The Betrayal E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Guy Ducaine is a recent graduate of Oxford University. Through a series of unfortunate events he is penniless and starving in the rural town of Brasters. Seeking to make a few shillings, he schedules a lecture on local history. On the same time, Lord Rowchester invites the officer and explorer Colonel Mostyn Ray to the village to speak. Ducaine’s lecture fails and he returns to his small house and collapses from hunger. Found there by Ray, and Rowchesters lovely daughter, Lady Angela, they revive him and set in motion a complicated, entertaining, and devious plot. With many twists and turns Ducaine eventually works as secretary to a War Preparations Committee which is chronically leaking plans to the enemy and saves the nation!

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

II. GOOD SAMARITANS

III. THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

IV. MISS MOYAT'S PROMISE

V. THE GRACIOUSNESS OF THE DUKE

VI. LADY ANGELA GIVES ME SOME ADVICE

VII. COLONEL RAY'S RING

VIII. A WONDERFUL OFFER

IX. TREACHERY

X. AN EXPRESSION OF CONFIDENCE

XI. HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

XII. AN ACCIDENT

XIII. A BRIBE

XIV. A RELUCTANT APOLOGY

XV. TWO FAIR CALLERS

XVI. LADY ANGELA'S ENGAGEMENT

XVII. MORE TREACHERY

XVIII. IN WHICH I SPEAK OUT

XIX. MRS. SMITH-LESSING

XX. TWO TO ONE

XXI. LADY ANGELA APPROVES

XXII. MISS MOYAT MAKES A SCENE

XXIII. MOSTYN RAY EXPLAINS

XXIV. LORD BLENAVON'S SURRENDER

XXV. MY SECRET

XXVI. "NOBLESSE OBLIGE"

XXVII. FRIEND OR ENEMY?

XXVIII. A WOMAN'S TONGUE

XXIX. THE LINK IN THE CHAIN

XXX. MOSTYN RAY'S LOVE STORY

XXXI. MY FATHER'S LETTER

XXXII. A PAINFUL ENCOUNTER

XXXIII. THE DUKE'S MESSAGE

XXXIV. MYSELF AND MY STEPMOTHER

XXXV. ANGELA'S CONFESSION

XXXVI. I LOSE MY POST

XXXVII. LORD CHELSFORD'S DIPLOMACY

XXXVIII. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY

XXXIX. THE TRAITOR

XL. THE THEORIES OF A NOVELIST

I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

Like a clap of thunder, the north wind, rushing seawards, seemed suddenly to threaten the ancient little building with destruction. The window sashes rattled, the beams which supported the roof creaked and groaned, the oil lamps by which alone the place was lit swung perilously in their chains. A row of maps designed for the instruction of the young–the place was a schoolhouse–commenced a devil’s dance against the wall. In the street without we heard the crash of a fallen chimneypot. My audience of four rose timorously to its feet, and I, glad of the excuse, folded my notes and stepped from the slightly raised platform on to the floor.

“I am much obliged to you for coming,” I said, “but I think that it is quite useless to continue, for I can scarcely make you hear, and I am not at all sure that the place is safe.”

I spoke hastily, my one desire being to escape from the scene of my humiliation unaccosted. One of my little audience, however, was of a different mind. Rising quickly from one of the back seats, she barred the way. Her broad comely face was full of mingled contrition and sympathy.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Ducaine,” she exclaimed. “It does seem a cruel pity, doesn’t it?–and such a beautiful lecture! I tried so hard to persuade dad and the others to come, but you know how they all love hearing anything about the war, and–”

“My dear Miss Moyat,” I interrupted, “I am only sorry that a mistaken sense of kindness should have brought you here. With one less in the audience I think I should have ventured to suggest that we all went round to hear Colonel Ray. I should like to have gone myself immensely.”

Blanche Moyat looked at me doubtfully.

“That’s all very well,” she declared, “but I think it’s jolly mean of the Duke to bring him down here the very night you were giving your lecture.”

“I do not suppose he knew anything about that,” I answered. “In any case, I can give my lecture again any time, but none of us may ever have another opportunity of hearing Colonel Ray. Allow me–”

I opened the door, and a storm of sleet and spray stung our faces. Old Pegg, who had been there to sell and collect tickets, shouted to us.

