第 5 页

Again she saw him look anxiously at Monkford.

"Mr. Monkford and I went after him— we laid a trap and he fell into it. That gun play was certainly a surprise. If his hanging is on any man's hands, it is on mine. I ought to have killed him before he fired."

She knew instinctively that he was telling an oft-repeated story; and that the moral of the story was Monkford's innocence of responsibility.

Somehow, she could not understand why he needed excusing. Even if the stout man had been consciously responsible, why should he blame himself for the death of a man who had butchered an officer of the law in cold blood? But Betcher's next words explained a great deal.

"Naturally, Mr. Monkford worried himself sick about it all. He got an idea—"

"Oh— well— we'll change the subject. Here's the tea— let us talk about something else."

Monkford's voice was harsh and unsteady. Not the flippancy of words could hide his emotion. His face had paled to an unhealthy gray, the hands that raised the statuette and examined the inscription were shaking. His very interest in his new possession was badly simulated.

"The Black Fate! Cheerful, upon my soul!" His chuckle was thin and mirthless. "I'll take back what I said about that superstitious lady of yours, Miss Sanders. But I'll not die by falling on my sword, or even on my fountain pen!"

After tea she strolled out on to the lawn. There was a wait of two hours before her train went back to town, and she thought the men wanted to be alone. In this surmise she was wrong. She had reached the water's edge and was standing watching a small pike's lightning dart at a school of minnows, when she heard a voice behind her and turned to meet Arnold Long.

"Mr. Monkford has gone up to his room to lie down," he said.

"And it was all my fault." She was the picture and tone of penitence. "Why I ever mentioned that wretched man I don't know. And I just hate murders— I never read them or talk about them."

"I read nothing else," he said, and rubbed his nose irritably. "Morbid— I've got that way lately."

She felt a return of the fatal curiosity of the afternoon. "You really don't look like a detective," she said, and Betcher sighed.

"I've come to the conclusion that I'm the worst detective in the world," he said; "and yet, the first time I saw you, I guessed I was nearly the biggest. But it was luck, after all."

"When did you see me first?"

She told herself that the challenge was a stupid one, and the reproach in his eyes made the colour come to her face.

"Southern Bank," he said laconically. "You remember— betcher!"

She was furious with him, but only for a second.

"A year ago I was a light-hearted young man. I'm now a hundred— maybe a hundred and fifty."

"Why?" she asked.

He took a cigarette from his case and, asking her permission with a lift of his eyebrows, lit it.

"Because," he said, as he threw the match into the river, "they are going to kill Monkford next week, and I don't exactly know how I can stop 'em."

Chapter 8

SHE gazed at him, horror and incredulity in every line of her face.

"You don't really mean that?"

He nodded.

"I'm telling you this because I know you and because you know me. Understanding at first sight is more common than love at first sight. I knew you the day I saw you in the Southern Bank. You're an affinity. I hate the word, because it has had its bloom worn off in the divorce courts. Come for a row and forget all about Mr. Monkford. He's still alive."

She got into the dinghy without a word, secretly pleased to be with him. She could not grasp the full significance of his calm survey of Monkford's fate. And yet she knew that he was not the type of man who would exaggerate for the sake of making a sensation. Her mental attitude toward this stranger amazed her. In the shadow of his influence she felt she could relax, put down all the guards and screens that women erect to keep the world at bay. She had never been susceptible to strong prejudices; her nature was cautious; experience had made her a little suspicious of men and women alike. She could hardly believe that it was possible in her to conceive so sudden an interest in a man of whose existence she had been ignorant an hour before.

"How old are you?"

He was pulling to midstream when he fired the question at her head.

"Nearly twenty-three— I am very old," she said, and despised herself for casting so clumsy a bait.

"You don't look old. I thought you were about twenty when I saw you." He looked over her shoulder as he spoke, watching the house recede. "That's the queer thing about beauty— it destroys age. A beautiful woman is any age you want her to be; not that I've wanted— much."

She sat up, her eyes kindling with laughter.

