The Broken Thread Read online

Master Raife, in my position I couldn't wellinquire further into the poor master's secret. Besides, her ladyshipand others came in at the moment. So he uttered no other word--and diedbefore Doctor Grant could arrive."

  "But what does this all mean, Edgson?" asked the dead man's son,astounded.

  "I don't know, Master Raife," replied the grave-faced old man. "Ireally don't know, sir."

  "To my mind, it seems as though his secret was, in some mysterious way,connected with the fellow who shot him," declared the young fellow, paleand anxious. "My poor mother does not know--eh?"

  "She knows nothing, Master Raife. In the years I have been in theservice of your family, I have learnt discretion. I have told you this,sir, because you are my master's son," was the faithful man's response.

  "You had no inkling of any secret, Edgson?"

  "None in the least, sir, though I have been in Sir Henry's servicethirty-two years come next Michaelmas."

  "It's a complete mystery then?"

  "Yes, sir, a complete mystery. But perhaps you'd like to see themaster's murderer? We've taken his body over to the empty cottage atthe stables. I'm expecting the detectives from London every minute.Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard forassistance."

  "Yes. Take me over there, Edgson," said Raife, boldly. "I wonder if Iknow him! This secret of my father's which he intended to reveal to me,though prevented by death, I mean to investigate--to unravel themystery. Come, Edgson."

  And the young master--now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet--followed thegrave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive,where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock ofwhich, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out thehour.

  CHAPTER THREE.

  THE FATAL FINGERS.

  Upon a bench in the front room of the artistic little cottage, theexterior of which was half hidden by Virginia creeper, lay the body ofthe stranger.

  He was of middle age, with a dark, well-trimmed moustache, highcheek-bones, and hair slightly tinged with grey. He was wearing asmart, dark tweed suit, but his collar had been disarranged, and his tieremoved, in the cursory examination made by the police when called.

  Upon his cold, stiff hands were thin rubber gloves, such as surgeonswear during operations. They told their own tale. He wore them so asto obviate leaving any finger-prints. Upon his waistcoat there was alarge damp patch which showed where Sir Henry's bullet had struck him.

  Old Edgson stood beside his young master, hushed and awed.

  "He's evidently an expert thief," remarked Raife, as he gazed upon thedead assassin's calm countenance. The eyes were, closed and he had allthe composed appearance of a sleeper. "Have they searched him?"

  "I don't know, sir," replied the old man.

  "Then I will," Raife said, and, thereupon, commenced to investigate thedead man's pockets.

  The work did not take long. From the breastpocket of his jacket he drewout a plain envelope containing three five-pound notes, as well as ascrap of torn newspaper. The young fellow, on unfolding it, found it tobe the "Agony" column of the _Morning Post_, in which there was, nodoubt, concealed some secret message. There were, however, a dozen orso advertisements, therefore which of them conveyed the message he wasunable to decide. So he slipped it into his pocket until such time ashe was able to give attention to it.

  In the dead man's vest-pocket he found the return half of a first-classticket from Charing Cross to Tunbridge Wells, issued four dayspreviously, while in one of the trousers-pockets were four sovereigns,some silver, and in the other a bunch of skeleton keys, together with asmall, leather pocket-case containing some strange-looking little steeltools, beautifully finished--the last word in up-to-date instruments forsafe-breaking.

  Raife, holding them in his hand, carried them to the window and examinedthem with keen curiosity. It was, indeed, a neat outfit and could becarried in the pocket without exciting the least suspicion. That theunknown assassin was an expert thief was quite clear.

  Old Edgson was impatient to return to the house.

  "Perhaps her ladyship may be wanting me, sir," he suggested. "May I go,sir?"

  "Yes, Edgson," replied the young man. "Tell my mother, if you see her,that I'll be back presently."

  And the old servant, with his mechanical bow, retired, leaving his youngmaster with his father's murderer.

  Raife gazed in silence upon the face of the dead stranger. Then,presently, speaking to himself, he said:

  "I wonder who he is? The police will find out, no doubt. He's probablyknown, or he would not have been so careful about his finger-prints. Byjove!" he added, "if I'd met him in a train or in the street I wouldnever have suspected him of being a criminal. One is too apt to judge aman by his clothes."

  The local police had evidently gone through the man's pockets forevidence of identification, but finding none, had replaced the articlesin the pockets just as they had found them. Therefore, Raife did thesame, in order that the London detectives might be able to make fullinvestigation. The only thing he kept was the scrap torn from the_Morning Post_.

  He turned the body over to get at the hip-pocket of the trousers, whenfrom it he at length drew a bundle of soft black material, which, whenopened, he found to be a capacious sack of thin black silk, evidentlyfor the purpose of conveying away stolen property.

  This he also replaced, and when, on turning the body into its originalposition, the shirt became further dragged open at the throat he noticedaround it something that had probably been overlooked by the localconstable who had opened the dead man's clothes in an endeavour todiscover traces of life--a very fine silver chain.

  Suspended from the chain was a tiny little ancient Egyptian charm, inthe form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head theroyal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side.

  He removed it from the neck of the unknown, and, holding it in his palm,examined it. The modelling was perfect as a work of ancient art. Itwas cut in camelian about an inch and a quarter long, and, no doubt,five or six thousand years old. Up the back, from head to foot, wereinscribed tiny Egyptian hieroglyphics, the circle of the sun, thefeather, the sign of truth, a man kneeling in the act of adoration, abeetle and an ibis, the meaning of which were only intelligible to anEgyptologist.

  "He wore this as a talisman, no doubt," remarked Raife, speaking tohimself. "Perhaps it may serve as a clue to his identity. Who knows?"

  And, gathering the little goddess and its chain into his palm, hetransferred it to his pocket.

  Just as he did so, voices sounded outside the cottage. Edgson, withthree men in overcoats and bowler hats were coming up the garden path.

  They entered the room without ceremony, and old Edgson, who accompaniedthem, said:

  "These are the gentlemen from London, Master Raife."

  Two of the men respectfully saluted the young baronet--for he had nowsucceeded to the title--while the third, Raife recognised as InspectorCaldwell from Tunbridge Wells.

  "Well, Caldwell," he said. "This is a very sad business for us."

  "Very sad, indeed, sir," was the dark-bearded man's reply. "We allsympathise with you and her ladyship very deeply, sir. Sir Henry washighly respected everywhere, sir, and there wasn't a more just, and yetconsiderate, magistrate on any county bench in England."

  "Is that the popular opinion?" asked Raife, thoughtfully.

  "Yes, sir. That's what everybody says. The awful news has created thegreatest sensation in Tunbridge Wells. I wonder who this blackguardlyindividual is?" he added.

  The two detectives from Scotland Yard had crossed to where the dead manwas lying, his white face upturned, and were scrutinising him narrowly.

  "I don't recognise him," declared the elder of the pair. "He's donetime, no doubt. Look at his gloves."

  "An old hand, that's quite certain. We've got his finger-prints in theDepartment, you bet," remarked the other. "We'd better take off hisg
loves and take some prints as soon as we can; they will, no doubt,establish his identity. Mr Caldwell, will you please telephone to aprinter's somewhere near for a little printing-ink?"

  "Certainly," replied the inspector. "I'll 'phone back to TunbridgeWells and have it sent out by a constable on a bicycle."

  The three officers then proceeded to make a minute examination of thebody, but Raife did not remain. He returned to the house, accompaniedby Edgson.

  A few minutes later he stood in the library before the open safe,plunged in thought. The sunshine streamed across the fine old roomfilled with books from floor to ceiling, for Sir Henry was a student,and