“Shut the door quick, master, or it’ll be blown to smithereens. It’s a real nor’easter, and a bad ‘un at that. Why, the missie’ll hardly stand. I’ll see to the lights and lock up, Master Ducaine. Better be getting hoam while thee can, for the creeks’ll run full to-night.”

Once out in the village street I was spared the embarrassment of conversation. We had to battle the way step by step. We were drenched with spray and the driving rain. The wind kept us breathless, mocking any attempt at speech. We passed the village hall, brilliantly lit; the shadowy forms of a closely packed crowd of people were dimly visible through the uncurtained windows. I fancied that my companion’s clutch upon my arm tightened as we hurried past.

We reached a large grey stone house fronting the street. Miss Moyat laid her hand upon the handle of the door and motioned to me to enter.

I shook my head.

“Not to-night,” I shouted. “I am drenched.”

She endeavoured to persuade me.

“For a few moments, at any rate,” she pleaded. “The others will not be home yet, and I will make you something hot. Father is expecting you to supper.”

I shook my head and staggered on. At the corner of the street I looked behind. She was holding on to the door handle, still watching me, her skirts blowing about her in strange confusion. For a moment I had half a mind to turn back. The dead loneliness before me seemed imbued with fresh horrors–the loneliness, my fireless grate and empty larder. Moyat was at least hospitable. There would be a big fire, plenty to eat and drink. Then I remembered the man’s coarse hints, his unveiled references to his daughters and his wish to see them settled in life, his superabundance of whisky and his only half-veiled tone of patronage. The man was within his rights. He was the rich man of the neighbourhood, corn dealer, farmer, and horse breeder. I was an unknown and practically destitute stranger, come from Heaven knew where, and staying on–because it took a little less to keep body and soul together here than in the town. But my nerves were all raw that night, and the thought of John Moyat with his hearty voice and slap on the shoulder was unbearable. I set my face homewards.

From the village to my cottage stretched a perfectly straight road, with dykes on either side. No sooner had I passed the last house, and set my foot upon the road, than I saw strange things. The marshland, which on the right reached to the sea, was hung here and there with sheets of mist driven along the ground like clouds before an April tempest. White flakes of spray, salt and luminous, were dashed into my face. The sea, indriven up the creeks, swept the road in many places. The cattle, trembling with fear, had left the marshland, and were coming, lowing, along the high path which bordered the dyke. And all the time an undernote of terror, the thunder of the sea rushing in upon the land, came like a deep monotonous refrain to the roaring of the wind.

Through it all I battled my way, hatless, soaked to the skin, yet finding a certain wild pleasure in the storm. By the time I had reached my little dwelling I was exhausted. My hair and clothes were in wild disorder, my boots were like pulp upon my feet. My remaining strength was expended in closing the door. The fire was out, the place struck cold. I staggered towards the easy chair, but the floor seemed suddenly to heave beneath my feet. I was conscious of the fact that for two days I had had little to eat, and that my larder was empty. My limbs were giving way, a mist was before my eyes, and the roar of the sea seemed to be in my ears, even in my brain. My hands went out like a blind man’s, and I suppose broke my fall. There was rest at least in the unconsciousness which came down like a black pall upon my senses.

It could only have been a short time before I opened my eyes. Some one was knocking at the door. Outside I could hear the low panting of a motor-car, the flashing of brilliant lamps threw a gleam of light across the floor of my room. Again there came a sharp rapping upon the door. I raised myself upon my elbow, but I made no attempt at speech. The motor was the Rowchester Daimler omnibus. What did these people want with me? I was horribly afraid of being found in such straits. I lay quite still, and prayed that they might go away.

But my visitor, whoever he was, had apparently no idea of doing anything of the sort. I heard the latch lifted, and the tall bulky form of a man filled the threshold. With him came the wind, playing havoc about my room, sending papers and ornaments flying around in wild confusion. He closed the door quickly with a little imprecation. I heard the scratching of a match, saw it carefully shielded in the hollow of the man’s hand. Then it burned clearly, and I knew that I was discovered.

The man was wrapped from head to foot in a huge ulster. He was so tall that his cap almost brushed my ceiling. I raised myself upon my elbow and looked at him, looked for the first time at Mostyn Ray. He had the blackest and the heaviest eyebrows I had ever seen, very piercing eyes, and a finely shaped mouth, firm even to cruelty. I should have known him anywhere from the pictures which were filling the newspapers and magazines. My first impression, I think, was that they had done him but scanty justice.