"Are you in the habit of— of being so frank with all the women you know?" she asked. Modesty demanded that she should add: "All people are— well— nice-looking who have a healthy skin."

"I knew a woman in town who had a peach skin. She was cross-eyed and had a nose like an elephant," he said. "No, I don't have a great deal to do with women. I knew Kate Lacrosse— she was pretty. Golden hair and wonderful features. Last time I saw her she was painting angels down in Aylesbury."

"Painting... Where is Aylesbury?" she demanded, puzzled.

"Convict prison for women. I got her twenty years," said the rower, with melancholy satisfaction. "Her line was blackmail."

She was shocked at this, but he went on to make a startling statement.

"I know everything— except about women. They get me guessing. When I was a boy I read the encyclopaedia through twice. I know everything. It has been useful as a policeman. Do you mind my saying that you're beautiful?"

She laughed.

"I rather like it," she confessed.

The boat was headed downstream now. She had no thought for anything but this strange personality.

"You've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen in a woman," he said after a pause.

She raised a warning finger.

"Mr. Long, I believe you are trying to flirt with me," she said solemnly.

"No, I'm not." He was telling the truth, as she knew. "I'm just remarking. You're engaged?"

She shook her head.

"No. I am unique. I have never been engaged." He drew a long breath.

"That's certainly unique," he said, and, shipping his sculls, reached out and caught hold of something. Looking round, she saw to her surprise that it was the murderer's boat.

"I'll show you something," he said, and jumped on board, stooping to grip her hand in his.

The air of neglect was more striking nearer at hand. The planking of the whale-deck was rotting; the well was inches deep in water that rolled and gurgled with every motion of the boat as they moved.

"He had his press in here." Betcher pulled back the sliding door of the poop cabin. "Ran it off batteries— the batteries are still there. Come inside."

She followed him, stooping, into the darkness of the cabin and he lit a match.

"How's that for high-class prophecy?" he asked.

On the woodwork of the cabin walls a string of dates had been carved. There were nine in all.

June 1, 1854. J. X. T. L.

Sept. 6, 1862.

Feb. 9, 1886.

March 11, 1892.

Sept. 4, 1896.

Sept. 12, 1898.

Aug. 30, 1901.

July 18, 1923.

Aug. 1, 1924.

Against the date July 18, 1923, a small, plain cross had been carved.

"High-class prophecy; he's got Ezekiel beaten," murmured Betcher Long, and shook his head in admiration.

The girl was perplexed.

"But did he carve those dates?" she asked. "What do they mean?"

"Give a lot to know— for sure," he added cautiously. "July 18, 1923— that's easy. He was hanged that day!"

She drew a sudden breath and shrank back. The light of the long wax match went out; for a second they were in the darkness, and then, with a wild and uncontrollable sense of fear, she pushed past him through the door into the sunlight. Presently he followed and pulled the door tight. She gathered from his attitude that he was the present proprietor of the Northward, and this proved to be the case, though none of the locals knew.

"The carving was only discovered last year when I bought the boat and started to strip the panels— you saw where they came off? The panel over that interestin' memento wasn't screwed to the wall. It was just hinged. When I started in to investigate I found the list."

"But he couldn't have anticipated the date of his death?" she urged.

He shook his head.

"No. The Terrible People did that."

Nora looked at him straightly. Was he jesting? More than a little she suspected laughter behind the most portentous of his words.

"I have never heard of those," she said at last.

"Heard of witch-doctors and voodoo men? Listen, young lady. Step down into the boat— we're too close to shore here."

He was not joking. His eyes were searching the tangled lawn before the empty house. He stood squarely in the centre of the dinghy, both hands resting on his hips, but even when he extended one of these toward her, he did not look in her direction— his attention was for the house and the drawn blinds and the little shrubbery near the tradesman's path.

For a second her flesh crept. She had a terrifying sense of danger; she felt the presence of an unseen watcher, the menace of hateful eyes.

"Imagination— there's nothing there."

