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Title: The Mystery of the Four Fingers

Author: Fred M. White

Release Date: February, 2006  [EBook #9853]
[This file was first posted on October 24, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE MYSTERY OF THE FOUR FINGERS ***




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The Mystery of the Four Fingers

BY FRED M. WHITE

Author of "THE MIDNIGHT GUEST," "THE CRIMSON BLIND," Etc., Etc.

1908






CONTENTS

     I.  THE BLACK PATCH

    II.  THE FIRST FINGER

   III.  THE LOST MINE

    IV.  IN THE LIFT

     V.  A PUZZLE FOR VENNER

    VI.  A PARTIAL FAILURE

   VII.  THE WHITE LADY

  VIII.  MISSING

    IX.  A NEW PHASE

     X.  THE SECOND FINGER

    XI.  AN UNEXPECTED MOVE

   XII.  THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

  XIII.  THE WHITE LADY AGAIN

   XIV.  MASTER OF THE SITUATION

    XV.  FELIX ZARY

   XVI.  FENWICK MOVES AGAIN

  XVII.  MERTON GRANGE

 XVIII.  A COUPLE OF VISITORS

   XIX.  PHANTOM GOLD

    XX.  THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

   XXI.  THE THIRD FINGER

  XXII.  "THE TIME WILL COME"

 XXIII.  SMOKED OUT

  XXIV.  THE MOUTH OF THE NET

   XXV.  AN ACT OF CHARITY

  XXVI.  THE LAST FINGER

 XXVII.  NEMESIS

XXVIII.  EXPLANATIONS

  XXIX.  THIS MORTAL COIL

   XXX.  A PEACEFUL SUNSET




CHAPTER I

THE BLACK PATCH

Considering it was nearly the height of the London winter season, the
Great Empire Hotel was not unusually crowded. This might perhaps have
been owing to the fact that two or three of the finest suites of rooms in
the building had been engaged by Mark Fenwick, who was popularly supposed
to be the last thing in the way of American multi-millionaires. No one
knew precisely who Fenwick was, or how he had made his money; but during
the last few months his name had bulked largely in the financial Press
and the daily periodicals of a sensational character. So far, the man had
hardly been seen, it being understood that he was suffering from a chill,
contracted on his voyage to Europe. Up to the present moment he had taken
all his meals in his rooms, but it was whispered now that the great man
was coming down to dinner. There was quite a flutter of excitement in the
Venetian dining-room about eight o'clock.

The beautifully decorated saloon had a sprinkling of well-dressed men
and women already dining decorously there. Everything was decorous about
the Great Empire Hotel. No thought had been spared in the effort to keep
the place quiet and select. The carpets were extra thick, and the waiters
more than usually soft-footed. On the whole, it was a restful place,
though, perhaps, the decorative scheme of its lighting erred just a
trifle on the side of the sombre. Still, flowers and ferns were soft and
feathery. The band played just loudly enough to stimulate conversation
instead of drowning it. At one of the little tables near the door two men
were dining. One had the alertness and vigor which bespeaks the dweller
in towns. He was neatly groomed, with just the slight suspicion of the
dandy in his dress, though it was obvious at the merest glance that he
was a gentleman. His short, sleek hair gave to his head a certain
suggestion of strength. The eyes which gleamed behind his gold-rimmed
glasses were keen and steady. Most men about town were acquainted with
the name of Jim Gurdon, as a generation before had been acquainted with
his prowess in the athletic field. Now he was a successful barrister,
though his ample private means rendered professional work quite
unnecessary.

The other man was taller, and more loose-limbed, though his spare frame
suggested great physical strength. He was dark in a hawk-like way,
though the suggestion of the adventurer about him was softened by a pair
of frank and pleasant grey eyes. Gerald Venner was tanned to a fine,
healthy bronze by many years of wandering all over the world; in fact, he
was one of those restless Englishmen who cannot for long be satisfied
without risking his life in some adventure or other.

The two friends sat there quietly over their dinner, criticising from
time to time those about them.

"After all," Gurdon said presently, "you must admit that there is
something in our civilization. Now, isn't this better than starving under
a thin blanket, with a chance of being murdered before morning?"

Venner shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"I don't know," he said. "There is something in danger that stimulates
me; in fact, it is the only thing that makes life worth living, I dare
say you have wondered why it is that I have never settled down and
become respectable like the rest of you. If you heard my story, you
would not be surprised at my eccentric mode of living; at any rate, it
enables me to forget."

Venner uttered the last words slowly and sadly, as if he were talking
to himself, and had forgotten the presence of his companion. There
was a speculative look in his eyes, much as if London had vanished
and he could see the orchids on the table before him growing in their
native forests.

"I suppose I don't look much like a man with a past," he went on; "like
a man who is the victim of a great sorrow. I'll tell you the story
presently, but not here; I really could not do it in surroundings like
these. I've tried everything, even to money-making, but that is the
worst and most unsatisfactory process of the lot. There is nothing so
sordid as that."

"Oh, I don't know," Gurdon laughed. "It is better to be a
multi-millionaire than a king today. Take the case of this man Fenwick,
for instance; the papers are making more fuss of him than if he were the
President of the United States or royalty travelling incognito."

Venner smiled more or less contemptuously. He turned to take a casual
glance at a noisy party who had just come into the dining room, for the
frivolous note jarred upon him. Almost immediately the little party sat
down, and the decorous air of the room seemed to subdue them. Immediately
behind them followed a man who came dragging his limbs behind him,
supported on either side by a servant. He was quite a young man, with a
wonderfully handsome, clean-shaven face. Indeed, so handsome was he, that
Venner could think of no more fitting simile for his beauty than the
trite old comparison of the Greek god. The man's features were perfectly
chiselled, slightly melancholy and romantic, and strongly suggestive of
the early portraits of Lord Byron. Yet, all the same, the almost perfect
face was from time to time twisted and distorted with pain, and from time
to time there came into the dark, melancholy eyes a look of almost
malignant fury. It was evident that the newcomer suffered from racking
pain, for his lips were twitching, and Venner could see that his even,
white teeth were clenched together. On the whole, it was a striking
figure to intrude upon the smooth gaiety of the dining-room, for it
seemed to Venner that death and the stranger were more than casual
acquaintances. He had an idea that it was only a strong will which kept
the invalid on this side of the grave.

The sufferer sank at length with a sigh of relief into a large armchair,
which had been specially placed for him. He waved the servants aside as
if he had no further use for them, and commenced to study his _menu_, as
if he had no thought for anything else. Venner did not fail to note that
the man had the full use of his arms, and his eye dwelt with critical
approval on the strong, muscular hands and wrists.

"I wonder who that fellow is?" he said. "What a magnificent frame his
must have been before he got so terribly broken up."

"He is certainly a fascinating personality," Gurdon admitted. "Somehow,
he strikes me not so much as the victim of an accident as an unfortunate
being who is suffering from the result of some terrible form of
vengeance. What a character he would make for a story! I am ready to bet
anything in reason that if we could get to the bottom of his history it
would be a most dramatic one. It regularly appeals to the imagination. I
can quite believe our friend yonder has dragged himself out of bed by
sheer force of will to keep some appointment whereby he can wreak his
long nursed revenge."

"Not in a place like this," Venner smiled.

"Why not? In the old days these things used to be played out to the
accompaniment of thunder and lightning on a blasted heath. Now we are
much more quiet and gentle in our methods. It is quite evident that our
handsome friend is expecting someone to dine with him. He gives a most
excellent dinner to his enemy, points out to him his faults in the most
gentlemanly fashion, and then proceeds to poison him with a specially
prepared cigar. I can see the whole thing in the form of a short story."

Venner smiled at the conceit of his companion. He was more than half
inclined to take a sentimental view of the thing himself. He turned to
the waiter to give some order, and as he did so, his eyes encountered two
more people, a man and a woman, who, at that moment, entered the
dining-room. The man was somewhat past middle age, with a large bald
head, covered with a shining dome of yellow skin, and a yellow face
lighted by a pair of deep-sunk dark eyes. The whole was set off and
rendered sinister by a small hook nose and a little black moustache. For
the rest, the man was short and inclined to be stout. He walked with a
wonderfully light and agile step for a man of his weight; in fact he
seemed to reach his seat much as a cat might have done. Indeed, despite
his bulk, there was something strangely feline about the stranger.

Venner gave a peculiar gasp and gurgle. His eyes started. All the blood
receded from his brown face, leaving him ghastly white under his tan. It
was no aspect of fear--rather one of surprise,--of strong and
unconquerable emotion. At the same moment Venner's hand snapped the stem
of his wine glass, and the champagne frothed upon the table.

"Who is that man?" Venner asked of the waiter. His tone was so strained
and harsh that he hardly recognised his own voice. "Who is the man, I
say? No, no; I don't mean him. I mean that stout man, with the lady in
white, over there."

The waiter stared at the speaker in astonishment. He seemed to wonder
where he had been all these years.

"That, sir, is Mr. Mark Fenwick, the American millionaire."

Venner waved the speaker aside. He was recovering from his emotion now
and the blood had returned once more to his cheeks. He became conscious
of the fact that Gurdon was regarding him with a polite, yet none the
less critical, wonder.

"What is the matter?" the latter asked. "Really, the air seems full of
mystery. Do you know that for the last two minutes you have been
regarding that obese capitalist with a look that was absolutely
murderous? Do you mean to tell me that you have ever seen him before?"

"Indeed, I have," Venner replied. "But on the last occasion of our
meeting, he did not call himself Mark Fenwick, or by any other name so
distinctly British. Look at him now; look at his yellow skin with the
deep patches of purple at the roots of the little hair he has. Mark the
shape of his face and the peculiar oblique slit of his eyelids. Would you
take that man for an Englishman?"

"No, I shouldn't," Gurdon said frankly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I
should say he is either Portuguese or perhaps something of the Mexican
half caste."

"You would not be far wrong," Venner said quietly. "I suppose you thought
that the appearance of that man here tonight was something of a shock to
me. You can little guess what sort of a shock it has been. I promise to
tell you my story presently, so it will have to keep. In the meantime,
it is my mood to sit here and watch that man."

"Personally, I am much more interested in his companion," Gurdon laughed.
"A daughter of the gods, if ever there was one. What a face, and what a
figure! Do you mean to say that you didn't notice her as she came in?"

"Positively I didn't," Venner confessed. "My whole attention was rivetted
on the man. I tell you I can see absolutely nothing but his great,
yellow, wicked face, and for the background the romantic spot where we
last met."

It was Gurdon's turn now to listen. He leant forward in his chair, his
whole attention concentrated upon the figure of the stranger, huddled up
in the armchair at the little table opposite. He touched Venner on the
arm, and indicated the figure of the man who had suffered so cruelly in
some form or other.

"The plot thickens," Venner murmured. "Upon my word, he seems to know
this Mark Fenwick as well as I do."

The maimed crippled figure in the armchair had dragged himself almost to
his feet, with his powerful, muscular arm propping him against the table.
His unusually handsome face was all broken and twisted up with an
expression of malignant fury. He stood there for a moment or two like a
statue of uncontrollable passion, rigid, fixed, and motionless, save for
the twitching of his face. Then, gradually he dropped back into his chair
again, a broken and huddled heap, quivering from head to foot with the
pain caused by his recent exertion. A moment later he took from his
breast pocket a silk shade, which he proceeded to tie over his eyes, as
if the light hurt him. Watching his every movement with intense
eagerness, the two friends saw that he had also taken from his pocket a
small silver case, about the same size as an ordinary box of safety
matches. Indeed, the case looked not unlike the silver coverings for wood
matches, which are generally to be seen in well-appointed households.
Then, as if nothing interested him further, he leaned back in his chair,
and appeared to give himself over entirely to his enjoyment of the
orchestra. In all probability no diner there besides Venner and Gurdon
had noticed anything in the least out of the common.

"This is very dramatic," Gurdon said. "Here is a melo-drama actually
taking place in a comedy 'set' like this. I am glad you will be in a
position later on to gratify my curiosity. I confess I should like to
learn something more about this Mark Fenwick, who does not appear to be
in the least like one's idea of the prosaic money spinner."

"He isn't," Venner said grimly. "Anything but that. Why, three years ago
that man was as poor and desperate as the most wretched outcast who
walks the streets of London to-night. And one thing you may be certain
of--wherever you dine from now to your dying day, you will be under the
roof of no more diabolical scoundrel than the creature who calls himself
Mark Fenwick."

There was a deep note in Venner's voice that did not fail to stimulate
Gurdon's curiosity. He glanced again at the millionaire, who appeared to
be talking in some foreign tongue with his companion. The tall, fair girl
with the shining hair had her back to the friends, so they could not see
her face, and when she spoke it was in a tone so low that it was not
possible to catch anything more than the sweetness of her voice.

"I wonder what she is doing with him?" Gurdon said. "At any rate, she is
English enough. I never saw a woman with a more thoroughbred air. She is
looking this way."

