and neither will you, my dear girl. Silence is best for both of us."
"You can carry out the business without marrying Elma," Freda urged.
"You have taken every precaution against accident, and the ruin of
Sandys has made everything possible. What would Mr Sandys say if he
knew that the amiable Mr Rex Rutherford was one of the men to whom Sir
Charles Hornton lost that big sum at cards three nights before he killed
himself?"
Gray drew a long breath.
"Well," he said with a bitter smile, "I don't suppose he'd feel very
friendly towards me. But the driving of Sir Charles into a corner was,
I foresaw, one of the chief points in our game. Sandys is ruined, and
I'm the good Samaritan who comes forward at the opportune moment and
brings salvation."
"Clever," declared the woman, "devilish clever! But you always are,
Gordon. You are wonderful."
"In combination with yourself, my dear Freda. I'm no good without you,"
he declared. "So don't exhibit these foolish fits of jealousy. I've
made up my mind to marry Sandys' daughter, for it will improve my
prestige. When I've had enough of her, I shall simply leave her and we
will rejoin forces again," he added callously. And then together they
went out to dine at the Ritz.
That same evening Elma sat in her room, with the hazy London sunset
fading over the Park, confused and wondering.
Surely Roddy would not tell her a lie! She took out his scribbled note
and re-read it, as she had done a dozen times before. It was a plain
and straightforward assertion, and yet the man Rutherford had produced
the concession granted to him, properly authenticated and officially
sealed.
Where was Roddy? Was it really possible, as Rutherford had suggested,
that he was in hiding, not daring to come forward now that his lie was
proved? She could not bring herself to believe it. And yet why had he
so suddenly gone to Farncombe for one night and then taken train to
Guildford and disappeared?
On the previous day she had been down to Guildford by train from
Waterloo, and had made inquiries of the porters and in the
booking-office and elsewhere regarding Roddy, whom one or two of the
railway servants--knew, but without avail. Roddy had been seen waiting
out in the station yard by a clerk in the parcel office. That was all
the information she could gather. Therefore, after a cup of coffee at
the tea-shop in the old-fashioned High Street, she had returned to
London.
That evening as she sat pondering, pale and nervous, her maid came into
her room and she roused herself wearily. Then she put on a plain little
black dinner-frock and went downstairs to the dining-room, where her
father, pale-faced and rather morose, awaited her.
Hughes, surprised at his master's sudden gravity, served the meal with
his usual stateliness, begotten of long service with the Earl.
With the footman and Hughes present father and daughter could exchange
no confidences. So they hurried over their meal, and found relief when
they were back in the library and alone.
"I'm utterly puzzled, dad," declared the girl; "I can get no news of
Roddy. I'm certain that he would never write that letter and deceive me
about the concession. It is his--I'm positive."
"But, my dear child, how can it be? I have read the translation of
Rutherford's concession. All is in order. It revokes any other permit
that has ever been given. It is a firm and unassailable contract."
"I don't care what it is," declared the girl. "Roddy would never
deceive me. I know his father's death has greatly upset him, but he is
still in possession of all his faculties."
"But his mental condition was bad, you will remember," remarked her
father.
"It was. But he is quite well again. I know he would never mislead me,
dad!" And she fondled Tweedles, who, barking for recognition, had
placed his front paws upon her knees.
"Of course," said Mr Sandys, humouring her, "you love Roddy and, of
course, believe in him. It is after all but natural, my child."
"Yes, dad. You know that I love him. He is so honest, so upright, so
true, that I feel confident, though the evidence seems against him, that
he has not told a lie. He is the victim of circumstances," the slim
girl said, as she stood before the fire with the little dog in her arms.
"But unfortunately, dear, he does not come forward," her father said.
"Is it not his place to be here after writing you that letter concerning
the concession? If he had been granted it, surely he would have come
direct to me with it! Homfray is no fool. He knows that I could
develop the scheme in the City within a few hours. Therefore why is he
not here?"
"He is prevented."
"How do we know that? He may be prevented--or he may fear to come."
"You are not generous towards him, dad," the girl protested.