He was speaking as though he read her thoughts. "Somebody was there last night. I had cotton across the doorway, and it was broken to-day!"

Chapter 9

HE MUSED on this, arriving the boat against the stream with long, powerful strokes. They passed the lawn of Benham Abbey, and then he guided the boat to the shade of trees that overhung the water and, gripping a branch, held the dinghy steady. And as usual, when he spoke, he went off at a tangent.

"It takes a clever man to live a double life. Shelton lived six that I knew. There used to be a fellow who wrote stories for the Child's Magazine, all about the little dogs that find their master lying in the snow. A fellow named Grinstead Jackson. His other name was Shelton. And another man who wrote a book about the mind— that was Shelton. Down at Lambeth there was a small printer's business run by a man named Simon Cole. Mr. Cole and Mr. Shelton went about under the same hat. In Oxfordshire a poultry farmer used to advertise eggs and birds for the table. He did a good business and had two dozen people working for him. And more hens. H. P. Pearce was his name in the telephone book. At Scotland Yard, we called him Shelton. Up by Temple Lock an elderly gentleman had a bungalow and a power boat. He used to fish a lot— one of the best barbel fishers on the river. Walter James Evanleigh was the name on his letters— most of the recording angels opened the page under Shelton. That's what I know about him. What I don't know would fill a big shelf in Mr. Monkford's library."

"Was he married?" she asked, fascinated.

"Never appeared to be," said Betcher. He fixed her for a second with a glance that seemed to go searching behind her eyes.

"Of course, he couldn't have prophesied his own death— Oh!"

She suddenly remembered the last date, August 1st— and it was now July 23d! "What is happening on August the first?" she asked.

"Ah!" said her companion, and then, before she could press her question, he went on again:

"Nobody really knows about the Terrible People— except me, and I know next to nothing. You smell 'em now and again— get a sort of glimpse of 'em. Old Shelton made a million out of the banks, but the high cost of living six lives ate it up. Maybe he played the races. Most crooks are mad in one direction or another. He paid high for his messengers. It was costly to send people to America to cash letters of credit— why, once he ran a man from New York to Sacramento by special train, just stopping off at the big places to collect, an' going on to the next. The agent was back in London before the first squeal came. Clever— but it cost money. Still— a million's a lot. Behind him all the time were the Terrible People. Mr. Monkford had a brother who went to Ilfracombe for a holiday; that was the week after I caught Shelton. This brother was drowned. They found him in his bathing suit on the beach early one morning. Mr. Monkford thinks it was an accident. It was. They got the wrong Monkford!"

She looked at him open-mouthed.

"Murdered?" she said hollowly.

Betcher nodded.

"Got the wrong Monkford," he said, and for a second the skin about his eyes wrinkled. Something had amused him.

"Going up to town by the six-fifteen? I'll be going, too. I travel third class. I'm democratic—"

She saw him stiffen and his head thrust forward toward the wilderness of bushes that fringed the bank. One hand dropped to his pocket. The other held rigidly to the branch of the tree. Again her heart raced; again her skin crept. He was staring wide-eyed at the bushes— she thought she heard a strange and stealthy rustle of sound.

The dinghy was slowly turning, and she discovered why, for the wrist of the hand that held the branch was also turning. Presently the motion stopped and he rose, so light on his feet that the little boat scarcely rocked. As he stood now he was immediately between her and the place where she had located the sound.

His head drooped, he was listening; then, as unexpectedly as he rose, he sat down again, put out the oars and drew the dinghy to midstream.

"Terrible people!" He was speaking to himself.

"Terrible people— there's something doing and I don't know what it is."

He said no more of them, offered nothing in the way of explanation, and rowed out toward the opposite bank, as she thought.

"Seen our neighbour?" he asked, in his abrupt way.

"Ought to see him— he's one of the sights of Marlow. I call him Hercules. Folks round here got another name for him. He was in the bank the day we caught Shelton, and considering he's naturally languid, he certainly mixed it! These languid birds sometimes fight well. When I was at Cambridge—" He stopped here for no apparent reason.