第 7 页

A quarter of an hour later she followed Miss Revelstoke into the dining room. Henry was standing with his back to the empty fire grate, his hands behind him, his brown eyes surveying the carpet, and he seemed to the girl to be revolving some abstruse problem of law.

And that apparently was the fact, for he started as Miss Revelstoke came in, and apologized.

"I've had rather a puzzling case sent to me," he said, as he pulled out a chair for his hostess, "and a gruesome case at that! You've heard of Wallis?"

"I haven't had that pleasure," said Miss Revelstoke. "But I may suppose that he is a famous character, because only such are called and recognized by their surnames."

"Notorious' is the better word," said Mr. Henry, a little grimly, as he sat down and opened his serviette. "He was, in fact, the public hangman."

Miss Revelstoke turned her imperturbable gaze upon him.

"Wallis lived at Oldham, and we happen to be agents for his solicitors," Henry went on, and then, quickly: "If you object to this unpleasant subject, I will talk about butterflies."

He addressed the girl rather than Miss Revelstoke, and smilingly she shook her head.

"It appears that, although he was rather a dissolute person, he was to some extent thrifty. He had some house property in London— three little cottages in Bermondsey, and until his death nobody knew he was married; at least, nobody knew that he had married twice without going through the formality of obtaining a divorce from his first wife. He left no will, and it looks as if there will be a lawsuit."

Interest in the late Mr. Wallis passed soon after, and the talk drifted to Marlow.

"There you have made an impression, my dear," said Miss Revelstoke. "I had Monkford on the 'phone to me, and he was almost ecstatic about your charm and colouring and general excellence."

"About me?" asked Nora, in surprise. "Why, he hardly looked at me! You probably misunderstood him, Miss Revelstoke. He must have been talking about the Black Fate."

"Hullo! What is the Black Fate?" asked Henry, looking up from his plate.

Miss Revelstoke described in a few pungent and sardonic words the statuette which she had sent her banker.

"So you met Jackson Crayley, did you?" asked Miss Revelstoke. "What did you think of him?"

Nora hesitated.

"Well, he was not very impressive," she compromised.

"I should say he was not!" said Henry indignantly. "In fact, I know of nobody less imposing than Jackson."

"He lives an entirely selfish life," said Miss Revelstoke. "Oh, yes, I know him very well indeed."

Evidently Mr. Crayley was not very popular, either with her employer or the lawyer. And then, as conversation flagged, Nora Sanders did something which she regretted. She spoke of the Terrible People. There was no reason why she should not, but she had a conviction in her mind that the story Arnold Long had told her was, so to speak, for private circulation only, and she could not escape the uncomfortable feeling that she had betrayed a confidence. So strong was this sense that she made, as she thought, a blundering effort to turn the talk back to Mr. Monkford. The dark eyes of Miss Revelstoke surveyed her keenly.

"I'm afraid your policeman has made rather an impression on you, Nora," she said good-humouredly. "You have an idea that you should not have told us about the Terrible People?"

This strange woman had the extraordinary gift of reading thought, a gift which had often embarrassed the girl, and she flushed red as she realized how surely Anna Revelstoke had probed her mind. Henry was laughing softly, and she wondered why, till he spoke.

"You needn't be worried about telling us these awful secrets," he said. "I've already heard a whisper. But the whole thing is too absurd for words. Shelton, on whose life I'm more or less an authority— I've probably the largest collection of data outside Scotland Yard— was essentially a soloist. He had no friends, no relations, and no intimate associates. That is why he was able to keep the police at bay for so many years."

He addressed the two women generally.

"Organized revenge is unknown in this country," he went on. "After all, why should anybody wish to come back on the judge, the prosecuting counsel, and the hangman who were instrumental in sending Shelton to his doom? The only people who would bear them animosity are those who bore toward him some strong personal affection— some relation, and we know that he had no relation in the world."

"For which he ought to have been grateful," said Miss Revelstoke with a sigh.

"Vendetta is unknown in this country," Henry went on, "and certainly vendetta carried on by men who risk their lives for the sake of avenging a man who cannot possibly reward them, not even with his gratitude, is unthinkable."

"Did your Mr. Long tell you of anything that had happened— any particular deeds that the Terrible People had committed?" asked Miss Revelstoke.

"No," said Nora; "only he feared—"

Again she was saying too much. But happily Henry came to her rescue.