"I'm generous, my dear--most generous," replied the ruined man. "I like
Roddy Homfray. His poor father's sudden death was, I fear, a great blow
to him, and especially so as he has scarcely entirely recovered from
that very strange adventure of his which narrowly cost him his life.
But in the present circumstances we must face hard facts. He has
written to you making an assertion which he has not substantiated, and
which is disproved by the official document which Rex Rutherford has
placed in my hands."
The girl, still confident in her lover's _bona fides_, shook her head.
"There will be ample explanation one day, dad. I'm certain of it," she
declared. "I am indeed confident that Roddy has not written to me a
deliberate lie."
Next day passed, but young Homfray made no sign. Again Elma telephoned
to Farncombe, and yet again came the reply that her lover had not
returned. His silence puzzled her greatly. Could it be really true
that his concession only existed in his own imagination? She loved him
too well to think ill of him. Now that she was as poor as he was there
could be no barrier to their marriage. Her magnificent home would be
swept away, the Towers would be sold again, and her father made
bankrupt.
She was again standing alone at the window of her room looking across
the Park, where the trees were clearly showing the autumn tints.
Her face was pale and haggard, her clenched hands trembling.
"No, no!" she whispered hoarsely. "I alone can save dad from ruin and
bankruptcy. I alone! And I must do it!"
That evening, just after Hughes had brought in the tea, her father being
in the City, the old man reappeared saying that Mr Rutherford had
called.
She held her breath, then, with an effort, she gave permission for him
to be shown in.
The stout, beady-eyed man, in perfect-fitting clothes and a dangling
monocle, crossed the carpet, smiling, with hand outstretched. The girl
asked him to be seated, and poured him out a cup of tea. Her thoughts
were of Roddy, but she strove to crush them down. Her brain was awhirl,
for she knew that only by her own sacrifice could her beloved father be
saved.
Presently, when they had chatted about other things, Rutherford returned
to the point and bluntly asked whether she had reconsidered her
decision.
"Yes, Mr Rutherford, I have," she replied very slowly in a deep, tense
voice. "You are prepared to assist my father under a certain condition.
That I accept."
"Then you will marry me!" he cried, with triumph in his eyes, as he
jumped up and seized her hand. Then she felt his hot breath upon her
cheek and shrank from his embrace.
When he left she went to her room and, locking the door, gave way to
another paroxysm of grief.
At nine o'clock that night Rutherford called again and told Mr Sandys
of Elma's acceptance.
The old man stood staggered.
"Elma has done this for your sake, Mr Sandys," Rutherford said. "And,
after all, it is a marriage of convenience, as so many are. Both our
positions will be improved by it, yours and mine, for this concession
will mean big money to both of us."
Mr Sandys could not reply. His thoughts held him speechless. Elma had
sacrificed herself to save him from ruin!
But where was Roddy Homfray? That was a problem which neither father
nor daughter could solve.
Two days later Elma and her father went down to Farncombe Towers, Mr
Sandys having already taken preliminary steps for the purpose of
floating the Emerald Mines of Morocco. There were rumours in the City
concerning it, and a great deal of interest was being taken in the
scheme in very influential quarters.
Rex Rutherford had not before been to Farncombe, therefore he was now
invited. Now that old Norton Homfray was dead he accepted, and spent
most of the time rambling with Elma either in the gardens, the park, or
the surrounding woods, though she did all in her power to avoid his
loathsome caresses.
Elma, unknown to Rutherford, managed to call at the Rectory. On
inquiring of Mrs Bentley regarding Roddy, the old woman explained that
he had returned from abroad, slept one night there, and had gone out
next day and had not come back. She knew that he had gone to Guildford,
but that was all.
"And there's been a young lady here wanting to see him, miss."
"A young lady! Who?"
"She's a Miss Manners."
"Miss Manners!" Elma echoed. "Describe her."
The woman did so, and Elma stood open-mouthed.
"She was here again three days ago," Mrs Bentley added. "And she seems
so eager to see Mr Roddy."
"I must see Miss Manners," Elma shouted to the deaf old woman. "You
have no idea where she lives, I suppose?"
"No. I think she comes from London."
"Well, next time she comes let me know at once. Or better, bring her up
to the Towers to see me. It is most important that I should see her."
