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Title: The curse of the Reckaviles

Author: Walter S. Masterman

Release date: January 5, 2024 [eBook #72629]
                Most recently updated: February 20, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: McKinley, Stone & Mackenzie, 1927

Credits: Brian Raiter


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CURSE OF THE RECKAVILES ***


The Curse of the Reckaviles

by Walter S. Masterman



Contents

 Book I. The Curse
       I. The “Final”
      II. The Coming of the Stranger
     III. The End of the Line
      IV. At the Castle
       V. The Reckavile Horror
      VI. Portham-on-Sea
     VII. In the Dark Night
    VIII. “The Red Cote”
      IX. The Mysterious Bungalow
       X. In the Churchyard
      XI. The Meaning of “The Red Cote”
     XII. The Unknown Speaker
    XIII. Detained on Suspicion
     XIV. A Vision of the Night
 Book II. The Reckaviles
       I. The Convent School
      II. Flight
     III. The Marriage
      IV. The Divorce and After
       V. The Second Marriage
      VI. The Blow Falls
     VII. A Nameless Wife
    VIII. Roy at Oxford
      IX. A Ghost from the Past
       X. At the “Black Horse”
      XI. Halley Continues the Narrative
     XII. The Secret Out
    XIII. The Last



[Frontispiece: A man standing before a desk and holding a fire poker
is staring at a white-bearded man poking his head in the door to the
room. Caption: Then, very slowly, a face appeared, a vacant
dead-looking face surrounded by a mass of white hair streaked with
yellow.]



Book I

The Curse



Chapter I

The “Final”

The Final for the Hospital Cup was being fought out between Guys and
Barts, and the usual crowd of joyful medicos were making their way to
the ground, dressed in every fantastic garb, ringing bells and waving
hideous ear-splitting rattles. The crowd watched good humouredly, as
here a coster’s cart passed with donkey and “Bill” and “Liza,” here
the ex-Kaiser with carrots behind his ears, and Joan of Arc and
Humpty-Dumpty, and clowns with balloons and Dilly and Dally, and the
rest. The police had seen it all before, and shepherded them along
with firmness and good temper.

The ground was in a state of pandemonium till the whistle blew, when
silence fell on the spectators, as the teams got down to serious work.

Each was well balanced, but contained particular stars, the darlings
of their supporters; here was Histon the international wing “three,”
who had scored the only try for England in that great tussle with
Ireland, and Blackett the Scottish forward whose name was terror.

Not least among them was Sefton, now in his last year, who was in the
running for his International Cap, on the left wing, a deadly straight
runner, who might easily win the match if properly fed by his centre.
And so they ran through the names, and weighed the chances, while
thirty young Britons in the pride of perfect fitness strove for the
mastery, as many of them had fought in the Great War, with a single
purpose, to win or perish as became them.

Half time came with no score, and the rattles clattered like machine
guns, and the hooters hooted, and drums beat.

Then the struggle became fierce and desperate. Time after time the
grand Barts pack went through with a rush, only to be stopped by the
intrepid Jacks, at full back, who hurled himself on the ball
regardless of life and limb, or so it seemed to the more tender of the
crowd.

Time and again a passing movement on the old Welch lines, en echelon,
with perfect timing nearly let the Guys’ “threes” in, but still the
lines were uncrossed. Histon had tried his dangerous drops, and all
but won between the posts, and Sefton with his marvellous pace had run
right through, to be tackled magnificently by Barron the full back,
and so the tide had veered amidst the wildest excitement on the part
of the spectators.

Time was running out, and many a looker-on glanced at his watch
expecting a replay, when Guys’ scrum half “sold the dummy,” and cross
kicked. Sefton’s inside took it superbly, and ran straight. There was
one chance, and young Sefton took it, crossing inside, he took a pass
at full speed, and raced in between the posts, in a scene of wild
shouting and every noise that could be made.

The match was over, and Sefton was carried shoulder high to the
Pavilion, in a never to be forgotten moment of triumph.

A glorious sense of exhilaration filled him. This was a fitting ending
to his career, he hoped later to get his degree, but what was that
compared to having won the cup.

In the dressing room his hand was nearly wrung off, as he got rid of
the mud of the match.

His one regret was that his sister Ena, who had promised to come to
the match, had not put in an appearance, and the thought of this
disturbed him in an unaccountable manner.

As he came from the dressing room, one of the doctors met him, with a
grave face, which gave him a sense of impending disaster, and drew him
into a small side room.

“I am sorry to say, Sefton, I have some very bad news for you. This
telegram came during the match, and we did not like to give it to you
then. I opened it in case I could answer it for you.”

The words were terrible enough when Sefton read them:

  “Come at once Father dying. Ena.”

In the silence of the room, the shouting and cheering outside could be
heard, and a great feeling of bitterness came over Sefton at the
contrast between the happy throng outside, and his own misery. He
wanted to run out and tell them to stop. It was unseemly to cheer when
his father was dying. Then he turned on the doctor angrily.

“Why did you not give me this at once? I suppose you thought I would
leave the ground. Now I may get there too late.”

The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder kindly.

“No my boy, but there was only ten minutes to go, and knowing how keen
you were on the match, we thought you would rather we kept it for that
short time.”

“Forgive me, the news has upset me. Of course if I had got it then we
should not have won, it was selfish of me.”

“I have a taxi here all ready for you,” said the doctor, and he led
Sefton out by the back way, and put him inside.

“I will tell the others,” he said.

The misery of the journey Sefton never forgot.

He knew his father had been in failing health for some time, but had
not expected any sudden failure.

Sefton’s Mother was dead, and his young sister had only left school
the summer before to look after the house.

It was an ugly bleak house in Finchley that the doctor occupied, too
big and poorly furnished, for he had never made a success of his
practice, being far too much occupied with research. When his wife had
been in full health, he had taken in one or two patients who were on
the borderline of insanity, and treated them himself, but his wife’s
breakdown in health put a stop to this source of income, and if she
had known it, of brilliant discovery.

When Sefton arrived, and had got rid of the taxi, he was met by Ena,
on whose face were marks of tears.

“Oh I am so glad you’ve come, father had been asking for you, the
doctor has just left but is coming back.”

“How is father?” he asked.

“Bad, very bad I am afraid. He had a heart attack, quite suddenly,
after lunch, and I thought he had died, but he rallied. Of course, I
could not leave him, and wired for you.”

Jack Sefton went straight in to his father. There had never been much
love lost between these two, for the doctor had been engrossed in some
research work, and did not seem to understand his son, or take any
interest in his career except to urge him on to get qualified. Perhaps
he knew his own days were numbered.

He was propped up with pillows and looked ghastly, with a blue tinge
about his face.

“I can’t talk much, Jack,” he said slowly “and I know the next attack
will be the end, but I must have a word with you alone. I am afraid I
have some bad news to tell you, the fact is I have neglected my
business so much lately that the practice has gone to pieces. And I
have been so careless in collecting accounts that I have had to dip
into the little sum I had stored away for you and Ena. I am afraid
there is little left.” He sighed.

A feeling of bitterness came to Jack. “Do you mean that we shall be
penniless,” then he realised what this meant “that I shall have to
leave the hospital without qualifying.”

“I am afraid so, my boy, unless you can borrow . . .”

“Borrow, who could I borrow from? Why could you not have told me
before?”

“I was afraid to, and I had hoped to have made some money.”

Jack turned away with a movement of impatience.

“Don’t be angry with me now, Jack. I shall not be here much longer,
and I have tried my best. And I have something I must tell you before
I go, come here. It is less strain for me to whisper.”

The doctor spoke earnestly, and Jack bent over him while he told what
had to be said. At intervals, Jack gave him teaspoonfuls of brandy,
for he was weakening. When he had finished he lay back and closed his
eyes. “Better fetch Ena,” he said in a tired voice. Jack went out
quickly and summoned the girl who came in dry-eyed and anxious. Jack
telephoned in haste for the doctor, but before he arrived the end had
come, and Jack and his sister were left to face the world alone.

The days that followed were full of wretchedness for the young people.
There was the funeral, and the settling up, when Jack found that
things were worse than even his father had thought. The house was only
rented and this was behind, and there were debts to be met, even Ena’s
last school bill being still unpaid.

Then he went to see the Hospital authorities, who were very kind as
far as sympathy went, but adamant with regard to the future. Fees were
owing already, and it would be impossible for him to go on for the
next two terms to complete, unless payments were made. They were very
sorry but the rules were strict. Perhaps he could find work, and later
come back and complete his course, and so on.

Jack came away in utter dejection, to the house from which most of the
furniture had been removed, and which they had to vacate the next day
with nowhere to go.

The one bright star was Ena, who faced the situation with splendid
bravery, and refused to despair.

When Jack came in, she met him with a cheery smile, and listened to
his story with sympathetic interest.

“You poor boy,” she said, “you must feel it very much, but perhaps
some day in the near future, things may get better, and you will be
able to get qualified.”

Jack felt ashamed of his despair in face of her pluck.

“I have tried everything, but apart from becoming a professional in
the Northern Union, if I was good enough, I can’t see any hope. How do
we stand?”

She knew what he meant, as she it was who had gone through the
accounts, and settled the bills, as soon as the lawyers had done their
part and taken their heavy toll.

“We shan’t have much, dear, about fifty pounds I reckon, perhaps a
little more, couldn’t you possibly manage on that?”

“Impossible, and you have to live as well, remember,” and he smiled at
her. “No, there is only one thing. If I can get away to some quiet
place, I may be able to do something, there is just a chance. Father
told me a secret before he died, and there may be something in it, or
it may be that his brain was weakening, and that he was imagining
things.”

She looked at him questioningly, but understood he did not wish to say
anything further.

And then the post brought a letter from a school friend of Ena’s, one
of the few with whom she had kept in contact. It was to say that her
parents had a summer bungalow at Portham-on-Sea, which they did not
use in the winter, and that if the Seftons cared to make use of it
they were quite welcome. The key was with the agent, and so on.

“There,” said Ena gaily, “I told you something would turn up.”

“Where is this Portham, I’ve never heard of it?”

“It’s on the South Coast, my friend has often told me of it, shall we
go there?”

“I suppose so, we haven’t much choice, but I should imagine it’s
pretty bad this weather. We can’t stay here, so had better try.”

“Oh! let’s get away from here,” said Ena, in a voice which showed how
the strain was telling on her.

Jack came round and put his arm round her. “Poor old girl, you have
had a wretched time, and all the worry has come on you; let’s get out
of it.”

There was little to pack, and the same afternoon saw them on their way
to Portham Junction, and as the dreary bungalow town opened before
them, hideous and forbidding, their hearts sank within them. Even
Ena’s spirits were damped, and she clung to Jack for a moment.

“I’m afraid, I don’t know why,” she said, “but I feel as though we
were going into a black tunnel, ever so deep and long.”

“Never mind, dear,” he said to reassure her “as long as there’s an
opening the other end.”

So Fate plays havoc with our lives.



Chapter II

The Coming of the Stranger

Ena Sefton was returning from the local grocer, who carried on a
desperate, and fortuitous existence during the winter months, hoping
to reap a harvest in the summer. The place now was derelict, like a
show when the season has finished, and the few inhabitants wandered
round like the survivors of a plague.

Some of the bungalows had wooden shutters nailed over the windows to
save the glass, and looked like houses of the dead. Others showed
through the uncurtained windows dim suggestions of deck chairs, and
furniture covered with sheets. Pebbles and sand covered the verandas,
and pools of discoloured water stood in the rutted road.

There was no symmetry or order about the bungalows; some more
pretentious than others, showed marks of distinction, such as a ship
in full sail over the roof, as a wind-vane, or a conservatory where
languid flowers and shrubs waited for the spring. These were the
aristocrats of Bungalow Town. Nestling between two such, would come a
chubby democrat, quite unashamed of his appearance, made of two
railway carriages with a pent roof over them, and a notice stating
that “This Desirable Bungalow” was “to be Let Furnished.”

In the summer all alike would be crowded with happy people, but now
they were ruinous and depressing.

Ena made her way down the road, stopping now and then as a fierce
blast struck her and a blinding spindrift nearly choked her.

Progress was difficult against the wind bitter with salt and driven
sand, carrying a heavy shopping basket. The stranger almost collided
with her, and drew on one side with apologies. He glanced at the girl,
and then politely asked if he might carry the basket, and with quiet
insistence took it from her.

“The storm is very bad just here between the bungalows,” he said. “I
will come with you for a little way if I may.”

With his cultured tone there was a note of determination, and Ena was
glad of his help, besides being amused at his presumption. He walked
beside her regardless of the pools of water, sheltering her from the
worst of the storm, till they came to her bungalow, which was all dark
and forbidding.

“This is where we live,” she said “but my brother is evidently not
back yet; won’t you come in and wait for the rest of the storm to blow
over, he cannot be long.”

“My name is Halley,” said the man, bowing slightly. “I am staying here
for a short time, but I think I had better get back; I shall have the
wind behind me, you see.”

Ena glanced at him, and noticed in the dim light that he was tall and
fragile-looking.

“Are you afraid of coming in?” she asked with a mocking laugh, “or is
it merely a question of convention?”

“Neither, Miss . . .” he began.

“Sefton is my name . . . Ena Sefton, and my brother’s name is Jack.”

Her manner was refreshing and he judged her very young.

“I will certainly do so if you ask me in that way, but an invitation
in these circumstances is often a matter of form, to be refused like a
dinner invitation when one knows there is nothing to eat.”

They both laughed, and Ena opened the door. Her life was so lonely
that she was rather enjoying the chance of talking to one who was
evidently a gentleman.

He carried the basket in for her, helped her light a lamp, and an oil
stove, which had gone out and had been smoking horribly.

“My brother will be back soon, and you must let me make you a cup of
tea. You see there is something to eat from the weight of the basket.”
He saw a merry smile come to her mouth, and a pair of trusting blue
eyes looked into his.

Soon they were sitting over the oil stove, now giving out a welcome
heat, and had started to thaw.

“I wonder where Jack can have got to?” she said. “He went out for a
walk some time ago.”

Halley thought to himself “And left you to carry the supplies,” but he
left the remark unsaid.

“He has taken lately to these long walks, and I find it rather lonely.
I would like you to see him.”

“I shall be delighted,” answered Halley, amused at her naïve manner.
“I am a stranger here, perhaps the air will do me good.”

She glanced at him, and thought he looked ill, though straight and
very handsome. She imagined he had suffered in health or through some
secret sorrow, and her girlish fancy was already building a romantic
past round him.

The silence was becoming awkward. Outside the rain was streaming from
the roof, and the wind moaned with sullen fury.

“How do you like this place?” she asked, to say something.

“It is quiet, and suits me, but . . .”

“What?”

He glanced at her. “Well, this horrible murder at the castle has
rather upset things.”

She gave a nervous shudder. “It has upset us all. I get quite
frightened, my brother is out so much, and I sit here and listen to
the wind, and imagine all sorts of things.”

“You poor girl!” he said so gently that it took all the familiarity
from the remark.

“The villagers, what there are of them, declare there is a curse on
the Reckaviles,” she said and shivered.

“You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know, I went and looked at the castle—it’s a dreary place,
and one can picture anything happening there.”

He glanced at her anxiously, this morbid conversation must stop before
he went: he heartily cursed the brother for leaving this sweet little
creature alone.

“May I smoke?” he asked to change the talk.

“Why, certainly,” she said, and bit her tongue with vexation as she
realised she had nothing to offer, but Halley produced his case.

“You don’t?” he asked offering it to her.

“No, that’s not one of my vices,” she laughed.

“Do you know I am so glad; I suppose I am old-fashioned, but I can
never get used to girls smoking, especially young girls.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she said bridling.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Sefton, I was not thinking of any special
case.”

She did not know whether to be annoyed or not, so changed the
conversation.

“The wireless set is our only amusement, but I am afraid it is out of
order.”

He walked across and examined it.

“It is a very good set, but there is something wrong. May I have an
examination?”

“It is not ours you know; it belongs to the house, we only have the
use of it while we are here.”

She watched him under the lamplight, his keen alert face and deft
fingers suggested the artist. He fixed the ear phones to his head and
began juggling with screws and wires in skillful manner. Ena watched
him with the fascination a novice always feels for the expert, till
the boiling kettle drew her to her duties with the teapot.

Halley removed the ear phones, and switched on the loud speaker, when
a faint sound of music came forth.

“There is something wrong,” he said, “but I think I can put it right
for you, if you will allow me to come again.”

“Why, certainly, but come and have a cup of tea now.”

They were soon sitting like old friends over the oil stove, discussing
the place, and again she resorted to the gruesome crime which had
fallen on the village—the murder of Lord Reckavile in his castle.
Seeing that she was bent on discussing it he let her have her way.

“Did you ever see him?” he asked quietly.

“No, you know he very seldom came here. He had only been back from
abroad quite a short time. It is altogether a mystery, but you know
they say there is a curse on the family. No one will go near the
castle now, even in the daytime, and you could not get anyone in the
village to go there at night for any sum of money.”

“He was stabbed, wasn’t he? I read the bare account of the inquest.”

“Yes, in the back, and there was no one in the room,” she glanced
uneasily round the lounge, and listened to the breaking of the waves
and the wash of the sea outside.

His anger rose against her brother for leaving her alone, and though
he knew he had no right to presume on her invitation, he stayed on as
long as he possibly could.

At last he rose.

“I must really go,” he said. “I will come round and put your set
right, and perhaps I can see your brother then.”

“Thank you so much. It has been so good of you to keep me company,”
and there was a wistful look in her eyes.

She came with him to the door, and as he opened it a blast of the
storm struck them, making the lamp flare up. Halley reeled against the
door-post with a quick gasp of pain.

“What is the matter?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing, just a touch of giddiness, an old wound which troubles me
sometimes.”

She watched him down the rough road, bending with the fierce gale, and
came in with a sigh.

Halley was as good as his word. He came the next evening with a parcel
under his arm. All day Ena had been looking forward with pleasure to
seeing him. She had told Jack of the chance meeting, which news he had
received in a surly manner.

“We can’t afford to entertain, you know, Ena, and I don’t like people
seeing our penury.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I thought it would be a man friend for you,
and Mr. Halley does not seem the kind of man who wants entertaining as
you call it.”

“From your description he seems a sort of wandering artist fellow, and
I hate that type. I don’t know that I care to see him much.”

“But Jack, you must. He cannot come here and find you out again, and
he is coming to put the wireless set right. You know you would like to
have it working.”

“Oh, is he?” said Jack. “Well, I can tell you what is wrong with it,
it wants a new high tension battery, which costs about a sovereign,
and we can’t afford it.”

Ena started—she wondered if Halley had found that out.

“You will come home won’t you, Jack?” she pleaded.

“I don’t know, Ena. I’ll try, but I can’t be certain.”

There was a shifty look in his eyes which she did not like, but he
jumped up abruptly and left her without further discussion.

When Halley came the storm had gone, and the moon was shining on the
water. He had quite a boyish appearance and came in with a cheerful
smile. Ena greeted him with pleasure, but felt a sense of shame at
Jack’s absence again.

“I am sorry to call so late, Miss Sefton,” he said “but I have been
away all day, and I thought there was more chance of seeing your
brother—besides it will be better for the wireless.”

“Jack promised to be in,” she said doubtfully. “He should have been
here before now.”

He placed his parcel on the little table, and undid the wrapper, and
she saw with misgiving what was inside.

“You have not got a new battery?” she asked, and her colour rose.

“Yes, I thought perhaps that was the trouble,” and he proceeded to fix
it.

She was annoyed. It was taking a mean advantage of their poverty and
she resented it, but what could she say? Offer to pay for it? That
would be an insult again. She feared what Jack would say knowing how
sensitive he was on this point.

“You should not have done that,” she said weakly.

“It is nothing, Miss Sefton. It is too good a set to be idle.”

But there was a feeling of restraint between them which he noticed.
The adjustment made, he turned on the switch, and tuned in. A burst of
music filled the room, and conversation was unnecessary.

The evening was delightful, and he stayed on giving her the best from
the different programmes. At nine-thirty came the news bulletin, and
weather forecast, and after that an announcement. She caught the words
“Portham Junction” and heard Mr. Halley give a quick intake of breath.

Then came the stony words. “I will repeat.” “Missing from Home,
Frederic Summers, Bank Manager from Tunbridge Wells, since January
20th. Aged 40. Tall, clean-shaven, dark. Last seen at Portham Junction
carrying a hand-bag. He had gone on a week’s holiday, and his friends
have heard no news of him since that date.” And then followed the
usual request for information.

Ena looked up, and their eyes met.

“It appears to be one of those mysterious disappearances which baffle
the police,” he said in level tones.

“But it’s so near to this place, and coming after the—other thing,”
she said and stopped.

“There’s no need for alarm,” said he “it may be a simple case of loss
of memory, or some natural explanation.”

“Of course, but this place is so lonely, and Jack is out so much.”

“You must tell him, and ask him to come in earlier, but forgive me, I
have no right to talk like that.” He spread out his hands in apology,
and she for a moment was reminded of something not quite English.
There was just a touch of the alien, not menial, but rather belonging
to the Age of Chivalry, which lives on in remote places.

“We must arrange a definite meeting,” he said. “You see, although this
place is small, and quite unconventional, I cannot come here to see
you. You understand that.”

“Of course, you are right. I will tell him when he comes in.”



Chapter III

The End of the Line

“I want you to go to Portham-on-Sea, to take up the Reckavile murder,
Fletcher,” said Chief Inspector Sinclair.

Fletcher was a youngster in the Service, with quick restless eyes, and
an alert face; it was a great opportunity for him.

“I thought they would have to call us in, sir,” he said with a smile.

“It’s about time, too,” growled the older man “there’s the deuce of a
fuss over the affair, not that the man was worth much, but he was a
peer of the Realm, and a member of the House of Lords, though I don’t
suppose he ever saw the inside of the building.”

“I thought perhaps you . . .” began Fletcher.

“Oh, I’ve got too much on hand already,” interrupted the other.
“Besides it will give you a chance, and I know you younger men think I
am getting too old for the work.”

There was a grim smile on the face of the old detective, as he noticed
a guilty blush which Fletcher tried to hide.

“Well, just sit down and I will give you the main facts as they are
known, though you have probably read the newspaper accounts.”

Fletcher nodded.

“Portham itself is a tiny fishing village, and the nearest station is
Portham Junction, about two miles off. In the last few years there has
grown up a bungalow town, about five miles to the west along the
coast. This has been called Portham-on-Sea. Between these two is a
wooded headland, and in these woods is situated Reckavile Castle. You
will be able to see all this on the spot.

“Now for the crime. On January 14th last, Reckavile returned from one
of his periodical journeys abroad. There is no one living at the
castle except an old servant, Giles, and his wife, and most of it is
permanently shut up. The whole place has run to seed, and there is
only a track to the lodge where a gamekeeper of sorts, named Stevens,
lives alone.

“On 20th January, at about 7 p. m. the village constable, John Brown,
called to see Lord Reckavile about some alleged poachers, who had been
hanging about the woods. He thought them poachers at the time, but in
view of what has occurred, they may have had more sinister intentions.
I suppose Giles and Brown stopped gossiping, and probably drinking the
Reckavile beer, and then the servant went to tell his master.

“You must follow this carefully now. He came running back to Brown,
saying he could get no answer, and that something was wrong as he
heard sounds of quarrelling, though he had admitted no one to the
house. He was white and trembling, and very agitated. He almost
dragged the constable along, and when they reached the library door,
they could distinctly hear two people talking. There were two doors,
an outer one of oak, and an inner one of green baize. The constable
has been thoroughly examined, though he is not very intelligent, I am
afraid. He says they distinctly heard Reckavile say ‘Never, never,
only over my dead body!’ The other replied ‘I only want justice and my
right.’ They seemed to be angry. There was a confused noise, a sound
of a blow, a horrible cry, and then silence.

“They waited a moment and knocked, but there was no answer; there was
a heavy oak chair in the hall, and with this they battered down the
door. The room was in a state of wild confusion—I use the constable’s
words—the furniture overturned, and splashes of blood on the floor and
chairs.

“Lord Reckavile was lying across the sofa, face downwards, and an ugly
knife was sticking in his ribs. The room was empty, and Brown stayed
there while Giles went for help. There is no doctor nearer than five
miles off, so the gamekeeper rode off to the village to telephone for
the doctor and the police at Ashstead, the nearest town.

“Outside the house, Giles met a certain Mr. Sefton, who was out for a
walk. While he was not a qualified doctor, I believe he was a medical
student, and Giles thought he might be of some service, so brought him
in. He was able to pronounce the man dead—without a doubt.

“That is all. Here are the papers containing the account of the
inquest, and of our confidential examinations. The best thing for you
to do is to get on to the spot.”

Fletcher had produced a large pocket book, and taken notes. He now
turned to them and read them through.

“May I ask a question or two, sir?” he said.

“Certainly,” said Sinclair “I should like you to do so, it will show
what you are made of.”

“You say there was no one in the room. Is that absolutely certain?”

“The constable, as I told you, is rather a stupid person, but he never
left the room after they burst open the door, and it was only a few
minutes after that Giles returned with Sefton.”

“What about means of exit?” said Fletcher scanning his notes.

“A thorough search was made, first by the constable and the others,
and afterwards by Sergeant Andrews from Ashstead. The windows were
securely fastened, and there was no other door, and no trap doors or
secret panels that can be found.”

“The door was locked, where was the key?” asked Fletcher again.

His Chief gave a chuckle. “Good!” he said, “there was no key found.”

“One last question, sir. What was the weapon?”

“An old dagger, with a thin blade. The waistcoat had been torn back,
and the blade driven in between the ribs from the back, and had
penetrated the heart. It had been cleverly done and seemed to show a
knowledge of anatomy, but we must not jump to conclusions.”

“This is a tough nut, sir.”

“It is,” said the other grimly. “But before you go, I want to tell you
something of the Reckaviles. It will save you hunting it up. They are
a queer lot. This one was the last of his line, and people who know,
say it is a very good thing. The Reckaviles always said there was a
curse on them, set there by an old witch or something of that sort,
but less charitable folk say there was madness in the family, and they
are probably nearer the truth.

“There was one in the Eighteenth Century who had been a leader in the
Medmenham orgies, and was found stark dead in the Abbey with no marks
on him. There was another who lost everything he had in one night’s
sitting at White’s, and left the room smiling like a fiend. He retired
to a strip of woodland on the South Coast where Portham now stands,
and built himself a ramshackle house. It was half of rubble and half
brick, and he designed it himself, with a complete disregard to
sanitation or comfort. There with what supplies of brandy he had saved
from the wreck of his fortunes, he drank himself to death in a
dignified way, timing his last seizure with his final bottle and
apologising to his wife for the trouble he was giving.

“The father of the last Reckavile ran away with a draper’s wife, and
then challenged him to fight for the lady. The draper applied for
police protection, and divorce, and got both. Reckavile married the
woman, and was finally drowned when returning from abroad, and his
body was washed ashore near the castle.

“I gather that the family fortunes were at about rock bottom, when a
speculative builder, who chanced that way, saw possibilities of a
bungalow town, on the foreshore, without the irk of a town council,
and interfering inspectors. The last Reckavile found himself in funds,
and wandered abroad. I could tell you much more, some of it such deeds
as can only be hinted at, but this will suffice.”

Fletcher lay back in his chair, lost in thought.

“What a family!” was his comment, but to himself he said “I wonder why
he has told me all this,” and he looked at the shrewd face of the
famous detective, which remained inscrutable.

“And now the last of the line has come to a tragic end,” said Sinclair
musingly “so I suppose the Curse has worked out.”

“Curse?” said the other startled, “you don’t believe in the Curse,
sir, do you?”

Sinclair looked at him.

“Oh, I don’t know, there are many things we are finding out about now,
which our fathers scoffed at,” was his reply.

Fletcher gathered up the papers and went out on his quest, and managed
to leap into the carriage as the train was moving, nearly falling over
a young girl who was the sole occupant of the compartment, and hastily
apologised.

“I hope I did not hurt you,” he said.

“Not at all,” she answered with a bright smile “but I was afraid you
were going to slip between the carriage and the platform; it’s
dangerous getting into trains like that you know.”

He was amused at the serious fashion in which she rebuked him. A
glance at her showed him that she had a pretty face and a smart
figure, and was neatly but plainly dressed.

On the floor was a letter which she had dropped, and stooping, he
picked it up, and with his quick, trained eyes instinctively read the
name—‘Miss Ena Sefton.’ As he handed it to her, ‘Sefton . . .
Sefton . . .’ he said to himself. Where had he heard that name? Of
course, the medical student who had been called in to see the dead
Lord Reckavile. It was an uncommon name, and the train was going to
Portham Junction. What a strange coincidence if . . .

“My name is Fletcher,” he said, for he had no reason to conceal his
identity. “I wonder if by chance you know Portham-on-Sea.”

“Why certainly,” she replied “I live there at present, with my
brother. Are you going there?”

“Yes,” he said “I am staying there a few days. It’s a sort of bungalow
town, isn’t it?”

“You’ll find it terribly dull in the winter. Of course, in the summer
it’s different,” she said.

“Oh, I want to be quiet and have a rest,” he replied. “I am sure I
shall not find it dull,” and he glanced at the girl.

She looked at him with innocent blue eyes. She was evidently not the
sort that takes offence or sees an insult in a man looking at her.

He led the conversation round with practiced skill to the crime, but
her brows clouded over.

“Yes,” she said, “it upset us terribly. It was horrible and you know
the castle itself suggests some dreadful crime. It is so broken down
and uncared for.”

“I suppose they have no idea in the village as to who the murderer
could be?” he asked.

