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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Set against the backdrop of a mesmerizing yet perilous wilderness, Fred M. White's "The Leopard's Spots" intricately weaves a tale of adventure, romance, and moral conflict. The narrative unfolds with vivid imagery, capturing the essence of the untamed landscape while exploring themes of survival and the human spirit. White's literary style, characterized by rich descriptions and a fast-paced plot, reflects the Victorian era's fascination with exotic locales and thrilling escapades. The book's interplay between humanity and nature exemplifies the literary trend of the time, where characters often grappled with the duality of civilization and wilderness. Fred M. White, a prolific author and journalist, often drew inspiration from his own experiences in travel and exploration. His works frequently reflect his deep understanding of human nature and societal issues, as well as his passion for adventure. These elements are beautifully encapsulated in "The Leopard's Spots," showcasing White's ability to blend personal insight with captivating storytelling. His literary repertoire and journalistic background give depth to the characters and their struggles, making the narrative resonate beyond mere entertainment. This compelling tale is highly recommended for readers who revel in adventure fiction that challenges the moral convictions of its protagonists. "The Leopard's Spots" invites you into a world fraught with tension and excitement, making it an essential read for enthusiasts of classic literature and those who appreciate a layered, thought-provoking narrative.
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The Leopard's Spots
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—A FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
To all outward appearances Montagu Stagg was in what financial detectives call "easy circumstances." He had a charming little bungalow, which was supposed to be his own property (and wasn't), on the edge of Minchin Common, where he indulged every morning in a round of golf and devoted the rest of the day indifferently to financial pursuits and philanthropic objects. He was not a great golfer, but, because he knew his limitations and never allowed vaulting ambition to overleap itself, he won more matches than he lost, though he was always willing enough to liquidate the minatory half-crown in sustaining refreshment for the defeated foe. It was a fairly cheap way of earning a reputation for generosity, but it sufficed. A popular man, on the whole, a man of uncertain age by reason of a fine crop of patriarchal grey hair allied to a face round and innocent as that of a child, and, with no suggestion of evil on a complexion that many a woman might have envied. He looked like something between a man and boy, he had a constant flow of humorous small talk, and a joyous outlook on life that would have been a tonic to any liver-haunted pessimist.
A man, apparently, in the possession of an easy conscience and a comfortable balance in his bank, achieved either by his own efforts or by inheritance, it did not matter which. A man respected by his tradesmen, who never had to wait a day for their money, and who never deemed it necessary to make inquiries into those little slips of arithmetic which do happen occasionally, even in the books of the most highly respected shopkeeper.
People who knew Stagg best—and they were exceedingly few—declared that he was a philanthropist who lived down on the before mentioned common in his modest way so that he might have plenty of scope for his expeditions into the field of his efforts. But that was hardly correct. As a matter of fact, Montague Stagg was no philanthropist, and, in reality, lived up to every penny of a hardly-earned income, though occasions when he had to ask favours of his banker were few and far between. He lived in a neat little bungalow with its trim lawns and flower-beds with his niece, Stella Henson, and a small household staff. Stella had lived with her uncle as long as she could recollect. She was a typical bright and wholesome English girl, quite good-looking in a boyish sort of way, and eminently good-natured. Exceedingly popular with the Minchin lady golfers, and on the best of terms with most of the men. She was emphatically what might be called a good sort, open-hearted and generous, and, like so many girls of her type, utterly transformed on those rare occasions in which she condescended to get into evening dress. For the rest she acted as secretary to her uncle who dictated those brilliant journalistic articles to her; she typed his letters and saw that they were posted. In Stella's eyes Stagg was undoubtedly a great man, a publicist who devoted most of his spare time and that fine financial mind of his to giving advice to all and sundry who had money to invest. In other words, Stagg wrote articles for one or two obscure financial papers, and in the aforesaid papers he kept a standing advertisement to the effect that he was a gentleman well versed in city matters—a retired stockbroker, in fact—who gave gratis advice to would-be investors desirous of laying out their savings to the best advantage, which, no doubt, was very noble on Stagg's part, for, at any rate, those advertisements brought letters to Minchin Lodge in a constantly flowing stream and in every case they were most scrupulously answered.
