CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION
After long consultation--Krail having been removed in custody back to
the village--it was agreed that the only charges that could be
substantiated against Flockart were those of complicity in the ingenious
attempt upon Hamilton's life by which poor Miss Bryant had been
sacrificed, and also in the theft of Sir Henry's papers.
But was it worth while?
At the Baronet's suggestion, he was allowed freedom to leave the
upstairs room where he had been detained by the three stalwart servants;
and, without waiting to speak to any one, he had made his way down the
drive. He had, as was afterwards found, left Auchterarder Station for
London an hour later.
The painful impression produced upon everybody by Sir Henry's statement
of what had actually occurred on the night of the great meeting at the
Albert Hall having somewhat subsided, Murie mentioned to the blind man
the legend of the Whispers, and also the curious discovery which
Gabrielle and he had made earlier in the morning.
"Ah," laughed the old gentleman a trifle uneasily, "and so you've
discovered the truth at last, eh?"
"The truth--no!" Murie said. "That is just what we are so very anxious
to hear from you, Sir Henry."
"Well," he said, "you may rest your minds perfectly content that there's
nothing supernatural about them. It was to my own advantage to cause
weird reports and uncanny legends to be spread in order to preserve my
secret, the secret of the Whispers."
"But what is the secret, Sir Henry?" asked Hamilton eagerly. "We,
curiously enough, have similar Whispers at Hetzendorf. I've heard them
myself at the old château."
"And of course you have believed in the story which my good friend the
Baron has caused to be spread, like myself: the legend that those who
hear them die quickly and suddenly," said the old man, with a smile upon
his grey face. "Like myself, he wished to keep away all inquisitive
persons from the spot."
"But why?" asked Murie.
"Well, truth to tell, the reason is very simple," he answered. "As we
are speaking here in the strictest privacy, I will tell you something
which I beg that neither of you will repeat. If you do it might result
in my ruin."
Murie, Hamilton, and Gabrielle all gave their promise.
"Then it is this," he said. "I am head of a group of the leading
financial houses in Europe, who, remaining secret, are carrying on
business in the guise of an unimportant house in Paris. The members of
the syndicate are all of them men of enormous financial strength,
including Baron de Hetzendorf, to whom our friend Hamilton here acts as
confidential secretary. The strictest secrecy is necessary for the
success of our great undertakings, which I may add are perfectly honest
and legitimate. Yet never, unless absolutely imperative, do we entrust
documents or letters to the post. Like the house of Rothschild, we have
our confidential messengers, and hold frequent meetings, no 'deal' being
undertaken without we are all of us in full accord. Monsieur Goslin acts
as confidential messenger, and brings me the views of my partners in
Paris, Petersburg, and Vienna. To this careful concealment of our plans,
or of the fact that we are ever in touch with one another, is due the
huge successes we have made from time to time--successes which have
staggered the Bourses of the Continent and caused amazement in Wall
Street. But being unfortunately afflicted as I am, I naturally cannot
travel to meet the others, and, besides, we are compelled always to take
fresh and most elaborate precautions in order to conceal the fact that
we are in connection with each other. If that one fact ever leaked out
it would at once stultify our endeavours and weaken our position. Hence,
at intervals, two or even three of my partners travel here, and I meet
them at night in the little chamber which you, Walter, discovered
to-day, and which until the present has never been found, owing to the
weird fables I have invented regarding the Whispers. To Hetzendorf, too,
once or twice a year, perhaps, the members pay a secret visit in order
to consult the Baron, who, as you perhaps may know, unfortunately enjoys
very precarious health."
"Then meetings of Frohnmeyer, Volkonski, and the rest were held here in
secret sometimes?" echoed Hamilton in surprise.
"On certain occasions, when it is absolutely necessary that I should
meet them," answered Sir Henry. "They stay at the Station Hotel in
Perth, coming over to Auchterarder by the last train at night and
leaving by the first train in the morning from Crieff Junction. They
never approach the house, for fear that servants or one or other of the
guests may recognise them, but go separately along the glen and up the
path to the ruins. When we thus meet, our voices can be heard through
the crack in the roof of the chamber in the courtyard above. On such
occasions I take good care that Stewart and his men are sent on a false
alarm of poachers to another part of the estate, while I can find my way
there myself with my stick," he laughed. "The Baron, I believe, acts on
the same principle at his château in Hungary."
"Well," declared Hamilton, "so well has the Baron kept the secret that I
have never had any suspicion until this moment. By Jove! the invention
of the Whispers was certainly a clever mode of preserving the secret,
for nobody cares deliberately to court disaster and death, especially
among a superstitious populace like the villagers here and the Hungarian
peasantry."
