WHERE IS MR. MARX?
Not until we had reached the Castle and were in the library did my father
speak to me. Then his words were grave enough.
"We have done Mr. Marx an injury, Philip," he said slowly.
"How?" I asked.
"Listen, and you will know."
He went to the telephone and signalled. The answer came at once.
"Someone has been asking for me at the gate," he said. "Who is it?"
"A stranger, sir, to see you."
"What name?"
"Hart, sir."
"Is he waiting?"
"Yes, sir. I told him that it would be useless, but he refuses to go
away."
"You can pass him. Send him here at once."
My father turned away and looked at me with all the old weariness in his
face, but with little agitation. Of the two, I was the more nervous. I
crossed the room and laid my hand gently upon his shoulder.
"Thank God that I am here with you! What shall you say to him, father?
What does he want, think you? Money?"
My father shook his head sadly.
"He would send if that were all. He has what he wants and that is not
much. I fear that he wants something else."
"What?"
"His good name cleared."
"He took the guilt willingly," I cried. "He must bear it now. He cannot
escape from it."
"He can," my father answered. "He can tell the truth."
"No one would believe him. It would be his word against yours. What
chance would he have?"
My father turned a stern, dark face upon me.
"So you think that I would swear to a lie, Philip? No! There was always
this risk. I have felt that if ever he should demand to be set right with
the world, it must be done."
"It shall be done."
We started, for the words came from the other side of the room. Standing
in the deep shadows just inside the door was a tall, gaunt man, with long
dishevelled beard and pale, ghastly face. His clothes were ragged and
weather-stained and his boots were thick with mud. I looked towards him
fascinated. It was the face of the lunatic who had twice attempted Mr.
Marx's life. It was Hart, _alias_ Francis, the man who held in his hands
a life dearer to me than my own.
"Is it really you, Francis?" my father asked, in a shocked tone. "You are
altered. You have been ill. Sit down."
He took no notice. Whilst my father had been speaking his eyes had been
wandering restlessly round the room.
"Where is--he?" he asked hoarsely.
"Do you mean Mr. Marx?" I said.
"Yes."
"He is in London."
"Ah!"
There was an expression in his face partly of disappointment, partly of
relief. He drew a long breath and remained silent, as though waiting to
be questioned.
"Do you want money?" my father asked.
"No."
"Do you want to give up your secret, to let the world know the truth?"
"Yes."
A cry burst from my lips, but my father checked me.
"It is well," he said. "Sit down. You need not fear; I will confess."
"You have nothing to confess. It is I who must do that."
"What do you mean?" my father asked, peering forward into the darkness,
for there was no lamp lit in the room. "Come nearer; I cannot see your
face."
With trembling fingers I drew up the blind from the high window. The
moon, which had just emerged from a bank of black, flying clouds, cast a
long stream of light across the room.
Francis moved forward with slow, reluctant steps. Then, with a sudden,
wild cry, he threw himself upon his knees before my father.
"As God in Heaven forgives, swear that you will forgive me!" he cried
passionately.
"Forgive! I have nothing to forgive," my father answered gently. "You
wish to lay down your burden. Good! I am ready to take it up."
He stooped forward in his chair and stretched out his hand to the man to
help him rise. In his altered position the moonlight seemed to cast a
sort of halo round his face, and it seemed to me like the face of an
angel.
"Don't touch me," cried the man; "don't. I can't bear it! Let me tell you
the truth, or I shall die. You think that you killed Farmer Morton. It's
false! Mr. Marx killed him."
"What!"
My father had sprung to his feet. Somehow, I found myself by his side.
Francis still grovelled on the floor.
"Up, man, and tell me all the truth," my father cried out in a voice of
thunder; "up on your feet and speak like a man."
He obeyed at once, trembling in every limb. Then he faltered out his
story:
"I was in the wood that night. It was dark; I lost my way. Suddenly I
heard voices--yours and Morton's. You were struggling within a few feet
of me. Before I could interfere you had thrown him down and rushed away.
I heard him breathing hard, and I saw Mr. Marx steal out from behind a
tree and creep up to him. Morton heard, too, and sprang up. They
struggled together; perhaps in the darkness, Morton mistook him for you.
I remembered the quarry and rushed out. I was too late.
"There was a fearful flash of lightning and I saw Marx put forth all his
strength and throw the other into the slate-pit. He turned round and saw
me.
"He would have hurled me over, too, if he had dared, but I was strong and
he was exhausted. So he offered me money to go away. I accepted, never
thinking that they would fix the crime upon me. Marx had thought it all
out with a devilish cunning. He provided me with disguises and told me
where to go to and how to get there. When I was safe away and read the
papers, I saw at once how I had been trapped. I had pleaded guilty to the
murder.
"Time went on and I grew more miserable every day. Marx sent me plenty of
money--too much. I began to drink. I was ill. When I recovered I wrote to
tell him that I could bear it no longer and that I was coming to see him.
I told him that I meant to go to a magistrate after I had given him time
to get out of the country. He dared me to come to the Castle. Still, I
came. It was dusk when I got here. He met me in the avenue. He offered me
large sums of money to go away, but I was determined and refused
everything. It was then from something he let fall in his anger that I
knew how he had been deceiving you. Then I would not listen to him any
more and bade him stand out of the way. He let me pass him and then
struck me on the back of the head with some heavy weapon."
"My God!" I cried. "I was close to you. I heard you cry and I met Mr.
Marx directly afterwards. He must have thrown you down the gravel-pit."
"It was there I found myself when I came to my senses," Francis
continued. "Directly I sat up and tried to think over what had happened I
began to feel my head swim. After that everything is blurred and dim in
my mind. I fled. The second time, you, Mr. Morton, saved his life from
me, as my fingers were closing upon his throat.
"They put me in an asylum. Afterwards Mr. Marx passed himself off as my
brother and had me moved into a private one. The commissioners came and I
appeared before them. I was sane. They let me go. Where is Mr. Marx?
Where is Mr. Marx?"
There was a deep silence. Then I held out my hand to my father and he
clasped it.
"Thank God!" I cried, my voice quivering with a great sob--"thank God!"
"Amen," my father repeated softly.
Again that question, in the same dry, hard tone.
"Where is Mr. Marx?"
We looked at him--at his nervously twitching hands and burning eyes. The
madness was upon him again. We must not let him go. My father drew me on
one side.
"I shall go to London with you to-night," he said. "What shall we do with
this man?"
"He must stay here," I answered. "Leave it to me."
I went up to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder.
"Listen, Francis," I said. "There are two places where Mr. Marx is likely
to be this week. One is in London, the other here. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he answered; "I understand."
"Now, Mr. Ravenor and I know best where to find him in London, but we
can't leave unless we know that there is someone on the look-out here as
well. If we go to London, will you remain here and watch for him?"
The man's eyes sparkled.
"Yes," he answered quickly. "This is the room where he writes, isn't it?
He will come here. Yes, I will wait; I will watch here in this room."
My father rang a bell and ordered a carriage to take us to the station.
Then he gave special orders about Francis. He was to be allowed to remain
in the library, to use Mr. Ravenor's own sleeping apartment, and to have
meals brought to him regularly.
An hour later we left the castle for Torchester. As we drove across the
courtyard we could see a pale, gaunt figure standing at the library
window, silent and rigid. It was Francis, waiting.