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Title: The Man Without Nerves Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1204021h.html Language: English Date first posted: November 2012 Most recent update: November 2012 This eBook was produced by: Roy Glashan Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.auGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
In his person, his speech and his attire he was the very prototype of the
man of precise habits. His gold-rimmed spectacles only partially concealed a
pair of shrewd and calculating eyes. His correctly shaped features lacked all
expression. He was forty-four years old and he might easily have been
mistaken for thirty-four or fifty-four. He had been for years sub-manager and
was now manager of the Aldwych Branch of the great banking firm of Barton's.
Nine people out of ten who were interested in their fellow creatures would
have correctly diagnosed his profession. The watch at which he was gazing was
regulated every Monday morning and if there was one person in the city of
London who knew the correct hour it was Mr. James Huitt.
"This time," he remarked portentously, "I fear that our friend Martin has
run it a little too fine."
A robust, cheerful looking little man whose name was Cresset—Andrew
Cresset of the firm of Cresset & Hollis, corset manufacturers, with
offices situated in London Wall—who had only recently been promoted to a
seat in this local holy of holies, also drew out his watch.
"Seems like it," he agreed. "We shall be off in half a minute."
Mr. Timothy Sarson, a wealthy wine merchant, a man of fine physique and
bearing, lowered his newspaper. He was dressed in the old-fashioned style of
the prosperous city merchant. His hat was large and of unusual shape. He wore
gray side whiskers which went well enough with his healthy, almost rubicund
complexion. He carried a fob and his white spats were obviously renewed every
day.
"It will be the first time," he remarked in a rich and throaty voice,
"that any one of us has actually missed the train."
There was a shout and the loud honking of an automobile horn in the
country lane which passed by the entrance to the station. The guard dropped
the flag which he had half raised and removed the whistle from his lips.
Thirty seconds later an elderly gentleman, in a state of profuse
perspiration, was pushed into the compartment.
"Don't do you no good, Mr. Martin, to have to run for it like that," the
guard warned his passenger pleasantly as he slammed the door and concluded
his signal to the engine driver.
The train moved off. There was a little chorus of incipient chaff from the
three already installed occupants of the compartment. Then—a sudden
silence.
The bank manager broke off in the midst of a gentle admonitory remark. Mr.
Timothy Sarson paused in the act of lighting a cigar and let the match go out
in his fingers. Mr. Cresset left off in the middle of a sentence and forgot
to close his mouth. The three men were all gazing at the new arrival. Roland
Martin was a middle-aged man in poorish condition owing to the manner of his
life, but it certainly seemed as though it must have been more than a mere
fifty-yard sprint which was responsible for his quickly drawn breathing, his
unwholesome color and the sweat which was streaming from his forehead. Here,
without a doubt, was the bearer of tragic news. As might have been expected,
James Huitt was the first to ask a definite question.
"Has anything happened, Mr. Martin?" he inquired. "You have had trouble
with your car, perhaps? I had an idea your engine was missing fire when you
were kind enough to give me that lift yesterday."
There was no coherent reply. Then the late arrival, whose voice was
usually hoarse and who suffered from shortness of breath, gasped out portions
of a mutilated sentence.
"No one knows, then—you have not heard?"
"Heard what?" Mr. Cresset demanded.
"About—Sam Jesson."
"What about him?" they all demanded more or less at the same time.
Martin, notwithstanding a gurgling in his throat, got the words out
somehow: "Dead! Shot! Found in—garage this
morning—cold—with a bullet
through his chest—and a letter addressed to his wife by his side."
There followed a grim and horrified silence. The social circle of
Sandywayes, which included the village on the north side of the railway, the
group of houses called the Oasis and the wilderness on the south side, was a
small one, and Sam Jesson was one of its prominent members. He was one of
themselves— their partner at golf, at bridge —the companion of
their mild
festivities. The three men seemed afflicted with a sort of dumbness of
thought as well as of speech. From the dead man's very nearness to them it
seemed impossible to believe in such an appalling catastrophe. The carriage
in which they were seated seemed full of the echoes of his conversation. Only
last night he had been issuing challenges for a fourball golf match. Timothy
Sarson was the first to find words. He was dizzily incredulous.
"Why, Sam dined with us last night. We were not looking for him this
morning because he said that he wanted a couple of hours' exercise and
wouldn't come up to town till the afternoon train. Never saw him more
cheerful in my life. Martin, for God's sake, pull yourself together, man!
There must be some mistake. Tell us the truth."
Roland Martin wiped his forehead.
"It's not the sort of story one invents," he groaned.
"How did you find out about it?" James Huitt inquired.
"It was Edwards, my own chauffeur, who found him not half an hour ago.
Went in to borrow something and there he was lying stiff."
"How long ago was this?"
"Barely twenty minutes. I don't suppose I ought to have come away, but the
sergeant was there and the doctor and half the village was streaming down. I
couldn't do any good and I don't mind admitting that it gave me such a turn
that I had one look at him and ran away!"
There was a brief, awe-stricken pause.
"Sam Jesson," the wine merchant muttered. "The last man in the world I
should have thought capable of a thing like that."
"As full of life and good spirits as anyone I ever knew," Mr. Cresset
sighed.
"But what on earth could make him commit such a ghastly offense?" Timothy
Sarson demanded. "He was all right financially, wasn't he, Huitt?"
The bank manager frowned slightly.
"Samuel Jesson," he said, "is—or I suppose I must say was—a
client of
mine. Even if this terrible thing has really happened, I am not in a position
to discuss his affairs."
Sarson indulged in a brief but poignant gesture. He had been known to call
Mr. Huitt an old maid.
"Well, I'll tell you all this," he declared stubbornly. "You can say what
you like—no one is going to make me believe that Sam Jesson committed
suicide. He was not the type. Besides, why should he? What motive could he
have had? He enjoyed life as well as any of us, and financially—well,
he was
never a gas bag but I have heard him talk of some of his investments and I
would have changed places with him any day!"
James Huitt leaned a little forward in his place. Of the four men he was
perhaps the least disturbed, but even he had gone pale and there was a
glimmer of that half-awed look which comes with the fear of incomprehensible
things gleaming in the eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"No explanation has as yet been offered, I suppose, Martin, by any member
of the family?"
"There was only his wife at home," Martin reminded them all. "The sergeant
has the letter. I don't know whether he has given it to her yet; he seemed
too scared to know what to do."
Andrew Cresset spoke up suddenly, like a man on the verge of
hysterics.
"I hope to God it hadn't anything to do with money," he exclaimed
fervently.
"Not likely," Sarson scoffed. "Why, any one of us would have done our bit
to help Sam Jesson round a stiff corner if he needed it."
"I am afraid," James Huitt pronounced, "that nowadays most of the troubles
with which our friends are afflicted are concerned more or less with finance.
However, the letter he left behind for his wife will probably tell us
everything. Whatever his motive may have been, it's a terrible affair."
Silence fell upon the little company. Timothy Sarson leaned back in his
place and groaned heavily.
"You have a chance to give it to us from the horse's mouth, Huitt," he
pointed out. "No one's going to be the worse off either. I always understood
he kept a good balance?"
"If that," Mr. Huitt interrupted deliberately, "is a prelude to questions
dealing with the financial position of my client, I can only beg you to have
the good taste not to pursue the subject. My lips are sealed."
Just as a sudden wave of joy or good news brings men of kindred habits and
manner of life together and opens their hearts, so tragedy with its icy grip
upon the nerves sometimes produces the reverse effect. During the remainder
of that journey to Waterloo the four men in the reserved carriage from
Sandywayes scarcely opened their lips. No one even tried to read his
newspaper. They were simply afflicted by an uneasy and embarrassing
indisposition for speech. The bond between them was temporarily broken. It
was as though each suspected the other of some horrible crime.
When they glided into the station, instead of the usual volley of
farewells, admonitions towards good behavior during the long day, cheerful
prognostications concerning the journey home, they went their several ways in
silence.
Towards three o'clock in the afternoon of that same day Mr. James Huitt,
who sat in solitary splendor in a stiffly upholstered but expensively
furnished private room at the back of his bank in Aldwych, received a
visitor. He looked at the plain visiting card brought in by one of his clerks
with a faint sense of recognition.
"Mr. Tyssen," he said reflectively. "I wonder if that is not the name of
Mrs. Foulds' new lodger. Not a client, is he, Merton?"
"Not that I know of, sir."
"Did he give you any idea as to his business?"
"None at all, sir, except that he begged for a word or two alone with you
on a private matter."
The bank manager shrugged his shoulders resignedly. The fact remained,
however, that after eight years' experience one of the pleasures of his life
was still receiving visitors. He was proud of his position of bank manager of
an important branch of a world-famed bank. He liked impressing people and,
although there were some who refused to be impressed, there were many who
accepted him at his own valuation. He decided to see his caller.
"Show him in," he directed.
A young man of wholesome but somewhat ordinary appearance and
indifferently dressed was in due course shown in. His complexion was freckled
and he was—in the language of schoolboys— pug-nosed. His ears
were inclined
to stand out and his hair, which was of no definite color, was ill brushed.
He was over six feet in height but loosely built. There was nothing about him
calculated to impress. Mr. Huitt, however, as was his custom with visitors,
was stonily civil.
"Mr. Tyssen," he said, repeating his name, "you have come to stay in the
neighborhood of Sandywayes, I believe?"
"That's right, sir," the young man acknowledged eagerly. "I am a writer by
profession and I have been looking for a quiet spot like Sandywayes for some
time. I am at work on a novel."
"Indeed."
"Before I took to fiction," Tyssen continued, "I was on the staff of the
Daily Reporter. I still send them occasional contributions. In fact,
it is on their business that I have come to see you this afternoon."
The bank manager remained silent. He had no special affection for
journalists.
"I took the liberty of sending in my personal card," the young man
proceeded, "because my connection with the paper is no longer official. I am
much obliged to you for seeing me, sir."
