Mabel's sudden action both annoyed and surprised me, for I had believed
that our friendship was of such a close and intimate character that she
would at least have allowed me sight of what her father had written.
Yet when, next second, I reflected that the envelope had been specially
addressed to her, I saw that whatever was contained therein had been
intended for her eye alone.
"You have discovered something which has upset you?" I said, looking
straight into her white, hard-drawn face. "I hope it is really nothing
very disconcerting?"
She held her breath for a moment, her hand instinctively upon her breast
as though to still the wild beating of her heart.
"Ah! unfortunately it is," was her answer. "I know the truth now--the
awful, terrible truth." And without a word of warning she covered her
face with her hands and burst into a torrent of tears.
At her side in an instant I was striving to console her, but I quickly
realised what a deep impression of dismay and horror those written words
of her dead father had produced upon her. She was filled with grief,
and utterly inconsolable.
The quiet of that long, old-fashioned room was unbroken save for her
bitter sobs and the solemn tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock at
the further end of the apartment. My hand was placed tenderly upon the
poor girl's shoulder, but it was a long time ere I could induce her to
dry her tears.
When she did so, I saw by her face that she had become a changed woman.
Walking back to the writing-table she took up the envelope and re-read
the superscription which Blair had written upon it, and then for the
first time her eyes fell upon the photograph of that lonely house by the
crossways.
"Why!" she cried, startled, "where did you find this?"
I explained that it had dropped from the envelope, whereupon she took it
up and gazed, for a long time upon it. Then, turning it over, she
discovered what I had not noticed, namely, written faintly in pencil and
half effaced were the words, "Owston crossroads, 9 miles beyond
Doncaster on the Selby Road.--B. B."
"Do you know what this is?"
"No, I haven't the least idea," I answered. "It must be something of
which your father was very careful. It seems to be well worn, too, as
though carried in somebody's pocket."
"Well," she said, "I will tell you. I had no idea that he still
preserved it, but I suppose he kept it as a souvenir of those weary
journeys of long ago. This photograph," she added, holding it still in
her hand, "is the picture of the spot for which he searched every
turnpike in England. He had the photograph but nothing else to guide
him to the spot, and we were therefore compelled to tramp all the main
roads up and down the country in an attempt to identify it. Not until
nearly a year after you and Mr. Seton had so kindly placed me at school
at Bournemouth did my father, still on his lonely tramp, succeed in
discovering it after a search lasting over three years. He identified
it one summer evening as the crossways at Owston, and he found living in
that house the person of whom he had been all those weary months in
search."
"Curious," I said. "Tell me more about it."
"There is nothing else to tell, except that, by identifying the house,
he obtained the key to the secret--at least, that is what I always
understood from him," she said. "Ah, I recollect all those long
wearying walks when I was a girl, how we trudged on over those long,
white, endless roads, in sunshine and in rain, envying people in
carriages and carts, and men and women on bicycles, and yet my courage
always supported by my father's declaration that great fortune must be
ours some day. He carried this photograph with him always, and almost
at each crossroad he would take it out, examine the landscape and
compare it, not knowing, of course, but that the old toll-house might
have been pulled down since the taking of the picture."
"Did he never tell you the reason why he wished to visit that house."
"He used to say that the man who lived there--the man who used to sit on
summer evenings in that chair outside, was his friend--his good friend;
only they had been parted for a long time, and he did not know that my
father was still alive. They had been friends abroad, I fancy, in the
days when my father was at sea."
"And the identification of this spot was the reason of your father's
constant wanderings?" I exclaimed, pleased that I had at last cleared
up one point which, for five years or so, had been a mystery.
"Yes. A month after he had made the discovery he came to Bournemouth,
and told me in confidence that his dream of great wealth was about to be
realised. He had solved the problem, and within a week or two would be
in possession of ample funds. He disappeared, you will remember, almost
immediately, and was away for a month. Then he returned a rich man--so
rich that you and Mr. Seton were utterly dumbfounded. Don't you
recollect that night at Helpstone, after I had come from school to spend
a week with my father on his return? We were sitting together after
dinner and poor father recalled the last occasion when we had all
assembled there--the occasion when I was taken ill outside," she added.
"And don't you recollect Mr. Seton appearing to doubt my father's
statement that he was already worth fifty thousand pounds."
"I remember," I answered, as her clear eyes met mine. "I remember how
your father struck us utterly dumb by going upstairs and fetching his
banker's pass-book, which showed a balance of fifty-four thousand odd
pounds. After that he became more than ever a mystery to us. But tell
me," I added in a low, earnest voice, "what have you discovered to-night
that has so upset you?"
"I have nearly found proof of a fact that I have dreaded for years--a
fact that affects not only my poor father's memory, but also myself. I
am in peril--personal danger."
"How?" I asked quickly, failing to understand her meaning. "Recollect
that I promised your father to act as your protector."
"I know, I know. It is awfully good of you," she said, looking at me
gratefully with those wonderful eyes that had always held me fascinated
beneath the spell of her beauty. "But," she added, shaking her head
sorrowfully, "I fear that in this you will be powerless. If the blow
falls, as it must sooner or later, then I shall be crushed and helpless.