“All the villagers—what few there are of them in the winter, are
convinced that it had something to do with the Reckavile Curse.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know, it was all so mysterious, but my brother laughs at it;
you know he was called in when it occurred. He is almost a qualified
doctor.”

“I saw something about it in the papers,” he said evasively.

“I believe he saw more than the stupid detective did. He told me
nothing, but he hinted at things once or twice.”

Fletcher thought he had better get off dangerous ground for the
present. His companion was charming, and seemed to have no objection
to talking. In a short time he was possessed of all the facts about
the Seftons, and Portham-on-Sea.

It was a queer collection of shanties, dumped down without plan or
method; some were of wood or corrugated iron, some old Army huts, and
others made of railway carriages. They straggled in two irregular
lines along the foreshore, and between them was an apology for a road.

By the time the train arrived at Portham Junction Fletcher had
received an invitation to call on the Seftons. As he had arranged to
meet the local constable at the castle, he reluctantly parted with his
companion and turned his mind to the grim problem before him.



Chapter IV

At the Castle

Fletcher was not one to let the ground get weedy under his feet.
Leaving his bag at the railway station, he made his way on foot to
Reckavile Castle.

It was a wet afternoon, and dusk was coming on when he got within
sight of the building. Traces of flower-beds and garden plants showed
through the tangle of growth, like the ruins of an old civilisation,
giving the place an air of desolation. The castle was a depressing
structure, massive and dim and the wet dripped ceaselessly from the
trees. Time had covered the building in parts with ivy, and on the
rest of the walls green patches of lichen grew like a disease.

The blind upper windows looked like dead eyes, and in spite of his
cheery nature, Fletcher shuddered as a figure stepped suddenly from
the shadow without noise.

“Who’s that?” said Fletcher in a louder tone than he intended.

“Brown, sir, I suppose you are Mr. Fletcher?”

The latter felt a sense of relief; the constable was a stalwart
ex-guardsman.

“What are you doing out here in the wet?” he asked shaking the other
by the hand.

“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t like the place, and I thought I would
wait here; we cleared the Giles out after the murder, and locked it
up.”

He produced a great key, and led the way to the front door.

It was a massive portal surmounted by carved stone work, now green and
crumbling. The hall was square and lofty, with a great open fireplace,
cheerless and empty. The last light of the dying afternoon showed
portraits on the walls, and a staircase leading upwards.

“I’ll get a light,” said the constable, and stamped off to the kitchen,
returning with a lamp which threw a bright light on the walls and
timbered ceiling.

“That’s better,” said Fletcher, “this place is confoundedly damp.”

“There were only two rooms used by the Giles,” said Brown, setting
down the lamp, “the kitchen and a bedroom next to it, but they always
kept Lord Reckavile’s rooms ready, as they never knew when he was
coming back. He only used his library, and a bedroom on the ground
floor. All the rest of the house is shut up, and full of rotting
furniture.”

“Let’s have a look at the library then,” Fletcher said, and the
constable led the way. Everything had been left untouched; the
battered door still hung loose, and inside the furniture had been
tossed and thrown about.

“There’s where the body was, lying over the sofa, and you can see the
stains of blood on the floor and the armchair.”

Fletcher examined the dark marks of ill omen.

“Everything is just as it was. I made a careful list,” said Brown.
“There is the wireless, a four valve set, and this is his desk, a very
old one I should say, and that cabinet contains what they call a
dictaphone, though I call it a gramaphone. His Lordship was very keen
on these things. Here is a sketch I made, very rough I am afraid,” and
he handed it to Fletcher.

It was a comfortable room, in contrast with the rest of the house; the
furniture was good, and rows of books in shelves gave it a homely
look.

“You found no trace of anyone when you entered?” asked Fletcher.

“There’s no doubt about that, sir,” was the reply. “When old Giles and
I came in there was no sign of the murderer, and the whole place has
been searched. There are no secret passages or trapdoors, such as one
reads of in books.”

“Any finger prints?”

“No, sir, or foot marks either. Sergeant Andrews is pretty smart at
that sort of thing; he had the dagger examined.”

“Someone who knew what he was about evidently,” said Fletcher.

The other looked at him queerly, without a word.

“Was anything else found which could throw a light on the subject?”

“No, sir, we have all the exhibits here; after the inquest I took
charge of them.”

He went to a side table and removed a cloth. Neatly laid out were
various objects. There was a case containing a few pound notes, some
letters, a cigarette case, and silver match box, and a passport. There
was also a well-worn, leather object which caught the detective’s eye.
It was round, and looked as though it had been made to hold a golf
ball.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“No one seems to know,” said the constable, “it’s a puzzle.”

Fletcher picked up a letter case.

“Where did this come from?” he said.

“That was lying on the floor,” said Brown.

Inside was a faded miniature of a very beautiful girl, and a young
boy, and in faint letters “Mother and Roy,” and a date some twenty
years before.

“Lord Reckavile when a child, with his mother, I suppose,” said Brown.

Fletcher took it to the lamp. The boy had sad sweet features, almost
Italian.

“Is there a portrait of Lord Reckavile anywhere?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, in the hall,” and Brown led the way with the lamp.

Paintings of Reckaviles looked down from the walls. Fletcher had
imagination, and he could see the latent madness in their eyes, but
there was more. They could be capable of great deeds or great sins; he
could picture a Reckavile doing a stupendous act of heroism or a vile
thing which would blanch the cheek.

His thoughts were interrupted by Brown.

“That’s the last of them, sir,” he said pointing to a portrait of
recent date. Fletcher looked at a handsome ascetic face, wherein was
cruelty and lust, but a pride which nothing could daunt.

“And who is that?” said he pointing to a stout lady of mature charms.

“That was his mother, the last Lady Reckavile, but that was before my
time. She used to live here; since her death the house has been shut
up, most of the year.”

Fletcher was still holding the miniature in his hands; he looked at
the portrait on the wall and then at the other, and was about to
speak, but the bovine face of the constable stopped him.

Instead he said, after a pause, “About those poachers, Brown, I
understand you saw some in the woods a few days before the murder?”

“Yes, and I mentioned it to Stevens. I did not see them close enough
to recognise them. There were two. Stevens told me to come up and see
Lord Reckavile about it, the very day the murder took place.”

“I see. Well, let’s have a look at the house, bring the lamp.”

They passed into the rooms on the ground floor, and as they opened the
doors they were met with a damp, musty smell as from a vault.
Everything was in ruin and decay and dust was heavy over all.

There was a great dining room, with hanging chandeliers, which had
witnessed many a midnight orgie, now silent and given to the moth.

The drawing room was bare, haunted only by the ghosts of past
Reckaviles, and so on in the upper rooms, where gaunt fourposters and
faded hangings showed within, with dimly seen bedroom furniture.

In one of these a picture fell with a crash, waking the echoes of the
house. It had been hanging by a thread which the opening of the door
had snapped.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Fletcher with a shiver. “I suppose the whole
house has been searched?”

“Every corner, sir, it’s all the same. It doesn’t look as though
anyone had been into the rooms for years.”

They returned to the library, where Fletcher walked to the wireless
set, and turned the switch.

“It’s no good, sir, it’s out of order, we’ve tried it. The valves
light all right, but something’s wrong; Giles says it hasn’t worked
since Lord Reckavile came back this last time.”

“I must have a look at it,” said Fletcher. “I’m rather fond of these
things.”

“The gramaphone works, we have tried the records,” said Brown, “so the
other ought to.”

Fletcher smiled at his knowledge of scientific matters, then faced him
squarely.

“Now, Brown, I want you to tell me fairly, your opinion of the whole
thing, because you have been here from the beginning.”

A sudden change came over the constable, and he glanced round
uneasily, a look of fear in his eyes.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said, “I don’t think his Lordship was killed
by any living man.”

“Nonsense, what on earth do you mean? You don’t believe in spooks, do
you?” said Fletcher contemptuously.

“Well, it’s very queer, the villagers say . . .”

“Oh! I see, you’ve been talking in the village, and heard all about
the Reckavile Curse, and that sort of thing; let’s have common sense.”

“We heard them talking quite plain,” the constable replied. “Reckavile
and the Other, and when we broke in there was Lord Reckavile dead, and
It had gone.”

“It? Don’t talk like that, it’s foolish,” but in spite of his words
Fletcher felt a cold shiver; the place was eerie.

“I don’t like it, sir, there are queer tales about, and the Reckaviles
were a very rum lot.”

“Enough of this,” said the other impatiently. “I wanted clues or
anything suggestive, and you give me ghosts.”

But before that night was over, even Fletcher was shaken.



Chapter V

The Reckavile Horror

The constable had gone. Being off duty, he had volunteered to fetch
Fletcher’s bag from the station, while he remained as he said to ‘get
the atmosphere of the place.’ A large fire had been kindled, and the
room certainly looked more cheerful, but Fletcher wanted to damp down
the feeling of uneasiness which the surroundings had aroused. He was
sure this was a straightforward problem, if he could only get a clue
to start with. He wandered round the room, pausing to listen to the
wind, which had now risen to a gale. The boughs of the trees, which
had grown close to the house, were scraping against the windows, as if
trying to get in, and all the timbers were groaning and creaking in
desire to tell him something. He shook himself; this would never do,
he would have a look at the books as he was getting morbid.

Someone had said that a man can be known by his books, but here was a
catholicity of choice, books on science, art, history, and novels. He
picked out volumes, but his mind was still on the strange noises all
over the house.

At last he found a leather-bound book without title and idly opened
it. To his surprise the writing inside was in manuscript; the ink
faded, but by the spelling he judged it was not of very ancient date.

It was called _Tales of the Reckaviles_.

As he turned the pages and read the horrors recorded there, he first
wondered that these things could have happened, and then that anyone
should have set himself in cold blood to write them out.

He came to a tale which arrested his attention. It was called _How the
Curse Came_, and was one of the milder stories:

  A certain Sir Hugh Reckavile was a very evil knight. He feared
  neither God nor Devil. He was shunned by all men of good repute and
  consorted with vile men, cutthroats and worse. This knight had
  conceived a great desire for the young wife of the Lord of Glarne,
  though he had a wife and children of his own, and nothing would stay
  his purpose. As he was revelling with his companions, as his custom
  was, he took a dreadful oath that he would that night carry off the
  lady from her room in the Tower, and staked his soul on the venture,
  calling down a Curse on his family if he lost. His companions tried
  to dissuade him, but he would have none of their advice, and rode
  off. There was one at the table not all besotted in crime, who
  mounted and rode fast and hard, and came to the Castle before him,
  and told the Lord of Glarne.

  When Sir Hugh came to the Tower, he saw a fair damsel beckoning him
  from her high window, who was a maid dressed as the lady, and he
  essayed to climb the wall. They who had laid the trap looked to see
  him fall, but he came at the window, where men were waiting who
  bound him fast. For three days they left him there and then one was
  sent to see how he fared, returned all of a sweat, saying that he
  had heard Sir Hugh talking with One who told him of his damnation,
  and that a perpetual Curse would be laid on his family.

  That night there were howlings and dreadful crying heard. The next
  morning Sir Hugh lay on the grass, thrown from the window by no
  mortal hand, and his face was stamped with horror unspeakable. And
  so it is in life, for thus by the impious act of trafficking with
  the Devil, this evil man brought a Curse upon his innocent family
  which abides even to this day.

Fletcher got thus far. “Pooh!” he said, “it’s the usual stuff one
finds in these old chronicles, still it throws a light on the
Reckaviles.”

He dropped the book from his hand, and in doing so happened to glance
behind him.

The green baize door was slowly opening.

For a moment Fletcher sat where he was, rigid, with every nerve on a
stretch. All the stories he had ever heard of vampires and devils
gathered round him. The next his common sense and courage rose to his
aid, and he stood up, not without an effort, and faced round. He
clapped his hand to his pocket, but he was unarmed.

For want of a better weapon he seized the poker and waited. The door
was opening in little jerks, not smoothly; then a hand came round the
corner, a hand wrapped in a bandage, or some white fabric, and
clutched the door. Then, very slowly, a face appeared, a vacant
dead-looking face, surrounded by a mass of white hair streaked with
yellow.

Without a word or sound there came into the room, an old bent man.
Fletcher waited; man or ghost, here was no formidable antagonist.

Suddenly light dawned on him, and he could almost have laughed.

“Why of course,” he said, “I suppose you are Giles?”

The old man remained rooted to his place by the door, and then in a
high piping voice, said, “Giles I be, and who be you?”

“I suppose I ought to tell you, I am a friend of Brown the constable,
and I am waiting for him.”

It was most awkward, as he had wished to remain unknown in his true
character, but the old man looked nearly an idiot.

At that moment a loud knock was heard, which came as a relief to
Fletcher.

“That must be Brown,” he said.

“I’ll go and let ’ee in,” said the old man, and turned without a
sound.

“That’s a good thing,” thought Fletcher, “but I must warn the
constable to keep his mouth shut.”

A sound of steps came along the hall, and Brown came in, dripping wet.
“Sorry to have been so long, sir,” he said putting down the bag.

“I am very glad to see you,” said Fletcher, “old Giles let you in, I
suppose?”

Brown looked at him in surprise, “Giles? No, the door was open, I
forgot we did not fasten it. I left Giles at Stevens’ cottage just
now.”

“But, he’s just been here, not a minute ago, I have been talking to
him. He came to see who was here.”

“Giles, sir, you must have been mistaken. What was he like?”

“An old, white-haired man, with a white beard.”

The constable looked blankly at him. “That’s not Giles, sir. You must
have been dreaming.”

“Nonsense, he came in through that door not five minutes ago.”

“What did you say he was like?”

Fletcher repeated the description minutely and Brown’s face took on a
look of horror.

“Oh Lord, sir! That was an old Reckavile, the father of the one who
was drowned.”

“Nonsense,” said Fletcher sharply, “don’t talk that rot.”

“Come and see, sir,” said he, and his voice shook.

They went into the hall with a lamp, and Brown pointed with a shaking
finger to a portrait on the wall. There, gazing at them with a
sardonic smile, was Fletcher’s visitor, clear and unmistakable.

A cold, numb feeling gathered round his heart, but Fletcher realised
that he must keep his nerve at all costs.

“You must be right, I have been dreaming,” he said in a voice he tried
to make light. “Well, I am very tired, let’s shut the place up, and
get off.”

Brown looked at him uneasily. “Very good, sir, I shan’t be sorry,” he
said. “The night’s bad outside, but it’s worse here,” and he glanced
round the hall, where shadows flickered from the lamplight.

The fire was nearly out, so they left it, and locking up, made their
way through the rank vegetation, damp and unwholesome.

With a sigh of relief Fletcher emerged from the woods, and skirted the
shore to the little fishing village of Portham, now in complete
darkness.

“That’s the _Black Horse_, sir,” said Brown pointing to a dark mass.

“Now look here, Brown, I want to impress on you that I am here to find
out all I can, and no one must know what I am or they will be
suspicious of me. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And you must not call me ‘sir,’ at all. I am just an old friend of
yours, what shall we say, on a holiday after an illness. Now, goodbye,
I will go to the place alone; they know I am coming?”

“Yes, I booked the room as you told me to.”

Fletcher waited till the constable had gone, and then went to the
door, and knocked. After some time a light showed inside, and the door
was opened. The landlord, a black-looking, shock-headed man with
streaks of grey in his hair, stood in the doorway. “Good-evening,”
said Fletcher, “my name is Fletcher. I have booked a room here.”

The landlord, Southgate, eyed him with suspicion, and muttered
something about waiting up for him, but Fletcher was used to dealing
with all classes of men, and quickly summed his host up. With
apologies for his lateness, which he put down to having lost his way
in the storm, he asked mine host whether he would join him with some
liquid refreshment, and suggested whiskey; he himself was quite done
up, and too tired for food.

Having closed and locked the door, the landlord conducted him into an
old dirty room, black with smoke, which had a wonderful old fireplace
whereon a fire was burning, and black beams in the ceiling. A cloth
was spread on the table on which was cold beef and bread.

Soon they were sitting by the fire discussing hot grog, which the
landlord prepared with practiced skill. He was the descendant of a
long line of smugglers, and was not slow in telling Fletcher what he
thought about the bungalow town, and its inhabitants.

Fletcher was too tired for conversation, but determined to get on good
terms with Southgate the landlord, and so they gossipped on till he
felt himself nodding, and with a “good-night” to the landlord, retired
for the night.



Chapter VI

Portham-on-Sea

Fletcher was up early, and after a good breakfast, set out to walk to
Bungalow Town. The day was clear, and the events of the night before
appeared less sombre, in the light of the morning. Of course, there
must be some logical and common-sense explanation for it all. He had
all the papers connected with the inquest, and there were several
people he wanted to see.

The walk did him good, and his mind was clear when he rounded the
headland and came in sight of the bungalows. It was indeed a hideous
place. At one end was an unfinished row of gaunt shops of which only a
few had been opened. The builder had made some attempt at decoration
by planting two rows of palms in tubs along the road, which gave the
place a bizarre appearance. The first building he came to was a large
corrugated iron bungalow, styled the Club, which all bungalow dwellers
were invited to join for a small subscription according to a notice
board. It had a withered tennis court, a bathing shed, and a license,
and in the summer the place was much patronised. Fletcher made his way
along the muddy road, to where a large board bore the legend “Estate
Office.”

Entering he found a little, short-sighted man with sandy hair getting
thin. He looked up wearily as Fletcher came in.

“Mr. Cook, I believe?” said the latter.

“That is my name,” said he, and waited.

“I came to ask you what bungalows you have for sale?” said Fletcher
with that disregard for truth, which seems to be permitted to
detectives.

Soon they were deeply engrossed with plans and photos. Fletcher worked
the conversation round by easy stages to the subject of the murder,
and found little difficulty in getting Cook to talk.

“It’s not been a bad thing for us,” he said, “it’s given the place a
splendid advert. Pictures were in the papers, and quite a lot of
people have been down here.”

“I suppose you knew Lord Reckavile quite well?” said Fletcher knowing
how the flattery would please.

“I can hardly say that, but I used to take his ground rents to him;
when he came back he would send for me. He was a queer customer, and
allowed me to collect all the rents till he came to England, and then
pay him in cash. He said he went off so suddenly that it was useful.”

“Well, that’s plausible enough,” said the other.

“I had paid over quite a large sum to him on the very day he was
murdered.”

Fletcher looked up quickly.

“Really! I did not see . . .” and then stopped.

Luckily Cook was not taking much notice.

“I read the account of the affair,” Fletcher continued, “but I did not
see that mentioned.”

“I did not see that much could be gained by saying anything,” said
Cook, showing some signs of confusion.

“That’s most interesting,” said Fletcher casually, “what did you pay
him in?”

“Well, of course, I do not keep the money here, but I always bank it
at Ashstead. When he wanted paying I drew it out.”

“Ah! Then the bank manager would have the number of the notes?”

“Of course, they were five and ten pound notes; he entered them all in
his book. I did not keep a record.”

Fletcher felt he was asking too many questions.

“What do you think about it?” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I believe he was afraid of something. He was always running off
abroad, and back again, like a man hunted by something.”

“You mean the Curse?” said Fletcher in irony.

“Exactly,” said Cook gravely.

“Mr. Cook, you don’t tell me that as a man of the world you believe in
that superstition, especially after what you have told me about the
money!”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” said the other, “the villagers will tell you
something outside the pale, but I have it in mind that there is
something much more tangible; something connected with the past,
perhaps, and I am not at all sure that that ruffian Southgate at the
_Black Horse_ does not know a bit about it. He came here the other day
wanting to buy a bungalow, and I am sure he never made the money out
of that old pub of his.”

After talking on general matters for a few minutes, Fletcher took his
leave.

As he made his way along the road deep in thought, he was aware of two
people coming to meet him. They were conversing in eager tones, and
did not notice him. One of the two was Miss Sefton, the other a tall
good-looking young man with light hair.

Fletcher greeted them and was introduced to Jack Sefton by his sister.
He was quick to notice that there was a restless worried look about
the man, as though his nerve had gone. They turned together and walked
along the foreshore.

“What do you think of this place, Mr. Fletcher?” said Ena.

Before he could reply Sefton had intervened.

“It’s a rotten show,” he said, “and you will be bored to death before
long. I am sick of it already.”

Ena looked at her brother as though surprised at his tone, but he
stopped and said bitterly:

“You see, beggars can’t be choosers, and my sister and I are compelled
to live in this God-forsaken hole until the visitors come, and then I
suppose we shall be kicked out.”

It was a strange outburst to a mere stranger.

“Come and see our bungalow,” said the girl hastily, and they walked on
in silence.

When they arrived at the house, Fletcher was surprised to find a very
charming bungalow, with a central lounge, from which the other rooms
opened, tastefully furnished, and very pleasant after the desolate
appearance outside, where most of the bungalows were shut up for the
winter.

“What a charming little place,” he said, “I could enjoy a holiday here
very well.”

He saw a look of gratitude on the girl’s face, but Sefton said, “A
holiday, yes. But supposing you were condemned to live here all the
year round, you would find it different.” He glanced round as though
looking for something, and then sprang to his feet. “Come and see our
Club,” he said with a harsh laugh.

“Have you got a Club here then?”

“Oh! It is called a Club,” he replied, “it is a sort of tin shanty,
but we can get a decent drink there, and one can talk.”

Fletcher was surprised at his manner, but one glance at his eyes
showed him that there was a devil biting him. With apologies to Ena,
whose company he preferred to that of her brother, he made his way to
the bungalow referred to, and was soon deep in conversation. After
all, duty came before pleasure, and he was down here to find the
solution to the problem, not to talk to a pretty girl.

“Yes,” said Sefton in answer to a question, “I was mixed up with this
business. When I got there the man was as dead as mutton—it did not
require much skill to tell that; it is a curious thing too . . .”

“What?” said Fletcher quite casually.

Sefton seemed to take a decision.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you, but I didn’t see any point in telling
the police. It was most curious, but I did not want to be accused of
sensationalism. You know the chairs in the room had been overturned,
as though there had been a struggle, there was blood on some of them,
and on the floor. Well, I have enough medical knowledge to know that
the clean stab which killed the man could not have caused all that
amount of blood.”

“You mean. . . ?” said Fletcher.

“I mean,” said the other, leaning forward, “that the blood came from
the assailant whoever he was. It was impossible to have come from
Reckavile.”

“That is interesting,” said Fletcher.

There was a pause, then Sefton went on.

“That is not all. Of course, this is only between ourselves.”

“Of course,” said Fletcher.

“If you read the reports you will appreciate what I am going to say. I
bent down to examine one of the overturned armchairs, the constable
was holding the light and it shone full on the chair. Stretched from
the leg to the floor there was a spider’s web—a fully formed one.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Fletcher.

“Quite, and I turned the chair over—there was a deep depression
underneath on the soft carpet, and for another thing, the blood was
dry, in most places, I passed my hands over the stains—though some was
not . . .” he added musingly.

“Let’s have another drink,” said Fletcher to hide his excitement.



Chapter VII

In the Dark Night

Fletcher was satisfied with his day’s work. He returned to the _Black
Horse_ tired and hungry. Here at any rate were clues in abundance if
he could only piece them together.

After a substantial meal he wrote out his report for Sinclair, and
having smoked a contemplative pipe, he sought his landlord.

He found him also smoking, and in a surly mood, but with the aid of
spirituous liquid he was able to thaw his reserve.

It appeared that business was slack, and he spent a great part of his
time at his old trade of fishing. Only when Fletcher tried to work the
conversation round to the affair at Reckavile Castle, the landlord
shut up like an oyster.

As the night advanced, however, he became a little more communicative.
A second bottle had been opened, from which the landlord helped
himself liberally, and Fletcher with caution. The night had turned
rough, and the wind was rising. Fletcher listened for a moment, and
then said:

“Do you get many wrecks round these parts?” and knocked out his pipe
against the old fireplace.

“I don’t recall as ther’s ben one for nigh on thirty year,” said the
other helping himself to another drink. “That were when old Reckavile
came home.”

Fletcher pricked up his ears and waited.

“’E were mad, like ’em all,” continued the landlord “and ’e swore ’e
would land, weather or no. ’E’d come over from France in a ’urry. ’E
raved and swore, and wouldn’t go to Port like a sensible man.

“The Skipper ’e was a Frenchy, and Reckavile ’eld a pistol to ’is
’ead, and told ’im to put ’im ashore. They launched a boat somehow,
but it overturned as any sensible man would ’a known. ’Ow the rest got
ashore I don’t know. They all sat in this very room shivering and
chatting in their lingo, but Lord Reckavile ’e was washed ashore that
night.”

Fletcher waited; a sudden gust of wind swept round the inn, and smoke
blew into the room.

“There was a fine to do,” the landlord continued “but ’e was the only
one drownded, and they being foreigners it was ’ushed up. The Ketch
was a total wreck, and the crew were sent ’ome.”

“What about his wife?”

A cunning look came into the man’s eyes. “Oh! She was up at the
castle; the new Lord Reckavile was born that very night.”

“And that was how long ago?” said Fletcher.

“Thirty-two year come next March,” said he.

“Then Lord Reckavile was about thirty-two when he was murdered?” he
slipped out unwarily.

The landlord darted him a look of suspicion.

“I dunno nothin’ about that. I ’ad no dealings with this one,” he said
and kicked the fire savagely.

Without another word he finished his drink and departed.

Fletcher could not sleep; either the wind or the problem kept him
awake. At last he rose and went to the table for matches; he would
read, but at the window he paused. The curtains did not meet, and
through the crack he could see a faint light in the roadway outside.
He gently drew it back, and below he could dimly make out a muffled
figure standing by the door, holding a ship’s lantern.

The door opened cautiously as he watched and another figure in
oilskins came out whom he had no difficulty in recognising as the
landlord.

Without a word they turned and went into the night.

Fletcher waited. What should he do? He had not come prepared for
midnight expeditions in the rain, and it was a wild night. At last his
sense of adventure got the better of him, and hastily dressing, he
slipped downstairs, and seized his greatcoat from the peg in the hall.

As he approached the front door, a voice called over the bannisters.

“Who’s there?”

“It is only I . . . Mr. Fletcher,” said he, feeling a fool.

He saw the vision of Mrs. Southgate in very negligee costume, leaning
over the stairs, and behind her a dim suggestion of a domestic and
felt some explanation was called for.

“I thought I heard a noise, and came to see what it was,” he said
lamely. He felt far from being a hero with these two females watching
him, and the worst part was that he was quite sure they were really
laughing at him, under the guise of being frightened.

Mrs. Southgate spoke.

“Oh! I expect you heard my ’usband going out a-fishing. ’E always
tries ’is luck about this time. But Lord, ’ow you did frighten me, Mr.
Fletcher! You see when my ’usband goes it’s so lonely, and what with
the storm, and the neighbours not being too respectable.”

“Quite so,” said he irritably, to shut her up, and he made his way to
his room.

“A pretty detective you are,” he said bitterly to himself as he
slipped into bed.

The morning was bright and clear, and the storm had abated.

As he wandered out of the house the first sight which met him was the
innkeeper, hanging out a damp net to dry. For a change he greeted him
with a smile.

“Mornin’ sir,” he said “we ’ad a rough night; my missus says you was
scared in the night. Lord, no one would come to my place; I expect you
’eard me a-goin’ out.”

“Had any luck?” said Fletcher, knowing quite well, even as a townsman,
that the night was far too rough for fishing.

“Pretty fair, sir, pretty fair.”

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Brown striding
towards the inn. Fletcher cast a shrewd look towards the innkeeper,
but he was quite unperturbed.

The constable saluted. “May I have a word with you, sir?” he said.

“Come inside,” replied Fletcher with an angry look.

Once within the room he shut the door, and turned on Brown.

“You damned fool, what do you mean by coming here and saluting, after
what I told you. You’ve fairly messed things up.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the constable abashed, taking off his helmet.
“I never thought of it. I wanted to come and tell you the news.”

“Go on then.”

“Well, sir, you told me to watch the castle; I didn’t like the job,
but I walked round, and about one o’clock I saw a light inside. You
know what a rough night it was, and it fairly gave me the creeps, but
I thought I had to do my duty, so I opened the front door, and crept
to the library where the light was. My hair was fairly lifting on my
head.

“When I got to the door, there I saw two men bending over the desk,
and a lantern between them.”

“Did you recognise them?”

Brown looked confused.

“No, sir, they were too cunning for me. As I crept forward I fell
right over on my face. They had stretched a wire across the doorway.
When I got up the light was gone, and so were they, and the window
open.”

In spite of his annoyance Fletcher laughed.

“Stick to your duties as a village constable, Brown,” he said, “you
will never make a detective. Well what happened?”

“I gave chase,” said the rueful constable, “but it was no good, the
night was too wild. So I thought I’d better come and see you before
reporting it to Sergeant Andrews who is my Chief here.”

Fletcher ignored him for a moment, and took a turn up and down the
room.

He glanced at the window and saw the innkeeper, still hanging out his
nets.

“All right, Brown,” he said at last “the mischief is done, but I can’t
stay here any more. You’d better make a report for Andrews. You saw
nothing else?”

“Nothing appeared to have been touched, and they had left nothing
behind. I examined the desk, but it seems to have been intact; you
know, sir, it has already been searched.”

Fletcher dismissed him, and turned to his correspondence and
breakfast.

A letter from the bank manager at Ashstead contained the numbers of
the missing bank notes for which he had telephoned. He put it in his
pocket. Then a thought came to him, and he rang the bell.

“I am afraid I must get back to London to-day,” he said to the
innkeeper’s wife. “Please let me have my bill.”

“I am sorry sir,” she said, “I ’ope as ’ow it’s not because of you
being frightened in the night, sir.”

There was a note of raillery in the voice which was most galling.