Mr. Huitt did not at once connect the drama of the morning with the
nervous youth who sat on one of the hard leather chairs twirling his hat in
his hand. He nodded in somewhat puzzled fashion.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"In the first place," was the prompt reply, "I want you to be so good as
to tell me, sir, whether this is the handwriting of a client of yours."
Mr. Huitt adjusted his glasses, glanced at the envelope which the other
had just passed across the table— casually enough at first and then more
steadily. Something of the suaveness of his manner seemed to have passed. His
small face had become set in more rigid lines. If one of his regular
customers had been present at that moment he would not have ventured to
allude to the matter of an overdraft.
"Yes," the bank manager acknowledged. "I should say there is no doubt that
this is the handwriting of Mr. Samuel Jesson. How did it come into your
possession?"
The young man ignored the question.
"You have heard what has happened to him, I suppose?"
"I heard the news in the railway carriage coming up to town," Huitt
admitted. "He was found dead in a garage, I understand. Have you any
particulars?"
"I can tell you all about it, sir," Tyssen declared. "Mr. Jesson was found
shot through the heart in the garage this morning when Mr. Martin's chauffeur
went in to borrow some gasoline. The police think that he must have been
there the greater part of the night."
"The local police?"
"The sergeant from the police station. A revolver with one cartridge
discharged was found by his side—a revolver which everyone seems to
know he
possessed and which was, in fact, kept in the garage. There was also a letter
to his wife."
"That looks bad," Mr. Huitt sighed.
"I can tell you what was in the letter," the caller continued eagerly.
"There were only about a couple of sentences. It simply said that owing to
impending financial trouble he had decided to take his own life. He asked her
forgiveness and gave a few particulars as to his property."
"There is no doubt, then, about his having committed suicide?" the bank
manager asked with his eyes fixed upon his visitor.
"Not the slightest," was the confident reply. "Nevertheless, Mr. Huitt, I
gather that there is considerable feeling in the city upon the subject."
"What sort of feeling?"
"Well, my late sub-editor, for instance, was a great friend of Mr.
Jesson's, and he does not for a moment believe that he was in any financial
straits. We newspaper men and fiction writers, you know, sir, are always on
the lookout for a story, and I can't help wondering whether there isn't a
mystery behind this affair."
"What sort of mystery?" Mr. Huitt inquired in his even, precise tone.
Tyssen scratched his chin. His rather uneasy eyes seemed disturbed by the
steely glimmer from behind the bank manager's spectacles.
"Whether, for instance, he was being blackmailed or anything of that
sort." Mr. Huitt's tone became a trifle harder.
"The object of your visit to me, Mr. Tyssen," he said, "remains
obscure."
The young man coughed.
"You, sir," he went on, "as his banker, are without a doubt able to solve
the question as to whether Mr. Jesson was or was not in financial
difficulties."
"Your surmise is quite correct," Mr. Huitt admitted. "I am in a position
to solve that question. And then?"
The young man was becoming more and more embarrassed. He took his courage
into both hands, however.
"Well, the long and the short of it is, sir," he brought out, "I thought
you might give me a hint as to how things stood with your client. Supposing,
for instance, you were in a position to tell me that his financial losses
were imaginary and that he was a wealthy man, then I have the beginnings of a
story for the paper and a very good background for my own novel."
Mr. James Huitt glanced again at the card which lay upon the table.
"Mr. Tyssen," he said deliberately, "I have always understood that
gentlemen of your profession allowed themselves considerable latitude, but I
take the liberty of telling you, sir, that I think your question addressed to
me concerning the affairs of my late client is both impertinent and improper.
I beg you will convey that expression of my opinion to your sub-editor."
"I am very sorry, sir," the young man apologized ruefully. "I didn't mean
to give any offense. It didn't seem to me that there was very much harm in
asking you something which the whole world will know in a day or so."
"I will take it for granted," Mr. Huitt said, "that the exigencies of your
profession are responsible for your untimely visit. I will tell you as much
as this, therefore: At the coroner's inquest tomorrow afternoon I shall
answer publicly any questions asked me as to Mr. Jesson's financial position.
Until then not a word concerning his affairs will pass my lips except to his
relatives. Permit me to wish you good afternoon."
Tyssen rose clumsily to his feet.
"Sorry if I have annoyed you, sir," he apologized once more. "I suppose
there is some reason for keeping things so dark. You couldn't even give me a
hint, could you?"
Mr. Huitt, who had already rung the bell, looked up at his clerk's
entrance.
"Show this gentleman out, Merton," he directed.
For some minutes after the departure of his disappointed visitor the bank
manager sat motionless in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall.
Presently, without change of expression, his fingers strayed towards the
bell, which he firmly pressed. Merton made prompt appearance.
"Bring me a copy," his chief instructed, "of Mr. Samuel Jesson's account
with us. I shall require it absolutely up-to-date for the inquest
tomorrow."
"Certainly, sir."
The young man hurried out. He was gone about ten minutes. When he
returned, Huitt, who was certainly not given to wasting his time, was still
seated in precisely the same attitude, his eyes fixed upon exactly the same
spot. His clerk laid the figures before him.
"You will remember, sir," the former ventured, "that only yesterday
afternoon Mr. Jesson rang up and inquired the exact state of his balance. We
gave him the correct figures but he only laughed at us. He was to have come
in this morning."
"I remember perfectly," Mr. Huitt acknowledged. "In fact, I had an
appointment with Mr. Jesson at eleven o'clock. A very sad affair,
Merton."
"A bit mysterious, too, sir," the young man ventured.
Mr. Huitt sighed.
"To us it may seem so, Merton," his chief assented. "Somehow or other,
though, I always felt that there was something sinister about these large
cash withdrawals."
"You are thinking of blackmail, sir?" The bank manager's grave expression
might have been taken for assent. He made no reply, however. It was not a
matter for discussion with an employee.
At five minutes before the time for the departure of the return train that
evening Mr. James Huitt, as was his almost invariable custom, took his place
in the right-hand corner seat of the "Club Car" for Sandywayes. Mr. Timothy
Sarson was already installed with a handful of evening papers. Mr. Cresset
arrived a few minutes afterwards and Roland Martin, not content with his
narrow escape of the morning, only entered the carriage when the train was on
the point of leaving.
Greetings between the four men were quite perfunctory although the strain
of the morning had disappeared. They expected to see one another, and
secretly, although their feelings of friendship might not have been deep,
they would have been disappointed to have found anyone missing. It would have
been a link broken in the chain of their daily life.
"You have heard about the inquest tomorrow, Mr. Huitt?" Timothy Sarson
asked.
"I received a subpoena at the bank," was the quiet reply. "It is to be
held, I gather, at the village hall at three o'clock."
"There's a great deal of curiosity in the city," Mr. Cresset remarked,
"with regard to poor Sam Jesson's disclosure of financial losses."
"The city is always curious," the bank manager observed.
"I saw his brokers this morning," Cresset continued. "Poor old Burrows
—he's the head of the firm, almost past it now, though—he
couldn't make
head or tail of it. Said he should have put Jesson down for a wealthy man.
Certainly he has never made any losses on what he bought from them."
"Shall you come up to town tomorrow morning, Huitt?" Roland Martin
asked.
"I shall come up at the usual hour," the bank manager confided. "I have
arranged with my deputy to take my place from one o'clock."
"I'll motor you up to the hall if you like," Martin suggested. "It's
rather a long pull to the top of the village."
"That would be exceedingly kind of you," was the courteous acknowledgment.
"About a quarter to three at the tennis courts. The whole affair will be
quite formal except for your evidence."
"So I understand," Huitt acquiesced, seeking refuge in his evening
newspaper.
At Sandywayes, as usual, the four occupants of the "Club Car" all went
their separate ways. The village itself stretched irregularly up a winding
hill on the left-hand side of the railway —a village in which there were
still some charming old Sussex houses and one very beautiful one, Sandywayes
Court, a country seat of the Earl of Milhaven, Deputy Lord Lieutenant of the
county. The chief charm of the place, however, lay in the little stretch of
country called the Oasis on the right-hand side. Here was an old-world
Common, with a duck pond at one end, a cricket ground in the middle and lawn
tennis courts at the farther extremity, the whole surrounded by a low, white
rail and bordered on the right-hand side by a swiftly running stream. On the
other side of the rail were long, irregular spinneys of pine trees, beyond
which stretched the celebrated Paradise Golf Links, the most famous in the
county for their perfect situation, their marvelous greens and magnificent
clubhouse, once the Dower House of the Milhaven family. To the little colony
who inhabited the Oasis, however, this was all unknown country. The Paradise
Golf Links kept their perfection to themselves. A hundred- guinea entrance
fee and an impossible committee kept their gates barred rigidly.
Huitt, opening the gate almost opposite the station yard, crossed the
sweet-smelling meadow and by an almost indistinguishable footpath unlocked a
gate marked "Private" with a key attached to his chain and passed between two
privet hedges to the open space in which several tennis courts had been laid
out. From the veranda of a small pavilion he returned courteously the
greetings of the players, ordered a cup of tea from the woman attendant and
sat down to watch.
It was a very peaceful scene. Sybil Cresset and Pauline Sarson were
playing against the latter's brother Anthony, a younger and even
better-looking edition of his father, and the young man, Tyssen, who had been
a visitor at the bank in Aldwych that afternoon. On the farther of the two
courts several other people, including the local doctor —Anderson by
name—and the curate of the village, Mr. Greatley, were engaged in
making up
a set. The latter, excusing himself for a few moments, came across and
greeted the new arrival.
"I hope you think, Mr. Huitt, that we are doing right in playing this
evening," he remarked. "The vicar had an idea that we ought, perhaps, to
close the courts for the day. I ventured to suggest, however, that we do so
only on the day of the funeral. Mr. Jesson was never a great enthusiast. In
fact, he seldom came near the place unless his daughter happened to be
staying with them."
