CHAPTER 27 For the next five or six weeks life ran on merrily enough for clique. So merrily, in fact, that dollops came to be quite accustomed to hear him whistling about the house, and to see him go up the stairs two steps at a time whenever he had occasion to mount them for any purpose whatsoever. It would not have needed any abnormally acute mind, any process of subtle reasoning, to get at the secret of all this exuberance, this perennial flow of highest spirits. Indeed, one had only to watch the letter box at number 204 Clarges Street to get at the bottom of it instantly. For twice a week the postman dropped into it a letter addressed in an undoubtedly feminine hand to Captain Horatio Burbage, and invariably postmarked Linhave and Devon. Dollops had made that discovery long ago, and had put his conclusions regarding it into the mournfully uttered sentence, a skirt got him! But after one violent pang of fierce and rending jealousy was grateful to that skirt for bringing happiness to the man he loved above all other things upon earth, and whose welfare was the dearest of his heart's desires. Indeed, he grew in time to watch as eagerly for the coming of those letters as did his master himself. And he could have shouted with delight whenever he heard the postman's knock, and saw one of the regulation blue-gray envelopes drop through the slit into the wire cage on the door. Cleak, too, was delighted when he saw them. It was nothing to him that the notes they contained were of the briefest mere records of the state of the weather, the progress of his little lordship, the fact that Lady Chepstow wished to be remembered, and that the writer was well, and hoped he, too, was. They were written by her. That was enough. He gave so much that very little sufficed him in return, and the knowledge that he had been in her mind for the five or ten minutes which it had taken to write the few lines she sent him made him exceedingly happy. But she was not his only correspondent in these days, not even his most frequent one. For a warm, strong friendship, first sown in those anti-Darby days, had sprung up between Sir Henry Wilding and himself, and had deepened steadily into a warm feeling of comradeship and mutual esteem. Frequent letters passed between them, and the bond of fellowship had become so strong a thing that Sir Henry never came to town without their meeting and dining together. "'Gad, you know, I can't bring myself to think of you as a police officer, old chap,' was the way Sir Henry put it on the day when he first invited him to lunch with him at his club. "'I'd about as soon think of sitting down with one of my grooms as breaking bread with one of that lot.  Never begad if I live to be a hundred.'" "'I hope you will come nearer to doing that, than you have to guessing the truth about me,' replied Clicke with a smile. "'Take my word for it, won't you? This thing is my profession. I don't do it as a mere hobby. I live by it. I have no other means of living but by it.  You can't tell a fish that another fish is a turnip. At least you can't expect him to believe it. Own up, old chap. I know a man of birth when I meet him.  I'll respect it. I don't doubt that. The addition is superfluous. Then who are you? What are you, Clicke? "'What you have called me, Clicke. Clicke the detective. Clicke of the forty faces if you prefer it. But just Clicke and nothing more. Don't get to building romances about me merely because I have the instincts of a gentleman, Sir Henry. Just simply remember that nature does make mistakes sometimes. That she has been known to put a horse's head on a sheep's shoulders and to make a navvy's son look more royal than a prince. I am Clicke the detective. Simply Clicke. Let it go at that." And as there was no alternative, Sir Henry did. It made no difference in their friendship, however. Police officer or not he liked and respected the man, and made no visit to town without meeting and entertaining him. So matters stood between them when on a certain Thursday in mid-September he came up unexpectedly from Wilding Hall and phoned through to Clarge's Street, asking Clicke to dine with him that night at the club of the two services. Clicke accepted the invitation gladly, and was not a little surprised on arriving to find that in this instance dinner was to be served in a little private room, and that a third party was also to partake of it. "'Dear chap, pardon me for taking you on a wares,' said Sir Henry, as Clicke entered the private room and found himself in the presence of a decidedly military-looking man long past middle life. "'But the fact is that immediately after I had telephoned you I encountered a friend and a peculiar circumstance arose, which impelled me to secure a private room and to throw myself upon your good graces, as it were. Let me have the pleasure, dear chap, of introducing you to my friend, Major Burnham Seaforth. Major, you are at last in the presence of the gentleman of whom I spoke. Mr. Clicke.' "'Mr. Clicke, I am delighted,' said the Major, offering his hand. "'I have heard your praises sound so continuously the past two hours that I feel as if I already knew you.' "'Ah, you mustn't mind all that Sir Henry says,' replied Clicke, as he shook hands with him. He makes mountains out of millstones and would panagerize the most common place of men if he happened to take a fancy to him. You mustn't believe all that Sir Henry says and thinks, Major.' "'I shall be happy, Mr. Clicke, if I can really hope to believe the half of it,' replied the Major enigmatically, and was prevented from saying more by the arrival of the waiter and the serving of dinner. It was not until the meal was over and coffee and cigars had been served, and the two attentive waiter had taken his departure that Clicke understood that remark or realized what it portended, but even then it was not the Major who explained.' "'My dear Clicke,' said Sir Henry, lowering his voice and leaning over the table. "'I hope you will not think I have taken a mean advantage of you, but I have brought the Major here to-night for a purpose. He has, in fact, come to consult you professionally, and upon my recommendation. Do you object to that, or may I go on?' "'Go on, by all means,' replied Clicke. I fancy you know very well that there is nothing you might ask of me, that I would not at least attempt to do, dear chap.' "'Thanks very much. Well, then, the Major has come, my dear Clicke, to ask you to help in unravelling a puzzle of singular and mystifying interest. Now you may or may not have heard of a