Christchurch, past the grey old abbey church and on throughsuburban Boscombe until, just after nine o'clock, I pulled up before thebig entrance to the Bath Hotel in Bournemouth.
Into the pretty palm-court, where I waited, Asta, my lost love, came atlast with outstretched hand, smiling me a welcome greeting. She lookeddainty in blue serge skirt and muslin blouse, and there being no oneelse in the place at that early hour,--the idlers not yet having arrivedto read the papers and novels,--we sat together in a corner to chat.
By the pallor of her soft, delicate countenance, I saw that she wasnervous and troubled, though she showed a brave front, and affected agay lightheartedness that was only feigned.
"Tell me, Miss Seymour," I said presently, bending to her veryseriously, "what happened to you on that night in Aix?"
"Happened!" she echoed, her dark eyes opening widely. "Ah! It was,indeed, a narrow escape. Had Dad not provided himself with a key to theback stairs in readiness for emergencies, we should have both beenarrested--just as you were."
"Yes," I smiled. "But I was released. What happened to you?"
"We caught the Paris express--only just as it was leaving; but Dad,fearing that our flight had been telephoned to Paris, decided to get outat Laroche, where we stopped to change engines, and from there we tooktrain by Troyes and Nancy to Strassbourg. Then, once in Germany, wecould, of course, escape Tramu's attentions," and she smiled.
"And from Germany?"
"We remained a week in Berlin; thence we went to Copenhagen by way ofKiel and Korsor, and ten days ago crossed from Hamburg to Harwich--homeagain."
"Your father is certainly extremely clever in evading the police," Isaid, with a laugh.
"Our only fear was for you," she said; "whether they would learn anything by watching you."
"They learnt nothing, even though they submitted me to a very closeexamination. But," I added, "how did you know Tramu was in Aix?"
"I was ascending in the lift that evening, and as we passed the firstfloor I saw him talking with the hotel manager. Dad had once pointedhim out to me at Monte Carlo. So I suspected the reason of his visitthere, and scribbled you a line of warning before we took our bags andslipped away."
"But for what reason is he so anxious to secure your arrest?" I asked,looking straight into her face. "Cannot you tell me the truth, MissSeymour? Remember, I am your friend," I added earnestly.
"Please do not ask me," she urged. "I cannot betray the man who hasbeen father to me all these years," she added in a low, pained voice.
"But are you quite certain that he is as devoted to you as heprofesses?" I asked very gravely.
"Absolutely. Am I not the only real friend he has?"
I recollected that letter written by the man who had loved her, and theallegations he had made.
"Do you know," I said, "the other night I had burglars at my home. Theytried to break open the safe which contains that mysterious cylindergiven into my charge by Mr Melvill Arnold."
"The cylinder!" she gasped, instantly turning pale as death. "Ah! thathateful cylinder, which brings upon its possessor misfortune anddisaster. Why don't you get rid of it, Mr Kemball?"
"I have. It is now in the Safe Deposit Company's vaults in ChanceryLane."
She held her breath, her gaze fixed upon me. Then involuntarily shelaid her slim white hand upon my coat-sleeve, and said--
"I--I always fear for your safety, Mr Kemball, while that thing is inyour possession. Give it away. Destroy it--anything--only get rid ofit!"
"But I cannot until the third of November. I accepted a sacred trust,remember, given by a dying man," I said.
"Yes--but--"
"But what?" I asked. Then in a low voice, as I bent towards her, Iadded: "Miss Seymour, I have deep suspicion that your father--a friendof Arnold's--knows what the cylinder contains, and is extremely eager toget possession of it. Is not that so?"
She was silent. Her lips moved nervously. Her indecision to speak toldme the truth. We were friends, therefore she could not deliberately lieto me.
A faint smile overspread her pale, refined features. That was all, butit told its own tale.
"Well," I said, "the burglars, whoever they were, were experts, and onlythe electric alarm prevented the theft. What the ancient cylinderreally contains I cannot imagine. Indeed, I am filled with anxiety andimpatience for the dawn of November the third, when, without doubt, Ishall learn the truth."
"Yes, no doubt," she said in a slow, tremulous tone. "And the truthwill surely be a stranger one than you have ever dreamed."
Our _tete-a-tete_ was suddenly interrupted by a woman entering thelounge; therefore, as Asta had her hat and coat with her, I suggestedthat we should walk down to the beach, an idea which she readilyadopted.
Then, when there was no one to overhear, I told her of my adventure inthe night, of Tramu's inquiries in the neighbourhood of Ridgehill Manor,and of his surveillance of the movements of Mrs Olliffe and her father.
"Tramu!" she gasped, her face white as death. "Then he has found poorDad! Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I had no wish to alarm you unduly, Miss Seymour," I said veryquietly.
"But Dad may be arrested!" she cried. "Ah! how fatal to associate againwith that accursed woman."
"She is certainly no friend of yours."
"But she makes great pretence of friendship. I have often been herguest."
"For the last time, I trust."
"Yes. But what can we do? How can I warn Dad?" she asked in deepanxiety.
"Ah, Miss Seymour," I said, after a brief silence, "I fear that youthink a little too much of your foster-father, and too little of yourown self."
