"The story about this Spaniard, Guffanta, is a strange one," Philip
Smerdon wrote from Occleve Chase to Lord Penlyn, who had informed him
of the visit he had received and the revelations made by the Señor,
"but I may as well tell you at once that I don't believe it, although
you say that the lawyers, as well as Stuart and Dobson, are inclined
to do so. My own opinion is that, though he may not have killed Mr.
Cundall, he is still telling you a lie--for some reason of his own, as
to the friendship that existed between them; and he probably thinks
that by pretending to be able to find the man, he will get some money
from you. With regard to his having been face to face with the
murderer, why, if so, does he not say on what occasion and when? To
know his face _as that of the murderer_, is to say, what in plainer
words would be, that he had either known he was about to commit
the act, or that he had witnessed it. It admits of no other
interpretation, and, consequently, what becomes of his avowed love for
Cundall, if he knew of the contemplated deed and did not prevent it,
or, having witnessed it, did not at once arrest or kill his aggressor?
You may depend upon it, my dear Gervase, that this man's talk is
nothing but empty braggadocio, with, as I said before, the probable
object of extracting money from you as he previously extracted it from
your brother.
"As to the locking up of the garden and allowing no one to enter it, I
am inclined to think that it is simply done with the object of making
a pretence of mysteriously knowing something that no one else knows.
And it is almost silly, for your garden would scarcely happen to be
selected by the murderer as a place to visit, and what object could he
have in so visiting it? However, as it is a place never used, I should
gratify him in this case, only I would go a little farther than he
wishes, and never allow it to be opened--not even when he desires it."
The letter went on to state that Smerdon was still very busy over the
summer accounts at Occleve Chase, and should remain there some time;
he might, however, he added, shortly run up to town for a night.
A feeling of disappointment came over Penlyn as he read this letter
from his friend. During the two or three days that had elapsed between
writing to Smerdon and receiving his answer, he had been buoyed up
with the hope that in Guffanta the man had been discovered who would
be the means of bringing the assassin to justice, and this hope had
been shared by all the other men interested in the same cause. But he
had come, in the course of his long friendship with Philip Smerdon, to
place such utter reliance upon his judgment, and to accept so
thoroughly his ideas, that the very fact of his doubting the Señor's
statement, and looking upon it as a mere vulgar attempt to extort
money from him, almost led him also to doubt whether, after all, he
had not too readily believed the Spaniard.
Yet, he reflected, his actions, as he stood before him foretelling the
certain doom of that assassin when once they should again be face to
face, and his calm certainty that such would undoubtedly happen, bore
upon them the impress of truth. And his story had earned the belief of
the others--that, surely, was in favour of it being true. Stuart had
seen him, had listened to what he had to say, and had formed the
opinion that he was neither lying nor acting. Dobson also, the man who
to the Señor's mind was ridiculous and incapable, had been told
everything, and he, too, had come to the conclusion that Guffanta's
story was an honest one, and that, of all other men, he who in some
mysterious manner, knew the murderer's face, would be the most likely
to eventually bring him to justice. Only, he thought that the Señor
should be made to divulge where and when he had so seen his face; that
would give him and his brethren a clue, he said, which might enable
them to assist him in tracking the man. And he was also very anxious
to know what the secret was that led to his desiring Lord Penlyn to
have the garden securely closed and locked. He could find in his own
mind no connecting link between the place of death in the Park and
Lord Penlyn's garden (although he remembered that, strangely enough,
his lordship was the dead man's brother), and he was desirous that the
Señor should confide in him. But the latter would tell him nothing
more than he had already made known, and Dobson, who had always in his
mind's eye the vision of the large rewards that would come to the man
who found the murderer, was forced to be content and to work, as he
termed it, "in the dark."
"You must wait, my good Dobson, you must wait," the Spaniard said,
"until I tell you that I want your assistance, though I do not think
it probable that I shall ever want it. You could not find out that I
was _Corot_, you know, although I had many times the pleasure of
lunching at the next table to you; I do not think that you will be
able any the better to find the man I seek. But when I find him,
Dobson, I promise you that you shall have the pleasure of arresting
him, so that the reward shall come to you. That is, if I do not have
to arrest him suddenly upon the moment, myself, so as to prevent him
escaping."
"And what are you doing now, _Signor?_" Dobson asked, giving him a
title more familiar to him in its pronunciation than the Spanish one,
"what are you doing to find him?"