As for me, there is no doubt but that I was a pitiful object. Of colour I had never very much, and my fainting fit could scarcely have improved matters. My cheeks, I had noticed that morning when shaving, were hollow, and there were black rims under my eyes. With my disordered clothing and hair, I must indeed have presented a strange appearance as I struggled to gain my feet.

He looked at me, as well he might, in amazement.

“I would ask you,” he said, “to excuse my unceremonious entrance, but that it seems to have been providential. You have met with an accident, I am afraid. Allow me.”

He helped me to stagger to my feet, and pushed me gently into the easy chair. The match burnt out, and he quietly struck another and looked around the room for a candle or lamp. It was a vain search, for I had neither.

“I am afraid,” I said, “that I am out of candles–and oil. I got a little overtired walking here, and my foot slipped in the dark. Did I understand that you wished to see me?”

“I did,” he answered gravely. “My name is Mostyn Ray–but I think that we had better have some light. I am going to get one of the motor lamps.”

“If you could call–in the morning,” I began desperately, but he had already opened and closed the door. I looked around my room, and I could have sobbed with mortification. The omnibus was lit inside as well as out, and I knew very well who was there. Already he was talking with the occupants. I saw a girl lean forward and listen to him. Then my worst fears were verified. I saw her descend, and they both stood for a moment by the side of the man who was tugging at one of the huge lamps. I closed my eyes in despair.

Once more the wind swept into my room, the door was quickly opened and closed. A man-servant in his long coat, and cockaded hat tied round his head with a piece of string, set down the lamp upon my table. Behind, the girl and Mostyn Ray were talking.

“The man had better stop,” he whispered. “There is the fire to be made.”

For the first time I heard her voice, very slow and soft, almost languid, yet very pleasant to listen to.

“No!” she said firmly. “It will look so much like taking him by storm. I can assure you that I am by no means a helpless person.”

“And I,” he answered, “am a campaigner.”

“Get back as quickly as you can, Richards,” she directed, “and get the things I told you from Mrs. Brown. Jean must bring you back in the motor.”

Once more the door opened and shut. I heard the swish of her skirts as she came over towards me.

“Poor fellow!” she murmured. “I’m afraid that he is very ill.”

I opened my eyes and made an attempt to rise. She laid her hand upon my shoulder and smiled,

“Please don’t move,” she said, “and do forgive us for this intrusion. Colonel Ray wanted to call and apologize about this evening, and I am so glad that he did. We are going to take no end of liberties, but you must remember that we are neighbours, and therefore have privileges.”

What could I say in answer to such a speech as this? As a matter of fact speech of any sort was denied me; a great sob had stuck in my throat. They did what was kindest. They left me alone.

I heard them rummaging about in my back room, and soon I heard the chopping of sticks. Presently I heard the crackling of flames, and I knew that a fire had been lit. A dreamy partial unconsciousness destitute of all pain, and not in itself unpleasant, stole over me. I felt my boots cut from my feet. I was gently lifted up. Some of my outer garments were removed. Every now and then I heard their voices, I heard her shocked exclamation as she examined my larder, I heard the words “starvation,” “exhaustion,” scarcely applying them to myself. Then I heard her call to him softly. She was standing by my bookcase.

“Do you see this?” she murmured. “‘Guy Ducaine, Magdalen,’ and the college coat of arms. They must belong to him, for that is his name.”

I did not hear his answer, but directly afterwards a little exclamation escaped him.

“By Jove, what luck! I have my flask with me, after all. Is there a spoon there, Lady Angela?”

She brought him one directly. He stooped down, and I felt the metal strike my teeth. The brandy seemed to set all my blood flowing once more warmly in my veins. The heat of the fire, too, was delicious.

And then the strangest thing of all happened. I opened my eyes. My chair was drawn sideways to the fire and immediately facing the window. The first thing that I saw was this. Pressed against it, peering into the room, was the white face of a man, an entire stranger to me.

II. GOOD SAMARITANS

They both hurried to my side. I was sitting up in my chair, pointing, my eyes fixed with surprise. I do not know even now why the incident should so much have alarmed me, but it is a fact that for the moment I was palsied with fear. There had been murder in the man’s eyes, loathsome things in his white unkempt face. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. They gave me more brandy, and then I spoke.

“There was a man–looking in. A man’s face there, at the window!”

Ray took up the lamp and strode to the door. When he returned he exchanged a significant glance with Lady Angela.

