CHAPTER XXV
IS MORE MYSTERIOUS
I stood there aghast, staggered, open-mouthed. The man was walkingslowly towards the house whence issued the gay _chanson_, the housewhere, in the great bay window, shone a bright light across the tinystrip of lawn which separated it from the roadway.
I watched him like a man in a dream. As he approached the house he trodlightly on tip-toe, unaware of my presence behind the bushes. In a flashthe recollections of that strange affair by the North Sea, in Cromer,recurred to me. I remembered that green-painted seat upon the cliff,where the coast-guard, in the early dawn, had found him lying dead, ofhis strange disguise, and of the coroner's inquiry which followed. Iremembered too, all too well, the puzzling incidents which followed; thepresence of the notorious Jeanjean in that quiet little cliff-resort;the disappearance of the man of master-mind; the discovery of his hoardof gold and gems, and how, subsequently, it had been spirited away in amanner which had absolutely flabbergasted the astute members of theNorfolk Constabulary, unused as they were to cases of ingenious crime.
Truly it was all amazing--utterly astounding.
I watched Craig's receding figure in startled wonder, holding my breath,and trying to convince myself that I had been mistaken in someresemblance.
But I was not. The man who had passed me was Edward Craig in theflesh--the man upon whose death twelve honest tradesmen of Cromer haddelivered their verdict--the man who had been placed in his coffin andburied.
Was ever there incident such as this, I wondered? Had ever man met witha similar experience?
By the light of the street-lamp I saw him glance anxiously up and downthat quiet, dark road. Then satisfying himself that he was unobserved,he crept in at the gate, crossed the lawn noiselessly, and peered in atthe window through the chink between the windowframe and the blind.
For fully five minutes he remained with his eyes glued to the window. Inthe light which fell upon him I saw that his face had assumed an angry,vengeful look, and that his gloved hands were clenched.
Yes. He certainly meant mischief. He was watching her as she sat, allunconsciously, at the piano, singing the gay _chansons_ of theboulevards, "Mimi d'Amour," "Le tic-tac du Moulin," "Petit Pierre," andothers, so popular in Paris at the moment.
The family of the retired excise-officer knew but little French, butthey evidently enjoyed the spontaneous gaiety of the songs.
That Edward Craig, after his mysterious death, should reappear as ashadow in the night was certainly most astounding. At first I tried toconvince myself that only a strong resemblance existed, but his gait,his figure, his face, the manner in which he held his cane, and theslight angle at which he wore his hat--the angle affected by thoseelegant young men who in these days are termed "nuts"--were all thesame.
Yes. It was Edward Craig and none other!
And yet, who was the man who so suddenly lost his life whilemasquerading in the clothes of old Gregory Vernon?
Aye, that was the question.
With strained eyes I watched and saw him change his position in order toobtain a better view of the interior of the room. There was no sign ofRayner, who, I supposed, had not risked following him, knowing that Iwas lurking close to the house.
That his intentions were evil ones I could not doubt, and yet the lightshining upon his countenance revealed a strange, almost fascinatedexpression, as his eyes were fixed into the room, and upon her without adoubt.
The music had not ceased. Her quick fingers were still running over thekeys, and in her sweet contralto she was singing the catching refrain--
"_Mimi d'amour, Petite fleur jolie, Oui pour toujours Je t'ai donne ma vie. Les jours sont courts Grisons-nous, ma cherie, Petit' Mimi jolie, Mimi d'amour!_"
Her voice ceased, and, as it did so, the silent watcher crept away,gaining the pavement and walking lightly in my direction.
As he passed, within a couple of feet of where I was concealed, I wasable to confirm my belief. There was no doubt as to his identity. Bythis discovery the cliff-mystery at Cromer had become a more formidableand astounding problem. Who could have been the actual victim? Whatfacts did Lola actually know?
So well organized and so far extended the ramifications of the criminalassociation of which Gregory Vernon was the head and brains, that Ibecame bewildered.