Just for a moment the girl turned her head, and Venner caught a full
sight of her face. It was only for an instant; then the fair head was
turned again, and the girl appeared to resume her dinner. Venner jumped
from his chair and took three strides across the room. He paused there as
if struggling to regain possession of himself; then he dropped into his
chair again, shielding his face from the light with his hands. Gurdon
could see that his companion's face had turned to a ghastly grey.
Veritably it was a night of surprises, quick, dramatic surprises,
following close upon one another's heels.

"What, do you mean to say you know her, too?" Gurdon whispered.

Venner looked up with a strange, unsteady smile on his face. He appeared
to be fighting hard to regain his self-control.

"Indeed, I do know her," he said. "My friend, you are going to have all
the surprises you want. What will you say when I tell you that the girl
who sits there, utterly unconscious of my presence, and deeming me to be
at the other end of the world, is no less a person than--my own wife?"




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST FINGER


Gurdon waited for his companion to go on. It was a boast of his that he
had exhausted most of the sensations of life, and that he never allowed
anything to astonish him. All the same, he was astonished now, and
surprised beyond words. For the last twenty-five years, on and off, he
had known Venner. Indeed, there had been few secrets between them since
the day when they had come down from Oxford together. From time to time,
during his wanderings, Venner had written to his old chum a fairly
complete account of his adventures. During the last three years the
letters had been meagre and far between; and at their meeting a few days
ago, Gurdon had noticed a reticence in the manner of his old chum that he
had not seen before.

He waited now, naturally enough, for the other to give some explanation
of his extraordinary statement, but Venner appeared to have forgotten all
about Gurdon. He sat there shielding one side of his face, heedless of
the attentions of the waiter, who proffered him food from time to time.

"Is that all you are going to tell me?" Gurdon asked at length.

"Upon my word, I am very sorry," Venner said. "But you will excuse me
if I say nothing more at present. You can imagine what a shock this has
been to me."

"Of course. I don't wish to be impertinent, old chap, but I presume that
there has been some little misunderstanding--"

"Not in the least. There has been no misunderstanding whatever. I
honestly believe that the woman over yonder is still just as passionately
fond of me as I am of her. As you know, Gurdon, I never was much of a
ladies' man; in fact, you fellows at Oxford used to chaff me because I
was so ill at ease in the society of women. Usually a man like myself
falls in love but once in his lifetime, and then never changes. At any
rate, that is my case. I worship the ground that girl walks upon. I would
have given up my life cheerfully for her; I would do so now if I could
save her a moment's pain. You think, perhaps, that she saw me when she
came in here to-night. That is where you have got the impression that
there is some misunderstanding between us. You talked just now of
dramatic surprises. I could show you one even beyond your powers of
imagination if I chose. What would you say if I told you that three years
ago I became the husband of that beautiful girl yonder, and that from
half-an-hour after the ceremony till the present moment I have never set
eyes on her again?"

"It seems almost incredible," Gurdon exclaimed.

"Yes, I suppose it does. But it is absolutely a fact all the same. I
can't tell you here the romance of my life. I couldn't do it in
surroundings like these. We will go on to your rooms presently, and then
I will make a clean breast of the whole thing to you. You may be disposed
to laugh at me for a sentimentalist, but I should like to stay here a
little longer, if it is only now and again to hear a word or two from her
lips. If you will push those flowers across between me and the light I
shall be quite secure from observation. I think that will do."

"But you don't mean to tell me," Gurdon murmured, "that the lady in
question is the daughter of that picturesque-looking old ruffian,
Mark Fenwick?"

"Of course, she isn't," Venner said, with great contempt. "What the
connection is between them, I cannot say. What strange fate links them
together is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I do not like it,
but I let it pass, feeling so sure of Vera's innocence and integrity. But
the waiter will tell us. Here, waiter, is the lady dining over there with
Mr. Fenwick his daughter or not?"

"Certainly, sir," the waiter responded. "That is Miss Fenwick."

There was silence for a moment or two between the two friends. Venner
appeared to be deeply immersed in his own thoughts, while Gurdon's eyes
travelled quickly between the table where the millionaire sat and the
deep armchair, in which the invalid lay huddled; and Venner now saw that
the cripple on the opposite side of the room was regarding Fenwick and
his companion with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse.

Dinner had now come pretty well to an end, and the coffee and liqueurs
were going round. A cup was placed before Fenwick, who turned to one of
the waiters with a quick order which the latter hastened to obey. The
order was given so clearly that Gurdon could hear distinctly what it was.
He had asked for a light, wherewith to burn the glass of Curacoa which he
intended to take, foreign fashion, in his coffee.

"And don't forget to bring me a wooden match," he commanded. "Household
matches. Last night one of your men brought me a vesta."

The waiter hurried off to execute his commission, but his intention was
anticipated by another waiter who had apparently been doing nothing and
hanging about in the background. The second waiter was a small, lithe
man, with beady, black eyes and curly hair. For some reason or other,
Gurdon noticed him particularly; then he saw a strange thing happen. The
little waiter with the snaky hair glanced swiftly across the room in the
direction of the cripple huddled up in the armchair. Just as if he had
been waiting for a signal, the invalid stretched out one of his long
arms, and laid his fingers significantly on the tiny silver box he had
deposited on the table some little time before. The small waiter went
across the room and deliberately lifted the silver box from the table. He
then walked briskly across to where the millionaire was seated, placed
the box close to his elbow, and vanished. He seemed to fairly race down
the room until he was lost in a pile of palms which masked the door.
Gurdon had followed all this with the deepest possible interest. Venner
sat there, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings. His head was
on his hands, and his mind was apparently far away. Therefore, Gurdon was
left entirely to himself, to study the strange things that were going on
around him. His whole attention was now concentrated upon Fenwick, who
presently tilted his glass of Curacoa dexterously into his coffee cup,
and then stretched out his hand for the silver match box by his side. He
was still talking to his companion while he fumbled for a match without
looking at the little case in his hand. Suddenly he ceased to speak, his
black eyes rivetted on the box. It fell from his fingers as if it had
contained some poisonous insect, and he rose to his feet with a sudden
scream that could be heard all over the room.

There was a quick hush in the conversation, and every head was turned in
the direction of the millionaire's table. Practically every diner there
knew who the man with the yellow head was, so that the startling
interruption was all the more unexpected. Once again the frightened cry
rang out, and then Fenwick stood, gazing with horrified eyes and white,
ghastly face at the innocent looking little box on the table.

"Who brought this here?" he screamed. "Bring that waiter here. Find him
at once. Find him at once, I say. A little man with beady eyes and hair
like rats' tails."

The head waiter bustled up, full of importance; but it was in vain that
he asked for some explanation of what had happened. All Fenwick could do
was to stand there gesticulating and calling aloud for the production of
the erring waiter.

"But I assure you, sir," the head waiter said, "we have no waiter here
who answers to the description of the man you mention. They are all here
now, every waiter who has entered the room to-night. If you will be so
good as to pick out the one who has offended you--"

Fenwick's startled, bloodshot eyes ranged slowly over the array of
waiters which had been gathered for his inspection round his table.
Presently he shook his head with an impatient gesture.

"I tell you, he is not here," he cried. "The man is not here. He is quite
small, with very queer, black hair."

The head waiter was equally positive in his assurance. Louder rose the
angry voice of the millionaire, till at length Venner was aroused from
his reverie and looked up to Gurdon to know what was going on. The latter
explained as far as possible, not omitting to describe the strange matter
of the silver box. Venner smiled with the air of a man who could say a
great deal if he chose.

"It is all part of the programme," he said. "That will come in my story
later on. But what puzzles me is where that handsome cripple comes in.
The mystery deepens."

By this time Fenwick's protestations had grown weaker. He seemed to
ramble on in a mixture of English and Portuguese which was exceedingly
puzzling to the head waiter, who still was utterly in the dark as to the
cause of offence. Most of the diners had gathered round the millionaire's
table with polite curiosity, and sundry offers of assistance.

"I think we had better get to our own room," a sweet, gentle voice said,
as the tall, fair girl by Fenwick's side rose and moved in the direction
of the door. It was, perhaps, unfortunate that Venner had risen at the
same time. As he strode from his own table, he came face to face with the
girl who stood there watching him with something like pain in her blue
eyes. Just for an instant she staggered back, and apparently would have
fallen had not Venner placed his arm about her waist. In the strange
confusion caused by the unexpected disturbance, nobody had noticed this
besides Gurdon, who promptly rose to the occasion.

"You had better take the lady as far as her own rooms," he said. "This
business has evidently been too much for her. Meanwhile, I will see what
I can do for Mr. Fenwick."

Venner shot his friend a glance of gratitude. He did not hesitate for a
moment; he saw that the girl by his side was quite incapable of offering
any objections for the present. In his own strong, masterful way, he drew
the girl's hand under his arm, and fairly dragged her from the room into
the comparative silence and seclusion of the corridor beyond.

"Which way do we go?" he asked.

"The Grand Staircase," the girl replied faintly. "It is on the first
floor. But you must not come with me, you must come no further. It would
be madness for him to know that we are together."

"He will not come just yet," Venner replied. "My friend knows something
of my story, and he will do his best to get us five minutes together. You
have heard me speak of Jim Gurdon before."

"But it is madness," the girl whispered. "You know how dangerous it is.
Oh, Gerald, what must you think of me when--"

"I swear to you that I think nothing of you that is unkind or
ungenerous," Venner protested. "By a cruel stroke of fate we were parted
at the very moment when our happiness seemed most complete. Why you left
me in the strange way you did, I have never yet learned. In your letter
to me you told me you were bound to act as you did, and I believed you
implicitly. How many men in similar circumstances would have behaved as I
did? How many men would have gone on honoring a wife who betrayed her
husband as you betrayed me? And yet, as I stand here at this moment,
looking into your eyes, I feel certain that you are the same sweet and
innocent girl who did me the happiness to become my wife."

The beautiful face quivered, and the blue eyes filled with tears. Her
trembling hand lay on Venner's arm for a moment; then he caught the girl
to his side and kissed her passionately.

"I thank you for those words," she whispered. "From the bottom of my
heart I thank you. If you only knew what I have suffered, if you only
knew the terrible pressure that is put upon me;--and it seemed to me
that I was acting for the best. I hoped, too, that you would go away and
forget me; that in the course of time I should be nothing more than a
memory to you. And yet, in my heart, I always felt that we should meet
again. Is it not strange that we should come together like this?"

"I do not see that it is in the least strange," Venner replied,
"considering that I have been looking for you for the last three years.
When I found you to-night, it was with the greatest difficulty that I
restrained myself from laying my hands on the man who is the cause of
all your misery and suffering. How long has he been passing for an
Englishman? Since when has he been a millionaire? If he be a
millionaire at all."

"I cannot tell you," the girl whispered. "Really, I do not know. A little
time ago we were poor enough; then suddenly, money seemed to come in from
all sides. I asked no questions; they would not have been answered if I
had. At least, not truthfully. And now you really must go. When shall I
see you again? Ah, I cannot tell you. For the present you must go on
trusting me as implicitly as you have done in the past. Oh, if you only
knew how it wrings my heart to have to speak to you like this, when all
the time my whole love is for you and you alone. Gerald--ah, go now; go
at once. Don't you see that he is coming up the stairs?"

Venner turned away, and slipped down a side corridor, till Fenwick had
entered his own room. Then he walked down the stairs again into the
dining-room, where a heated discussion was still going on as to the
identity of the missing waiter.

"They'll never find him," Gurdon muttered, "for the simple reason that
the fellow was imported for the occasion, and, in my opinion, was no
waiter at all. You will notice also that our crippled friend has
vanished. I would give a great deal to know what was in the box that
pretty nearly scared the yellow man to death. I never saw a fellow so
frightened in my life. He had to fortify himself with two brandies before
he could get up to his own room. Gerald, I really must find out what was
in that box!"

"I think I could tell you," Venner said, with a smile. "Didn't you tell
me that the mysterious waiter fetched it from the table where it had been
placed by the handsome cripple?"

"Certainly, he did. I saw the signal pass directly Fenwick asked for a
wooden match; that funny little waiter was palpably waiting for the
silver box, and as soon as he placed it on Fenwick's table, he discreetly
vanished. But, as I said before, I would give considerable to know what
was in that box."

"Well, go and see," Venner said grimly. "Unless my eyes deceive me, the
box is still lying on Fenwick's table. In his fright, he forgot all about
it, and there isn't a waiter among the whole lot, from the chief
downwards, who has a really clear impression of what the offence was. If
you take my advice, you will go and have a peep into that box when you
get the chance. Don't tell me what you find, because I will guess that."

Gurdon crossed over to the other table, and took the box up in his hand.
He pulled the slide out and glanced at the contents with a puzzled
expression of face. Then he dropped the box again, and came back to
Venner with a look on his face as if he had been handling something more
than usually repulsive.

"You needn't tell me what it is," Venner said. "I know quite as well as
you do. Inside that box is a dried up piece of flesh, some three inches
long--in other words a mummified human forefinger."




CHAPTER III

THE LOST MINE


Gurdon nodded thoughtfully. He was trying to piece the puzzle together in
his mind, but so far without success. He was not in the least surprised
to find that Venner had guessed correctly.

