LADY WHARTON AT THE FOUNTAIN.
A fine starlight night, and the weather fair all over England,
especially in Bournemouth where, in their beautiful estate, The
Gables, Lord and Lady Wharton are giving their yearly ball. The air is
soft and balmy in this favoured southern retreat, and though it is too
early yet for the rhododendrons, the gardens are bright with flowers.
Guests are riding to The Gables from all parts of the county, for this
annual function is eagerly looked forward to by the belles and beaus
of Hampshire. At eleven o'clock they begin to arrive, and by midnight
the nineteenth century revelry is at its full height; at which hour my
Lady Wharton, deeming that she has done her society duty, ceases to
receive at the top of the grand staircase, and strolls into the
grounds to welcome her tardy friends. Lord Wharton, happily
convalescent, but still weak, and, as some whisper, not so strong in
his intellect as he might be, is in the card room, where, propped up
by cushions, he is entertaining a few choice guests by dropping his
guineas to them. My lady's brother, Lord Fairfax, has also contributed
to their entertainment, and, feeling that he has done _his_ duty, he
also strolls into the grounds, and flirts. He is in his fourth decade,
a handsome gentleman with a blonde moustache, and has not yet made his
choice in the matrimonial market; therefore he is gladly welcomed by
all the spring beauties here assembled. But he is not an assiduous
cavalier, and being weary of most things, is soon weary of languishing
glances. Standing by a tiny fountain my lady watches him until he
joins her there.
"They do these things better on the Continent," he says languidly.
Some hostesses would have misunderstood him, but she knows he refers
to the fountain, and she nods assent. His conversational powers are
not remarkable, so he allows her to rattle on for his amusement,
putting in an occasional monosyllable as his contribution.
"Did you leave Wharton in the card room?" she asks.
"Yes," he drawls, and hazards three consecutive words. "Your friend
arrived?" It is not a question in which he seems to take more than a
momentary interest. He does everything languidly; even when he raises
his white fingers to caress his moustache, which has been the business
of his life, it is done as though the effort were a tax upon his
physical powers. This, to many of the opposite sex, is one of his
charms.
"Not yet," my lady answers.
"By the way," he says, and either forgets what he was going to say, or
finds the effort of a long sentence too great.
"You were going to speak about the old bills?" she asks.
"Yes."
"I wrote to him to bring them to-night. I can't imagine how I forgot
to ask him for them when I gave him the new acceptances you and
Wharton signed."
"Not--business--woman," he observed, with a pause between each word.
"Don't be ridiculous, Fairfax," she protested, with a merry laugh.
"Not a business woman? I should like to know what would become of
Wharton if I were not."
"Floored," said Lord Fairfax.
"Indeed he would be. And don't I manage _you?_"
"Difficult?" he asked.
"Not at all. You are the dearest fellow! I shall be almost ashamed to
ask you for another cheque to-morrow."
"Don't. Stumped."
"Next week, then?" He nods. She casts a critical look around. "Our
most brilliant gathering, I think."
"Jolly," he says, and, being by this time exhausted, he leaves her at
the fountain, where, presently, she is joined by other guests, with
whom she carries on an animated conversation.
The grounds, with their thousands of coloured lights, are dotted with
the attractive dresses of the ladies and the soberer costume of the
gentlemen. Pleasure shows its smiling face, and doors are shut upon
black care. No face brighter than that of Lady Wharton, none more free
from the least suspicion of anxiety. Her hearty voice rings out, an
invitation to mirth and gaiety. And yet as time wears on there is an
anxious thought in her mind. "Why does the man not come?" she thinks.
"He promised to be here faithfully, and it must be now nearly one
o'clock." She consults a jewelled watch. "Yes, it is--one o'clock."
The fact is, my lady is pressed for money, and she is expecting to
receive a thousand pounds to-night in ready cash, half of which must
go to her dressmaker in the morning. For, come what may, my lady must
be dressed. So she stands at the fountain, and taps her foot
impatiently. Soft gleaming lights, fair sky with its panoply of stars
and bright moon shining, sounds of rippling laughter, gay forms
gliding and flitting through the lacework of the trees: a fairy scene,
made not less beautiful by the dark spaces wherein the pines, their
topmost branches silvered by the moon, stand apart, picturesque
sentinels of the night.
To my lady a liveried footman, who presents a card. She moves into the
light to read it.
"At last!" she says. "Where is the man?"
"He is waiting to see you, my lady."
She follows the servant, and steps into the shadow of a cluster of
trees.
* * * * *
What connection is there between that gay scene in Bournemouth and
this more sombre scene in Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square,
where, an hour after midnight, Dick moves in search of the body of
Abel Death? The invisible links are in the air. Will they ever be
brought to light and united to form another chain in the mystery?