I stood gazing over the hedge watching Craig disappear back towards themain road, where at the corner a small red light now showed.
When he had got a safe distance from me, I emerged and, crossing theroad quickly, hastened after him. Rayner was in waiting and would, nodoubt, take up the chase.
Yet when he approached the corner I saw that he suddenly crossed towhere the red light showed, and entering the car, which was evidentlywaiting for him, was driven swiftly off to the right in the direction ofChristchurch.
Rayner met me in breathless haste a few moments after the car had turnedthe corner, saying--
"I didn't know that car was waiting for him, sir. It only pulled up amoment ago."
"Was anybody in it?"
"Only the driver."
"Did you take the number?"
"Yes, sir. It's local, we'll soon find out its owner."
"You must do so," I said. "The police will help you. But do you know whothat man was?"
"No, sir. He's a stranger to me," Rayner replied.
"Well," I said, "he's Edward Craig."
"Edward Craig!" echoed Rayner, staring at me as we stood at the streetcorner together. "Why, that's the man who was murdered at Cromer!"
"The same."
"But he died. An inquest was held."
"I tell you, Rayner, that Edward Craig--the man who is supposed to benephew of old Gregory Vernon--is still alive. I could identify him amongten thousand."
Rayner was silent. Then at last he said--
"Well, sir, that's utterly astounding. Who, then, was the man who waskilled?"
"That's just what we have to discover," I replied. "We must find out,too, why he wore old Vernon's clothes on that fatal night."
Thoughts of the footprint, and the tiny shoe which had so exactly fittedit, arose within me, but I kept my own counsel and said nothing.
Having told Rayner to inquire of the police regarding the mysteriouscar, and to return to the hotel and await me, I retraced my steps alongthat quiet, eminently respectable road, inhabited mostly by retiredtradespeople from London or the North of England, who live in their"model" villas or "ideal homes" so pleasantly situated, after the smokeand bustle of business life.
When I entered the pretty little drawing-room where Lola was, she sprangto her feet to receive me, holding out her small white hand in gladwelcome.
In her smiling, sweet face was a far healthier look than when I hadtaken leave of her, and returned to London, and in reply to my question,she declared that she felt much stronger. The sea air had done her animmense amount of good. Yes, she was a delightful little person who hadbeen ever in my thoughts.
She anxiously inquired after my health, but I laughingly declared that Iwas now quite right again.
Her hostess, Mrs. Featherstone, with her daughter, Winifred, and a youngfellow to whom the latter was engaged, were present, so I sat down for achat, all four being apparently delighted by my unexpected visit. Mr.Featherstone had, I found, gone to London that morning and would notreturn for three days.
Presently mother and daughter, and the young man, probably knowing thatI wished to speak with Mademoiselle alone, made excuses and left theroom.
Then when the door had closed I rose and walked over to where Lola, in asimple semi-evening gown of soft cream silk, was reclining in anarm-chair, her neat little shoes placed upon a velvet footstool.
"To-night," I said in a low voice in French, as I stood near her chair,my hand resting upon it. "To-night, Lola, I have made a very startlingdiscovery."
"A discovery!" she exclaimed, instantly interested. "What?"
"Edward Craig is still alive!" I answer
ed. "He did not die in Cromer, aswe have all believed."
"Edward Craig!" she echoed, amazed. "How do you know? I--I mean--_monDieu_!--it's impossible!"
"It seems impossible, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, Lola," I declaredin a low, earnest tone as I bent towards her. I had watched her faceand, by its expression, knew the truth. "And you," I added, slowly,"have been aware of this all along."
"I--I----" she faltered in French, opening her big blue eyes widely, asthe colour mounted to her cheeks in her confusion.
"No," I interrupted, raising my hand in protest. "Please do not denyit. You have known that Craig did not die, Lola. You may as well, atonce, admit your knowledge."