"I think you decided quite rightly, Mr. Greatley," the bank manager, who
was president of the tennis club, pronounced. "If we close during the hours
of the interment I think that is all that is necessary."
"A very shocking affair," the curate went on lugubriously. "Quite
inexplicable. I saw Mrs. Jesson for a few minutes but she was not in a fit
condition to talk to anyone. There is a great deal of gossip going on in the
village."
"Of what nature?" Huitt inquired. "There is a sort of an idea that there
must have been some other cause beside the fear of poverty to induce the poor
fellow to take his life. Excuse me, sir, I see that I am wanted."
He hurried off and Mr. Huitt leaned back in his chair. From where he sat
in-the corner of the raised veranda the view was a very pleasant one. Beyond
the tennis courts the common stretched away past the cricket ground to some
pine woods which appeared to afford a shelter for several pleasantly built
bungalows almost hidden from sight amongst the trees. On the right-hand side
of the common was his own exceedingly. pretty cottage, covered with
bougainvillea and wisteria. On the left hand were most of the houses which
made up the little settlement called the Oasis. There was the village police
station, a creeper-covered building of ancient red brick, the post
office-almost a twin building—and the rather more pretentious houses
of Mr.
Roland Martin, Mr. Timothy Sarson, Mr. Cresset and the victim of the last
night's tragedy—Mr. Samuel Jesson. All these residences were a trifle
more
modern but the architect had been kind to a very pleasant location and the
creeping vines and luxuriantly filled gardens had been kinder still.
A dreamy little corner of the world, it seemed to Mr. Huitt as he sat
there listening to the thump of the balls against the rackets and the
laughing voices of the players.
"A sad thing about poor Mr. Jesson, sir," the old lady who had made him
his tea remarked, as she came out with the tray. "I seen him pass only
yesterday morning. Cheerful as possible, he seemed."
"A very sad affair, Mrs. Harris," the president of the Lawn Tennis Club
agreed.
"That there young gentleman as is come and is staying over yonder with
Mrs. Foulds, he did seem struck all of a heap when he was told," Mrs. Harris
continued. "The young gentleman that's playing tennis there now: a nicely
spoken person, but nosey, and with queer wandering habits at night time."
Mr. Huitt looked speculatively across at Tyssen—the young man in
question. He appeared to no more advantage here in the country than in the
city. He was powerfully enough built but his flannels were ill-fitting and
his tennis was nothing wonderful.
"He was interested, was he?" the bank manager remarked. "I wonder why. He
has scarcely had time to get to know any of us yet. Let me see— his
name is
Tyssen, isn't it?"
"Tyssen it is, sir. They do say that he writes books and bits of things in
magazines."
"Holiday-making?"
"Maybe, sir. He is not one of those who talk much about themselves. He's
got secret ways with him, too, that I'm not altogether fond of."
"You are a woman of observation, Mrs. Harris," her companion remarked.
"I notice things more than most," was the self-satisfied assent. "What I
have noticed about that young man is that he seems more interested in
everyone else's business than in his own. I am a poor sleeper myself and I
have seen him more than once wandering around at three or four o'clock in the
morning."
There was a brief silence. A very close observer, however, might have
remarked that with Mr. Huitt it was not altogether a silence of
indifference.
"Wandering around where?" he asked quietly.
"Well, all the houses, so to speak. Last night I saw him cross the Common
and walk almost to your gate. A dark night it was, too."
"So I remember. I am wondering how you saw him."
Mrs. Harris smiled.
"It was one of those nights with sheet lightning opening the skies pretty
well all the time, sir," she told him. "I seen him on the Common. I saw him
pass the cows and the next flash that came I seen him stepping over the
railing just opposite your gate. I could even see the queer sort of stick he
was carrying."
"Well, I think this is very observant of you, Mrs. Harris," her patron
said pleasantly. "It is always useful to have someone who watches what is
going on even in a quiet neighborhood like this. However, I daresay this
young man means no harm. Have you seen him wandering about the wilderness at
all?"
"I can't say I've noticed him in that direction particularly," Mrs. Harris
admitted. "Not a night, anyway. But what I say is—why not stay in his
bed
like a Christian at nights instead of traipsing all over the place? What does
he want to do it for? That's what I ask myself."
"Writers are supposed to have queer habits, you know, Mrs. Harris," the
bank manager reminded her, with a reassuring smile. "There's not much
mischief he can get into around here."
"In a way of speaking that's true, sir," the woman agreed, "but when
things happen like that poor gentleman killing himself last
night—well, then
I don't like things about that we don't rightly understand. What's he doing
here? Tennis? Why, Mr. Anthony could give him three-quarters of the game and
beat him left-handed! He's not a great one for talking to the young ladies
either."
"It appears to me," her companion warned her, lowering his tone, "that the
young man is coming over this way."
Mrs. Harris took the hint and disappeared just as Mr. Greatley, the
curate, arrived with the person whom they had been discussing.
"Mr. President," the former said, "this is Mr. Tyssen, who is spending a
week or two down here. He would like to join the club as a monthly member. He
met you this afternoon, it appears, but only on business."
Mr. Huitt rose to his feet and held out his hand. The young man did the
same. His fingers were very bony. So were Mr. Huitt's. His apparently weak
eyes had a hard spot in the middle. So had Mr. Huitt's, although his glasses
partially concealed this. A very close observer might have wondered whether
there was not some unexpressed significance in this introduction.
"We shall be very pleased to have Mr. Tyssen as a temporary member," the
president declared. "Our standard of play is not particularly high, Mr.
Tyssen. I daresay you have already discovered that."
"Quite good enough for me," was the modest reply. "I am only a rabbit
myself but I like the exercise."
"I hope that you like the neighborhood?" Huitt inquired. "I wonder how you
chanced to find us out. It's very seldom that we have strangers here."
"Just accident," the young man confided. "Sheer accident. I am a curious
sort of person about new places. I take a railway ticket to some village I
have never heard of before and just wander round."
"You are lodging with Mrs. Foulds, I understand, at the post office?"
"For the present. I rather had my eye on one of those bungalows up in the
wood there."
Mr. Huitt shook his head.
"I am afraid that you would have no chance in that direction," he said.
"The water supply is bad and Lord Milhaven, who owns most of the land round
here, has decided not to build any more."
"There's one that doesn't seem to be occupied," Tyssen persisted.
"That one is being kept for the servants of the lady who is already in
residence," Mr. Huitt explained.
"The foreign lady?"
"I am not aware of the lady's nationality," the bank manager said,
resuming his seat as a hint that the conversation might be considered
over.
"I can tell you what it is if you want to know," the young man observed.
"Thank you," was the stiff reply. "I am not interested."
Tyssen, with no further excuse to linger, passed on. The Reverend
Greatley, who was an observant person, found himself a trifle puzzled. He
could almost have fancied that in this very ordinary meeting of a village
visitor with a local magnate some unanalyzable disturbance had made itself
felt.
Tyssen returned from the dressing-rooms of the lawn tennis pavilion just
after Mr. Huitt had taken a dignified leave of the little company. The young
man glanced at the disappearing figure of the bank manager with an air of
disappointment. He paused in his almost ceaseless task of rolling
dark-colored, unappetizing-looking tobacco into ill-shaped cigarettes, and
for a moment seemed about to follow him. Anthony Sarson, who was seated with
Sybil Cresset and his sister and who was really a very good-natured young
man, beckoned him over.
"Our president is a little huffy tonight, Tyssen," he said. "I should
leave him alone. He hates to be questioned anyway. You have not met my sister
formally, I think? Pauline, this is Mr. Tyssen, who is spending his summer
vacation down here."
The Sarsons were certainly a very good-looking family. Pauline, with the
flawless complexion and clear brown eyes of her father and brother, possessed
on her own account the attractions of deep yellow hair and a slim but most
desirable figure. She was of a smaller type than her male relatives, with
greater subtlety of feature and expression.
"I have heard about Mr. Tyssen," she said, as she shook hands. "How did
you come to find us out in this backwater?"
"I wanted a perfectly quiet place," Tyssen explained.
"You have certainly succeeded in finding it," Pauline assured him. "Is Mr.
Huitt an old friend of yours?"
"I saw him for the first time to speak to this afternoon," the young man
confided. "I called at his bank."
Anthony Sarson grinned.
"I've been there once or twice," he told them. "Seems scarcely human when
he's in that magnificent inquisitorial chamber of his. He's not a bad old
sort, though."
"I find him," Tyssen observed, "a little reserved."
"He is certainly not what you would call expansive," Pauline remarked. "He
has very strict ideas about everything —the etiquette of tennis, the
etiquette of conversation, the etiquette of life."
"Bank managers," Anthony said, "have to be precise in their habits. Are
you going to play again, Tyssen?"
"I should be glad to if there's room for me anywhere," the young man
replied, with his eyes fixed upon Pauline.
"I don't play very well, unfortunately."
"You had better play with Pauline," Anthony suggested, "against Sybil and
me."
"If your sister will be kind enough to take me," Tyssen accepted
eagerly.
"I shall like to," the young woman remarked, rising to her feet. "Most of
the men I play with—Mr. Greatley for one and Anthony for
another—poach
abominably. If you really are out of practice, Mr. Tyssen, perhaps I shall
get my share of the play."
"I am not so much out of practice," Tyssen confided, as they strolled off
towards the courts, "as a very indifferent player. I played a little as a
boy. Since then—well, I've not had much time."
"You write things, don't you?" she asked.
"I try," he admitted. "I started as a journalist. I want to write a novel.
Just now I am studying life and character so far as I can."
"You have come to a queer place for that," she laughed.
"I suppose so," he admitted doubtfully. "Yet there are plenty of adages
about the quiet places, aren't there? Unexpected things happen sometimes. For
instance, the tragedy of last night!"
