THE SILENT MAN’S WARNING
PHILIP REILLY, whose energy seemed indefatigable, although he was yet
half an invalid, left me next morning and returned to town.
In council, in my airy little bedroom with the attic window embowered by
creeping roses, we arrived at the conclusion that he would have more
chance of success in gaining information than myself, therefore I
dispatched him to London in order to keep an observant eye upon the
address in Sterndale Road.
For several reasons I remained in the neighbourhood of Caldecott. First,
I was apprehensive lest Purvis and his associates—for I felt convinced
that he was not acting alone—might make a forcible attempt to
investigate the Manor House. It was quite evident they suspected that
the treasure might be hidden therein, otherwise they would not have been
in treaty for a lease of the place. When they knew that I had
forestalled them their chagrin would, I anticipated, know no bounds.
Hence I felt constrained to remain on guard, as it were, until I could
take possession of the place.
Those warm autumn days were charming. I had brought with me a camera,
and, as excuse for remaining in that rural neighbourhood, took
photographs. I found many picturesque pastoral scenes in the vicinity,
and wandered hither and thither almost every day. The Countess of
Cardigan kindly permitted me to photograph on her estate, and I took
many pictures of the beautiful old hall at Deene, one of the most
imposing and historic homes of Northamptonshire, the Park, and the
picturesque lake, which was once the fishpond of the monks, when Deene
was an abbey and carp the weekly fare on Fridays. To Laxton Hall, to
Fineshade Abbey, to Blatherwycke Park, to Apethorpe Hall, the noble
Jacobean seat of the Westmorland family, and to Milton, the fine
Elizabethan house of the Fitzwilliams, I went, taking pictures for
amusement, and endeavouring to make the villagers of Rockingham and
Caldecott believe that I was a photographic enthusiast. Truth to tell, I
was not. I entertain a righteous horror of the man with a camera, and if
I were Chancellor of the Exchequer I would put a tax on cameras as upon
dogs. The man who takes snap-shots can surely afford to pay
seven-and-sixpence a year towards the expenses of his country.
Letters from Reilly showed that although he was keeping a careful
observation upon 14, Sterndale Road—which had turned out to be the shop
of a small newsvendor—he had not been able to meet the gaunt,
fair-moustached individual whom we knew as George Purvis.
The days passed, for me long, idle days, when time hung heavily on my
hands. Nothing occurred to disturb the quiet tenor of my life in that
rural spot, until late one evening while I was walking along the high
road from Caldecott back to Rockingham.
There had been a garden _fête_ given by the Vicar, and in order to kill
time I had attended it, returning home later than I had anticipated,
because I had met Mr. Kenway and we had gossiped. He had found another
house, and was to move a week later.
The Sonde Arms at Rockingham is by no means a gay hostelry. It is quiet,
old-fashioned, and eminently respectable. Roysterers and hard drinkers
like Ben Knutton were relegated to a “tap” at the rear of the premises,
and were never encouraged by the innkeeper.
It was past eleven o’clock, a dark, overcast night, and as I trudged
along the road to Rockingham, lonely at that hour, I was wondering what
success Reilly had had in London. For some days I had received no word
from him, and had become somewhat anxious, for it had been arranged
between us that he should either write or wire every alternate day, so
that we should always be in touch with each other.
I had traversed nearly half the distance between the two villages, and
had entered the part of the road which, passing through a spinney, was
lined on either side by oaks, which entirely shut out every ray of faint
light, so that I was compelled to walk with my stick held forward to
feel the way. The complete darkness did not extend for more than a
hundred yards or so, but as there were, I knew, deep ditches at each
side of the road I guided myself with caution.
Suddenly, without warning, I heard a stealthy movement behind me, and
ere I could turn felt myself seized by the coat-collar in such a manner
that I was unable to turn and face my assailant, while almost at the
same instant I felt other hands going over me in front. My wrists were
held while my money was carefully extracted from my pocket, and my
wallet—probably because it was believed to contain bank-notes—was also
taken from me. I shouted, but no one came to my assistance. I was too
far from either village.
So dark it was that I could not distinguish the thieves, but I believed
there were three of them. The hands that held my wrists were soft, as
though unused to manual labour, but the muscles seemed like iron. I was
utterly powerless, and even though I shouted again and again no single
word was uttered by the robbers. They made short work of my pockets,
save that they did not think to feel inside my waistcoat where, in a
secret pocket I generally have there, I carried a serviceable Colt. I,
however, had no opportunity for self-defence, because when they had
finished I was run backwards, struck violently on the head, and tripped
up into the ditch at the wayside, while they made good their escape.
Fortunately, I fell upon my hands, and managed to save myself from going
into the water.
In an instant I was on my feet, revolver in hand, standing on guard.