"You've got it exactly," he said. "That is just what the gruesome thing
is. What does it all mean?"

By this time dinner had long been a thing of the past, and all the guests
had departed. Here and there the lights were turned down, leaving half
the room in semi-darkness. It was just the time and place for an exchange
of confidences.

"How did you know exactly what was in that box?" Gurdon asked. "I have
read things of this kind before, but they have generally taken the form
of a warning previous to some act of vengeance."

"As a matter of fact, this is something of the same kind," Venner said;
"though I am bound to say that my guess was somewhat in the nature of a
shot. Still, putting two and two together, I felt that I could not have
been far wrong. Since I have been here this evening, I have begun to form
a pretty shrewd opinion as to where Fenwick gets his money."

"What shall we do with that box?" Gurdon asked.

"Leave it where it is, by all means. You may depend upon it that Fenwick
will return for his lost property."

The prophecy came true quicker than Gurdon had expected, for out of the
gloom there presently emerged the yellow face of Mark Fenwick. He came in
with a furtive air, like some mean thief who is about to do a shabby
action. He was palpably looking for something. He made a gesture of
disappointment when he saw that the table where he had dined was now
stripped of everything except the flowers. He did not seem to see the
other two men there at all. Venner took the box from his companion's
hand, and advanced to Fenwick's side.

"I think you have lost something, sir," he said coolly. "Permit me to
restore your property to you."

The millionaire gave a kind of howl as he looked at Venner. The noise he
made was like that of a child suffering from toothache. He fairly
grovelled at Venner's feet, but as far as the latter's expression was
concerned, the two might have met for the first time. Just for a moment
Fenwick stood there, mopping his yellow face, himself a picture of abject
misery and despair.

"Well?" Venner said sharply. "Is this little box yours, or not?"

"Oh, yes, oh yes," Fenwick whined. "You know that perfectly well--I
mean, you must recognise--oh, I don't know what I mean. The fact is,
I am really ill to-night. I hardly know what I am doing. Thank you,
very much."

Fenwick snatched the box from Venner's fingers, and made hastily
for the door.

"I believe we are allowed to smoke in here after ten," Gurdon said. "If
that is the case, why not have a cigar together, and discuss the matter?
What I am anxious to know at present is the inner meaning of the finger
in the box."

There was no objection to a cigar in the dining-room at this late hour,
and presently the two friends were discussing their Havanas together.
Venner began to speak at length.

"Perhaps it would be as well," he said, "to stick to the box business
first. You will remember, some three years ago, my writing you to the
effect that I was going to undertake a journey through Mexico. I don't
suppose I should have gone there at all, only I was attracted by the
notion of possible adventures in that country, among the hills where, at
one time, gold was found. There was no question whatever that gold in
large quantities used to be mined in the wild district where I had chosen
to take up my headquarters. Practical engineers say that the gold is
exhausted, but that did not deter me in the least.

"The first man who put the idea into my head was a half-caste Mexican,
who had an extraordinary grip on the history of his country, especially
as far as legends and traditions were concerned. He was a well-educated
man, and an exceedingly fascinating story-teller. It was he who first
gave me the history of what he called the Four Finger Mine. It appears
that this mine had been discovered some century or more ago by a
Frenchman, who had settled down in the country and married the daughter
of a native chief. The original founder of the mine was a curious sort of
man, and was evidently possessed of strong miserly tendencies. Most men
in his position would have gathered together a band of workers, and
simply exploited the mine for all it was worth. However, this man, Le
Fenu, did nothing of the kind. He kept his discovery an absolute secret,
and what mining was to be done, he did himself. I understand that he was
a man of fine physique, and that his disposition was absolutely fearless.
It was his habit at certain seasons of the year to go up to his mine, and
there work it for a month or two at a time, spending the rest of the year
with his family. It is quite certain, too, that he kept his secret, even
from his grown-up sons; for when he died, they had not the slightest idea
of the locality of the mine, which fact I know from Le Fenu's
descendants.

"And now comes the interesting part of my story, Le Fenu went up into
the mountains early in May one year, to put in his solitary two months'
mining, as usual. For, perhaps, the first time in his life, he suffered
from a serious illness--some kind of fever, I suppose, though he had just
strength of will enough to get on the back of a horse and ride as far as
the nearest _hacienda_.

"Now, on this particular farm there dwelt a Dutchman, who, I believe, was
called Van Fort. Whether or not Le Fenu partially disclosed his secret in
his delirium, will never actually be known. At any rate, two or three
weeks later the body of Le Fenu was discovered not very far away from the
scene of his mining operations, and from the evidence obtainable, there
was no doubt in the world that he was foully murdered. Justice in that
country walks with very tardy footsteps, and though there was little
question who the real murderer was, Van Fort was never brought to
justice. Perhaps that was accounted for by the fact that he seemed to be
suddenly possessed of more money than usual, and was thus in a position
to bribe the authorities.

"And now comes a further development. Soon after the death of Le Fenu, it
was noted that Van Fort spent most of his time away from his farm in the
mountains, no doubt prospecting for Le Fenu's mine. Whether he ever found
it or not will never be known. Please to bear in mind the fact that for a
couple of centuries at least Le Fenu's mysterious property was known as
the Four Finger Mine. With this digression, I will go on to speak further
of Van Fort's movements. To make a long story short, from his last
journey to the mountains he never returned. His widow searched for him
everywhere; I have seen her--a big sullen woman, with a cruel mouth and a
heavy eye. From what I have heard, I have not the slightest doubt that it
was she who inspired the murder of the Frenchman.

"She had practically given up all hope of ever seeing her husband again,
when, one dark and stormy night, just as she was preparing for bed, she
heard her husband outside, screaming for assistance. From his tone, he
was evidently in some dire and deadly peril. The woman was by no means
devoid of courage; she rushed out into the night and searched far and
near, but no trace of Van Fort could be found, nor did the imploring cry
for assistance come again. But the next morning, on the doorstep lay a
bleeding forefinger, which the woman recognised as coming from her
husband's hand. To make identity absolutely certain, on the forefinger
was a ring of native gold, which the Dutchman always wore. Please to
remember once more that this mine was known as the Four Finger Mine."

Venner paused just for a moment to give dramatic effect to his point.
Gurdon said nothing; he was too deeply interested in the narrative to
make any comment.

"That was what I may call the first act in the drama," Venner went on.
"Six months had elapsed, and Van Fort's widow was beginning to forget all
about the startling incident, when, one night, just at the same time, and
in just the same circumstances, came that wild, pitiful yell for
assistance outside the Dutchman's farm. Half mad with dread and terror
the woman sat there listening. She did not dare to go outside now; she
knew how futile such an act would be. Also, she knew quite well what was
going to happen in the morning. She sat up half the night in a state
bordering on madness. I need not insult your intelligence, my dear
fellow, by asking you to guess what she found on the doorstep in the
daylight."

"Of course, I can guess," Gurdon said. "Beyond all question, it was the
third finger of the Dutchman's hand."

"Quite so," Venner resumed. "I need not over elaborate my story or bore
you by telling how, six months later, the second finger of the hand
appeared in the same sensational circumstances, and how, at the end of a
year, the four fingers were complete. Let me once more impress upon you
the fact that this mine was called the Four Finger Mine for more than a
century before these strange things happened."

"It is certainly an extraordinary thing," Gurdon muttered. "I don't think
I ever listened to a weirder tale. And did the Dutch woman confess to
her crime? This strikes me as being a fitting end to the story. I suppose
it came from her lips."

"She didn't confess, for the simple reason that she had no mind to
confess with," Venner explained. "Of course, certain neighbors knew
something of what was going on, but they never knew the whole truth,
because, after the appearance of the last finger, Mrs. Van Fort went
stark raving mad. She lived for a few days, and at the end of that time
her body was found in a waterfall close to her house. That is the story
of the Four Finger Mine so far as it goes, though I should not be
surprised if we manage to get to the last chapter yet. Now, you are an
observant man--did you notice anything peculiar in Fenwick's appearance
to-night?"

Gurdon shook his head slowly. It was quite evident that he had not
noticed anything out of the common in the appearance of the millionaire.
Venner proceeded to explain.

"Let me tell you this," he said. "When I married my wife, we were within
an easy ride of the locality where the Four Finger Mine is situated. Mind
you, our marriage was a secret one, and I presume that Fenwick is still
in ignorance of it, though, of course, he was fully aware of the fact
that I had more than a passing admiration for Vera. I merely mention this
by way of accentuating the little point that I am going to make. It is
more than probable that, when I stumbled upon Fenwick and the girl who
passes for his daughter, he also was in search of the Four Finger Mine.
When he came in to-night he, of course, recognised me, though I treated
him as an absolute stranger whom I had met for the first time. You will
see presently why I treated him in this fashion. I am glad I spoke to
him, because I noticed a slight thing that throws a flood of light upon
the mystery. Now, did it escape your observation, or did you notice that
Fenwick took the box I gave him in his right hand?"

"Oh, dear, no," Gurdon said. "A little thing like that would be almost
too trivial for the typical detective of the cheap story."

"All the same, it is very important," Venner said. "He took the box in
his right hand; he made as if to extend his left, then suddenly changed
his mind, and put it in his pocket. But he was too late to disguise from
me that he had--"

"I know," Gurdon shouted. "He had lost all the fingers on his left
hand. What an amazing thing! We must get to the bottom of this business
at all costs."

"That is precisely what we are going to do," Venner said grimly. "I am
glad you are so quick in taking up the point. When I noted the loss of
those fingers, I was absolutely staggered for a moment. If he had been
less agitated than he was, Fenwick would have guessed what I had seen. I
need not tell you that when I last saw Fenwick his left hand was as sound
as yours or mine. The inference of this is, that Fenwick has fallen under
the ban of the same strange vengeance that overtook Van Fort and his
wife. There is not the slightest doubt that he discovered the mine, and
that he has not yet paid the penalty for his temerity."

"I presume the penalty is coming," Gurdon said. "What a creepy sort of
idea it is, that terrible vengeance reaching across a continent in such a
sinister fashion. But don't forget that we know something as to the way
in which this thing is to be brought about. Don't forget the cripple who
sat at yonder table to-night."

"I am not likely to forget him," Venner observed. "All the more because
he evidently knows more about this matter than we do ourselves. When he
came here to-night, he little dreamed that there was one man in the
room, at least, who had a fairly good knowledge of the Four Finger
Mystery. We shall have to look him out, and, if necessary, force him to
speak. But it is a delicate matter, and as far as I can see, one not
unattended with danger."

Gurdon smoked in thoughtful silence for some little time, turning the
strange thing over in his mind. The more he dwelt upon it, the more wild
and dramatic did it seem.

"There is one thing in our favor," he said, presently. "The mysterious
cripple is evidently a deadly enemy of Fenwick's. We shall doubtless find
him ready to accept our offer, provided that we put it in the right way."

"I am not so sure of that," Venner replied. "At any rate, we can make no
move in that direction without thinking the whole thing out carefully and
thoroughly. Our crippled friend is evidently a fanatic in his way, and he
is not alone in his scheme. Do not forget that we have also the little
man who played the part of the waiter to deal with. I am sorry that I did
not notice him. A man who could carry off a thing like that with such
splendid audacity is certainly a force to be reckoned with."

Gurdon rose from his seat with a yawn, and intimated that it was time to
go to bed. It was long past twelve now and the hotel was gradually
retiring to rest. The Grand Empire was not the sort of house to cater to
the frivolous type of guest, and usually within an hour of the closing of
the theatres the whole of the vast building was wrapped in silence.

"I think I will go now," Gurdon said. "Come and lunch with me to-morrow,
and then you can tell me something about your own romance. What sort of a
night is it, waiter?"

"Very bad, sir," the waiter replied. "It's pouring in torrents. Shall I
call you a cab, sir?"




CHAPTER IV

IN THE LIFT


Gurdon looked out from the shelter of the great portico to see the sheets
of rain falling on the pavement. Silence reigned supreme but for the
steady plash of the raindrops as they rattled on the pavements. To walk
half a mile on such a night meant getting wet through; and Gurdon
somewhat ruefully regarded his thin slippers and his light dust overcoat.
Half a dozen times the night porter blew his whistle, but no sign of a
cab could be seen.

"We shan't get one to-night," Venner said. "They are all engaged. There
is only one thing for it--you must take a room here, and stay till the
morning. I've no doubt I can fit you up in the way of pyjamas and the
things necessary."

Gurdon fell in readily enough with the suggestion. Indeed, there was
nothing else for it. He took his number and key from the sleepy clerk in
the office, and made his way upstairs to Venner's bedroom.

"I'll just have one cigarette before I turn in," he said. "It seems as if
Fate had ordained that I am to keep in close touch with the leading
characters of the mystery. By the way, we never took the trouble to find
out who the handsome cripple was."

"That is very easily done in the morning," Venner replied. "A striking
personality like that is not soon lost sight of. Besides, he has
doubtless been here before, for, if you will recollect, his attendants
took him to the right table as if it had been ordered beforehand. And
now, if you don't mind, I'll turn in--not that I expect to sleep much
after an exciting evening like this. Good night, old fellow."