It was early one afternoon towards the end of May that Stagg, pacing up and down his little study, was dictating replies to his secretary. He had pretty well finished with a big batch of correspondents, and he turned to the mantelpiece and lighted a well-earned cigarette.
"I think that is about all, my dear," he said. "What an extraordinary thing it is that these people learn no wisdom. Now, how many letters have we dealt with this morning?"
"Oh, quite fifty," Stella smiled.
"Fifty blithering idiots, if I may be allowed to say so. Now, I suppose these people on the average have about five and twenty pounds each to invest. You will notice, my child, that no one with what I call real means ever writes to the man who calls himself 'Frank Fair.'"
"Otherwise Montagu Stagg," Stella laughed. "Precisely, my dear. And if I may say so, a jolly good name, too. Now, 'Frank Fair' is a philanthropist. He is a sort of father confessor of the small investor. They write to me care of the papers I advertise in, and I save them from throwing away their hard-earned pennies to the city rascals who are always laying traps for the small investor. Now, on a moderate computation, you and I have saved a thousand pounds to-day. I don't say we have saved it altogether, because these people are sure to go off sooner or later and fool their cash away in some other direction. But you and I have done our best, Stella. We don't try and discourage people from gambling, because we know human nature better than that. But we can advise our confiding correspondents to apply to certain firms who will, at any rate, give them what I might call a good run for their money."
"That's true enough," Stella said.
All this to Stella was real enough. She had not the slightest doubt as to the integrity of her beloved uncle. She was quite convinced that those elaborate letters dictated by 'Frank Fair' to small investors in a breathless hurry to get rich quick were inspired by the purest motives. What she did not know, however, was that every letter was followed up within 24 hours by another letter despatched from an obscure office in the city to the would-be gambler advising him as to the certainly rich emoluments by the investment of a small sum in certain syndicates. And, needless to say, these circulars did not bear the signature of 'Frank Fair,' though they were directly inspired by him. To put it plainly, Stagg was making quite a handsome living by the ingenious expedient of writing letters to potential investors warning them off certain things, and, at the same time, by means of those bucket-shop circulars luring the cash into his coffers in quite another direction. It was a brilliant scheme, and redounded to the credit of 'Frank Fair,' alias Montagu Stagg, who was thus able to pose before his confiding young relative as a man of the highest and purest motives. Of course, Stella could know nothing of the little dingy office in the city where Stagg spent a couple of hours each afternoon sending out his circulars and posting them in person. It must not be imagined, of course, that all this money came to his net. If Stagg gleaned a daily ten per cent. of it, he was perfectly satisfied, and so the great game went on. As a matter of fact, Stagg was a cheery, breezy, humorous rascal, perfectly straight in all his dealings outside what he regarded as his legitimate business, and generous and easy-going to a fault. In other words, he spent his money as fast as he got it, as such men do, so that there were occasions when the exchequer ran perilously low.
Just at the moment the barometer pointed to stormy. But, on the other hand, the day's correspondence had been unusually prolific, and Stagg correspondingly expansive.
"Is that all, my child?" he asked. "I really must be getting to the city. I have two articles to write before dinner, and with any luck I shall be back by then. And I think you had better tell cook to grill the soles, not fry them. And you might call round at Smith's, the wine merchants—"
"There's one more letter," Stella said. "I kept it back to the last so as not to disturb you. It is a most extraordinary letter. Really, any one would think that the writer regarded you as a common thief."
CHAPTER II.—DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.
Stagg looked just a little anxious.
"Eh, what's that? what's that?" he asked. "Some disappointed client, no doubt. Really, my dear child, the amount of human ingratitude one encounters is most discouraging. When did the letter come? This morning's batch? Well, read it out; I'd like to hear it."
Stella proceeded to read as follows:
21 Porchester-place,
May 19, 19—.