He made no answer, and in due course an illiterate scrawl was brought
which indicated by its total that piracy still ran in the blood of
these people. Fletcher produced a ten pound note; it was a long shot
but worth trying.

“Could you oblige me with change?” he said.

“I’ll see, sir,” said the woman, and retired.

He saw her call her husband, and a colloquy took place.

Presently she reappeared; on the plate was a five pound note and some
loose silver. This was not the type of house where five pound notes
are flung about, so when the door was shut he produced his letter.

With a thrill he saw by the number that it was one of the missing
notes. Then a doubt came; surely these people were not quite so simple
as that; all their conduct was against it.

He rang the bell, for the time for further disguise had passed.

“Can you tell me,” he said sternly, “where you got this note?”

The woman gave a baffling look of innocent surprise.

“I don’t know, sir, I’ll ask my husband.”

She returned with the innkeeper, who had the same air of innocence.

“That note, sir, we doesn’t ’ave notes ’ere as a rule, but I changed
this for young Mr. Sefton, the medico from the Bungalows. ’E ’ad some
food ’ere t’other day.”

There was nothing more to be done here, so taking his bag, he
departed, but he had not gone far towards Bungalow Town, where he was
determined to stay, when he was met by Sergeant Andrews with startling
news.



Chapter VIII

“The Red Cote”

Sergeant Andrews was a shrewd man and ambitious. He had been rather
offended when the Reckavile case had been taken out of his hands, and
was not particularly pleased when he heard that an official as young
as Fletcher had been sent down by Scotland Yard, but he showed nothing
of this in his manner when he addressed him.

“I am pleased to meet you,” he said, “Brown told me you were working
down here, and of course I was informed by the Yard that you were
coming. How are you getting on?”

“It is difficult to say at present, I have a mass of information that
must be sorted out, for it seems to be a complicated affair; but you
wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I suppose you have heard of the disappearance of the bank
manager, Summers, of Tunbridge Wells?”

“Just what I have read, that’s all, he was last seen at Portham
Junction, wasn’t he?”

“That is as far as the official report goes, but I have further
information.” Andrews took the other by the arm, and glanced round to
see that no one was listening.

“He has been seen here in Bungalow Town,” he added.

Fletcher gave a start. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“There is no doubt of it; there is a bungalow called _The Red Cote_
which has somehow got a sinister reputation in the village—I do not
know why—and we have been keeping our eye on it for some days. It is
apparently unoccupied, but every night the rooms are lighted up. I had
a special man to watch it, as in a place like this with so many empty
bungalows in the winter, there is a great chance for burglars. For
three nights running two men have been seen lurking round the place,
and my man swears one of them is the missing bank manager.”

“And the other?”

“Ah, that is more difficult to say, and if we knew that we might find
out a lot of things. The nights were dark, and they evidently tried to
avoid observation, but we have our suspicions. Now for the past three
days no trace has been seen of Summers, and the other man has been
seen alone, so it looks bad.”

While they had been talking, Andrews had lead the way along the beach
to the bungalow which had been the subject of conversation. It was
innocent enough to look at, consisting of two railway coaches set
parallel to each other with a lounge between, and was furnished with
violet basket chairs and sofa, and a green carpet. The door was locked
but as there were no curtains or blinds, it was possible to see the
whole interior.

“What do you make of it?” asked Andrews.

“There’s nothing remarkable about it that I can see, and I really
don’t know why you attach so much importance to seeing two strangers
about at night time.”

“Have a look at the back,” said Andrews with a smile.

Fletcher did so, and returned to the other. “Well,” he said “there’s
just a little kitchen.”

Andrews assumed an air of mystery.

“You see this sitting room, what do you make its length by guessing?”

Fletcher put his eye to the window. “About twelve feet, I should say,”
he said.

“Right, and the kitchen at the back I make about five feet in depth.
Very well, that makes roughly seventeen feet in all, but these railway
coaches are thirty-five feet in length, and the question is, what is
in between?”

Fletcher became interested. “By Jove, I believe you have got hold of
something,” he said. “We’d better have a look.”

Andrews demurred. “We can’t get in without committing a burglary,” he
said.

“Oh nonsense,” said Fletcher, “there’s no one about, here goes,” and
with a quick movement he swung himself up to the roof, and crawled
along the top; in a few moments he was back again, dusting his knees.

“You are right, Andrews,” he said “there is something funny here,
there’s a glass window lighting a central room, but it is whitened all
over, to make it impossible to see inside. I wonder if our friend is
merely an amateur photographer, and we are making fools of ourselves,
or whether it has some other meaning.”

“I thought as you are down here, you would like to know, and I suggest
that we two watch to-night, and see what happens, there’s nothing like
doing a thing one’s self, and it’s just possible this may lead you to
the solution of your problem as well.”

Fletcher was all attention. “There may be something in what you say,
it’s worth trying anyhow. I’ll meet you at ten o’clock. I have had to
leave the _Black Horse_, and am trying to get a room at what they call
the Club, it’s nearer to the scene of action.”

“Very good,” said Andrews. “At ten o’clock.”

Fletcher made his way in a thoughtful mood to the Seftons’ bungalow.
He wanted to see Sefton, and it must be admitted he also felt
strangely drawn to the girl of the train.

Ena let him in herself, and a tall man rose to his feet, and was
introduced to him.

“Mr. Halley,” said the girl. “This is Mr. Fletcher about whom I told
you.”

The two men shook hands with a curious feeling of antagonism, for
which Fletcher was unable to account.

“I am sorry my brother is out,” said Ena. “Mr. Halley has been very
kind in putting our wireless set right, and it has made a great
difference to us in the evenings, as there are no amusements in the
village.”

“You are living in Portham, Mr. Halley?” asked Fletcher.

“My health has not been good,” replied the other in a frigid tone,
which Ena was quick to notice was very different from his normal
voice. “And I find the air of this place does me good.”

“And have you been here long?” asked Fletcher with a disregard for
courtesy.

“A few weeks only,” replied the other.

Fletcher was puzzled, for there was a haunting suggestion in his mind
that he had met Halley before, though he could not recollect where or
when he had done so. He could not continue to ask questions of a
stranger he had just met, but made a mental note for further inquiry.

“I hope you have succeeded in getting a suitable bungalow, Mr.
Fletcher,” said Ena.

“Not yet, Miss Sefton, but I have my eye on one called _The Red Cote_
which seems to be empty. Do you know it?”

“Only by sight,” she replied, but Fletcher had been watching Halley out
of the corner of his eye, and saw him give a slight start at the name.

Somehow he felt in the way, as though he were not quite welcome, and
the thought vexed him; he was annoyed to find Halley so much at home,
and turning to him he said, “Are you coming my way by any chance?”

“That depends on where you are going to,” answered Halley with a
frigid smile.

“I was just going to the Club to see whether I could get a room for a
day or two; it will be more comfortable than the _Black Horse_.”

“Oh you’ve been staying there, have you? How did you like our friend
Southgate?” There was a shade of raillery in the tone which annoyed
Fletcher, and he replied with more heat than he intended. “Is he a
friend of yours? In my opinion he is a confounded ruffian.”

“Quite possibly,” said Halley unruffled. “I expect if he had lived
some time ago he would have been a smuggler or a pirate.”

“And now he’s very likely a thief,” said Fletcher unguardedly.

“How jolly! Like the Pirates of Penzance, you remember. . . . ‘Let’s
vary Piracy with a little Burglary’.”

Fletcher saw he must keep his temper, and said stiffly:

“I am afraid I have never seen that play. Well, I must get along, Miss
Sefton,” and took his departure.

“You don’t seem to like Mr. Fletcher?” said Ena when he had gone.

“I neither like or dislike him,” replied Halley. “He strikes me as an
inquisitive busybody, that’s all.”

“Look there,” said Halley pointing out of the window “who’s that with
him now?”

Ena looked and saw Fletcher and her brother walking slowly towards the
Club deep in conversation.



Chapter IX

The Mysterious Bungalow

When Jack Sefton got home that night, he found his sister waiting for
him in a mood in which he had seldom seen her. It was late, and he
would have slipped off to bed, but she stopped him.

“Jack, I want to know why you persistently try to avoid meeting Mr.
Halley. He has been most kind, and it makes things very unpleasant for
me when I keep on telling him that you will be in, and each time you
are out. Then to-day, you were walking with Mr. Fletcher and must have
known Mr. Halley was here, but you never took the trouble to come in.”

After the manner of men who know themselves in the wrong, he worked
himself up into a temper.

“Why should I meet this fellow? You have scratched up a friendship
with him, and you know nothing about him. I think you should have
waited till I had seen him before you became so pally.”

She looked at him with her clear eyes. “What has come over you, Jack,
lately? It is your duty to be at home sometimes. If you were working I
would be only too pleased, but you are away all day, and I don’t know
where you get to.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Please don’t think I
want to inquire into your affairs, but I am so much alone, and so
worried about the future.” There were tears in her voice.

“I am sorry, old girl, but give me a few weeks and I will explain
everything. Don’t worry me now.”

“Very well, but there is one thing I must trouble you with; I am sorry
but I have no money to carry on with. We cannot run up bills here, and
you know I have always paid cash for everything.”

A look of relief came over his face. “You poor child,” he said. “Is
that all? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He put his hand into his coat pocket, and produced a bundle of notes.
“This will do to go on with,” he said, laying down three five pound
notes.

A look of fear came to Ena’s eyes, and a vague terror clutched her
heart.

“Where did you get this money from?” she asked, shrinking from the
notes as though they were poisoned.

“Oh, just a story I wrote for the magazines,” he said airily.

“What magazine? You never told me.”

“An American paper,” he answered, and then with sudden anger, “Do you
think I stole it? If so, say so.”

“I can’t take them, Jack.”

“What nonsense! It was a little surprise I had for you. You would
rather have smaller ones? All right, I’ll change them and give you
pound notes.”

He picked them up, and strode from the room.

She sat long in the darkness gazing out at the dim sea, desolate and
menacing. She wanted company badly, someone in whom she could confide.
Then there came a knock at the door, she almost feared to go, but it
was such a gentle tap. She opened the door and saw Halley in the
doorway.

“Miss Sefton,” he said, hurriedly raising his hat. “I must apologise
for coming at this hour, and if your brother is not at home, of
course, I will not come in, but I want to help you if I can.”

“What is it? You frighten me.”

“I am sorry. It was really your brother I wanted to see. I wanted to
ask him what he does at _The Red Cote_.”

“_The Red Cote_, the bungalow without blinds?” she asked.

He nodded gravely. “Believe me it is of the utmost importance, the
police will be here directly.”

Her hand sought her throat. “Police?” she gasped. “What do you mean?”

“You know _The Red Cote_?”

“Of course I do, the house without blinds they call it in the village.
Come in,” Ena said, “I did not want you to stand outside, but your
coming was so unexpected; I will tell my brother.”

She led him into the sitting room, and he lighted a lamp for her.
Suddenly he turned. “You were all in the dark?” he said, and there was
a tender note in his voice.

Without another word she went and called her brother.

He came in and the two men met at last. “This is Mr. Halley—my
brother,” she said.

Sefton looked at Halley, and started with a puzzled look on his face,
and half turned back to his room. With an effort he pulled himself
together, and held out his hand.

“I am glad to meet you,” he said “and thank you for what you have done
for my sister,” but there was a false ring in his voice which Ena was
quick to notice.

Halley spoke rapidly. “Mr. Sefton, I wish I had met you before; now I
am afraid I come on a rather unpleasant business. I am sorry. I want
you to believe me a friend; I will do anything to help.”

“What on earth do you mean?” asked Jack crossly.

“I want to ask you one question; please don’t think me impertinent;
what do you do at _The Red Cote_?”

Sefton staggered for a moment, and then sat heavily on a chair. His
face was ghastly.

“_The Red Cote_?” he said in a hoarse voice.

A loud knock sounded at the door, and both Sefton and his sister were
frozen in their places, while Halley rose and walked across the room
and opened the door. Outside three men were standing—Fletcher,
Sergeant Andrews, and Brown the Constable. It was Andrews who spoke.

“Is Mr. Sefton inside?”

“Come in,” said Halley. “I am a friend and was calling on them when I
heard you knock.”

Without a word the men entered; Fletcher appeared very uncomfortable
and would not look at Ena.

“Mr. Sefton,” said Andrews, “we are sorry to intrude on you at this
time of night, and I must apologise to you, Miss Sefton,” he
continued, bowing to the girl, “but we wish to ask you one or two
questions, perhaps you would prefer to come outside with us.”

Sefton’s face was white and set, but he seemed to take a sudden
resolution.

“No,” he said, “you can ask any questions you like here, you have
plenty of witnesses,” and he threw his hand round with a nervous
gesture.

“In the first place, can you give us any information with regard to
the mysterious disappearance of Summers, the missing bank manager?”

“I can give no information whatever,” he replied.

Andrews continued. “Can you tell us in that case, what you were doing
with Summers at the bungalow called _The Red Cote_?”

“I refuse to give you any information whatever,” replied Sefton
starting to his feet.

“Mr. Sefton, you are behaving in a strange way,” said Andrews sternly.

“Are you bringing an accusation against me?”

“Not at present,” said the sergeant gravely, “but I think it would be
better for you to be open with us. All three of us saw you distinctly
go to _The Red Cote_ and open it with a key this very evening, though
how you got out is a mystery. Some few days ago Mr. Summers, in
company with a man, we know now to be yourself, was seen to go into
the same bungalow. If there is a plain, straightforward explanation,
why do you not tell us?”

Sefton looked round like a hunted animal.

“I tell you there is no crime and no mystery, and in a few days I can
clear the matter up; at present I will say nothing.”

Halley had approached the girl during this conversation, and stood as
though protecting her; he now spoke for the first time.

“I am quite sure that Mr. Sefton is only keeping you in ignorance of
the facts from some perfectly honourable motive,” said he quietly.

Brown the constable started, and looked at Halley as though he had
seen a ghost, his face became suffused with red, and Fletcher turned
in surprise to him. “What is the matter, Brown?” he said.

The constable collected himself. “Nothing, sir,” he said “but I could
have sworn . . .”

He was interrupted by Sergeant Andrews.

“This is very unsatisfactory, but if you refuse to say anything, we
can take no further steps at present,” he added significantly.

Fletcher was torn between duty and another feeling. He was longing to
ask Sefton how he came to be possessed of one of the missing notes,
but he knew that such a question would make Ena turn against him, so
he would defer it for the moment.

There was an awkward pause. Brown was furtively looking at Halley, and
there was a puzzled look on his face as if he were trying to recall
something to mind which eluded him, while Sefton was nervously
twisting his fingers in and out.

And then with startling suddenness the clock struck the hour of
twelve.

“We can do no more here,” said Fletcher.

“We? I don’t understand,” said Ena coldly.

“I ought to explain,” said Fletcher. “Sergeant Andrews is an old
friend of mine, and asked me to watch _The Red Cote_ with him, though
of course I had no idea it had anything to do with your brother.”

“A sort of spy,” said Ena, with contempt, and there was an ominous
glitter in her eye.

“I hope you don’t think that,” he said. “I thought it was just an
adventure.”

Rather shamefacedly the men trooped out of the room.

When the door had closed, Sefton went up to Halley, and held out his
hand. “If you don’t mind shaking hands with a man under suspicion,” he
said “I want to apologise for my seeming rudeness.”

Halley understood and shook hands with a hearty grip.

“You need not say anything. I believe I can guess something at any
rate; you may rely on me.”

Tears came into Ena’s eyes in spite of herself, if this man could
trust her brother, what right had she to have doubts?

“Jack, I will believe you, but do clear up the whole thing, dear.”

“At the end of next week,” he said as though taking a sudden decision.

“Thank God for that,” she said, and they parted for the night.



Chapter X

In the Churchyard

Ena Sefton was on her way to the village church on Sunday morning. It
was the old church which had stood there for centuries, long before
such a thing as a bungalow town was heard of. She was rather late and
the bell was already ringing, so she quickened her pace. A long avenue
of trees led up to the old churchyard, and as she rounded the corner
she saw Halley walking slowly in front of her, and somehow it came as
a shock to her, for she had not associated him with church-going. He
turned and when he saw her he raised his hat with a smile of welcome.

“I did not know that you usually patronised our village church,” she
said.

“I am afraid I cannot claim to do much in that line,” he answered “but
I really came here for another object; I am interested in old
inscriptions, and I am told there are some in this churchyard.”

They walked along together, and passed through the Lych Gate. “Are you
coming in?” she asked.

“I hardly think so, if you will not think it rude of me, but I will
wait in the churchyard for you if I may.”

When the simple service was over, she found him standing at the corner
of the churchyard where the Reckavile family vault was situated. He
was deep in thought and did not look up until she touched him lightly,
then he gave a start.

“You were looking at the graves of the past Lord Reckaviles?” she
asked.

His face clouded over. “It is an ugly record,” he said. In front of
them was the tomb of the last Lord Reckavile, a simple stone tablet
giving his name, and age, and the date of his death, and beneath, the
sombre words “Vengeance is mine and I will repay.” Beyond that was the
tomb of his father drowned at sea, whose body had been washed ashore.

“Age thirty-two,” he said in a puzzled tone, “it is strange.” And he
turned with her and walked by her side without speaking.

“Mr. Halley,” she said to break the silence, “you will please forgive
me asking this question, but you seem so entirely alone, I have often
wondered whether you have any relations living. You don’t mind, do
you?”

“Not in the least, Miss Sefton,” he replied with that peculiar sad
smile of his “I can answer the question very simply. I have no
relations, and no friends.”

“That is unkind of you,” she said “surely you count us as friends.”

“I would like to think so,” he said “but we have only known each other
a short time.”

“Do you think friendship must necessarily be a growth of years?” she
asked.

“On the contrary,” he replied, “I believe that when people meet for
the first time they are either friends or not, there is a sort of
instinctive affinity or repulsion, although it may not be felt at the
moment.”

She looked at him with a roguish smile. “And which was it in my case?”
she said.

He did not answer to her mood. “You are on dangerous ground, you do
not know who you are taking as a friend.” There was almost a note of
warning in his voice. He had always been reserved and self-contained,
but of a sudden he stopped and said with emotion:

“Would to God I had never come to England!”

She was startled, for it was the first revelation of what had been
dimly at the back of her mind, that he was not entirely English.

He collected himself, and then walked on.

“I am sorry, for forgetting myself, perhaps I ought to tell you I was
born in Italy and my mother was Italian, although my father was
English. I shall be going back soon, when my work is over.”

“Your work!” she said.

“I have a task to accomplish,” he said in a solemn tone “and I cannot
allow my thoughts to stray to—other things. What am I to do with love
or the lighter side of life?” It was almost as though he was talking
to himself, but a deep blush spread over Ena’s face, and she turned
her head away.

As they emerged from the churchyard avenue the village was spread out
below them in all its hideousness, like some great Fair, when the show
is over. As they came to the foreshore, a figure rose over the bank
from the beach. It was Fletcher, and a look of annoyance crossed his
face when he saw Halley, although he tried to hide it.

“Good morning, Miss Sefton, I suppose you have been to church. I
should hardly have thought that was in Mr. Halley’s line,” he said
with a sneer.

“Right,” said Halley. “I did not go to church, but I met Miss Sefton
there. I have been looking at your interesting graveyard.”

“What a cheerful subject,” said the other. “I am not much interested
in tombstones myself.”

Halley darted a keen glance at him. “They say,” he said, “there are
sermons in stones, there may be also stories on tombstones of even
greater interest and value.”

“Well, I prefer something a little more amusing,” said Fletcher, and
there was something in his tone which seemed to anger Halley.

Very quietly he said, “I suppose the investigation of crime is an
amusing subject.”

Fletcher stopped dead, and his face went white. “Crime!” he said “what
on earth do you mean?”

Ena was looking from one to the other of the two men.

“Only this,” said Halley lighting a cigarette, “that as you are a
Scotland Yard detective, I suppose most of your life is spent in that
way.”

“A Scotland Yard detective,” blurted out Fletcher.

Halley held up his hand. “Please do not take the trouble to deny it. I
know you were sent down by Scotland Yard to investigate the murder.”

Fletcher’s mind was in a whirl, it was obviously impossible to deny
the statement made in such an emphatic tone.

“How on earth do you know anything about me?” said he unguardedly.

Halley shrugged his shoulders.

“What about you?” said Fletcher angrily. “Who and what are you? You
have come here from no one knows where, and have no apparent
occupation except loafing about and enquiring into other people’s
business, and imposing on trusting girls.”

A look of contempt was on Ena’s face.

“Is it true, Mr. Fletcher? Are you really a detective?”

“It is quite true, Miss Sefton, though how your friend became
acquainted with this, I do not know.” There was an unpleasant emphasis
on the word “friend.” “I suppose you have no objection to detectives?”

“A man’s business is his own,” she replied with spirit, “but I do not
like anyone who goes under false pretences.”

Fletcher’s usual self-control was deserting him. He saw the interest
which this girl might have had in him gone for ever.

“False pretences,” he repeated “and what about him? Who is he? For all
you know he may be the criminal we are after.”

“If you are going to say things like that,” she replied, “perhaps we
had better say good-day,” and she turned away without another word.

Halley gave one glance at the angry detective and then followed her.

“All right, my boy!” said Fletcher to the departing couple. “You’ve
scored one point, but wait until I have got a little more information
and then we will see what opinion Miss Ena will hold of you!”

Ena walked in silence for a while.

“How horrible,” she said at length. “That man came down with me by the
same train, and scratched up an acquaintance. I suppose he was trying
to ‘pump’ me, as they say; that is why he came the other night, with
the police sergeant. I will never trust anyone again.”

Halley looked at her for a moment.

“Did I not tell you not to make friends at sight?” he said bitterly,
but she turned quickly to him.

“Oh! I am so sorry, I did not mean that, of course I was not referring
to you.”

“But why not? You know as little about me as you did about Fletcher.”

She was confused, and took refuge in his own words.

“But then you said friendship was an instinctive thing. I never took
to Mr. Fletcher, though I knew nothing against him, and he was a
stranger.”

The lunch at the Sefton’s bungalow was cheerful, in spite of the cloud
hanging over the affairs of all three. Jack was a changed being now
that he had taken his resolve, and listened with interest to the tales
of foreign travel with which Halley regaled them, for Halley was in a
mood they had never seen before. His usual gravity was gone, and they
realised what a wonderful talker he could be when he liked, and in the
days which followed they looked back on this meal with especial
pleasure. The men had just settled to smoke, when there came a hasty
knock at the door. Southgate was standing outside panting, for he had
walked fast, and his face was red, but there was an anxious look in
his eyes.

“Come away at once, Mr. Halley,” he said urgently. “I have something
to tell you.”

With apologies Halley went outside.

“I am sorry,” he said when he returned to the others “I must go with
Southgate, and I am afraid I shall have to go to London to-morrow. I
will get back as soon as I can.”



Chapter XI

The Meaning of “The Red Cote”

The following Saturday Sefton was waiting in his bungalow, and Ena was
with him, rather nervous, but glad that the shadow was to be lifted at
last. Jack had written to Andrews to tell him that he was going to
make an explanation with regard to _The Red Cote_, and asked him to be
present. Fletcher he had deliberately ignored, though he felt certain
that he would turn up. Halley had not returned from London, and there
had been no news of him.

Andrews arrived punctually to the minute, and as was expected,
Fletcher was with him. Sefton found seats for them, and began in quiet
tones, different indeed from the irritable manner of the past weeks.

“You asked me the other day, what I was doing at _The Red Cote_. I am
now in a position to tell you, thank God. When my father died, I had
almost finished my course at the Hospital, and was within sight of
being a qualified doctor. I was unable to go on through lack of funds.
Before he died, my father entrusted a secret to me. He had been
carrying out researches in certain obscure nervous diseases. My father
firmly believed in Psychoanalysis, and had also a special appliance of
an electrical nature with which he was experimenting.

“Not being qualified, I could not practice openly, nor did I wish to
reveal to the medical world the exact nature of the process, until I
had thoroughly tested it. You will remember, Ena,” he said turning to
his sister, “that when we first came here, I was writing a large
number of letters, and you thought that I was trying to get work of
some sort. My real object was to get hold of patients, who wished to
be treated privately. I was obliged to take a bungalow for the
treatment, and was perhaps over-anxious to keep the matter secret, so
constructed a room in which I could work, in the centre of the
bungalow. I rather foolishly thought that if the place was lighted up
it would be less conspicuous than if it was in darkness, but it seems
to have called attention to it instead.

“I could not bring them here as they were practically lunatics.

“Among my patients was Summers the bank manager from Tunbridge Wells.”
The listeners gave a start of surprise.

“Summers was in a curious state when he came to me,” Sefton continued.
“He was not mad, but was on the border-line, and I was afraid that he
would commit suicide. He should have told his people, but I could see
that the slightest suggestion of such a thing would have spelt
disaster. He was convinced that he was dead. The treatment was doing
him good, and I had hopes that he would make a complete recovery, when
you got busy over the so-called mystery, and I had to exercise the
utmost caution. Then Summers disappeared.”

Andrews lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Fletcher.

Sefton was quick to notice it. “No,” he said. “I should not have been
quite such a fool as to tell you this story, if I could not produce
the man. He will be here presently, but for obvious reasons an
explanation was first necessary.”

“When you called on me I had no more idea where he was than you had,
and I could see that if he had committed suicide, my position would be
black.”

Fletcher’s face was suffused with red, and he banged the table.

“I see it all now,” he said. “Summers and Halley are one and the same
man. That’s what he was doing here.”

There was a look of contempt on the face of Sefton.

“If that’s what a detective is paid for I don’t think much of the
service. Wasn’t Halley here last week when you came to ask questions?
If I am not mistaken here is Summers himself.”

In answer to a knock, Ena went to the door, and admitted a tall man
answering exactly to the description given in the papers and on the
wireless of the missing man. He bowed to the company, and shook hands
with Sefton.

“This is Mr. Summers,” said he introducing him to the others.

Summers passed a nervous hand over his eyes, and said “I am afraid I
can’t talk much. I am not very well, but thanks to Mr. Sefton I am
making a wonderful recovery. He has told me I was wrong to run away,
but I had dreams and was haunted; now I can see things better.”

Ena went to him with the instinct of a true woman. “My brother has
been telling us all about you. You will be all right now; you are
among friends, and must come and stop here till you are well.”

A look of deep gratitude come to his thin face, and he seemed calmer
and more self-possessed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I have entire confidence in your brother, and I
will do whatever he wishes.”

So here was the explanation of _The Red Cote_, commonplace as all
explanations are when you hear them.

Fletcher felt that he had cut a poor figure, and was eager to retrieve
his reputation; he had another shot in his locker, but to use this
would extinguish his last chance to stand well with Ena. He glanced at
her and hesitated. Andrews rose to his feet.

“Your story has been quite interesting, and as far as I am concerned,
convincing,” he said holding out his hand. “You could not have done
otherwise than you have done.”

“One moment,” said Fletcher, having made his decision. “Mr. Sefton, can
you explain with equal ease how it was that you changed a five pound
note at the _Black Horse_ with Southgate which was one of those stolen
from Lord Reckavile?”

There was an ominous silence in the room; Ena’s eyes flashed, while
Andrews looked at the floor, marvelling at the crudity of the
question, but Sefton remained calm.

“If you had asked your question in a less offensive manner, I would
have answered you; now you can find out for yourself.”

He saw the look of pain in Ena’s eyes, and remembered how worried she
had been about the money.

“But for my sister’s sake I will tell you,” he added. “I have only
changed one such note at the _Black Horse_, and that was for old
Giles. He asked me whether I could change it for him, and I did so.
You can ask him yourself.”

“Humph,” said Fletcher, “we shall see about that,” and he rose. “Come
on, Andrews, we shall do no more with these people.”



Chapter XII

The Unknown Speaker

The whole case was getting on Fletcher’s nerves. He had paid a visit
to Giles, to follow up the clue about the money.

The old man was quite straightforward; it was true, he had asked
Sefton to change a five pound note for him, which had been given him
by Lord Reckavile as wages. When his Lordship was away he never sent
any money, but when he came home, he had been in the habit of giving
the old servant quite large sums to carry on with.

It was quite possible, and there was nothing to be said about this,
but yet Fletcher felt somehow that all these people were combining to
thwart his efforts and were secretly laughing at him.

What was Halley doing in Portham? And what was Southgate up to in his
nocturnal visit to the castle, for he was sure that that was where he
had gone in the night, though he had no definite proof.

Halley had returned from London, so much he had learnt, and was again
visiting the Sefton’s bungalow, where Summers was now openly staying
as a paying guest, under Sefton’s care.

He returned from a troubled walk; his stay at Portham was already
lasting too long, and hints from Headquarters had been thrown out that
if he could not manage the job, he had better return.

He had allowed his thoughts to stray to the fair grace of Ena Sefton,
only to have the cup dashed to the ground by the revelation of his
profession, as if there was anything to be ashamed of in being a
detective. It was better than an unknown adventurer anyhow, he kept on
telling himself in self pity.

He arrived at the Club in a despondent mood, and was met by Brown, the
constable.

The latter had an air of mystery about him.

“Well, what is it, Brown,” he asked “anything fresh?”

“Yes, sir,” said the other, glancing round.

“It’s all right, you may talk here,” said Fletcher testily.

“Well, sir, you remember that I told you that when I heard that Mr.
Halley speaking it reminded me of something. I have been worrying over
it, and it has all come back to me now. I am quite certain that it was
he who was in the room with Lord Reckavile when he was murdered. It
was his voice we heard. It came through two doors and was muffled, but
there is no mistaking his tone.”

Fletcher started back; here was news indeed.

“Are you absolutely certain, Brown?” he said “remember this is of the
very utmost importance, you must not make a mistake.”