"I am practising a virtue, my friend, that I have practised much in my
life. I am waiting."
"I don't see that waiting is much good, Signor. There is not much good
ever done by waiting."
"The greatest good in the world, Dobson, the very greatest. And you do
not see now, Dobson, because you do not know what I know. So you, too,
must be virtuous, and wait."
It was only with banter of a slightly concealed nature such as this
that Señor Guffanta would answer Dobson, but, light as his answers
were, he had still managed to impress the detective with the idea
that, sooner or later, he would achieve the task he had vowed to
perform. "But," as the man said to one of his brethren, "why don't he
get to work, why don't he do something? He won't find the man in that
Hôtel Lepanto where he sits smoking cigarettes half the day, nor yet
in Lord Penlyn's house where he goes every night."
"Perhaps he thinks his lordship did it, after all," the other
answered, "and is watching _him_."
"No," Dobson said, "he don't think that. But I can't make out who the
deuce he does suspect."
It was true enough that Guffanta did pass a considerable time in the
Hôtel Lepanto, smoking cigarettes, and always thinking deeply, whether
seated in the corridor or in his own room upstairs. But, although he
had not allowed himself to say one word to any of the other men on the
subject, and still spoke with certainty of ere long finding the
murderer, he was forced to acknowledge that, for the time, he was
baffled. And then, as he did acknowledge this, he would rise from his
chair and stretch out his long arms, and laugh grimly to himself. "But
only for a time, Miguel," he would say, "only for a time. He will come
to you at last, he will come to you as the bird comes to the net.
Wait, wait, wait! You may meet him to-day, to-night! _Por Dios_, you
will surely trap him at last!"
Meanwhile Lord Penlyn, when he was left alone, and when he could
distract his thoughts from the desire of his life, the finding of the
man who had slain Walter Cundall, was very unhappy. Those thoughts
would then turn to the girl he had loved deeply, to the girl whom he
had cast off because she had ventured to let the idea come into her
mind that it was he who might have done the deed. He had cast her off
in a moment when there had come into his heart a revulsion of feeling
towards her, a feeling of horror that she, of all others in the world,
could for one moment harbour such an idea against him. Yet, he
admitted to himself, there were grounds upon which even the most,
loving of women might be excused for having had such thoughts. He had
misled her at first, he had kept back the truth from her, he had given
her reasons for suspicion--even against him, her lover. And now they
were parted, he had renounced her, and yet he knew that he loved her
as fondly as ever; she was the one woman in the world to him. Would
they ever come together again? Was it possible, that if he, who had
told her that never more in this world would he speak to her of love,
should go back again and kneel at her feet and plead for pardon, it
would be granted to him? If he could think that; if he could think
that when once his brother was avenged he might so plead and be so
forgiven, then he could take courage and look forward hopefully to the
future. But at present they were strangers, they were as much parted
as though they had never met; and he was utterly unhappy.
When Guffanta had declared himself; it had been in his mind to write
and tell her all that he had newly learnt; but he could not bring
himself to write an ordinary letter to her. It might be that,
notwithstanding the deep interest she took in his unhappy brother's
fate, she would refuse to open any letter in his handwriting, and
would regard it almost as an insult. Yet he wanted to let her know
what had now transpired, and he at last decided what to do. He asked
Stuart to direct an envelope for him to her, and he put a slip of
paper inside it, on which he wrote:
"_Corot_ has disclosed himself, and he, undoubtedly, is not the
murderer. He, however, has some strange knowledge of the actual man in
his possession which he will not reveal, but says that he is certain,
at last, to bring him to justice."
That was all, and he put no initials to it, but he thought that the
knowledge might be welcome to her.
He had not expected any answer to this letter, or note, and from Ida
none came, but a day or two after he had sent it, he received a visit
from Sir Paul Raughton. The baronet had come up to town especially to
see him, and having learnt from the footman that Lord Penlyn was at
home, he bade the man show him to his master, and followed him at
once. As Penlyn rose to greet him, he noticed that Sir Paul's usually
good-humoured face bore a very serious expression, and he knew at once
that the interview they were about to have would be an important one.
"I have come up to London expressly to see you, Lord Penlyn," Sir Paul
said, shaking hands with him coldly, "because I wish to have a
thorough explanation of the manner in which you see fit to conduct
yourself towards my daughter. No," he said, putting up his hand, as he
saw that Penlyn was about to interrupt him, "hear me for one moment. I
may as well tell you at once that Ida, that my daughter, has told me
everything that you have confided to her with regard to your
relationship to Mr. Cundall--which, I think, it was your duty also to
have told me--and she has also told me the particulars of your last
interview with her."
