smartness and distinction; yet those small brown eyes,with a peculiar, indescribable expression searching up and down theplatform, were the eyes of a man full of craft and double cunning.
From the first moment I turned my gaze upon him I held him in distinctsuspicion; while he, it appeared, in turn held somebody else insuspicion. I looked around, but could not discern anybody who mightarouse his misgivings. About us were all honest Devon folk.
The fact that he had not taken off his gloves still remained. Myinjunctions were not to approach him if he failed to remove them. Hehad the air of a _bon vivant_, even to the manner in which he tucked hisebony cane beneath his arm in order to light a choice cigar.
Most of the passengers crossed the bridge on their way out, while othersmade their exit by the little wicket, some of them entering the dustymotor-'bus which plies to Paignton.
Once, only once, his small narrow brown eyes met mine, and I saw in thema look of quick inquiry and shrewd cunning.
Then, still wearing his gloves as sign to me to hold aloof, he leisurelycrossed the bridge to the down-platform, and strolled along the hot,dusty road into the town.
As far as I could discern, nobody was watching his movements at all;nevertheless, I could only suppose that he had great cause forprecaution, otherwise he would have allowed me to approach and speak tohim.
True, there was a queer, insignificant-looking old lady in rusty black,who had been on the platform when I had arrived, who had crossed thebridge and waited for the train from Plymouth, and who was now makingher way back into Totnes in the direction we were walking.
Could it be possible that he feared her?
It struck me that he might have recognised that I had travelled there tomeet him in place of the man now deceased; therefore I hurried on andgot in front so that he might, if he so wished, follow me to the SeymourHotel.
But judge my chagrin when at last we entered the main street, and whileI turned down towards the bridge, he turned in the opposite direction,thus showing that he had not detected my anxiety to speak with him. Andthe old lady had followed in his footsteps.
Suddenly a thought occurred to me. It was surely more than probablethat Mr Dawnay was there to meet the man Arnold, in ignorance of hisdeath. Therefore, having allowed him to get on some distance, I turnedupon my heel and followed him.
His movements were certainly curious. He was undoubtedly avoiding theunwelcome attentions of the old lady, who now seemed to be acting inconjunction with a dark-haired, middle-aged man with beetling brows, whowore a shabby brown suit and a last year's straw hat.
The man with the red cravat entered an inn in Fore Street, and remainedthere a full hour, the other man watching in the vicinity. Then, onemerging, he went to a chemist's, and afterwards turned his footstepsback towards the station.
I saw that his intention was to leave Totnes. Therefore, in preferenceto following on foot, I drove to the station in a fly.
He had never once removed those grey suede gloves, though the day was sohot, for on the up-platform the man in the straw hat was still idlingbehind him. A number of people were waiting for the train, and I,discerning Mr Dawnay's intention of travelling, entered thebooking-office and bought a ticket for Exeter.
At last the London express came roaring into the station, when the manwhom I was there to meet quickly entered a first-class corridorcompartment, and while I remained vigilant, I saw the mysterious watcherenter a carriage a little way behind. Then, just as the train wasleaving, I sprang into the compartment next that of Mr Dawnay.
I allowed the train to travel for about ten minutes, and as we slowlyascended the steep incline to Stony Coombe, between Totnes and NewtonAbbot, I passed along the corridor and entered the compartment of thefugitive.
His quick, wary eyes were upon me in an instant, and I saw him startvisibly in alarm, as I shut the door behind me leading to the corridor.
"I believe," I exclaimed next moment, "that you are Mr Arthur Dawnay?"
In an instant--before, indeed, I was aware of it--I found myself lookingdown the big barrel of a heavy Browning pistol.
"Well?" asked the man with the red tie, without moving from his seat,yet covering me with his weapon. "And what if I am, eh?"
Upon his face was a hard, evil grin, and I saw that he certainly was nota man to be trifled with.