musical artiste, a sort of conterer and impersonator combined, called Ziko the Magician, who was once very popular, and was assisted in his illusions by a veiled but reputedly beautiful Turkish lady, who was billed on the programs and posters as Zulika the Caliph's daughter.' "'I remember the pair very well indeed,' said Clicke. They toured the music halls for years, and I saw their performance frequently. They were among the first, I believe, to produce that afterwards universal illusion known as the Vanishing Lady. As I have not heard anything of them nor seen their names billed for a couple of years past, I fancy they have either retired from the profession or gone to some other part of the world. The man was not only a very clever magician, but a master of mimicry. I always believed, however, that in spite of his name he was of English birth. The woman's face I never saw, of course, as she was always veiled to the eyes after the manner of Turkish ladies. But although a good many persons suspected that her birthplace was no nearer Baghdad than Peckham, I somehow felt that she was, after all, a genuine native-born Turk.' "'You are quite right in both suspicions, Mr. Clicke,' put in the major agitatedly. The man was an Englishman. The lady is a Turk.' "'May I ask, Major, why you speak of the lady in the present tense and of the man in the past? Is he dead?' "'I hope so,' responded the major fervently. "'God knows I do, Mr. Clicke. My every hope in life depends upon that.' "'May I ask why?' "'I am desirous of marrying his widow.' "'My dear Major, you cannot possibly be serious. A woman of that class.' "'Pardon me, sir, but you have, for all your cleverness, fallen a victim to the prevailing error. The lady is, in every way, my social equal, in her own country, my superior. She is a Caliph's daughter. The title which the playgoing public imagined was of the usual bombastic just-on-the-programme thought is hers by right. Her late father, Caliph Alhamid Suleiman, was one of the richest and most powerful Mohammedans in existence. He died five months ago, leaving an immense fortune to be conveyed to England to his exiled but forgiven child.' "'Ah, I see. Then naturally, of course—' "'The suggestion is unworthy of you, Sir Henry, and anything but complementary to me. The inheritance of this money has had nothing whatever to do with my feelings for the lady. That began two years ago, when by accident I was permitted to look upon her face for the first, last, and only time. I should still wish to marry her if she were an absolute pauper. I know what you're saying to yourself, Sir.  Well, perhaps there isn't. But,' he turned to clique, "'I may as well begin at the beginning and confess that, even if I did not desire to marry the lady, I should still have a deep interest in her husband's death, Mr. Clique. He is, or was, if dead, the only son of my cousin, the Earl of Winraven, who is now over ninety years of age. I am in the direct line, and if this Lord Norman Alchester, whom you and the public know only as Zyko the Magician were in his grave, there would only be that one feeble old man between me and the title.' Ah, I see,' said Clique in reply. Then, seating himself at the table, he arranged the shade of the lamp so that the light fell full upon the mage's face while leaving his own in the shadow. Then your interest in the affair, Major, may be said to be a double one. More, Sir, triple one. I have a rival in the shape of my own son. He, too, wishes to marry Zyko. It's madly enamoured of her, in fact. So wildly that I have always hesitated to confess my own desires to him for fear of the consequences. He is almost a madman in his outbursts of temper, and whereas a liker is concerned, perhaps you will understand, Mr. Clique, when I tell you that once, when he thought her husband had ill used her, he came within an ace of killing the man. There was bad blood between them always, even as boys, and as men it was bitterer than ever because of her. Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story, Major? Suggested Clique, studying the man's face narrowly. How did the Earl of Winraven's son come to meet this singularly fascinating lady? And where? In Turkey, or Arabia, I forget which. He was doing his theatrical nonsense in the east with some barnstorming show or other, having been obliged to get out of England to escape a rest for some shady transaction a year before. He was always a bad egg, always a disgrace to his name and connections. That's why his father turned him off, and never would have any more to do with him. As a boy, he was rather clever at conjuring tricks and impersonations of all sorts. He could mimic anything or anybody he ever saw from the German Emperor down to a gaitic chorus girl, and do it to absolute perfection. When his father kicked him out, he turned these natural gifts to account, and having fallen in with some professional dancing woman, joined her for a time, and went on the stage with her. It was after he had parted from this dancer, and was knocking about London and leading a disgraceful life generally, that he did the thing which caused him to hurry off to the east, and throw in his lot with the travelling company I have alluded to. He was always a handsome fellow, and had a way with him that was wonderfully taking with women. So I suppose that that accounts as much as anything for the likers in factuation, and her doing the mad thing she did. I don't know when, nor where, nor how they first met, but the foolish girl simply went off her head over him, and he appears to have been as completely infatuated with her. Of course in that land, the idea of a woman of her sect, of her standing, having anything to do with a frank, was looked upon as something appalling, something akin to sacrilege, and when they found that her father had got wind of it, and that the fellow's life would not be safe if he remained within reach another day, they flew to the coast together, shipped for England, and were married immediately after their arrival. A highly satisfactory termination for the lady, commented Clicke. One could hardly have expected that from a man so hopelessly unprincipled as you represent him to have always been. But there's a bit of good in even the devil, we are told. Oh, be sure that he didn't marry her from any principle of honour, my dear sir," replied the major. If it were merely a question of that, he'd have cut loose from her as soon as the vessel touched port. Consideration of self ruled him in that, as in all other things. He knew that the girl's father