Gurdon went on to his own room, where he slowly undressed and sat
thinking the whole thing out on the edge of his bed. Perhaps he was
suffering from the same suppressed excitement which at that moment was
keeping Venner awake, for he felt not the slightest disposition to turn
in. Usually he was a sound sleeper; but this night seemed likely to prove
an exception to the rule.

An hour passed, and Gurdon was still sitting there, asking himself
whether it would not be better to go to bed and compel sleep to come to
him. Impatiently he turned out his light and laid his head resolutely on
the pillow.

But it was all in vain--sleep was out of the question. The room was not
altogether in darkness, either; for the sleeping apartments on that
landing had been arranged back to back with a large, open ventilator
between them. Through this ventilator came a stream of light; evidently
the occupant of the adjoining room had not yet retired. The light
worried Gurdon; he asked himself irritably why his neighbor should be
permitted to annoy him in this way. A moment or two later the sound of
suppressed voices came through the ventilator, followed by the noise of a
heavy fall.

At any ordinary time Gurdon would have thought nothing of this, but his
imagination was aflame now, and his mind was full of hidden mysteries. It
seemed to him that something sinister and underhand was going on in the
next room.

Usually, no one would identify the Grand Empire Hotel with crime and
intrigue; but that did not deter Gurdon from rising from his bed and
making a determined effort to see through the ventilator into the
adjoining room. It was not an easy matter, but by dint of balancing two
chairs one on top of the other the thing was accomplished. Very
cautiously Gurdon pushed back the glass slide and looked through. So far
as he could see, there was nothing to justify any suspicion. The room
was absolutely empty, though it was brilliantly lighted; and for a
moment Gurdon felt ashamed of his suspicions, and turned away, half
determined to try and sleep. It was at that instant that he noticed
something out of the common. To his quickened ear there came a sound
unmistakably like a snore, and pushing his body half through the
ventilator he managed to make out the bed in the next room. On it lay
the body of a boy in uniform, unmistakably a messenger boy or hotel
attendant of that kind. Gurdon could see the hotel name embroidered in
gold letters on his collar.

Perhaps there was nothing so very suspicious in this, except that the boy
was lying on the bed fully dressed, even to his boots. It was a luxurious
room; not at all the class of apartment to which the hotel management
would relegate one of their messenger boys, nor was it possible that the
lad had had the temerity to go into the vacant room and sleep.

"Something wrong here," Gurdon muttered. "Hang me if I don't get through
the ventilator and see what it is."

It was no difficult matter for an athlete like Gurdon to push his way
through and drop on to the bed on the other side. Then he shook the form
of the slumbering lad without reward. The boy seemed to be plunged in a
sleep almost like death. As Gurdon turned him over, he noticed on the
other side of the lad's collar the single word "Lift." It began to dawn
upon Gurdon exactly what had happened. In large hotels like the Grand
Empire there is no fixed period when the lift is suspended, and
consequently, it has its attendants night and day. For some reason, this
boy had evidently been drugged and carried into the room where he now
lay. There was no doubt whatever about it, for it was impossible to
shake the lad into the slightest semblance of life. Gurdon crossed to
the door, and found, not to his surprise, that it was locked. His first
impulse was to return to his room and call the night porter; but a
strange, wild idea had come into his mind, and he refrained from doing
so. It occurred to him that perhaps Mark Fenwick or the cripple had had
a hand in this outrage.

"I'll wait a bit," Gurdon told himself. "It is just possible that my key
will fit this door. Anyway, it is worth trying."

Gurdon made his way back to his own room again, to return a minute or two
later with his key. To his great delight the door opened, and he stood in
a further corridor, close against the cage in which the lift worked
noiselessly up and down.

It was absolutely quiet, so that anybody standing there would have been
able to carry out any operation of an unlawful kind without observation.
Gurdon stood, looking down the lift shaft, until he saw that the cage was
once more beginning to ascend. It came up slowly and smoothly and without
the least noise, until it was level with the floor on which Gurdon was
standing. It was one of the open kind, so he could see inside quite
clearly. To all practical purposes, the lift was empty, save for the
presence of one man, who lay unconscious on the floor. The cage was
ascending so leisurely that Gurdon was in a position to make a close
examination of the figure before the whole structure had risen to the
next floor. It did not need a second glance to tell Gurdon that the man
in the cage was the attendant, and that he was suffering from the same
drug which had placed his boy assistant beyond all power of interfering.

"Now what does all this mean?" Gurdon muttered. "Who is there on the
floor above who is interested in getting these two people out of the way?
What do they want to bring up or send down which it is not safe to
dispose of by the ordinary means? I think I'll wait and see. No sleep for
me to-night."

The lift vanished in the same silent way. It hung overhead for some
little time, and once more appeared in sight, this time absolutely empty,
save for a small square box with iron bands at the corners, which lay
upon the floor. As the cage descended, Gurdon suddenly made up his mind
what to do. He sprang lightly on to the top of the falling cage, and
grasped the rope with both hands. A moment later and he was descending in
the darkness.

As far as he could judge, the lift went down to the basement, where, for
the time being, it remained. There was a warm damp smell in the air,
suggestive of fungus, whereby Gurdon judged that he must be in the vaults
beneath the hotel. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could
make out just in front of him a circular patch of light, which evidently
was a coal shoot.

He had no need to wait now for the full development of the adventure.
He could hear whispered voices and the clang of metal, as if somebody
had opened the door of the lift. One of the voices he failed to
understand, but with a thrill he recognised the fact that the speaker
was talking in either Spanish or Portuguese. Instantly it flashed into
his mind that this was the language most familiar to the man who called
himself Mark Fenwick. Beyond doubt he was quite right when he
identified this last development with the actors in the dramatic events
earlier in the evening.

"Now don't be long about it," a hoarse voice whispered. "There are two
more cases to send up, and two more to come down here. Has that van come
along, or shall we have to wait until morning?"

"The van is there right enough," another hoarse voice said. "We have
the stuff out on the pavement. Let's have the last lot here, and get it
up at once."

Gurdon could hear the sound of labored breathing as if the unseen man was
struggling with some heavy burden. Presently some square object was
deposited on the floor of the lift. It seemed to slip from someone's
hands, and dropped with a heavy thud that caused the lift to vibrate like
a thing of life."

"Clumsy fool," a voice muttered. "You might have dropped that on my foot.
What did you want to let go for?"

"I couldn't help it," another voice grumbled. "I didn't know it was half
so heavy. Besides, the rope broke."

"Oh, are you going to be there all night?"--another voice, with a
suggestion of a foreign accent in it, asked impatiently. "Don't forget
you have to bring the man down yet, and see that the boy is taken to his
place. Now, up with it."

Standing there, holding on to the rope and quivering with excitement,
Gurdon wondered what was going to happen next. Once more he felt himself
rising, and an instant later he was in the light again. He waited till
the lift had reached his own floor; then he jumped quickly down, taking
care as he went to note the heavy box which lay on the floor of the lift.
A corner of it had been split open by the heavy jar, and some shining
material like sand lay in a little heap, glittering in the rays of the
electric light.

Gurdon stood there panting for a moment, and rather at a loss to know
what to do next. Once more the lift came down, this time with two boxes
of a smaller size. They vanished; and as the lift rose once again, Gurdon
had barely time to hide himself behind the bedroom door, and thus escape
the observation of two men who now occupied the cage. He just caught a
fleeting glimpse of them, and saw that one was an absolute stranger, but
he felt his heart beating slightly faster as he recognised in the other
the now familiar form of Mark Fenwick. The mystery was beginning to
unfold itself.

"That was a close thing," Gurdon muttered, as he wiped his hot face. "I
think I had better go back to my own room, and wait developments. One
can't be too careful."

The lift-boy was still sleeping on the bed; but his features were
twitching, as if already the drug was beginning to lose its effect. At
least, so Gurdon shrewdly thought, and subsequent events proved that he
was not far wrong. He was standing in his own room now, waiting by the
ventilator, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the
wall. Two men had entered the room, and by taking a little risk, Gurdon
could see that they were examining the unconscious boy coolly and
critically.

"I should think about five minutes more would do it," one of them said.
"Better carry him out, and shove him in that little sentry box of his.
When he comes to himself again he won't know but what he has fallen
asleep; barring a headache, the little beggar won't be any the worse for
the adventure."

"Have we got all the stuff up now?" the other man asked.

"Every bit of it," was the whispered reply. "I hope the old man is
satisfied now. It was not a bad idea of his to work this little game in a
great hotel of this kind. But, all the same, it is not without risks,
and I for one should be glad to get away to that place in the country
where we are going in a week or two."

Gurdon heard no more. He allowed the best part of half-an-hour to pass
before he ventured once more to creep through the ventilator and reach
the landing in the neighborhood of the lift. Everything looked quite
normal now, and as if nothing had happened. The lift boy sat in his
little hut, yawning and stretching himself. It was quite evident that he
knew nothing of the vile uses he had been put to. A sudden idea occurred
to Gurdon.

"I want you to bring the lift up to this floor," he said to the boy. "No,
I don't want to use it; I have lost something, and it occurs to me that I
might have left it in the lift."

In the usual unconcerned manner of his class the boy touched an electric
button, and the lift slowly rose from the basement.

"Does this go right down to the cellars?" Gurdon asked.

"It can if it's wanted to," the boy replied. "Only it very seldom does.
You see, we only use this lift for our customers. It's fitted with what
they call a pneumatic cushion--I mean, if anything goes wrong, the lift
falls into a funnel shaped well, made of concrete, which forms a cushion
of air, and so breaks the fall. They say you could cut the rope and let
it down without so much as upsetting a glass of water. Not that I should
like to try it, sir, but there you are."

Gurdon entered the lift, where he pretended to be searching for something
for a moment or two. In reality, he was scraping up some of the yellow
sand which had fallen from the box to the floor of the lift, and this he
proceeded to place in a scrap of paper. Then he decided that it was
absolutely necessary to retire to bed, though he was still in full
possession of his waking faculties. As a matter of fact, he was asleep
almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Nevertheless, he was up
early the following morning, and in Venner's bedroom long before
breakfast. He had an exciting story to tell, and he could not complain
that in Venner he had anything but an interested listener.

"We are getting on," the latter said grimly. "But before you say anything
more, I should like to have a look at that yellow sand you speak of.
Bring it over near the light."

Venner let the yellow stuff trickle through his hands; then he turned to
Gurdon with a smile.

"You look upon this as refuse, I suppose?" he said. "You seem to imagine
that it is of no great value."

"Well, is it?" Gurdon asked. "What is it?"

"Gold," Venner said curtly. "Pure virgin gold, of the very finest
quality. I never saw a better sample."




CHAPTER V

A PUZZLE FOR VENNER


Venner sat just for a moment or two with the thin stream trickling
through his fingers, and wondering what it all meant. With his superior
knowledge of past events, he could see in this something that it was
impossible for Gurdon to follow.

"I suppose this is some of the gold from the Four Finger Mine?" Gurdon
suggested. "Do you know, I have never handled any virgin gold before. I
had an idea that it was more brilliant and glittering. Is this very
good stuff?"

"Absolutely pure, I should say," Venner replied. "There are two ways of
gold mining. One is by crushing quartz in machinery, as they do in South
Africa, and the other is by obtaining the metal in what are called
pockets or placers. This is the way in which it is generally found in
Australia and Mexico. I should not be in the least surprised if this came
from the Four Finger Mine."

"There is no reason why it shouldn't," Gurdon said. "It is pretty
evident, from what you told me last night, that Mark Fenwick has
discovered the mysterious treasure house, but that does not account for
all these proceedings. Why should he have taken all the trouble he did
last night, when he might just as well have brought the stuff in, and
taken the other boxes out by the front door?"

"That is what we have to find out," Venner said. "That fellow may call
himself a millionaire, but I believe he is nothing more nor less than a
desperate adventurer."

Gurdon nodded his assent. There must have been something very urgent to
compel Mark Fenwick to adopt such methods. Why was he so strangely
anxious to conceal the knowledge that he was receiving boxes of pure gold
in the hotel, and that he was sending out something of equal value?
However carefully the thing might have been planned the drugging of lift
attendants must have been attended with considerable risk. And the
slightest accident would have brought about a revelation. As it was,
everything seemed to have passed off smoothly, except for the chance by
which Gurdon had stumbled on the mystery.

"We can't leave the thing here," the latter said. "For once in my life I
am going to turn amateur detective. I have made up my mind to get into
Fenwick's suite of rooms and see what is going on there. Of course, the
thing will take time, and will have to be carefully planned. Do you think
it is possible for us to make use of your wife in this matter?"

"I don't think so," Venner said thoughtfully.

"In the first place, I don't much like the idea; and in the second, I
am entirely at a loss to know what mysterious hold Mark Fenwick has on
Vera. As I told you last night, she left me within a very short time of
our marriage, and until a few hours ago I had never looked upon her
again. Something terrible must have happened, or she would never have
deserted me in the way she did. I don't for a moment believe that Mark
Fenwick knew anything about our marriage, but on that point I cannot be
absolutely certain. You had better come back to me later in the day, and
I will see what I can do. It is just possible that good fortune may be
on my side."