"Feared for Monkford. That is an open secret, too," he said, with a smile. "I don't suppose he fears for himself, because he's not that kind of man, so far as I know him."

"Monkford only did his duty— what nonsense to think he is threatened!" said Miss Revelstoke impatiently. "Really, Nora, I must meet your detective— he is of a type which has been extinct since the excellent novels of Gaboriau went out of fashion!"

"He's really very nice." The girl was spurred to his defence. "And not a bit melodramatic."

Henry was looking at her thoughtfully, fingering his little black moustache.

"I can endorse that," he said. "Betcher is eccentric and has methods which are wholly at variance with the usual systems of detection, but he is not at all a sensationalist."

"Who is he?" asked Miss Revelstoke, and then Nora learnt for the first time of Arnold Long's wealthy associations.

"One of these days he'll be a baronet and have the best part of two million pounds," said Henry, "which accounts for a lot of his unpopularity at Scotland Yard. They are scared of a charge of favouritism."

Nora Sanders was looking forward to the remainder of the evening with no great eagerness. Her employer was an enthusiastic player of picquet, and Nora was usually her opponent. But to-night the yellow-faced lady could dispense with her. She had a considerable amount of house property in London, and after dinner marched Henry off to the little study behind the drawing room, and the lawyer went meekly, carrying a large dispatch case crammed with papers.

"I'm going to have a very pleasant evening," he said soto voce as he passed her, and she could smile sympathetically, for she knew Miss Revelstoke as a keen business woman with an uncanny instinct for figures.

They were still busy at eleven o'clock when she knocked on the door to bid her employer good-night. She heard Miss Revelstoke's high-pitched voice declaiming bitterly about the improvidence of her tenants, and guessed that Henry's worst anticipations had been realized.

There was much to occupy her thoughts: her strange experience had made this day stand out above all others, and her mind continuously roved between speculations on Arnold Long and the mysterious confederation whom he had described as the Terrible People. She heard a taxi draw up before the door, and Henry's voice came to her through the open window as he bade his hostess goodnight. Half an hour passed, and she was as wide awake as ever. The church clock was striking one as she fell into a troubled sleep, from which she was awakened by a gentle tap on the door.

"Are you asleep?"

It was Miss Revelstoke, and, rising and slipping on a dressing gown, the girl went to the door and opened it.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you. Can I come in?"

Nora switched on the light and Miss Revelstoke entered. She was still wearing the black silk, which was the invariable material of her evening dress.

"Henry asked me if he might pay his addresses to you," she said, so calmly that the girl was staggered. "His addresses— you mean—"

"He wants to marry you," said Miss Revelstoke; "and, of course, I told him it was nothing whatever to do with me, and that I should not influence you one way or the other. He is a rising man in his profession, rather well off, I believe, more than a bore, I'm certain, but he might make a fairly good husband. Good-night."

She went out and closed the door behind her, leaving the girl puzzled and a little distressed; for this was an unforeseen complication, and its novelty was somewhat overbalanced by the uncomfortable knowledge that Mr. Frederick Henry was the last man in the world she wished to marry.

When she eventually fell asleep, it was to dream of the olive-skinned Mr. Henry in rivalry with Betcher Long— a condition which she did not dare to suppose in her waking moments. Then she dreamt that she had fallen into the power of four terrifying men; terrifying because they were faceless and had neither shape nor substance. She lay bound, helpless before them, and she knew that they were the Terrible People, and sought vainly to pierce the veil that hid their identity.

And somewhere in the background hovered three shapes even less tangible. A judge, a lawyer, and a thin-faced executioner, who had been sacrificed to the manes of Clay Shelton.

Chapter 11

THE "Terrible People" was a phrase until then, and no more. It stood for obscure causations that had cast not even the shadow of men. To no individual could the finger of suspicion be pointed. No spot on earth was suspect. Behind the effects that were produced were not even the nebulae of a mind that might be designated "cause." The police chief was patently bored when Betcher interviewed him that night.

"Terrible People!" he snapped at last. "Betcher, I'm sick of you and your Terrible People! Who are they— where are they? We know nothing whatever about them. I wish to Heaven you'd stop putting these ideas into the Secretary's head. I have a confidential minute from him almost every day!"