But as I stood with ears strained to the wind I heard the sound of
footsteps hurrying in the distance, and from afar off there came to me a
low, ominous whistle. The fellows were probably tramps, but I knew quite
well that they were a desperate party, for in the struggle I had grasped
a formidable life preserver which one of them was carrying. It was a
pity that the darkness was too complete to allow me to see their faces.
No doubt the final blow on the head had been delivered with the life
preserver and was meant to stun me, but fortunately it did not.
The attack had been so sudden and complete that for a moment I remained
stock still. Then, angered that I should have fallen so completely into
their power, I walked on to Rockingham. I prized my watch and chain as a
gift from my mother, long since dead. They were not valuable; indeed, no
pawn-broker would have given three pounds for the lot, therefore the
haul of the thieves had not been a great one so far as value was
concerned.
Having reached the Sonde Arms and related my unpleasant experience, the
village constable was called, and I gave him a description of the
property stolen from me.
“I expect they were tramps, sir,” he said; “just lately I’ve noticed
several suspicious-looking characters loitering in the neighbourhood and
sleeping under haystacks. They mostly come from London. I made some
inquiries a couple of days ago at an inn in Lyddington, where three of
them had been drinking, and learnt that by his companions one of the men
is called Bennett.”
“Bennett!” I repeated, wondering for the moment in what connexion that
name had been impressed upon me. Then I recollected the scribbled
warning of the Mysterious Man:—
“Beware of Black Bennett!”
“What you tell me is very interesting,” I exclaimed to the constable. “I
think that in all probability this man Bennett had some connexion with
the theft. If found, I hope the police will question and search him. I
may be mistaken, but I believe that individual is well known by the
appellation of Black Bennett.”
I gave the constable the description of my watch for circulation, and
then, after a long chat with my host, the innkeeper, went to bed.
The days went by, but no word came from Philip Reilly. I wired to his
father’s house at Upper Tooting, but received a reply expressing
surprise, and stating that Philip had not been seen for ten days. A
telegram to Mr. Staffurth brought no more satisfactory reply; therefore,
as the Kenways were to give up possession of the Manor in a couple of
days and my presence there would be essential to guard against any
interlopers, I resolved to run up to London.
My anxiety for Reilly’s welfare increased when all my inquiries
regarding his whereabouts were futile.
According to Mr. Staffurth, the young man came there in a great state of
excitement about nine o’clock one evening. He was dressed in his oldest
suit, wore a golf cap and carried a stout stick. He said that he had
made certain inquiries regarding Purvis, had seen him and talked with
him. But that night he intended to make a bold bid to get at the secret
of our enemies and, if possible, to obtain possession of the
all-important document that had been sold by the drunken Knutton.
He had taken some whisky and water with his uncle, and left about ten,
without saying in what direction he was going or explaining all that he
had found out.
He told his uncle, however, to inform me to be forewarned of a man named
Bennett, and had explained his silence by saying that at present it was
not wise for him either to wire or write to Rockingham, as there was
some one there acting the spy.
This, then, accounted for his silence. But after his departure from his
uncle’s house that night nothing had been seen or heard of him.
I called at my own rooms in Chelsea, where my landlady met me in great
excitement. Not knowing my address she had been unable to write to me,
but it appeared that one evening, three days before, some one had
quietly entered the house with my latchkey, ascended to my rooms, and
ransacked everything.
Now, my keys had been attached to one end of my watch-chain, and had,
therefore, been stolen with the watch. The entry had been made on the
night following the robbery from me, and although my roll-top
writing-table had been opened and all my private papers and letters
tossed about, I missed nothing.
The thieves had been in search of something; probably of that
parchment-book of Bartholomew da Schorno which, fortunately, reposed in
the strong-room at my bank.
All this, however, showed the ingenious and desperate character of our
rivals. They would, I felt convinced, hesitate at nothing in order to
obtain possession of the treasure.
The strange disappearance of Philip Reilly had now grown alarming. I
made inquiries at the bank in Lombard Street, where he had been
employed, but none of his friends there had seen him for weeks. His
father, who was manager of a large linen warehouse in Cannon Street, was
equally anxious as to his welfare.
We were playing a dangerous and exciting game, and my only fear was
that, having made one or two discoveries, he had become too bold, and
acted with the indiscretion of youth. He had, however, always seemed
clear, level-headed, and cautious, and his father expressed a belief
that he was not the kind of young man to fall into a trap.
I watched the small newsagent’s in Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, having
sent an envelope, with a blank sheet of paper within, addressed to
Purvis. I had arranged that Mr. Kenway should remain at the Manor a few
days longer, and now turned my attention to finding the man who had
bought the secret. Reilly had discovered him; why should I not be
equally successful?
But although I waited in that street two long, never-ending days, I saw
no tall, fair man enter there.
That some serious misfortune had occurred to Philip Reilly I felt
convinced, but of what character I dreaded to contemplate. Twelve days
had gone by, and not a word had been received from him by any one.
The mysteries of London are many—and profound.