“There is no one there now, at any rate,” he said. “I dare say it was fancy.”

“It was not,” I answered. “It was a man’s face–a horrible face.”

“The omnibus is coming back,” he said quietly. “The servants shall have a good look round.”

“I would not worry about it,” Lady Angela said, soothingly. “It is easy to fancy things when one is not well.”

So they meant to treat me like a child. I said nothing, but it was a long time before my limbs ceased to shake. The tall servant reappeared with a huge luncheon basket–all manner of delicacies were emptied out upon my table. Lady Angela was making something in a clip, Ray was undoing a gold-foiled bottle. Soon I found myself eating and drinking, and the blood once more was mashing through my veins. I was my own man again, rescued by charity. And of all the women in the world, fate had sent this one to play the Lady Bountiful.

“You are looking better, my young friend,” Colonel Ray said presently.

“I feel-quite all right again, thank you,” I answered. “I wish I could thank you and Lady Angela.”

“You must not attempt anything of the sort,” she declared. “My father, by-the-bye, Mr. Ducaine, wished me to express his great regret that he should have interfered in any way with your arrangements for this evening. You know, there are so many stupid people around here who have never understood anything at all about the war, and he was very anxious to get Colonel Ray to talk to them. He had no idea, however, that it was the night fixed for your lecture, and he hopes that you will accept the loan of the village hall from him any night you like, and we should so much like all of us to come.”

“His Grace is very kind,” I murmured. “I fear, however, that the people are not very much interested in lectures, even about their own neighbourhood.”

“I am, at any rate,” Lady Angela answered, smiling, “and I think we can promise you an audience.”

Colonel Ray, who had been standing at the window, came back to us.

“If I may be permitted to make a suggestion, Lady Angela,” he said, “I think it would be well if you returned home now, and I will follow shortly on foot.”

“Indeed,” I said, “there is no need for you, Colonel Ray, to remain. I am absolutely recovered now, and the old woman who looks after me will be here in the morning.”

He seemed scarcely to have heard me. Afterwards, when I knew him better, I understood his apparent unconcern of any suggestion counter to his own. He thought slowly and he spoke seldom, but when he had once spoken the matter, so far as he was concerned, was done with. Lady Angela apparently was used to him, for she rose at once. She did not shake hands, but she nodded to me pleasantly. Colonel Ray handed her into the wagonette, and I heard the quicker throbbing of the engine as it glided off into the darkness.

It was several minutes before he returned. I began to wonder whether he had changed his mind, and returned to Rowchester with Lady Angela. Then the door handle suddenly turned, and he stepped in. His hair was tossed with the wind, his shoes were wet and covered with mud, and he was breathing rather fast, as though he had been running. I looked at him inquiringly. He offered me no explanation. But on his way to the chair, which he presently drew up to the fire, he paused for a full minute by the window, and shading the carriage lamp which he still carried, with his hand, he looked steadily out into the darkness. A thought struck me.

“You have seen him!” I exclaimed.

He set down the lamp upon the table, and deliberately seated himself.

“Seen whom?” he asked, producing a pipe and tobacco.

“The man who looked in–whose face I saw at the window.”

He struck a match and lit his pipe.

“I have seen no one,” he answered quietly. “The face was probably a fancy of yours. I should recommend you to forget it.”

I looked down at his marsh-stained shoes. One foot was wet to the ankle, and a thin strip of green seaweed had wound itself around his trousers. To any other man I should have had more to say. Yet even in those first few hours of our acquaintance I had become, like all the others, to some extent the servant of his will, spoken or unspoken. So I held my peace and looked away into the fire. I felt he had something to say to me, and I waited.

He moved his head slowly towards the bookcase.

“Those books,” he asked, “are yours?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Your name then is Guy Ducaine?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever know your father?”

It was a singular question. I looked at him quickly. His face was sphinxlike.

“No. Why do you ask? Did you?”

He ignored me absolutely for several moments. His whole attention seemed fixed upon the curling wreath of blue smoke which hung between us.

“He died, I suppose,” he continued, “when you were about twelve years old.”

I nodded.

“My uncle,” I said, “gave me a holiday and a sovereign to spend. He told me that a great piece of good fortune had happened to me.”

Colonel Ray smiled grimly.

“That was like old Stephen Ducaine,” he remarked. “He died himself a few years afterwards.”

“Three years.”

“He left you ten thousand pounds. What have you done with it?”