“I am certain,” said the constable doggedly.

“And I’ll tell you another thing, sir, when I found those two men in
the library, although I only had a glimpse, I am nearly positive one
of them was Halley.”

“Can you swear to that?” said Fletcher gripping the other’s arm in his
excitement.

“No, sir, I can’t swear to that, only in my own mind I am pretty
sure.”

“Well, we have something to go upon at last,” said Fletcher. “Not a
word of this to anyone. We must get some more details. I knew that
fellow with his superior manners and hypocritical ways was a crook,
though why he should make love to a penniless girl like Ena Sefton, is
beyond me.”

But if he had hit at last on the real criminal, there was something
still hidden. What could be more stupid than for a man to commit a
murder, and then remain on in the village for no reason, unless . . .

He recalled to his mind cases where men who had fallen in love had
committed every kind of indiscretion and jeopardised their safety. He
had on his journeyings visited the Castle of Blois, and seen the spot
where the Duc de Guise had stood eating prunes, while waiting for the
summons of the King which had been a call to death, and all because in
spite of warnings, he had remained on, in attendance on his mistress.

Giles, when he was examined was less sure than the constable.

“I couldn’t be sartin’,” he kept on repeating, “I were that flustered,
and I be ’ard of ’earing. No I dun’no as ’ow I cud swear to any voice
for sartin’.”

Fletcher was cute enough to see that such evidence was worthless, and
that the stubborn old man would not alter his evidence in the Box.

But a startling new piece of information came to hand by accident,
when he returned to the Club, and fell into conversation with the
steward.

Their talk turned on Sefton, and the mystery which was no longer a
mystery.

“Yes, sir,” said the steward, “I knew he was a doctor. He brought a
gentleman in here sometime ago, who was bleeding like a stuck pig. I
held the basin for him, and the way he bound him up showed me he had
some experience.”

“When was this?” said Fletcher without suspecting anything important.
The other laughed; “I can easily tell you that,” said he “it was the
night the murder took place at the castle.”

“What?” said Fletcher “and who was the man?”

“That I can’t tell you for certain. He was on a seat outside the Club,
and the night was dark. Mr. Sefton thought he had fallen down and cut
himself. I thought it was just a case of drunkenness. I believe it was
Mr. Halley who’s staying in the village.”

There was only one thing to do, although Fletcher knew he would not
meet with a genial reception from Sefton.

He made his way to his bungalow, and asked for him. The tousled maid
who did odd jobs, and did them mighty badly, informed him that the
“Doctor,” as she called him, was in, but Miss Sefton was out, at which
Fletcher was rather relieved.

Sefton came to the door and eyed his visitor with little favour.

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

“Mr. Sefton,” said the Detective formally “I would not come to you if
it was not on a matter of great importance, but I believe you can give
me some information.”

“What is it now?” said Sefton.

“On the night of the murder, I understand you bound up a man who was
wounded or injured in some way, at the Club. Would you mind telling me
who that was?”

“Really, Fletcher,” said Sefton “you have a lot to learn in your
profession. Your questions are very crude. If I treat a man medically
I no more disclose his name than a priest does one who comes to
confession.”

His manner annoyed Fletcher.

“That’s all nonsense,” he said “you are not a real doctor and in any
case in the interests of justice . . .”

Sefton cut him short.

“The interests of justice are concerned with criminals, and as the man
in question had nothing to do with the crime, there is no reason to
reveal his name. You will excuse me, but I am rather busy.”

“Yes, and I know why you refuse,” said Fletcher “because it was that
fellow Halley. I believe you are all conspiring together to shield him
but I’ll . . .”

Fletcher was left to face a closed door, and turned away with death in
his heart. Were the whole village in league to cheat the ends of
justice?

In a furious mood he made his way to the telephone to call up Sergeant
Andrews.



Chapter XIII

Detained on Suspicion

“Mr. Halley, will you accompany us to Ashstead, I have a car outside;
you will probably know why we have come.”

It was Sergeant Andrews who spoke these ominous words. By his side was
Fletcher with a smile of triumph on his face. He had run his enemy to
earth at last, and even though he might be treated with scorn by Ena,
what would be her opinion of his rival? There was a tense silence;
Halley stood motionless, not a muscle moved. Fletcher with deliberate
cruelty had staged this scene at the Sefton’s Bungalow.

“As you are police officers, I suppose I may take it that you suspect
me of some crime,” said Halley calmly.

“We wish to ask you some questions with regard to the murder of Lord
Reckavile, and these are better dealt with by the proper authorities,”
said Andrews, who disliked his task.

“I will come with you,” said Halley. “Am I to be handcuffed or
anything of that sort?” There was irony in his tone which was galling
to Fletcher.

“Not at present,” he said sharply.

Before another word could be said there was a cry, a door was flung
open, and Ena came into the room. Her eyes were blazing with anger, as
she walked straight across to Halley and stood by his side.

“What was this I heard,” she said “Police! Arrest! They must be mad.”

“We shall see about that,” said Fletcher, “when your precious friend
is in the Dock.”

“It is untrue,” she said. “Tell them that it is utterly false.” In
spite of her complete trust in him there was a terrible lurking
suspicion at the back of her mind. She knew that he was not a
murderer, but the facts that had leaked out from her brother’s
statement, that a struggle had taken place at the castle might mean
that he had acted in self-defence, but surely not with a knife, she
could not believe that he would, even in anger, deal so cowardly a
blow.

Halley spoke.

“Miss Sefton,” he said, “to these police officers I would have said
nothing, but since you have asked me, I can tell you that I did not
commit this crime.” Fletcher gave a contemptuous laugh, which made
even Sergeant Andrews look at him in reproof—it was unprofessional.

Halley continued calmly. “What is more to the point is that I can
easily prove my innocence.”

Her faced cleared. “I knew there must be some terrible mistake,” she
said.

Sergeant Andrews felt the conversation had gone far enough.

“I am very sorry, Miss Sefton, that you were here at all. Mr. Fletcher
told me that you were not at home, and that we merely came for Mr.
Halley. I had just driven to fetch him, so we had better get off.”

Ena came to the door, her face was white, but she had a look of pride
and confidence.

“Come back to us soon,” she said, “you will receive a warm welcome,”
and she glanced a look of hatred and contempt at Fletcher.

“Do not worry about me, it will only be a matter of a few hours,”
Halley said as the car drove off.

The examination was short, but Halley for the first time felt the
indignity of his position, for the surroundings in which he found
himself were enough to disgust any man of decent breeding.

The police at the station pushed him along as though he had been
caught in the act of stealing a purse or cutting a throat. He realised
how utterly futile is the old adage that a man under British Law is
considered innocent until he is proved guilty.

The short sharp questions of the Inspector grated on him, and behind
it all was the vision of one young girl torn with anxiety and waiting
to know the issue of this day’s business.

His pride would have made him keep silent, but the image ever before
him forced him to speak.

“If I studied my own interests,” he said “I would let you go on with
this absurd charge, and burn your fingers over the matter. If you are
wise you will let me clear myself immediately. The murder of which you
accuse me took place on the 20th of January and on that night I have
at least three witnesses who can testify that I was with them during
the entire evening, and therefore could not have been at Reckavile
Castle.”

The firmness of his tone and the quiet manner in which he spoke
disconcerted the Inspector, and he turned to Fletcher for advice.

“I have evidence,” said Fletcher “of the most compromising character,
and in spite of what this man says I would strongly advise that he be
detained, and brought before the Magistrates, where the whole matter
can be gone into. I may add,” he said with meaning, “that I represent
Scotland Yard in this matter.”

The Inspector was at a loss as to what to do; on the one hand he had a
heavy respect for the Yard; on the other Halley’s manner had impressed
him.

“Who are your witnesses?” he asked Halley.

“If you care to send for a certain Mr. Southgate of the _Black Horse_
at Portham Village and his wife, they will both confirm what I have
said. And there is a fisherman who also saw me there on that night. I
merely say this in your own interests,” he added “for it does not
bring the police force into good repute when they make wrongful
arrests.”

The Inspector scratched his head in perplexity.

“I think, Mr. Fletcher,” he said “we had better either send for these
witnesses, or wire for instructions from Scotland Yard.”

For the first time, serious doubts crossed Fletcher’s mind and he
addressed Halley in a more conciliatory tone.

“But if you can prove an alibi, can you account for the fact that
Brown is willing to swear an oath that it was you who were talking
with Lord Reckavile immediately before his murder.”

Halley shrugged his shoulders. “It is not for me to prove my
innocence,” he said, “but for you to prove my guilt. I am always to be
found, I do not intend to run away, but you must have better evidence
than you have at present before you can prove your case.”

“I think on the whole,” said the Inspector, “we had better send for
these people.”

Fletcher remained silent, and the Inspector took this for
acquiescence. He rang his bell, and an officer appeared.

“Tell Sergeant Andrews,” he said “to motor in at once and bring out
the landlord of the _Black Horse_, and his wife, and get the name of
the fisherman whom Mr. Halley says was with him on the night of the
murder.”

The officer saluted and went out.

There was an awkward pause. The Inspector had not any special liking
for the interference of Scotland Yard, and was rather pleased with the
prospect of proving their envoy in the wrong.

“Can you help us to throw any light whatever on this mysterious
matter?” he said to Halley.

“I could say a good deal,” said Halley, “but while I am an accused
person I refuse to make any statement whatever.”

“Then I may take it that you have information which might lead to the
detection of the criminal and are deliberately withholding it?”

“Which criminal?” said Halley.

The Inspector gave an impatient gesture. “You know what I mean, the
murderer of Lord Reckavile.”

“Oh, I understand, I thought you meant the other.”

“Are you talking in riddles to amuse yourself?”

Halley shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you will learn the answer some
day.”

After a wait of half an hour, Sergeant Andrews arrived in the car
accompanied by Southgate, his wife and a fisherman. There was a look
of vexation on the Sergeant’s face.

“I am afraid there is something wrong, sir,” he said to the Inspector.
“It appears that on the night when the murder took place, Mr. Halley
was at the _Black Horse_ with Southgate and his wife, and was also
seen by a considerable number of other people. I would not trust the
landlord much myself, but the evidence of an alibi is overwhelming.”

Fletcher intervened. “There are certain movements of Southgate’s which
require explanation. He had a habit of going out at night on the
excuse of fishing, when it is impossible for anyone to put a boat to
sea.”

The landlord grinned broadly. “I am afraid this gentleman suffers from
nerves. ’E was very scared when ’e stopped at my poor place.”

When all the evidence had been heard, there was only one thing to do;
Halley was released with profuse apologies from the Inspector, and was
sent off in the same car in which he had been brought in as a
suspected person. The police officers stared blankly at each other.

The Inspector was a man of few words.

“You have made a pretty mess of things,” he said to Fletcher, “I
should think Scotland Yard will be rather pleased.”

Fletcher flushed angrily.

“If all the information that your police officers give me is as
accurate as what I have just had, I do not think much of their
efficiency.”

“Well, it is no good quarrelling,” said the other “you have tried to
pin the crime on to young Sefton, on to Mr. Halley and now I can see
you suspect Southgate, though he also has a complete alibi. Who is
going to be your next victim?”

Halley got out of the car before he reached Portham, and walked slowly
to the Sefton bungalow. Sefton was at _The Red Cote_, where he worked
all day, and Halley knew that Ena would be alone and anxious. He
softly approached the house and walked in without knocking, as he had
been accustomed to do for some time. There were no signs of the girl
in the lounge, and he tapped softly on her door.

“Who is that?” a muffled voice replied.

“It is I, Halley,” he said.

There was a sharp cry from within, and Ena came out; her face showed
signs that she had been crying, and she had a strained look, but she
came forward with a glad welcome and took both his hands in a frank
open manner.

“Oh, I am so glad you are back,” she said “I know it was all a
mistake, but how terrible it has been for you.”

He did not let go of her hands, but said quietly:

“And for you too?”

She looked down now and murmured. “The most terrible time of my life.”

“Ena,” he said, and she did not resent the use of her Christian name,
“even you were not quite sure of my innocence; I could see it.”

“Oh! don’t think that,” she replied “it is not true, I knew you had
never committed a murder, but I thought . . .” and she stopped.

“What was it you thought?” he said almost sternly.

“Oh, you know what my brother says about the struggle in the room, and
that Lord Reckavile must have struck his assailant, and the words he
said suggested a quarrel. I thought perhaps he might have assaulted
you.”

“And that I had stuck a knife into him,” he said sadly.

“Oh. No! No! I knew you could not have done that.”

A sudden look of amazement came into Halley’s face.

“My God,” he said “I think I can see light, but if so how devilish!
How fiendishly cunning!”

She was startled and tried to release her hands, but he led her gently
to a seat and sat beside her.

“Let us forget this horrible business if we can. I want to tell you
something. There is a mystery in my life, which I cannot explain even
to you at present. Some day perhaps I may be able to do so. This alone
has prevented me from saying something to you which has been burning
into my head since first I saw you.”

Ena gave him a quick glance, and then looked down.

“I think you can guess what it is, and if you have nothing to say to
me, I will walk out of this room and out of your life sooner than hurt
your feelings. When first I met you on that windy afternoon, when you
were battling against the storm so bravely, and I learned that this
was the symbol of your life—battling against the Storm, my heart went
out to you in sympathy such as I have never felt to anyone else in the
world, and during those following days, when your sweet companionship
meant so much to me—more than you perhaps will ever know—I knew that
for the first time in my life I loved, and would go on loving for all
time, whether you cared for me or not.”

His voice was very tender.

“Love I take it,” he said “is sacrifice and service. My whole mind and
body has been in your service and yours only since first we met, and
if my life could have been given to lift the burden, which I saw was
hanging over you, I would willingly have made the sacrifice.”

“I know,” she said softly, and tears were falling unrestrainedly and
she made no effort to wipe them from her face.

He waited for a moment and then continued.

“It is possible that I have hurt you by what I have said. I will not
insult you with the usual question as to whether there is someone else
to whom you have already given your heart, nor will I ask you for an
answer now.”

Then she looked up at last.

“Surely you men must be completely blind. I think you are the only one
of our acquaintances who has not seen the truth that I have loved you
all the time.”

With a great sigh he gathered her into his arms. She nestled her head
on his shoulder and with a happy laugh said,

“If you had not spoken to me, I think I should have to have spoken to
you. My brother has been constantly warning me that I am throwing
myself away on you. Fletcher taunted me with the same thing, and I am
sure all those police constables must have seen the state of things
to-day, when I gave myself away completely.”

His manner was gay, in contrast to his usual gravity.

“Well you have given yourself away now completely, I hope. Come, let’s
walk to _The Red Cote_, and tell your brother.”

With a happy smile, she took his hand and they went out together.



Chapter XIV

A Vision of the Night

The news that Halley and Ena were engaged was the last straw to
Fletcher. One thing was now firm in his mind, to find out the truth of
the whole matter, and not to fail in this at any rate, for failure was
intolerable after all the indignities he had suffered.

In spite of his common-sense mind, he began to have a feeling that
something not altogether natural had played a hand in the affair.

There was the mysterious “Other Man” who obtruded himself at every
turn, elusive and vague, but always felt.

The man who had talked with Reckavile, and whose voice Brown had sworn
was Halley’s. The man who had been in the library with one who, he was
morally certain, was Southgate. The one who had appeared to him in the
library under such strange circumstances, and the man with a bleeding
wound who had been bandaged up by Sefton.

At every turn he was met by this mysterious individual. Was there
anything in this Curse theory after all? Surely we had outgrown these
ideas!

There was only one thing to do; for some unexplained reason attempts
had been made to get into the library after the murder. What was the
object? And had that object been accomplished?

The queer old man, the memory of whom sent a cold shudder down his
back, had done nothing, and the supposed burglars had been disturbed,
but had they tried to come again?

Here was evidently the key to the mystery.

Fletcher made up his mind that he would spend his nights in the room,
and stake all on this chance.

For nights he watched, a tortured man. He sat in the dark, and tried
to reconstruct the scene. Here was Lord Reckavile talking to—someone.
Then there was a sudden attack—but by whom? Reckavile or the other. By
the evidence Reckavile was the aggressor, but nothing could alter the
fact that a knife was sticking in his ribs.

His mind turned in a curious way to the round leather object found on
the dead man. What was it, and had it any bearing on the crime?

There were signs of the coming dawn, and a very dim light was
filtering into the room, for the blinds were not drawn, when very
faintly a slight jarring noise came to his ears; someone was
approaching through the Hall. He silently slid behind the sofa, and
lay there clutching the powerful electric torch which he had brought
with him. The sounds grew louder and there was a creak of a board,
then he heard a whisper which told him that more than one person was
approaching. His senses were strained to catch the slightest
indication as to who the visitors might be. He was convinced now that
they were standing close to him. He could hear rapid breathing, but no
other sound broke the silence. Now was the time for action. This time
he had come armed, and holding his revolver in the right hand, he rose
to his feet and switched on the torch.

Utter amazement kept him spellbound. Close to the old desk, and
bending over it were two men, who rose and faced him at the sudden
flood of light. The one was his mysterious visitor, the old man who
had appeared before, but strange as this was, the sight of the other
is what filled him with astonishment, for this was no other than
Sinclair, his own Chief at Scotland Yard.

“Who is that?” asked Sinclair shading his eyes from the glare of the
torch.

Fletcher advanced. “I am Fletcher, sir. But what on earth are you
doing here?”

With all his sense of respect, there was a note of suspicion in his
voice, at which Sinclair laughed heartily.

“Oh! we are not committing a burglary,” he said “but as things were
hanging fire, I thought I had better come down and have a look at
matters for myself.”

“And may I ask,” said Fletcher rather annoyed that his Chief had come
without informing him, “who is that with you?”

The old detective seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“Giles I be,” said the old man, with a senile chuckle, and Fletcher
recalled that he had used exactly the same words on the former
occasion. Was the place really haunted, and were these two figments of
his own brain?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming down, sir?” he said to
Sinclair.

“To tell you the truth, I did not know myself until this afternoon,
but something has happened which led me to intervene in the case. I
was pretty certain of the true solution from the very first.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand even now. You say you are not
committing a burglary, sir,” said Fletcher, and stopped.

The old man drew himself up with some dignity, and said in a very
different voice.

“As the castle belongs to me I do not think we need discuss that; if
anyone is unlawfully intruding, it is you.”

He turned on an electric lamp, though the dawn shed a ghostly light
into the room.

Sinclair broke the silence.

“I think we had better have a round-table conference. We wanted to
make the final discovery first, but as things have gone so far, we had
better have all the cards on the table.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Fletcher “if you know everything, who
was the murderer, and who is this—gentleman?”

“As to the first question,” said Sinclair impatiently, “there is no
doubt about that, and as to the other, you shall know. Now go off, and
ask these people to come here at ten o’clock punctually. Remember, you
have not done too well in this case, so I rely on you to carry out
these instructions. You will ’phone for Sergeant Andrews and Brown.
Use my name. Then you must get Southgate and Giles, and Mr. Sefton and
his sister.” He looked at the old man, who nodded.

“Giles must come and tidy the place a bit and arrange a conference
room. Everything hangs on that. Don’t forget. At ten o’clock.”

Fletcher went out like a man in a dream: What on earth was the meaning
of it all? Even now he was as much in the dark as ever. Why this
conference and who among those invited was the murderer? Also why had
the very man of all others whom he suspected still, Halley, been
omitted. Or, stay, was it because Sinclair had already got Halley? The
thought thrilled him.

At any rate he had a job of work to do.

Thanks to old Giles’ efforts the library was transformed when the
strange party began to arrive, and it looked more like a Board Room,
with a large table and chairs set round it.

The police representatives were the first to arrive, as nonplussed as
Fletcher, and feeling rather aggrieved that such a man as Sinclair
should have acted without telling them anything.

This drew them together, and Fletcher, Andrews and Brown seated
themselves at one end of the table, and waited. Jack Sefton and his
sister came next, the latter nervous and rather pale. She gave a
formal bow to the other men and with her brother took the opposite end
of the long table.

The genial Southgate, who had obviously prepared himself for the
meeting with refreshment from his cellar, entered and greeted the
others with a cheery good morning. He looked at Fletcher, and laughed.

“Young man,” he said “you’ll ’ave a ’igh old time in a moment,” and he
slapped his leg.

Giles had been hovering about, making things comfortable, and was
quite the old butler again, but all waited for the principal figure.
It seemed as though the whole thing had been staged for effect.

The door opened and Sinclair entered accompanied by the old man whom
Fletcher had seen, and they took their seats in astonished silence.

There was one vacant chair, which Fletcher supposed was reserved for
Halley.

“He’s late,” said Sinclair looking at his watch.

“I think I hear someone, sir,” said Giles, going to the door.

“Mr. Cook,” Giles announced, and the house agent came in and smiled
nervously at the company.

“Take a seat, Mr. Cook,” said Sinclair. “Now I think we are all here.
We are going to piece together this mystery.”

The others looked at the house agent in astonishment. What was he
doing in this gathering? Their speculations were interrupted by
Sinclair who spoke slowly and with a solemn tone in his voice.

“This has been a problem of some difficulty and I am not going to
disguise the fact that at one time it nearly baffled the authorities.
Now it is quite clear.”

“It may be to you, sir,” said Fletcher “but to me it is as dark as
ever.”

A flicker of a smile came to Sinclair’s grim face.

“Perhaps you would like to ask a question or two?” he asked.

“Who was talking with Lord Reckavile in this room when the murder took
place?” said Fletcher.

“No one, at least no living thing.”

“How did the other man escape from the room?”

“He did not escape, there was no other man.”

“Had the Reckavile Curse anything to do with the crime?”

“Yes, everything.”

“Did it kill him?”

“Yes,” said Sinclair solemnly.

“This is absurd,” said Fletcher impatiently, “I don’t believe in
bogies.”

“Go on,” said Sinclair imperturbably.

“I suppose you will say Lord Reckavile committed suicide?”

“In one sense, yes.”

“Then he was not murdered?”

“Oh yes he was, and . . .” Sinclair leaned forward in his chair and
said slowly: “The murderer is in the room at the present moment.”

There was utter silence, except for the breathing of those present.
The room seemed to grow dark, and the air became oppressive. Those
round the table looked at each other with horror and suspicion in
their eyes, and a vague shadowy something seemed to be gathering in
the room.

Ena shuddered. Where was her lover? Why was he not there of all
people, when he had actually been accused of the crime?

Was there something in the Curse after all, and some unseen visitant
hovering about them?

She could bear it no longer, and in a strained voice asked:

“Where is Mr. Halley, Mr. Sinclair, and why is he not here?”

“Mr. Halley does not exist,” then hastily as he saw the girl’s face.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Sefton, he never did exist.”

Doubts as to Sinclair’s sanity began to fill the minds of the others.

“But why all this mystery, sir? If you know all about it, why not tell
us?” asked Fletcher.

“I did not say I knew _all_ about it. Well as no one seems disposed to
speak, we had better get on with the story, eh Lord Reckavile?” He
turned to the old man beside him.

An exclamation of astonishment, mixed with superstitious terror came
to those present. Giles reeled and turned ashen, while the breath
soughed between his teeth, and his eyes bulged from his head. He was
standing behind the old man. Sinclair saw him.

“Oh, I am sorry Giles, you should not have been standing, come and sit
down, no I insist, it was too bad keeping you standing all this time,”
and he conducted the old servant to a chair. “Are you feeling better
now?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” he answered faintly.

The strange old man addressed as Lord Reckavile deliberately took hold
of his hair and beard and removed them disclosing the face of Halley,
looking grotesque enough with patches of grease paint where the hair
had not covered his face, and white eyebrows which he pulled off with
difficulty.

“Well I’m damned,” said Fletcher and hastily apologised to Ena.

“I give it up,” said Sefton.

Ena’s eyes were fixed on Halley. An awful suspicion was gathering in
her mind that he too was a detective in disguise and had been acting a
part, perhaps with her, but she dismissed it as unworthy.

Sinclair was speaking. “I had hoped for a final link in the chain, but
since we have not got it I am going to ask Lord Reckavile to tell us
his story. It is a long one, but you will find it interesting I
think.”

“Lord Reckavile. . . ?” began Fletcher.

“Wait,” said Sinclair “you shall know the truth now.”



Book II

The Reckaviles



Chapter I

The Convent School

A great Cathedral Church rises high over the river, a beautiful
landmark for miles round. It is not an old Gothic church, for these
passed into the hands of the Anglicans at the Reformation, but is a
model of modern Gothic, stately and tall, with stained glass windows
between the slender buttresses.

Below nestles the little town, terraced on the slope above the
marshland where a sluggish river winds to the sea.

Here in this quiet world a convent school was bedded in the woods,
where the patient nuns devoted their lives to the education of
all—whether of their own religion or not—who came under their charge.

On a summer day nearly half a century ago, there came to the convent
school an Italian lady, with a young girl, fresh as a rose bud, half
formed, but giving promise of rare beauty.

The mother was past her first youth, and like so many southerners was
showing signs of fading charms, but still dangerously beautiful.

The child, who spoke no English, gazed shyly round, as they were
admitted through the gates to the lovely garden within, and into a
cool large room, there to await the Mother Superior.

The woman was dressed in excellent taste, the only jarring note being
the quantity of jewelry she wore, which betrayed a certain vulgarity
in her otherwise faultless appearance.

The Mother Superior entered with a calm and sweet face as of one whose
life was one long sacrifice.

“I wish to leave my little daughter Carlotta with you,” said the
Italian. “She is fourteen years old, and has been educated in Verona,
but circumstances have arisen which render it necessary for me to part
with her—for a time at any rate.”

The Mother Superior bowed and waited. Although shut up in seclusion
she knew the world, and was a shrewd judge of its people.

“Her father is dead,” said the other, in a careless voice and crossed
herself. “And I am about to marry a very dear friend, Count —, but
perhaps I had better leave the name unsaid.

“He has known me for many years, and at last I have agreed to yield to
his appeal.” She shook out a fold of her cloak, and looked at the
other.

A grim look came to the eyes of the Mother Superior, seldom seen
there, as she said. “And so the little one is to be left in our care?
And is she to remain in our charge during the holidays? It is far to
go to Italy.”

“Yes, it would be better. You see Marco does not care for her to be at
home, when we are first married, and I—well, it reminds me of
advancing years,” and she gave a hard laugh.

“I understand,” said the Mother Superior, then “poor child. She has
been confirmed?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. I have the certificate here,” and she opened her bag.

“And her birth certificate? That may be necessary for examinations.”

“No, I am afraid I have not got that. I lost it—I did not think it
would be necessary.” She hesitated.

“I think I understand,” said the other looking straight at her.

“Our fold is open to all, especially to those children—without birth
certificates.”

“The fees shall be paid regularly,” the Italian went on hastily.
“Marco is very rich, and will grudge nothing, you need have no
anxiety.”

The conversation had gone on in English of which Carlotta understood
no word, but looked questioningly at each in turn, clinging shyly to
her mother.

When the time for parting came, she cried bitterly, silently.

Her mother gave her a formal kiss, and told her to behave well in her
new school. She would write to her, she said, and perhaps come and see
her next year. Meanwhile the Sisters would look after her.

And so she took her departure, impatient to be gone, and would not
even stay for food which was offered her.

“Poor lamb,” said the Mother Superior, and brought her to the Sisters.
She handed her over to Sister Ursula, who was versed in these cases,
who soon had Carlotta smiling, and in a few days her troubles were
almost forgotten. Life was fair, and the English June beautiful as a
picture. Roses were out in the gardens, the trees were in fresh green,
and the flowers along the old wall were such as she had never seen.
The Sisters were particularly kind to Carlotta; she was so fragile,
with an exotic prettiness, given to sudden crying at times. And there
was a wistful look in her eyes, as though gazing out over the sea to
her southern home. She had beautiful dark eyes, with long lashes, was
grave and composed at her lessons, and attentive in the dim chapel,
where she would kneel with a devotion beyond her years, at the
wonderful services, her eyes fixed as though in ecstasy.

But she was happiest in the Chapel of Our Lady, where she would adore
with clasped hands. The Mother Superior was disturbed, she did not
like to see too much fervour in one so young. She knew the reactions
which so often come later.

“It is all so beautiful,” Carlotta said to Sister Ursula. “When I grow
up I shall be a sister. Do you think they will let me or am I too
wicked?”

The Sister smiled and stroked her black hair. “My dear, we must do as
Our Blessed Lady directs,” she said, “we can seldom choose for
ourselves. To some is given the quiet and holiness of a religious
life, but others are called to go out into the world, and to face the
evil there—perhaps to marry.”

A far away look came into her eyes, and a sigh escaped her.

Carlotta did not see it; she rose and stamped her little foot. “I
shall never marry,” she cried with passion “Never! Never!”

“Hush, my child, you must not speak like that,” but she folded her in
her arms.

Of her mother Carlotta never spoke, and the promised letters never
came. The fees were paid regularly for a year, but there was no
mention of a visit from her mother, and then came silence, and when a
letter was sent to her address, it was returned, undelivered. The
Mother Superior sent for Ursula, and showed it to her without comment.

“But you will not send her away?” she cried in alarm.

The other was grave, but she smiled as she said. “I expected this, the
so-called Count has got tired of her. We shall hear no more of them,
but this sweet child, no, she shall remain with us. She must not be
told. Mother Church does not cast out her children.”

And so another year passed, and the promise of the bud was revealed in
the flower. Carlotta ripened early as southerners do, and at sixteen
would have lured St. Anthony from his devotions. Black curls fell
round her sweet face, and the great, dark, innocent eyes, wondrous as
the mirror of the sea, in their changeful emotions, looked out on the
world fearless yet timid, dreaming of what lay in the glory of the
future.

