"Are you really suspicious, Mabel, that your father has been the victim
of foul play?" I inquired quickly of the dead man's daughter, standing
pale and unnerved before me.
"I am," was her direct, unhesitating answer. "You know his story, Mr.
Greenwood; you know how he carried with him everywhere something he had
sewed in a piece of chamois leather; something which was his most
precious possession. Mr. Leighton tells me that it is missing."
"That is unfortunately so," I said. "We all three searched for it among
his clothes and in his luggage; we made inquiry of the luncheon-car
attendant who found him insensible in the railway carriage, of the
porters who conveyed him to the hotel, of every one, in fact, but can
find no trace of it whatsoever."
"Because it has been deliberately stolen," she remarked.
"Then your theory is that he has been assassinated in order to conceal
the theft?"
She nodded in the affirmative, her face still hard and pale.
"But there is no evidence whatever of foul play, recollect," I
exclaimed. "Both medical men, two of the best in Manchester, declared
that death was entirely due to natural causes."
"I care nothing for what they say. The little sachet which my poor
father sewed with his own hands, and guarded so carefully all these
years, and which for some curious reason he would neither trust in any
bank nor in a safe deposit vault, is missing. His enemies have gained
possession of it, just as I felt confident they would."
"I recollect him showing me that little bag of wash-leather on the first
night of our acquaintance," I said. "He then declared that what was
contained therein would bring him wealth--and it certainly has done," I
added, glancing round that magnificent apartment.
"It brought him wealth, but not happiness, Mr. Greenwood," she responded
quickly. "That packet, the contents of which I have never seen, he has
carried with him in his pocket or suspended round his neck ever since it
first came into his possession years ago. In all his clothes he had a
special pocket in which to carry it, while at night he wore it in a
specially made belt which was locked around his waist. I think he
regarded it as a sort of charm, or talisman, which, besides bringing him
his great fortune, also preserved him from all ills. The reason of this
I cannot tell."
"Did you never ascertain the nature of the document which he considered
so precious?"
"I tried to do so many times, but he would never reveal it to me. `It
was his secret,' he would say, and no more."
Both Reggie and I had, times without number, endeavoured to learn what
the mysterious packet really contained, but had been no more successful
than the charming girl now standing before me. Burton Blair was a
strange man, both in actions and in words, very reserved regarding his
own affairs, and yet, curiously enough, with the advent of prosperity he
had become a prince of good fellows.
"But who were his enemies?" I inquired.
"Ah! of that I am likewise in utter ignorance," was her reply. "As you
know, during the past year or two, like all rich men he has been
surrounded by adventurers and parasites of all sorts, whom Ford, his
secretary, has kept at arm's length. It may be that the existence of
the precious packet was known, and that my poor father has fallen a
victim to some foul plot. At least, that is my firm idea."
"If so, the police should certainly be informed," I said. "It is true
that the wash-leather sachet which he showed me on the night of our
first meeting is now missing, for we have all made the most careful
search for it, but in vain. Yet what could its possession possibly
profit any one if the key to what was contained there is wanting?"
"But was not this key, whatever it was, also in my father's hands?"
queried Mabel Blair. "Was it not the discovery of that very key which
gave us all these possessions?" she asked, with the sweet womanliness
that was her most engaging characteristic.
"Exactly. But surely your father, shrewd and cautious as he always was,
would never carry upon his person both problem and key together! I
can't really believe that he'd do such a foolish thing as that."
"Nor do I. Although I was his only child, and his confidante in
everything relating to his life, there was one thing he persistently
kept from me, and that was the nature of his secret. Sometimes I have
found myself suspecting that it was not an altogether creditable one--
indeed, one that a father dare not reveal to his daughter. And yet no
one has ever accused him of dishonesty or of double-dealing. At other
times I have noticed in his face and manner an air of distinct mystery
which has caused me to believe that the source of our unlimited wealth
was some curious and romantic one, which to the world would be regarded
as entirely incredible. One night, indeed, as we sat here at table
after dinner, and while smoking, he had been telling me about my poor
mother who died in lodgings in a back street in Manchester while he was
absent on a voyage to the West Coast of Africa, he declared that if
London knew the source of his income it would be astounded. `But,' he
added, `it is a secret--a secret I intend to carry with me to the
grave.'"
Strangely enough he had uttered those very same words to me a couple of
years before, when one night he had sat before the fire in my rooms in
Great Russell Street, and I had referred to his marvellous stroke of
good fortune. He had died, and he had either carried out his threat of
destroying that evidence of his secret in the shape of the well-worn
chamois leather bag, or else it had been ingeniously stolen from him.
The curious, ill-written letter I had secured from my friend's luggage,
while puzzling me had aroused certain suspicions that hitherto I had not
entertained. Of these I, of course, told Mabel nothing, for I did not
wish to cause her any greater pain. In the years we had been acquainted
we had always been good friends. Although Reggie was fifteen years her
senior, and I thirteen years older than she, I believe she regarded both
of us as big brothers.
Our friendship had commenced when, finding Burton Blair, the seafaring
tramp, practically-starving as he was, we clubbed together from our
small means and put her to a finishing school at Bournemouth. To allow
so young and delicate a girl to tramp England aimlessly in search of
some vague and secret information which seemed to be her erratic
father's object, was, we decided, an utter impossibility; therefore,
following that night of our first meeting at Helpstone, Burton and his
daughter remained our guests for a week, and, after many consultations
and some little economies, we were at last successful in placing Mabel
at school, a service for which we later received her heartfelt thanks.