fairly idolised her, knew that in time his wrath would give way to his love, and sooner or later the old man, who had been mad at the idea of any marriage, would be moved to settle a large sum upon her, so that she might never be in want. But let me get on with my story. Having nothing when he returned to England, and being obliged to cover up his identity by assuming another name, Alchester, after vainly appealing to his father for help, on the plea that he was now honourably married and settled down, turned again to the stage. And repugnant though such a thing was, to the delicately nurtured woman he had married, compelled Zolika to become his assistant, and to go on the boards with him. That is how the afterwards well-known Music Hall team of Zyko and the Caliph's daughter came into existence. The novelty of their turn caught on like wildfire, and they were a success from the first, not a little of that success being due to the mystery surrounding the identity and appearance of Zolika. For true to the traditions of her native land she never appeared either in public or in private without being closely veiled.  All that the world at large might ever hope to behold of it was the low, broad forehead, and the two brilliant eyes that appeared above the close drawn line of her Yashmak. Of course she shrank from the life into which she was forced, but it had its reward, for it kept her in close contact with her husband whom she almost worshipped. So for a time she was proportionately happy. Although as the years passed by and her father showed no inclination to bestow the coveted rich allowance upon his daughter, Alcestor Zarda began to cool. He no longer treated her with the same affectionate deference. He neglected her, in fact, and in the end even began to ill-use her. About two years ago matters assumed a worse aspect. He again met Anita Rosario, the Spanish dancer, under whose guidance he had first turned to the halls for a livelihood, and once more took up with her. He seemed to have lost all thought or care for the feelings of his wife, for after torturing her with jealousy over his attentions to the dancer, he took a house adjoining my own, on the borders of the most unfrequented part of the common at Wimbledon, established himself and Zulaika there, and brought the woman and Anita home to live with them. From that period matters went from bad to worse. Evidently having tired of the stage both Alcestor and Anita abandoned it and turned the house into a sort of club where gambling was carried on to a disgraceful extent. Broken-hearted over the treatment she was receiving, Zulaika appealed to me and to my son to help her in her distress, to devise some plan to break the spell of Alcestor's madness and to get that woman out of the house. It was then that I first beheld her face. In her excitement she managed somehow to snap or loosen the fastening which held her yash-mack and it fell, fell and let my son realise as I realised how wondrously beautiful it is possible for the human face to be. Steady, Major Steady, I can quite understand your feelings, can realise better than most men, said Kreek with a sort of sigh. You looked into heaven and, well, what then? Let's have the rest of the story. I think my son must have put it into her head to give Alcestor a taste of his own medicine, to attempt to excite his jealousy by pretending to find interests elsewhere. At any rate she began to show him a great deal of attention, or at least so he says, although I never saw it. All I know is that she, well, sir, she deliberately led me on until I was half insane over her, and that's all. What do you mean by that's all? The matter couldn't possibly have ended there, or else why this appealed to me. It ended for me so far as her affectionate treatment of me was concerned, for in the midst of it the unexpected happened. Her father died, forgiving her as Alcestor had hoped, but doing more than his wildest dreams could have given him cause to imagine possible. In a word, sir, the caliph not only bestowed his entire earthly possessions upon her, but had them conveyed to England by trusted allies, and placed in her hands. There were coffers of gold pieces, jewels of fabulous value, sufficient when converted into English moneers they were within the week, and deposited to her credit in the Bank of England to make her the sole possessor of nearly three million pounds. Phew! whistled clique, when these orientals do it they certainly do it properly. That's what you might call giving with both hands, major, eh? The gift did not end with that, sir. The major replied with a gesture of repulsion. There was a gruesome, ghastly appalling addition in the shape of two mummy cases, one empty, the other filled. Apartment accompanying these stated that the caliph could not sleep elsewhere, but in the land of his fathers, nor sleep there, until his beloved child rested beside him. They had been parted in life, but they should not be parted in death. An Egyptian had therefore been summoned to his bedside, had been given orders to embalm him after death, to send the mummy to Zalika, and with it a case in which when her own death should occur her body should be deposited, and followers of the Prophet had taken oaths to see that both were carried to their native land, and entombed side by side. Until death came to relieve her of this ghastly duty, Zalika was charged to be the guardian of the mummy, and daily to make the horizons of the faithful before it, keeping it always with its face towards the east. By George, it sounds like a page from the Arabian Nights, exclaimed Kreek. Well, what next? Did Alchester take kindly to this housing of the mummy of his father-in-law, and the eventual coffin of his wife? Or was he willing to stand for anything, so long as he got possession of the huge fortune the old man left? He never did get it, Mr. Kreek. He never touched so much as one farthing of it. Zalika took nobody into her confidence, until everything had been converted into English gold, and deposited in the bank to her credit. Then she went straight to him and to Anita, showed them proof of the deposit, reviled them for their treatment of her, and swore that not one farthing's benefit should accrue to Alchester until Anita was turned out of the house in the presence of their guests, and the husband took oaths on his knees to join the wife in those daily prayers before the Caliph's mummy. Furthermore, Alchester was to embrace the faith of the Mohammedans, that he might return with her at once, to the land and the gods she