She sighed.
"Too dreadful! Shall I serve?"
"If you please."
The set turned out to be a very interesting one. Tyssen exerted himself
more than on any previous occasion although it was obvious that he had no
great knowledge of the game. The four drank lemonade on the porch afterwards.
Pauline was smiling quietly to herself as she listened to her partner's
rather clumsy compliments on her prowess.
"Shall I tell you one thing I have noticed about you, Mr. Tyssen?" she
said.
"If you please," he begged.
"You play, at any rate, with more energy when our president is not here.
You don't like him."
It was just as though Mr. Huitt, the bank manager, had been in the habit
of carrying a gun all his life.
"But how could anyone get on to the links at all?" Pauline demanded, "You
know how strict they are here. Every gate is closed at eight and there was
not a soul in the club-house when we came away."
"One of the caddies," Anthony suggested.
"Don't be silly," his sister answered. They moved stealthily forward and
stopped under the shadow of the trees. The twelfth green was only a yard or
two away and around the pin, within a foot or so, were five or six golf
balls. Anthony Sarson stared at them in amazement.
"But where on earth did they come from like that?" he exclaimed. "There's
not a soul in sight."
"I'll tell you where they came from," Pauline whispered with a little
breath of excitement. "Do you see that single oak tree just off the course on
the left-hand side? There's a man beside it! Wait!"
Again there came a plop upon the green. This time the ball broke with a
curious little spin to the left and stopped within a couple of feet of the
hole.
"Must be Bobby Jones dropped down from the skies," Anthony Sarson
declared.
"Put out your pipe, Tony," his sister begged. "I want to see who it is. He
will have to come down to collect the balls."
Anthony stepped obediently back into the wood and parted with the contents
of his newly lit pipe. Then he rejoined his sister. The figure of the player
was dimly visible now.
"We have not a man in the club who could have played those six shots,"
Anthony observed,﹃and as for the pros— well, there isn't one of them
would
dare risk his job. A golfing poacher! I never heard of such a thing. Look at
him stealing along. He's only got one club, too. Well, he'll have to come
here,﹄he chuckled. "What on earth are we going to say to him? I couldn't
raise my little finger in anger against a man who can play shots like that.
I'm not sure that I could even make up my mind to report him!"
"I should think," Pauline suggested in a low tone, "that it is someone who
has been refused a ticket to play and who has been lying hidden all day."
"Might be that," her brother assented doubtfully. "This is the only club I
know of in the world where a friend cannot put you down if he plays with you.
On the other hand, he is not attempting to play a round. He seems to have
just played those six balls from the same spot and on to the one green where
he is entirely out of sight from the club-house."
"Keep quiet!" Pauline enjoined. "You see what his game is— He is
coming
down as far as the fence, then he is going along by the side of it. He will
have to pass right by us all the same."
They waited in patience. The moon had become brighter during the last ten
minutes. Suddenly Pauline uttered a stifled exclamation:
"Tony—isn't there something familiar to you about the way he walks?
It
looks like someone I have seen lately."
Her brother's hand grasped her wrist.
"Well, I'm damned!" he muttered. "It's that clumsy fellow, Tyssen, who
plays tennis and who is down here fiddling about with novel writing!"
"It can't be," she murmured.
"I tell you it is," he whispered.
Tyssen had suddenly become unmistakable. Sheltered as he seemed to be from
all possible observation, he was walking upright now, his hands in his
pockets and his club under his arm. He was within a few yards of them when
Anthony stepped forward.
"Hello, my young friend!" he exclaimed. "Having a little night practice,
eh?"
Tyssen stood perfectly still. To Pauline, who was watching him the more
closely, there seemed something inexplicable in his suddenly drawn face and
flashing eyes. He made no response at all for the moment. Instead he turned
his back upon them, crossed the green, picked up the balls and dropped them
into the pocket of his loose tweed coat. Then he strolled back towards
Anthony and his sister. The eyes of the former were riveted upon the club
which Tyssen was carrying under his arm.
"What's that club you've got?" he asked.
"A light iron," Tyssen answered. "It's an English club—one of
Taylor's, I
think. I bought it at Lockwood & Brown's."
"Look here—am I going crazy?" Anthony demanded in a tone of
perplexity.
"Where are the rest of your clubs?"
"Haven't got any—not here, at any rate," was the brief rejoinder.
"Did you play those balls onto this green," Anthony asked, "from the other
side of the oak tree?"
"You must have seen me if you have been standing here watching."
Anthony measured the distance with his eye.
"But it's a matter of two hundred yards," he pointed out.
"I daresay," was the careless reply. "I was always thought to be rather a
long hitter when I played."
"When you played!"
Pauline had a sudden idea.
"Tony," she said,﹃don't you think we had better be moving on? We can take
Mr. Tyssen with us. I don't know how you got onto the links, Mr. Tyssen,﹄she
went on with a smile, "but there might be a little trouble if you were found
here at this hour of the night, and Hegges, the gamekeeper, is due in about a
quarter of an hour. You had better come out with us."
"That is very kind of you. Miss Sarson," Tyssen acknowledged. "I'm not
particularly keen upon being found here, I must admit."
"Come on," Anthony invited. "We can talk afterwards."
They passed down by the side of the plantation along the tall,
wooden-slatted fence and through the postern gate on to the Common. Anthony
secured the lock and, producing his pipe, he filled it.
"There are two things I should like to ask you, Tyssen," he said a little
shortly.
"Go ahead."
"First of all, what made you take to practicing golf shots in a forbidden
spot at this hour of the night?"
"First, because I like doing it," Tyssen replied. "I could not get even a
temporary membership here if I wanted it and the Paradise Golf Links are as
good as any in the world. Second, I have a peculiar, a ridiculous but none
the less a real reason for not wanting anyone around here to know that I play
golf a little."
"Play golf a little!" Anthony repeated. "Well, I have seen the Walker Cup
matches twice but I have never seen anyone play iron shots like yours."
"I used to practice a good deal," Tyssen mumbled uneasily. "May I ask a
favor of you?"
"What is it?"
"I told you that I had a special reason for keeping my golf to myself.
Would you mind not giving me away? If you will do that I will promise not to
trespass upon your golf links again."
"Why, of course we'll promise! Won't we, Tony?" his sister broke in. Her
brother smoked his pipe in silence for a moment.
"It's a queer thing to ask," he observed. "I suppose you realize, Tyssen,
that on the strength of those few shots we have seen you play I know that you
would rank among the half-dozen best players in the world! I have been
captain of the Oxford team for two years and I know what I am talking
about."
"I understand something about the game, of course," Tyssen admitted, "and
I realize that I am in your hands. If you do as I ask, though, I promise that
you will never regret it and you will do a fellow human being a wonderful
turn."
"Tony," Pauline begged, "you must consent."
Anthony smiled pleasantly.
"Well," he conceded, "there are not many things in the world I could
refuse to a man who can get a cut on an iron shot at two hundred yards with a
trajectory no higher than poor old Jimmie Braid's! I'll promise. Yes. On one
condition. I shan't tell you what that condition is for the present but it
won't do you any harm."
"I'm terribly obliged to you—and to you. Miss Sarson," the young man
said, turning towards her awkwardly.
They had reached the gate of the Sarsons' abode. Anthony placed his hand
upon his companion's arm in friendly fashion.
"Look here," he invited, "we are all late. My sister and I are not going
to change; we stayed, having cocktails with some friends up at the club. Come
in and have something with us. The old man has stayed up for a city dinner
and we are going to sit down alone just like this. Come along—there's
a good
fellow. I promise that we won't talk golf! In fact, I've got to push off to a
dance later on."
"I'm sorry—"
"Please, Mr. Tyssen," Pauline murmured.
"Very kind of you," he accepted huskily.
"Always a pleasure," Lord Milhaven murmured, "to have an appreciative
guest."
"About the concessions," Sir Julian went on, as the three men strolled
together toward the hall. "I'm sorry, but you see how it is. I've got a
better thing on."
"You know best, of course," Milhaven observed.
Outside Lord Milhaven and Mr. Huitt remained for a moment or two, watching
the lights flash among the trees in the avenue, as the car bearing Sir Julian
drove off. . . .
"It's a huge car," the girl announced, "but I can't see a soul. There's
plenty of room to get by. It seems to be pushed a quarter way into the
hedge."
Anthony jammed on his brakes. The figure of a man had loomed up out of the
darkness.
"What's the matter?" the former inquired. "Are you in any trouble
there?"
The mysterious figure did not reply for a moment. He wore motor goggles
with flaps, a peaked cap and a dark uniform which appeared to be that of the
county constabulary.
"Have you lost your way?" he asked gruffly. "I understood that this was a
private road."
"Well, it isn't," Anthony explained. "The private road doesn't begin until
you pass through the gates of the golf club a hundred yards farther on."
"But this lane only leads to the golf club," the man persisted
suspiciously.
"Not at all," Anthony objected. "There's a rough way through a gate to the
right there to Sandywayes village. You could not get your car down but it's
all right for my machine. That's where I'm going if you want to know."
The motorist stepped back.
"Get along with you, then," he enjoined shortly.
"What are you doing up here?" Anthony asked.
"That's my business."
"Is anything the matter with your car? I'm a bit of a mechanic."
"Nothing whatever."
Curiosity was rather a family trait of the Sarsons, and the young man
possessed his full share.
"But what are you doing on this road?" he persisted.
"You get on home and mind your own business unless you're looking for
trouble," was the menacing retort.
"Seems to me it's you who are looking for that," Anthony observed, as he
remounted his motorcycle.
The man drew his hand from his coat pocket into which it had stolen a
moment or two previously. His gesture was threatening. Anthony was almost
inclined to swear, when he recounted the episode, that he was holding
something gray and ugly between his clenched fingers. Sybil called up from
her seat in the side car.
