father, before his death, referred to `her'."
"Your respected father was my client and friend through many years,"said Mr Kellaway. "As far as I know, he had no secrets from me."
Raife looked him straight in the face for a few moments withoutspeaking. Like all undergraduates he had no great liking for lawyers.
"Look here, Kellaway," he said slowly. "Are you speaking the truth?"
"The absolute truth," was the other's grave reply.
"Then you know of no secret of my father's. None--eh?"
"Ah, that is quite a different question," the solicitor said. "Duringthe many years I have acted for your late father I have been entrustedwith many of his secrets--secrets of his private affairs and suchlikematters with which a man naturally trusts his lawyer. But there wasnothing out of the common concerning any of them."
"Nothing concerning any lady?"
"Nothing--I assure you."
"Then what do you surmise regarding `the trap,' about which my fatherleft me this inexplicable message?"
"Edgson may be romancing," the lawyer suggested. "In every case of asudden and tragic death, the servant, male or female, always has somecurious theory concerning the affair, some gossip or some scandalconcerning their employer."
"Edgson has been in our family ever since he was a lad. He's notromancing," replied Raife dryly.
Mr Kellaway was a hard, level-headed, pessimistic person, who judgedall men as law-breakers and criminals. He was one of those smug,old-fashioned Bedford Row solicitors, who had a dozen peers as clients,who transacted only family business, and whose firm was an eminentlyrespectable one.
"I have always thought Edgson a most reliable servant," he admitted,crossing to the safe, the key of which Raife had handed to him.
"So he is. And when he tells me that my father possessed a secret,which he has carried to his grave--then I believe him. I have never yetknown Edgson to tell a lie. Neither has my father. He was only sayingso at dinner one night three months ago."
"I have no personal knowledge of any secret of the late Sir Henry's,"responded the elder man, speaking quite openly. "If I knew of any Iwould tell you frankly."
"No, you wouldn't, Kellaway. You know you wouldn't betray a client'sconfidence," said Raife, with a grim, bitter smile, as he stood by theancient window gazing across the old Jacobean garden.
"Ah, perhaps you're right. Perhaps you're right," replied the manaddressed. "But at any rate I repeat that I am ignorant of any factsconcerning your father's past that he had sought to hide."
"You mean that you will not betray my dead father's confidence?"
"I mean what I say, Sir Raife--that I am in entire ignorance of anythingwhich might be construed into a scandal."
"I did not suggest scandal, Mr Kellaway," was his rather hard reply."My father was, I suspect, acquainted with the man who shot him. Thetwo men met in this room, and, I believe, the recognition was mutual!"
"Your father knew the assassin?" echoed the lawyer, staring at the youngman.
"I believe so."
"It seems incredible that Sir Henry should have been acquainted with anexpert burglar--for such he apparently was."
"Why should he have left me that warning message? Why should he seek toforewarn me of some mysterious trap?"
The old solicitor shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. The whole,tragic affair was a complete and absolute mystery.
The London papers that afternoon were full of it, and already a host ofeager reporters and press-photographers were waiting about on theoff-chance of obtaining a glimpse of Raife, or any other member of thebereaved family. More than one had had the audacity to send in his cardto Raife with a request for an interview, which had promptly beenrefused, and Edgson now had orders that the young master was not at hometo any one.
Raife, still unconvinced that Mr Kellaway was in ignorance of hisfather's secret, took him across to the cottage where lay the body ofthe stranger. The police were no longer there, but two doctors weremaking an examination. The inquest had been fixed for the morrow, andthe medical men were consulting prior to the post-mortem.
The cause of death was only too apparent, but the principles of the laware hidebound, and it was necessary that a post-mortem should be made,in order that the coroner's jury should arrive at their verdict.
Later Raife, assisted the family solicitor to gather out the contents ofthe safe and make them into bundles, which they sealed up carefully andcounted.
"Of course," Kellaway said, "I am not aware of the contents of yourlamented father's will, and I frankly confess I was rather disappointedat not being asked to make it."