had offended by marriage with a Frankish infidel. Which, of course, he declined to do. Yes, he declined utterly, but it was a case of the crushed worm with Zalika, now was her turn, and she would not abate one jot or title. There was a stormy scene, of course, it ended by Alchester and the woman Anita leaving the house together. From that hour Zalika never again heard his living voice, never again saw his living face. He seems to have gone wild with wrath over what he had lost, and to have plunged headlong into the maddest sort of dissipation. It is known, positively known, and can be sworn to by reputable witnesses, that for the next three days he did not draw one sober breath. On the fourth, a note from him, a note which he was seen to write in a public house, was carried to Zalika. In that note he cursed her with every conceivable term, told her that when she got it he would be at the bottom of the river, driven there by her conduct, and that if it was possible for the dead to come back and haunt people, he'd do it. Two hours after he wrote that note he was seen getting out of the train at Tilbury, and going towards the docks, but from that moment to this every trace of him is lost. Ah, I see, said Cleak reflectively, and you want to find out if he really carried out that threat, and did put an end to himself, I suppose. That's why you have come to me, eh? Frankly, I don't believe that he did, Major. That sort of a man never commits suicide upon so slimmer pretext as that. If he commits it at all, it's because he is at the end of his tether, and our friend Zyko seems to have been a long way from the end of his. How does the lady take it, seriously? Oh, very, sir, very. Of course to a woman of her temperament and with her oriental ideas regarding the supernatural, etc., that threat to haunt her was the worst he could have done to her. At first she was absolutely beside herself with grief and horror, swore that she had killed him by her cruelty, that there was nothing left her but to die, and all that sort of thing, and for three days she was a little better than a madwoman. At the end of that time, after the fashion of her people, she retired to her own room, covered herself with sackcloth and ashes, and remained hidden from all eyes for the space of a fortnight, weeping and wailing constantly, and touching nothing but bread and water. Poor wretch. She suffers like that then over a rascally fellow not worth a single tear. It's marvellous, Major, what women do see in men that they can go on loving them. Has she come out of her retirement yet? Yes, Mr. Kleeke. She came out of it five days ago to all appearances, a thoroughly heartbroken woman. Of course, as she was all alone in the world, my son and I considered it our duty, during the time of her wildness and despair, to see that a thoroughly respectable female was called in to take charge of the house, and to show respect for the proprieties, and for us to take up our abode there in order to prevent her from doing herself an injury. We are still domiciled there, but it will surprise you to learn that a most undesirable person is there also, in short, sir, that the woman Anita Rosario, the cause of all the trouble, is again an inmate of the house, and what is more remarkable still this time buys a liker's own request. What's that? My dear Major, you amaze me. What can possibly have caused the good lady to do a thing like that? She hopes, she says, to appease the dead, and to avert the threatened haunting. At all events she sent for Anita some days ago. Indeed, I believe it is her intention to take the Spaniard with her when she returns to the East. She intends doing that, then. She is so satisfied of her husband's death that she deems no further question necessary. Intends to take no further step toward proving it? It has been proved to her satisfaction. His body was recovered the day before yesterday. Oh-ho! Then he is dead, eh? Why didn't you say so in the beginning? When did you learn of it? This very evening, that is what brings me here. I learned from Zolaike that a body answering the description of his had been fished from the water at Tilbury and carried to the mortuary. It was horribly disfigured by contact with the peers and passing vessels. But she and Anita and—and my son—your son, Major, your son? Yes, replied the Major in a sort of half-whisper. They took him with them when they went, unknown to me. He has become rather friendly with the Spanish woman of late. All three saw the body. All three identified it as being Alchester's beyond a doubt. And you? Surely, when you see it, you will be able to satisfy any misgivings you may have? I shall never see it, Mr. Cleak. It was claimed when identified and buried within twelve hours, said the Major, glancing up sharply as Cleak, receiving this piece of information, blew out a soft, low whistle. I was not told anything about it until this evening.  I—I am so horribly in the dark. I have such fearful thoughts, and I want to be sure. I must be sure, or I shall go out of my mind. That's the case, Mr. Cleak. Tell me what you think of it. I can do that in a very few words, Major, he replied. It is either a gigantic swindle, or it is a clear case of murder. If a swindle, then Alchester himself is at the bottom of it, and it will end in murder just the same. Frankly, the swindle theory strikes me as being the more probable. In other words, that the whole thing is a put-up game between Alchester and the woman Anita. That they played upon Zelika's fear of the supernatural for a purpose. That her body was procured and sunk in that particular spot for the furtherance of that purpose. And if the widow attempts to put into execution this plan, no doubt instilled into her mind by Anita of returning with her wealth to her native land, she will simply be led into some safe place, and then effectively put out of the way for ever. That is what I think of the case, if it is to be regarded in the light of a swindle. But if Alchester is really dead, murder not suicide is at the back of his taking off, and—oh, well, we won't say anything more about it just yet, a while. I shall want to look over the ground before I jump to any conclusions.  