"Dear Sir,
"I venture to address you on a little matter which I am sanguine that you will find interesting. Now, it so happens that a friend of mine, a lady friend in straitened circumstances and a widow of an officer in his Majesty's service, expressed some little time ago a natural desire to increase her very limited income. I am sure that a gentleman of the experience of Mr. Frank Fair will bear me out when I say that the case presents no phenomenal features. My dear sir, the world is crammed with sanguine unworldly widows (not to say orphans) who are filled with an eager longing to expand the elasticity of their scanty sovereigns. Otherwise, how would so many respectable gentlemen in spotless white waistcoats who permeate the city be able to afford Rolls-Royce cars and send their promising progeny to Public schools and the University? But I need not enlarge upon that. That is a subject to which Mr. Frank Fair has probably devoted more time than I have, and, believe me, as city editor and part proprietor of the 'Searchlight,' I am not altogether a child in such matters.
"Now, my lady friend, instead of coming to me, as she ought to have done, sold out a thousand pounds of Great Western preferred stock and went off adventuring in the city. She managed, by the interposition of Providence, to escape from the clutches of at least two of the aforesaid white-waistcoated gentlemen, and then, being still desirous of further exploits in the financial field, she conceived the brilliant idea of writing to Frank Fair. I suppose she had seen that distinguished philanthropist's advertisement in the papers.
"In reply Mr. Fair wrote a letter filled with the noblest sentiments and paternal advice. He strongly advised the lady to put her money back where she took it from, which, of course, was exceedingly fine of him, but he went on to say if it was necessary to her health that she should have what city circles call a flutter, he gave her the names of half a dozen firms which he ventured to recommend. And, strange to say, the next morning came a circular from a modest firm of outside brokers recommending a particular stock. Need I tell so astute a gentleman as Mr. Frank Fair what happened. The thousand pounds is no more, at least, so far as its original proprietor is concerned, and I strongly suspect that the whole of that sum found its way into the pockets of a firm that only exists to put good things in the way of idly-greedy people who are looking for a hundred per cent. interest on their money."
"Oh, this is monstrous, uncle," Stella cried. "One would almost think that the writer was sarcastic."
"Oh, not at all, my dear, not at all," Stagg said genially. "Evidently a man who fancies himself as a word painter. But pray proceed."
"Now, as the unfortunate lady is a friend of mine, and as I know something of the City, I have made it my business to thoroughly investigate the matter. It has taken me a couple of months to get to the bottom of it, but I assure you that I have done so. And in my opinion, and I may say in the opinion of an eminent King's Counsel, there are grounds for prosecution. But I am not vindictive. I have something more to do besides wasting my time on a lot of fools whose main anxiety seems to be separated from their money, and if I can get my friend's thousand pounds back again I shall be perfectly satisfied and say no more about the matter.
"To bring this about I cordially invite the co-operation of Mr. Frank Fair, otherwise Mr. Montagu Stagg, of Minchin, in the County Middlesex. I shall be at home this evening between ten and twelve, and if the aforesaid 'gentlemen' care to give me a call, a warm welcome awaits them. I really think that you will not fail me.
"Yours faithfully, Everard Stokes."
"What name did you say?" Stagg cried. "Oh, Everard Stokes. Quite a funny chap in his way, my dear, and a real good sort, though eccentric, very eccentric. He's a journalist and part proprietor of the paper he speaks of. Upon my word, I have a great mind to go and see him. Yes, I will. In which case I shall have to dine in town. Of course, my dear if I can do anything to get this poor woman's money back, I must."
Stagg spoke lightly enough, but all the boyishness left that smooth round face of his, and his eyes grew anxious enough once he found himself alone.
For, sooth to say, Montagu Stagg was in an exceedingly tight place. He had always known that sooner or later the fierce light of publicity must beat upon the dual identity of Montagu Stagg and Frank Fair, but a calamity like this had not come within his range of vision.
For every member of his particular tribe loathed and dreaded the name of Everard Stokes. To begin with, he knew every trick and turn in City rascality. He was a man of large means and particularly sardonic humour, and his great delight was in the running down of the Fairs and the Staggs wherever he found them and destroying them without mercy. By some means or another he had got to the bottom of Stagg's duel identity, and it needed no great foresight on Stagg's part to know that unless that thousand pounds was produced at once disaster would follow.