"I think it was made by some solicitors in Edinburgh," was Raife'sreply. "Gordon and Gordon, I believe, is the name of the firm. It isdeposited at Barclay's Bank in London."
"The executors will, no doubt, know. You have wired to them, you say?"Then, after a pause, Kellaway added: "The fact that Sir Henry engaged astrange solicitor to draw up his will would rather lead to theassumption that he had something to hide from me, wouldn't it?"
"By jove, yes," was the young man's response. "I had never thought ofthat! He wished to preserve his secret until his death. I wonder ifthe will reveals anything?"
"Perhaps--who knows?"
Raife remained silent. He was still carefully removing the papers fromthe steel inner drawer of the safe--a drawer which had been overlookedwhen he had made his investigation. The papers were mostly memorandaregarding financial transactions, sales and purchases of land, and othermatters. Among them were a number of old letters, mostly signed byGeorge Mountjoy, who had been member for South Gloucestershire, and hisfather's particular crony. He had died a year ago, and Sir Henry hadkeenly felt the loss of his life-long friend.
They had been as brothers, and old Mr Mountjoy was frequently a guestat Aldborough for months at a stretch, and treated quite as one of thefamily.
Letter after letter he turned over aimlessly, reading scraps here andthere. They were strange letters, which showed a great bond offriendship existing between the two men. In some, Mountjoy asked SirHenry's advice regarding his most intimate and private affairs, and inothers he gave the baronet his aid, and made suggestions regarding hisline of action in many matters.
One struck him as very strange. Dated from the Hotel Angst, inBordighera, over three years ago, it contained the following passage:
"As you have asked my advice upon the most secret page of our history, my dear Henry, I am most decidedly and emphatically of opinion that it will be best to allow them to remain in entire ignorance. He should, however, be diplomatically warned lest the pitfall you fear be placed in his path--as no doubt it will be sooner or later.
"Under no circumstances whatever would I alarm your wife by revealing to her the truth. Remember the state of her health is delicate, and undue anxiety would most probably shatter her nerves. No, remain silent. Only you and I know the truth, and that it is our duty to keep it strictly to ourselves.
"I know how it must gall you, and how helpless you must feel in the strange, unheard-of circumstances. But I beg of you to regard the threats as idle ones. For your safety I fear nothing, but for Raife it is different. He should be warned, but not in a way to cause him undue anxiety; only to impress upon him the need of shrewd precaution against his enemies.
"I shall never divulge the truth, and you, my dear Henry, should still preserve a calm and smiling face. Too well I know the extreme difficulty of doing this; but remember there is not the least suspicion of the truth abroad, and that most men in every walk of life have ugly secrets which they would not care to expose to the light of day.
"Your son, Raife, is in ignorance. Let him remain so, I beg of you. The truth, if told, will only bring unhappiness upon you both. He is young and fearless. Warn him against the trap that we, alas! know will be set sooner or later. But further than that do not go. I shall be back in London at the end of this month, and we can discuss
the situation further."
The remainder of the letter consisted mainly of Riviera gossip.
Raife stood staring at the sheet of grey note-paper, his brows knit inwonder.
"What is it?" asked Kellaway, noticing the effect the letter had hadupon the young man.
"Read that," was his reply. "It shows that my suspicions werewell-grounded. My father had a secret--a secret which was known to noone else besides his friend, George Mountjoy. Read it, Kellaway. It isevident from that letter, and from the poor guv'nor's dying messageurging me to be careful, that I am in some strange, mysterious peril!What can it be?"
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE MYSTERY OF THE WHITE ROOM.
The routine of a coroner's inquest does not vary much. In this instancethe victim of a very obvious murder being a man of great distinction, aman who had rendered his country high political service, arousedwidespread interest. Tunbridge Wells, where it was decided to hold theinquiry, was crowded with visitors as it has never been since the daysof Beau Brummell and Beau Nash, those gay leaders of old-time societywhich foregathered at Bath, Tunbridge Wells, and the other inland spasof our country, to drink the waters, intrigue, elope, fight duels, andmake for _la joie de vivre_ as it was then constituted.