If you could contrive to put up an old army-friend's son there for a night-major, give me the address. I'll drop in on you to-morrow, and have a little look round. CHAPTER XXVIII When, next morning, Major Burnham Seaforth announced the dilemma in which, through his own house being temporarily closed, he found himself, owing to the proposed visit of Lieutenant Rupert St. Orbin, son of an old army-friend, Selaika was the first to suggest the very thing he was fishing for. Ah, let him come here, dear friend," she said in that sad, sweetly modulated voice, which so often rung this susceptible old heart. There is plenty of room, plenty elas-na, and any friend of yours can only be a friend of mine. He will not annoy. Let him come here. Yes, let him," supplemented young Burnham Seaforth, speaking with his eyes on Senorita Rosario, who seemed nervous and ill-pleased by the news of the expected arrival. He won't have to be entertained by us if he only comes to see the Peter, and we can easily crowd him aside if he tries to thrust himself upon us.  And when, in the late afternoon, Lieutenant Rupert St. Orbin, in the person of Cleak, arrived with his snub-nosed man-servant, a kit-bag, several rugs, and a bundle of golf sticks, young Burnham Seaforth saw no reason to alter that assertion.  A lisping, dentinering silly ass, whom the presence of ladies seemed to cover with confusion, and drive into a very panic of shy embarrassment. "'Deus, but he is handsome, these big, fair Lieutenant,' whispered the Spaniard to young Burnham Seaforth. "'A great, handsome fool, all beauty and no brains, like a doll of wax.' Then she bent over, and murmured smilingly to Zalika, "'I shall make a bigger nincompoop of this big, fair subhead than heaven already has done before he leaves here, just for the sake of seeing him stammer and plush.' Only the sad expression of Zalika's eyes told that she so much as heard, as she rose to greet the visitor. Garbed from head to foot in the deep violet-coloured stuff which is the mourning of Turkish women, her little pointed slippers showing beneath the hem of her frock, and only her dark, mournful eyes visible between the top of the shrouding yash-mak and the edge of her sequined snood, she made a pathetic picture as she stood there waiting to greet the unknown visitor. "'Sir, you are welcome, you are most welcome,' she said, in a voice whose modulations were not lost upon Creeke's ears as he put forth his hand, and received the tips of her little henna-stained fingers upon his palm. "'Peace be with you, who are of his people, he that I loved and mourn.' Then, as if overcome with grief at the recollection of her widowhood, she plucked away her hand, covered her eyes, and moved staggeringly out of the room, and Creeke saw no more of her that day. But he knew when she performed her horizons before the mummy-case, as she did each morning and evening, by the strong, pungent odor of incense drifting through the house and filling it with a sickly scent.  And so it fell out that instead of Lieutenant Rupert St. Orbin being elbowed out by young Burnham Seaforth, it was Lieutenant St. Orbin who elbowed him out, and without being in the least aware of it, the flattered Anita, like an adroitly hooked trout, was being played in and out and round about the eddies and the deeps, until the angler had her quite ready for the final dip of the net at the landing-point. All this was to accomplish exactly what it did accomplish, namely the ill temper, the wroth, the angry resentment of young Burnham Seaforth. And when the evening had passed and bedtime arrived, Creeke took his candle and retired in the direction of the room set apart for him, with the certainty of knowing that he had done that which would this very night prove beyond all question the guilt or innocence of one person at least who was enmeshed in this mysterious tangle. He was not surprised therefore at what followed his next step. Reaching the upper landing, he blew out the light of his candle, slammed the door to his own room, noisily turned the key and shot the bolt of another, then tiptoed his way back to the staircase and looked down the well-hole into the lower hall. Zulika had retired to her room, the Major had retired to his, and now Anita was taking up her candle to retire to hers. She had barely touched it, however, when there came a sound of swift footsteps, and young Burnham Seaforth lurched out of the drawing-room door and joined her. He was in a state of great excitement and was breathing hard. Anita, Miss Rosario, he began, plucking her by the sleeve and uplifting a pale boyish face, he was not yet twenty-two, to hers with a look of abject misery. I want to speak to you. I simply must speak to you. I've been waiting for the chance, and now that it's come—look here, you're not going back on me, are you? Going back on you? Repeated Anita, showing her pretty white teeth in an amused smile. What shall you mean by that going back on you, eh?  But then I do not care to get on the back of one, so why? Oh, you know very well what I mean. He rapped out angrily. It is not fair the way you have been treating me ever since that yellow-headed bounder came.  Yes, of course you did. But what of it? He is good company. He talks well, he sings well. He is very handsome and well. What difference can it make to you? You are not interested in me, Amiga. No, of course I'm not. You are nothing to me at all. You—oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't quite mean that. I—I mean you're nothing to me in that way. But you—you're not keeping to your word. You promised, you know, that you'd use your influence with Sulika. That you'd get her to be more kind to me, to see me alone, and all that sort of thing. And you've not made a single attempt, not one. You've just sat round and flirted with that toe-headed brute and done nothing at all to help me on. And—and it's jolly unkind of you, that's what. Cleak heard Anita's soft, rippling laughter, but he waited to hear no more. Moving swiftly away from the well-hole of the staircase, he passed on tiptoe down the hall to the major's rooms, and opening the door went in. The old soldier was standing with arms folded at the window, looking silently out into the darkness of the night. He turned at the sound of the door's opening, and moved toward Cleak with a white, agonised face, and a pair of shaking, outstretched hands. Well, he said with a sort of gasp. My dear major, said Cleak quietly, though wisest of men are sometimes mistaken, that is my excuse for my own short-sightedness. I said in the beginning that this was either a case of swindling or a case of murder, did I not? Well, I now amend my verdict. It is a case of swindling and murder, and your son has had nothing to do with either. Oh, thank God, thank God! the old man said, then sat down suddenly, and dropped his face between his hands, and was still for a long time. When he looked up again his eyes were red, but his lips were smiling. If you only knew what a relief it is, he said, if you only knew how much I have suffered, Mr. Cleak. His friendship with that Spanish woman is going with her to identify the body, even assisting in its hurry burial. These things all seem so frightfully black, so utterly without any explanation other than personal guilt. Yet they are all easily explained, major. His friendship for the Spanish woman is merely due to a promise to intercede for him with Sulica.  