Both Gabrielle and her lover expressed their astonishment, the latter
remarking how cleverly the weird legend of the Whispers invented by Sir
Henry had been made to fit historical fact.
* * * * *
When the eight o'clock train from Stirling stopped at Auchterarder
Station that evening, a tall, well-dressed man alighted, and inquired
his way to the police-station. The porter knew by his accent that he was
a Londoner, but did not dream that he was "a gentleman from Scotland
Yard."
Half an hour later, after a chat with the rural inspector, the pair went
along to the cell behind the small village police-station in order that
the stranger should read over to the prisoner the warrant he had brought
with him from London--the application of the French police for the
arrest and extradition of Felix Gerlach, _alias_ Krail, _alias_ Benoist,
for the wilful murder of Edna Mary Bryant in the Forest of Pontarmé,
near Chantilly.
The inspector had related to the London detective the dramatic scene up
at Glencardine that day, and the officer of the Criminal Investigation
Department walked along to the cell much interested to see what manner
of man was this, who was even more bold and ingenious in his criminal
methods than many with whom his profession brought him daily into
contact. He had hoped that he himself would have the credit of making
the arrest, but found that the man wanted had already been apprehended
on the charge of burglary at Glencardine.
The inspector unlocked the door and threw it open, but next instant the
startling truth became plain.
Felix Krail lay dead upon the flagstones. He had taken his life by
poison--probably the same poison he had placed in the wine at the fatal
picnic--rather than face his accuser and bear his just punishment.
* * * * *
Many months have now passed. A good deal has occurred since that
never-to-be-forgotten day, but it is all quickly related.
James Flockart, unmasked as he has been, never dared to return. The last
heard of him was six months ago, in Honduras, where for the first time
in his life he had been compelled to work for his living, and had, three
weeks after landing, succumbed to fever.
At Sir Henry's urgent request, his wife came back to Glencardine a week
after the tragic end of Gerlach, and was compelled to make full
confession how, under the man's sinister influence, both she and
Flockart had been forced to act. To her husband she proved beyond all
doubt that she had been in complete ignorance of the truth concerning
the affair in the Pontarmé Forest until long afterwards. She had at
first believed Gabrielle guilty of the deed, but when she learned the
truth and saw how deeply she had been implicated it was impossible for
her then to withdraw.
With a whole-hearted generosity seldom found in men, Sir Henry, after
long reflection and a desperate struggle with himself, forgave her, and
now has the satisfaction of knowing that she prefers quiet, healthful
Glencardine to the social gaieties of Park Street, Paris, or San Remo,
while she and Gabrielle have lately become devoted to each other.
The secret syndicate, with Sir Henry Heyburn at its head, still
operates, for no word of its existence has leaked out to either
financial circles or to the public, while the Whispers of Glencardine
are still believed in and dreaded by the whole countryside across the
Ochils.
Edgar Hamilton, though compelled to return to the Baron, whose right
hand he is, often travels to Glencardine with confidential messages, and
documents for signature, and is, of course, an ever-welcome guest.
The unpretentious house of Lénard et Morellet of Paris now and then
effects deals so enormous that financial circles are staggered, and the
world stands amazed. The true facts of who is actually behind that
apparently unimportant firm are, however, still rigorously and
ingeniously concealed.
Who would ever dream that that quiet, grey-faced man with the sightless
eyes, living far away up in Scotland, passing his hours of darkness with
his old bronze seals or his knitting, was the brain which directed their
marvellously successful operations!
The Laird of Connachan died quite suddenly about seven months ago, and
Walter Murie succeeded to the noble estate. Gabrielle--sweet, almost
child-like in her simple tastes and delightful charm, and more devoted
to Walter than ever--is now little Lady Murie, having been married in
Edinburgh a month ago.
At the moment that I pen these final lines the pair are spending a
blissful honeymoon at the great old château of Hetzendorf, high up above
the broad-flowing Danube, the Baron having kindly vacated the place and
put it at their disposal for the summer. Happy in each other's love and
mutual trust, they spend the long blissful days in company, wandering
often hand in hand, for when Walter looks into those wonderful eyes of
hers he sees mirrored there a perfect and abiding affection such as is
indeed given few men to possess.
Together they have in secret explored the ruins of the ancient
stronghold, and, by directions given them by the Baron, have found there
a stone chamber by no means dissimilar to that at Glencardine.
Meanwhile, Sir Henry Heyburn, impatient for his beloved daughter to be
again near him and to assist him, passes his weary hours with his
favourite hobby; his wife, full of sympathy, bearing him company. From
her, however, he still withholds one secret, and one only--the Secret of
the House of Whispers.