"You think you've cornered me this time, eh?" he said in a hard, dryvoice. "But raise a finger, and, by Gad! I'll put a bullet throughyou. So you'd best own yourself beaten, and let me slip out at NewtonAbbot. Understand?"
Then, next moment, the train unfortunately entered the tunnel, and wewere plunged in complete darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE SIGN OF THE GLOVES.
Those moments of security seemed hours as I sat there with the pistolturned upon me.
Truly his was a strange greeting.
At length, however, daylight showed again as we commenced to descend theincline towards Newton Abbot, yet I saw that his hand--practised, nodoubt, with a weapon by the manner he had whipped it forth--was stilluplifted against me.
"Really, sir, you have no cause for alarm," I assured him, with a laugh."I could not approach; you openly, so I adopted the ruse of travellingwith you in order to speak. You came to Totnes to-day in order to meetme, did you not?"
"No, I certainly did not," he said, the expression upon his countenanceshowing him to be much puzzled by my words.
"Then perhaps you came to meet Mr Melvill Arnold?" I suggested.
"And why do you wish to know that, pray?" he asked, in the refined voiceof a gentleman, still regarding me with antagonism. His small, closelyset eyes peered forth at me with a ferret-like expression, while abouthis clean-shaven mouth was a curious hardness as his hand still held theweapon pointed in my direction.
"Because you are wearing the signs--the scarlet tie, the carnation, andI see that you carry the ebony walking-stick," was my cool reply. I wastrying to prevent myself from flinching before that grim, business-likeweapon of his.
"And what if I am? What business is it of yours?" he asked resentfully,and in evident alarm.
"My business is with you if your name is Alfred Dawnay," I said. "MrMelvill Arnold is, I regret to say, dead, and--"
"Dead!" he gasped, lowering his weapon and staring at me, the colourdying from his face. "Arnold dead! Is this the truth--are you quitecertain?"
"The unfortunate gentleman died in my presence."
"Where? Abroad, I suppose?"
"No; in a small hotel off the Strand," was my reply.
The news I had imparted to him seemed to hold him amazed and stupefied.
"Poor Arnold! Dead!" he repeated blankly to himself, sitting with bothhands upon his knees--for he had flung the pistol upon the cushion."Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, raising his eyes to mine.
"Forgive me for receiving you in this antagonistic manner, sir, but--butyou don't know what Mr Arnold's death means to me. It means everythingto me--all that--" But his lips closed with a snap without concludinghis sentence.
"A few moments before he died he gave me this letter, with instructionsto meet you at Totnes to-day," and I handed him the dead man's missive.
Eagerly, with trembling fingers, he broke open the black seals; but theletter was in a second envelope, also carefully sealed with black wax.This he also tore open, and breathlessly read the closely scribbledlines which it contained--the message from the dead.
He bit his full red lips, his cheeks went ashen pale, and his nostrilsdilated.
"I--I wish to thank you for carrying out Arnold's injunctions," hemanaged to gasp. "I went to Totnes for the purpose of meeting him, forhe had made the appointment with me three months ago. Yet it seemedthat he must have had some presentiment that he could not keep ithimself, or he would not have suggested me wearing a red tie, acarnation, and carrying this old-fashioned ebony stick which he gave melong ago."
Briefly I recounted my meeting with him when he came on board at Naples,his sudden il
lness, and its fatal termination in the Strand hotel.
"Ah, yes," sighed the man Dawnay--the man whom I was to help, but not totrust. "Poor Arnold was a great traveller--ever on the move; but foryears he knew that he had a weak heart."
I was about to make further inquiry regarding the man who had sostrangely left me a legacy, but Dawnay suddenly exclaimed--
"You and I must not be seen together, Mr Kemball--for I notice by thisletter that that is your name."
"Where can I meet you again?" I inquired; for I recollected the deadman's words that my strange companion might be in sore need of a friend.
"I hardly know," was his hasty answer, as he replaced his pistol in hispocket. "I am closely watched. Probably you saw the man--a fellow in astraw hat."
"Yes--and the old woman."
"Ah! then you are