“Mr. Heathcote, of Heathcote, Sons, and Vyse, was my solicitor.”

“Well?”

I remembered that he had been away from England for several years.

“The firm failed,” I told him, “for a quarter of a million. Mr. Heathcote shot himself. I am told that there is a probable dividend of sixpence-half-penny in the pound to come some day.”

Colonel Ray smoked on in silence. This was evidently news to him.

“Awkward for you,” he remarked at last.

I laughed a little bitterly. I knew quite well that he was expecting me to continue, and I did so.

“I sold my things at Magdalen, and paid my debts. I was promised two pupils if I would take a house somewhere on this coast. I took one and got ready for them with my last few pounds. Their father died suddenly–and they did not come. I got rid of the house, at a sacrifice, and came to this cottage.”

“You took your degree?”

“With honours.”

He blew out more smoke.

“You are young,” he said, “a gentleman by birth, and I should imagine a moderate athlete. You have an exceptional degree, and I presume a fair knowledge of the world. Yet you appear to be deliberately settling down here to starve.”

“I can assure you,” I answered, “that the deliberation is lacking. I have no fear of anything of the sort. I expect to get some pupils in the neighbourhood, and also some literary work. For the moment I am a little hard up, and I thought perhaps that I might make a few shillings by a lecture.”

“Of the proceeds of which,” he remarked, with a dry little smile, “I appear to have robbed you.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I hoped for little but a meal or two from it,” I answered. “The only loss is to my self-respect. I owe to charity what I might have earned.”

He took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me with a thin derisive smile.

“You talk,” he said, “like a very young man. If you had knocked about in all corners of the world as I have you would have learnt a greater lesson from a greater book. When a man meets brother man in the wilds, who talks of charity? They divide goods and pass on. Even the savages do this.”

“These,” I ventured to remark, “are not the wilds.”

He sighed and replaced his pipe in his mouth.

“You are young, very young,” he remarked, thoughtfully. “You have that beastly hothouse education, big ideas on thin stalks, orchids instead of roses, the stove instead of the sun. The wilds are everywhere–on the Thames Embankment, even in this God-forsaken corner of the world. The wilds are wherever men meet men.”

I was silent. Who was I to argue with Ray, whose fame was in every one’s mouth–soldier, traveller, and diplomatist? For many years he had been living hand and glove with life and death. There were many who spoke well of him, and many ill–many to whom he was a hero, many to whom his very name was like poison. But he was emphatically not a man to contradict. In my little cottage he seemed like a giant, six-foot-two, broad, and swart with the burning fire of tropical suns. He seemed to fill the place, to dominate me and my paltry surroundings, even as in later years I saw him, the master spirit in a great assembly, eagle-eyed, strenuous, omnipotent. There was something about him which made other men seem like pygmies. There was force in the stern self-repression of his speech, in the curve of his lips, the clear lightning of his eyes.

My silence did not seem altogether to satisfy him. I felt his eyes challenge mine, and I was forced to meet his darkly questioning gaze.

“Come,” he said, “I trust that I have said enough. You have buried the thought of that hateful word.”

“You have stricken it mortally,” I answered, “but I can scarcely promise so speedy a funeral. However, what more I feel,” I added, “I will keep to myself.”

“It would be better,” he answered curtly.

“You have asked me,” I said, “many questions. I am emboldened to ask you one. You have spoken of my father.”

The look he threw upon me was little short of terrible.

“Ay,” he answered, “I have spoken of him. Let me tell you this, young man. If I believed that you were a creature of his breed, if I believed that a drop of his black blood ran in your veins, I would take you by the neck now and throw you into the nearest creek where the water was deep enough to drown.”

I rose to my feet, trembling.

“If those are your feelings, sir,” I declared, “I have no wish to claim your kindness.”

“Sit down, boy,” he answered coldly. “I have no fear of you. Nature does not pay us so evil a trick as to send us two such as he in successive generations.”

He rose and looked out of the window. The storm had abated but little. The roar of the sea and wind was still like thunder in the air. Black clouds were driven furiously across the sky, torrents of rain and spray beat every now and then upon the window. He turned back and examined the carriage lamp.

“It is an awful night,” I said. “I cannot offer you a bed unless you will take mine, but I can bring rugs and a pillow to the fire if you will lie there.”

Then for the only time in my life I saw him hesitate. He looked out of my uncurtained window into the night. Very often have I wondered what thought it was that passed then through his brain.