"I call them Terrible People, and I'm right," said Arnold confidently. "People— human volition— any fancy name you like to call it. Don't ask me who is the king pippin of the crowd— there's no crowd that I can see. If there was, we'd thin it down to the men I want. Shelton's gang? He never had a gang. He just worked solitary, so far as we know. But I won't swear to that. He was like a man you only see four days a year, and you've got to guess what he was doing in the other three-six-one. Agents? Hundreds of them! But they were just workmen. They did their graft and had their pay, an' they're trying to forget they ever helped him. They didn't kill the judge, the lawyer, and the executioner! They didn't try to catch me. What happened to Sir James and Mr. Crewe and Wallis?"

"Accidents in every case," murmured the police chief wearily.

"Accidents my grandmother's puddin'-faced poodle dog!" replied Betcher— but he said it to himself. Aloud, he asked: "Was it an accident they shot me up this afternoon? Was it accidental that the Lancer laid for me and was caught himself?"

The chief sniffed.

"The Lancer didn't like you: he tried to put you out, and when he found that he had failed, he committed suicide."

Betcher's nose went perceptibly higher.

Scotland Yard had never accepted the theory of the Terrible People except with marked scepticism. Correspondence passed to and fro, but the heads of the departments took the view that Betcher Long had impressed upon a romantic Secretary of State a story that had its proper place in a work of fiction.

And yet

Apart from death by drowning of the elder brother of Monkford, the following were the incidents on which Betcher had based his hypothesis. Sir James Cargill, the judge, who had tried and condemned Clay Shelton, had died suddenly a few months after the trial, but had died in perfectly natural circumstances. He had contracted measles whilst he was on circuit, and was making a fairly normal recovery, when he caught cold, pneumonia supervened, and he died. His nurse had made the error of leaving the lower sash of the bedroom window open on a raw, wet night. Some time after the death, Sub-Inspector Arnold Long interviewed the nurse and discovered that the woman had read a quasi-scientific article in her favourite periodical, in the course of which it had been demonstrated that there was a very grave danger to nurses in infectious cases unless this means of ventilation were adopted. It also went on to prove that such a system was best for the patient.

Doctors are prejudiced against this method [said the writer], but the wise nurse is she who not only protects herself but assists her patient to recover.

Betcher showed the article to a specialist, who was dumbfounded. He interviewed first the editor of the paper and then the writer of the article, a woman. She only knew that a newspaper cutting had been sent to her containing the gist of the article, with a blue-pencilled inscription suggesting that she should write an article on those lines. The reference to the wise nurse was heavily underlined. She thought it had come from the editor. This happened weeks before Sir James was taken ill. But Betcher was not satisfied. The nurse was the woman who had looked after the judge when he was down with influenza. She was likely to be called in again. And the article was intended for her. When he came to examine the "cutting" from which she was inspired, he discovered that it was a "proof" pulled on a piece of ordinary proof paper. He spent a fortnight discovering the cause of the infection— some underclothing sent from the laundry. The judge's valet was also infected.

That was one case. The case of the Prosecuting Attorney was much more sensational. Purley Crewe, King's Counsel and Senior Counsel for the Treasury, had been the prosecutor of Shelton and had destroyed one by one the defences which the murderer had set up. The week Shelton was hanged, Crewe joined a shooting party in Norfolk. He was staying at Norwich and drove out to the shoot, leaving Norwich at nine o'clock. He was an expert car driver, given to speeding, but he knew every yard of the road, and though there was a heavy mist in the hollows, he kept his klaxon going and maintained a speed above the normal. On the highlands the visibility was good. There is a place called Eveleigh Hollow, where the road dips steeply and rises again at as acute an angle. The road is straight. From the brow of the hill he looked upon an impenetrable pocket of mist that hid the bottom, but he saw the road rising on the other side and, sounding his horn, he went down the hill at fifty-five miles an hour. In the hollow was a small steam roller directly across the road. The chauffeur broke his leg, but Crewe died that night in Norwich County Hospital. Here was the curious fact, that, ten minutes before, a farmer passed through the hollow and saw the steam roller, which had been used the previous day on road repair. Then it was standing in a field to the left of the road. It had been left on sloping ground, but there was no steam in it and the gears were, according to the engineer, locked. They were not locked when the police made an examination after the accident. It was easy to trace the course of the heavy roller, but though the ground was soft, no footprints were discoverable, except the rough imprint of the labourer's boots. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of accidental death.