Every hotel was crowded, and even some of the old-world coaching innsrevived the ancient glories that belonged to them in the days whensociety travelled by post-chaise and coach, and footpads and highwaymenwere a terror on the King's highway.
A mixed throng promenaded the old Pantiles, discussing with breathlessinterest each item of fact or speculation that leaked out from theovercrowded and evil-smelling court-room. There were gaily dressed"society" women, newspaper men--descriptive writers--representing papersall over the country, the United States, Paris, and Rome. The tenantsof the murdered baronet and farmers drove in from the countryside. Acrowd of well-dressed idlers, those ghouls who appear to gloat overcrime and its details wherever it may occur.
The rumour that Sir Henry Remington was the victim of politicalassassination gained credence. The newsboys shouted the startlingheadlines and sold more evening newspapers than if it had been theresult of a football cup-tie.
Lady Remington, as became her position, the wife of an aristocrat,nerved herself for the occasion and gave her evidence calmly, and in alow, musical voice. The old butler, Edgson, an aristocrat of his craft,repeated the story we already know. The police had failed to identifythe body of the dead assassin. Raife's evidence threw no light on thesubject. The verdict of murder by a person unknown was returned. Theforeman asked permission, as representing the tenants, tradesmen andresidents of the country around, to express their sympathy with thefamily of the late Sir Henry. With the indulgence of the coroner, hesupplemented the testimony that Inspector Caldwell had given in thedeath chamber, when Raife met him there with the detectives from London.
The court-house was soon cleared. The unwonted crowd of visitorsscattered, returning to their destinations, and Tunbridge Wells resumedits normal state, leaving the tragic mystery still unsolved.
Lady Remington, with Miss Hope and a maid, had returned in the car toAldborough Park. When her ladyship reached her boudoir she collapsed,after the strain of the proceedings of the coroner's court. The vulgarstare of the mixed crowd in the close room, the foetid atmosphere, theprinted impertinences of some of the newspaper reporters, all had servedto shatter her nerves, already tried by the tragic loss of the lovedhusband who had been her idol--her only love. The sweet-faced,grey-haired old lady reclined in a semi-conscious state, yet sobbingbitterly in the privacy of her boudoir. The rigid Miss Hope displayed apart of the anomalous dispositions of womenkind. Her austere featuresrelaxed, and with tears, at first trickling, then flowing, sheministered to the stricken widow and gave what comfort she could.
The superficial austerity of a mature spinster should be treated withindulgence. Blighted love leaves a blight on the temperament of somewomen, whom a malignant fate has doomed to a solitude for which, bynature, at the outset, they were not intended. The history orlife-story of Miss Hope does not concern this narrative further thanthis--that all the pent-up and hidden charm of a once passionate natureextended itself to this lady in great distress. Although the privacy ofthe boudoir should screen from public ear and gaze much of the tragedyof bereavement, who shall say that the sympathetic record of such abeautiful scene of human emotion is not justified?
Through her sobs Lady Remington spoke in a low, sweet voice. "Leave me,now, Miss Hope. You have been very kind. Thank you so much. Youcannot do any more for me! I must fight this grief alone."
There was no angularity of movement, no austerity of countenance now inMiss Hope. Her very voice assumed a softness that would have seemedstrange to those who were only familiar with the mental mask she had solong worn in public. She started towards the door, and held it halfopen. Then, closing it again with swift, graceful movements, shecrossed the room and knelt at the lounge on which Lady Remingtonreclined amidst soft rich cushions of eiderdown. She wept no more; norhad tears left her face stained. Instead, a radiance suffused hercheeks, and her eyes glistened, betraying a beauty that had long beenhidden by the set expression of that mask, assumed at first, habitual bylong use.
"Lady Remington! Oh, Lady Remington! let me speak--let me tell you! I,too, have suffered. Don't stop me. Let me tell you a story to the end.It may help you."