And just at that moment Stagg would have found it difficult to put his hands on a thousand pence. Things had not been going too well lately, and Stagg was not the sort of man to curtail his expenditure whatever happened. So, therefore, he decided to go up to town and call upon this doughty foe. Perhaps he could arrange a compromise, perhaps he could gain time. And if he could, then the tragedy would be averted.
He was very disturbed and uneasy in his mind, but that did not prevent him from putting in a couple of hours in his dingy city office, and dining discreetly and comfortably at the Ritz afterwards. He looked into a music hall for an hour or so, and then, as the clocks were striking eleven, made his way leisurely through the West End streets in the direction of Porchester-place. He loved prowling about the West End in the dark, declaring that he shared Charles Dickens's peculiarity in that direction, and more than once on these nocturnal ramblings he had come into possession of information which subsequently he had turned to considerable advantage. He reached his destination at length and then paused, realising that he was uncertain at which number in Porchester-place his enemy resided. But, at any rate, it was 21 or 22, so, after a moment's hesitation, he walked up the steps of 21 and rang the bell.
A few moments passed, then he rang again. It seemed to him that he could hear the sounds of shuffling feet on the other side of the door, then the fall of a heavy body, and after that silence again. He rang once more, this time impatiently, then a brilliant light shone over the fanlight, the door was thrown open and a tall, handsome woman in evening dress almost fell into his arms. He could see that her face was pale and agitated and deadly white under the powder and make up, but for all that there was no denying her attractions.
"Thank God you have come, doctor!" she gasped. "I had not expected you quite so soon. Your man told me on the telephone you wouldn't be home till after twelve. But come inside, do, and Heaven grant you are not too late."
Stagg followed without a moment's hesitation.
CHAPTER III.—THE WRONG HOUSE.
Stagg followed quietly along behind the spacious lady. He was not in the least alarmed or in any way put out by this striking and unexpected development of what should have been quite a commonplace situation. He looked rather like a middle-age Cupid with that innocent face and grey hair of his, but behind that deceptive exterior was a fine driving force, and a set of nerves as resilient as steel. And, besides, Stagg was a man who was consumed with an amazing curiosity, the sort of man who would not have hesitated to pick up a live bomb just for the sake of examining its mechanism. In the course of a long and somewhat chequered career he had had a good many adventures; in fact, he was always looking for them, and here was one after his own heart.
That something was seriously wrong in that large and luxuriously furnished mansion he did not doubt for a moment. The mere fact that he had been mistaken for a doctor summoned there in a great hurry only added to the tension of the situation. Of course, he could have at once proclaimed the fact that a mistake had been made, but he preferred to do nothing of the kind. There was something wrong, almost sinister, here, and it occurred to Stagg that he might turn the knowledge to distinct advantage. If necessary, he was quite prepared to pose as a doctor, so long as he could do so without betraying his ignorance on medical matters or contributing towards what might eventually be construed into a charge of manslaughter. He would see the matter through, at any rate as far as possible.
He crossed a large hall, lighted by a lantern roof, a big cosy affair with a parquet flooring smothered with fine Oriental rugs, with pictures on the walls and masses of greenery here and there. Everything pointed to luxury and refinement, and, what was far more important in Stagg's eyes, to the possession of considerable wealth. He could judge that at any rate from the dress of the woman in front of him. He could see that Paris was written all over it, and though his fair guide wore no jewellery, the fact did not in the least detract from the opulence of her appearance.
She led the way presently into what was evidently the dining-room. She motioned Stagg to a chair and dropped into one opposite. She spoke calmly enough, but it was evident to Stagg that she was suffering under the stress of some overpowering emotion, fear probably.
"I think I had better explain, Dr. Gilbert," she said. "The case is very urgent, you can imagine, but you ought to know the facts of the case."
"Oh, certainly," Stags murmured. "It will help me materially."