"Certainement, I have not denied it," was her low reply.
"How did you know he was alive?" I asked.
"Well," and then she hesitated. But, after a few seconds' reflection,she went on: "After that affair at Lobenski's in Petersburg, I wasleaving at night for Berlin, by the Ostend rapide, with some of thestolen stones sewn in my dress, as I told you, when, just as the trainmoved off from the platform, I fancied I caught sight of him. But onlyfor a second. Then, when I came to consider all the facts, I feltconvinced that my eyes must have deceived me. Edward Craig was dead andburied, and the man on the railway platform must have only borne someslight resemblance to him."
Was she deceiving me? I wondered.
"Have you since seen the same man anywhere else?" I asked her,seriously.
"Well, yes," she replied slowly. "Curiously enough, I saw the sameperson once in Paris, and again in London. I was in a taxi going alongKnightsbridge on the afternoon of the day when I afterwards walked soinnocently into the trap at Spring Grove. He was just coming out of thepost-office in Knightsbridge, but did not notice me as I passed. Iturned to look at him a second time, but he had gone in the oppositedirection and his back was towards me. Yet I felt certain that he wasactually the same man whom I had seen as the Ostend Express had leftPetersburg. And now," she added, looking straight into my eyes, "youtell me that Edward Craig still lives!"
"He does. And he has been here--at this house--to-night!"
"At this house!" gasped the Nightingale, starting instantly to her feet,her face as pale as death.
"Yes. He has been standing on the lawn outside, peering in at thiswindow, watching you seated at the piano," I explained.
"Watching me!"
"Yes," I replied. "And, if my surmise is correct, he is certainly nofriend of yours. He has watched you during the _coup_ in Petersburg,again in Paris, and in London, and now he has discovered yourhiding-place," I answered. "What does it all mean?"
Deathly pale, with thin, quivering lips, and hands clasped helplesslybefore her, she stood there in an attitude of deadly fear, of blankdespair.
"Yes," she whispered in a low, strained voice, full of apprehension. "Ibelieved that he was dead, that----"
But she halted, as if suddenly recollecting that her words might betrayher. Her bosom, beneath the laces of her corsage, rose and fellconvulsively.
"That--what?" I asked in a soft, sympathetic voice, placing my handtenderly upon her shoulder, and looking into her wonderful eyes.
"Oh! I--I----" she exclaimed in a half-choked voice. "I thought himdead. But now, alas! I find that my suspicions are well grounded. He isalive--and he has actually been here!"
"Then you are in fear of him--in deadly fear, Lola," I said. "Why?" AndI looked straight at my dainty little friend.
She tried to make response, but though her white lips moved no soundescaped them. I saw how upset and overwrought she was by the amazinginformation I had conveyed to her.
"Tell me the truth, Lola--the truth of what happened in Cromer," Iurged, my hand still upon her shoulder. "Do not withhold it from me.Remember, I am your friend, your most devoted friend."
She trembled at my question.
"If the dead man was not Edward Craig, then, who was he?" I asked, asshe had made no reply.
"How can I tell?" she asked in French. "I thought it was Craig. Was henot identified as Craig and buried as him?"
"Certainly. And I, too, most certainly believed the body to be that ofCraig," I answered.
For a few moments there was a dead silence. Then I repeated my question.I could see that she feared that young man's visit even more than shedid either her uncle or the old scoundrel Vernon.
For some mysterious reason the fact that Craig still lived held her inbreathless suspense and apprehension.
"Lola," I said at last, speaking very earnestly and sympathetically, "amI correct in my surmise that this man, whom both you and I have believedto be in his grave, is in possession of some secret of yours--someweighty secret? Tell me frankly."
For answer she slowly nodded, and next moment burst into a torrent ofhot, bitter tears, saying, in a faltering voice, scarce above awhisper--
"Yes, alas! M'sieur Vidal. He--he is in possession of mysecret--and--and the past has risen against me!"