"Anthony, please go on," she begged. "It's not our business anyway. I'm
getting nervous."
The half seen figure of the night laughed jeeringly.
"The young lady knows something," he remarked. "Pass along while you have
the chance, young fellow."
Anthony pressed down his foot and started the engine.
"Do you belong to the police?" he ventured.
"Maybe I do. There are sixteen different branches of the force now, you
know—flying squads and watching squads and intelligence squads.
Anyway, I'm
sufficiently near being a policeman to see that you get into trouble if you
don't do as you're told. Move on!"
"I don't want to go in the least," he protested, struggling to his feet,
"but I suppose I'd better. I shall go and have a word or two with my friend
the sergeant of police."
"You will do nothing of the sort."
He looked at her in surprise. The worst of it was that, except for the joy
of regarding an exquisite piece of human statuary, it was of no use looking
at her. There was very seldom the slightest expression in her face. It was so
at the present moment.
"I have saved you," she reminded him quietly, "a considerable amount of
discomfort, if not worse. I did my best last night, when I offered you the
shelter of my bungalow, to save you altogether. You owe me perhaps some
gratitude."
"I am deeply grateful," he told her.
"It is for you to prove that."
"In what manner?"
"Cannot you understand that I do not wish my name associated with any
gossip in this small neighborhood?" she said. "I do not wish my name, for
instance, to appear in the paper or for the police to be making inquiries
around my bungalow in search of your assailant. I should prefer you either to
keep silent about your hurt, which, let me warn you in your own interests,
would be much wiser, or, if you speak of it at all, say that you fell and hit
the back of your head against a gate."
He reflected for a few moments.
"And the car?" he asked. "Am I to keep silent about that too?"
"You can mention having seen it on your return home from Godalming," she
told him. "Of your second visit up here you should say nothing."
"All right," he promised. "But how am I to get back home with this bandage
round my head?"
"I am going to take it off," she confided. "There is no wound whatever. It
was simply a blow which might have produced concussion."
"Very easily, I should think," he said, tapping it tentatively.
"Do feel well enough to go now?" she asked him. "It is a quiet time. All
your friends down below are lunching. I should prefer that you were not seen
leaving my bungalow. You must say that you lay in the wood all night."
"I won't forget."
"Stay where you are for a minute," she enjoined.
She disappeared and a moment or two later he heard what sounded like the
tinkling of ice in a shaker. She reappeared with a small tumbler filled with
some frothing yellow liquid, and a biscuit which she carried in her
fingers.
"Drink this," she directed. "Take a mouthful of the biscuit too."
He drained the contents of the tumbler to the last drop and he felt the
warmth and vigor of it in his blood.
"That was the most wonderful drink I ever had," he declared.
She opened the door and stood on the threshold for a moment, looking down
the valley.
"So far as one can tell," she announced, turning round, "this is the
moment for your departure. Remember, wherever you lay through the night it
was not here, and whoever took care of your head it was not I. I impress this
upon you because you may find out later that other strange things have
happened, and I do not wish to seem connected with them in any way."
"I shall keep my promise," he assured her, lingering for a moment.﹃May I
come and see you again?﹄he begged.
"Yes," she replied with unexpected promptness. "I should like you to come
and see me this evening between nine and ten, when I shall be sitting out
here under the pines. I should like you to tell me then whether your
explanations have been accepted. There are a few other questions, too, which
perhaps I may ask."
"Between nine and ten this evening," he repeated.
"Not later."
Her hand gently impelled his shoulders. He passed, staggering a little,
out into the sunlight and, already mindful only to do her will, he made his
way hastily from the proximity of the bungalow into the footpath. The
sunlight and the strength of the mixture which he had drunk rendered him for
a moment almost giddy. He made his way carefully downwards. With every breath
of fresh air he seemed to feel stronger. Then at the bend he came to an
abrupt standstill. He passed his arm round the trunk of a pine tree and
leaned against it. His eyes were turned eagerly downwards. Disturbance seemed
to be once more abroad in the Oasis. Before the creeper-covered police
station two cars were standing. A small knot of people were talking excitedly
in the middle of the road.
Anthony, as he recommenced his descent, remembered with a sinking heart
his own peculiar condition, his crumpled evening clothes and his wildly
ruffled hair. There was no means of escape, however, for already he had been
discovered. When he came into clearer sight he became at once the cynosure of
wondering eyes. Someone ran into the police station. Tom, the village
constable, stepped out. He stared at Anthony as though he were a ghost, and
called back over his shoulder. The sergeant emerged from the doorway, gave
one look at the approaching figure and hurried to meet him. Anthony, now
really giddy with the hot sun blazing upon his head, slackened his speed and
paused, holding on to the white railings.
Tyssen, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, stood by his side.
"Where on earth have you sprung from in that condition?" he asked.
"Looks as though you had been out all night, Mr. Anthony," the sergeant
observed with a frown.
"I'll tell you what there is to tell when I have changed and had a bath,"
Anthony promised him. "What's the trouble here?"
"Haven't you heard?" Tyssen asked quickly.
"I've not heard a thing," Anthony replied. "So far as I am concerned, to
cut a long story short, after I had brought Miss Cresset home early this
morning I had a fancy to make my way back to the by-road. There was a car
there when I passed, and I was curious about it. Well, you know how dark it
was. I slipped, fell backwards and hit my head against the gate. I must have
been lying there unconscious for four or five hours."
"Meet anyone up there?" the sergeant asked.
"Not a soul. What's wrong?"
"Did you hear anything?"
"Nothing to take note of. Why?"
"They found a dead man this morning in the wood close to the byway," the
sergeant recounted. "His body is lying there in the police station now."
"My God!"
Anthony was giddy once more. The heat, the pain in his head, the horror of
the news he had heard confused him. Just in time Tyssen gripped him by the
arm.
"Brace up, man," he enjoined. "The doctor is in there. He'd better have a
look at you. You may have hurt your head."
"I shall be all right as soon as I can have a drink and get out of the
sun," Anthony assured them. "Who is the dead man? Was it—an
accident?"
The sergeant shook his head gravely.
"Worse than that, sir, by all appearance," he replied. "He's got a
revolver bullet straight through the heart— in just the same place as
poor
Mr. Jesson."
A little sobbing breath found its way through Anthony's tense lips. He
gripped at Tyssen's shoulder for support.
"Who was he? Did he belong here?"
The sergeant shook his head again:
"Not to my knowledge. There's not one of us has ever seen him before."
Anthony pulled himself together with a great effort.
"I'll go and change my clothes and get something," he announced,
staggering across to the open gate of his house. "I'll come straight into the
police station as soon as I pull myself together a bit."
The domestic staff of "The Haven" were all gathered together in the
back-premises discussing the startling event of the night, so that Anthony
was able to open the door, climb the stairs and reach the bathroom
unobserved. As he flung his coat on to the floor a metallic sound attracted
his dazed attention. He picked up the coat and thrust his hand into the
pocket. Very slowly he drew out a hard object he found there and held it in
his hand, gazing at it blankly. He glanced furtively towards the bathroom
door to be sure it was locked. He turned the thing over. Then he remembered.
It was the revolver with one barrel discharged, which the lady of the
bungalow had thrust upon him!
"Thank you," Tyssen replied with a twitch of the lips. "I shall be abroad
when it's published."
"You'll come back some day," Anthony affirmed, "and then you'll pay for
it."
"What about some tennis?" Pauline suggested hurriedly. "Sybil will be here
directly."
"Mr. Huitt has just arrived," Tyssen announced. "He doesn't seem to like
playing with me very much, but he was willing to take me on against you
two."
"Better than doing nothing," Anthony agreed. "It will just pass the time
till Sybil comes."
"I expect they will beat us," Pauline remarked, rising to her feet. "Mr.
Huitt is so terribly accurate. I believe he would wear anyone down."
"He's much stronger than he seems, too," Tyssen observed. "I saw him make
a forearm drive yesterday, when he thought no one was noticing, that would
have passed at Wimbledon."
Mr. Huitt appeared round the corner, ready for the fray.
"If the match is agreeable to you. Miss Sarson," he began, "our young
friend, the pseudo-novelist, and I will take you and your brother on."
"You will beat us," Pauline prophesied. "Either Tony's head is still bad
or he has something on his mind. For once in his life he is almost
bad-tempered."
"Well, I ask you," Anthony appealed to them on their way down to the
court, "wouldn't you feel as though you had something on your mind? The
inspector over there"—moving his head towards the police
station—"never
takes his eyes off me. Just because I was out late and came home with a
bashed head I seem to have become an X.Y.Z. bottom-class criminal!"
"You go to extremes, Mr. Sarson, if you will forgive my saying so," Huitt
declared. "I have had some experience with the police, and I have formed a
very high idea of their capacity. The only thing is—they work for
safety.
They are compelled to do so. If you are quite ready. Miss Pauline—I
see that
you are taking the right-hand court—serve."
"You are utterly overwrought," Mr. Huitt said.﹃I forgive your having
tampered with my belongings. Think no more about it. This photograph has been
sent to me because, during the last week, Madame de Sayal has applied to the
headquarters of my bank, requesting them to transfer her balances from
various continental centers so that she may deal with them here. She
mentioned that this would be the most convenient branch of the bank for her
to visit. Formalities,﹄Mr. Huitt went on, without a moment's pause, "with
regard to foreign clients require that we should possess two photographs for
occasional comparison with their passports. This is one of the two sent me
from headquarters."
"I'm sorry," Sarson apologized. "That's all right, of course. I will only
pray you to remember that I have been asking myself fiercely, ever since I
left my boy, what sort of a woman this might be. Whether she would play the
game and tell the truth if it were necessary, or play the game and tell a lie
to save a boy's life if it had to be. I'm sorry. As to why I looked at the
damn' thing at all, I have no explanation. I had to do something."
"We will forget the whole incident, Sarson," the bank manager said gently.