Stagg spoke glibly enough, for he was beginning to see his way. He was quite prepared to pose as a doctor, and if things became too hot presently he could easily get out by saying that there was a mistake somewhere, and that evidently it was some other practitioner that the lady had been so anxiously expecting. The coincidence would be a bit thin, perhaps, but it would be good enough when played by a cool hand.
"You know our friends in New York?' the woman asked.
"Well, I can't say that I do," Stagg said truthfully enough. "My dear madam, it would be far better, I think, if you began at the beginning."
A cold smile of contempt lit up the handsome features of the woman opposite for a moment. And she really was a remarkably handsome woman, tall and slim, beautifully proportioned, and conveying a suggestion of strength both physical and mental. She looked at Stagg out of a pair of fine dark eyes that seemed to illuminate and give life to a singularly white face that was almost severe in its classic moulding.
"Oh, nothing like being cautious, Dr. Gilbert,", she said with a faint suggestion of satire.
"I always think so, madam," Stagg agreed. "You called me up on the telephone, at least, so my man tells me, with an urgent request that I should come here now. Pray correct me if I am at all wrong.",
"Certainly I did. And you must know that I should not have done so if the matter had not been very pressing. Our friends in New York—you know who I mean."
Stagg gave a vague and comprehensive gesture with his hands.
"Very well, then," the woman went on. "Before we came over here I was told that if we needed a really capable medical man who would be discreet and silent—silent, mind—we could not do better than calling in Dr. Gilbert, of 17 Wilbey-crescent."
Stagg smiled. So far, so good. He knew now that he was Dr. Gilbert, of Wilbey-crescent. This, at any rate, was something to go on with.
"Well, madam," he said. "Without undue egotism, I think the description fits the man you are speaking about. You will find me discreet enough."
"Oh, I am sure I shall. But in this particular case, Dr. Gilbert, we want someone who is a little more than discreet. We require a doctor who would be absolutely silent whatever happens. And if there are grave risks to be taken, he must prepare to take them. And I need not say that he will be well paid for his trouble; in fact, doctor, if you can see your way to take a few risks, then whatever you like to charge will cheerfully be paid."
"Ah, that's only fair. There are such things, you know, as Medical Councils. Before now doctors have been struck off the register for what are termed irregular practices. I need not point out, my dear madam, what that means to a man who has an established reputation in the neighbourhood of Wilbey Crescent."
The woman looked at Stagg narrowly.
"If you will do what we require," she said, "then I am prepared to pay you a thousand pounds."
Stagg bowed cooly enough, but at the same time he was just a little thrilled. For here was the sum of which he was in urgent need. He knew that a few feet from him—next door, as a matter of fact—was a cold-blooded, slightly humorous gentleman, who would infallibly not rest until he saw Montagu Stagg standing in the dock unless at an early date that volatile individual could produce the sum in question. And here, perhaps, with a bit of luck, was that desirable consummation ready to drop into the hollow of his hand. He was going to be asked to commit some crime, of course, not necessarily a criminal act, but something that assuredly would bring him in contact with the authorities if it were found out. At the very least he was going to pose as a doctor, and perhaps give a medical certificate.
And, being a thorough man of the world, he knew perfectly well that no one would dream of paying him so large a sum unless an equally large service were rendered in exchange. And Montagu Stagg, though he had sailed very near the wind on one or two occasions, was not in the habit of dabbling in crime or anything that savoured of violence. But, on the other hand, he wanted that thousand pounds more than he had ever wanted money in his life, and he was going to see this thing through if he did not get too hot to handle.
"Pray proceed," he said. "So far, I am entirely with you, my dear lady. And when your American friends sent you to Dr. Gilbert they—er—shall we say, knew something. Of that there can be no possible doubt. And now, what can I do for you? Pray command me."
"It entirely depends upon circumstances," the woman said. "He may get better. If he does, then I am afraid that you will have to content yourself with your ordinary professional charges. But suppose he dies? Are you prepared to give a medical certificate? I mean, if a man died of a knife thrust, say, would you be prepared to certify that he succumbed to the effects of pneumonia? I am merely putting a case. And please don't forget, Dr. Gilbert, that the fee in that case will be on the scale that we have been discussing."
