The Mysterious Three Page 5

companion here at dinner could not have been less than forty-five atmost. Even the eyes, those betrayers of disguised faces, bore noresemblance that I could see to the eyes of the man in the picture. Thebeard and moustache of the man facing me were certainly not artificial.That I could see at a glance.

  "Why are you surprised?" the man asked abruptly.

  "It would take a long time to explain," I answered, equivocating, "butit is a curious coincidence that only yesterday I almost met a man namedSmithson. I was wondering if he could be some relation of yours. Hewas not like you in face."

  "Oh, so you know Smithson?"

  "No, I don't know him. I have never met him. I said I _almost_ methim."

  "Have you never seen him, then?"

  "Never in my life."

  "And yet you say he is `not like me in face.' How do you know he is notlike me in face if you have never seen him?"

  The sudden directness of his tone disconcerted me. For an instant Ifelt like a witness being cross-examined by a bullying Counsel.

  "I've seen a portrait of him."

  "Indeed?"

  My companion raised his eyebrows.

  "And where did you see a portrait of him?" he inquired pointedly.

  This was embarrassing. Why was he suddenly so interested, soinquisitive? I had no wish to make statements which I felt might leadto my being dragged into saying all sorts of things I had no wish tosay, especially to a stranger who, though he had led me to believe thathe was acquainted with the Thorolds, apparently had no inkling of whathad just happened at Houghton Park.

  No inkling! I almost smiled as the thought occurred to me, and wasquickly followed by the thought of the sensation the affair would createwhen the newspapers came to hear of what had happened, and began to"spread themselves" upon the subject, as they certainly would do verysoon.

  My companion's voice dispelled my wandering reflections.

  "Where did you see the portrait of this other Smithson?" he asked,looking at me oddly.

  "In a friend's house."

  "Was it at Houghton Park?"

  "In point of fact, it was."

  His eyes seemed to read my thoughts, and I didn't like it. He wassilent for some moments. Then suddenly he rose.

  "Well, Mr. Ashton," he said quite genially, as he extended his hand, "Iam glad that we have met, and I trust we shall meet again. `In point offact,' to use your own phrase, we shall, and very soon. Until then--good-bye. I have enjoyed our little conversation. It has been so--whatshall I say--informal, and it was so unexpected. I did not expect tomeet you to-night, I can assure you."

  He was gone, leaving me in a not wholly pleasant frame of mind. The manpuzzled me. Did I like him, or did I not? His personality attractedme, had done so from the moment I had set eyes on him framed in thedoorway, but I was bound to admit that some of his observations hadannoyed me. In particular, that remark: "We shall meet again, and verysoon;" also his last words: "I did not expect to meet you to-night, Ican assure you," caused me some uneasiness in the face of all that hadhappened. Indeed all through dinner his remarks had somehow seemed tobear some hidden meaning.

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  FURTHER MYSTERY.

  I had to go up to London that night. My lawyers had written some dayspreviously that they must see me personally at the earliest possiblemoment on some matter to do with my investments, which they controlledentirely, and the letter had been left lying at my flat in King Streetbefore being forwarded. And as the Oakham police had impressed upon methat my presence would be needed in Oakham within the next day or two, Ihad decided to run up to London, see my lawyers and get my interviewwith them over, and then return to Rutland as soon as possible.

  Again and again, as the night express tore through the darkness towardsSt. Pancras, Vera's fair face and appealing eyes floated like a visioninto my thoughts. I must see her again, at once--but how could I findher, and where? Would the police try to find her, and her father andmother? But why should they? After all, perhaps Sir Charles and LadyThorold's flight from Houghton did not mean that they intended toconceal themselves. What reason could they have for concealment?

  Then, all at once, an idea occurred to me. I smiled at my stupidity innot thinking of it before. There was the Thorolds' house in BelgraveStreet. It had been shut up for a long time, but perhaps for somereason they had suddenly decided to go back there. On my arrival at St.Pancras I would at once ring up that house and inquire if they werethere.

  But I was doomed to disappointment. While the porter was hailing a taxifor me, I went to the station telephone. There were plenty of Thoroldsin the telephone-directory that hung inside the glass door, but SirCharles' name was missing.

  Determined not to be put off, I told the driver to go first to BelgraveStreet. The number of the Thorolds' house was, I remembered, a hundredand two. By the time we got there it was past midnight. The house boreno sign of being occupied. I was about to ring, when a friendlyconstable with a bull's-eye lantern prevented me.

  "It's empty, sir," he said; "has been for months and months, in fact aslong as I can remember."

  "But surely there is a caretaker," I exclaimed.

  "Oh, there's a caretaker, a very old man," he answered with a grin."But you won't get _him_ to come down at this time of night. He's acharacter, he is."

  There had been nothing in the newspapers that day, but, on the morningafter, the bomb burst.

  AMAZING STORY WELL-KNOWN FAMILY VANISH BUTLER'S BODY IN THE LAKE

  Those headlines, in what news-editors call "war type," met my eyes as Iunfolded the paper.