Her figure was straight and supple, like one of the flowers in the
garden she loved so passionately.

Ursula was anxious. The child had fits of silence, when she would get
away from the others, and sit motionless in the garden.

With the other girls she was a favourite, for though she did not excel
either at work or games, she was always kind and gentle, and took keen
delight in the success of others.

The early summer had come which was Carlotta’s happiest time, for she
pined in the winter.

The girls were allowed in the woods with the Sisters, and Carlotta
loved the green and fragrant hollows where the bluebells made a
carpet, and the birds sang for joy.

One day she had wandered off by herself, for she was allowed a certain
freedom, on account of her queer moods, and the others were not far
off.

She was aroused from her dreaming by the sound of a voice.

“What a face to paint! Ye gods! I’ve never seen so perfect a picture.”

She looked up in alarm and saw a young man standing before her. In her
secluded life she had spoken to no men save the old priest who heard
her blameless confessions. This one was tall and clean, and the face
was moulded like one of the old Greek gods.

Had she known more of the world she would have seen a restless hungry
look in the eyes, but at present they were filled with the light of
admiration.

“Who are you, little goddess?” he asked in a musical voice. “And what
do you among these woods? Perchance you are an Oread strayed from your
home.”

Carlotta was unafraid, and replied innocently.

“I am at the convent school, The Convent of the Sacred Heart, and the
others are near here, but I came to hear the birds, they sing so
sweetly.”

“And what do they tell you, little Daphne?”

“They sing of something I cannot understand,” she said with a smile,
“but it is very beautiful.”

The man laughed outright. “What a quaint little girl you are. Shall I
tell you what they sing about? It is Love. They are telling each other
how much they love, and that all should love on such days as this.” He
stretched his hands out to the sky.

Carlotta suddenly remembered herself.

“I must not talk to you,” she said “it is forbidden. I must go and
find the others. Sister Ursula would be very angry if she knew I had
been talking to a man.”

The man smiled. “And is a man so very dreadful?” he asked.

“I suppose you are taught that they are terrible creatures, ogres who
are waiting to eat little girls.”

“I don’t know,” she said “I have never spoken to one before,” and she
opened wide her great eyes.

“I must not keep you,” said the man. “I am a painter, I won’t say
artist, and when I saw you, I thought what a beautiful picture I could
make of you, for a Madonna.”

“Oh, hush!” said Carlotta shocked. “I, as a picture of Our Blessed
Lady, I must not listen,” and she rose in haste.

“What a funny little girl you are,” he said, laying a hand on her arm.
“We always have to use models; all artists have, even for the Christ
or the Blessed Virgin; there is nothing wicked in that.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

“Well if you must go, tell me when I can see you again,” he said.
“You’ve haven’t told me your name yet?”

“My name is Carlotta, but they call me Carlot,” she said.

“Carlot! That’s the name of my dog,” and he laughed boisterously.

Carlotta was hurt. “That is not kind of you,” she said and turned to
go.

“One moment. I am sorry, but so sweet a face deserves a better name. I
shall call you Daphne. When can we meet?”

For the first time she was alarmed. Sitting on the ground was one
thing, but standing beside him and seeing how tall and strong he was,
she felt a vague fear.

“Carlot . . . Carlot . . . where are you?” came a call.

A sudden realisation of her wickedness in talking to a man came to
her, and she turned and fled away.

He did not try to detain her.

“What a sweet face. What lovely eyes,” he said, and the sight of her
little breast rising and falling with emotion as she spoke, appealed
to more than the artist in him.

“Now which is it?” he said aloud. “You blackguard, is this going to be
a dream to think of and something on the credit side, or a mere
seduction? You devil, I never know which way the balance will turn.”

He went slowly into the town, the vision with him all the way.

“Mr. Desmond, there is a Mrs. Wheatland to see you,” said the head
waiter deferentially.

“Oh! Damn!” said he, “that spoils the vision beautiful. All right,
show her to my sitting room.”

A young woman was ushered in, with a fascinating rather than pretty
face, one who, a keen judge would have said, would not stand the wear
and tear of life for long. The hands and feet were large, and though
at present she was in the glory of early womanhood, there were
unmistakable signs of latent vulgarity.

She came forward at once, and flung her arms round the man’s neck, and
almost smothered him.

“Oh, Hugh! I have found you at last. Where have you been all this
time? I have been longing for you. And my husband is getting worse
than ever. I could just bear with him until I met you, but since then
everything has been so different, and he is so common, so plebeian.
But what is the matter, dear? You don’t seem glad to see me?”

“Of course I am, Winnie, but you have taken me by surprise,” he said
disengaging himself. “I am delighted to see you, but you know it is
dangerous coming here.”

“You need not be afraid,” she answered in a tone almost of contempt.
“My husband is in Germany buying goods, or something of that sort—I
don’t understand trade—and he will be away a fortnight.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, let’s have something to eat.”

“What’s the matter with you, you don’t seem a bit pleased to see me?”
she said petulantly. Desmond roused himself; the vision was still with
him, but here was something more tangible.

“I am sorry, dear, I have been having a long walk in the woods, and I
got tired. When we have had a decent dinner and a bottle of the best
we can talk over things.”

She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then said:

“Perhaps you would rather I went?”

He laughed. “Of course not. It is delightful seeing you. Come on, go
and get dressed, I suppose you have brought your things?”

“I left my bag at the station, as I was not certain you were here.
Shall I send for it?”

For the moment he hesitated. “Yes, of course. I will tell the waiter.
But you gave your name as Mrs. Wheatland?”

“Never mind.”

Desmond rang the bell.

“Have Mrs. Wheatland’s bag fetched. Here is the ticket, and reserve a
room for her,” he said in a tone used to command.

When he saw her enter the dining room he was thrilled.

She was certainly a very beautiful woman, he thought, and after all
one must have some fun out of life.

Her evening gown was not lacking in scantiness, and displayed as much
of her body as could reasonably be expected in those austere times.

Soon they were deep in the enjoyment of the other’s company, and
oblivious of the other guests.

They had much to talk over, for a jealous husband had kept them apart
in a most unfeeling fashion. Perhaps that was what had whetted
appetite. Two bottles of champagne—for she was fond of a glass of good
wine helped to cheer the evening.

By the time bedtime came, he took both her hands in his, and
whispered. “And what did you say was the number of your room?”

“I did not say any number, you silly boy,” she answered, showing her
fine teeth, “but as a matter of fact it is No. 13.”

“An easy one to remember,” he said lightly, “Good-night,” and he
turned to the smoking room for a night-cap.



Chapter II

Flight

Hugh Desmond was more of a hunter than a libertine. What he desired,
he pursued, but after the capture he was sated, and would turn to a
fresh venture. If he could stop short before the “kill” he would have
been content. A devil drove him on to the very edge, and then some
instinct less ignoble urged him to restraint.

For, though he went as Hugh Desmond, which was his family name, he was
in reality the seventh Lord Reckavile, with a reputation so sinister
that every decent woman shrunk from him till she knew him, and then
fell in love with him.

A soldier of fortune, who had not the patience to remain in the Army,
he had sought death deliberately instead of glory, in each of the
foreign campaigns in which he had fought, always driven from country
to country by the Curse, and too poor to take a position in which he
might have earned distinction. He was hounded by a desire which knew
no satisfaction, and a pride which claimed a high regard for honour.

Such had been the contradiction and the Curse of his race. It was with
a sigh of relief that he stood on the platform and saw the train
bearing Winnie back to London, and to her husband, slowly steam away.
She had been lacrimose and vowed that she would never have a day’s
happiness till he saw her again.

He had agreed to her acclamations, but wished to be quit of her,
feeling angry with himself for a lack of ardour he could not induce.

On the way back to the hotel he made up his mind for another of those
wild expeditions abroad which had filled most of his life.

Some evil fate led him to pass the Cathedral Church, where the organ
was playing. The artist in him made him pause in rapture, and he
entered softly. The sensuous odour of incense and the gorgeous music
of the benediction service greeted him, and the dim lights, the
towering pillars, and the blaze of the high altar, appealed to his
aesthetic fancy, after the gross life of the last few days. How
happily he could have become a monk, mortifying the flesh and flogging
himself when unholy desires came to taunt him.

To devote his life to the Holy Virgin, and crush down the base part
would be a fight worthy of his pride.

The organ ceased and the dreams with it. He looked round, and in the
seats opposite to him, were the girls from the convent school, for
this was a saint’s day.

With a sudden quickening of the pulse he saw his little wood nymph,
her hands clasped and her face alight with devotion, but now a saint,
transfigured, adorable.

He watched entranced; he could have bent before her, offering fealty,
pleading only for some token so that he might remain her true knight,
serving only in her cause.

The baser part of him was gone at that moment, and then she looked
round for a brief moment, and their eyes met.

She turned quickly away, but he could see a dark flush spread over her
lovely face; she had seen him, and the sight had not affected her as
that of a mere stranger. The blood rushed to his head. He hastily
scribbled a note on a leaf from his pocket book, and wrapped it in his
hand.

The mood of piety had gone, and the hunting instinct was dominant. As
the worshippers left the building he passed to her side, and as she
turned to bow to Christ on His altar, he slipped the note into her
hand.

The awful impiety of the act almost made her drop it, but she clutched
it to her with a look of pain, and went out of the sacred building. In
the privacy of her room, she furtively opened the crumpled piece of
paper and read:

  Dear little Angel. When I saw you tonight I adored you. You are far
  removed from all other beings. If you wish to save a suffering
  mortal, meet me in the woods where we last saw each other. Otherwise
  my death may be on your hands. Fear nothing, I will guard you as my
  own sister. At three tomorrow, but I will wait till you come.

  Your devoted servant and knight,

  Hugh Desmond.

In her maiden breast strange feelings were stirring. She knew it was
wrong, that she ought to take the note to Sister Ursula at once and
tell her the story which she had even withheld from the father at
confession, but that was not possible. He had been so kind, he had not
tried to stay her, or to say anything at which she could take offence.
And now he said his life was at stake; perhaps he had some terrible
trouble in which she could help him. If so surely she was doing right
to give him aid.

So she hid the note under her pillow and dreamt of the morrow.

Desmond waited in the woods, picturing her as she had sat there in her
girlish sweetness, when he had seen her, till the dusk of evening was
coming on and the birds had ceased to sing. He rose stiff and cramped.
Well, the gods had decided against him, so there was no use
complaining. She had probably torn up the note or perhaps even handed
it over to the Mother Superior.

Suddenly she stood before him, panting, and like a fairy in the
twilight. He had not heard her approach, and stood enraptured with the
sight.

“Oh, I know I ought not to have come,” she said “but we did not go out
this afternoon, and then I thought that you would be waiting, and
after what you said about being in trouble, I felt I must come, but I
cannot stop or they will miss me.”

“Little Daphne, you have been very kind. I have ached to see you. I
have been here all the afternoon, and would have stayed all night if
there had been a chance of meeting you.” He approached her, and she
did not shrink from him, only crossed her hands over her breast, and
stood expectant.

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked.

“Only that you are the loveliest maid in the world, and I have longed
for you since we met. You have been with me night and day. Oh Daphne,
I love you dearly, and without you I shall certainly die.”

She drew back then with a quick movement.

“But you said your death would be on my hands if I did not come?”

“If you will not love me I shall die,” he said, but the phrase sounded
hollow to him.

The setting sun was on her, and an expression of bewilderment showed
on her face. She could not understand deliberate deceit, and thought
she must have misunderstood him. They remained for a moment in
silence, and in that pause a fight was taking place in Desmond’s mind,
but the sight of her proved too much, and with one swift tiger-like
movement he took her in his arms.

Had she resisted, or struggled, his hunting instinct would have
overmastered him, but she remained, neither consenting nor resisting,
just as a child might lie in the arms of its father.

His hot breath was on her cheek, and in a whisper he said, “I love
you, little Daphne, the night is round us, come, we will love while we
may.” His lips were close to hers, but some invisible force restrained
him. What had he written; he would treat her as a sister. The word of
a Reckavile was inviolate, whether for good or evil, and slowly he
released her from his close embrace.

“I will take you back,” he whispered. “It is too late for you to be
out.”

“Thank you, I ought to go, but it is so lovely here, and you are so
good to me.”

“Come with me,” he said unable to trust himself further.

He took her to the garden wall where she had jumped down, and lifted
her young warm body like a feather.

She was again adorable, and his mood was exalted. She reached down,
and he took her hand to kiss, but she put two soft arms round his neck
and kissed him frankly as a child might kiss.

“I shall be here every night till you come again,” he said, disarmed
completely.

There was a movement above, and she was gone.

This meeting was the first of many. Desmond stayed on at the hotel,
and the foreign expedition was postponed.

Each night he would wait beneath the wall, which bordered the woods,
till all hope of seeing her had gone. Then he would go to the hotel
not angry but hoping for a happier chance on the morrow.

She would slip out when she could, fearfully at first, but as
discovery seemed remote, with growing confidence.

A change came over her. She found herself thinking more of Hugh as he
had taught her to call him, and less of her devotions. Even at mass
his image was before her, and she felt wicked, but could not alter her
feelings. Longing seized her for something she only dimly
comprehended; she became moody and irritable, and neglected her work.
Sister Ursula was distressed, she had grown to love the girl. She
misread the symptoms and thought Carlotta was pining to be free, like
a caged bird. When they met the talk was all of the strange places he
had seen, and she would listen all eyes and ears, drinking in every
word. And so Desmond stayed on, cursing himself for the vile thing he
was planning, yet persisting in his scheme. At last he came to the
same spot now sacred to both, and lifted her down. Both were
disturbed. The autumn was coming on, the time Carlotta dreaded, for
she hated the cold and damp, and the death of the flowers.

“Daphne, my darling,” he said holding her in his arms, “I have to go
away tomorrow to my own home to see to matters there. I shall be away
for a week at least. When I come back I will see you again.” He spoke
almost coldly, and she gave a little cry of pain, and realised perhaps
for the first time what his absence would mean. She held fast to him.

“Oh, must you go?” she asked with a moan.

“I must, I have been here too long as it is, but I will come back.”

“Don’t be long, I shall miss you. It is so lonely without you.”

“Would you come with me to Italy for the winter?” he whispered, “away
from all this cold and wet, into the sunlight. We can see Venice, you
have never been there, and find your mother,” he added falsely.

Her body quivered in his embrace, but she stood silent. When it came
to leaving the Convent and its quiet shelter, and the good Sisters, a
gulf seemed to open beneath her feet.

“I could not,” she said, but the vision of all the beauties he had
pictured, actually possible to her was dazzling her very soul.

“I will come for you,” he said “and you must decide for yourself. Only
if you don’t come with me, I must go away altogether.”

“Don’t,” she answered, “it would be too cruel. If you leave me I shall
die. I cannot live without you.” Her fierce passion was something he
had not seen before. He took her in his arms then, and kissed her on
the mouth, the eyes and hair, holding her close, and she returned his
kisses with utter abandon, her soft arms round his neck. He was the
first to recover, and gently disengaged himself. He was trembling; he
had never felt like this in any of his affairs.

“You must go, my darling,” he said very gently, and lifted her to the
wall, not daring to say more.

She was crying now, softly as she always did, and the tears fell on
him like rain.

“Good-bye,” he said hoarsely, and turned away through the dark woods.

“You scoundrel,” he said to himself. “Now what are you going to do?
She is not like the others, she will never forget.

“Are you going to leave her, and break her very soul. She has no
mother and no friends outside the convent. Or are you going to take
her, she is yours for the asking, and ruin her?”

There was another possibility, but he would not allow his thoughts in
that direction—marriage, but that was horrible. To settle down as a
married man; no that could never be for him.

And so he went irresolute, torn by conflicting feelings, the sweetness
of her kisses an abiding and tormenting memory.

And Carlotta, for her the old life was done. It was all biting pain
now. She had been instructed by the Sisters, and she knew right from
wrong. She had been playing with fire, and now she was burnt.

The days passed in weariness; she tried to forget in her devotions,
but the old fervour would not come. Perhaps she might have recovered
in time, might even have forgotten, but fate was playing a part.

He had been gone a week when the Mother Superior sent for Carlotta.

“Come here, my child,” she said, “I want to talk to you about your
future. We must discuss what you are to do.”

“I do not understand,” said Carlotta.

“My poor child, it is time you were told the truth,” and she recounted
the story of her mother, and of her treatment. Carlotta could have
died with shame; her sensitive soul was deeply wounded. That she had
been kept on out of charity, a foundling; it was awful.

“And so you see, my dear,” the Mother continued, “we must look out for
something for you. We have places where we train girls, and I think we
can get you into one of those.”

“And I am to leave here?” Carlotta gasped.

“I am afraid so, my dear child, the rules will not allow you to stay
after you are seventeen, and that will be in a few months.”

She went on talking quietly, but Carlotta heard nothing. It was as
though she were sinking in deep waters, and a faint sound of a voice
far away was speaking.

She did not cry, but her face was white and pinched.

“You understand?” asked the Mother and kissed her.

“Yes, Mother, I will do what you want.”

“That’s a good child, run along now. I will have another talk when I
have heard from the training college.”

For once her judgment was at fault; she thought Carlotta had taken it
very well, and would be reconciled to her new life.

No sleep came to Carlotta that night. She tossed on her bed, and a dry
fever tormented her.

“Oh, Holy Mother!” she prayed “take this shame from me, what can I
do?”

When dawn came she was calm; she had made up her mind once and for
all. She was Italian, and had not the calculating mind of the
northerner; she would go to him, yes, this very evening, and her
courage rose high at the thought.

Desmond was waiting by the wall; the Curse had driven him back. He
must see her, if only to say good-bye. How often has the Devil tried
this game with success.

She came to the wall, which on the garden side was low, and leant on
the parapet. He noticed with a start that she was holding a little
hand-bag, so small and dainty that even at the moment he wondered what
on earth she could get into it.

“I am coming with you, if you will take me,” she said quite calmly.

“My God!” he said, staggering back, “do you mean it?”

“Of course. You asked me last week, and said you would come for me.”

He was at a loss. This dainty little girl was talking like some
practiced woman of the world, or was it sheer innocence?

Then he was swept away, and all moderation left him. He gathered her
from the wall and seized her roughly in his arms.

“Daphne, my darling, come. We will fly together, over the blue seas,
and love each other dearly, and no one shall come between us. It will
be all Heaven, and you shall be my angel, my Love! My Queen!”

The hours sped by in the soft velvet night, and he took her by the
hand, and led her to the town. His senses came to him, and his quick
mind saw the danger. She would be missed, and a search made. He went
to his hotel, but not to the front door. He had brought a young fellow
from his estate to look after him, Southgate, son of a publican, who
had some training as a valet. He had taken him with him before and
knew his loyalty and discretion.

He roused him up from the servants’ quarters.

“Go to the _King’s Head_ down the street, and hire a trap. Mention no
name except a false one, and say it is an urgent case—an accident.
Here is money. You can return the trap tomorrow evening. Bring it to
the Cross by the London Road. Hurry, mind, and don’t arouse any
suspicion.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the valet, who was used to his master’s vagaries.

Desmond led Carlotta down the silent street, and waited at the Cross.
She was quiet, and filled with pure happiness and trust. She had
yielded herself to this man absolutely, and for ever. The die was
cast, and she was content.

They drove off into the night, and he held her in his arms where she
slept like a tired child.

Mile after mile was covered, and dawn was breaking when she woke to
find herself at the door of an old inn. Southgate jumped down, and
held the steaming horses, while Desmond lifted her down, and carried
her to the house. The door was opened by an old woman, who curtseyed
to Desmond.

He said something to her in a low voice, and passed on up the stairs
to a door, which the woman opened, holding a candle for them.

Very gently Desmond laid her on the bed, and kissed her.

“This good woman will see to you,” he said. “You will be quite safe
here.”

She was so weary that she could scarcely touch the hot soup which the
woman brought her, and soon was lost in happy dreams.



Chapter III

The Marriage

“When are we going to Italy?” asked Carlotta. She was sitting happily
on Hugh’s knee, and the sunlight came through the window of the old
Inn.

“I have got the tickets, and booked our passages. The boat sails on
Saturday from Dover, and we go through France by train.”

She clapped her hands with pleasure.

He looked at her with delight, what a perfect little girl she was!

“And I’ve got lots of clothes for you. You must come and see them.
Mrs. Southgate has laid them all out in your bedroom.”

“You are a dear,” she said, and kissed him.

His method had been simple. He had written to London, explaining that
he required a complete outfit, and giving a description of the lady.
It was not the first time, and the articles had arrived by return. He
had a wealth of faults, but always paid his debts; it was a
peculiarity of the family.

Carlotta was delighted; what a child she was. She had worn the school
costume, sombre and uninteresting, so long that the sight of all these
lovely things made her joyous.

Desmond sat and watched her with a glow of pleasure.

Nothing would satisfy her but to try them on, and she came to him to
do up fastenings or hooks.

It was all joy and happiness, then quite suddenly she came and put her
arms round his neck, and said:

“Where are we going to get married, here or in Italy?”

The question staggered him. There was nothing coaxing or challenging
in the voice, and the question was asked so simply, as though she was
asking where they were going to dine.

Her great dark innocent eyes looked at him, and a wave of pity, and
something as near remorse as he was capable of, touched him.

“Why, damme,” he said with a laugh, and with one of those strange
resolutions which madness dictated. “I had not thought of that, little
Daphne, so you would really like to marry me?” He watched her
narrowly. If there had been tears or reproach he would have stiffened,
but she merely said “Yes please, if you would like to,” and he was
disarmed. He gave a great laugh and held her to him.

“Caught! By Jove. Very well, sweetheart, we will get married. Why not,
after all? Married women have a pretty good time, so why not men?” She
looked at him with grave eyes.

“Fancy being your wife. It will be lovely.”

They had no time to spare, as although the Southgates were loyal and
true, the search for the girl might find them at any moment. He
obtained a special license, and they set out by road for Dover with
gaiety in their hearts, and in his case an unusual sense of virtue. If
she wondered that she had not met his family or friends, she put it
down to the fact that they must escape pursuit. He told her they would
come back when all the bother was over and he would show her London.

At a little village church, where a friend of Desmond’s was parish
priest, and keener on hunting than his work, they were made man and
wife. She was a Catholic, and did not understand the ceremony, which
was witnessed by young Southgate and the verger, but when he placed
the ring on her finger, whispering “It was my Mother’s,” she thought
it all very beautiful.

The parson entertained them to a gargantuan meal, and both the men
were soon happily and noisily drunk, but Carlotta noticed nothing.

“Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw,” said the parson.
Carlotta had never heard the name before, but in after years she
remembered.

“You married! Oh Lord! I thought your line would at last end with
you—at any rate on the right side. You dog!”

Drunk as he was Reckavile turned grey. “I had sworn the Curse should
die with me. The Devil has a hand in most things. Pass the bottle.”

Southgate and the parson’s man helped him into the chaise, and the
parson kissed the bride.

“God bless you, my dear,” he said unsteadily. “Come and see me again.”

But it was not to be. A stroke took the worthy man off the next night
with consequences which none of them could have foreseen.

The weeks that followed were one dream of delight to Carlotta.

They journeyed from town to town, discovering fresh beauties
everywhere. He was charmed with his young bride, and for a moment the
horrible craving for something new was stayed.

She thought he was showing her Italy, but the restless craze drove him
on, only now he was happy at last, and satisfied with her sweetness.

At Ancona, where they stayed for several days, he got his letters.

He was utterly careless in these matters, but his butler sent him a
batch now and then.

They had been watching the Bay from the battlements, with the sun
flashing on the Adriatic waters, when he took a bulky packet from his
pocket, and opened it carelessly.

There were some bills, some letters from his Club, and statement from
his butler. Nothing to worry about. Then his eye caught a familiar
writing, and with a quick catch in his breath, and a dull presentiment
of evil he broke the seal.

It was from Winnie, as he had known by the writing, and he read it
through twice. The large scrawly handwriting was clear enough, but the
news was startling.

  My Darling Hugh,

  Where have you hidden yourself all this time? I have enquired
  everywhere, but no one knows anything about you. I am in such
  dreadful trouble, I must see you at once. It is too awful. My
  husband knows all about us. When he came back from Germany the
  servants told him I had been away, and he found that we had been
  stopping at that hotel. He put a lawyer on the track, and discovered
  everything. Oh! What are we to do! You must come and advise me, and
  you will stand by me won’t you? You know how much I love you, and
  you know you made me unfaithful to my husband. You will not leave me
  now? He is getting a divorce and what am I to do? I am staying with
  my mother, as he will not have me. Do come to me.

  Your broken-hearted

  Winnie

There were tear stains, and corrections, and crosses at the end. The
letter was unfair and gross, and as Hugh looked up from reading it, he
contrasted in his mind the fair young girl, now throwing little stones
over the hedge to see them drop far below, and the flamboyant beauty
of the other, to whom now he must go, for so the twisted honour of his
race would have it.

“Come, Daphne, let us go back. It is getting late,” he said, but there
was a solemn note in his voice, which made her ask. “Have you had bad
news?”

“Oh no, just the ordinary worries, but it will probably mean I shall
have to go to England. Business affairs you know, but don’t trouble,
little girl, I shall not be away from you for long.”

A shadow crossed her lovely face. It was the first separation.

“Can’t I come too? I would love to see England properly, London and
the big cities.”

“I am afraid not this time, and besides you would hate the winter. I
must get a villa for you, and you can make everything ready for me
when I come back. It will be quite exciting for you, furnishing.”

And so it was arranged. Everything had to be done in a hurry, but then
he was used to that. He bought a charming little Villa at Murano, and
obtained servants for her, while she was to stay in Venice till she
had furnished it. On the last night she was sad.

“Come back soon,” she said “I shall be so lonely without you,
and . . .” she stopped.

He was tender with her, but there was a hunted look in his eyes. He
could see only one way out of the mess, and that he could not tell
her.

She faced the parting bravely, and he was proud of her. There was no
scene such as he had been accustomed to with others; she smiled at
him, and waved as the train moved out. Only when she got home to the
hotel, she went to her room and burst into a passionate flood of
tears.

Reckavile found all London talking about the case. The worthy draper
had filed his petition, and only awaited his turn to come to the
courts. Winnie he would not see, and rumour gathered round the action
Reckavile would take. Betting was about even on his marrying the woman
or killing the draper.

Those who knew him were certain he would face the music.

He paid two visits, one to his family lawyer to enter a defence, and
one to an intimate friend, Captain Wynter. He found the latter at the
Club, and with his usual abruptness opened at once.

“You’ve heard of this silly business about the man Wheatland, eh?”
Wynter nodded.

“Well, I want you to take a challenge to him. Tell him I’ll fight him
for the lady.”

“My dear fellow,” said the other, dropping his eyeglass in his
astonishment, “are you joking? That sort of thing is quite out of
date, unfortunately, otherwise one would not have to put up with the
insults one meets with nowadays.”

“I mean it quite seriously, I am in a devil of a mess, and if he can
plug me, all the better. It will end the line, and everyone will be
satisfied.”

Wynter looked at him, and realised he was serious, and in a dangerous
mood. It would be best to pacify him, and rather a joke to frighten
the draper; perhaps even it might stay proceedings.

He drew up the challenge with all the formality of a century ago, and
showed it to Reckavile, who gravely agreed, without apparently seeing
any humour in the situation.

Wynter dressed himself in his best, and hailing a hansom cab, drove to
Wheatland Emporium in Highbury.

He found him, an anxious worried little man, pompous and vain, with
horrible mutton chop whiskers.

He had risen by energy and hard work through the stages of assistant
to shop-walker and manager, until he had obtained a shop of his own,
and his middle aged affection had been lavished on his cashier Winnie,
then a beautiful young girl, and ambitious.

She had married him for his money, hoping to twist him round her
fingers, and found him vain and jealous, and exacting in his ideas
both of marital duty and spending limits.

Wynter he greeted with the artificial smile of the business man
expecting custom, and the latter bowed politely; he was enjoying his
part. “Mr. Wheatland, I believe?” he said.

“The same, sir, at your service,” answered the other.

“May I have a word with you, sir?” said the soldier.

“Certainly, come to my office.”

Seated in Wheatland’s private room, Wynter felt a sudden distaste at
his mission. After all, this poor man had been treated badly, and he
had his rights like anyone else.

“I am afraid I have come on an unpleasant errand,” he said “I
represent Lord Reckavile.”

The draper stiffened. “I do not wish to hear anything from that man,
my lawyer has the matter in hand.”

Wynter waved his hand. “This is not a lawyer’s business, but a
personal one—my friend Reckavile feels that you have a distinct
grievance, in fact that you have the right to demand satisfaction. He
is willing to waive his rank, and will meet you, if you will nominate
a second with whom I may arrange details.”

“A second, I don’t understand,” said the bewildered Wheatland.

“Exactly, a friend who will act for you. You can then fight for the
lady. He feels that as the aggrieved party you have the right to
challenge, but you might feel diffident on account of the disparity in
rank.” He produced his Cartel and spread it out.

The little man’s eyes fairly bulged in his head.

“Either you are playing a very discreditable practical joke, or your
friend is mad. Fight, sir, I never heard such rubbish. Are we back in
the Middle Ages? The Law, sir, will give me protection, and I shall
immediately communicate with my solicitor to stop this murderous
ruffian.”

Then his manner changed, and in a whining tone he said, “Is it not
enough that he has seduced my wife, whom I loved with all my heart,
but he must seek my life as well.”

Wynter felt uncomfortable, and cursed himself for coming.

He rose to his feet, and buttoned up his coat, thrusting his famous
challenge into his pocket.

“Then I may take it, Mr. Wheatland, that you will not fight,” he said.

“Certainly not, sir, I never heard anything so preposterous in my
life,” said the other.

