CHAPTER XXIX
CONTAINS A FURTHER MYSTERY
"My dear Edgar, when I met you in the Devonshire Club last night I couldscarcely believe my own eyes. Fancy you turning up again!"
"Yes, strange, isn't it, how two men may drift apart for years, and thensuddenly meet in a club, as we have done, Murie?"
"Being with those fellows who were anxious to go along and see the showat the Empire last night, I had no opportunity of having a chat withyou, my dear old chap. That's why I asked you to look in."
The two men were seated in Walter's dingy chambers on the second floorin Fig-Tree Court, Temple. The room was an old and rather frowsy one,with shabby leather furniture from which the stuffing protruded,panelled walls, a carpet almost threadbare, and a formidable array ofcalf-bound volumes in the cases lining one wall. The place was heavywith tobacco-smoke as the pair, reclining in easy-chairs, were in thefull enjoyment of very excellent cigars.
Walter's visitor was a tall, dark man, some six or seven years hissenior, a rather spare, lantern-jawed young fellow, whose dark-greyclothes were of unmistakable foreign cut; and whose moustache wascarefully trained to an upward trend. No second glance was required todecide that Edgar Hamilton was a person who, having lived a long time onthe Continent, had acquired the cosmopolitan manner both in gesture andin dress.
"Well," exclaimed Murie at last, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips,"since we parted at Oxford I've been called to the Bar, as you see. Asfor practice--well, I haven't any. The gov'nor wants me to go in forpolitics, so I'm trying to please him by getting my hand in. I make anodd speech or two sometimes in out-of-the-world villages, and I hope,one day, to find myself the adopted candidate for some borough or other.Last year I was sent round the world by my fond parents in order toobtain a broader view of life. Is it not Tacitus who says, '_Sua cuiquevita obscura est_'?"
"Yes, my dear fellow," replied Hamilton, stretching himself lazily inhis chair. "And surely we can say with Martial, '_Non est vivere, sedvalere vita_'--I am well, therefore I am alive! Mine has been a rathercurious career up to the present. I only once heard of you afterOxford--through Arthur Price, who was, you'll remember, at Balliol. Hewrote that he'd spoken one night to you when at supper at the Savoy. Youhad a bevy of beauties with you, he said."
Both men laughed. In the old days, Edgar Hamilton had been essentially aladies' man; but, since they had parted one evening on thestation-platform at Oxford, Hamilton had gone up to town and completelyout of the life of Walter Murie. They had not met until the previousevening, when Walter, having dined at the Devonshire--that comfortableold-world club in St. James's Street which was the famous Crockford'sgaming-house in the days of the dandies--he had met his old friend inthe strangers' smoking-room, the guest of a City stockbroker who wasentertaining a party. A hurried greeting of surprise, and an invitationto call in at the Temple resulted in that meeting on that greyafternoon.
Six years had gone since they had parted; and, judging from Edgar'sexterior, he had been pretty prosperous.
Walter was laughing and commenting upon it when his friend, removing hiscigar from his lips, said, "My dear fellow, my success has been entirelydue to one incident which is quite romantic. In fact, if anybody wroteit in a book people would declare it to be fiction."
"That's interesting! Tell me all about it. My own life has been humdrumenough in all conscience. As a budding politician, I have to browse uponblue-books and chew statistics."
"And mine has been one of travel, adventure, and considerableexcitement," declared Hamilton. "Six months after I left Oxford I foundmyself out in Transcaucasia as a newspaper correspondent. As you know, Ioften wrote articles for some of the more precious papers when atcollege. Well, one of them sent me out to travel through the disturbedKurdish districts. I had a tough time from the start. I was out with aCossack party in Thai Aras valley, east of Erivan, for six months, andwrote lots of articles which created a good deal of sensation here inEngland. You may have seen them, but they were anonymous. The life ofexcitement, sometimes fighting and at others in ambush in the mountains,suited me admirably, for I'm a born adventurer, I believe. One day,however, a strange thing happened. I was riding along alone through oneof the mountain passes towards the Caspian when I discovered three wild,fierce-looking Kurds maltreating a girl, believing her to be a Russian.I called upon them to release her, for she was little more than a child;and, as they did not, I shot two of the men. The third shot and pluggedme rather badly in the leg; but I had the satisfaction that my shotsattracted my Cossack companions, who, coming quickly on the spot, killedall three of the girl's assailants, and released her."