"Your mind is now at rest about your bank balance?"
"Absolutely."
"Then, take my advice. Now, I am hazarding a guess. You have not been to
your office this morning?"
"No," Sarson confessed. "I have just come back from home. The car is
outside."
"Then, take my advice," Mr. Huitt repeated. "Go down to your headquarters,
deal with the day's affairs, keep your mind off those other problems. No good
your having a nervous breakdown, you know. You will want to help your boy if
the trouble becomes serious. Very well, you must keep control of yourself. Go
down to the office, look through your orders and your letters and deal with
them properly. You will find something there to engross yourself, I am sure.
When you have finished send your automobile home and meet us in the 'Club
Car.' Face every one of us as soon as possible. Every day that you hesitate
will make it more difficult. When the time comes for drawing your money out
to take up these bills of lading, leave the matter in my hands. I will do
everything for you."
For the first time in his life Mr. Timothy Sarson felt an impulse of real
friendliness toward his aloof neighbor.
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Huitt," he said.
Mr. Timothy Sarson bustled off. He made a point of waving his hand in
friendly fashion to the young man who had mutilated his bank account, and
when he stepped into his car he gave the address to his chauffeur almost
crisply.
Mr. Huitt, on the other hand, did not at once summon any of the clients
who were waiting to see him. His finger went out toward the bell but came
back again. Once more he removed the paper weight from the photograph. Not a
line of his face became softened as he looked at it. It was impossible to
tell whether he was an investigator seeking for some technical fault in the
likeness of that beautiful woman who smiled at him so subtly, or whether
there was any sentiment in his head or heart behind that stealthy, intense
regard.
He laid it down finally without having permitted himself even the
glimmerings of a smile, searched amongst his covered stationery rack until he
found an envelope large enough, placed the photograph within and, taking some
sealing wax from its place, he covered the envelope flap and impressed upon
the hissing mixture the seal of the bank. Then he crossed the room, opened a
small personal safe which stood by the side of the official one, and
deposited the envelope. He changed the combination with great care, then
returned to his study and touched the bell.
"I will deal now with anyone who is waiting," he announced to the
clerk.
"How did you come to see it?"
"My prying habits, I suppose," he confided. "Anyhow, I knew at once that
if it was found upon him he was in for a great deal of trouble at least, and
I actually burgled your house not long afterwards and took the prize away
with me."
"What was the prize?"
He looked around once more. There was no doubt whatever that they were
alone.
"A revolver with one barrel fired," he answered gravely.
She was momentarily aghast.
"You don't think—you don't believe that he had used it?"
"If I had thought that, although he is your brother. Miss Pauline, I
should have left him to his fate."
It seemed to her that there was something new about her companion's tone,
a larger measure of confidence. He had risen to his feet, however, before she
could ask him the questions which thronged into her brain.
"Say good night to your brother for me," he enjoined. "I have a telephone
message to attend to."
She looked up at him earnestly.
"Mr. Tyssen?" she began.
He made no reply. Standing waiting for her further speech he seemed to
have lost something of his ungainliness. He was almost an imposing figure in
the semi-darkness.
"Will you tell me all about yourself some day?" she asked.
"There is very little to tell, but I will," he promised.
The young man opened his lips impulsively. There was a puzzled expression
upon his fair, boyish face. Precisely at that moment he met his chief's
steadfast glance. There was something very poignant indeed in the gleam of
those eyes even behind their concealing glasses.
"On Sundays," he stammered, "I shouldn't know a bond if I were to see one.
Yesterday I was on the spot and tomorrow I shall be on the spot again."
"Good lad," Mr. Timothy Sarson said with a smile. "I'll bet you won't do
your work any worse tomorrow for a day out in the country like this."
The young man walked off towards the court with his chief.
"I wonder," he remarked, "if Mr. Sarson—"
"Keep your wondering until you get to Aldwych, Mr. Plumer," his chief
advised. "We all have to be very tactful with Mr. Sarson just now. He has had
a great deal upon his mind lately."
A smile broke across the young man's face.
"Why, of course," he exclaimed, "what an idiot I was not to remember!"
"Mr. Martin," the bank manager began very quietly, "I am going to speak to
you as a friend and a neighbor. You have had too much to drink. You are not
in a fit condition to be going out alone."
Mr. Martin seemed staggered.
"What the hell business is that of yours, Huitt?" he demanded. "If I am
upset it is not with drink—at least, not altogether. It is your fool
clerks.
Can you believe it? "They want to tell me that I took ninety thousand pounds
out of the bank yesterday and ten thousand pounds' worth of War Savings
Certificates! What's the meaning of it? You know well enough I did nothing of
the sort."
"Mr. Martin," the other begged, "don't you think it would be wise if you
were to remember that you are speaking to the representative of one of the
wealthiest banks in the world? No one wants your bonds or your little
driblets of money."
"Then where are they?" Mr. Martin asked bluntly.
Mr. Huitt rose to his feet. Standing up he seemed nothing more than a slim
lad by the side of his visitor. He pointed to a piece of mahogany furniture
at the farther end of the room.
"I will tell you everything you want to know in due course," he said, "and
you will find it quite satisfactory. I will not talk to you, however, while
you are in this condition. Lift up the lid of that portable lavatory there,
pour out some water, bathe your head and brush your hair. You had better tie
your tie over again while you are about it. As soon as you are presentable I
will talk to you."
The words were like icicles. The advice might have been good but the words
contained no suggestion of any form of sympathy. They had their effect upon
Martin, however. Muttering to himself he crossed the room, drew up the lid of
the lavatory with a bang and poured out some water. Mr. Huitt slipped over
the floor with noiseless feet and did what seemed to be, under the
circumstances, a somewhat foolish thing. He locked the door and returned to
his place. He was seated there when his visitor, looking slightly more
respectable, threw a towel away into the corner and staggered back.
"Draw your chair up to the table," Mr. Huitt invited. "First, let me tell
you this: Your War Savings Certificates are, of course, being in the charge
of Messrs. Barton & Company, perfectly safe."
"Then why aren't they on this list?"
"Because," Mr. Huitt explained gently, "bearer securities are kept in a
different vault and are looked after by another set of clerks."
Mr. Martin was silent for a moment. The bank manager's eyes seemed fixed
upon a certain part of his waistcoat. He became so conscious of the gaze that
he flicked the place with his fingers.
"What's wrong with me anyway?" Martin demanded.
"You spilled a little water over your chest. Nothing of any consequence,"
Mr. Huitt observed. "Now wait, please." He opened the third and most sacred
of the drawers in his writing table— a drawer which had been fitted
with a
specially designed lock and to which no one else in the world had access. As
he stooped he twisted a handkerchief lightly round his hand. When he
straightened himself there was no time for his visitor to do more than open
his mouth. There was no time for a single cry, no time for the faintest
movement. The sense of sight was the only one which seemed still active in
the doomed man. He saw something very dull and ugly pointed straight at his
waistcoat! Mr. Huitt's small figure seemed to be growing larger and larger.
There was a glare behind those neat, gold-rimmed spectacles, then there was a
little stab of flame and a strange pain in Mr. Martin's heart. He uttered a
little gurgling cry, scarcely audible, but he felt the life passing out of
his body before his lips could close again. One sobbing, queer little murmur
it was, heard alone by the man who was leaning over him. He collapsed in the
chair and sprawled over its side—a limp, inert mass. . . .
Mr. Huitt looked at him critically and decided that all was well. He had
seen dead men before, but no one more completely dead than Mr. Roland Martin
was at that moment. His hand relaxed.
He leaned over the table and pushed the weapon into Mr. Martin's pudgy,
ungloved hand. With his own fingers still protected by the handkerchief he
pressed the fingers of the dead man around the butt, and allowed it to drop
softly onto the carpeted floor. Then he dived once more into that third
drawer and produced a letter addressed to himself in Mr. Roland Martin's
sprawling handwriting. He laid it on the table in front of him without
opening it, restored the handkerchief to his pocket and locked up the drawer.
He gave one more swift look round the room. His brain worked calmly, his
pulse was perfectly steady. There seemed to be nothing which he had
forgotten. He leaned over and pressed his finger firmly upon the button. The
seconds passed. There was a knock at the door and the handle turned. Mr.
Huitt rose to his feet.
"Wait a minute, Churchill," he called out, and his voice was noticeably
unsteady. "Is the door locked?"
"Yes, sir," came a voice from the outside. "Wait. I'm coming," Mr. Huitt
said. He crossed the room, unlocked the door and grasped Churchill by the
shoulder. This was a different Mr. Huitt. He was shaking, and the fingers of
the other hand clutched for a moment at the air.
"I am—just a trifle faint, Churchill," he murmured faintly. "I am not
hurt, but—Martin—"
"Good heavens! What's happened to him, sir? Has he had a fit?" Churchill
asked in a tone of alarm.
"Shot himself seated at my table," Mr. Huitt gasped. "Send for a doctor
and the police at once. Quickly!"
Mr. Huitt ceased to speak. For some three minutes he kept his eyes closed.
When he opened them again it was with a very artistic little tremor. He sat
in his chair and took the glass of water which was being handed to him. There
were already a policeman, the sub-manager and others in the room.
"Feeling a little better, sir?" his chief of staff asked him.
"I'm quite all right," Mr. Huitt repeated. "What about Martin?"
"I'm afraid he's done for, sir. The doctor's here already—was in the
bank."
The doctor, a man of severe professional appearance, detached himself from
the little group around the table.
"The gentleman is quite dead," he announced, turning to the manager. "We
won't touch anything until the inspector comes."
"Fortunately it is closing time," Mr. Huitt observed, listening to the
hour of three striking from the adjacent church clock. "Let someone stand out
on the steps, Churchill, and bring in the inspector."
The doctor came over to Mr. Huitt's side.
"Rather a shock for you, sir," he said kindly. "Are you feeling
better?"