Then commenced a life-story, told musically, almost rhythmically, oflove, deceit, treachery, ending in a debacle that soured a beautifuldisposition of a lovely girl. Miss Hope did not imply that she had beena lovely girl, but her radiant face, with the deep grey eyes, that forthe first time during many years disclosed their full size and thelimpid look of sincerity, made it evident to the stricken widow.Abruptly she finished the story, and, rising from her knees, she startedacross the room again. She had proceeded a bare pace or two when LadyRemington, with a vigour, surprising for her years, almost leapt fromthe lounge, and, throwing her arms around Miss Hope's neck, exclaimed"Gladys! Gladys Hope! you have taught me a lesson in bravery that Iwill never forget. You are no longer Miss Hope. You are, if you willlet me, Gladys, a dear, dear friend to me. As long as I am spared Iwill endeavour to be more than a friend to you!"
They embraced again and again, until the arrival of the maid with teaafforded the opportunity of a closing scene that had been tense andaffecting to both women.
The new baronet left the coroner's court, and, walking down a longstable-yard of one of the hotels, escaped from the inquisitive crowdthat pursued him, by entering a coach-house with a side door that led tothe scullery and kitchen of the hotel. Quickly he made for a door inthe narrow passage that led to the coffee-room and main entrance.Unbolting the door, which was seldom used in these latex days, heslipped into a narrow alley way. With rapid strides he found himself,unobserved, in one of the old post-houses in a side street. Raifewalked right through the low-ceilinged bar to the private parlour, withits oak beams, swinging lamp, and wide, open fireplace and chimney, fromwhich were hanging a few hams and a side of bacon. In a woodenarm-chair with high back, without cushions, sat an elderly man,pink-cheeked and clean-shaven except for two tufts of close-cropped sidewhiskers. He was smoking a long churchwarden pipe, and the air wasredolent with the perfume of a Virginian tobacco, which, if too pungentin excess, possessed an aroma which, by indulgence, is, by some atleast, considered not nauseating. He was smoking shag tobacco. At hisside, on a deal table which had been scrubbed once a day at least, forsome seventy years, was an old brown toby of Kentish ale.
Kent is the garden of England, and Kentish hops are responsible for muchthat has been good in English manhood. Mr Twisegood was born in Kentof a long line of Kentish ancestry, and Kentish hops had formed asubstantial portion of his and their daily fare. Rising from his chairas Raife entered, he displayed a portly and robust frame.
"Good afternoon, Master Raife," he said. "I'm very sorry to hear allthis 'ere bad news about
your father, Master Raife. I beg your pardon,Master Raife, I suppose as 'ow as I ought to carl yer Sir Raife now,sir. Beg your pardon, Master Raife--I mean Sir Raife, sir!"
In spite of the heavy load on his mind, Raife smiled, and, laying hishand on the old man's shoulders, said cheerily, "No, Twisegood, I hope Ishall always be Master Raife to you--and to some others. Yes!Twisegood, it's a sad case and I'm much troubled. I've come to you tohelp me."
"Lud a mussy, sir, help 'ee! What can I do to help the likes o' you?I'll help, sure enough, if I can help. Now tell me, Master Raife, whatcan. I do for 'ee?"
When Raife was a lad, and a mischievous lad, there were many scrapes outof which he had been lifted by old Twisegood. Before the old maninherited the public-house that had been a post-house, he had worked, asmany of his ancestors had, on the Remington estates.
There still remains, in spite of the spirit of unrest and agitation,which, rightly or wrongly, pervades the land, a strong sympathy betweenthe old families and their tenants and retainers. Twisegood was of thetype that made true knighthood, when knight-errantry was in a cause thatthey felt to be good. The Twisegoods had been retainers of theReymingtounes since the Tudors, and the spirit of loyalty was strongwithin him when the young master had said, "I've come to you to helpme." Raife smiled again and said: "I don't want much, Twisegood, I wantyou to let me have the long white room overlooking the stable-yard. Iwant you to see that the shutters will bolt firmly from within, and seeto