The afternoon was dragging on, and still Venner was no nearer to a
practical scheme which would enable him to make an examination of
Fenwick's rooms without the chance of discovery. He was lounging in the
hall, smoking innumerable cigarettes, when Fenwick himself came down the
stairs. Obviously the man was going on a journey, for he was closely
muffled up in a big fur coat, and behind him came a servant, carrying two
bags and a railway rug. It was a little gloomy in the lobby, so Venner
was enabled to watch what was going on without being seen himself. He did
not fail to note a certain strained anxiety that rested on Fenwick's
face. The man looked behind him once or twice, as if half afraid of being
followed. Venner had seen that same furtive air in men who are wanted by
the police. Fenwick stopped at the office and handed a couple of keys to
the clerk. His instructions were quite audible to Venner.

"I shan't want those for a day or two," he said. "You will see that no
one has them under any pretext. Probably, I shall be back by Saturday at
the latest."

Venner did not scruple to follow Fenwick's disappearing figure as far as
the street. He was anxious to obtain a clue to Fenwick's destination.
Straining his ears, he just managed to catch the words "Charing Cross,"
and then returned to the hall, by no means dissatisfied. Obviously,
Fenwick was intending to cross the Channel for a day or two, and he had
said to the clerk that he would not be back before Saturday.

Here was something like a chance at last. Very slowly and thoughtfully,
Venner went up the stairs in the direction of his own room. He had
ascertained by this time that one part of Fenwick's suite was immediately
over his own bedroom. His idea now was to walk up to the next floor, and
make a close examination of the rooms there. It did not take him long to
discover the fact that Fenwick's suite was self contained, like a flat.
That is to say, a strong outer door once locked made communication with
the suite of rooms impossible. Venner was still pondering over his
problem when the master door opened, and Vera came out so hurriedly as
almost to fall into Venner's arms. She turned pale as she saw him; and as
she closed the big door hurriedly behind her, Venner could see that she
had in her hand the tiny Yale key which gave entrance to the suite of
rooms. The girl looked distressed and embarrassed, but not much more so
than Venner, who was feeling not a little guilty.

But all this was lost upon Vera; her own agitation and her own
unhappiness seemed to have blinded her to everything else.

"What are you doing here?" she stammered.

"Perhaps I am looking for you," Venner said. He had quite recovered
himself by this time. "I was in the lobby just now, when I saw that
scoundrel, Fenwick, go out. He is not coming back for a day or two, I
understand."

"No," Vera said with accents of evident relief. "He is gone, but I don't
know where he is gone. He never tells me."

Just for a moment Venner looked somewhat sternly at his companion. Here
was an opportunity for an explanation too good to be lost.

"There is a little alcove at the end of the corridor," he said. "I see it
is full of ferns and flowers. In fact, the very place for a confidence.
Vera, whether you like it or not, I am going to have an explanation."

The girl shrank back, and every vestige of color faded from her face.
Yet at the same time, the pleading, imploring eyes which she turned upon
her companion's face were filled with the deepest affection. Badly as he
had been treated, Venner could not doubt for a moment the sincerity of
the woman who had become his wife. But he did not fail to realise that
few men would have put up with conduct like this, however much in love
they might have been. Therefore, the hand that he laid on Vera's arm was
strong and firm, and she made no resistance as he led her in the
direction of the little alcove.

"Now," he said. "Are you going to tell me why you left me so mysteriously
on our wedding day? You merely went to change your dress, and you never
returned. Am I to understand that at the very last moment you learned
something that made it absolutely necessary for us to part? Do you really
mean that?"

"Indeed, I do, Gerald," the girl said. "There was a letter waiting for me
in my bedroom. It was a short letter, but long enough to wreck my
happiness for all time."

"No, no," Venner cried; "not for all time. You asked me to trust you
absolutely and implicitly, and I have done so. I believe every word that
you say, and I am prepared to wait patiently enough till the good time
comes. But I am not going to sit down quietly like this and see a pure
life like yours wrecked for the sake of such a scoundrel as Fenwick.
Surely it is not for his sake that you--"

"Oh, no," the girl cried. "My sacrifice is not for his sake at all, but
for that of another whose life is bound up with his in the strangest
possible way. When you first met me, Gerald, and asked me to be your
wife, you did not display the faintest curiosity as to my past history.
Why was that?"

"Why should I?" Venner demanded. "I am my own master, I have more money
than I know what to do with and I have practically no relations to
consider. You were all-sufficient for me; I loved you for your own sake
alone; I cared nothing, and I care nothing still for your past. What I
want to know is, how long this is going on?"

"That I cannot tell you," Vera said sadly. "You must go on trusting me,
dear. You must--"

The speaker broke off suddenly, as someone in the corridor called her
name. She slipped away from Venner's side, and, looking through the palms
and flowers, he could see that she was talking eagerly to a woman who had
the appearance of a lady's maid. Venner could not fail to note the calm
strength of the woman's face. It was only for a moment; then Vera came
back with a telegram in her hand.

"I must go at once," she said. "It is something of great importance. I
don't know when I shall see you again--"

"I do," Venner said grimly. "You are going to dine with me to-night.
Come just for once; let us imagine we are on our honeymoon. That
blackguard Fenwick is away, and he will be none the wiser. Now, I want
you to promise me."

"I really can't," Vera protested. "If you only knew the danger--"

However, Venner's persistency got its own way. A moment later Vera was
hurrying down the corridor. It was not until she was out of sight that
Venner found that she had gone away, leaving the little Yale key behind
her on the table. He thrilled at the sight of it. Here was the
opportunity for which he had been waiting.

Not more than ten minutes had elapsed when, thanks to the use of the
telephone, Gurdon had reached the Grand Empire Hotel. In a few hurried
words, Venner gave him a brief outline of what had happened. There was no
time to lose.

"Of course, it is a risk," Venner said, "and I am not altogether sure
that I am justified in taking advantage of this little slip on the part
of my wife. What do you think?"

"I think you are talking a lot of rot," Gurdon said emphatically. "You
love the girl, you believe implicitly in her, and you are desperately
anxious to get her out of the hands of that blackguard, Fenwick. From
some morbid idea of self sacrifice, your wife continues to lead this life
of misery rather than betray what she would probably call a trust. It
seems to me that you would be more than foolish to hesitate longer."

"Come along, then," Venner said. "Let's see what we can do."

The key was in the lock at length, and the big door thrown open,
disclosing a luxurious suite of rooms beyond. So far as the explorers
could see at present, they had the place entirely to themselves. No
doubt Fenwick's servants had taken advantage of his absence to make a
holiday. For the most part, the rooms presented nothing out of the
common; they might have been inhabited by anybody possessing large
means. In one of the rooms stood a desk, carefully locked, and by its
side a fireproof safe.

"No chance of getting into either of those," Gurdon said. "Besides, the
attempt would be too risky. Don't you notice a peculiar noise going on?
Sounds almost like machinery."

Surely enough, from a distant apartment there came a peculiar click and
rumble, followed by a whirr of wheels, as if someone was running out a
small motor close by. At the same time, the two friends noticed the
unmistakable odor of petrol on the atmosphere.

"What the dickens can that be?" Gurdon said. "Its most assuredly in the
flat, and not far off, either."

"The only way to find out is to go and see," Venner replied. "I fancy
this is the way."

They came at length to a small room at the end of a long corridor. It
was evidently from this room that the sound of machinery came, for the
nearer they came the louder it grew. The door was slightly ajar, and
looking in, the friends could see two men, evidently engaged on some
mechanical task. There was a fire of charcoal in the grate, and attached
to it a pair of small but powerful bellows, driven by a small motor. In
the heart of the fire was a metal crucible, so white and dazzling hot
that it was almost impossible for the eye to look upon it. Venner did not
fail to notice that the men engaged in this mysterious occupation were
masked; at least, they wore exceedingly large smoked spectacles, which
came to much the same thing. Behind them stood another man, who had every
appearance of being a master workman. He had a short pipe in his mouth, a
pair of slippers on his feet, and his somewhat expansive body was swathed
in a frock coat. Presently he made a sign, and with the aid of a long
pair of tongs, the white hot crucible was lifted from the fire. It was
impossible for the two men outside to see what became of it, but
evidently the foreman was satisfied with the experiment, for he gave a
grunt of approval.

"I think that will do," he muttered. "The impression is excellent.
Now, you fellows can take a rest whilst I go off and finish the other
lot of stuff."

"He's coming out," Venner whispered. "Let us make a bolt for it. It
won't do to be caught here."

They darted down the corridor together, and stood in an angle of a
doorway, a little undecided as to what to do next. The man in the frock
coat passed them, carrying under one arm a square case, that bore some
resemblance to the slide in which photographers slip their negatives
after taking a photograph. The man in the frock coat placed his burden on
a chair, and then, apparently, hurried back for something he had
forgotten.

"Here is our chance," Gurdon whispered. "Let's see what is in that case.
There may be an important clue here."

The thing was done rapidly and neatly. Inside the case, between layers of
cotton wool, lay a great number of gold coins, obviously sovereigns. They
appeared to be in a fine state of preservation, for they glistened in the
light like new gold.

"Put one in your pocket," whispered Venner.

"I'm afraid we are going to have our journey for our pains; but still,
you can't tell. Better take two while you are about it."

Gurdon slipped the coins into his pocket, then turned away in the
direction of the door as the man in the frock coat came back,
thoughtfully whistling, as if to give the intruders a chance of escape.
Before he appeared in sight the outer door closed softly, and Venner and
Gurdon were in the corridor once more.




CHAPTER VI

A PARTIAL FAILURE


"Do you notice anything peculiar about these coins?" Venner said, when
once more they were back in the comparative seclusion of the
smoking-room. "Have a good look at them."

Gurdon complied; he turned the coins over in his hand and weighed them on
his fingers. So far as he could see they were good, honest, British
coins, each well worth the twenty shillings which they were supposed to
represent.

"I don't see anything peculiar about them at all," he said. "So far as I
can judge, they appear to be genuine enough. At first I began to think
that our friend Fenwick had turned coiner. Look at this."

As he spoke Gurdon dashed the coin down upon a marble table. It rang true
and clear.

"I'd give a pound for it," he said. "The weight in itself is a good test.
No coiner yet has ever discovered a metal that will weigh like gold and
ring as true. The only strange thing about the coin is that it is in such
a wonderful state of preservation. It might have come out of the Mint
yesterday. I am afraid we shall have to abandon the idea of laying
Fenwick by the heels on the charge of making counterfeit money. I'll
swear this is genuine."

"I am of the same opinion, too," Venner said. "I have handled too much
gold in my time to be easily deceived. Still, there is something wrong
here, and I'll tell you why. Look at those two coins again, and tell me
the dates on them."

"That is very easily done. One is dated 1901 and the other is dated 1899.
I don't see that you gain anything by pointing out that fact to me. I
don't see what you are driving at."

"Well the thing is pretty clear. It would be less clear if those coins
had been worn by use and circulation. But they are both of them Mint
perfect, and they are of different dates. Do you suppose that our friend
Fenwick makes a hobby of collecting English sovereigns? Besides, the man
in the frock coat was going to do something with these coins; and, of
course, you noticed how carefully they were wrapped up in cotton wool."

"I should like to make assurance doubly sure," Gurdon said. "Let's
take these two coins to some silversmith's shop and ask if they are
all right."

It was no far journey to the nearest silversmiths, where the coins were
cut up, tested, and weighed. The assistant smiled as he handed the pieces
back to Venner.

"We will give you eighteen and sixpence each for them, sir," he said,
"which is about the intrinsic value of a sovereign; and, as you are
probably aware, sir, English gold coinage contains a certain amount of
alloy, without which it would speedily deteriorate in circulation, just
as the old guinea used to; but there is no doubt that I have just lost
you three shillings by cutting up those coins."

Venner smiled as he left the shop. As a matter of fact, he was a little
more puzzled now than he had been before. He had expected to find
something wrong with the two coins.

"We must suspend judgment for the present," he said. "Still, I feel
absolutely certain that there is some trick here, though what the
scheme is I am utterly at a loss to know. Will you come in this evening
after dinner and take your coffee and cigar with me? My wife is dining
with me, but it was an express stipulation that she should go directly
dinner is over."

At a little after seven Venner was impatiently waiting the coming of
Vera. He was not altogether sorry to notice that the dining-room was
filling up more rapidly than it had done for some days past. Perhaps, on
the whole, there would be safety in numbers. Venner had secured a little
table for two on the far side of the room, and he stood in the doorway
now, waiting somewhat restlessly and impatiently for Vera to appear. He
was not a little anxious and nervous in case something should happen at
the last moment to prevent his wife's appearance. As a rule, Venner was
not a man who was troubled much with nerves, though he became conscious
of the fact that he possessed them to-night.

Was ever a man so strangely placed as himself, he wondered? He marvelled,
too, that he could sit down so patiently without asserting his rights. He
was the possessor of ample means, and if money stood in the way he was
quite prepared to pay Fenwick his price.

