I confess that I was longing for the appearance of this one-eyed
Englishman of whom Mabel Blair was evidently so terrified, in order to
judge him for myself.
What I had gathered concerning him was, up to the present, by no means
satisfactory. That, in common with the monk, he held the secret of the
dead man's past seemed practically certain, and perhaps Mabel feared
some unwelcome revelation concerning her father's actions and the source
of his wealth. This was the thought which occurred to me when, having
raised the alarm which brought the faithful companion, Mrs. Percival, I
was assisting to apply restoratives to the insensible girl.
As she lay, her head pillowed upon a cushion of daffodil silk, Mrs.
Percival knelt beside her, and, being in ignorance, held me, I think, in
considerable suspicion. She inquired rather sharply the reason of
Mabel's unconsciousness, but I merely replied that she had been seized
with a sudden faintness, and attributed it to the overheating of the
room.
Presently, when she came to, she asked Mrs. Percival and her maid Bowers
to leave us alone, and after the door had shut she inquired, pale-faced
and anxious--
"When is this man Dawson to come here?"
"When Mr. Leighton gives him notice of the clause in your father's
will."
"He can come here," she said determinedly, "but before he crosses this
threshold, I shall leave the house. He may act just as he thinks
proper, but I will not reside under the same roof with him, nor will I
have any communication with him whatsoever."
"I quite understand your feelings, Mabel," I said. "But is such a
course a judicious one? Will it not be best to wait and watch the
fellow's movements?"
"Ah! but you don't know him!" she cried. "You don't suspect what I know
to be the truth!"
"What's that?"
"No," she said in a low hoarse voice, "I may not tell you. You will
discover all ere long, and then you will not be surprised that I abhor
the very name of the man."
"But why on earth did your father insert such a clause in his will?"
"Because he was compelled," she answered hoarsely. "He could not help
himself."
"And if he had refused--refused to place you in the power of such a
person--what then?"
"It would have meant his ruin," she answered. "I suspected it all the
instant I heard that a mysterious man was to be my secretary and to have
control of my affairs. Your discovery in Italy has only confirmed my
suspicions."
"But you will take my advice, Mabel, and bear with him at first," I
urged, wondering within my heart whether her hatred of the man was
because she knew that he was her father's assassin. She entertained
some violent dislike of him, but for what reason I entirely failed to
discover.
She shook her head at my argument, saying--"I regret that I am not
sufficiently diplomatic to be able to conceal my antipathy in that
manner. We women are clever in many ways, but we must always exhibit
our dislikes," she added.
"Well," I remarked, "it will be a very great pity to treat him with open
hostility, for it may upset all our future chances of success in
discovering the truth regarding your poor father's death, and the theft
of his secret. My strong advice is to remain quite silent, apathetic
even, and yet with a keen, watchful eye. Sooner or later this man, if
he really is your enemy, must betray himself. Then will be time enough
for us to act firmly, and, in the end, you will triumph. For my own
part I consider that the sooner Leighton gives the fellow notice of his
appointment the better."
"But is there no way by which this can be avoided?" she cried, dismayed.
"Surely my poor father's death is sufficiently painful without this
second misfortune!"
She spoke to me as frankly as she would have done to a brother, and I
recognised by her intense manner how, now that her suspicions were
confirmed, she had become absolutely desperate. Amid all the luxury and
splendour of that splendid place she was a wan and lonely figure, her
young heart torn by grief at her father's death and by a terror which
she dare not divulge.
There is an old and oft-repeated saying that wealth does not bring
happiness, and surely there is often a greater peace of mind and pure
enjoyment of life in the cottage than in the mansion. The poor are apt
to regard the rich with envy, yet it should be remembered that many a
man and many a woman lolling in a luxurious carriage and served by
liveried servants looks forth upon those toilers in the streets, well
knowing that the hurrying millions of what they term "the masses" are
really far happier than they. Many a disappointed, world-weary woman of
title, often young and beautiful, would to-day gladly exchange places
with the daughter of the people, whose life, if hard, is nevertheless
full of harmless pleasures and as much happiness as can to obtained in
this our workaday world. This allegation may sound strange, but I
nevertheless declare it to be true. The possession of money may bring
luxury and renown; it may enable men and women to outshine their
fellows; it may bring honour, esteem and even popularity. But what are
they all? Ask the great landowner; ask the wealthy peer; ask the
millionaire. If they speak the truth they will tell you in confidence
that they are not in their hearts half so happy, nor do they enjoy life
so much, as the small man of independent means, the man who is subject
to an abatement upon his income-tax.