She was utterly worn out, poor child. Poverty had already set its
indelible stamp upon her sweet face, and her beauty was beginning to
fade beneath that burden of disappointment and erratic wandering when we
had so fortunately discovered her, and been able to rescue her from the
necessity of tramping footsore over those endless, pitiless highways.
Contrary to our expectation it was quite a long time before we could
induce Blair to allow his daughter to return to school, for, as a matter
of fact, both father and daughter were entirely devoted to one another.
Nevertheless, in the end we triumphed, and later, when the bluff,
bearded wayfarer came to his own, he did not forget to return thanks to
us in a very substantial manner. Indeed, our present improved
circumstances were due to him, for not only had he handed a cheque to
Reggie sufficient to pay the whole of the liabilities of the Cannon
Street lace business, but to me, on my birthday three years ago, he had
sent, enclosed in a cheap, silver cigarette case, a draft upon his
bankers for a sum sufficient to provide me with a very comfortable
little annuity.
Burton Blair never forgot his friends--neither did he ever forgive an
unkind action. Mabel was his idol, his only real confidante, and yet it
seemed more than strange that she knew absolutely nothing of the
mysterious source of his colossal income.
Together we sat for over an hour in that great drawing-room, the very
splendour of which spoke mystery. Mrs. Percival, the pleasant,
middle-aged widow of a naval surgeon, who was Mabel's chaperon and
companion, entered, but left us quickly, much upset by the tragic news.
Presently, when I told Mabel of my promise to her father, a slight blush
suffused her pale cheeks.
"It is really awfully good of you to trouble over my affairs, Mr.
Greenwood," she said, glancing at me, and then dropping her eyes
modestly. "I suppose in future I shall have to consider you as my
guardian," and she laughed lightly, twisting her ring around her finger.
"Not as your legal guardian," I answered. "Your father's lawyers will,
no doubt, act in that capacity, but rather as your protector and your
friend."
"Ah!" she replied sadly, "I suppose I shall require both, now that poor
dad is dead."
"I have been your friend for over five years, Mabel, and I hope you will
still allow me to carry out my promise to your father," I said, standing
before her and speaking in deep earnestness.
"There must, however, at the outset be a clear and distinct
understanding between us. Therefore permit me for one moment to speak
to you candidly, as a man should to a woman who is his friend. You,
Mabel, are young, and--well, you are, as you know, very good-looking--"
"No, really, Mr. Greenwood," she cried, interrupting me and blushing at
my compliment, "it is too bad of you. I'm sure--"
"Hear me out, please," I continued with mock severity. "You are young,
you are very good-looking, and you are rich; you therefore possess the
three necessary attributes which render a woman eligible in these modern
days when sentiment is held of such little account. Well, people who
will watch our intimate friendship will, with ill-nature, declare, no
doubt, that I am seeking to marry you for your money. I am quite sure
the world will say this, but what I want you to promise is to at once
refute such a statement. I desire that you and I shall be firm friends,
just as we have ever been, without any thought of affection. I may
admire you--I confess, now, that I have always admired you--but with a
man of my limited means love for you is entirely out of the question.
Understand that I do not wish to presume upon the past, now that your
father is dead and you are alone. Understand, too, from the very outset
that I now give you the hand of firm friendship as I would give it to
Reggie, my old schoolfellow and best friend, and that in future I shall
safeguard your interests as though they were my own." And I held out my
hands to her.
For a moment she hesitated, for my words had apparently caused her the
most profound surprise.
"Very well," she faltered, glancing for an instant up to my face. "It
is a bargain--if you wish it to be so."
"I wish, Mabel, to carry out the promise I made to your father," I said.
"As you know, I am greatly indebted to him for much generosity, and I
wish, therefore, as a mark of gratitude, to stand in his place and
protect his daughter--yourself."
"But were we not, in the first place, both indebted to you?" she said.
"If it had not been for Mr. Seton and yourself I might have wandered on
until I died by the wayside."
"For what was your father searching?" I asked. "He surely told you?"
"No, he never did. I am in entire ignorance of the reason of his three
years of tramping up and down England. He had a distinct object, which
he accomplished, but what it actually was he would never reveal to me."
"It was, I suppose, in connexion with that document he always carried?"
"I believe it was," was her response. Then she added, returning to her
previous observations, "Why speak of your indebtedness to him, Mr.
Greenwood, when I know full well how you sold your best horse in order
to pay my school fees at Bournemouth, and that you could not hunt that
season in consequence? You denied yourself the only little pleasure you
had, in order that I might be well cared for."
"I forbid you to mention that again," I said quickly. "Recollect we are
now friends, and between friends there can be no question of
indebtedness."
"Then you must not talk of any little service my father rendered to
you," she laughed. "Come, now, I shall be unruly if you don't keep to
your part of the bargain!"
And so we were compelled at that juncture to cry quits, and we
recommenced our friendship on a firm and perfectly well-defined basis.
Yet how strange it was! The beauty of Mabel Blair, as she lounged there
before me in that magnificent home that was now hers, was surely
sufficient to turn the head of any man who was not a Chancery Judge or a
Catholic Cardinal--different indeed from the poor, half-starved girl
whom I had first seen exhausted and fallen by the roadside in the winter
gloom.