On these somewhat painful meditations Vera intruded. She was simply
dressed in white, and had no ornaments beyond a few flowers. Her face was
flushed now, and there was in her eyes a look of something that
approached happiness.

"I am so glad you have come, dear," Venner said, as he pressed the girl's
hand. "I was terribly afraid that something might come in the way. If
there is any danger--"

"I don't think there is any danger," Vera whispered, "though there are
other eyes on me besides those of Mark Fenwick. But, all the same, I am
not supposed to know anybody in the hotel, and I come down to dinner as a
matter of course, I am glad the place is so crowded, Gerald, it will make
us less conspicuous. But it is just possible that I may have to go before
dinner is over. If that is so, I hope you will not be annoyed with me."

"You have given me cause for greater annoyance than that," Venner smiled.
"And I have borne it all uncomplainingly. And now let us forget the
unhappy past, and try and live for the present. We are on our honeymoon,
you understand. I wonder what people in this room would say if they heard
our amazing story."

"I have no doubt there are other stories just as sad here," Vera said, as
she took her place at the table. "But I am not going to allow myself to
be miserable to-night. We are going to forget everything; we are going to
believe that this is Fairyland, and that you are the Prince who--"

Despite her assumed gaiety there was just a little catch in Vera's voice.
If Venner noticed it he did not appear to do so. For the next hour or so
he meant resolutely to put the past out of his mind, and give himself
over to the ecstasy of the moment.... All too soon the dinner came to an
end, and Gurdon appeared.

"This is my wife," Venner said simply. "Dear, Mr. Gurdon is a very old
friend of mine, and I have practically no secrets from him. All the same,
he did not know till last night that I was married--until you came into
the room and my feelings got the better of me. But we can trust Gurdon."

"I think I am to be relied upon," Gurdon said with a smile. "You will
pardon me if I say that I never heard a stranger story than yours; and if
at any time I can be of assistance to you, I shall be sincerely happy to
do all that is in my power."

"You are very good," Vera said gratefully. "Who knows how soon I may
call upon you to fulfil your promise? But I am afraid that it will not be
quite yet."

They sat chatting there for some half an hour longer, when a waiter came
in, and advancing to their table proffered Vera a visiting card, on the
back of which a few words had been scribbled. The girl looked a little
anxious and distressed as her eyes ran over the writing on the card. Then
she rose hurriedly.

"I am afraid I shall have to go," she said. "I have been anticipating
this for some little time."

She turned to the waiter, and asked if her maid was outside, to which the
man responded that it was the maid who had brought the card, and that she
was waiting with her wraps in the corridor. Vera extended her hand to
Gurdon as she rose to go.

"I am exceedingly sorry," she said. "This has been a pleasant evening for
me: perhaps the most pleasant evening with one exception that I ever
spent in my life. Gerald will know what evening I mean."

As she finished she smiled tenderly at Venner. He had no words in reply.
Just at that moment he was filled with passionate and rebellious anger.
He dared not trust himself to speak, conscious as he was that Vera's
burden was already almost more than she could bear. She held out her hand
to him with an imploring little gesture, as if she understood exactly
what was passing in his mind.

"You will forgive me," she whispered. "I am sure you will forgive me. It
is nothing but duty which compels me to go. I would far rather stay here
and be happy."

Venner took the extended hand and pressed it tenderly. His yearning eyes
looked after the retreating figure; then, suddenly, he turned to Gurdon,
who affected to be busy over a cigar.

"I want you to do something for me," he said. "It is a strange fancy,
but I should like you to follow her. I suppose I am beginning to get
old and nervous; at any rate, I am full of silly fancies tonight. I am
possessed with the idea that my unhappy little girl is thrusting
herself into some danger. You can quite see how impossible it is for me
to dog her footsteps, but your case is different. Of course, if you
like to refuse--"

"I am not going to refuse," Gurdon said. "I can see nothing dishonorable.
I'll go at once, if you like."

Venner nodded curtly, and Gurdon rose from the table. He passed out into
the street just as the slim figure of Vera was descending the steps of
the hotel. He had no difficulty in recognising her outline, though she
was clad from head to foot now in a long, black wrap, and her fair hair
was disguised under a hood of the same material. Rather to Gurdon's
surprise, the girl had not called a cab. She was walking down the street
with a firm, determined step, as of one who knew exactly where she was
going, and meant to get there in as short a time as possible.

Gurdon followed cautiously at a distance. He was not altogether satisfied
in his own mind that his action was quite as straightforward as it might
have been. Still, he had given his promise, and he was not inclined to
back out of it now. For about a quarter of an hour he followed, until
Vera at length halted before a house somewhere in the neighborhood of
Grosvenor Square. It was a fine, large corner mansion, but so far as
Gurdon could see there was not a light in the place from parapet to
basement. He could see Vera going up the steps; he was close enough to
hear the sound of an electric bell; then a light blazed in the hall, and
the door was opened. So far as Gurdon could see, it was an old man who
opened the door; an old man with a long, grey beard, and a face lined and
scored with the ravages of time. All this happened in an instant. The
door was closed again, and the whole house left in darkness.

Gurdon paused, a little uncertain as to what to do next. He would have
liked, if possible, to be a little closer to Vera, for if there were any
dangers threatening her he would be just as powerless to help now as if
he had been in another part of the town. He walked slowly down the side
of the house, and noted that there was a line garden behind, and a small
green door leading to the lane. Acting on the impulse of the moment he
tried the door, which yielded to his touch. If he had been asked why he
did this thing he would have found it exceedingly difficult to reply.
Still, the thing was done, and Gurdon walked forward over the wide
expanse of lawn till he could make out at length a row of windows,
looking out from the back of the house. It was not so very easy to
discern all this, for the night was dark, and the back of the house
darker still. Presently a light flared out in one of the rooms, and then
Gurdon could make out the dome of a large conservatory leading from the
garden to the house.

"I shall find myself in the hands of the police, if I don't take care,"
Gurdon said to himself. "What an ass I am to embark on an adventure like
this. It isn't as if I had the slightest chance of being of any use to
the girl, seeing that I--"

He broke off, suddenly conscious of the fact that another of the rooms
was lighted now--a large one, by the side of the conservatory. In the
silence of the garden it seemed to him that he could hear voices raised
angrily, and then a cry, as if of pain, from somebody inside.

Fairly interested at last, Gurdon advanced till he was close to the
window. He could hear no more now, for the same tense silence had
fallen over the place once more. Gurdon pressed close to the window; he
felt something yield beneath his feet, and the next moment he had
plunged headlong into the darkness of something that suggested an
underground cellar. Perhaps he had been standing unconsciously on a
grating that was none too safe, for now he felt himself bruised and half
stunned, lying on his back on a cold, hard floor, amid a mass of broken
glass and rusty ironwork.

Startled and surprised as he was, the noise of the breaking glass sounded
in Gurdon's ears like the din of some earthquake. He struggled to his
feet, hoping that the gods would be kind to him, and that he could get
away before his presence there was discovered. He was still dazed and
confused; his head ached painfully, and he groped in the pitch darkness
without any prospect of escape. He could nowhere find an avenue. So far
as he could judge, he was absolutely caught like a rat in a trap.

He half smiled to himself; he was still too dazed to grasp the
significance of his position, when a light suddenly appeared overhead, at
the top of a flight of stairs, and a hoarse voice demanded to know who
was there. In the same dreamy kind of way, Gurdon was just conscious of
the fact that a strong pair of arms lifted him from the floor, and that
he was being carried up the steps. In the same dreamy fashion, he was
cognisant of light and warmth, a luxurious atmosphere, and rows upon
rows of beautiful flowers everywhere. He would, no doubt, awake
presently, and find that the whole thing was a dream. Meanwhile, there
was nothing visionary about the glass of brandy which somebody had put to
his lips, or about the hands which were brushing him down and removing
all traces of his recent adventure.

"When you feel quite up to it, sir," a quiet, respectful voice said, "my
master would like to see you. He is naturally curious enough to know what
you were doing in the garden."

"I am afraid your master must have his own way," Gurdon said grimly. "I
am feeling pretty well now, thanks to the brandy. If you will take me to
your master, I will try to explain matters."

The servant led the way into a large, handsome apartment, where a man in
evening dress was seated in a big armchair before the fire. He looked
round with a peculiar smile as Gurdon came in.

"Well, sir," he said. "And what does this mean?"

Gurdon had no voice to reply, for the man in the armchair was the
handsome cripple--the hero of the forefinger.




CHAPTER VII

THE WHITE LADY


Gurdon looked hopelessly about him, utterly at a loss for anything to
say. The whole thing had been so unexpected, so very opposite to the
commonplace ending he had anticipated, that he was too dazed and
confused to do anything but smile in an inane and foolish manner. He had
rather looked forward to seeing some eccentric individual, some elderly
recluse who lived there with a servant or two. And here he was, face to
face with the man who, at the present moment, was to him the most
interesting in London.

"You can take your time," the cripple said. "I am anxious for you to
believe that I am not in the least hurry. The point of the problem is
this: a well dressed man, evidently a gentleman, is discovered at a late
hour in the evening in my cellar. As the gentleman in question is
obviously sober, one naturally feels a little curiosity as to what it
all means."

The speaker spoke quite slowly and clearly, and with a sarcastic emphasis
that caused Gurdon to writhe impotently. Every word and gesture on the
part of the cripple spoke of a strong mind and a clear intellect in that
twisted body. Despite the playful acidity of his words, there was a
distinct threat underlying them. It occurred to Gurdon as he stood there
that he would much rather have this man for a friend than a foe.

"Perhaps you had better take a seat," the cripple said. "There is plenty
of time, and I don't mind confessing to you that this little comedy
amuses me. Heaven knows, I have little enough amusement in my dreary
life; and, therefore, in a measure, you have earned my gratitude. But
there is another side to the picture. I have enemies who are utterly
unscrupulous. I have to be unscrupulous in my turn, so that when I have
the opportunity of laying one of them by the heels, my methods are apt to
be thorough. Did you come here alone to-night, or have you an
accomplice?"

"Assuredly, I came alone," Gurdon replied.

"Oh, indeed. You found your way into the garden. To argue out the thing
logically, we will take it for granted that you had no intention whatever
of paying a visit to my garden when you left home. If such had been your
intention, you would not be wearing evening dress, and thin, patent
leather shoes. Your visit to the garden was either a resolution taken on
the spur of the moment, or was determined upon after a certain discovery.
I am glad to hear that you came here entirely by yourself."

There was an unmistakable threat in these latter words; and as Gurdon
looked up he saw that the cripple was regarding him with an intense
malignity. The grey eyes were cold and merciless, the handsome face hard
and set, and yet it was not a countenance which one usually associates
with the madman or the criminal. Really, it was a very noble face--the
face of a philanthropist, a poet, a great statesman, who devotes his
money and his talents to the interests of his country. Despite a feeling
of danger, Gurdon could not help making a mental note of these things.

"Won't you sit down?" the cripple asked again. "I should like to have a
little chat with you. Here are whisky and soda, and some cigars, for the
excellence of which I can vouch, as I import them myself. Perhaps, also,
you share with me a love of flowers?"

With a wave of his strong arm, the speaker indicated the wealth of
blossoms which arose from all sides of the room. There were flowers
everywhere. The luxuriant blooms seemed to overpower and dwarf the
handsome furnishings of the room. At the far end, folding doors
opened into the conservatory, which was a veritable mass of brilliant
colors. The cripple smiled upon his blossoms, as a mother might smile
on her child.

"These are the only friends who never deceive you," he said. "Flowers and
dogs, and, perhaps, little children. I know this, because I have
suffered from contact with the world, as, perhaps, you will notice when
you regard this poor body of mine. I think you said just now you came
here entirely by yourself."

"That is a fact," Gurdon replied. He was beginning to feel a little more
at his ease now. "Let me hasten to assure you that I came here with no
felonious intent at all. I was looking for somebody, and I thought that
my friend came here. You will pardon me if I do not explain with any
amount of detail, because the thing does not concern myself altogether.
And, besides--"

Gurdon paused; he could not possibly tell this stranger of the startling
events which had led to his present awkward situation. In any case, he
would not have been believed.

"We need not go into that," the cripple said. "It is all by the way. You
came here alone; and, I take it, when you left your home, you had not the
slightest intention of coming here. To make my meaning a little more
clear, if you disappeared from this moment, and your friends never saw
you again, the police would not have the slightest clue to your
whereabouts."

Gurdon laughed just a little uneasily; he began to entertain the idea
that he was face to face with some dangerous lunatic, some man whose
dreadful troubles and misfortunes had turned him against the world.
Evidently, it would be the right policy to humor him.

"That is quite correct," he said. "Nobody has the least idea where I am;
and if the unpleasant contingency you allude to happened to me, I should
go down to posterity as one of the victims of the mysterious type of
crime that startles London now and again."