"I parted with her in anger," the other answered, "because there
seemed to have come into her mind some idea that I--that I might have
slain my brother."
"And for that, for a momentary suspicion on her part, a suspicion that
would scarcely have entered her head had her mind not been in the
state it is, you have seen fit to cast her off, and to cancel your
engagement!"
"It was she, Sir Paul, who bade me speak no more of love to her,"
Penlyn said, "she who told me that, until I had found the murderer of
my brother, I was to be no more to her."
"And she did well to tell you so," Sir Paul said; "for to whom but to
you, his brother and his heir, should the task fall of avenging his
cruel murder?"
"That, I told her, I had sworn to do, and yet she suspected me. And,
Sir Paul, God knows I did not mean the words of anger that I spoke; I
have bitterly repented of them ever since. If Ida will let me recall
them, if she will give me again her love--if you think there is any
hope of that--I will go back and sue to her for it on my knees."
The baronet looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, and then he said.
"Do you know that she is very ill?"
"Ill! Why have I not been told of it?"
"Why should you have been told? It was your words to her, and her
excitement over your brother's murder, that has brought her illness
about."
"Let me go and see her?"
"You cannot see her. She is in bed and delirious from brain fever; and
on her lips there are but two names which she repeats incessantly,
your own and your brother's."
The young man leant forward on the table and buried his head in his
hands, as he said: "Poor Ida! poor Ida! Why should this trouble also
come to you? And why need I have added to your unhappiness by my
cruelty?" Then he looked up and said to Sir Paul: "When will she be
well enough for me to go to her and plead for pardon? Will it be soon,
do you think?"
"I do not know," the other answered sadly. "But if, when the delirium
has left her, I can tell her that you love her still and regret your
words, it may go far towards her recovery."
"Tell her that," Penlyn said, "and that my love is as deep and true as
ever, and that, at the first moment she is in a fit condition to hear
it, I will, myself, come and tell her so with my own lips. And also
tell her that, never again, will I by word or deed cause her one
moment's pain."
"I am glad to hear you speak like this," Sir Paul said, "glad to find
that I had not allowed my darling to give herself to a man who would
cast her off because she, for one moment, harboured an unworthy
suspicion of him."
"This unhappy misunderstanding has been the one blot upon our love,"
Penlyn said; "if I can help it, there shall never be another."
As he spoke these words, Sir Paul put his hand kindly on his shoulder,
and Penlyn knew that, in him, he had one who would faithfully carry
his message of love to the woman who was the hope of his life.
"And now," Sir Paul said, "I want you to give me full particulars of
everything that has occurred since that miserable night. I want to
know everything fully, and from your lips. What Ida has been able to
tell me has been sadly incoherent."
Then, once more--as he had had now so often to go over the sad
history to others, with but little fresh information added to each
recital--Lord Penlyn told Sir Paul everything that he knew, and of the
strange manner in which the Señor Guffanta had come into the matter,
as well as his apparent certainty of eventually finding the murderer.
"You do not think it is a bold ruse to throw off suspicion from
himself?" Sir Paul asked. "A daring man, such as he seems to be, might
adopt such a plan."
"No," the other answered, "I do not. There is something about the man,
stranger as he is, that not only makes me feel certain that he is
perfectly truthful in what he says, and that he really does possess
some strange knowledge of the assassin that will enable him to find
that man at last, but also makes the others feel equally certain."
"They all believe in him, you say?" Sir Paul asked thoughtfully.
"All! That is, all but Philip Smerdon, who is the only one who has not
seen him. And I am sure that, if he too saw him and heard him, he
would believe."
"Philip Smerdon is a thorough man of the world," Sir Paul said, "I
should be inclined to give weight to his judgment."
"I am sure that he is wrong in this case, and that when he sees
Guffanta, he will acknowledge himself to be so. No one who has seen
him can doubt his earnestness."
"What can be the mystery concerning your garden? A mystery that is a
double one, because it brings your house, of all houses in London,
into connection with the murder of the very man who, at the moment,
was the actual owner of it? That is inexplicable!"
"It is," Penlyn said, "inexplicable to every one. But the Señor tells
us that when we know what he knows, and when he has brought the
murderer to bay, we shall see that it is no mystery at all."