As I sat there with the dead man's daughter, endeavouring to induce her
to receive the mysterious individual without open hostility, I could not
help noticing the vivid contrast between the luxury of her surroundings
and the heavy burden of her heart.
She suggested that the house should be sold and that she should retire
to Mayvill and there live quietly in the country with Mrs. Percival, but
I urged her to wait, at least for the present. It seemed a pity that
Burton Blair's splendid collection of old masters, and the fine
tapestries that he had bought in Spain only a few years ago, and the
unique collection of early Majolica, should go to the hammer. Among the
many treasures in the dining-room was Andrea del Sarto's "Holy Family,"
for which Blair had given sixteen thousand five hundred pounds at
Christie's, and which was considered one of the finest examples of that
great master. Again, the Italian Renaissance furniture, the old
Montelupo and Savona ware and the magnificent old English plate were
each worth a fortune in themselves, and should, I contended, remain
Mabel's property, as they had been all bequeathed to her.
"Yes, I know," she responded to my argument. "Everything is mine except
that little bag containing the sachet, which is yours, and which is so
unfortunately missing."
"You must help me to recover it," I urged. "It will be to our mutual
interests to do so."
"Of course I will assist you in every way possible, Mr. Greenwood," was
her answer. "Since you've been away in Italy I have had the house
searched from top to bottom, and have myself examined all my father's
dispatch-boxes, his two other safes, and certain places where he
sometimes secreted his private papers, in order to discover whether,
fearing that an attempt might be made to steal the little bag, he left
it at home. But all in vain. It certainly is not in this house."
I thanked her for her efforts, knowing well that she had acted
vigorously on my behalf, but feeling that any search within that house
was futile, and that if the secret were ever recovered it would be found
in the hands of one or other of Blair s enemies.
Together we sat for a long time discussing the situation. The reason of
her hatred of the man Dawson she would not divulge, but this did not
cause me any real surprise, for I saw in her attitude a desire to
conceal some secret of her father's past. Nevertheless, after much
persuasion, I induced her to consent to allow the man to be informed of
his office, and to receive him without betraying the slightest sign of
annoyance or disfavour.
This I considered a triumph of my own diplomacy. Up to a certain point
I, as her best friend in those hard, dark days bygone, possessed a
complete influence over her. But beyond that, when it became a question
involving her father's honour, I was entirely powerless. She was a girl
of strong individuality, and like all such, was quick of penetration,
and peculiarly subject to prejudice on account of her high sense of
honour.
She flattered me by declaring that she wished that I had been appointed
her secretary, whereupon I thanked her for the compliment, but
asserted--
"Such a thing could never have been."
"Why?"
"Because you have told me that this fellow Dawson is coming here as a
matter of right. Your father wrote that unfortunate clause in his will
under compulsion--which means, because he stood in fear of him."
"Yes," she sighed in a low voice. "You are right, Mr. Greenwood. Quite
right. He held my father's life in his hands."
This latter remark struck me as very strange. Could Burton Blair have
been guilty of some nameless crime that he should fear this mysterious
one-eyed Englishman? Perhaps so. Perhaps the man Dick Dawson, who had
for years been passing as an Italian in rural Italy, was the only living
witness of an incident which Blair, in his prosperous days, would have
gladly given a million to efface. Such, indeed, was one of the many
theories which arose within me. Yet when I recollected the bluff,
good-natured honesty of Burton Blair, his sterling sincerity, his
high-mindedness, and his anonymous charitable works for charity's sake,
I crushed down all such suspicions, and determined only to respect the
dead man's memory.
The next night, just before nine o'clock, as Reggie and I were chatting
over our coffee in our cosy little dining-room in Great Russell Street,
Glave, our man, tapped, entered, and handed me a card.