"I should think," said the stranger, in a thin, dry tone, that caused
Gurdon's pulses to beat a little faster--"I should think that your
prophecy is in a fair way to turn out correct. I don't ask you why you
came here, because you would not tell me if I did. But you must have been
spying on the place, or you would not have had the misfortune to tread on
a damaged grating, and finish your adventure ignominiously in the cellar.
As I told you just now, I have enemies who are absolutely unscrupulous,
and who would give much for a chance of murdering me if the thing could
be done with impunity. Common sense prompts me to take it for granted
that you are in some wry connected with the foes to whom I have alluded."

"I assure you, I am not," Gurdon protested. "I am the enemy of no man. I
came here to night--"

Gurdon stopped in some confusion. How could he possibly tell this man why
he had come and what he had in his mind? The thing was awkward--almost to
the verge of absurdity.

"I quite see the quandary you are in," said the cripple, with a smile.
"Now, let me ask you a question. Do you happen to know a man by the name
of Mark Fenwick?"

The query was so straight and to the point that Gurdon fairly started.
More and more did he begin to appreciate the subtlety and cleverness of
his companion. It was impossible to fence the interrogation; it had to be
answered, one way or the other.

"I know the man by sight," he said; "but I beg to assure you that until
last night I had never seen him."

"That may be," the cripple said drily. "But you know him now, and that
satisfies me. Now, listen. You see what I have in my hand. Perhaps you
are acquainted with weapons of this kind?"

So saying, the speaker wriggled in his chair, and produced from somewhere
behind him a small revolver. Despite its silver plated barrel and ivory
handle, it was a sinister looking weapon, and capable of deadly mischief
in the hands of an expert. Though no judge of such matters, it occurred
to Gurdon that his companion handled the revolver as an expert should.

"I have been used to this kind of thing from a boy," the cripple said. "I
could shoot you where you sit within a hair's breadth of where I wanted
to hit you."

"Which would be murder," Gurdon said quietly.

"Perhaps it would, in the eyes of the law; but there are times when one
is tempted to defy the mandates of a wise legislature. For instance, I
have told you more than once before that I have enemies, and everything
points to the fact that you are the tool and accomplice of some of them.
I have about me one or two faithful people, who would do anything I ask.
If I shoot you now the report of a weapon like this will hardly be
audible beyond the door. You lie there, dead, shot clean through the
brain. I ring my bell and tell my servants to clear this mess away. I
give them orders to go and bury it quietly somewhere, and they would obey
me without the slightest hesitation. Nothing more would be said. I should
be as safe from molestation as if the whole thing had happened on a
desert island. I hope I have succeeded in making the position clear,
because I should be loth to think that a little incident like this should
cause inconvenience to one who might after all have been absolutely
innocent."

The words were spoken quietly, and without the slightest trace of
passion. Still, there was no mistaking the malignity and intense fury
which underlay the well chosen and well balanced sentences.

Gurdon was silent; there was nothing for him to say. He was in a position
in which he could not possibly explain; he could only sit there, looking
into the barrel of the deadly weapon, and praying for some diversion
which might be the means of saving his life. It came presently in a
strange and totally unexpected fashion. Upon the tense, nerve-breaking
silence, a voice suddenly intruded like a flash of light in a dark place.
It was a sweet and girlish voice, singing some simple ballad, with a
natural pathos which rendered the song singularly touching and
attractive. As the voice came nearer the cripple's expression changed
entirely; his hard eyes grew soft, and the handsome features were
wreathed in a smile. Then the door opened, and the singer came in.

Gurdon looked at her, though she seemed unconscious of his presence
altogether. He saw a slight, fair girl, dressed entirely in white, with
her long hair streaming over her shoulders. The face was very sad and
wistful, the blue eyes clouded with some suggestion of trouble and
despair. Gurdon did not need a second glance to assure him that he was in
the presence of one who was mentally afflicted. She came forward and took
her place by the side of the cripple.

"They told me that you are busy," she said, "Just as if it mattered
whether you were busy or not, when I wanted to see you."

"You must go away now, Beth," the cripple said, in his softest and most
tender manner. "Don't you see that I am talking with this gentleman?"

The girl turned eagerly to Gurdon; she crossed the room with a swift,
elastic step, and laid her two hands on him.

"I know what you have come for," she said, eagerly. "You have come to
tell me all about Charles. You have found him at last; you are going to
bring him back to me. They told me he was dead, that he had perished in
the mine; but I knew better than that. I know that Charles will come back
to me again."

"What mine?" Gurdon asked.

"Why, the Four Finger Mine, of course," was the totally unexpected
reply. "They said that Charles had lost his life in the Four Finger
Mine. It was in a kind of dream that I saw his body lying there,
murdered. But I shall wake from the dream presently, and he will come
back to me, come back in the evening, as he always used to when the sun
was setting beyond the pines."

There was something so utterly sad and hopeless in this that Gurdon
averted his eyes from the girl's face. He glanced in the direction of the
door; then it required all his self control to repress a cry, for in the
comparative gloom of the passage beyond, he could just make out the
figure of Vera, who stood there with her finger on her lip as if imposing
silence. He could see that in her hand she held something that looked
like a chisel. A moment later she flitted away once more, leaving Gurdon
to puzzle his brain as to what it all meant.

"I am sorry for all this," the cripple said. "You have entirely by
accident come face to face with a phase in my life which is sacred and
inviolate. Really, if I had no other reason for reducing you to silence,
this would be a sufficiently powerful inducement. My dear Beth, I really
must ask you--"

Whatever the cripple might have intended to say, the speech was never
finished; for, at that moment, the electric lights vanished suddenly,
plunging the whole house into absolute darkness. A moment later,
footsteps came hurrying along in the hall, and a voice was heard to say
that the fuse from the meter had gone, and it would be impossible to turn
on the light again until the officials had been called in to repair the
damage. At the same moment, Gurdon rose to his feet and crept quietly in
the direction of the door. Here, at any rate, was a chance of escape, for
that his life was in dire peril he had felt for some little time. He had
hardly reached the doorway when he felt a slim hand touch his, and he was
guided from the room into the passage beyond. He could give a pretty fair
idea as to the owner of the slim fingers that trembled in his own, but he
made no remark; he allowed himself to be led on till his feet stumbled
against the stairs.

"This way," a voice whispered. "Say nothing, and make no protest. You
will be quite safe from further harm."

Gurdon did exactly as he was told. He found himself presently at the top
of a staircase, and a little later on in a room, the door of which was
closed very quietly by his guide.

"I think I can guess who I have to thank for this," Gurdon murmured. "But
why did you not take me to the front door, or the back entrance leading
to the garden? It was lucky for me that the lights failed at the critical
moment--a piece of nominal good fortune, such as usually only happens in
a story. But I should feel a great deal safer if I were on the other side
of the front door."

"That is quite impossible," Vera said, for it was she who had come to
Gurdon's rescue. "Both doors are locked, and all the rooms on the
ground floor are furnished with shutters. As to the light going out, I
am responsible for it. I learned all about the electric light when I
lived in a mining camp in Mexico. I had only to remove one of the lamps
and apply my chisel to the two poles, and thereby put out every fuse in
the house. That is why the light failed, for it occurred to me that in
the confusion that followed the darkness, I should be in a position to
save you. But you little realise how near you have been to death
to-night. And, why, oh, why did you follow me in this way? It was very
wrong of you."

"It was Venner's idea," Gurdon said. "He had a strange fear that you were
going into some danger. He asked me to follow you, and I did so. As to
the manner of my getting here--"

"I know all about that," Vera said hurriedly. "I have been listening to
your conversation. I dare say you are curious to know something more
about this strange household; but, for the present, you will be far
better employed in getting away from it. I shall not be easy in my mind
till you are once more in the street."




CHAPTER VIII

MISSING


Gurdon waited to hear what his companion was going to say now. He had
made up his mind to place himself implicitly in her hands, and let her
decide for the best. Evidently, he had found himself in a kind of lunatic
asylum, where one inhabitant at least had developed a dangerous form of
homicidal mania, and he had a pretty sure conclusion that Vera had saved
his life. It was no time now to ask questions; that would come later on.

"I am sure I am awfully grateful to you," Gurdon said. "Who are these
people, and why do they behave in this insane fashion? This is not
exactly the kind of menage one expects to find in one of the best
appointed mansions in the West End."

"I can tell you nothing about it," Vera said. There was a marked coldness
in her voice that told Gurdon he was going too far. "I can tell you
nothing. One thing you may rest assured of--I am in no kind of danger,
nor am I likely to be. My concern chiefly at the present moment is with
you. I want you to get back as soon as you can to the Great Empire Hotel,
and ease Gerald's mind as to myself."

"I hardly like to go, without you," Gurdon murmured.

"But you must," Vera protested. "Let me assure you once more that I am as
absolutely safe here as if I were in my own room. Now, come this way. I
dare not strike a light. I can only take you by the hand and lead you to
the top of the house. Every inch of the place is perfectly familiar to
me, and you are not likely to come to the least harm. Please don't waste
a moment more of your time."

Gurdon yielded against his better judgment. A moment or two later, he
found himself climbing through a skylight on to the flat leads at the
top of the house. By the light of the town he could now see what he
was doing, and pretty well where he was. From the leads he could look
down into the garden, though, as yet, he could not discern any avenue
of escape.

"The thing is quite easy," Vera explained. "The late occupant of the
house had a nervous dread of fire, and from every floor he had a series
of rope ladders arranged. See, there is one fixed to this chimney. I have
only to throw it over, and you can reach the garden without delay; then I
will pull the ladder up again and no one will be any the wiser. Please,
leave me without any further delay, in the absolute assurance that I
shall be back again within an hour."

A few minutes later Gurdon was in the street again, making his way back
to the hotel where Venner was waiting for him.

It was a strange story that he had to tell; a very thrilling and
interesting adventure, but one which, after all, still further
complicated the mystery and rendered it almost unintelligible.

"And you mean to say that you have been actually face to face with our
cripple friend?" Venner said. "You mean to say that he would actually
have murdered you if Vera had not interfered in that providential manner?
I suppose I must accept your assurance that she is absolutely safe,
though I can't help feeling that she has exaggerated her own position. I
am terribly anxious about her. I have an idea which I should like to
carry out. I feel tolerably sure that this picturesque cripple of ours
could tell us everything that we want to know. Besides, unless I do
something I shall go mad. What do you say to paying the interesting
cripple a visit to-morrow night, and forcing him to tell us everything?"

Gurdon shook his head; he was not particularly impressed with the
suggestion that Venner had made.

"Of course, we could get into the house easily enough," he said. "Now
that I have learned the secret of the cellar, there will be no
difficulty about that. Still, don't you think it seems rather ridiculous
to try this sort of thing when your wife is in a position to tell you
the whole thing?"

"But she would decline to do anything of the kind," Venner protested.
"She has told me that her lips are sealed; she has even no explanation to
offer for the way in which she left me within half-an-hour of our
becoming man and wife. I should almost be justified in forcing her to
speak; but, you see, I cannot do that. Therefore, I must treat her in a
way as if she were one of our enemies. I have a very strong fancy for
paying a visit to our cripple friend, and, if the worst came to the
worst, we could convince him that we are emphatically not on the side of
Mark Fenwick. At any rate, I mean to have a try, and if you don't like to
come in--"

"Oh, I'll come in fast enough," Gurdon said. "You had better meet me
to-morrow night at my rooms, say, about eleven; then, we will see what we
can do with a view to a solution of the mystery."

At the appointed time, Venner duly put in an appearance. He was clothed
in a dark suit and cap, Gurdon donning a similar costume. Under his arm
Venner had a small brown paper parcel.

"What have you got there?" Gurdon asked.

"A pair of tennis shoes," was the response. "And if you take my advice,
you should have a pair, too. My idea is to take off our boots directly we
get into the seclusion of the garden and change into these shoes. Now
come along, let's get it over."

It was an easy matter to reach the garden without being observed, and in
a very short time the two friends were standing close to the windows of
the large room at the back of the house. There was not so much as a
glimmer of light to be seen anywhere within. Very cautiously they felt
their way along until they came at length to the grating through which
Gurdon had made so dramatic an entrance on the night before. He took
from his pocket a box of vestas, and ventured to strike one. He held it
down close to the ground, shading the tiny point of flame in the hollow
of his hand.

"Here is a bit of luck to begin with," he chuckled. "They haven't
fastened this grating up again. I suppose my escape last night must have
upset them. At any rate, here is a way into the house without running the
risk of being arrested on a charge of burglary, and if the police did
catch us we should find it an exceedingly awkward matter to frame an
excuse carefully, to satisfy a magistrate."

"That seems all right," Venner said. "When we get into the cellar it's
any odds that we find the door of the stairs locked. I don't suppose the
grating has been forgotten. You see, it is not such an easy matter to get
the British workman to do a job on the spur of the moment."

"Well, come along; we will soon ascertain that," Gurdon said. "Once down
these steps, we shall be able to use our matches."