Mrs Bentley promised, and Elma, returning to the Towers, told her
father of Edna's reappearance. Old Mr Sandys was equally surprised and
equally eager to meet her. Where, they wondered, had she been all those
months. He telephoned at once to the boarding-house in Powis Square,
Bayswater, at which she had lived before her sudden disappearance, but
could obtain no news of her whereabouts.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE UNKNOWN HAND.
What occurred at Guildford station on the morning when Roddy went to
meet his friend Barclay by appointment was distinctly curious.
Having spent nearly an hour on the Hog's Back, experimenting with his
new wireless receiving-set, he packed it up, descended the hill to the
station, and was on the platform when the train from Waterloo came in.
Barclay, however, was not among the alighting passengers.
There being another train a quarter of an hour later, he decided to
await it, and strolled out into the station yard. He had just lit a
cigarette and was gazing around when he noticed a big limousine car
approach and draw up opposite the booking-office. The chauffeur,
descending, approached him, touched his cap, and said:
"Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr Homfray?"
"That's my name," Roddy replied.
"Oh, Mr Barclay has sent me for you, sir. He's at the Lion Hotel here.
He's got a business engagement, and is sorry he couldn't come along."
"Right," answered the young man, crossing to the car, the windows of
which were closed. The man opened the door politely and he entered, but
as soon as he sat down he heard a strange hissing noise and felt a want
of air. He gasped, his eyes burned, and the next second the darkness of
unconsciousness fell upon him and he knew no more. The car had, in the
seat, a bellows which, as he sat upon it, blew out a poisonous gas. Of
what happened afterwards he had no knowledge.
When slowly and painfully he regained his senses and became aware of his
surroundings, he found himself in a small bare room with a stone floor.
He was lying upon some old sacking, while near by, close to the door,
stood a plate that had evidently contained food and a broken brown jug
with some water, while in close vicinity was his raincoat, which had
apparently been flung into a corner.
High up in the thick wall was a small window, not more than six inches
square. There was no glass in it, so it gave both light and
ventilation.
He was too weak to move, and his hand, coming into contact with his
chin, he was surprised to find that, though usually shaven, he had a
growth of beard. Could he have lain there for some days in a state of
semi-consciousness?
He shouted, but his voice was very weak. There was no response, though
he strained his ears to listen.
At once he realised that he had again fallen into a trap cunningly
prepared for him. That message on the radio-telephone he should not
have heeded. He had been a fool! Yet he had believed it to be genuine,
because it had been relayed to him by a radio experimenter whom he had
known for many months. Probably Barclay was in ignorance of the whole
affair, and was wondering what had become of him.
And Elma! What would she think? How was she faring?
His hollow, deep-set eyes wandered slowly around the bare stone chamber
with its dusty beams hung with cobwebs, and its lime-washed walls. An
odour of damp and mildew greeted his nostrils, while from outside came
the rustle of autumn leaves.
He was somewhere out in the country. But where?
The empty plate and jug of water told their own tale. He was held there
in bondage by his enemies! He could only surmise that during his period
of unconsciousness his janitors--whoever they might be--had fed him,
giving him just sufficient to keep body and soul together. Had his
captors condemned him to death by starvation? It seemed that they had.
He stared at the empty plate in horror.
From the light in the narrow high-up window he judged the hour to be
about noon. The autumn sky was blue and cloudless, and he could hear a
sparrow twittering. What, he wondered, had happened? All he could
recall was his entering into the motor-car, the strange hissing noise
and his sudden asphyxiation. He had evidently walked straight into a
trap!
Again and again he shouted, but only feebly, for he was very weak, and
his brain seemed on fire. His thoughts were all confused. Yet ever and
anon, through the mists, came flashes of remembrance of the past, with
visions of Elma's beautiful face looking inquiringly into his. His
strange adventure in Welling Wood; his love for Elma, his meeting with
Mr Sandys, his father's death, and his search in Normandy for the
mysterious Miss Manners came before him. But his mental capacity was
far from normal. When he reflected he became more than ever puzzled.
One thing was plain. He was held by the enemy.