"Why?" she asked quickly, with some resentment. Again I hesitated. Wehad wandered upon the pier, but it was as yet early, and few people,save the early-morning exercise men, were about.
"Let us sit here a moment," I suggested at last. "It is pleasant in thesunshine. I have something to show you."
Without a word she seated herself where I suggested, on a seat near theempty band-stand, and then I drew from my pocket the letter which GuyNicholson had written to me on the night of his tragic death and handedit to her.
I watched her sweet face, so pale and anxious. In an instant sherecognised the writing of the hand now dead, and read it through eagerlyfrom end to end.
I explained how it had come so tardily into my possession, whereupon shesaid--
"It is true. He disliked Dad for some inexplicable reason."
"Apparently he had become aware of some extraordinary truth. It wasthat truth which he had intended to explain to me, but, poor fellow, hewas prevented from doing so by his sudden death."
Sight of that letter had recalled to her visions of the man whom she hadloved so fondly, and next instant I hated myself for having actedinjudiciously in showing her the curious missive.
Ah, how deeply, how devotedly I loved her! and yet I dared not utter onesingle word of affection. That calm, sweet countenance, with those big,wonderful eyes, was ever before me, sleeping or waking, and yet I knewnot from hour to hour that she might not be arrested and placed in acriminal dock, as accomplice of that arch-adventurer Shaw--that man wholed such a strange dual existence of respectability and undesirability.
"I cannot understand what he discovered regarding the apparition of thehand," she exclaimed at last, still gazing upon the letter in ahalf-dreamy kind of way.
"It seems as though, by some fact accidentally discovered, he arrived atthe solution of the mystery," I said. "It was to explain this to methat he intended to come over to Upton End, but was, alas! prevented."
"But why didn't he tell me?" she queried. "It surely concerned myselffor I had seen it, not in our own house, remember, but in the house of afriend at Scarborough."
"And I saw it in an obscure French inn," I said; "and previously I hadbeen warned against it."
"Yes, I agree, Mr Kemball. It is a complete mystery. Ah! howunfortunate that poor
Guy never lived to tell you his theory concerningthe strange affair. But," she added, "our present action must concerndear old Dad. What do you suggest we should do? How can we give himwarning?"
"I can suggest nothing," was my reply. "Tramu is watching them both.Probably he is fully aware of some ingenious conspiracy in progress."
"Ah! I foresaw danger in his association with her," the girl declared,pale and anxious in her despair.
"But why has not your father returned to Lydford? Surely while hiswhereabouts could be preserved from Tramu he would be safer there thananywhere!"
"You might be watched, and if you visited us, you might be followed.Tramu is, as you know, one of the most famous detectives in Europe."
"And he has, in your father, one who is a past-master in the art ofevasion. But," I added, "tell me frankly, Miss Seymour, do youanticipate that he is anxious to possess himself of the bronzecylinder?" She hesitated again.
"Well--yes. As you ask me for a plain reply, I tell you that I believehis intention is to gain possession of it."
"Why?"
"Because of the great secret therein contained."
"And of what nature is this remarkable secret?" I demanded eagerly,much puzzled by her response.
"Ah! how can we tell? It is a secret from all, save to the person whoshall dare break it open and examine it."
"And dare you break it open, Miss Seymour?" I asked.
"No--a thousand times no!" she cried, alarmed at the very suggestion."I would rather see it taken up and cast deep into the sea. Why don'tyou do that, Mr Kemball? Take it out in a boat and sink it deep in thewaters, where no man--not even divers--could ever recover it. Sink itdeeply," she urged, "so that all fears may be dispelled, and peace andlove may reign."
But I shook my head, expressing regret at my utter inability to accedeto her desire.
And then very slowly we retraced our steps back to the hotel, where anunexpected surprise was, we found, awaiting us.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
CONTAINS AN OMINOUS MESSAGE.
As we re-entered the pretty winter garden the hall-porter gave Asta atelegram, which she tore open hastily and read, afterwards handing it tome in silence.
To my surprise, I found it to be from Shaw, informing her that he was onhis way to Lydford, and asking her to return home that day. The messagehad been handed in at Bath Railway Station, therefore it appeared thathe was already on his way.
"Is there not danger, distinct danger, in this, Mr Kemball?" shequeried, in great anxiety. "If Tramu were watching last night, then hewill be followed home!"
"I don't see how we can prevent him from going to Lydford now," I said."We have no address where a telegram would reach him."
Truly the situation was a critical one. Harvey Shaw, all unconscious ofbeing watched, was actually returning to his highly respectable home.
"Oh, if I could only warn him!" Asta cried, wringing her hands. Yet,personally, I was not thinking of the man's peril so much as hers. Ifshe went to Lydford, would not she also fall into the drag-net of thepolice?
Yet what was the mysterious charge against her--the charge which theFrench police had refused to reveal to me?
While she changed her dress and packed her small trunk I had a lookaround my engine, and an hour later, with her sitting beside me, we werealready buzzing along the Salisbury road, returning by that level way Ihad followed earlier that morning. From Salisbury we travelled thewhole day by way of Andover, Newbury, and Oxford, the same road that Ihad traversed in the night on my way to Bath.