“I thank you,” he said; “the walk is nothing, and they will expect me at Rowchester. You have pencil and paper. Write down what I tell you.–Colonel Mostyn Ray, No. 17, Sussex Square. You have that? Good! It is my address. Presently I think you will get tired of your life here. Come then to me. I may be able to show you the way–”

“Out of the conservatory,” I interrupted, smiling.

He nodded, and took up the lantern. To my surprise, he did not offer to shake hands. Without another word he passed out into the darkness.

In my dreams that night I fancied that a strange cry came ringing to my ears from the marshes–a long-drawn-out cry of terror, ending in a sob. I was weary, and I turned on my side again and slept.

III. THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

“You’d be having company last night, sir?” Mrs. Hollings remarked inquisitively. Mrs. Hollings was an elderly widow, who devoted two hours of her morning to cleaning my rooms and preparing my breakfast.

“Some friends did call,” I answered, pouring out the coffee.

“Friends! Good Samaritans I should call ‘em,” Mrs. Hollings declared, “if so be as they left all the things I found here this morning. Why, there’s a whole chicken, to say nothing of tongue and biscuits, and butter, and relishes, and savouries, the names of which isn’t often heard in this part of the world. There’s wine, too, with gold paper round the top, champagne wine, I do believe.”

“Is the tide up this morning?” I asked.

“None to speak of,” Mrs. Hollings answered, “though the road’s been washed dry, and the creeks are brimming. I’ve scarcely set foot in the village this morning, but they’re all a-talking about the soldier gentleman the Duke brought down to the village hall last night. Might you have seen him, sir?”

“Yes, I saw him,” I answered.

“A sad shame as it was the night of your lecture, sir,” the woman babbled on, “for they were all crazy to hear him. My! the hall was packed.”

“Would you mind seeing to my room now, Mrs. Hollings?” I asked. “I am going out early this morning.”

Mrs. Hollings ascended my frail little staircase. I finished my breakfast in haste, and catching up my hat escaped out of doors.

I shall never forget the glory of that morning. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun was as hot as though this were indeed a midsummer morning. The whole land, saturated still with the fast receding sea, seemed to gleam and glitter with a strange iridescence. Great pools in unaccustomed places shone like burnished silver, the wet sands were sparkling and brilliant, the creeks had become swollen rivers full of huge masses of emerald seaweed, running far up into the marshland and spreading themselves out over the meadows beyond. There was salt in the very atmosphere. I felt it on my tongue, and my cheeks were rough with it. Overhead the seagulls in great flocks were returning from shelter, screaming as though with joy as they dived down to the sea. It was a wonderful morning.

About two hundred yards past my cottage the road, which from the village ran perfectly straight, took a sharp turn inland, leaving the coast abruptly on account of the greater stretch of marshland beyond. It was towards this bend that I walked, and curiously enough, with every step I took some inexplicable sense of nervous excitement grew stronger and stronger within me. The fresh morning air and the sunlight seemed powerless to dissipate for a moment the haunting terror of last night. It was a real face which I had seen pressed against the window, and where had Ray been when he returned with sand-clogged boots and the telltale seaweed upon his trousers? And later on, had I dreamed it, or had there really been a cry? It came back to me with horrible distinctness. It was a real cry, the cry of a man in terror for his life. I stopped short in the road and wiped my damp forehead. What a fool I was! The night was over. Here in the garish day there was surely nothing to fear? Nevertheless, I, who had started out thirsting only to breathe the fresh salt air, now walked along with stealthy nervous footsteps, looking all the time from left to right, starting at the sight of a dark log on the sands, terrified at a broken buoy which had floated up one of the creeks. Some fear had come over me which I could not shake off. I was afraid of what I might see.

So I walked to the bend of the road. Here, in case the turn might be too sharp for some to see at night, a dozen yards or so of white posts and railings bordered the marshes. I leaned over them for a moment, telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange purple, the faint pink of the distant sands. But it was none of these which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness. It was none of the artist’s fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick throbs. Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the road, was the figure of a man. His head and shoulders were beneath the water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh. And although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I was face to face with it now.

How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face. I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there for some hours. There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his right hand were tightly clenched. I told myself that I was a coward, and I set my teeth. I must lift his head from the water, and cover him up with my own coat while I fetched help. But when I stooped down a deadly faintness came over me. My fingers were palsied with horror. I had a sudden irresistible conviction I could not touch him. It was a sheer impossibility. There was something between us more potent than the dread of a dead man–something inimical between us two, the dead and the living. I staggered away and ran reeling to the road, plunging blindly through the creek.