“Very good, but on one point you are wrong. Reckavile is a strange
creature, and he does not wish to kill you; in fact he was hoping you
would kill him.”

Wheatland gazed at him open-mouthed.

“Kill him, sir, and how much better off should I be if I were hanged
for murder, than if I were murdered myself. And what would become of
my business; I should look ridiculous.”

Wynter felt he had better terminate the interview.

“Good-day, Mr. Wheatland,” he said bowing slightly.

Wheatland laid a hand on his arm.

“He will marry her, won’t he sir, when I have my divorce; I should not
like to think he would desert her.”

There was something in the tone which went to Wynter’s heart. This
stubborn man, who would not forgive, and who was willing to face
publicity for the sake of his personal honour, yet hoped that the
woman would find happiness or at any rate safety by marrying the man.

“I’ll tell him,” said Wynter hurriedly, and went out.

Reckavile was waiting for him in the Club. He had occupied his time in
tossing a friend for sovereigns, and had liberally attended to his
needs for liquid refreshment.

He listened in scornful silence to Wynter’s recital.

“And so the merchant won’t fight,” he said.

“Not likely,” said Wynter with a loud laugh “and the best of the joke
is he wants you to marry the woman.”

Reckavile sat up straight and Wynter eyed him narrowly.

“Of course, that’s your affair, old man, but it certainly looks as
though you are caught at last,” and he slapped the other on the back.
“We all know about the Reckavile honour. You are all blackguards of
the worst type, but men of honour of a sort—a curious sort.”

There were several in the group, and they laughed boisterously.

“Damn you, you need not remind me of that,” said Reckavile, his
thoughts were with a little lady with great eyes in Italy, watching
for his coming with a lovelit face, whom this same sense of honour has
compelled him to marry. He shook himself.

“You’ll all dine with me,” he said “and we’ll have a flutter
afterwards, but I’m sorry the merchant would not fight.”



Chapter IV

The Divorce and After

Wheatland got his divorce. There was no defence, for when Reckavile
considered the matter with his family lawyer, he decided not to have
certain letters read in court, and all the details published in the
papers.

He wandered restlessly between London and his castle at Portham, not
able to leave for Italy till the case was over. He wrote Carlotta,
passionate love letters, but gave no address, for to her he was Hugh
Desmond, and no other.

In spite of all the appeals made to him by Winnie in tearful and
illiterate letters, he made no answer, nor would he see her. He told
his lawyer to look to it that she wanted for nothing, and there the
matter rested.

It was the day after the decree nisi had been pronounced when
Reckavile went to his lawyer, Mr. Curtis, head of Curtis, Figgis and
Brice, for a final interview as he was leaving for Italy the next day.

The thought thrilled him, as he pictured her whose whole longing was
bound up in him, with no aspiration after title, or social position,
and trust—absolute trust—that was the very devil.

Curtis was speaking.

“Of course, I don’t know what you propose to do, Lord Reckavile, when
the decree is made absolute—it is hardly my affair, except—ahem—as the
old family lawyer who knew your father, perhaps . . .” he stopped
confused.

“Well?”

“What I meant to convey was, that if you made the lady an allowance as
you are doing, it would appear sufficient. In your position I do not
think an alliance would be desirable or even necessary.”

Reckavile’s face hardened.

“You mean as I have compromised the lady, I should now desert her—of
course, with an allowance,” he added bitingly.

Curtis was uneasy, for he knew the Reckaviles; but the marriage must
be stopped. He tried once more.

“It would never do. You know that the estate is heavily mortgaged, and
you are well—rather careless in money matters. I had hoped that you
would marry some desirable lady of your class, with sufficient funds
to put the family in a satisfactory position. I think that is very
necessary.”

He paused at the look on Reckavile’s face. His eyes were dull black,
like a snake’s, and his mouth was twisted in a fiendish smile.

Curtis knew that look only too well.

“Thank you, Curtis,” he said “I was undecided, and thought of tossing
for it, but you have made up my mind for me. I shall certainly marry
the woman—or at least give her my name for what it is worth, and that
should be sufficient punishment for anyone.”

“But, my Lord . . .”

Reckavile held up his hand. “There is no need for further discussion.”

A knock sounded at the door, and the clerk came in.

“A lady wishes to see Lord Reckavile,” he said to Curtis “she would
not wait, sir, and seemed very impatient.”

He was brushed aside, and Winnie swept into the office. Her colour was
high, and she certainly looked a beauty at that moment.

The worry of the last few months instead of marring her looks, had
softened the lines of her face, and her fine eyes were appealing. She
came straight to Reckavile, ignoring the lawyer altogether, but
something in the sternness of his face made her pause.

“Oh Hugh!” she said, not venturing to go to him, “why have you treated
me like this? You have taken no notice of my letters, and refused to
see me. Are you going to desert me after you have ruined me?” Her
voice broke, and there were signs of coming tears.

“You need have no apprehension on that score,” he answered coldly. “I
have already discussed the matter with Mr. Curtis here. When the time
comes, you shall become Lady Reckavile, and have my _honoured_ name.
You have a witness here,” and he smiled like Satan at Curtis.

“But Hugh, you are so hard, so cold. It is your love I want as well as
to be your wife,” she added hastily.

He was unmoved.

“I have said, Winnie, that you shall become my wife. Anything else I
do not care to discuss, especially before another.” Curtis had
remained in the hope that he could dissuade Reckavile from his
purpose, but he now hastily made to go, when the other stopped him.

“No, Curtis, don’t go. There is nothing to add. I am leaving England,
and you know where to find me. This lady can communicate with you, and
you will continue her allowance. When my presence is necessary I will
come. You can arrange the details at a registry office, as quietly as
possible. No fuss, please, and above all keep it out of the papers.”

Winnie turned red with anger and shame. How brutal he was and callous,
it was worse than anything that had gone before. Before she could
collect her thoughts Reckavile had turned on his heel, and strode from
the room.

She would have tried tears, or a passionate appeal, but what was the
good of that with a dry old lawyer, whose face was impassive.

“What a way to treat me after all I have been through for him,” she
blazed out, but Curtis remained silent.

“He said he loved me, and that he would remain true to me,” she went
on.

“I am afraid Lord Reckavile has said that to many,” said Curtis dryly,
drawing a paper towards him, “and as for standing by you, you are the
first who has had the honour of becoming Lady Reckavile.”

His tone was final, and she felt the futility of talking to a
parchment faced lawyer, whose sympathies were obviously with Lord
Reckavile, and who considered she was getting out of it very well.
With a toss of her head she went, vowing she would never enter the
place again.

And Reckavile paced the deck of the Channel boat, deep in thought. His
mind ran on suicide, which was the common weakness in his family, and
generally the solution of impossible positions.

Then another thought came to him, and the more he turned it over, the
better he liked it. Why not end the Line without violent means. He
would give Winnie his name and the Estate for what it was worth. As
Lord Reckavile he would cease to exist, but in sunny Italy, Hugh
Desmond would bury himself with his little wife, and he would earn a
living by his painting, for he was no mean artist.

The idea pleased him. Flowers and kisses, and lying in the sun, with
not too much work, and perhaps a minor war or so to chase away
boredom. By the time he had reached Italy he had made up his mind.
There was only one more hurdle, the ceremony in London, and then
happiness awaited him. The bigamy did not worry him in the least, such
trifles were nothing to a Reckavile.

At Venice he waited all day, and a strange feeling of apprehension
came to him. Suppose something had happened to Carlotta in his
absence; he had left her, a mere girl—alone, with only servants of
whom he knew nothing. Suppose she were ill, or even dead. A
nervousness never felt before beset him. Impatiently he drove out to
Murano, and came to the Villa San Rocco. Night was falling as he
passed through the lovely garden, and approached the windows from
which a soft light shone. She was sitting inside, a piece of work had
dropped from her hands to the floor, and her great eyes were gazing at
nothing. How sweet she looked and how dainty, but so sad. He had never
seen her thus, and pity filled his heart, and reproach.

He entered through the open window, and with a great cry she came to
him, holding out both arms. He took her to himself in a passionate
embrace, and with a feeling deeper than the old stirring of desire.
She raised her radiant face to his in perfect happiness.

“Oh, Hugh, I am so happy. You’ve come back to me.”

There was no word of reproach, no shadow of fretfulness at his long
absence.

The past and future were gone, and for the moment the pure bliss of
being together absorbed their beings.

She roused herself with a happy laugh, and kissed him, her face rosy
with delight.

“I must tell the servants about dinner, and you will want to dress
won’t you?”

She looked older, more self assured, but more beautiful than ever, he
thought.

He had left his bag in the carriage, and went for it, and to pay the
driver.

When he returned, she was waiting for him, and led him shyly to their
room, fragrant with flowers, and the odours of the night.

She showed him everything with childish pleasure, all arranged for his
return, and his dressing room on which she had lavished such care,
overlooking the rose garden.

Dinner was laid in the loggia, and he seated himself with a sigh of
contentment. The spotless linen and sparkling glass and silver added
to his sense of happiness. She rose and filled his glass, and he made
her sip from it first, the scent of her hair and the nearness of her
warm body intoxicating him. He would have taken her into his arms, but
that the servants were hovering near.

She was dressed in a soft evening gown, which showed the perfect lines
of her young body, and he wondered at her beauty.

Never once did she ask him where he had been, or what he had been
doing, but listened as he told her of England, and then recounted the
little trifles of her life, so pathetically filled with the sorrow at
his absence though she did not speak of it.

They sat over their coffee while he smoked a cigar from his Club,
which had never seemed so fragrant before.

At last he rose.

“It is getting chilly, darling,” he said in a voice he tried to
steady. “Let’s go to bed.”

A deep blush dyed her neck and face, as she rose and took his hand.



Chapter V

The Second Marriage

The summons had come, and Hugh braced himself to meet the call. Would
to God he could have refused to go; to pretend that he was dead,
anything to get out of it. But the perverted honour of the Curse drove
him to play the last scene to the end.

“I shall only be away for a week, Darling,” he told her. “There is a
certain property of mine I must look after.” That was true.

“When I come back this time, I shall not leave you again.”

She smiled at him; the wrench was not so bad this time, and she had
other things to think of. When he came back she would tell him, and
she hid her secret close, nursing the thought in her breast.

She came with him to Venice, careful that he had everything for the
journey, papers and cigars. He watched her with a dull sense of pain;
the deception hurt him as nothing had done before.

He had converted a shed into a studio, and she had posed for him, as
he had said at their first meeting. Already one picture was finished,
and he would have sold it, but could not bear to part with it. Another
was half done, which he would finish when he came back, he told
himself.

In London, summer was at its height, but he had no pleasure in it. The
Club nauseated him, and the old companions found him changed, dull and
uninteresting. He was out of touch with things. Only Wynter and a few
intimates who knew, surmised that the prospect of marriage had caused
the change, and behind his back betted how long he would retain
faithful to his marriage vows.

Winnie he met only at the lawyer’s the day before the wedding. She
found him cold and reserved, but he was startled with the change in
her. She was sweetness itself, her voice subdued and a look in her
eyes he had never seen before. He thought her much improved, and was
glad of it. She made no mention of his absence, nor did she speak of
the past, she seemed to be seeing a vision. Wynter and two friends had
promised to come to the registry office with him, prepared for a joke,
but his face subdued them, and they became silent. A visit to the Club
first was insisted upon. Reckavile wore his ordinary clothes, with no
sign of the bridegroom about him.

“Cheer up, man,” said Wynter “it’s not an execution you know, and
after all there are worse things. You will have a better chance as a
married man, they always get the pick of the bunch.”

They all laughed, and Reckavile seemed to rouse himself.

“Another bottle,” he said with his old gaiety, “why are we going
thirsty? Call that damned waiter.”

They were far from thirsty, when they came to the place where Curtis
looking like an undertaker, met them with the marriage settlement. It
was the most wicked document he had ever drawn up, for Reckavile had
made over everything which was not entailed to his wife, no doting
swain sick with love could have bartered himself away so completely.
It was the price he was paying for his folly, but Curtis little knew
what was in his mind. It appeared to him sheer madness. Winnie had
scarcely looked at it, and she went up in the opinion of the old
lawyer, who expected a sordid interest. She seemed quite content to
have Hugh without any thought of money. And she certainly was
beautiful, more so than ever before, thought Hugh, not realising that
every woman is transfigured on her bridal day.

Then for a moment something comes to her in a flash, whether with the
organ pealing in some grand old Church, or in the squalid surroundings
of the registry office, a light from the Unknown illuminates her soul,
and departs leaving only the memory of a guest that tarrieth but an
hour.

Winnie had brought a girl friend with her, a devoted little soul who
had stuck by her all through and borne with her moods. That she was
young and attractive was quite enough for the amorous Wynter, who
began to make violent love to her at once.

The ceremony was over, with that blinding swiftness which has an
element of indecency in it. Before they realised that it had started,
they were signing their names, and the step had been taken from which
there is no retreat. The situation was beginning to appeal to
Reckavile’s cynical mind. After all Italy was far, and why the devil
should one be tied up with one woman. To hell with convention. He had
been too solemn, too wrapped up in domesticity; it was a great
mistake. There was an awkward pause, and Winnie looked shyly at him,
while the fussy little registrar buzzed around getting signatures of
witnesses.

Well, why not? Reckavile took Winnie by both hands and kissed her, if
not with affection, at any rate with a satisfying thoroughness.

The ice was broken, and Wynter and the two friends he had brought
followed suit, taking liberal toll both with Winnie and Florrie, her
friend, whose surname no one troubled to ask.

Even the old lawyer began to thaw, now that the irrevocable step had
been taken.

Wynter had arranged for a private room at the Gloucester, and thither
they adjourned. Curtis protested, but was lifted bodily into a cab by
the others, and brought along as a trophy.

The lunch was a merry one; Reckavile threw off all his moodiness. It
would be time enough to tell Winnie what he intended to do later on.
He was going to send her to Reckavile Castle, where he had arranged
matters with the butler, and he was for Italy. He knew there would be
a scene, and it would be as well to play the farce out first.

Soon corks were popping, the wine was running free and Wynter filled
Curtis’ glass to the brim.

“But I never take anything now,” he protested “I suffer much with the
gout.”

“That shows what a wicked youth you were,” said Wynter “but all
doctors agree about the hair of the dog that bit you. Drink up old
Deed Box, and smile at the Bride.”

As the meal proceeded the guests became more riotous. Wynter was one
who seldom showed signs of excess; he became solemnly humorous, and
then slept, but now he rose unsteadily to his feet and gazed around
with an owlish expression.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I rise to propose t’health of the Bride. ’Ont
congratulate you. Reckavile is sad dog, like all his family, but hope
fot’ best. Congratulate Hugh, damned pretty woman, beg pardon, Ladies,
but ’struth. Wish I had married her myself. Never mind. Lucky to have
hooked him, many tried unsuccessively—wrong—unsuccess . . ., without
success, t’ats better.

“Well, don’t want long speeches. Here’s to Bride, and all the little
Reckaviles, past, present and to come,” and he sat down.

“Get up you ass, and propose the toast,” said Harding, one of the
guests attempting to pour port into Curtis’ glass, and spilling most
on the table.

“I never take port now,” said the unhappy Curtis “the doctor has
absolutely forbidden it.”

“Stupid ass, the doctor,” said Harding “Port best thing for gout in
the world.”

Wynter rose again with difficulty and gave his toast which was drunk
with musical or unmusical honours. A waiter entered to ask whether
anything was required, and Harding hit him with a ripe watermelon,
which exploded over his shirt front, and he retired.

“Speech,” said Wynter clapping his hands vigorously.

Winnie’s face was flushed though she had drunk sparingly. In a few
tasteful words she thanked Wynter, and hoped that she would make a
good wife for Hugh, and that he did not regret the step he had taken.
It was a good little speech, and Reckavile was pleased with her. She
was a damned good sort, he found himself repeating, and the subaltern
on his left whose very name he had forgotten agreed heartily with him.

Florrie had left the table and was sitting at the piano playing soft
tunes, while Harding was tickling her neck with a peacock’s feather he
had taken from an ornament on the mantelpiece.

Wynter rose to his feet again.

“Young couple want to start on Honeymoon. Got a proposiss . . . a
proposal. They want to go to Reckavile Castle. The trains no good, too
unromantic, I got my coach here, won competition yesterday, or day
before, I forget which. Bring it round here, and we’ll all go in
style. Only just beyond Brighton eh? No distance. What der say Hugh,
old bounder?”

It suited Reckavile’s mood. Anything to get into the air, and the
swift motion especially with the excitement of being driven by a
drunken man appealed to him. After all he might just as well see her
to the Castle, it was more seemly, then he could slip away from there.

Wynter issued his orders to a waiter who peeped through the door,
holding it like a shield in case of attack. The meal had now become an
orgy; even Winnie had let herself go, and Curtis was reciting _risqué_
stories which had lain dormant in his mind for a generation. The
subaltern had slipped to the floor, and Florrie was sitting on
Harding’s knee, while he proposed solemnly to her again and again.
Reckavile was singing _Tom Bowling_ to his own accompaniment, while
empty bottles strewed the floor, and the spilt wine ran on the table
like the blood of a sacrifice.

The sound of a horn outside roused the revellers, and Wynter gathered
his passengers together.

They must all come, he would take no refusals. Only Curtis was
adamant, and at last they gave up trying to persuade him. The rest
were packed away, and they started off, the horses trotting bravely
out of London.

They were all sound asleep before they reached Portham, and the gloomy
old castle in the woods, only Wynter had driven at a cracking pace,
and the air had sobered him.

“Sound your horn, now, a joyful blast,” he said to the groom, and the
lad responded with vigour.

All was bustle and excitement when they arrived, the servants crowded
to the door, the butler leading, and helped the stiff party down. They
had expected only Lady Reckavile, as Hugh had told them, but the great
kitchen was soon busy, for in those days when telephones and motors
were unknown every country house was well stocked, and soon chickens
and hams were simmering, and the table groaned with good fare.

“Brandy, and plenty of it,” said Reckavile swallowing a lump in his
dried throat.

Winnie went straight to her room; she wanted to look her best at
dinner. The mad party had no luggage, except Wynter who had brought
his on the coach, and there was much merriment as Wynter’s two friends
raided Reckavile’s ample wardrobe.

The night was far spent when they rose to seek repose.

Reckavile through a mist saw a vision of loveliness, and Italy was
forgotten.

“There’s a lot to be said for Mahomet, and his sporting religion,” he
said musingly. “It’s a dull life with only one woman.”



Chapter VI

The Blow Falls

Three days they kept it up. Wynter discovered new wonders in the
cellar each day, and while at breakfast everyone was discussing
trains, towards evening departure had been forgotten. Reckavile was
first down, in a dressing gown, and stood before the great fireplace
in the hall, now empty and black.

The morning was far gone, but none of his guests showed any sign of
appearing.

The butler approached him with _The Times_ newspaper, and a large
bumper of brandy. He idly opened the paper, and glanced at the news,
then a pang shot through him as he read of an earthquake shock which
had been felt in northern Italy, and several houses had been
demolished near Venice. A great wave of disgust went over him, and his
thoughts went back to the little villa, and the poor girl waiting for
him, perhaps overtaken by this hideous menace.

The moment he thought of this fair child in danger, he sickened of his
surroundings. God, what a hog he was. He looked in the glass and saw
the blotched face and heavy eyes, and with a blow he smashed the heavy
mirror, careless of a bleeding fist. The butler came in alarmed at the
sound, though he was inured to most things in that house.

“Have you hurt yourself, my lord?” he asked.

“It’s nothing, get one of the servants to clear up that mess.”

“They say it’s unlucky, my lord, breaking a mirror,” said the butler,
gazing ruefully at the ruin.

“Unlucky, be damned, you fool, have you ever known a Reckavile
anything else but unlucky. Get me another brandy.”

There was only one thing to do. He would write no farewell letter,
that was so common, so vulgar; he would melt away. Never mind luggage,
he had the money he had got ready to take with him after the wedding.

“Where is Lady Reckavile?” he asked.

“Her maid has taken breakfast to her, my Lord.”

“Very good, you may go, here take this glass with you,” and he handed
his empty glass to the butler.

At the corner of the drive he paused; the wood closed thick beyond,
and he looked back at the sombre pile of the old house, for some
instinct told him that he would never see it again. Then the woods
swallowed him up, and he set his face to the distant railway at
Portham Junction.

Carlotta was waiting for him in the little haven of rest, so calm
after the turgid days that had passed, and he felt at peace again.

It was so charming to sit and listen to the small trifles of interest
which had come to Carlotta’s quiet life, the earthquake which had not
touched them, but had been much talked of, and the hot weather which
was causing a drought.

When they were sitting together after dinner, she shyly took up a
piece of work, and plied her needle while he smoked and watched her.

A great contentment settled on his soul.

He would get on with his pictures, and the old past would fade. There
would be no ghosts this time, and after a time the new Lady Reckavile
would presume him dead, perhaps marry again, it was all one to him.

The soft night air played about them, and only the sound of some night
insect came from the garden.

All at once his attention was rivetted by the sight of what Carlotta
was sewing. Half consciously he looked at it, wondering at first, and
then his mind became focussed, and he could not take his eyes from the
little garment. Slowly realisation came, and a wave of mixed emotion
swept over him. Horror, exaltation, pity and regret were equally
blended.

In a hushed voice he said “Little Daphne, what are you working at?”

Her face sunk down over her work, and a crimson like a sunset dyed her
neck.

“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I could not tell you.”

A tumult of many waters went over him. What did this mean? He knew of
course, what she was telling him, there was no doubt of that, but what
in God’s name was to be the outcome now.

The line he had sworn to end, with its Curse and madness. And the
child. What of that? By all the laws of God and man this was the heir,
and why should he be kept from his title? What right had he to say
that this should be plain Desmond, when he should be Reckavile. He was
dumb, and rose and fled into the night without a word. Here he paced
the rose garden wrestling with his thoughts. Cursed fool! He had never
thought, never realised.

And that farce in London, if he had only known before. Oh God! talk
about honour, where was the honour in giving his name to a woman who
had sought trouble with her eyes open, when he had betrayed an
innocent child unborn, and sold his birthright for a freakish
principle. Well, he need not decide now, sufficient for the day; that
was the old motto. Anything might happen. And then a sudden
realisation of what Carlotta must be feeling struck him like a blow,
and he turned to the loggia.

She was weeping quietly, as she had always done, but passionately and
with abandonment.

She had misunderstood, he was an artist, and she knew he admired her
beauty. She had thought he was angry that her loveliness would be
marred, and she would be unsightly, hideous to him.

She wished he had not come back. Then he came in and took her into his
arms.

“Don’t cry, little Daphne,” he said very tenderly, “I have guessed
your secret, poor child, and you had not told me.”

“Are you angry with me?” she murmured. “I thought you would be
pleased. Fancy . . . but I must whisper it.”

She was only a child, delicate and sensitive as a flower.

“I understand, Darling, but it came as a shock at first. Poor little
Daphne! How you must have been worrying by yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter, only I thought you would be pleased,” and the
light shone in her starry eyes. “I would have told you before you went
away, only I did not like to.”

He burst into a wild discordant laugh, which frightened her.

“Oh, the Curse. This is real humour, only a joke of the worst taste.”

Then he saw her white puzzled face, and set himself to comfort her.
She had little secrets to tell him. There was a cot hidden away which
must be brought out, a delicate fairy thing of blue silk, and lace,
and a casket fitted with tiny brushes and ivory boxes.

It made him feel clumsy and awkward—out of place. He knelt by her and
took her hands.

“Do you remember, little Daphne, when we met in the woods, and I said
I would paint you as a Madonna, and how shocked you were?”

She nodded gravely; it had been their first meeting, and the memory of
that had always been with her.

“Perhaps I shall paint you as our Blessed Lady with the Bambino.”

She blushed deeply, and her eyes spoke her thoughts.

“It would be too much honour, but . . .” and the tears which came so
easily now, started to her eyes.

He was very gentle with her in the days that followed, and the old
unrest was quieted. They would walk in the rose garden, amid the
flowers, and all that was best in the man shone out like a star in a
cloud wrack, calm and strong. She leaned more on him as the time went
on, and found him a rock of support. There was no painting now, only
sweet companionship and expectancy.

An English doctor came post haste in answer to Hugh’s message, and
while he was within Hugh stamped up and down the garden, cursing,
angry with the futile wrath of a man who would gladly offer up his
blood, his life, to save from pain one over whom the Dark Shadow was
resting.

How unfair that he who could stand anything with a cold disdain,
should be impotent, while this tender girl was suffering. It touched
his pride as well; he had been used to sympathy and respect for his
endurance. He would have preferred that she should watch how
indifferent he was to pain and admire him. It was most unfair.

But the ordeal was over at last, and the doctor, Halley, came from the
house, his face beaming.

“It is all over, Mr. Desmond,” he said, “and you need have no anxiety.
She was brave, splendid—and the child is a fine boy—a credit to his
mother; you will be proud of them both.”

Damp perspiration stood on Hugh’s forehead, and he felt a fool. He was
not made for domesticity, and a feeling of repulsion mixed with the
relief.

“Come in and have a drink, Doctor,” he said “these things are very
worrying.”

Dr. Halley understood men, and he followed Hugh into the lounge where
they toasted the new arrival.

No peace was now in Hugh’s tortured soul, the Curse had him in its
grip. He was fiercely jealous of the child for monopolising all
Carlotta’s time and attention, exacting in his demands and resentful
if not dissatisfied. And he must now share her with this intruder, no
longer was she wholly his, responsive to his very word. Another
claimed her, and the old restless mood returned; he was drunk three
parts of the day, and sulked during the rest.

Carlotta sorrowed in secret, but the little one kept her busy; later
he would take an interest; it was unreasonable to expect a man to care
for a senseless piece of humanity, which demanded only food and sleep.
At times he would rouse himself, and the great picture was begun, in
the fair garden, the Holy Mother with her Child, but he wanted to
paint the child as a fiend, the bodily representative of the Curse,
which had stolen his little Daphne.

And so the months passed, and the spring had come. A strange
friendship had sprung up between the Doctor, Halley, and Hugh. Like
everyone with whom he came in contact, Hugh exercised a fascination
over the Doctor. His charming manners, and beautiful face, even the
sadness which pervaded him, attracted while they repelled.

He was a frequent visitor at the villa, first for professional
reasons, then to see Hugh, and at last for another reason which he
dared not confess even to himself.

He was dining with the Desmonds with a few friends, when the blow
fell. As Hugh came down for dinner, he picked up a letter in the hall,
and put it into his pocket.

He knew the writing only too well, it was from Curtis.

It was a pleasant little party, but a strange foreboding made Hugh
distrait. When the ladies had gone, and the men were smoking, he took
the letter from his pocket, and asking permission of his guests broke
the seal. Inside was another letter, and his heart gave a bound as he
saw the scrawly writing of Winnie. He had received letters full of
appeal from her—asking him to come back. She had thought him at some
foreign war, and could only write through Curtis, who was Sphinx-like
as to his place of abode. Finally he had told Curtis not to forward
any more. Why had he broken this instruction?

He balanced this one in front of the fire; better burn it and let the
dead past bury its dead, but something stayed his hand, and he broke
the seal.

He sat so long staring into the fire, that his guests gave sidelong
glances at him. His face was ashen, and there was a devil peeping out
of his eyes. At last the silence became intolerable, and the Doctor
asked, “Nothing wrong, Desmond, I hope.”

Hugh gave a horrible laugh which sent a shudder down the backs of his
listeners.

“Wrong! No, splendid news. I am sorry to be so rude. A great friend or
enemy of mine, I am not certain which, is about to become a happy
father, good luck to him. Let’s come and join the ladies.”

His gaiety that evening was contagious, and Carlotta hoped that he was
getting over his moods, and coming back to his old self.

When the others had gone he kissed her tenderly good-night.

“I shall not be coming yet, Daphne,” he said, using the old name. “I
want to have a think.”

“All right, Darling,” she replied, lifting her sweet eyes to him. “But
you look tired and worn, poor Hugh!”

“Never mind me,” he said almost impatiently “Daphne, where do you keep
your marriage certificate?”

The question startled her. She treasured this sacred document with her
most intimate possessions though she had never looked at it. She had
never refused him a request in her life, but something made her
hesitate to tell him.

“Do you want to see it, Darling?” she pleaded.

“Yes, please,” he said in the tone she knew meant obedience, and she
fetched it for him.

“You will take care of it, Darling, won’t you?”

It was placing her honour in his hands.

She went slowly out of the room, feeling as though he had taken her
child from her.

All night Hugh paced the garden. Winnie was going to have a child, and
little Roy in his cot upstairs was to be dispossessed of his
birthright. The crisis had come at last, which he had refused to meet.
Only one course was open to him, and that he would take to the bitter
end. The Curse had handed him his poison cup, and he must drink as
became a Reckavile.

He would go to England, yes at once, without farewells which he hated,
or an explanation which he could not give with those clear eyes on
him.

He would produce the marriage certificate, that would be necessary,
and proclaim his infamy. He must put Carlotta in her place, and Roy as
his heir, and then, of course, follow the path so many of his
ancestors had done, with dignity and unfaltering courage. Only in his
case it must be swift, he would never suffer arrest.



Chapter VII

A Nameless Wife

A terrible gale was blowing up the Channel, and wise mariners made for
port before it was too late, while wives shuddered at the howling
whose menace they knew too well.

Off the South Coast a small French vessel was beating its way against
the blast, and coast-guards looked with astonishment at its
manoeuvers, finally shrugging their shoulders at the madness of the
foreigner. Had they seen what was taking place on the deck they would
have opened their eyes still wider.