Dick's search has lasted two hours, and has been conducted with care
and patience. It is not alone traces of Abel Death he seeks for; he
searches for anything in the shape of incriminating evidence against
Reginald, his intention being to take possession of it, and by-and-by,
perhaps, destroy it. That by so doing he will be committing a
felonious act and frustrating the course of justice does not trouble
him. He is working for Florence.
The first room he lingers in is that in which Samuel Boyd lies. No
change there. The bed is still occupied by that silent, awful figure,
cold and dead. Incapable of aught for good or evil as it is, it
exercises a powerful influence over him. He dreads to approach it, and
it draws him to its side. He steals from the room, shuddering, and,
closing the door, breathes more freely at the barrier between them;
but ever and anon, for some time afterwards, he casts a startled look
over his shoulder, as though expecting to see a phantom standing
there.
The ghostly moon shines through the windows which are unshuttered, and
knowing now, from what Inspector Robson said, that an intermittent
watch is being kept upon the house, he dare not in those rooms carry a
light. In the rooms with shuttered windows he risks a lighted candle,
but holds it close to the floor and moves it warily from spot to spot,
and shades it with his hand, in order to lessen the chance of its
glimmer being seen from without. This makes his task more difficult,
and there are moments when he almost regrets having undertaken it.
The wax figure of the Chinaman is still in its chair, holding in its
hand the stick of the reign of Charles the Second. The chair is
old-fashioned, too, having a grandmother's hood to it, so that the
Chinaman sits, as it were, in a cosy alcove, only those standing in
front of the figure being able to obtain a full view of its face.
Dick finds no further incriminating evidence against Reginald than
that which he appropriated on his last visit. He makes, however, a
curious discovery. He has examined every room with the exception of a
small room on the same floor as the office, against the outer wall of
which is placed the grand piano. The door of this room opens into the
passage, and it is locked. His diligent search is rewarded by finding
the key of the door, which he opens. The room is simply furnished, a
table and two wooden chairs being all that it contains. A large
cupboard with folding doors is fixed to the wall, and by pressing a
spring he loosens one of these doors. The cupboard is bare of shelves,
and affords ample space for a man to stand upright in. There is a
sliding panel at the back, about three feet from the floor, and just
wide enough for a man to squeeze through. He is surprised to see that
the sliding panel leads to the interior of the grand piano, which is
quite hollow and contains no wire or wood-work of any kind. The open
space is large enough for a man to lie down in, though not without
discomfort. The key of the piano is in the inner part of the lock, and
by removing this any person concealed there could see into the office,
and could certainly hear any sounds of voices or movements made
therein, the watcher being so shrouded in darkness as to be quite safe
from observation. "Another of Samuel Boyd's tricks," thinks Dick, "for
spying upon his clerks." To verify this he returns to the office, and
satisfies himself that he has arrived at the correct explanation.
As he stands pondering over this curious discovery, which in the end
he dismisses from his mind as of no importance, he finds himself
mechanically counting the bottles of wine stacked against another part
of the wall. It is done idly, and without meaning, but he does not
forget that there are seventy-six bottles, with the crusted dust of
years upon them. "Port wine, I should say," he thinks. "I should like
half a pint." But he does not yield to the temptation.
At three in the morning his search is at an end. He can do nothing
more. He has met with no traces of Abel Death, and he has not found an
additional clue.
"I must keep my own counsel," he mutters. "If Abel Death turns up will
it be for good or ill? His absence lays him open to suspicion, but it
is altogether a case of circumstantial evidence. Supposing him to be
caught, tried, and convicted, and he an innocent man----!"
He cannot pursue this supposition to its just conclusion. The image of
Florence presents itself, her hands stretched out, appealing to him to
save Reginald.
With a sinking heart, and using every precaution to escape
observation, he succeeds in getting out of the office by the front
entrance. Oppressed by the conviction that he must now wait for the
course of events, and that he is powerless to direct them, he is
walking out of Deadman's Court when the voice of Constable Applebee
falls upon his ears.
"I thought it was you, sir," said the constable. "Have you been
looking at the house?"
"Yes," replies Dick, pulling himself together, "from the outside."
"Of course from the outside, sir," says Constable Applebee. "I should
like to have a look at it from the inside. People are beginning to
talk about it. It's seven days now since anybody's set eyes on Mr.
Boyd, and seven days since Mr. Abel Death disappeared. That's what I
call a coincidence. I hope it's nothing more than that. Hope you're
comfortable in your new lodgings, sir."
"Quite comfortable, thank you. I must be off to them now. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Dick is by this time thoroughly tired out, and when he reaches his
room is glad to tumble into bed.