“About two hundred yards further down the road was a small lodge at one of the entrances of Rowchester. It was towards this I turned and ran. The door was closed, and I beat upon it fiercely with clenched fists. The woman who answered it stared at me strangely. I suppose that I was a wild-looking object.

“It’s Mr. Ducaine, isn’t it?” she exclaimed. “Why, sakes alive! what’s wrong, sir?”

“A dead man in the marshes,” I faltered.

She was interested enough, but her comely weather-hardened face reflected none of the horror which she must have seen on mine.

“Lordy me! whereabouts, sir?” she inquired.

I pointed with a trembling forefinger. She stood by my side on the threshold of the cottage and shaded her eyes with her hand, for the glare of the sun was dazzling.

“Well, I never did!” she remarked. “But I said to John last night that I pitied them at sea. He’s been washed up by the tide, I suppose, and I count there’ll be more before the day’s out. A year come next September there was six of ‘em, gentlefolk, too, who’d been yachting. Eh, but it’s a cruel thing is the sea.”

“Where is your husband?” I asked.

“Up chopping wood in Fernham Spinney,” she answered. “I’d best send one of the children for him. He’ll have a cart with him. Will you step inside, sir?”

I shook my head and answered her vaguely. She sent a boy with a message, and brought me out a chair, dusting it carefully with her apron.

“You’d best sit down, sir. You look all struck of a heap, so to speak. Maybe you came upon it sudden.”

I was glad enough to sit down, but I answered her at random. She re-entered the cottage and continued some household duties. I sat quite still, with my eyes steadily fixed upon a dark object a little to the left of those white palings. Above my head a starling in a wicker cage was making an insane cackling, on the green patch in front a couple of tame rabbits sat and watched me, pink-eyed, imperturbable. Inside I could hear the slow ticking of an eight-day clock. The woman was humming to herself as she worked. All these things, which my senses took quick note of and retained, seemed to me to belong to another world. I myself was under some sort of spell. My brain was numb with terror, the fire of life had left my veins, so that I sat there in the warm sunshine and shivered until my teeth chattered. Inside, the woman was singing over her work.

And then the spell developed. A nameless but loathsome fascination drew me from my seat, drew me with uneven and reluctant footsteps out of the gate and down the narrow straight road. There was still not a soul in sight. I drew nearer and nearer to the spot. Once more I essayed to move him. It was utterly in vain. Such nerve as I possessed had left me wholly and altogether. A sense of repulsion, nauseating, invincible, made a child of me. I stood up and looked around wildly. It was then for the first time I saw what my right foot had trodden into the sand.

I picked it up, and a little cry, unheard save by the sea-birds which circled about my head, broke from my lips. It was a man’s signet ring, thin and worn smooth with age. It was quaintly shaped, and in the centre was set a small jet-black stone. The device was a bird, and underneath the motto–“Vinco!”

My hand closed suddenly upon it, and again I looked searchingly around. There was not a soul in sight. I slipped the ring into my waistcoat pocket and moved back to the white railings. I leaned against them, and, taking a pipe and tobacco from my pocket, began to smoke.

Strangely enough, I had now recovered my nerve. I was able to think and reason calmly. The woman at the lodge had taken it for granted that this man’s body had been thrown up by the sea. Was that a possible conclusion? There was a line all down the sands where the tide had reached, a straggling uneven line marked with huge masses of wet seaweeds, fragments of timber, the flotsam and jetsam of the sea. The creek where the man’s body was lying was forty yards above this. Yet on such a night who could say where those great breakers, driven in by the wind as well as by their own mighty force, might not have cast their prey? Within a few yards of him was a jagged mass of timber. The cause of those wounds would be obvious enough. I felt the ring in my waistcoat pocket–it was there, safely enough hidden, and I looked toward the lodge. As yet there were no signs of John or the cart.

But behind me, coming from the village, I heard the sound of light and rapid footsteps. I turned my head. It was Blanche Moyat, short-skirted, a stick in her hand, a feather stuck through her Tam-o’-Shanter.

“Good-morning,” she cried out heartily; “I’ve been to call at your cottage.”

“Very kind of you,” I answered, hesitatingly. Miss Moyat was good-hearted, but a little overpowering–and in certain moods she reminded me of her father.