CHAPTER IV.—IN THE BEDROOM.
Stagg hesitated just for a moment. He was at grips with the situation now, and began to see what was required of him. He wanted that money very badly indeed, but even a thousand pounds can be purchased at too high a price. And if it came to becoming an accessory after the fact in a case of stark and unvarnished murder, then Montagu Stagg was not going on. Cheerful and humorous rascal, as he was, he had his own code of morality, and here he drew the line.
He ought to have turned his back upon the whole thing, he ought to have made an excuse for getting out of the house as soon as possible, but that overpowering curiosity of his, that insatiable thirst for romance, held him back. And besides, there was just a chance even now, of obtaining that rich reward without endangering his own safety.
Despite the luxury and affluence of his surroundings, despite the calm regal beauty of this woman and the richness of her dress, Stagg was not blind to the fact that he had blundered by accident into a nest of crime of the most violent kind, and that it behoved him to be careful. Moreover, he had not very much time. Before long the real Dr. Gilbert would turn up, and if he happened along now, then there might be another crime in which Stagg potentially figured as what the police courts call the body. Still, the woman had told him on the doorstep that she had not expected the man in question before midnight, and it still wanted half an hour to that.
"I quite understand. And now, don't you think that I had better see the—the—"
"Patient," the woman said. "You will find him exceedingly ill, Dr. Gilbert—in fact, I am astonished that he is still alive. It's a miracle."
"Well, pneumonia takes strange phases," Stagg said. "I am calling it pneumonia for the sake of argument. But tell me, where is the wound?"
"Just over the heart. A stab with an Italian dagger. It all took place as quickly as a dream. We were sitting here together just as the dinner things had been cleared away when those men rushed in and it was all over in a moment. You see, it would be different if we had our regular staff. But we only got in here this afternoon, and dinner was sent in already cooked from a neighbouring hotel. We have only one servant in the house, so far, and that is my husband's own man, who is a South American. To-morrow we are expecting all the servants. You quite understand Dr. Gilbert, that this is not our own house; we have merely taken it furnished for two or three months."
Stagg nodded gravely enough, for the situation was deepening. He was beginning to understand. These people were adventurers, not necessarily poor ones, but adventurers all the same, and it was quite clear that there was another set of undesirable characters somewhere in the neighbourhood who were at daggers drawn with the occupants of the house. Members of the same gang, perhaps, an opposing faction that had probably quarrelled over the division of the spoil. And in settling that little matter some unlucky individual had received a knife thrust which apparently was likely to be attended with fatal results. And, for some powerful reason or another, the whole thing was to be kept quiet. A complacent doctor, probably some extravagant black sheep of the profession, had been called in to give a false certificate, so that in the case of death the unfortunate man upstairs would be buried without the authorities being any the wiser. And here, therefore, Stagg was up against the great adventure of his life.
Even now he hesitated to turn his back upon it, though common sense told him that the sooner he got out of the house the better.
"I had better see the patient," he said.
"Certainly," the woman said. "Wait here for a moment, and I will go and see if everything is ready for you."
She swept out of the room, leaving Stagg rather pleased to have the opportunity of being alone for a moment or two. He wanted to collect his scattered thoughts and scheme a way out of the difficulty. As he sat there looking about him a manservant entered the room. He was a small, slight individual, a half-caste probably; his face was dark and swarthy and his hair long; moreover, he wore rings in his ears. He was dressed in a sort of half-evening attire, and in his hand he bore a decanter of port and a glass on a salver.
He placed the decanter on the table and signified to Stagg to help himself. Stagg would have asked a question or two, but from certain signs made by the foreigner he judged that the latter was both deaf and dumb. Evidently a convenient type of servant, but one of a sinister type that only added to the mystery that surrounded the house.
Stagg reached out a hand and filled himself a glass of wine. He tossed it off quickly, for he needed it, but after the first taste of the port he slowed down, and the next glass he drank slowly and delicately like the connoisseur that he was. He did not need anyone to tell him that he was drinking '63 port, and that it had matured to the hour.