The French skipper was holding to the rail, shouting orders, while a
madman, without hat or coat, and with a set white face, was pointing a
pistol at his head.

“I tell you, sir,” said the shaking seaman, “we dare not run in close
to the shore, we shall be driven in onto the rocks. It is sheer
madness.”

“Very well,” said Reckavile calmly “lower a boat and I will go
ashore.”

The other made a gesture of despair. “It is impossible, no boat would
live for five minutes. Why not let me run to shelter, or ride out the
storm?”

“I tell you I will not wait, though all Hell were in the storm. You
can choose, either you lower a boat for me, or I shoot you.” His
calmness overawed the other.

“It is death, sir, for you, and perhaps for us too.”

“The first is my affair, and the other is in the hands of God or the
Devil.”

“Oh, Mon Dieu!” said the frightened man, crossing himself. “Very well,
since you will have it so, and I will even go as near to the land as I
dare, though I am risking the lives of the crew.”

With a sense of relief he gave the order, hoping that he might save
his life and his vessel, by casting this blasphemer.

And so Hugh, seventh Lord Reckavile went to his death, driven by the
Curse, and his body bruised and broken but still recognisable, was
washed ashore by the old _Black Horse_ at Portham, and brought by the
Southgates on a shutter to the castle, while the storm shouted a
requiem, and the fiends seemed to be laughing at their last effort at
humour.

Winnie was summoned, for the news must be broken, but it was dangerous
in her condition, as her time had almost come.

The butler in faltering accents, told her the sad tidings.

She listened stony-eyed, and without tears. The news stunned her. Much
also as she thought she loved him, his base desertion had cut her to
the quick, and his refusal to answer any letters hurt her pride. She
came and viewed the poor relic, now decently laid out, and saw the
quiet beauty of the face, at rest at last, and peaceful. Then the
tears came, and she sobbed bitterly till the nurse gently led her from
the room, reminding her that another life might depend on her courage
and restraint.

More to take her mind off the horror than for any other reason the
nurse placed into her hands the sea-soaked contents of his pocket, and
Winnie idly examined them, her mind far removed from the articles, and
seeing only his flushed handsome face, as she had last seen him alive.

A parcel, damp with sea water, and sticky to the touch seized her
attention, and she opened the sheets of paper. The first words were
sufficient to rivet her mind on the writing.

  Be it known to all that I Hugh Desmond, seventh Baron Reckavile,
  being of sound mind, wish, as far as lies in my power to make
  restitution for a great wrong which has been committed.

As she read on, fear clutched her. The document told of his marriage,
and the birth of his heir, and of his bigamy with Winnie. Enclosed was
the marriage certificate at the little village of Steeping among the
Sussex Downs.

The letters were blurred before her eyes. Surely this must be
hallucination. She staggered as she read, and the quiet nurse came at
once to her aid, guiding her to the bed, where she lay quivering.

The nurse gave one look at her, and went out to summon the Doctor,
after seeing that she could be left safely.

Then all Winnie’s faculties came back, and she was the fierce Mother
fighting for her offspring in some primeval forest.

She half rose, determined to destroy the document before it could be
seen by other eyes. That must be done at all costs, but great waves of
pain came over her. She tried to rise, but could not. Then as a cold
numbness gripped her, she grasped the packet in a despairing effort to
throw it into the brightly burning fire.

Delirium was coming on, and in the corner of the room a formless shape
was gathering, from the sea-mist which pervaded the house. To her
startled imagination a dreadful shape emerged, and the dead form of
Hugh stood before her, the face stern and grim, and the dead eyes
gazing at her in a fixed stare. Though no sound came from the closed
blue lids, she heard him say “Destroy that paper, and the Curse will
light on you. I will give you no peace, nor your unborn son. In sorrow
and shame you shall bring forth a nameless thing to bear my name and
title.”

With a wild shriek, she sank back fainting on the bed, as the nurse
hurried into the room.

That night, the eighth Lord Reckavile was born, with the mocking voice
of the storm fiends wailing round the old castle, and the very
foundations shaking with the fury of the tempest, while in the Bay,
gallant men were bringing half drowned Frenchmen safe ashore from the
wreck of the vessel, and below a still form was lying with a smile of
devilish satisfaction on the dead lips.

When Winnie, like a pallid ghost crept downstairs for the first time,
the nurse shook her head.

“She must have loved him very much to take on so,” she said to the
housekeeper.

But Winnie had one purpose in view. At all costs the damning papers
must be hidden, destroy them she could not after the horrible vision,
even though her reason told her it was a nightmare born of her
condition. Hugh had told her of the secret drawer of the Reckaviles,
and she placed the documents there.

“The villain,” she muttered “that accounts for all his absences
abroad, leading a double life, and then trying to do my son out of his
rights at the end.” For black hatred had come to her of the man who
still haunted her in her dreams, and more of the innocent girl and her
son, far away in Italy, who would hang like a dark cloud over her
son’s head for all his life. Truly the Curse was heavy on the family.

And in Murano poor Carlotta awaited with yearning anxiety for the man
who would never come back to her, and the weeks went on without news.
Bitter tears fell over that little cot, and she would talk to the tiny
mite lying there as though he could understand, in baby language. But
the weeks went on, and her only friend was Doctor Halley, who came
with unfailing regularity, always sympathetic and hopeful. She grew to
look for his visits, and if business kept him, she became fretful.
Time was taking its toll with her, and sad lines came to her beautiful
face, which the doctor noticed with secret anguish.

At last he came with a solemn look on his usually cheerful face.

“Mrs. Desmond,” he said “I am afraid I have some terrible news for
you. You must try and be brave.”

“He is dead,” she gasped with quick intuition.

“It is worse than that, I grieve to say.”

“Worse?”

He slowly unfolded an English paper, where an account was given of the
wreck, and the drowning of Lord Reckavile.

It was of old date, but a print was given of the dead man, and the
likeness was unmistakable, apart from the name below, “Hugh Desmond,
Lord Reckavile.”

At first she did not understand.

“It looks like Hugh,” she said in a hollow voice. “It must be a
relative.”

The Doctor shook his head. “I am afraid there is no doubt,” he said
gently “I never told you, but on the night when your husband went
away, he dropped an envelope on the floor. I picked it up from a sense
of tidiness, intending to throw it in the fire, when the name arrested
my hand. It was Lord Reckavile, and was part of the letter he had
opened in our presence, and which had evidently disturbed him. There
is no doubt that it was his real name. He was Lord Reckavile.”

A vague memory floated back to her mind. The parson at their wedding
had called him by that name. She remembered the very words.

“‘Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw!’ he had said.”

Even then she did not realise the full meaning of the terrible news
the doctor had brought.

Hugh was dead, and that stunned her for the time, but Halley was
speaking.

“I am so sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I felt you must be
told. Poor little Roy. It will be dreadful for him.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied wondering. How would it matter when he
was too young to understand.

“Mrs. Desmond, you are a brave woman, I know that. Don’t you see what
this means. Here is an account of the affair. Lady Reckavile gave
birth to a son and heir on the same night.”

“Lady Reckavile!” she whispered. “You mean he was married. He had a
wife.”

“I am afraid so, he married you as Hugh Desmond, having a wife
already,” his voice was hard and bitter.

She was up in arms at once. Every true woman can so easily forgive a
cruel wrong done her if it is for Love.

“He loved me only, I am sure of that, and if he had another wife, at
any rate he left her for me.”

The Doctor was wisely silent. The realisation of the wrong done to the
child upstairs would come later.

“I have been so long away from England,” he said “that I have lost
touch with the people there. I seem to have heard of the Reckaviles.”

It all came back to her when she lay on her sleepless bed that night.
His hesitation and the delay in getting married, and then the secrecy,
and the hurried flight to Italy. Yes, it was all clear now.

“Hugh, darling,” she said to herself, condoning the wrong, in her
great love as is the way with a woman. “What you must have suffered.”
She never doubted his love for her, but she knew vaguely that people
in his station sometimes had to make loveless marriages for social
reasons.

All was black and hopeless, but she must live on for her child’s sake.
Relief came from the parched fever when she bent over the cot where
the child lay, and a passionate flood of tears woke the sleeping boy,
and the need for comfort was come. She rocked him in her arms, and
sobbed out her broken little heart. The good Doctor was her one
solace. With unselfish kindness he saw her through this time of
horror, and fought inch by inch to help her forget. Each month an
allowance arrived from the lawyer in London without explanation, for
Hugh had arranged this with Curtis, though the lawyer had no idea who
the lady was, and imagined it was one of Reckavile’s past fancies, who
had been pensioned off.

It was to continue during her lifetime, for at the time there had been
no thought of a further contingency.

Halley had retired from practice, but lingered on in Venice. When he
thought suitable interval had elapsed, he came suppliant to Carlotta,
his motives love and chivalry equally blended.

“I know you will never allow anyone to take Hugh’s place,” he said
humbly, “but you need some one to protect you and help you to fight
on. I can only offer you my love, and I will devote my life to you.
But I fear I am hurting you.”

She had half risen with a look of horror on her face, but sank back
again.

“You don’t understand, Doctor, and you are very kind, especially as
you alone know how I really am, a nameless wife, but you do not
realise. I am Italian, and I love but once. Whatever you think of
Hugh, I can never forget him and the very thought of marrying again is
like committing a foul crime.”

Halley was one of those rare beings who can love and sacrifice.
Whatever he felt, no sign appeared.

“Then you must allow me to be your protector only,” he said, with a
smile which hardly hid his pain.

She was quick to see it. “You are a true friend, and I am afraid I
have hurt you horribly. Believe me I do feel deeply for you, and am so
grateful for all you have done. Anything I can do to return your
friendship, I will do.” She stopped there, and he understood.



Chapter VIII

Roy at Oxford

Doctor Halley grew old in his service for Carlotta, ungrudging and
without hope of reward. His hair grew white, and the road to Murano
became heaviness to him, but he never complained. As soon as the boy
was old enough he quietly took over his education, and watched with
growing anxiety the change that was taking place in Carlotta.

She never referred to the past, but seemed to live only for the child,
and would gaze expectantly down the garden path, as though she still
held a lingering hope. Her beauty paled, and she was more and more
withdrawing herself from the world.

Halley grieved in secret, but his devotion was deeper than admiration,
and his loyal service continued through these years.

Carlotta had written to the lawyers, asking them what would happen to
the child in the event of her death, with regard to the allowance.
Curtis was dead, and she received a formal answer that the sum paid
was a personal grant and would cease at her death.

So she lived as simply as possible, that Roy should not go penniless
when her time came, and the Doctor was convinced that this fear more
than anything else kept her alive.

Roy was fifteen, a fine clean looking boy, with his mother’s eyes and
his father’s classical beauty, untouched with his sardonic smile.
Halley had carefully taught him all he knew, which was wide knowledge.
Carlotta had insisted on making Italian his mother tongue, and never
spoke English herself—if spoken to in that language, would answer in
Italian. She would also write in Italian, and only once broke her
self-imposed edict, when she handed a miniature of herself and the boy
to Halley, under which she had written “Mother and Roy.” Halley looked
at it in surprise, but she simply said, “In case you ever meet him
when I am gone.” The curious doubt about her husband’s death
distressed him, but seemed to give her a strange comfort.

But her time had come; all Halley’s devotion and medical skill availed
nothing against her broken heart, though there was no specific disease
that he could find. She was merely fading like a flower after the
summer is done. She called him to her, while the boy was playing in
the garden.

“My old and faithful friend, the best friend I ever knew, the end has
come, and you know it. Don’t worry, it is all for the best. My
loneliness is such a torment, that only your great affection, and
Roy’s, could have made me stay so long. I am going to ask of you one
more service, as we always do of those who have served only too well,
you will look after Roy, won’t you?”

The old Doctor’s head was bowed, and he did not dare to show his face,
he merely nodded, and kneeling by her side, took her thin hand.

“I want you to see that he grows up an English gentleman, as befits
his birth,” she raised her head proudly, as if in challenge.

“I will devote what remains of my life to him,” said the old man
simply.

She pressed his hand. “Thank you, I knew I could rely on you, and you
must tell him after I have gone—you know—about his father. I could not
bear to do it. I should hate to see a look of anger or loathing on his
young face. You will understand?”

“I will do it, you may trust to me,” he said in a shaking voice.

“I am very tired, leave me now, but bring Roy in presently, I must
tell him I am going.”

Very reverently the Doctor took her hand, and kissed it.

“You may kiss me now,” she said dreamily, “it is all that I can give
you.”

Halley rose from his knees, and the blinding tears fell freely as he
bent over that sweet face, which he had loved so dearly without hope
of reward. He gently kissed her forehead, as one might a little
sleeping child, and hurried from the room, for he knew the time was
short. He found the boy in the garden among the roses for which he had
all his mother’s passionate affection.

“Roy, my boy, you must be very brave as you know an English gentleman
should be. Your mother is very ill, and you must go to her at once, I
am afraid she will not be very long with us now.”

The boy turned pale. “Do you mean she is going to die, Uncle?” he said
in an awestruck voice, face to face with the grim terror for the first
time in his life.

“Yes, I am afraid so, but it is in God’s hands.”

“But, you are a Doctor, can’t you do something?” he protested with
something of his Father’s fiery impatience.

“It is because I am a Doctor that I know,” was the quiet reply, “come
we will go to her.”

But when they entered the room where she was lying, another visitant
had been there first, and on her sweet face was an expression of such
peace as neither had seen before. It was as though the long separation
were over and a joyful reunion had come.

“If ever a woman’s love can save a soul from Hell, she has saved him,”
said the Doctor in a choking voice, kneeling reverently by the couch,
oblivious of the boy who stared at the face, so quiet and lovely in
death.

Then realisation came to him, with quick intuition. The Doctor’s
attitude and his bowed head showed the truth more than spoken word,
and in a passion of grief, he flung himself beside her.

“Mother! Mother! Don’t leave me, say something—only speak! Don’t go
without a word!”

The sound brought their old servant into the room, and she and the
Doctor gently led the weeping boy away.

It was only after the last sad ceremony had been carried out, and
Michael and all the Archangels had been invoked to bear this pure soul
to the feet of God, in the beautiful liturgy of the Catholic service,
that the two broken hearted mourners came back to the villa, now
hateful to both. In time it would acquire a memory like a shrine, but
the loss was too near, too sudden, and it was haunted with the dear
ghost, which brought a torture of longing. Halley saw this, and
realised that to a young boy change was essential. For himself, he
would have lingered on, dreaming of her, and hoping that in some
twilight evening, in the hush before dark, a dream figure would come
down the rose garden, and touch his hand, bidding him come to join
her, and the man she had loved so well, in a fairer Garden, where
there is no marrying nor giving in marriage, but where they might be
as the angels in Heaven.

It would never do for the boy to become morbid, and so the broken man
set himself to face the future with a brave resolve.

“Roy, we must talk of the future. Your dear mother left you in my
hands, and I will do what I can to make you a happy, and a good man. I
am going to take you to England, and we can look out a good school,
where you would like to go, and meet other boys of your age, and play
games and win prizes.”

With a boy, sorrow can be deep, but not overwhelming, and the thought
of doing what he had always longed for, as the Doctor knew, sent a
thrill of pleasure through him.

“Oh, Uncle, how good of you! I have always longed to see England, and
should love to go to one of the great public schools, I have read
about. And my father was English, wasn’t he?”

The Doctor gave a start, for the boy had never before asked about his
father.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“Mother told me,” and the tears filled his eyes, “you know when she
signed that miniature. She said she wrote in English because he was an
English gentleman, and she wanted me to grow up like him.”

A grim smile played round the Doctor’s mouth.

“Yes, Roy, he was English, and I will tell you something. You are old
enough to know now, and your mother asked me to tell you.”

The boy stood eagerly waiting, and as the Doctor looked at him, he
realised something of what the father must have looked when he too was
young, and he sighed.

“Your father was Lord Reckavile,” he said slowly.

“Lord Reckavile?” exclaimed the boy, “then I am . . .” and he stopped,
for something in the Doctor’s sad old eyes frightened him. “But my
mother’s name was Desmond, as mine is?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, that was Lord Reckavile’s family name. Oh, you must not think
evil of your sainted mother. She married him, thinking he was plain
Mr. Desmond.”

“And he was Lord Reckavile all the time?” asked the boy.

“Yes Roy,” said the old man taking the boy’s hand in his. “But he was
married in England before he met your mother. There was a Lady
Reckavile. Your poor mother did not know, until he was drowned.”

A terrible look came into the boy’s eyes, the Reckavile look.

He was not too young to understand.

“You mean to tell me that he married my mother when he had another
wife alive,” he said slowly. Halley had no wish to shield the man, but
the memory of Carlotta’s sweet face made him say:

“He loved your mother only, you must not judge your father too
harshly. People in his position are sometimes forced to marry, against
their wills, but I am sure it was your dear mother he loved.”

The boy stiffened, he had suddenly grown up.

“He was a villain, and I hate him—hate him! I am glad he died. If he
had lived I would have killed him.”

Here was a Reckavile indeed. His eyes blazed, and Halley understood
why Carlotta had not told him; she knew her son.

For a moment he stood with fists clenched, then he collapsed and a
bitter flood of tears came.

“Go away,” he said fiercely as Halley tried to comfort him. “I want to
be left alone.”

In the evening when the shadows were stretching over the garden, and a
chill mist was coming up from the sea, the boy came in with a set
face, hard and proud.

“Uncle Halley,” he said firmly, “I want to go to England, let’s go at
once, as soon as possible, I want you to let me take your name. If you
are looking after me, let me be Roy Halley. Do you mind?”

The Doctor understood the proud young heart of the boy.

“My dear boy,” he said “nothing would please me better. You were left
to me, and I have only you to look after in my old age. You shall bear
my name and be my adopted son.”

The boy threw his head up.

“Then I shall call you ‘Father,’ and I will try and forget the hated
name of Desmond, which never was my mother’s. You are the only father
I have ever known,” and he came and kissed the old man with the sweet
grace of his mother.

They went to England, when everything had been settled up.

The villa Halley could not bear to let or sell; he arranged for the
old servant to live there with a small pension for her needs. Halley
paid everything himself, and retained Carlotta’s savings for the boy
against his need.

Time works miracles with the young, and Roy in the glories and the
struggles of life at a public school, soon retained only a hallowed
memory of his mother, and refused to let his mind dwell on the other
horror.

At Oxford his voice and acting first became noticeable. He was much in
request for his playing and singing, and was looked upon as a
promising amateur actor. His easy grace of manner, and the
recklessness of his spending, due not to extravagance, but to the
family tradition which spoke loud in him, made him a general
favourite, and he was no mean athlete, which in the glorious days of
the varsity, counts for more than brains or money.

In his third year he was occupying a position which perhaps never
comes again to a man. In the little kingdom of his college he was a
small god. In after life men hold great positions, but then
disillusionment has come and the freshness of youth has gone.

In his college team at most games, and playing for his varsity at
rugger, as his father had before, if only it had been known, and with
a force of character welcomed and admired everywhere, no wonder if he
lost himself in the celsitude of his power. But the high gods will not
suffer such happiness, and in the middle of the dream came an
awakening. A telegram to tell him that Doctor Halley had passed away
in his sleep brought him up to reality.

In bitter sorrow he went to London where the old man had taken up his
residence. From the first he had determined not to commit the mistake
of living at Oxford or near it. He wanted the boy to enjoy life there
unfettered by visits of a relation, and he chose London, so that the
boy should be able to come to him in the ‘vacs,’ and have plenty of
amusement. He effaced himself for the son, as he had for the mother.
He knew his heart was very weak, but kept the knowledge from Roy, lest
he should distress him.

And so his peaceful end came, his duty done, and his great chivalrous
soul went to join her, whose image was never absent from his mind.
Roy’s journey was a terrible ordeal of self-blame. He saw how selfish
he had been, how little he had repaid the great debt. He recalled with
the acute self-analysis of a sensitive mind all the times when he had
studied his own fancies, and left the old man alone, when he should
have been with him, looking after him. And now it was too late. More
than all remorse filled him when he found that the old man had been
meeting all his extravagant expenses, by selling out his own money,
and that the sum his mother had saved, not large, but which had grown
with the years, was still intact.

He went back to his college a changed man. The old gaiety had gone,
and a bitter self-scorn had come which brought out something of the
old Reckavile spirit. Women he shunned with horror, as the image of
the one perfect woman he had known made the others seem hollow, and
talkative beyond measure.

He plunged into wild ‘rags,’ which brought him before the Warden, and
drink to which he had never turned, threatened to make shameful his
career.

And then the gods relented, and the cloud of War settled on the land.
To Roy it was like a call to his own kingdom. Others born of
generations of peaceful citizens took arms with sober patriotism, as a
duty which must not be shirked, but to him generations of fighters
called, with exultant shouting. Death! What did that matter! The only
two he had ever loved were on the Other Side, and he wished nothing
better than to pass over to them.

For glorious years he lived at grips with death, first as a private in
the muddy trenches, and later with a commission, known as a reckless
patrol leader, and a born fighter. He might have risen high in that
Hell’s academy where such qualities mean promotion, but in ’16 he was
smashed by a bomb and his wrecked body only mended in time for the
final advance.

When Peace came, he heard around him the officers joyously discussing
a return to civil life, and of all that they were going to do. Some
were going to wives or sweethearts, one talked of his job at the bank
which he hoped was still open to him. To Roy, it was an end of a
mighty adventure. There was nothing to look forward to, but a bare
struggle to live. He had no friends, no welcoming smile to greet him.

He knew that for the Nation it was a wonderful day of rejoicing, but
to him nothing remained.

Another year in the wildest parts of Russia kept his spirit cheerful,
and then he returned to demobilisation.

He had not the heart to go back to Oxford, but sought for some form of
employment, where excitement and feverish activity could give
forgetfulness.

His knowledge of languages, a tuneful voice, and his natural charm
secured for him successive jobs in travelling companies in Europe,
where in gilt and motley he sung in choruses in grand and comic opera,
till fate drove him back to England, and to a small part in a
travelling company of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas. It was all
hopeless, and he felt that he had only to wait till a merciful death
ended the life which had become distasteful to him.



Chapter IX

A Ghost from the Past

Coming from the theatre after a matinee, along the Strand, Roy was
making his way to an obscure restaurant where food was comparatively
cheap, when he nearly collided with two men hastening round the
corner. The wind was bitter, and rain was falling, so that all the men
had coats closely buttoned and collars turned up.

Roy muttered an apology, and would have passed on, but one of the two
seeing his face in the light, suddenly drew back, and exclaimed “By
God, Reckavile, by all that’s unholy. I did not know that you were in
England again. How are you, old thing?” and he held out his hand. A
wild fantasy whirled before Roy’s mind, and for a moment he was
without sense or speech, then he said coldly.

“I am afraid you have made a mistake, sir; my name is not Reckavile.”

The other scrutinised him closely.

“No, by Jove, you’re not. I am sorry, but look, Raymond, what a
likeness!”

Roy’s anger was rising, he was not a waxwork to be inspected, and he
turned to go his way, but the first speaker caught his coat.

“No, sir, you must not go like that, I have been rude enough to
address you by mistake, but I will make amends if I may. Will you come
to my Club, if you will do us the honour, and let me apologise in
suitable manner for having taken you for one of the worst blackguards,
but the most charming of men.”

Roy could not well refuse a request so politely put, and curiosity
goaded him on, so he went with his chance companions, Sir Raymond
Halliday, and Captain John Wynter, son of the Late Brig. General
Wynter V.C. who had perished at Loos.

In the smoking room of the Club, Roy unthawed. The atmosphere was more
to his liking than the dressing room of a travelling company, and he
felt at home with these men.

They were soon discussing old days at the war, and exchanging yarns of
people and places where they had met for a brief moment, and then gone
down the long trail. To Roy it all came back; the nights he had come
back from a little frolic at Etaire, where real oysters could be had,
and _Veuve Cliquot_ 1904, a change from trench fare, and then a ride
back to the trenches with the ominous line of Verey lights marking the
enemy lines, and the sudden whirl of a “heavy” coming over, mingled
with the flickering rat-tat of the machine guns.

How real it all seemed and how desirable in the warm firelight of the
smoking room.

Presently Raymond broke silence.

“You are not a relation of the Reckaviles, Mr. Halley, are you? Excuse
the rudeness of the question but you are extraordinarily like him.”

“None whatever,” said Roy firmly.

“I am glad to hear it, eh Wynter?” said Raymond.

“Well, it’s not a pleasant family, so Mr. Halley is well out of it.
You know my father was mixed up with that affair, the Reckavile
Divorce they called it, though it was really the Wheatland Divorce.”

“Oh, I was too young to remember,” said Raymond carelessly, but Roy
was all attention.

“What was that?” he asked, steadying his voice.

“Old Reckavile, the father of this Johnny, got mixed up with a
draper’s wife, and the worthy man didn’t like it and got a divorce.
The joke was that Reckavile offered to fight for the girl, and
properly put the wind up the draper. Well, he did what’s called the
right thing, and married her, my father was at the wedding, and a
pretty thick time it was from all accounts but he never settled down
with the lady, he buzzed off somewhere and got killed or something, I
forget how.”

Roy was now on wires, but he showed nothing, his training on the stage
served him in good stead.

“When was that?” he asked, lighting a cigar with studied care.

“I can never remember dates,” said the other “about thirty years ago I
should say at a guess, but you’ll find it all in the old papers, if it
interests you. We keep them upstairs, but no one ever looks at them.
Here, I am sorry we are going dry, touch that bell will you?”

The rest of the evening passed like a dream till Roy rose to get back
to the theatre for the evening performance, but though he sang and
played his part, his mind was disturbed with thoughts which would
intrude on him, and the old memories he had stifled rose to mock him.
He knew he would have no peace till he had read that long dead story.
His friends had asked him to come again, and he took them at their
word at the risk of being a bore.

In the musty reading room, seldom visited by the members of this
joyous Club, he found the old copies, with the help of a spectacled
librarian, who seemed detached from the world without and only en
rapport with his yellowing tomes.

He showed Roy the files in which the sordid story was told, but only
one line stood out in letters of burning fire, the date at the head of
the paper. That was damning and convincing. Nothing could alter that,
and while his eyes were reading the account of the affair, his mind
saw only one deadly fact, that the date was after the marriage of
Reckavile with his mother. This overwhelmed him so utterly that he
could hardly thank the old man, and hurry from the place. His mind was
in a whirl. There must be some mistake, the marriage, must have been
illegal or something; he could not grasp a deliberate cold blooded
bigamy; he would dismiss it from his mind. Why had this spectre from
the past come to torment him? It would be quite simple. To settle the
matter he would go to Somerset House, and pay the fee for inspection,
and lay the ghost.

As he expected after a long search he failed to find any reference to
the marriage. He little knew the reason, or the sudden death of the
parson, before he had been able to send the record for registration.
But it was sufficient, and he plunged back into his work determined to
dismiss the whole thing from his mind.

But the maggot was gnawing at his brain, and the old restlessness came
on him. He would go abroad, but something drew him to the home of his
ancestors; he must see Portham, and Reckavile Castle, before he
finally turned his back on England.

Wynter and Raymond were now fast friends, caught with his charm which
never failed to captivate.

“After all you have told me about Reckavile, I am going to have a look
at the place,” he said one night at dinner.

Wynter’s usually jolly face became grave. “I shouldn’t if I were you,”
he said “you know half the people there will take you for Reckavile,
and there may be unpleasant things said.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other sharply.

“Well, you know old man, when a commoner bears a striking resemblance
to a peer of the Realm, especially to one with such a reputation,
unpleasant things are said, which I know you would resent. Do you get
me?”

“Quite,” said Roy, swallowing his anger with difficulty, and he said
no more.

When the run of the series of revivals was over, and he was free, Roy
refused to re-engage, to the disappointment of the manager, and the
company.

“I was hoping, Mr. Halley, to give you the leading tenor in our Number
I Touring Company,” he said.

“Thank you, I am most grateful, but I am going abroad,” Halley
replied.

And so he came at last to Portham, and fate drove him to the _Black
Horse_, kept by Southgate, grizzled and seaworn, who alone knew the
truth, though not the whole truth.



Chapter X

At the “Black Horse”

Halley knocked at the door of the _Black Horse_ and Mrs. Southgate
opened to him. He raised his hat politely, saying “Have you a room
here I could have for a few days?”

She looked at him dubiously. “We don’t take in people as a rule, sir,
you see it is hard to get things out here.”

Then seeing how tired he looked, she added, “I’ll go and ask my
husband.”

“Thank you, I have walked from Portham Junction with this bag.”

He entered and sat down in the kitchen, and gazed round with interest
at the old room.

From the inside quarters he heard the sound of a conversation, and
presently the landlord emerged with a scowl on his face.

“I am sorry, sir,” he began, and stopped dead. His jaw dropped, and he
looked in amazement at Halley. “I beg your pardon, my . . . Oh Lord!
Who are you?”

“My name is Halley, and I asked your good wife if you could put me up
for a few days, I shall be very little trouble.”

The landlord stood with a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m darned if I understand it,” he muttered “are you sure you are not
playing a joke on me, my lord, I could have sworn . . .”

“For whom did you take me, then?”

“Why, Lord Reckavile, you’re ’is living image.”

Halley smiled. “I am sure you can accommodate me, even though I am not
Lord Reckavile.”

“Why yes, sir, if you don’t mind roughing it a bit; we are plain
folk.”

So the bargain was struck, but Halley noticed that every time the
landlord came in he fixed his eyes on him in the same bewildered
fashion.

When he had set the table for a simple lunch in the old timbered room
Halley asked casually:

“Who is this Lord Reckavile for whom you took me? I should like to see
him.”

“You must be a stranger in these parts; why, ’is Lordship ’as a place
near ’ere, Reckavile Castle.”