No power, not even your devoted friendship, can then save me."
"You certainly speak very strangely, Mabel. I don't follow you at all."
"I expect not," was her mechanical answer. "You do not know all. If
you did, you would understand the peril of my position and of the great
danger now threatening me."
And she stood motionless as a statue, her hand upon the corner of the
writing-table, her eyes fixed straight into the blazing fire.
"If the danger is a real one, I consider I ought to be aware of it. To
be forewarned is to be forearmed!" I remarked decisively.
"It is a real one, but as my father has confessed the truth to me alone,
I am unable to reveal it to you. His secret is mine."
"Certainly," I answered, accepting her decision, which, of course, was
but natural in the circumstances. She could not betray her dead
father's confidence.
Yet if she had done, how altered would have been the course of events!
Surely the story of Burton Blair was one of the strangest and most
romantic ever given to man to relate, and as assuredly the strange
circumstances which occurred after his decease were even more remarkable
and puzzling. The whole affair from beginning to end was a complete
enigma.
Later, when Mabel grew slightly calmer, we concluded our work of
investigation, but discovered little else of interest save several
letters in Italian, undated and unsigned, but evidently written by Dick
Dawson, the millionaire's mysterious friend--or enemy. On reading them
they were, I found, evidently the correspondence of an intimate
acquaintance who was sharing Blair's fortune and secretly assisting him
in the acquisition of his wealth. There was much mention of "the
secret," and repeated cautions against revealing anything to Reggie or
to myself.
In one letter I found the sentences in Italian: "My girl is growing into
quite a fine lady. I expect she will become a Countess, or perhaps a
Duchess, one day. I hear from your side that Mabel is becoming a very
pretty woman. You ought, with your position and reputation, to make a
good match for her. But I know what old-fashioned ideas you hold that a
woman must marry only for love."
On reading this, one fact was vividly impressed upon me, namely, that if
this man Dawson shared secretly in Blair's wealth he surely had no
necessity to obtain his secret by foul means, when he already knew it.
The clock on the stables chimed midnight before Mabel rang for Mrs.
Gibbons, and the latter's husband followed, bringing me a night-cap of
whisky and some hot water.
My little companion merrily pressed my hand, wishing me good-night, and
then retired, accompanied by the housekeeper, while Gibbons himself
remained to mix my drink.
"Sad thing, sir, about our poor master," hazarded the well-trained
servant, who had been all his life in the service of the previous
owners. "I fear the poor young mistress feels it very much."
"Very much indeed, Gibbons," I answered, taking a cigarette and standing
with my back to the fire. "She was such a devoted daughter."
"She is now mistress of everything, Mr. Ford told us when he was down
three days ago."
"Yes," I said, "everything. And I hope that you and your wife will
serve her as well and as faithfully as you have done her father."
"We'll try, sir," was the grave, grey-haired man's response.
"Everybody's very fond of the young mistress. She's so very good to all
the servants." Then, as I remained silent, he placed my candle in
readiness on the table, and, bowing, wished me good-night.
He closed the door, and I was alone in that great silent old room where
the darting flames cast weird lights across into the dark recesses, and
the long, old Chippendale clock ticked on solemnly as it had done for a
century past.
Having swallowed my hot drink, I returned again to my dead friend's
writing-table, carefully examining it to see whether it contained any
secret drawers. A methodical investigation of every portion failed to
reveal any spring or unsuspected cavity, therefore, after glancing at
that photograph which had taken Blair those many months of weary
tramping to identify, I extinguished the lamps and passing through the
great old hall with the stands of armour which conjured up visions of
ghostly cavaliers, ascended to my room.
The bright fire gave the antique place with those rather funereal
hangings a warm and cosy appearance in contrast to the hard frost
outside, and feeling no inclination to sleep just then, I flung my self
into an arm-chair and sat with arms folded, pondering deeply.
Again the stable-clock chimed--the half-hour--and then I think I must
have dozed, for I was awakened suddenly by a light, stealthy footstep on
the polished oaken floor outside my door. I listened, and distinctly
heard some one creeping lightly down the big old Jacobean staircase,
which creaked slightly somewhere below.
The weird ghostliness of the old place and its many historic traditions
caused me, I suppose, some misgivings, for I found myself thinking of
burglars and of midnight visitants. Again I strained my ears. Perhaps,
after all, it was only a servant! Yet, when I glanced at my watch, and
found it to be a quarter to two, the suggestion that the servants had
not retired was at once negatived.
Suddenly, in the room below me, I distinctly heard a slow, harsh,
grating noise. Then all was still again.
About three minutes later, however, I fancied I heard low whispering,
and, having quickly extinguished my light, I drew aside one of my heavy
curtains, and peering forth saw, to my surprise, two figures crossing
the lawn towards the shrubbery.
The moon was somewhat overcast, yet by the grey, clouded light I
distinguished that the pair were a man and a woman. From the man's back
I could not recognise him, but his companion's gait was familiar to me
as she hurried on towards the dark belt of bare, black trees.
It was Mabel Blair. The secret was out. Her sudden desire to visit
Mayvill was in order to keep a midnight tryst.