"That's a drop of uncommonly good stuff," he told himself. "Now, what sort of a house have I struck? I seem to have got out of London altogether. Daggers and vendettas and a body in so refined a locality as Porchester-place! And the finest wine I think I ever tasted. I'll carry on for another quarter of an hour. There may be something in it yet."
He lay back in his chair gazing eagerly round him, and then presently a number of cases strewn about the dining table caught his eye. They were jewel cases beyond the shadow of a doubt, but all of them empty, as Stagg discovered for himself. On a little side table was a heap of twisted broken metal, beyond all question the settings from which a number of stones had recently been torn. Under the table, evidently thrown there in the struggle, or overlooked, was a five pointed diamond star of exquisite workmanship and great value, which Stagg slipped into his pocket. It might, or might not, be missed; but, in any case, it occurred to Stagg that he probably had as much right to it as anybody in the house, and here, at the very least, was something that represented the money that he so sorely needed. He had not been wasting his time.
He had hardly concealed the gem before the woman returned with the information that the patient was ready for the doctor.
"He is extremely bad," she said. "Little as I know of such matters, I am afraid he cannot last till the morning."
"You are speaking of your husband?" Stagg asked.
"Yes," the woman said coolly enough. "But perhaps you may think I am unduly alarmed. I see the man has been looking after you."
"Very well indeed," Stagg said. "That's the nicest glass of port I think I have ever tasted. By the way, madam, what is your servant's affliction?"
"He is deaf and dumb," the woman said. "But none the less valuable as a servant for that. Rather the contrary, because he cannot gossip. But please come this way."
Stagg followed her up the wide marble staircase into a spacious bedroom, where presently he made out a figure lying on the bed. The man lay there perfectly still. He was covered to the throat with a big eiderdown, his eyes were closed, and he seemed as if he were in a deep sleep.
"There's your patient," the woman whispered. "Perhaps you had better not see too much. The wound is just under the heart, a deep stab that bled profusely. He never spoke again after he was struck. But you can imagine the trouble that we had to get him up here."
With a curious feeling of unreality Stagg bent over the bed. He had seen men in extremis before, and the deadly pallor and the grim white lips were not lost upon him.
"I am too late," he said. "The man is dead."
CHAPTER V.—NEXT DOOR.
Not for the first time during this strange business, Stagg was feeling most decidedly uncomfortable. Indeed, he might have admitted something worse than that, and now he was beginning heartily to regret the overpowering curiosity of his that had led him into his present dilemma.
And he did a bit of remarkably quick thinking as he stood there, by the side of the bed, looking down on that white, stiff face, and when at length he turned to the woman again he had made up his mind exactly what to do.
"This is an exceedingly serious matter, madam," he said, with great gravity. "There in not the slightest doubt that this unfortunate gentleman has been murdered."
"I don't think there is," the woman said coolly.
She spoke without the slightest trace of grief; she was just as cool as the man standing on the other side of the bed. Uneasy and anxious and frightened she was, no doubt, but she seemed to feel no sort of sympathy with the man whom she had spoken of to Stagg as her husband.
"An exceedingly serious matter," he repeated. "Moreover, one which I understand is not to be the subject of any judicial investigation. In other words, here is a crime which is to be concealed from the police. To do that it is necessary for me to give a false certificate. And I am to certify that the man died from natural causes."
"That's why I brought you here," the woman said. "I was advised to call you in, and I was informed that you would make no objection if the fee was sufficiently high."
Stagg wondered what manner of man Doctor Gilbert was. He prudently refrained from comment.
"Very well," he said. "I suppose you understand I shall have to write you a certificate. In return for which you will give me the sum agreed upon. Now, will you be good enough to tell me the name of the gentleman lying there?"
"Oh," the woman said, "I had not thought of that. Is it actually necessary?"
"Of course it is. What name shall I put?"
"Oh, say Richard Vassar.'"