As for his identification of the body, well, if the widow herself could find points of undisputed resemblance, why not he? A nervous, excitable, impetuous boy like that, and anxious too that the lady of his heart should be freed from the one thing, the one man whose existence made her everlastingly unattainable. Why, in the hands of a clever woman like Anita Rosario, such a chap could be made to identify anything, and to believe it as religiously as he believes. Now, go to bed and rest easy, major. I'm going to call up dollops and do a little night prowling. If it turns out as I hope, this little riddle will be solved to-morrow. But how, Mr. Clicke, it seems to me that it is as dark as ever.  You say there is swindling. You hint one moment that the body was not that of Alchester, and in the next that murder has been done. Do pray, tell me what it all means. What do you make of this amazing case? I'll do that to-morrow, major, not tonight. The answer to the riddle, the answer that's in my mind, I mean, is at once so simple and yet so appallingly awful that I'll hazard no guess until I'm sure. Look here. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gold piece. Do you know what that is, major? It looks like a spade guinea, Mr. Clicke. Right. It is a spade guinea, a pocket-piece I've carried for years. You've heard, no doubt, of vital things turning upon the tossing of a coin. Well, if you see me toss this coin to-morrow, something of that sort will occur. It will be tossed up in the midst of a riddle, major. When it comes down, it will be a riddle no longer. Then he opened the door, closed it after him, and, before the major could utter a word, was gone. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Of Clicke, The Man of the Forty Faces This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Clicke, The Man of the Forty Faces by Thomas W. Hanshu Chapter 29 The promise was so vague, so mystifying, indeed so seemingly absurd, that the major did not allow himself to dwell upon it. As a matter of fact, it passed completely out of his mind, nor did it again find lodgement there, until it was forced back upon his memory in a most unusual manner. Whatsoever had been the result of what Clicke had called his night prowling. He took nobody into his confidence, when he and the major, and the major's son and senorita Rosario met at breakfast the next day. Clicke, true to her training and the traditions of her people, never broke morning bread, saving the seclusion of her own bed-chamber, and then on her knees with her face towards the east. Nor did he allude to it at any period throughout the day. He seemed indeed purposely to avoid the major, and to devote himself to the Spanish woman, with an ardour that was positively heartless, considering that as they too sang and flirted and played several sets of singles on the tennis court, Clicke, like a spirit of misery, kept walking, walking, walking through the halls and the rooms of the house, her woeful eyes fixed on the carpet, her henna-stained fingers constantly locking and unlocking, and moans of desolation coming now and again from behind her yash-mak, as her swaying body moved restlessly to and fro. For today was memorable. Five weeks ago, this coming nightfall, Alchester had flung himself out of this house in a fury of wrath, and this time of bitter regret and ceaseless mourning had begun. She will go out of her mind, poor creature, if something cannot be done, to keep her from dwelling on her misery like this, commented the housekeeper, coming upon that restless figure pacing the darkened hall, moaning, moaning, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, doing nothing, but walk and sorrow, sorrow and walk, hour in and hour out. It's enough to tear a body's heart to hear her, poor dear, and that good-for-nothing Spanish piece racing and shrieking round the tennis court like a she-Tomcat, the heartless hussy.  It's downright scandalous to be carrying on like that at such a time. And so both the Major and his son thought too, and tried their best to solace the lonely mourner, and to persuade her to sit down and rest.  Do rest and be at peace for a little time, at least. I can never have peace in this land. I can never forget the day. She answered drearily, Oh my beloved, oh my lord, it was I who sent thee to it. It was I, it was I. Give me my own country, give me the gods of my people. Here there is only memory and pain, and no rest, no rest ever. She could not be persuaded to sit down and rest, until Anita herself took the matter into her own hands, and insisted that she should. That was at tea-time. Anita, showing some little trace of feeling now that Cleak had gone to wash his hands, and was no longer there to occupy her thoughts, placed a deep, soft chair near the window, and would not yield until the violet-clad figure of the mourner sank down into the decks of it, and leaned back with its shrouded face drooping in silent melancholy. And it was while she was so sitting, that Cleak came into the room and did a most unusual, a most un-gentlemanly thing in the eyes of the Major and his son. Without hesitating, he walked to within a yard or two of where she was sitting, and then, in the silliest of silly tones, blurted out suddenly, I say, don't you know, I've had a jolly rum experience. You know that blessed room at the angle just opposite the library, the one with the locked door? The drooping violet figure straightened abruptly, and the Major felt for the moment as if he could have kicked Cleak with pleasure. Of course they knew the room. It was there that the two mummy-cases were kept, sacred from the profaning presence of any but this stricken woman.  