“Oh, I had an errand,” she explained, laughing. “Father said if I saw you I was to say that he has to call on the Duke this afternoon, and, if you liked, he would explain about your lecture last night, and try and get the village hall for you for nothing. The Duke is very good-natured, and if he knows that he spoilt your evening, father thinks he might let you have it for nothing.”

“It is very kind of your father,” I answered. “I do not think that I shall ever give that lecture again.”

“Why not?” she protested. “I am sure I thought it a beautiful lecture, and I’m not keen on churches and ruins myself,” she added, with a laugh which somehow grated upon me. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching the dead,” I answered grimly.

She looked at me for an explanation. I pointed to the dark object by the side of the creek. She gave a violent start. Then she screamed and caught hold of my arm.

“Mr. Ducaine!” she cried. “What is it?”

“A dead man!” I answered.

Her face was a strange study. There was fear mingled with unwholesome curiosity, the heritage of her natural lack of refinement. She leaned over the palings.

“Oh, how horrible!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know whether I want to look or not. I’ve never seen any one dead.”

“I should advise you,” I said, “to go away.”

It was apparently the last thing she desired to do. Of the various emotions which had possessed her, curiosity was the one which survived.

“You are sure he is dead?” she asked.

“Quite,” I answered.

“Was he drowned, then?”

“I think,” I replied, “that he has been washed up by the tide. There has probably been a shipwreck.”

“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “It is just a sailor, then?”

“I have not looked at his face,” I answered, “and I should not advise you to. He has been tossed about and injured. His clothes, though, are not a seaman’s.”

She passed through a gap in the palings.

“I must look just a little closer,” she exclaimed. “Do come with me, Mr. Ducaine. I’m horribly afraid.”

“Then don’t go near him,” I advised. “A dead man is surely not a pleasant spectacle for you. Come away, Miss Moyat.”

But she had advanced to within a couple of yards of him. Then she stopped short, and a little exclamation escaped from her lips.

She had advanced to within a couple of yards of him.

“Why, Mr. Ducaine,” she cried out, “this is the very man who stopped me last night outside our house, and asked the way to your cottage.”

IV. MISS MOYAT’S PROMISE

We stood looking at one another on the edge of the marsh. In the clear morning sunlight I had no chance of escape or subterfuge. There was terror in my face, and she could see it.

“You–you cannot be sure!” I exclaimed. “It may not be the same man.”

“It is the same man,” she answered confidently. “He stopped me and asked if I could direct him to your house. It was about half an hour after you had gone. He spoke very softly and almost like a foreigner. I told him exactly where your cottage was. Didn’t he come to you?”

“No,” I answered. “I have never seen him before in my life.”

“Why do you look–so terrified?” she asked. “You are as pale as a ghost.”

I clutched hold of the railings. She came over to my side. Up the road I heard in the distance the crunching of heavy wheels. A wagon was passing through the lodge gates. John, the woodman, was walking with unaccustomed briskness by the horses’ heads, cracking his whip as he came. I looked into the girl’s face by my side.

“Miss Moyat,” I said hoarsely, “can’t you forget that you saw this man?”

“Why?” she asked bewildered.

“I don’t want to be dragged into it,” I answered, glancing nervously over my shoulder along the road. “Don’t you see that if he is just found here with his head and shoulders in the creek, and nothing is known about him, they will take it that he has been washed up by the sea in the storm last night? But if it is known that he came from the land, that he was seen in the village asking for me–then there will be many things said.”

“I don’t see as it matters,” she answered, puzzled. “He didn’t come, and you don’t know anything about him. But, of course, if you want me to say nothing–”

She paused. I clutched her arm.

“Miss Moyat,” I said, “I have strong reasons for not wishing to be brought into this.”

“All right,” she said, dropping her voice. “I will do–as you ask.”

There was an absurd meaning in her little side-glance, which at another time would have put me on my guard. But just then I was engrossed with my own vague fears. I forgot even to remove my hand from her arm. So we were standing, when a moment later the silence was broken by the sound of a galloping horse coming fast across the marshes. We started aside. Lady Angela reined in a great bay mare a few yards away from us. Her habit was all bespattered with mud. She had evidently ridden across country from one of the private entrances to the Park.

“What is this terrible story, Mr. Ducaine?” she exclaimed. “Is there really a shipwreck? I can see no signs of it.”