In his nervous half-conscious state he fell asleep. How long he slept
he had no idea. When he awoke, however, he felt refreshed. Dawn was
spreading. He had been asleep for many hours.
On the plate lay some tinned meat and some bread! The water jug had
been refilled! Whoever was his janitor was determined to keep him
alive.
With an effort he raised himself, but so weak was he that only by
clutching at the wall did he succeed in reaching the jug, from which he
drank deeply.
Then he crawled around his stone prison with difficulty. He was hungry
and ate some of the meat and bread.
Afterwards he sat upon the sacks, weak, weary and with wandering brain,
trying to locate his exact position.
Suddenly, from outside, he heard voices--rough voices in the silence.
"Yes. Rotten! I call it! But I'm in for higher wages, and that's a
fact! Tom's wages were rose this week," were the words that broke in
upon his ear.
He raised himself and crawled to the little window, but, despite his
struggles, could not reach it. It was far too high. He longed to look
out upon the world and ascertain where he was. But that was impossible,
and in his weak state he sank back again into unconsciousness.
How long he remained he knew not.
When he awoke, however, he found himself still beneath the little
window. The plate and jug were there, just as he had left them.
The rough voices of workers outside had passed in mystery. He ate the
remaining portions of the food which was grudgingly given him by an
unknown hand, drank some water, and then crossed to his raincoat. In
its pocket his cigar-box wireless receiving-set still remained.
Then he searched his other pockets, and to his surprise found that his
captors had not taken anything. His wallet, with his visiting cards,
and some money and other things were still there.
"Well," he exclaimed aloud, "this is all astounding. What fresh mystery
is there here? Who is it who feeds me when I am unconscious? And how
silent it all is! Only the whispers of the leaves, and the twittering
of birds. I am alone!"
Then after reflection he again spoke aloud to himself.
"What can Elma think of my silence? I wrote to her telling her of my
good fortune, and I have not seen her since. And again--the girl
Manners! She reappeared at the Rectory after I had searched in France
for her, and yet we have not met! Mr Sandys told me that it was most
important to him that her fate should be ascertained. I have discovered
that she is actually alive, and yet I cannot confirm it. I cannot
confirm anything--even my letter to Elma about the concession. God!" he
shouted in agony of mind. "What can I do? How shall I act?"
Again he yelled for help, as he had done times without number.
But all was silent. He was in a tomb.
In a hazy way he recollected stories of the oubliettes of the Bastille
and of the dreaded dungeons of the Chateau of Loches. Here he was
confined in a modern dungeon where, if the hand of his unseen janitor
were withdrawn, he would die of hunger and thirst!
Yes. His father's enemies had indeed triumphed!
All his fears were concentrated upon Elma. What was happening to the
girl he loved so dearly? If he had fallen into the hands of his
enemies, it was only to be supposed that she too--even though she were
the daughter of the great financier--had shared the same fate.
He recollected how his dead father had warned him against Freda Crisp
and Gordon Gray. And yet he felt assured, when he examined his own
conscience, that he had never to his knowledge harmed a living soul. He
had been enthusiastic in his profession, travelling hither and thither
in little known regions of the world prospecting for ore. It was his
calling to do so. And now, on his return to England, he had suddenly
fallen into one trap after another.
Why?
That was a problem which he tried to solve until, worried and angry, he
once more sank upon the heap of old sacking and again fell asleep, quite
exhausted in body and in mind.
Two days followed--days of long vigil, eager listening and a strangely
dead silence. All he heard was the rustling of leaves and the glad song
of the birds. By day he could hear the sparrow, the thrush and the
robin, and at night the weird hooting of an owl and the scuttling of
rats.
His mind was slowly regaining its normal balance. He could think
without that bursting sensation in his skull, yet the great mystery
which overwhelmed him was the motive why he had been entrapped into
captivity as some strange and dangerous animal.
"No doubt I am dangerous," he said aloud to himself on the second
morning. "Dangerous to those into whose hands I have now fallen--that
vampire woman who is actually the friend of Elma! Gad! I can't fathom
it. The whole affair is quite beyond my comprehension. Why did my own
father warn me of the pair? If he knew them as crooks, why did he not
himself openly expose them them--except--except--that--"
And he paused, gazing fixedly up at the little window.