"By Jove!" laughed Murie. "Was she pretty?"
"Not extraordinarily--a fair-haired girl of about fifteen, dressed inEuropean clothes. I fainted from loss of blood, and don't rememberanything else until I found myself in a tent, with two Cossacks patchingup my wound. When I came to, she rushed forward, and thanked meprofusely for saving her. To my surprise, she spoke in French, and oninquiry I found that she was the daughter of a certain Baron Conrad deHetzendorf, an Austrian, who possessed a house in Budapest and a chateauat Semlin, in South Hungary. She told us a curious story. Her father hadsome business in Transcaucasia, and she had induced him to take her withhim on his journey. Only certain districts of the country weredisturbed; and apparently, with their guide and escort, they hadunwittingly entered the Aras region--one of the most lawless of themall--in ignorance of what was in progress. She and her father,accompanied by a guide and four Cossacks, had been riding along whenthey met a party of Kurds, who had attacked them. Both father anddaughter had been seized, whereupon she had lost consciousness fromfright, and when she came to again found that the four Cossacks had beenkilled, her father had been taken off, and she was alone in the brutalhands of those three wild-looking tribesmen. As soon as she had told usthis, the officer of the Cossacks to which I had attached myself calledthe men together, and in a quarter of an hour the whole body went forthto chase the Kurds and rescue the Baron. One big Cossack, in his longcoat and astrakhan cap, was left to look after me, while Nicosia--thatwas the girl's name--was also left to assist him. After three days theyreturned, bringing with them the Baron, whose delight at finding hisdaughter safe and unharmed was unbounded. They had fought the Kurds anddefeated them, killing nearly twenty. Ah, my dear Murie, you haven't anynotion of the lawless state of that country just then! And I fear it ispretty much the same now."
"Well, go on," urged his friend. "What about the girl? I suppose youfell in love with her, and all that, eh?"
"No, you're mistaken there, old chap," was his reply. "When sheexplained to her father what had happened, the Baron thanked me verywarmly, and invited me to visit him in Budapest when my leg grew strongagain. He was a man of about fifty, who, I found, spoke English verywell. Nicosia also spoke English, for she had explained to me that hermother, now dead, had been a Londoner. The Baron's business inTranscaucasia was, he told me vaguely, in connection with the survey ofa new railway which the Russian Government was projecting eastward fromErivan. For two days he remained with us; but during those days my woundwas extremely painful owing to lack of surgical appliances, so we spokeof very little else besides the horrible atrocities committed by theKurds. He pressed me to visit him; and then, with an escort of ourCossacks, he and his daughter left for Tiflis; whence he took train backto Hungary.
"For six months I remained, still leading that roving, adventurous life.My leg was well again, but my journalistic commission was at an end, andone day I found myself in Odessa, very short of funds. I recollected theBaron's invitation to Budapest, therefore I took train there, and foundhis residence to be one of those great white houses on the Franz JosefQuay. He received me with marked enthusiasm, and compelled me to be hisguest. During the first week I was there I told him, in confidence, myposition, whereupon he offered me a very lucrative post as hissecretary, a post which I have retained until this moment."
"And the girl?" Walter asked, much int
erested.
"Oh, she finished her education in Dresden and in Paris, and now livesmostly with her aunt in Vienna," was Hamilton's response. "Quiterecently she's become engaged to young Count de Solwegen, the son of oneof the wealthiest men in Austria."
"I thought you'd probably become the happy lover."
"Lover!" cried his friend. "How could a poor devil like myself everaspire to the hand of the daughter of the Baron de Hetzendorf? The namedoesn't convey much to you, I suppose?"
"No, I don't take much interest in unknown foreigners, I confess,"replied Walter, with a smile.