  I was in bed, and my breakfast on the tray beside me grew cold while Idevoured the three columns of close-set print describing everything thathad occurred from the moment of Sir Charles' disappearance until thepaper had gone to press.

  I caught my breath as I came to my own name. My appearance wasdescribed in detail, names of my relatives were given, and a briefoutline of my father's brilliant career--for he had been a greatsoldier--and then all my movements during the past two days weresummarised.

  I had last been seen, the account ran, dining at the _Stag's Head Hotel_with a gentleman, a stranger, whom nobody seemed to know anything about.He had come to the _Stag's Head_ on the evening of Monday, April 1,engaged a bedroom and a sitting-room in the name of Davies, and he hadleft on the night of Wednesday, April 3. He had intended, according tothe newspaper, to sleep at the _Stag's Head_ that night, but between tenand eleven o'clock he had changed his mind, packed his suit-case, paidhis bill, and left. Where he had come from, none knew; where he hadgone, or why, none knew. How he had spent his time from his arrivaluntil his departure, nobody had been able to discover.

  "All that is known about him," ran the newspaper report, "is that he wasa personal friend of Mr. Richard Ashton, and that he dined at the_Stag's Head Hotel_ with Mr. Ashton on the Wednesday evening, his lastmeal in the hotel before his hurried departure."

  This was horrible. It seemed to convey indirectly the impression that Iknew why the Thorolds had disappeared, and where they had gone. More, acasual reader might easily have been led to suppose that I wasimplicated in some dark plot, involving the death of the butler. Iappeared in the light of a man of mystery, the friend of a man whomight, for aught I knew, be some criminal, but whose name--thiscertainly interested me--he apparently intended should remain secret.

  I turned over the page. Good heavens--my portrait! And the oneportrait of myself that of all others I detested. Anybody looking atthat particular portrait would at once say: "What a villainous man; helooks like a criminal!"

  I remembered now, rather bitterly, making that very observation when theproofs had been sent to me by the photographer, and how my friends hadlaughed and said it was "quite true," and that it resembled a portraitin a Sunday paper of "the accused in Court."

  There were also portraits of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, and a prettypicture of Vera, the best that had ever been taken of her. But the onepor
trait that I felt ought to have been reproduced, though it was not,was one of the bearded giant, who had given his name as Davies.

  Thoroughly disgusted, I turned without appetite to my tepid breakfast.I had hardly begun to eat, when the telephone at my bedside rang.

  Was that Mr. Richard Ashton's flat? asked a voice. Might the speakerspeak to him?

  Mr. Ashton was speaking.

  "Oh, this was the office of _The Morning_. The editor would greatlyappreciate Mr. Ashton's courtesy if he would receive one of hisrepresentatives. He would not detain him long."

  I gulped a mouthful of tea, then explained that I would sooner not beinterviewed. I was extremely sorry, I said, that my name had beendragged into this extraordinary affair.

  The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I amat the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally Irang off.

  A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what?

  "The editor of the--"

  "No," I answered as politely as I could. "I am extremely sorry. Yousee, I have just refused to be interviewed by _The Morning_, and itwould hardly be fair to that journal if... Oh, _The Morning_ was apaper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, butstill... no... no... I was really sorry... I could not... I..."

  I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were fourgentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if--

  "Tell them," I interrupted, "that I cannot see them. And, John--"

  "Sir?"

  "I am not at home to anybody--anybody at all. You understand?"

  "Quite, sir."

  I noticed that his tone was not quite as deferential as usual. I knewthe reason. Of course he had seen this odious paper, or some paper moreodious still. Probably he and the other servants in the building hadbeen discussing me, and hazarding all sorts of wildly improbable storiesabout me.

  The telephone bell rang again. I forget what I said. I think it was ashort prayer, or an invocation of some kind. My first impulse was notto answer the 'phone again at all, but to let the thing go on ringing.It rang so persistently, however, that in desperation I pulled off thereceiver.

  "Who the dickens is it? What do you want?" I shouted.

  I gasped.

  "What! Vera? Where are you? I want to see you. I must see you atonce!"

  My love was in dire distress. I could hear emotion in her voice. Myheart beat quickly in my eagerness.

  "Oh, come to me--do come to me!" she was saying hurriedly in a low tone,as though fearful of some one overhearing her. "I'm in such trouble,and you alone can help me. Tell me when you will come. Tell mequickly. At any moment someone may catch me talking on the telephone."

  "Where are you? Give me your address, quickly," I answered, feverishly.I was madly anxious to meet her again.

  "We are in London--but we go to Brighton--to-day--this afternoon--"

  "Your address in London, quick."

  "Twenty-six Upper--"

  There was a sudden clatter. The receiver had been put back. Some onehad interrupted her.

  I tapped the little lever of the instrument repeatedly.

  "Number, please," a monotonous voice asked.

  "What number was I talking to this instant?" I said, almost tremblingwith anxiety.

  "I'm sure I don't know. What number do you want?"

  "The number I've been talking to."

  "I tell you I don't know it," replied the female operator.

  "Can't you find it out?"

  "I'll try. Hold the line, please."

  After a brief interval, the voice said--

  "It may have been double-two two two Mayfair. Shall I ring them foryou?"

