mr. Fortune
Explains
By
H. C. Bailey
“MR. FORTUNE” has long since established himself as one of the
brightest stars in the galaxy of modern crime detectives. He
works on the friendliest terms with Scotland Yard, but his
methods—and incidentally his manners—are peculiarly his own.
Here we have a series of the most widely divergent mysteries
successively solved by a bland, imperturbable middle-aged
gentleman whose sole concern in life appears to be that he shall
not miss his lunch or any other comfort that is due to him. No
one who has read other “Mr. Fortune” volumes will on any account
miss this, while those who have yet to make the dear man’s
acquaintance are to be envied for the joy that awaits them.
_Other popular volumes by Mr. H. C. Bailey_:
Call Mr. Fortune Mr. Fortune’s Trials
Mr. Fortune, Please Karl of Erbach
Mr. Fortune’s Practice The Master of Gray
Mr. Fortune Speaking My Lady of Orange, etc.
⁂ Mr. H. C. Bailey is not only a master in the realm of historic
romance, but in that of the mystery story as well: in fact, he is
easily one of the best and most logical of all the many writers of
the detective story to-day.
The Subway
Mystery
By
Ben Bolt
ONE would think it impossible for anybody to walk down into
the crowded new Piccadilly Circus Tube Station and there be
swiftly murdered without immediate discovery of the assassin.
But from the slenderest of clues the whole failure of a great
vengeance is discovered, and Mr. Ben Bolt has provided in his
new story a series of situations and adventures that would keep
the sleepiest reader agog for the end.
_By the same Author_:
The Mystery of Belvoir Mansions
The Sword of Fortune
Captain Lucifer
Jewels of Sin
The Badge
The Buccaneer’s Bride
The Other Three
⁂ This story reveals the author as one of the best among modern writers
of mystery.
Gambler’s
Hope
By
J. J. Bell
ADMIRERS of “Wee Macgreegor” and kindred works will be
interested to see what the talented author makes of a more
ambitious theme. Subtle characterization is here combined with
the thrills of an Armada treasure hunt, complicated by the
misunderstandings and perplexities of three widely divergent
love affairs. The scenes are laid partly in Spain, partly in the
Western Isles, and what with bloodstained daggers, mysterious
scraps of parchment, buried caskets, plotting priests,
mysterious garden-haunting strangers, and speedy motor-boats,
the reader is kept constantly guessing.
⁂ “From the simplest and most ordinary of ingredients J. J. Bell can
manufacture page after page of chuckles.”—_The Glasgow Record._
“Mr. Bell’s fine powers of characterization are very evident in his
work. There are few who can so happily suggest the Scot as he.”—_The
Notts. Journal._
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.