"Richard Vassar. Very good. I suppose that is the name in which you took the house? Now, if you will stay here a moment I will go downstairs to the dining-room and make out the necessary document."
A moment later Stagg made his way down the stairs. But he did not go into the dining-room. He very quietly opened the front door and slipped out into the street. What was going to happen to the woman he neither knew nor cared. That was a matter of absolute indifference to him, so long as he saved his own skin. Not for all the money in London would he have placed on record his connection with this amazing crime. He was going to run no risk of standing in a dock charged with being an accessory in a case of murder. Nor was he going to be followed. He quietly crept along the pavement to the house next door and rang the bell. This was twenty-two, he saw, and therefore the residence of the man he had come out to find. The door was opened promptly, and a manservant asked his business. Stagg pushed his way into the hall and closed the door behind him. He was beginning to feel safe now.
"I am Mr. Montagu Stagg," he said. "And I am here to see Mr. Stokes by appointment."
"Very good, sir," the man said. "Will you please to come this way?"
Stagg found himself a minute or two later in a large, comfortably-furnished library where a man with a benevolent face and a black beard sat writing at a table. He rose as Stagg entered and indicated a chair.
"Sit down, Mr. Stagg," he said. "William, you might bring in the decanters and a glass or two."
All this sounded friendly enough, and Stagg began to be a little easier in his mind. He helped himself promptly to a stiff whisky and soda and took one of the cigarettes from a box that was lying on the table. Everard Stokes regarded his visitor with a sardonic smile on that big, keen, humorous face of his.
"That's right," he said. "Make yourself at home. I thought you would come. Upon my word you and I have met before. You haven't changed much since we were at Rugby together, Stagg. The same air of bland innocence which I must say is considerably enhanced by that beautiful white hair of yours. Just think of you being soapy Stagg!"
"That's all right," Stagg admitted. "And so you are Nosey Stokes. Well, well, what a small world it is after all."
"Yes, isn't it?" Stokes agreed. "Now, look here, we are not going to waste time talking about old days, so I'll get straight to the point. You got my letter, or you wouldn't be here. In one word, what are you going to do about it?"
"Well, I don't admit—" Stagg began.
"No? Then perhaps you would like to terminate the interview now and meet me face to face in a court of law. I always conduct my own cases, as you know, and it would be a fine thing to fight our differences out in public. It would be a fine thing for me, but whether it would be much to the advantage of 'Frank Fair' is quite another matter."
"A good point," Stagg smiled. "Quite a good point. Would you mind developing your case a little?"
"Oh, with pleasure," Stokes replied. "Now, 'Frank Fair' is a most ingenious gentleman. By the way, that nom de plume of yours is an absolute inspiration. It's so round and full, so suggestive of high integrity and lofty motive. And upon my word, my dear fellow, you look the part to perfection. I have some knowledge of the world and of plausible rascals generally; but when I look at you sitting there, upon my word, I could almost be tempted to follow your advice. I don't see how a man who looks like you could do anything wrong."
"You always were a funny chap," Stagg smiled.
"Well, so were you, for the matter of that. But let's get on. 'Frank Fair' is a philanthropist who gives up his time and spends his money for the benefit of poor people who have cash to invest and don't know where to place it at the best advantage. So they write to him and he points out the best things to put it in. He recommends certain investments which, for the most part, are good investments. But, at the same time, he invariably hints that part of the capital might be laid out in something more speculative. Then, next day, the victim gets a circular from, let us say, Abram MacOstrich, the eminent Scottish outside broker who has to sell just the very speculative stock that 'Frank Fair' recommends. So, you see, most of the money goes into something sound, but the balance into the wild-cat stuff that MacOstrich has to sell. Need I remark that MacOstrich and Fair are one? It's a clever scheme, Stagg, a devilish clever scheme, because it enables you, almost without reproach, to milk all your clients of something like twenty per cent, of their investments. A paying game, isn't it?"
Stagg smiled broadly. He was conscious that Stokes was taking in his beautifully cut morning coat, his shining patent leathers, and the exquisite pearl pin in his grey silk tie.