"Ah, you're not a cosmopolitan nor a financier, or you would know thethousand-and-one strings which are pulled by Conrad de Hetzendorf, orthe curious stories afloat concerning him."
"Curious stories!" echoed Murie. "Tell me some. I'm always interested inanything mysterious."
Hamilton was silent for a few moments.
"Well, old chap, to tell you the truth, even though I've got such acomfortable and lucrative post, I'm, even after these years,considerably mystified."
"How?"
"By the real nature of the Baron's business."
"Oh, he's a mysterious person, is he?"
"Very. Though I'm his confidential secretary, and deal with his affairsin his absence, yet in some matters he is remarkably close, as though hefears me."
"You live always in Budapest, I suppose?"
"No. In summer we are at the country house, a big place overlooking theDanube outside Semlin, and commanding a wide view of the great Hungarianplain."
"The Baron transacts his business there, eh?"
"From there or from Budapest. His business is solely with an office inthe Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, and a registered telegraphicaddress also in Paris."
"Well, there's nothing very mysterious in that, surely. Some businessmatters must, of necessity, be conducted with secrecy."
"I know all that, my dear fellow, but--" and he hesitated, as thoughfearing to take his friend into his confidence.
"But what?"
"Well--but there, no! You'd laugh at me if I told you the real reason ofmy uneasiness."
"I certainly won't, my dear Hamilton," Murie assured him. "We arefriends to-day, dear old chap, just as we were at college. Surely it isnot the place of a man to poke fun at his friend?"
The argument was apparently convincing. The Baron's secretary smoked onin thoughtful silence, his eyes fixed upon the wall in front of him.
"Well," he said at last, "if you promise to view the matter in allseriousness, I'll tell you. Briefly, it's this. Of course, you've neverbeen to Semlin--or Zimony, as they call it in the Magyar tongue. Tounderstand aright, I must describe the place. In the extreme south ofHungary, where the river Save joins the Danube, the town of Semlinguards the frontier. Upon a steep hill, five kilometres from the town,stands the Baron's residence, a long, rather inartistic white building,which, however, is very luxuriously furnished. Comparatively modern, itstands near the ruins of a great old castle of Hetzendorf, whichcommands a wide sweep of the Danube. Now, amid those ruins strangenoises are sometimes heard, and it is said that upon all who hear themfalls some terrible calamity. I'm not superstitious, but I've heardthem--on three occasions! And somehow--well, somehow--I cannot get ridof an uncanny feeling that some catastrophe is to befall me! I can't goback to Semlin. I'm unnerved, and dare not return there."
"Noises!" cried Walter Murie. "What are they like?" he asked quickly,starting from his chair, and staring at his friend.
"They seem to emanate from nowhere, and are like deep but distantwhispers. So plain they were that I could have sworn that some one wasspeaking, and in English, too!"
"Does the baron know?"
"Yes, I told him, and he appeared greatly alarmed. Indeed, he gave meleave of absence to come home to England."
"Well," exclaimed Murie, "what you tell me, old chap, is mostextraordinary! Why, there is almost an exactly similar legend connectedwith Glencardine!"
"Glencardine!" cried his friend. "Glencardine Castle, in Scotland! I'veheard of that. Do you know the place?"
"The estate marches with my father's, therefore I know it well. Howextraordinary that there should be almost exactly the same legendconcerning a Hungarian castle!"
"Who is the owner of Glencardine?"
"Sir Henry Heyburn, a friend of mine."
"Heyburn!" echoed Hamilton. "Heyburn the blind man?" he gasped, graspingthe arm of his chair and staring back at his companion. "And he is yourfriend? You know his daughter, then?"
"Yes, I know Gabrielle," was Walter's reply, as there flashed across himthe recollection of that passionate letter to which he had not replied."Why?"
"Is she also your friend?"
"She certainly is."
Hamilton was silent. He saw that he was treading dangerous ground. Thelegend of Glencardine was the same as that of the old Magyar strongholdof Hetzendorf. Gabrielle Heyburn was Murie's friend. Therefore heresolved to say no more.
Gabrielle Heyburn!