"Except--that--that perhaps the dear old dad dare not tell the truth!
He may have had some secret!"
He walked slowly and with difficulty around that small stone chamber.
His father had died without revealing to him the truth about Gray and
the woman Crisp. Why?
"I wonder if Elma will believe me?" he said aloud, in a strange whisper
which echoed weirdly around those lime-washed walls. "Will she believe
that letter I wrote her regarding the Wad Sus concession? I should have
told her so with my own lips, only--only at Park Lane that night I was
not wanted. Elma was not at home. Oh! when shall I learn the truth of
all this--when shall I be able to explain it all to Elma? When shall I
see Barclay?"
He was silent for some minutes. Then another mystery was the identity
of the person who, being his janitor, supplied him with food. Two
further days went by. When he slept, exhausted, his food was renewed--
by whose hands?
As he grew stronger in those days since the recovery of his senses he
had striven to reach the window and look out. But he had never been
able to do so. The little window was fully eight feet above the floor
and he had nothing to mount upon to grip its ledge. Time after time he
ran at it and sprang in the air, but in his weakened condition he always
fell too short.
So he gave it up as hopeless. Escape, he realised, was quite
impossible. Yet where he was held captive he knew not. His enemies had
taken all precautions. They were determined to hold him prisoner,
apparently to gain time.
Why?
One day he had slept heavily all the morning, probably snoring, as he
knew he did, when he was awakened by a movement near him. He opened his
eyes stealthily but made no sign.
Before him, moving across the room, he saw the dim figure of a man in
respectable black who carried in his hand a plate containing food.
Suddenly the beam of light from the high window lit up his janitor's
face, and in an instant he recognised it as the countenance of a man he
had seen in his dreams while he had been held prisoner at Willowden--it
was, in fact, the old criminal who posed as Gray's butler--the man
Claribut.
For a few seconds Roddy watched, and then with a sudden effort he sprang
up and threw himself upon the fellow at a second when his back was
turned.
"What the devil do you mean by keeping me here!" he demanded, as he
threw his arms around the man's neck and attempted to throw him to the
ground.
Claribut, taken entirely off his guard, tried to throw off his
assailant, uttering a fierce imprecation the while, but the pair were
Locked in a deadly embrace. Roddy, though young and athletic, was still
too weak to overcome the old man's defence.
Around the narrow stone walls they reeled. The door stood open, and
Roddy, with a frantic effort, tried to force Claribut towards it, but
the old criminal, who had been very athletic in his time, always
prevented him.
Roddy, weakened and ill, fought for his life, and gradually succeeded in
getting his opponent towards the door. He fell and rolled in the dust,
but the young fellow would not release his hold. The open door was
before him and he was determined to escape.
Twice he was near it and endeavoured to throw off his captor, but old
Claribut always kept with him and held him by the throat until he was
nearly choked.
Roddy again struggled to his feet, and with both hands at Claribut's
throat at last had the advantage. He saw the man's face purple and his
eyes starting. He was close to the door, and if he could only cast the
choking man from him he could escape.
He drew a long breath for a last frantic effort, but as he did so,
Claribut, who had succeeded in drawing a lead-weighted life-preserver
from his pocket, raised it and brought it down with crashing force upon
the young man's skull.
And Roddy Homfray fell like a log upon the stones.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
THE DEATH-TRAP.
When Roddy again became conscious of his surroundings he found himself
lying in a corner of the place, so weak that he was scarcely able to
move his arms. His head was throbbing, and placing his hand upon it, he
found himself suffering from a long scalp wound.
He lay for quite an hour staring up at the plaster ceiling which was
peeling after many years of neglect. He tried to recall what had
occurred.
Mistily he remembered his desperate fight for liberty, and how old
Claribut had eventually clubbed him with a short, pliable
life-preserver.
It seemed to be again morning. His lips were parched, his throat
contracted, and he felt feverish and ill. Water was there, and he
managed to reach it.
"What can I do?" he cried faintly to himself. "I must get out of this.
I must! How many days have I been here, I wonder?" and again his hand
felt his chin. The growth of beard had increased, and by it he knew
that already he must have been there a week--or even more.