"Absolutely all right, thank you," Mr. Huitt replied. "No need to bother
about me. Just for a second or two I felt queer."
The doctor felt his pulse but dropped his hand again in a few seconds. He
looked at the little bespectacled man with respect.
"I congratulate you upon your nerve, sir," he said. "Horrible experience,
though. Ah, here comes the inspector."
There was a little preliminary questioning. The inspector and doctor
whispered together, then the former came over to Mr. Huitt, his book in his
hand.
"You were the only witness, I gather, sir. May I ask your name?"
"James Huitt."
"And your position?"
"I am manager of this bank."
"Do you feel equal to telling me what happened?"
"Certainly," Mr. Huitt replied. "Mr. Martin, who is an old client of the
bank, was brought in by one of my clerks, who warned me previously that he
was in a state of intoxication. I could see that he had been drinking, but I
tried to soothe him as well as I could because he is going through a very
painful time just now on account of severe financial losses which he was very
anxious to keep secret. Mr. Martin began questioning me about a large balance
which he certainly possessed up to a short while ago, and I was forced to
remind him that he had drawn the money out and taken it away with him only
the day before yesterday. He muttered something about that being only a
dream, and he was obviously in no state to discuss his affairs.
"I persuaded him to wash his hands and brush his hair, and I thought he
was going to sit down and talk reasonably. Instead of that he threw a note
addressed to me upon the table, suddenly drew a small pistol from his pocket,
pressed it to his side and shot himself before I could move."
"Have you examined the letter addressed to you, sir?"
"Not yet. It is still on my table."
"Have you any objection to opening it?" the inspector asked.
"None at all."
The letter was brought over. Mr. Huitt sat up in his chair, tore open the
envelope and read:
"Dear Mr. Huitt,
"I am in a terrible state. I am losing my memory. One day I
seem to know just how much I have and just what securities you are holding.
Another day I have an awful feeling that I have sold all my bonds and drawn
out all my balance. I dreamed last night that I was a pauper! I cannot bear
it any longer. If I am sober enough I shall bring you this letter.
"If anything is left from my estate it is to go to my wife,
whose address is c/o Barton's Bank, Paris."
The signature was nothing but a scrawl. The inspector folded up the
letter.
"You won't mind my having this, sir?" he asked.
"Not in the least," Mr. Huitt conceded. "You will let me have it back
after the inquest. The directors may wish to see it."
"There are one or two further investigations I must make as a matter of
form, sir," the inspector said. "Afterwards the body will be removed to the
mortuary."
"You are in command here," Mr. Huitt assured him. "Can I do any good by
staying?"
"No good at all," the inspector said firmly. "I should like everyone away,
in fact."
James Huitt rose to his feet.
"You might get my hat and gloves, Mr. Churchill," he begged. "You have
heard what the inspector said—send everyone out of the room."
On his way to the door Mr. Huitt suddenly frowned. Among those still
gathered round the body of the dead man was his neighbor from the
Oasis— Mr.
Tyssen!
"Why?" she asked, with a little quiver at her lips.
For a moment he lost his poise. Then his arms went around her and he
grinned.
"Because you're the only girl I've ever looked at twice, and because I
love you."
"I'll tell you in the summerhouse," she answered demurely.
Meanwhile cocktails were freely and happily drunk upon the lawn. Evening
papers had been carefully banished and, by universal consent, no mention was
made of the tragedy of Roland Martin's death—an attitude which was made
somewhat easier by the fact that he had never taken the slightest interest in
golf or any other game.
A pleasant touch was given to the party by the sudden arrival of Milhaven
in his long racing car.
"I have come," he said, as he greeted Timothy Sarson, "to offer you all my
congratulations, to shake hands with the hero of the occasion and I trust,"
he added, "to drink one of those marvelous-looking champagne cocktails."
Timothy Sarson was flustered but dignified.
"The cocktails, Groves," he directed— quite unnecessarily because
Groves
was already there with the tray. "Tyssen! Where the mischief is Tyssen?"
Tyssen and Pauline appeared at the top of the path. They hurried forward
in obedience to an imperative gesture from the latter's father.
"They tell me that you played marvelous golf, Mr. Tyssen," Lord Milhaven
said, holding out his hand. "Milhaven my name is; from the Court here."
Tyssen unexpectedly shed his uncouthness. Drawn to his full height he
seemed to tower over the visitor.
"Very kind of you, Lord Milhaven," he said.
"Will you tell me where you learned your golf?" Milhaven asked
politely.
Tyssen shook his head.
"That's a very unimportant secret," he said. "Anyhow, I've been happy to
help the Paradise Club."
Milhaven set down his glass. "Ah, here comes my friend, Mr. Huitt. Poor
fellow! We will avoid the subject before him unless he alludes to it himself,
but I am afraid that he has had another of those grim hours at the Coroner's
Court this afternoon."
Mr. Huitt walked across the lawn in his usual stiff and precise fashion.
He shook hands with Pauline and with his host. Then he turned to
Milhaven.
"It appears that while you and I were grubbing in the city, Huitt," the
latter said, "marvelous exploits were being performed here."
"So I understand," Mr. Huitt observed, with a formal nod to Tyssen.
"Congratulations, sir. I was fortunate enough to see your last drive and
putt. They reminded me—"
He paused. Tyssen stood as though expecting him to finish his
sentence.
"Yes?"
"Of a freer school of golf than we have here," the other concluded.
"I asked Mr. Tyssen," Milhaven remarked, "where he learned his golf. For
some reason or other he prefers to keep the matter a secret. Why not tell us,
Mr. Tyssen?"
"Next week—with pleasure."
"So soon as that?" Milhaven queried carelessly.
"Perhaps even before."
Groves came out to announce dinner. Timothy Sarson turned to Milhaven.
"If you are alone. Lord Milhaven," he suggested, "you would not care to
squeeze in with us, I suppose?"
"Nothing I should like better," was the prompt acquiescence.
No one who was present at it ever forgot that dinner. It was one of the
hottest nights of summer, but, with every window open and a huge block of ice
in the center of the table, the heat never seemed to be oppressive. The
conversation naturally centered around golf. Milhaven had given up
first-class cricket for it early in life, and there were few of the other
guests who had not an interest in the game. Anthony told them, the committee
having unanimously excused trespass, of the few strokes he had seen Tyssen
play which were the cause of his having been bullied into taking part in the
contest. Milhaven listened smilingly.
"Your little strip of country down here, Mr. Sarson," he said to his host,
"is earning quite a reputation as the home of mystery, and our young friend
here evidently means to be in the fashion. Here we all are—every one
of us
agog with curiosity to know who taught him that wonderful swing and that
devilish trick of stopping the ball almost dead upon the green. We want to
know upon what great player he has modeled his style. We want descriptions of
famous golf matches. But we hear nothing! In a few days' time we are to know.
Why in a few days' time, Mr. Tyssen?"
Tyssen frowned. He was weary of the ungraciousness of these continued
refusals and he felt somehow or other the note of irony in Lord Milhaven's
persistence. The one man who had asked him no questions and who seemed to
feel no curiosity was Mr. Huitt. The latter ate his dinner and drank his wine
almost in silence. Occasionally he leaned slightly forward and looked down
the table as though listening to Milhaven's reminiscences, but at no time did
a smile part his lips or a gleam of interest shine behind his spectacles. It
was not until the sensation of the evening arrived that he appeared to take
the slightest notice of his fellow guests. It was Pauline who saw the
intruders first. She pointed out two shadowy forms crossing the lawn.
"Who on earth are those men?" she exclaimed.
"Look like policemen," somebody observed.
"Is it the sergeant?" Timothy Sarson asked. "I told him to come in for a
drink, but not at this hour."
"It's not the sergeant," Anthony declared, rising to his feet.﹃Hello
there!﹄he called out, advancing to the open window. "What do you fellows
want?"
The men made no reply. They paused for a moment on the threshold but
afterwards crossed it. They were two tall, formidable-looking officers, one
apparently wearing the uniform of a sergeant and the other of an ordinary
constable in the Metropolitan Police.
"Sorry to have to disturb anyone," the sergeant said, saluting. "Is there
a young gentleman here passing under the name of Christopher Tyssen?"
Tyssen stood up at once.
"There is," he admitted.
The sergeant glanced at the paper he was carrying.
"You need not answer my question unless you like," he continued, "but we
have information that your correct name is Christopher Anstruther Sandford,
and that you come from Sydney, New South Wales."
"Quite right," Tyssen acknowledged. "What of it?"
"It would be better perhaps, sir," the sergeant suggested, "if you came
out and spoke to us."
Pauline gripped at his sleeve. She was suddenly, to all appearance,
unreasonably alarmed.
"Don't go," she begged. "Let them come in here."
"I may as well see what they want," Tyssen decided.
He made his way down the narrow space between the backs of the chairs and
the wall and stepped on to the threshold of the open window.
"What do you want with me?" he asked.
The sergeant produced a very official-looking paper.
"Sorry, sir," he announced, "but we have here a warrant for your
arrest."
"What for?" Tyssen demanded, in genuine astonishment. "I have done nothing
against the law that I know of."
"We will explain it to you later if you will come along with us," the
sergeant said. "It might, perhaps, be less of a shock to your friends," he
added in a lower tone, "if we kept the nature of the charge to
ourselves."
"Don't be absurd," Tyssen scoffed. "You don't get me out of here until you
tell me what that paper stands for and what you want me for."
"We want you," the sergeant confided gravely, "on the charge of having, on
the night of the nineteenth of July, willfully murdered Sir Julian Bott."
Tyssen laughed scornfully.
"I must ask you to take this a little more seriously, sir," the sergeant
insisted.
"Where are you taking me"
"Lewes Jail."