It was delightful to have her as companion through those sunny hours onthe road, and she looked inexpressibly dainty in her close-fittinglittle bonnet, fur coat, and gauntlet gloves. An enthusiastic motorist,she often drove her father's car, which I now understood they had beencompelled to abandon in the garage at Aix. The police had takenpossession of it, but as both the French and English numbers it borewere false ones no clue to the address of its owner would be obtained.
Yet though she charmed me by her voice, though her sweet beauty filledmy whole being and intoxicated my senses, nevertheless I somehowexperienced a strange presage of evil.
Had Harvey Shaw once again exercised those precautions against disasterand managed to elude the vigilance of the great French police-agent?That was the main question in my mind as I drove the car hard, for Astaseemed all eagerness to get home. If Shaw had been unsuspicious, whatmore natural than that he should be followed by Tramu to thathiding-place where he assumed the role of country gentleman.
The autumn afternoon wore on, and I could not help noticing that thenearer we approached her home the paler and more anxious became the girlat my side. And I loved her, ah yes! I loved her more than my pen haspower to describe. She possessed me body and soul. She was all in allto me.
That she was reflecting upon the letter penned by Guy almost immediatelybefore his death I knew by her several references to it.
"I wonder what is the solution of that shadowy hand which we both haveseen, Mr Kemball?" she exclaimed suddenly, after sitting in silence forsome time, her eyes fixed upon the muddy road that lay before us.
"You mean the solution at which Nicholson apparently arrived?" I said.
"Yes."
"How can we tell? He evidently discovered, something--something ofextreme importance which he wished to communicate to me."
"I wonder why he makes those extraordinary statements about Dad--and thelocked cupboard in his room?"
"I don't know. Have you ever seen inside that cupboard?" I askedquickly, my eyes still upon the road.
"Never. But poor Guy seems to have regarded it as a kind of Bluebeard'scupboard, doesn't he?"
"He seems to have entertained a curious suspicion concerning yourfather," I admitted. "Of course, he did not know half that I know."
"Of course not," she sighed. "He simply believed--as others do--that heis a country gentleman. And he would have been if--"
"If what?"
"If--if it had not been for that horrible woman," she added, in a lowhard voice. "Ah, Mr Kemball, if only you could know the truth--if onlyI dare tell you. But I can't--I can't betray the man who has been sogood and kind to me all my life."
"But could I not, if I knew the actual truth, be of service to him?" Isuggested. "Could I not be of service to him for your sake?" I added,in a low earnest tone, my eyes fixed upon her pale, troubledcountenance.
She looked at me in sharp, startled surprise. Her cheeks flushedslightly. Then, lowering her eyes, she turned her glance away, straightbefore her again, and in pretence that she had not understood mymeaning, replied simply--
"If the heavy hand of disaster falls upon him, then I fear it must fallupon me also."
How sweet she looked--how serious and pensive her beautiful countenance.
"I must act as your friend and use my best endeavours to ward it off," Isaid.
"Did you not do so in Aix, Mr Kemball? We have to thank you foreverything. They expected to learn a good deal through you, and whileyou engaged their attention we were enabled to make a hurried exit. Itis, indeed, fortunate that I recognised Victor Tramu!"
"Then I suppose you have had previous narrow escapes?"
"One or two," she replied, smiling. "But Dad is always so very wary.He is generally forewarned."
"By whom?"
"By the man who watches him always--a man named Surridge, who neverallows his identity to be known, but who acts as our watchdog, to giveus warning of any unwelcome watcher."
"But he failed at Aix."
"Because Dad foolishly sent him upon an errand to somebody in Paris."
"He is a friend of your father's, I suppose?"
"Yes, a great friend. He was once in the London detective police, buton his retirement he found his present post a very lucrative one--thepersonal guardian of one for whom the police are ever in search! Yousaw him on his cycle on the afternoon I overtook you in the car--thefirst time we met?" and she s
miled as she spoke. "His vigilance isnever relaxed," she added, "and his true _metier_ never suspected. Nodoubt he is near my father now on his journey back to Lydford."
"Then he would not allow him to go if he were still being watched byTramu?"
"Certainly not. We can, I think, after all, make our minds quite easyupon that score," she replied.
And as I sat at the steering-wheel I found myself wondering whether anyother man had loved in circumstances so curious and so unusual.
At the hotel in Bournemouth we had carefully concealed our destination,telling the hall-porter we were going to London, lest any inquiry bemade after our departure. We had tea at the Randolph at Oxford, and itwas nearly half-past seven before we drew up before the grey stone frontof Lydford Hall, where the butler threw open the door.
The sound of the car brought Shaw out in surprise, and as soon as we hadwashed we all three sat down to dinner in the fine old dining-room.
About Shaw there was no trace of the least anxiety, yet when the man hadgone and I told him in a whisper of what I had seen when watching in thepark at Ridgewell, he started, and his face underwent a change.
"I was a fool to have gone there," he said. "But it was unfortunatelyof necessity. Surridge was in Bath, but did not know that I went out