Frankish eyes looked within the sacred shrine. Well, don't you know, went on Cleak without taking the slightest notice of anything. Just as I was going past that door, I picked up a most remarkable thing. Wonder if it's yours, madam? Glancing at Zalika. Just have a look at it, will you? Here, catch! And not until he saw a piece of gold spin through the air and fall into Zalika's lap did the Major remember that promise of last night. Oh, come, I say, Saint Orban, that's rather thick! sang out young Burnham Seaforth indignantly, as Zalika caught the coin in her lap. Blessed if I know what you call manners, but to throw things at a lady is a new way of passing them in this part of the world I can assure you. Of this sorry old chap, no, fence, I assure you," said Cleak, more asinine than ever, as Zalika, having picked up the piece and looked at it, disclaimed all knowledge of it, and laid it on the edge of the table without any further interest in it or him. Just to show, you know, that I couldn't have meant anything disrespectful. Why, of—you all know, don't you know, how jolly much I respect Senorita Rosario by Joe. And so here, Senorita, you catch, too, and see of the blessed things yours. And picking up the coin, tossed it into her lap, just as he had done with Zalika. She, too, caught it and examined it and laughingly shook her head. No, not mine, she said. I have not seen him before. To the finder shall be the keep. Come, sit here, will you have the tea? Yes, thanks," said Cleak, then dropped down on the sofa beside her and took tea as serenely as though there were no such things in the world as murder and swindling and puzzling police riddles to solve. And the major, staring at him, was as amazed as ever. He had said, last night, that when the coin fell the answer would be given and yet it had fallen and nothing had happened, and he was laughing and flirting with Senorita Rosario as composedly and as persistently as ever. More than that, after he had finished his second cup of tea and immediately following the sound of someone just beyond the verandah rail, whistling the lively, lilting measures of, there's a girl wanted there, the silly ass seemed to become a thousand times sillier than ever, for he forthwith set down his cup and, turning to Anita, said with an inane sort of giggle, I say, you know, here's the log. Let's have a game of slaphand, you and I. What? No, don't you? You try to slap my hands and I try to slap yours and whichever succeeds in doing it first gets a prize. Awful fun, don't you know? Come on, start her up. And Anita agreeing. They fell forthwith to a slapping away at the backs of each other's hands with great gusto, until all of a sudden the whistler outside gave one loud shrill note and there was a great and mighty change. Those who were watching saw Anita's two hands suddenly caught, heard a sharp metallic click and saw them as suddenly dropped again to the accompaniment of a shrill little scream from her ashen lips and the next moment clique had risen and jumped away from her side, clear across to where the liker was and those who were watching saw Anita jump up with a pair of steel handcuffs on her wrists just as dollops vaulted up over the verandah rail and appeared at one window, whilst Petrie appeared at another, Hammond poked his body through a third and the opening door gave entrance to Superintendent Narcom. The police! shrilled out Anita in a panic of fright. Madrade Adiot, the police! The major and his son were on their feet like a shot. The liker with a faint startled cry bounded bolt upright like an imp shot through a trapped door. But before the little henna-stained hands could do more than simply move clique's arms went round her from behind tight and fast as a steel clamp. There was another metallic click, another shrill cry and another pair of wrists were in jives. Come in, Mr. Narcom, come in, constables, said clique with the utmost composure. Here are your promised prisoners, nicely trust, you see, so that they can't get at the little pop-guns they carry and a worse pair of rogues never went into the hands of Jack Ketch. And Jack Ketch will get them clique if I know anything about it. Your hazard was right. I've examined the Caliph's mummy case. The mummy itself has been removed, destroyed, done away with utterly, and the poor creature's body is there. And here the poor dumb-founded, utterly bewildered major found voice to speak at last. Mummy case, body? Dear God in heaven, Mr. Creek, what are you hinting at? He gasped.  No, major, I don't, he made reply. I simply mean that he killed her. The body in the mummy case is the body of Sulika, the Caliph's daughter. This is the creature you have been wasting your pity on, see. With that he laid an intense grip on the concealing Yashmak, tore it away, and so revealed the close-shaven, ghastly-hued countenance of the cornered criminal. My God! Alchester! Alchester himself! He was the major in a voice of fright and surprise. Yes, Alchester himself, major. In a few more days he'd have withdrawn the money and got out of the country, body, and all, if he hadn't been nabbed the rascal. There'd have been no tracing the crime then, and he and the senorita here would have been in clover for the rest of their natural lives. But there's always that bright little bit of Bobby Burns to be reckoned with. You know, the best-laid schemes of mice and men, et cetera, that bit. But the Yards got them, and they'll never leave the country now. Take them, Mr. Narcum, they're yours. How did I guess it? said Kleeke, replying to the major's query as they sat late that night discussing the affair. Well, I think the first faint inkling of it came when I arrived here yesterday and smelt the overpowering odour of the incenses. There was so much of it, and it was used so frequently, twice a day, that it seemed to suggest an attempt to hide other odours of a less pleasant kind. When I left you last night, dollops and I went down to the mummy chamber, and a skeleton key soon let us in. The unpleasant odour was rather pronounced in there. But even that didn't give me the cue until I happened to find in the fireplace a considerable heap of fine ashes, and in the midst of them small lumps of gummy substance which I knew to result from the burning of myrrh. I suspected from that and from the nature of the ashes that a mummy had been burnt, and as there was only one mummy in the affair, the inference was obvious. I laid hands on the two cases and tilted them. One was quite empty. The weight of the other told me that it contained something a little heavier than any mummy ought to be. I came to the conclusion that there was a body in it, injected full of arsenic no doubt, to prevent as much as possible the processes of decay, the odour of which the incense was concealing. I didn't attempt to open the thing, I left that until the arrival of the men from the yard for whom I sent dollops