They crept cautiously down the stairs into the damp and moldy cellar;
thence, up the steps on the other side, where Gurdon lighted one of his
matches. The door was closed, but it yielded quite easily to the touch,
and at length the two men were in the part of the house which was given
over to the use of the servants. So far as they could judge the place was
absolutely deserted. Doubtless the domestic staff had retired to bed. All
the same, it seemed strange to find no signs of life in the kitchen. The
stove was cold, and though the grate was full of cinders, it was quite
apparent that no fire had been lighted there for the past four and twenty
hours. Again, there was no furniture in the kitchen other than a large
table and a couple of chairs. The dressers were empty, and the shelves
deprived of their usual burden.

"This is odd," Venner murmured. "Perhaps we shall have better luck on the
dining-room floor. I suppose we had better not turn on the lights!"

"That would be too risky," Gurdon said. "However, I have plenty of
matches, which will serve our purpose equally well."

On cautiously reaching the hall a further surprise awaited the intruders.
There was absolutely nothing there--not so much as an umbrella stand. The
marble floor was swept bare of everything, the big dining-room which the
night before had been most luxuriously furnished, was now stripped and
empty; not so much as a flower remained; and the conservatory beyond
showed nothing but wooden staging and glittering glass behind that. A
close examination of the whole house disclosed the fact that it was
absolutely empty.

"If I did not know you as well as I do," Venner said grimly, "I should
say that you had been drinking. Do you mean to tell me that you sat in
this dining-room last night, and that it was furnished in the luxurious
way you described? Do you mean to tell me that you sat here, opposite
our cripple friend, waiting for him to shoot you? Are you perfectly
certain that we have made our way into the right house? You have no
doubt on that score?"

"Of course, I haven't," Gurdon said, a little hotly. "Would there be two
houses close together, both of them with a broken grating over the
cellar? I tell you this is the same house right enough. It was just in
this particular spot I was seated when the lights went out, and your
wife's fertility of resource saved my life. It may be possible that the
electric fuses have not yet been repaired. At any rate, I'll see."

Gurdon laid his hand upon the switch and snapped it down. No light came;
the solitary illuminating point in the room was afforded by the match
which Venner held in his hand.

"There," Gurdon said, with a sort of gloomy triumph. "Doesn't that
prove it? I suppose that our cripple took alarm and has cleared out of
the house."

"That's all very well, but it is almost impossible to remove the
furniture of a great place like this in the course of a day."

"My dear chap, I don't think it has been removed in the course of a
day. Didn't you notice just now what a tremendous lot of dust we
stirred up as we were going over the house? My theory is this--only
three or four of the rooms were furnished, and the rest of the house
was closed. When I made my escape last night, the cripple must have
taken alarm and gone away from here as speedily as possible. What
renders the whole thing more inexplicable is the fact that your wife
could explain everything if she pleased. But after a check-mate like
this, I don't see the slightest reason for staying here any longer. The
best thing we can do is to get back to my rooms and discuss the matter
over a whiskey and soda and cigar. But, talking about cigars, will you
have the goodness to look at this?"

From the empty grate Gurdon picked up a half smoked cigar of a somewhat
peculiar make and shape.

"I want you to notice this little bit of evidence," he said. "This is the
very cigar that the cripple gave me last night. I can't say that I
altogether enjoyed smoking it, but it was my tip to humor him. I smoked
that much. When the white lady came in I naturally threw the end of the
cigar into the fireplace. In the face of this, I don't think you will
accuse me of dreaming."

More than one cigar was consumed before Venner left his friend's rooms,
but even the inspiration of tobacco failed to elucidate a solitary point
at issue. What had become of the cripple, and where had he vanished so
mysteriously? Gurdon was still debating this point over a late breakfast
the following morning, when Venner came in. His face was flushed and his
manner was excited. He carried a copy of an early edition of an evening
paper in his hand--the edition which is usually issued by most papers a
little after noon.

"I think I've discovered something," he said. "It was quite by accident,
but you will not fail to be interested in something that appears in the
_Comet_. It alludes to the disappearance of a gentleman called Bates, who
seems to have vanished from his house in Portsmouth Square. You know the
name of the Square, of course?"

Gurdon pushed his coffee cup away from him, and lighted a cigarette. He
felt that something of importance was coming.

"I suppose I ought to know the name of the square," he said grimly.
"Seeing that I nearly lost my life in a house there the night before
last. But please go on. I see you have something to tell me that is well
worth hearing."

"That's right," Venner said. "Most of it is in this paper. It appears
that the aforesaid Mr. Bates is a gentleman of retiring disposition, and
somewhat eccentric habits. As far as one can gather, he has no friends,
but lives quietly in Portsmouth Square, his wants being ministered to by
a body of servants who have been in his employ for years. Of necessity,
Mr. Bates is a man of wealth, or he could not possibly live in a house
the rent of which cannot be less than five or six hundred a year. As a
rule, Mr. Bates rarely leaves his house, but last night he seems to have
gone out unattended, and since then, he has not been seen."

"Stop a moment," Gurdon exclaimed eagerly. "I am beginning to see
daylight at last. What was the number of the house where this Bates
lived? I mean the number of the square."

Venner turned to his paper, and ran his eye down the printed column. Then
he smiled as he spoke.

"The number of the house," he said, "is 75."

"I knew it," Gurdon said excitedly. "I felt pretty certain of it. The man
who has disappeared lived at No. 75, and the place where we had our
adventure, or rather, I had my adventure, is No. 74. Now, tell me, who
was it who informed the police of the disappearance of Mr. Bates? Some
servant, I suppose?"

"Of course; and the servant goes on to suggest that Mr. Bates had
mysterious enemies, who caused him considerable trouble from time to
time. But now I come to the interesting part of my story. At the foot of
the narrative which is contained in the _Comet_, that I hold in my hand,
is a full description of Mr. Bates."

"Go on," Gurdon said breathlessly. "I should be little less than an idiot
if I did not know what was coming."

"I thought you would guess," Venner said. "A name like Bates implies
middle age and respectability. But this Bates is described as being young
and exceedingly good looking. Moreover, he is afflicted with a kind of
paralysis, which renders his movements slow and uncertain. And now you
know all about it. There is not the slightest doubt that this missing
Bates is no other than our interesting friend, the good-looking cripple.
The only point which leaves us in doubt is the fact that Mr. Bates is a
respectable householder, living at 75, Portsmouth Square, while the man
who tried to murder you entertained you at No. 74, which house, now, is
absolutely empty. We need not discuss that puzzle at the present moment,
because there are more important things to occupy our attention. There
can be no doubt that this man who calls himself Bates has been kidnapped
by somebody. You will not have much difficulty in guessing the name of
the culprit."

"I guess it at once," Gurdon said. "If I mention the name of Mark
Fenwick, I think I have said the last word."




CHAPTER IX

A NEW PHASE


There was not the slightest doubt that Gurdon had hit the mark. As far as
they could see at present, the man most likely to benefit by the death or
disappearance of the cripple was Mark Fenwick. Still, it was impossible
to dismiss the thing in this casual way, nor could it be forgotten that
the cripple had actually been present at the Grand Empire Hotel on the
night when the alleged millionaire received his message by means of the
mummified finger. Therefore, logically speaking, it was only fair to
infer that on the night in question Fenwick had not been acquainted with
the personality of the cripple. Otherwise, the latter would have scarcely
ventured to show himself in a place where his experiment had been brought
to a conclusion.

On the other hand, it was just possible that Fenwick had been looking for
the cripple for some time past. But all this was more or less in the air,
though there was a great deal to be said for the conclusion at which the
two friends had arrived.

"I work it out like this," Venner said, after a long, thoughtful pause.
"You know all about the Four Finger Mine; you know exactly what happened
to the Dutchman Van Fort after the murder of Le Fenu. It will be fresh in
your recollection how, by some mysterious agency, the fingers of the
Dutchman were conveyed to his wife, though he himself was never seen
again. It is quite fair to infer that Fenwick has contrived to get hold
of the same mine, though that dangerous property does not seem to have
harmed him as much as it did the other thief. Still, we know that he has
lost all the fingers of his left hand, and we have evidence of the fact
that the vengeance has been worked out in the same mysterious fashion as
it was worked out on the Dutchman. We know, too, who is at the bottom of
the plot, we know that the cripple could tell us all about it if he
liked. Obviously, this same cripple is a deadly enemy of Fenwick's. And,
no doubt, Fenwick has found out where to lay his hands upon his man quite
recently. Fenwick is a clever man, he is bold and unscrupulous, and
without question he set to work at once to get the better of the cripple.
Of course, this may be nothing but a wrong theory of mine, and it may
lead us astray, but it is all I can see to work upon at present."

"I don't think you are very far wrong," Gurdon said, "but I am still
puzzled about the house in Portsmouth Square."

"Which house do you mean?" Venner asked.

"The one in which my adventure took place. The house from which the
furniture vanished so mysteriously."

"That seems to me capable of an easy explanation," Venner replied. "There
is no doubt that the man called Bates and the cripple are one and the
same person. You must admit that."

"Yes, I admit that freely enough. Go on."

"Well, this Bates, as we will call him, has a large establishment at 75,
Portsmouth Square. The house next door was empty, possibly it belonged to
Mr. Bates. He had a whim for furnishing a room or two in an empty house,
or perhaps there was some more sinister purpose behind it. Anyway, after
you had blundered on the place and had taken your life in your hands, it
became necessary for the man to disappear from No. 74. Therefore, he had
that furniture removed at once. I daresay if we investigated the house
carefully we should find that there was some means of communication
between the two; at least, that is the only explanation I can think of."

"You've got it," Gurdon cried. "I'll wager any money, you are right. But
I am sorry the man has vanished in this mysterious way, because it checks
our investigations at the very outset. The last thing you wanted in this
matter was police interference. Now the whole thing has got into the
papers, and the public are sure to take the matter up. It is the very
class of mystery that the cheap press loves to dwell upon. It has all
the attributes of the _cause celebre_. Here is a handsome man,
picturesque looking, a cripple into the bargain, a man leading an
absolutely secluded life, and the very last person in the world one would
expect to have enemies. He is very rich, too, and lives in one of the
finest houses in the West End of London. He disappears in the most
mysterious manner. Unless I am greatly mistaken, within the next two or
three days London will be disclosing this matter and the newspapers will
be full of it."

"I am afraid you are right," Venner admitted; "but I don't see how we are
going to gain any thing by telling the police what we have found out. As
you know, I investigated this matter solely in the interests of the woman
I love, and with the one intention of freeing her life from the cloud
that hangs over it. In any other circumstances I would go direct to
Scotland Yard and tell them everything we know. But not now. I think you
will agree with me that we should go our own way and say nothing to
anybody about our discovery."

The events of the next day or so fully verified the fears of the two
friends. The Bates case appealed powerfully to the large section of the
public who delight in crimes of the mysterious order. Within a couple of
days most of the papers were devoting much space to the problem. It so
happened, too, that the week was an exceedingly barren one from a news
point of view; therefore, the Bates case had the place of honor. There
was absolutely no fresh information, not a single line that pointed to a
definite solution of the problem. Indeed, the ingenious way in which most
of the papers contrived to fill some three columns a day was beyond all
praise. But both Gurdon and Venner searched in vain for a scrap of
information that threw any light on the identity of the missing man. His
habits were described at some length, a tolerably accurate description of
his household appeared in several quarters; but nothing very much beyond
that. The missing man's servants were exceedingly reticent, and if they
knew anything whatever about their master they had preferred to confide
it to the police in preference to the inquisitive reporter. Not a single
relative turned up, though it was generally understood that the missing
man was possessed of considerable property.

It was on the third day that Venner began to see daylight. One of the
evening papers had come out with a startling letter which seemed to point
to a clue, though it conveyed nothing to the police. Venner came round to
Gurdon's rooms with a copy of the evening paper in his hand. He laid it
before his friend and asked him to read the letter, which, though it
contained but a few lines, was of absorbing interest to both of them.

"You see what this man says?" Venner remarked. "He appears to be a
workingman who got himself into trouble over a drinking bout. Two days
ago he was charged before the magistrate with being drunk and disorderly,
and was sentenced to a fine of forty shillings or fourteen days'
imprisonment. According to his story, the money was not forthcoming,
therefore he was taken to gaol. At the end of two days his friends
contrived to obtain the necessary cash and he was released. He writes all
this to show how it was that he was entirely ignorant of the startling
events which had taken place in the Bates case. This man goes on to say
that on the night when Mr. Bates disappeared he was passing Portsmouth
Square on his way home from some public-house festivities. He was none
too sober, and has a hazy recollection of what he saw. He recollects
quite clearly, now that he has time to think the matter over, seeing a
cab standing at the corner of the Square within three doors of No. 75. At
the same time, a telegraph boy called at No. 75 with a message. It was at
this point that the narrator of the story stopped to light his pipe. It
was rather a windy evening, so that he used several matches in the
process. Anyway, he stood there long enough to see the telegraph boy
deliver his message to a gentleman who appeared to have great difficulty
in getting to the door. No sooner had the telegraph boy gone than the
gentleman crept slowly and painfully down the steps and walked in the
direction of the cab. Then somebody stepped from the cab and accosted the
cripple, who, beyond all question, was the mysterious Bates. The writer
of the letter says that he heard a sort of cry, then someone called out
something in a language