  "Please do."

  I waited.

  "You're through."

  "Hello, what is it?" a beery voice asked.

  "I want to speak to Miss Vera Thorold?"

  "Vera 'oo?"

  "Thorold."

  "Theobald? He's out."

  "_Thorold_, Miss _Vera Thorold_," I shouted in despair.

  "Oh, we ain't got no Veras here," the beery voice replied, and I couldpicture the speaker's leer. "This ain't a ladies' seminary; it'sPoulsen's Brewery Company, Limited. You're on the wrong number. Ringoff."

  And again the instrument was silent.

  Vera had been cut off just at the moment she was about to reveal herwhereabouts.

  Almost beside myself with anxiety, I tried to collect my thoughts inorder to devise some means of discovering Vera's whereabouts and gettinginto immediate communication with her. I even went to the telephoneexchange, interviewed the manager, and told him the exact time, to thefraction of a minute, when I had been rung up, but though he did hisbest to help me, he could not trace the number.

  I have a vivid imagination, and am of an exceptionally apprehensivedisposition, which has led some men to declare that I meet troublehalf-way, though that is a thing I am constantly warning my friends notto do. In this case, however, I found it impossible not to feelanxious, desperately anxious, about the one woman I really cared for inthe whole world. She had appealed to me urgently for help, and I wasimpotent to help her.

  Dejectedly I returned to my flat. The lift-boy was standing in thestreet, his hands in his pockets, the stump of a cheap cigarette betweenhis lips. Without removing his hands from his pockets, or thecigarette-end from his mouth, he looked up at me with an offensive grin,and jerked out the sentence between his teeth--

  "There's a lady here to see you--a Miss Thorold."

  "Miss Thorold? Where is she? How long has she been here?" Iexclaimed, quelling all outward appearance of excitement.

  "About ten minutes. She's up in your rooms, sir. She said you knewher, and she'd wait till you came back."

  "Vera!" I gasped involuntarily, and entered the lift, frantic withimpatience.

  At last. She was there--in my rooms, awaiting me with explanation!

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  PUTS CERTAIN QUESTIONS.

  Rarely have I felt more put out, or more bitterly disappointed, than Idid when I hurried into my flat, expecting to come face to face withVera, my beloved, and longing to take her in my arms to kiss and comforther.

  Instead, I was confronted by a spinster aunt of Vera's whom I had metonly three times before, and to whom I had, the first time I wasintroduced to her--she insisted upon never remembering me either by nameor by sight, and each time needing a fresh introduction--taken anineradicable dislike.

  "Ah, Mr. Ashton, I'm so glad you've come," she said without rising. "Ihave called to talk to you about a great many things--I daresay you canguess what they are--about all this dreadful affair at Houghton."

  Now the more annoyed I feel with anybody of my own social standing, themore coldly polite I invariably become. It was so on this occasion.

  "I should love to stay and talk to you, Miss Thorold," I answered, afteran instant's pause, "but I have just been sitting at the bedside of asick friend. To-day is the first day he has been allowed to seeanybody. The doctor said he ought not to have allowed me in so soon,and he warned me to go straight home, take off every stitch of clothingI have on, and send them at once to be disinfected."

  "Oh, indeed?" she said rather nervously. "And what has been the matterwith your friend?"

  It was the question I wanted.

  "Didn't I tell you?" I said. "It was smallpox."

  My ruse proved even more successful than I had anticipated. MissThorold literally sprang to her feet, gathered up her satchel andumbrella, and with the hurried remark: "How perfectly monstrous--keepwell away from me!" she edged her way round the wall to the door, and,calling to me from the little passage: "I will ring you on thetelephone," went out of the flat, slamming the door after her.

  But where was Vera? How could I discover her? I was beside myself withanxiety.

  The Houghton affair created more than a nine days' wonder. The peopleof Rutland desperately resent anythin
g in the nature of a scandal whichcasts a disagreeable reflection upon their county. I remember how someyears ago they talked for months about an unpleasant affair to do withhunting.

  "Even if it were true," some of the people who knew it to be true saidone to another, "it ought never to have been exposed in that way. Thinkof the discredit it brings upon our county, and what a handle theRadicals and the Socialists will be able to make of it, if ever it isdiscovered that it really did occur."

  And so it came about that, when I was called back to Oakham two dayslater, to attend the double inquest, many of the people there, with whomI had been on quite friendly terms, looked at me more or less askance.It is not well to make oneself notorious in a tiny county like Rutland,I quickly discovered, or even to become notorious through no fault ofone's own.

  Shall I ever forget how, at the inquest, questions put to me by allsorts of uneducated people upon whom the duty devolved of inquiring intothe mysterious affair connected with Houghton Park?

  I suppose it was because there was nobody else to question, that theycross-examined me so closely and so foolishly.

  Their inquiries were endless. Had I known the Thorolds long? Could Iname the date when I first became acquainted with them? Was it a factthat I rode Sir Charles' horses while I was a guest at Houghton? Abouthow often did I ride them? And on how many days did I hunt during thefortnight I spent at Houghton?

  All my