There was an instant's silence in the room, broken first by Milhaven's
hasty, unformed sentence:
"Christopher Sandford—the boy wonder! Sent from school to Sydney at
sixteen years of age to play in the Australian Golf Championship. Won it
easily too."
"I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life," Tyssen exclaimed.
"That is not our concern or yours at the moment, sir," the sergeant
explained patiently. "This warrant compels me to arrest you. You will only
make the situation more unpleasant by protesting. The inspector at Lewes will
hear all that you have to say."
Milhaven, who had risen from his place, came down the room.
"Sergeant," he intervened, "I am a magistrate for this county. Will you be
so kind as to let me see the warrant?"
"Certainly, sir," the man assented.
Milhaven glanced it through and handed it back.
"The warrant is all right," he admitted. "Of course, we all know that it
is ridiculous but I am afraid that you will have to go with them. One moment
first, though. Do you mind telling me whether your father was James
Anstruther Sandford, who practically owned the Second National Bank in
Sydney?"
"He was. What's that got to do with it?"
Milhaven smiled. In the clear but softened light of the room a strange
expression seemed to linger for a moment upon his face.
"Nothing much," he answered. "Nothing of any particular consequence. I am
not sure, though. My memory may be somewhat at fault but—I believe
that I
still owe your father a trifle."
"I don't see that that is of any particular consequence just now," Tyssen
remarked with a note of impatience in his tone.
"Perhaps you don't," Milhaven agreed smoothly. "By the bye, would you like
anyone to come with you?"
"Not likely," Tyssen replied. "Unless," he added, with rather a strained
smile, "Mr. Huitt cares to come."
Huitt's eyes glittered for a moment behind the lenses of his
spectacles.
"I could be of no possible service," he said stiffly. "I know nothing of
you or your antecedents. As a matter of fact, it is somewhat of a shock to me
to hear that you have ventured to open an account with my bank under an
assumed name."
"No one is allowed to accompany the prisoner," the sergeant announced.
"Will you come this way please, sir?"
He laid his hand upon Tyssen's shoulder. The latter looked round.
"I am awfully sorry, Miss Pauline and Mr. Sarson, but it is not my fault
that I am forced to leave you like this. The whole thing is ridiculous, of
course. I never saw or heard anything of Julian Bott in my life until after
the murder."
Pauline, terribly pale but quite collected, came down the room.
"Christopher," she exclaimed, "please don't believe for a single moment
that anyone could imagine you guilty of such a horrible thing. I think they
are mad."
He held her hand.
"You will please come with us now, sir," the sergeant insisted more
sternly.
Tyssen stood for a moment with his fingers locked in Pauline's. Then he
stepped through the window.
"Good night, all of you," he called back. "See you tomorrow, I hope. Don't
worry, Pauline. This thing will come out as right as rain."
He strode across the lawn between the sergeant and the constable. A third
man, who had been loitering in the shadows, followed behind. They ushered
Tyssen into a large, closed car.
"Lewes Jail," the sergeant directed the uniformed chauffeur.
His body, it seemed, had left him. He had the curious impression of
remaining with his senses intact, a human being without power of movement,
unutterably weak. A little stream of something fell on his tongue. He made an
effort to swallow. His mouth was held open—he himself had not the
power to
open or close it. The liquid, whatever it might be, was descending. He was
dimly aware that he must assist its passage as well as he was able. He lost
consciousness for a moment and came back to find the little stream of liquid
was still dribbling down his throat. His dim eyes saw the bottle empty. His
mouth was closed for him. She stood away from the bedside.
"If that was not too late," she said, "you will find that you can begin to
move your limbs very soon. After that you will be all right. I cannot help
you further for the present."
Another lapse into the unknown and then a long, slow waking. There was
sunlight now in the room, the twitter of birds outside, the rustle of wind in
the trees. Memory made a shivering return to his confused brain. He knew that
he had been lying there paralyzed, with death creeping upon him. There was
something different now. Surely that was a muscle working! He drew up one leg
and then the other. He moved his arms. He felt a slight tingling all over.
There was feeling in his body. . . . With it all his brain cleared. He began
to remember. Huitt had left him for dead but Milhaven had saved his life.
Together these two had gone off.
His lips slowly twisted into a smile. What chance would they have? Penny
would have all his papers by now. There was enough there to hang Huitt, all
right. Milhaven only came into most of it by inference. They would find out
about him as they went on. Perhaps he would be strong enough to crawl away
before long. He had better be found somewhere else—where they had found
Julian Bott, for instance. Presently Madame de Sayal reappeared, wearing the
smock in which she painted. She noted his changed expression with a
smile.
"This is fortunate," she said. "Have you tried to move?"
"I have tried to and I can," he replied. "I believe that I could get up
from the couch."
"Do not hurry," she begged. "You must not collapse here. Tell me—in
these
memoirs of yours is there anything very incriminating about me?"
"Neither about you nor Milhaven," he assured her. "I came to England to
find Huitt. I could have gone to the police long ago, but I could see there
was something going on here. I stayed and watched. I have run no risk so far
as Huitt is concerned. He will hang."
"If they catch him," she murmured.
"He must be caught," Tyssen answered. "They have only a few hours' start.
How can they possibly get away?"
She smiled.
"So far as Milhaven is concerned, how could they possibly stop him?" she
retorted.
"In forty hours he will land in Abyssinia. No one will follow him where he
is going. No one else could get into that part of the country alive,"
"And Huitt?" he demanded.
She shook her head.
"I am not so sure that he will take Huitt," she replied. "I have never
known a person to cross Milhaven's will who had not to suffer for it."
"If he takes Huitt with him and they do succeed in getting away I shall
follow," he declared.
She smiled cryptically.
"That," she insisted,﹃would be certain death. No one but Milhaven could
live where he is going. Somehow or other, though,﹄she repeated, "I do not
think that he will take Huitt with him."
"Why not?" Christopher asked eagerly.
"Milhaven is a great sinner," she acknowledged, "but he is capable of the
most bizarre actions. One of those was his sudden determination to save your
life. Huitt was determined that you should die and to the best of his belief
made it a certainty. I do not think that Milhaven will forgive him for
interfering. I have never known him to forgive anyone who disobeyed him. Can
you get up?"
He rose stumblingly to his feet. He felt like a man recovering from a
fever.
"A breath of fresh air would do me good," he confessed.
"You shall have it immediately," she told him. "First of all, I am going
to the door. I want to be sure that there is no one about."
She was gone about five minutes. When she returned she motioned him to
follow her. She led him out of the back door and up the grass path to where
the body of Julian Bott had been discovered.
"If you could contrive to be found here," she suggested.
"What about you?" he asked.
"I am going to paint," she confided, "until my maid brings me my coffee.
If you have not been taken away by then I may give you some."
"But all this," he said, waving his hand. "My being abducted by those
bogus policemen, being brought to your bungalow and very nearly
murdered?"
"It's all part of a dream," she answered. "They drugged you and dropped
you here, just as they did Sir Julian. You know no more than that."
"But why here?" he demanded.
She pointed down to the elaborate gates which led to the Golf Club.
"Milhaven naturally has a key to those gates," she confided. "The land
belongs to him and the converted clubhouse is his property. The airplane
sheds are his. Several of the members rent them. The largest he keeps for
himself. For that one he has a night and a day watchman. He experiments there
sometimes. You know that once he was in the Air Ministry?"
"Has he a machine here?"
She smiled.
"He has the most perfect machine here that has yet been built," she
continued.﹃It is a type which has never been shown. He preferred to keep it
for himself because of what might happen. The machine has been ready to start
night or day for twelve months. He has a wonderful mind,﹄she went on. "To
divert attention he owns a smaller plane also, which he flies continually.
People think he is still experimenting with the other machine. Not a soul
except myself and Huitt and the pilots, who have worn a police uniform now
and then, know what he has been keeping in that guarded shed.
"What has always puzzled me, though, is how Milhaven managed to
communicate with all his accomplices—Huitt, the airdrome men and the
others."
Christopher smiled weakly.
"Perhaps I can help you there," he said. "I got on the track of that. One
of the announcers of the Broadcasting Company was in his pay and any night
there was to be a meeting—which was always at the same place and
time— this
announcer used to make some slight change in the ordinary terms of his
weather announcement. They were all listening in as a matter of course and
received their summons in that manner. 'British Islands' for 'British Isles,'
for instance, was one of the variations."
"Just like Hugh. Horribly ingenious," she murmured.
"What made Milhaven take to this crooked business?" Christopher Sandford
asked.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
"For one thing, he loathes poverty," she answered, "and there was no money
when he inherited. For another thing, he loves excitement. Huitt's skill,
too, as a forger fascinated him. It was he who brought him to England and got
him into the bank. . . . I am really going to work now."
"Shall you stay on here?" he asked abruptly.
"I shan't run away, if that is what you mean," she said. "Why do you
ask?"
Tyssen looked through the trunks of the trees down to the houses of the
Oasis. There were no signs of life but thin spirals of blue smoke were
beginning to curl upwards.
"Down there they used to call me the most curious person they ever knew,"
he observed. "They didn't realize there was method in it all. I am a curious
person, I confess, and things went on up here which I still .do not
understand. Who knocked Anthony Sarson out that night?"
"One of Milhaven's men," she answered. "Strangers weren't wanted so near
the by-way."
"One thing more," he begged. "Milhaven—"
"Yes."
"And you?"
"Have you never had an idea?" she asked, with a strange little smile.
"Not up till this moment," he assured her.
"Of course, Debrett would have told you," she said, "but I don't suppose
you have ever looked inside it—and we were a very distant branch of the
family. I was born in Florence and married to an Italian, but Milhaven is my
brother. I came here hoping—but it was foolish of me! One might as
well hope
to change the stars as to influence him."
She suddenly held up a warning finger and stole away from him. Through the
trees he saw her pass to where her easel was already arranged. He heard the
chattering of a little group of caddies passing along the by-way to the golf
links.
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