“And is he here now?” Halley asked eagerly.

“No, ’e is ’ardly ever at ’ome, but we expect ’im as ’e comes about
this time as a rule.”

“I must have a look at this castle then, it ought to be an interesting
place.”

Southgate cast a shrewd glance at his visitor.

“I dunno if you ’ad better,” he said sullenly “they be ’ard on
poachers there; no, I shouldn’t go if I were you.”

Halley stretched himself before the fire while Southgate cleared away.

He thought it peculiar that he should do this himself, instead of
getting a servant to perform the office, but when he had finished he
came and stood beside Halley’s chair, fidgetting awkwardly.

“Sit down, landlord, and join me with something if you can spare the
time,” said Halley taking a sudden resolve.

“Thank you kindly, sir, I don’t mind if I do. Things be powerful quiet
nowadays, except in the evenings there be nothing doing.”

When he had fetched a bottle and glasses, Halley turned to him, and
asked abruptly.

“Will you answer me a straight question?”

“If I can, sir.”

“I believe you acted as valet to the late Lord Reckavile many years
ago?”

The landlord’s face set like a mask.

“I may ’ave done,” he said evasively.

“I want to ask you plain and straight, were you present at his
marriage to his _first_ wife, an Italian lady with whom he had
eloped.”

Southgate leapt to his feet with a snarl.

“What do you want to know?”

“Sit down, please, I will tell you. I am his son, born in Italy, and
she was my mother—now you know.”

Southgate covered his head with his hands, and something like a sob
escaped him.

“My God! If I ’ad only known,” he cried.

He remained so long silent that Halley could stand it no more.

“Well?” he said.

“To think that Miss Carlotta ’ad a son. I tell ’ee sir, afore God,
that if I ’ad known I would ’ave spoken. When ’is Lordship was
drownded trying to land at this very spot, and the present lord was
born the same night, I didn’t know what to do, I thought as ’ow poor
Miss Carlotta must be dead. It seemed no good saying anything and
getting into trouble, and not being believed, so I thought I best let
matters bide, and if she were alive, she would come along; but time
went and nothing ’appened, so I just kept quiet. When I saw you come
in that ’ere door, I thought you was ’is Lordship, and then I suppose
I must ’ave guessed. You are like ’im, but also like your mother, poor
sweet young lady!”

“I understand,” said Halley gently “I cannot blame you. It was a
difficult position. But tell me, where was my mother married?”

“I wish I could say, sir, indeed I do. That was one reason why I kept
quiet. You see we ’urried off from ’ere as was always ’is way, and
travelled to Dover. I didn’t know anything about the wedding till we
stops at a village. It was such a rush, and we all ’ad as much as we
could carry. I may ’ave ’eard the name, but I’ve clean forgot it.”

Halley groaned.

“And this was before he married—the late Lady Reckavile?”

Halley stuck over the title.

“Oh, yes sir, for I remember them all coming down after the wedding,
and of course, I thought poor Miss Carlotta was dead. But why didn’t
you come before, sir?”

There was a note of suspicion in his tone, which Halley noticed, and
he told him as much of his story as he thought expedient.

“Well this be a pretty mess,” said Southgate “what are you going to
do?”

“I must see Lord Reckavile, but I cannot stay here after what you have
told me about the likeness. Can you find somewhere for me to go until
Lord Reckavile comes back?”

Southgate smoked in silence for some minutes, at last he said:

“I was allers fond of the old master wild as ’e was, and your mother
was a sweet young thing. Lady Reckavile I never could abide. . . . I
got a cottage on the shore, we sometimes uses for . . . well least
said the better, and we sometimes lets it in the summer. You can go
there if you don’t mind things rough, tomorrow. Mrs. Southgate can
look after you.”

Halley took the other’s hand gratefully.

“This is most good of you, and I hope one day I may be able to repay
you.”

The landlord was embarrassed. “I don’t see why you should be a done
out of your rights, but you’ll ’ave a tough time with Lord Reckavile;
’ese a nasty customer to get foul of.”

“Only let me know when he comes back, and I’ll see him.”

The next day Halley moved to the lonely little cottage on the shore.
Its isolation and the numerous entrances gave a hint as to its use for
revenue dodging purposes in the old days, but he was glad of any place
of refuge for his tell-tale face, and with the issues at stake. For
days he waited consumed with feverish impatience. Now that he had come
so far he was determined to see the thing through, regardless of
consequences.

At last when his nerves were nearly gone, Southgate came with the
momentous news that Lord Reckavile had come home.

They sat long over the fire in converse. Halley now had Southgate as a
willing slave, who would follow him to the death, and a plan was
arranged between them.

“We must try and see whether we can get an interview with him
privately,” said Halley.

“We must not delay matters, for ’e is off like a flash,” said the
other “it’s almost as though ’e was afeared to stay long.”

“Tonight, then,” said Halley.



Chapter XI

Halley Continues the Narrative

There was silence in the room after Halley had told his story, in
fewer words than are given here. Not a sound had broken the stillness
and all eyes had been fixed on him, as part at least of the truth was
revealed.

Halley looked round at his audience. Ena’s eyes were wet, and she had
furtively used her handkerchief from time to time, but there shone on
her face the light of enthusiasm and trust. Fletcher was obviously
incredulous, and Brown stolid as ever.

The silence was broken by Sefton.

“So you are really Lord Reckavile?” he asked.

“In actual fact I am, but I cannot establish my title. I am a nameless
man, unless by some miracle the marriage certificate is found—if it
still exists, or we can find the village church where the wedding took
place.”

“That should not be impossible,” said Sinclair in a firm voice, and
Ena looked at him gratefully.

“Finish the story, Lord Reckavile,” he continued, and the very use of
the title suggested something hidden in that inscrutable mind.

“There is little more to tell,” said Halley. “Southgate and I tried to
get to the castle after dark, and prowled around, but we were chased
by a constable,” and he laughingly threw a glance at Brown.

“Oh, that was it, was it?” Brown spluttered without regard to grammar.
“So you were the two I were after. I thought Southgate was one of
them.”

“Yes, so after that I lost patience, and determined to call at the
castle whatever the risk. I went boldly to the front door. Lord
Reckavile never seemed to leave the place, or I would have tried to
waylay him on the road. Giles opened the door for me.”

“You never mentioned a word of this, Giles,” said Fletcher angrily.

“Lord Reckavile’s callers were none of my business,” said the old man
slowly. Fletcher was about to say something but Sinclair stopped him
with a gesture.

“Giles showed me in,” Halley continued, “and I shall never forget
Reckavile’s face when he saw me. He went deathly white, and his lip
curled back and back like a wolf about to snarl, but no sound came
from his lips. We stood and stared at each other in absolute silence.

“The likeness was so striking that it was almost as though I was
looking into a glass. The strong Reckavile strain has risen salient
and complete in spite of our mothers, though I was darker and had a
touch of Italian if one had looked closely.

“He seemed to recover himself, and turned to Giles.

“‘You can leave us,’ he said, and the old man went out of the room.

“Then he turned to me, and his face was hardly human. ‘Hast thou found
me, oh mine enemy!’ he hissed. He never seemed to have the least doubt
as to who I was. Poor fellow! The thought of my coming had haunted him
like a nightmare, and driven him to furious wanderings. He was like a
man under sentence of death, who was leading feverish years, not
knowing at any time that the grim spectre would appear. So much he
told me. His mother had confided the whole story to him on her death
bed, and adjured him to keep the document which would mean his undoing
should I ever appear. His life must have been hell on earth.

“He listened to my story without a word, but I could see that his mind
was working all the time to devise a plan, and I knew I was in
imminent peril. At the end he rose and paced the room. ‘You must give
me time to think,’ he said, ‘I shall want the fullest proofs of your
identity before I can say anything. Come and see me tomorrow night, at
eight o’clock. Don’t come to the front door, I will have the French
windows open for you.’ He let me out by the window, and I went to my
cottage, half inclined to throw up the whole thing and go away. I was
sorry for him, and it was only the thought of all that my mother had
suffered that kept me to my purpose.

“I told Southgate nothing, as I had involved him quite enough. The
next night I kept the appointment, I will confess in some trepidation,
he had been so calm, so self-possessed, that I felt he had something
behind it all. I found the window open and went in. The room was in
semi-darkness.

“Reckavile did not offer to shake hands, but started at once in a
voice of intolerable insolence. ‘Mr. Halley,’ he said ‘I have been
considering your story, and congratulate you on your powers of
invention. In any ordinary case I should simply send for the police
and have you arrested on a charge of blackmail, but there are so many
reasons for wishing to avoid a public scandal or digging up the past
that I offer you a handsome sum, let us say 10,000 pounds, if you will
take yourself off, and never come to England again.’

“For the moment I was going to leap at him, and take him by the
throat, but some curious instinct held me back. In a flash I saw what
his game was. He wished for some reason to provoke me to attack him.
Perhaps then he could have killed me, and pleaded self-defence. He may
have had witnesses for all I knew. Anyway I kept my temper. ‘Give me
the marriage certificate of my mother’ I said, and I pulled out the
miniature I had always carried with me. ‘That is her picture with me
as a child’ I said. ‘It is her honour I am concerned with. Otherwise I
would leave you alone with your title.’

“‘Wait a moment’ he said, and walked across the room to the cabinet
containing the dictaphone there.”

Halley paused and pointed to the object, on which all eyes were fixed.

“‘You will take my offer?’ he asked. I noticed a curious clicking
sound, but at the time thought nothing of it, it was only afterwards
it came back to my mind, and the significance dawned on me. ‘You are
trying to insult me,’ I said, and I am afraid I lost control of
myself.

“‘Sign a document to say that your mother never married my father, and
the money is yours,’ he said and smiled at me like a devil.

“‘Curse you’ I said advancing to him ‘I don’t want your dirty money; I
only want justice and my rights.’

“‘Over my dead body’ he cried, and even at that moment it seemed that
the words were theatrical, as though spoken for some purpose, but I
was too far gone for thinking and I sprang for him. I can see now that
he had been waiting for me, and a crashing blow descended on my head,
bringing me to the ground. I rose, pouring with blood, and flew at
him, and we grappled together, but loss of blood, and the shock were
too much for me, and I suppose I must have fainted.

“When I recovered, I found Reckavile bending over me, surprisingly
gentle, and full of apologies.

“‘I am sorry, my dear fellow’ he said ‘but you know you attacked me
first, I hope you are better.’

“I murmured something, I suppose I was lightheaded, but he helped me
to the sofa, and then to my intense surprise he said ‘You are knocked
up tonight, but if you can get away without assistance it will save a
scandal, and come tomorrow night at seven. Here is the marriage
certificate, and you shall have it then.’ He walked to that desk, and
pulled it out and showed it. If I had not been so weak I should have
snatched it from him, but he held it away from me, with a mocking
smile. ‘I swear that you shall be restored to your rights tomorrow’ he
said, ‘but meanwhile not a word about tonight.’

“I gave my word, and at last was able to totter out of the room, and
by slow stages to get home.

“The next day I spent in bed, but in the afternoon I walked to
Bungalow Town as my head was splitting, and I had to think the whole
thing out. I was sure there was some trap but could not fathom the
plot. You know the rest. The wound broke open, and I nearly fainted.
Mr. Sefton here found me in a broken condition, and bound me up at the
Club. I staggered down to the _Black Horse_. By doing so I was too
late to keep my appointment and I saved my neck from the halter,” he
added gravely.

“You mean that had you gone to the castle, you would have been accused
of the murder,” said Sefton.

“I believe he had planned the whole thing with diabolical cunning.
When I read the account of the murder I recognised at once that the
conversation heard by Giles and Brown was the one which took place the
night before, and guessed a dictaphone, which had caused the ticking
sound I had heard. He had arranged for me to come, and either was
going to commit suicide, which is the Reckavile way, with damning
evidence against me, or to bolt, in which case I should certainly have
been arrested, and exposed to ignominy and degradation, though without
the body they could not prove murder. There would be my footmarks and
probably my presence, and the conversation, though how he would have
disposed of the record without an accomplice I cannot say.”

“I begin to see light,” said Fletcher “then I suppose you and
Southgate came to try and find the certificate?”

“And the record, yes. I came first by myself, and when hiding in the
house came across some old costumes, and wigs, and being as you know,
an actor, I had no difficulty in disguising myself as old Reckavile.
As you all saw the family likeness was striking, and I thought that if
anyone saw me they would take me for a ghost.”

“So that was it?” said Fletcher.

“It was not hard to guess,” said Sinclair with a twinkle in his eye.

“Then my good friend Southgate came with me, and we were nearly caught
by Brown,” and Halley laughed.

“You caught me properly, sir,” said the rueful constable.

“You see, I was afraid that Reckavile had destroyed the document, but
as he had kept it all those years for some queer superstition, and as
I had seen him put it into the desk, I thought it was worth while
trying to find it. It was my only chance, Southgate most loyally
helped me. Is there any more to explain?”

Fletcher moved restlessly. “All this is most interesting, but I don’t
see that we are any nearer to a solution. In fact you seem to have
incriminated yourself. After all, we cannot get over the fact that the
dead man was found with a knife in his back, and the windows fast shut
instead of wide open as they should have been from your account.”

Sinclair fixed his gaze on Fletcher. “I think you had better wait,” he
said “we have not done yet.”



Chapter XII

The Secret Out

“I don’t see that we are any further towards the solution of the
murder,” said Fletcher. “All that we have heard sheds no light on the
actual crime at all.”

Sinclair remained for a moment in thought, then he said slowly, and
with great deliberation, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Will the murderer confess?”

The sunlight outside seemed to accentuate the grim horror within, it
was here that the crime had been committed, and the shadow of the dead
man was almost visible to their eyes of imagination. Sinclair waited,
and in that pause a chill feeling of fear made manifest seemed to
pervade the room. In utter silence he waited, then in sharp, incisive
words he said “Very well, then we must take extreme measures. Mr.
Cook, will you please explain exactly what happened when you came here
to see Lord Reckavile on the day of the murder?”

The wretched man seemed to crumple into a heap.

“Me, sir,” he stammered, his face like chalk. “Oh, God, what do you
mean?”

He sprang to his feet, and gripped the back of his chair for support.
The police officers looked at him with that gaze of proprietorship
which they keep for a prospective candidate for the gallows. Brown was
unconsciously wondering what length of drop would be required for him,
and Andrews was wondering whether he had a pair of handcuffs to fit.

“Well,” said Sinclair, “don’t stand there saying nothing. You came and
saw Lord Reckavile on the afternoon of the murder, that we know—what
happened?”

“It is true that I came to him, and gave him his ground rents, as I
have always done, but I swear to God that I simply took my receipt and
went, I did not even come into this room. I saw him in the hall. That
is why I never mentioned it before, I was afraid of being accused of
the murder. I was only here a few minutes, Giles knows that don’t
you?” and he looked wildly at the old butler.

Giles spoke slowly, evidently under deep emotion.

“May I say a word, sir,” he said to Sinclair.

“Certainly.”

“You asked just now who killed Lord Reckavile—I did.”

If a bombshell had exploded in the room there could not have been a
greater sensation.

“At last,” said Sinclair, and there was a note of triumph in his
voice. “Thank you, Giles. That is what we wanted. Mr. Cook, I offer
you a profound apology for the bad moment we gave you, but it was the
only way to get a confession from him. That was why the whole meeting
was arranged. It was Mr. Halley’s idea, and you know he has been on
the stage.”

Then turning sternly to Giles, he said. “I have to warn you that
anything you say may be used as evidence against you, but I know most
of the story, and I do think a frank confession is your best chance.”

“I have no desire to keep anything back, nor do I regret what I have
done. An hour ago I wanted to live for one thing, to complete what I
had begun, but after what I have heard of all the suffering of Mr.
Halley and his mother, that desire has gone.”

“But we are all in the dark . . .” began Fletcher.

“You shall know,” said Sinclair. “First, Giles is not his name; he
once bore another, is that not so, Mr. Wheatland?”

Giles started. “That is so, though how you know it I cannot guess. I
am an old man, and I know my days are numbered, so I do not care what
happens to me. They can hang me if they like, though I am sorry for
Mrs. Giles for she has been a good wife to me.

“Well, here is my story. Mr. Sinclair has told you my real name. After
the shame and disgrace of the divorce, and the loss of my wife, whom I
loved dearly,” his voice broke for a moment, “I lived for one thing
only, to be revenged on the man who had robbed me. I was too much of a
coward to fight him, but when he married Winnie and then deserted her,
I swore to kill him. My business went to pieces, and I seemed to lose
heart in it. I sold it up, and brooded over my wrongs. Then I
determined to destroy the last of this accursed breed, and waited for
him to come to England, and the next thing I heard was that he had
been drowned. That would have ended it for me, but Winnie had a son,
and I determined that the whole hated race should come to an end, for
the blood was rotten. I waited and watched for years, and at last I
heard that Winnie was dying, and hurried down to see her.

“She hardly knew me at first, but when she recognised me she was
overjoyed, and clung to me to the last, imploring my pardon for the
wrong she had done me. I will not dwell on that, it is too sacred, but
she confided to me the dread secret of the other Reckavile, who was
somewhere in the world for all she knew, and might turn up at any time
to dispossess her son. I could hardly hide my delight when I heard of
the tortures he was enduring, hunted through the world by the thought
of that other, but I soothed her last hours, and then set myself to
thought. What was the good of killing this Reckavile and leaving the
other alive. I wished to destroy them both.”

The madness of the old man was plainly in his eyes, and Ena drew away,
sick with horror.

“I carefully trained myself as a butler, and obtained the post here
without much difficulty. It was a sinecure, as Reckavile was nearly
always abroad.

“All those years I waited. I could have killed him at any time, but
then the thought of the other brother coming forward and perhaps
gloating over me at my trial stayed my hand. I knew somehow my chance
would come, and at last it did. Southgate and I were old friends, and
I heard of the stranger who had come to the _Black Horse_. Mrs.
Southgate told me about him, and from the description I had no doubt
as to his identity. I knew he was hidden away somewhere, and Southgate
had asked me to let him know when Lord Reckavile came back. How little
he realised what he was asking! I found the thought of my hour of
triumph coming at last, and everything seemed to play into my hands,
as though Fate or the Reckavile Curse was taking a part. I brought Mr.
Halley in to Lord Reckavile, and the sight of his face was like wine
to me. Already I was having my revenge, and it was sweet. I heard some
of their conversation, though not all.

“That night Winnie came to see me, and she smiled at me as though to
say how pleased she was.

“The next day Lord Reckavile sent for me and told me to tell Stevens
to get Brown the constable to come up about the poachers. He was to be
here just before seven o’clock. How I laughed to myself, I saw his
trap. He had arranged for Mr. Halley to be outside his window at
seven.

“Mr. Cook came in the afternoon and Lord Reckavile saw him in the
hall. I knew why—the library he intended to keep as it was for his own
vile purpose. He kept it locked all day, but when Mr. Cook had gone I
followed him on tiptoe, and when I found he had forgotten to turn the
key I knew he was delivered into my hands, and that the time had come.
I carried my knife ready, I had kept it always sharp for such an
occasion.

“I opened the door very slowly and carefully, and peeped in, and
nearly spoilt everything by crying out, for the first words I heard
were those of Mr. Halley and himself on the previous day. Of course, I
guessed he was using his dictaphone. He never would have a secretary
or typist in the house, and used to send his records away to London or
somewhere to be written out. I don’t think he ever wrote a line at all
with his pen except to sign cheques.

“I saw his horrible plan at once. He could turn this record on and
slip out of the window. Then Mr. Halley would be found in the room
with all the marks of a struggle. How I chuckled! Yes, Mr. Halley
would fall into the trap all right, but not such as had been devised.

“He was bending over the dictaphone and laughing a fiendish laugh,
when I stole up to him. He had taken his coat off, and was in his
shirt sleeves, when I drove the knife home, wearing a glove to prevent
any finger prints showing and shouting out that Winnie was revenged at
last, I could see her looking at me and nodding her head to show how
grateful she was.

“He gave one horrible gasping cry, and I caught him as he fell, and
threw the body on the sofa. I put his coat on, as I thought it would
look more natural. I had just finished when I heard a knock and knew
it was Brown.

“I waited sufficient time, as I thought for Mr. Halley to be outside,
then went to the door and turned on the Dictaphone, and came back for
Brown—but in my excitement I made one fatal mistake, I forgot to open
the French window. I could have kicked myself, but it was too late.

“While Brown was examining the body I whipped off the record and hid
it. That was all. I waited each day, hoping Mr. Halley would be
arrested, and then I hoped to get a chance of killing him. If I had
known that it was he who was sitting in that chair he would have been
a dead man. But I am glad now. After hearing his story I felt he too
had suffered, and I should have been content with my revenge. It was
only when you accused Mr. Cook, and I thought an innocent man might
suffer for my crime that I determined to tell the whole truth. I am an
old man and shall not live long now in any case.”

He ceased and Sinclair took the statement from Fletcher, who had
written it down.

“Sign this statement,” he said “if you are satisfied with it.”

The old man read it through carefully, and signed it with a firm hand.

“Now Giles—or Mr. Wheatland—if you wish to make an act of
reparation—it lies in your power. Do you know where the marriage
certificate is hidden?”

“Why of course. My wife told me when she was dying. I never touched it
as I felt it was a magnet which would bring the other Reckavile home
some day.”

He rose and went to the old desk. Brown carefully walking beside him.
Stooping down he touched a secret spring, and a drawer, carefully
hidden in the carving at the back, sprang open. Giles drew out a faded
package and a record, and placed them on the table.

Sinclair opened the packet and handed the contents to Halley who
turned white with relief.

“At last,” he said taking out the faded document, which meant so much
to him. Without a word he handed it to Ena. It was much faded, and had
been soaked with sea water, but was still readable.

Sinclair rose and put the record on the Dictaphone which he wound up
and started. Of all the gruesome things that this room had witnessed
this was the strangest. The now familiar words of the quarrel were
repeated between the dead and the living.

Brown was shaking as though he had seen a ghost, and the others were
strangely moved.

“Oh, shut it off, for Heaven’s sake,” said Sefton, and at the moment
with the final shriek it ceased with a click.

All eyes had been rivetted on the instrument, when Sinclair rose with
a cry of alarm.

“Stop him,” he shouted, pointing a finger at Giles.

Brown and Andrews seized the old man, who made no resistance, but
smiled at them.

“No, you fools, he’s taken poison,” and Sinclair rushed round the
table, and forced open the grim jaws, but it was too late, and with a
heavy groan the old man collapsed. Sefton sprang to Sinclair’s side
and ripped open Giles’ waistcoat. A moment’s examination was
sufficient.

“He’s dead,” he said solemnly, “it must have been a terribly rapid
poison.”

Ena had burst into tears, the strain had been too great, and Halley
rose and went to her side.

“Fool that I was,” said Sinclair. “I might have guessed. This was what
was contained in that little leather case we found. Reckavile must
have carried it about with him for such a crisis as he knew might
occur. You know suicide is in the family,” he added in a low voice so
that Halley should not hear. “I have seen something like that in
India. It was probably some deadly alkaloid. Giles must have got hold
of it from Reckavile, and kept it for such a contingency. Still,” he
said musingly “perhaps it is for the best. The old man had become a
monomaniac brooding over his revenge, and it would have been dreadful
to have sent him to the gallows.”

Brown and Andrews carried the body, already stiffening, into the
bedroom, and covered it with a sheet.

The rest rose to their feet.

“You will make a full report on this, Andrews,” said Sinclair when the
officer returned, “and I will report in London. There is no particular
object in making more of a sensation than we are obliged, but the
whole thing will have to come out when Lord Reckavile here makes his
claim to the title.”

“I will go back to London, sir,” said Fletcher, and his face was
white. “I seem to have made a pretty mess of things all round.”

Sinclair laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take this too much
to heart, my boy, we all have to learn, and you are young yet. Only I
think you owe an apology to Lord Reckavile.”

Fletcher looked with gratitude at his Chief.

“I owe an apology all round, and I tender it now,” he said.

He shook hands with each, and when he came to Ena, he smiled sadly, “I
wish you both the greatest happiness.”



Chapter XIII

The Last

The sun was sparkling on the sea, and all nature was rejoicing as
though pleased that the black shadow had been lifted at last.

Southgate and his wife were setting luncheon in the old timbered room
at the _Black Horse_, with great care. There were flowers on the
table, and a row of bottles on the sideboard.

“That will do I think,” he said, standing back to admire his work. A
sound of voices outside announced the coming of the guests, and the
Southgates melted away to smarten up.

Ena and her brother came in with Lord Reckavile and she looked a
pretty sight in the sunlit room, a picture of happiness, now that the
clouds had gone. In Reckavile also there was a subtle change. He
appeared younger and the sad look had given place to a merry twinkle
of the eye. He walked more briskly, and with a self assurance unknown
before.

Sefton was thoroughly contented. There was a very good prospect of
being able to go back to the Hospital to qualify, and his experience
had taught him that his father’s discovery was no idle dream. They
took their seats and waited for Sinclair who was due to complete the
party.

Reckavile rang the bell, and Southgate appeared.

“Have you no servants?” asked Reckavile in mock anger.

“Yes, sir—I mean, my lord,” stammered the landlord.

“‘Sir’ will do Southgate, for the present—why do you not do as I asked
you?”

“What was that, sir?”

“Lay two places more for yourself and Mrs. Southgate.”

“Oh sir! We couldn’t.”

“Nonsense, either you lunch with us, or we don’t have any meal at
all.”

“Very good, sir,” said the gratified man “I will tell the missus.”

A car drove up to the door, and Sinclair came in.

“I hope I’m not late,” he said shaking hands.

“Not a bit, you’re just in time,” said Reckavile.

Soon they were gathered round the table, as merry a party as one could
wish to see.

“How are things going, Lord Reckavile?” asked Sinclair, when Southgate
had uncorked the bottles.

“It will take some time to get these matters settled, as the whole
question will have to come before the House of Lords, but my lawyers
think there will be no real difficulty, and have been very good in
covering my temporary needs. Now tell us all about the case, as you
promised to do, you know we all want to know how you managed to solve
the problem.”

“There is no magic about it,” said Sinclair modestly. “You see from
the very first I saw clearly that, as we do not live in the age of
witches and magic, there was only one man who could have had access to
Reckavile, and that was old Giles, however much the problem was
surrounded with difficulties. When I got Fletcher’s report, I saw the
whole thing. Don’t misunderstand me. It is a matter of experience, not
of cleverness. Fletcher had all the clues in front of him. The mention
of a Dictaphone told me all I wanted to know. I had given him a broad
hint when I told him the history of the Reckaviles, and I will admit
that I thought he had committed suicide, a diabolical suicide to get
his half brother hanged. I am not at all certain even now that that
was not his real intention. He would have hidden the record, and
swallowed the poison—you saw how quickly it worked—and things would
have looked very bad for you, Lord Reckavile.”

“I wonder,” said the latter. “I saw something in his eyes at the last
interview which made me suspicious of such a plot.”

“Well,” Sinclair continued “my mind being set on Giles, I pursued the
usual practice, for which I take no credit, in hunting up his
antecedents, and traced him as Wheatland. Then the whole thing was
clear as daylight, but there was not a shadow of real evidence.”

“You remember,” said Reckavile, taking up the tale, “Southgate came to
your bungalow, Ena, with important news that Sunday morning. The
police had been down there making enquiries about me, and things were
getting warm, so I thought the wisest course was to go to London and
see Sinclair, and tell him the whole story. That was why he came down,
but of course I knew nothing of his suspicions.”

“I see,” said Sefton “that was why you disguised yourself the second
time.”

“It was my suggestion,” said Sinclair “if my theory was correct I saw
that he was in very great danger from Giles, and the only way was to
keep up the disguise till we had forced a confession from him, or got
hold of such evidence that we could obtain an arrest. The record,
which I was certain had not been destroyed, as Giles had no chance of
doing so, and the certificate, were the things we were after, and I
was so convinced that they were in the desk that we were prepared to
break it to pieces if necessary, but Fletcher interfered, and
afterwards Giles saved us the trouble. That I think explains the whole
thing. I can only say how thankful we ought to be to have come out
without another tragedy. But come, let’s talk of something more
pleasant.”

Southgate rose at a signal from Sinclair, and filled their glasses
with a very extra special champagne.

Sinclair rose. “To the health of the future Lord and Lady Reckavile,”
he said.

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm. Sinclair set his glass down with
deliberation, and said musingly “Good stuff that. I wonder how much it
paid towards the revenue,” and he grinned broadly at Southgate who
looked sheepish.

“Come along,” he said with a wink to Sefton “let’s examine Southgate’s
cellars,” and with a laugh they went out, leaving Reckavile and Ena
alone.

“We will go to Italy, dear,” he said taking her hand.

“Yes, I want to see your mother’s grave, and the little cottage where
you were born. How happy she would be if she knew everything had come
right,” and her eyes were wet.

“Perhaps she does. If you will take me as I am, we will get married,
and get away from this place with its evil memories.”

“Yes, Mr. lord,” she said, making him a curtsey “but don’t forget it
was here you met me, is that one of the evil memories?”

“That is the happiest memory I have ever had,” he made answer, catching
her to him. “I came here in winter, and now spring has come, and soon
it will be summer. When another winter comes it will find us together.
The Curse has died out in one fiendish act of evil, and revenge, but
by God’s grace we will establish a new line with nobler thoughts.”

He kissed her then, and she hid her blushes in his passionate embrace.



Transcriber’s Note

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by E. P.
Dutton & Company in 1927. The following alterations have been made to
correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

  * “glorius” to “glorious” (Book I, Chapter I);
  * “vilage” to “village” (Book I, Chapter X).





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