this afternoon. I had a vague notion that it would not turn out to be orchestras, and I had also a distinct recollection of what you said about his being able to mimic a gertic chorus girl and all that sort of thing. And the more I thought over it, the more I realized what an excellent thing to cover a bearded face a yash-mak is. Still, it was all a hazard. I wasn't sure, indeed I never was sure, until tea-time, when I caught this supposed Zulika sitting at last, and gave the Spade Guinea its chance to decide it. But, Mr. Kleeke, how could it have decided it? That's the thing which amazes me most of all. How could the tossing of that coin have decided the sect of the wearer of those garments? My dear major, it is an infallible test. Did you ever notice that if you throw anything for a man to catch in his lap, he pulls his knees together to make a lap in order to catch it. Whereas a woman used to wearing skirts and thereby having a lap already prepared immediately broadens that lap by the exactly opposite movement, knowing that whatever is thrown has no chance of slipping through and falling to the floor. When I tossed the coin to Alchester he instinctively jerked his knees together. That settled it, of course. And now, if you won't mind my saying it, I'm a bit sleepy, and it is about time I took myself off to home and bed. But not at this later, surely! You'll never catch a train! I shan't need one, major. They are holding a horse and trap ready for me at the stables of the coach and horses. Mr. Narcon promised to look out for that, and— I beg pardon? No, I can't stop overnight. Thank you for the invitation, but dollops would raise half London if I didn't turn up after promising to do so. I should have thought you might have simplified matters and obviated that by keeping the boy when you had him here," said the major. We could easily have found a place to put him up for the night. Thanks very much. But I wouldn't interrupt the course of his studies for the world, replied Cleek. I've found an old chap, an ex-school-master, down on his luck and glad for the chance to turn an honest penny who takes him on every night from eight to ten, and the young monkey is so eager and is absorbing knowledge at such a rate that he positively amazes me. But now, really, it must be good night. The boy will be waiting, and I must hear his lessons before I go to bed. Not surely when you are so tired, as you say. Never too tired for that, Major. It makes me sleep better and sounder to know that the lad's getting on and that I've cheated the devil in just one more instance. Good night and good luck to you. It's a bully old world after all, isn't it, Major? Then laughed and shook hands with him and fared forth into the starlight, whistling. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. Clique, The Man of the Forty Faces by Thomas W. Hanshaw Chapter 30 Who feeds on hope alone makes but a sorry banquet. And for the next few weeks hope was all or nearly all that came Clique's way. For some unexplained reason Miss Lawn's letters, never very frequent and always very brief, had of late been gradually growing briefer. As if written in haste and from a mere sense of duty and at odd moments snatched from the call of more absorbing things. And finally there came a dropping off altogether and a week that brought no message from her at all. The old restlessness, the almost outlived sense of personal injury and rebellion against circumstances took hold of Clique again when that time came. And the soul of him drank deep of the waters of bitterness. So then, it was all to be in vain, was it, a long struggle with the devil of circumstances, this long striving for a goal, and after all thou shalt not enter was to be written over the gateway of his ambition. He had been lifted only to be dropped again, redeemed only to let him see how vain it was for the leopard, even though he achieved the impossible and changed his spots even other than a leopard always. How impossible it was for a man to override the decrees of nature or evade the edicts of providence. That was what it meant, eh? To a nature such as his life was always a picture drawn out of perspective. There was never any middle distance, never any proper gradation. It was always either the highest heights or the lowest depths, the glare of fierce light or the black of deepest darkness. He could not plod. He must either fly or fall, either lull at the gates of paradise or groan in the depths of hell. And the failure of Ailsa Lawn's letters sent him to the darkest and most hopeless corner of it. Not that he blamed her, wholly, but that he blamed that fate which had so persistently dogged him from childhood on. For now that the letters had ceased altogether he recalled things which otherwise would have been forgotten and his sense of proportion being distorted made mountains out of sand dunes. In one of those letters he recollected she had spoken of meeting unexpectedly an old friend whom she had not seen since the days of his boyhood. In another she had casually remarked, I met Captain Morford again to-day and we spent a very pleasant half-hour together. And in a third had written, the Captain promised to call and take tea to-day, but didn't. I rather fancy he divines the fact that Lady Chepstow does not care for him. Indeed, she dislikes him immensely. Why, I wonder? Personally I think him exceedingly pleasant and there are things in his character for which I have the deepest respect and admiration.  So that was how it was to end, was it? That was the card which fate had all along kept up her sleeve while she stood off laughing at his endeavours, his hopes, his struggles against the inevitable. In the end another man was to appear, another man was to win her and the dream was to turn out nothing more than a dream after all. Once again the voices of the wild called out to the caged wolf. Once again the old things beckoned and the new things lost their savour and the devil said as before, What is the use? What is the use? And the savage cried out and he stripped and flung back into the wilderness as God made him and called and called and called for an end to the things that stank in his nostrils and for the fierce companionship of his kind. And but that time had stailed these things a little and blunted the keen edge of them so that they could not endure for long and there was dollops and the lessons and dollops future to recollect. The wolf and the savage and the devil might not have hungered in vain. Followed a period of intense depression when all things seemed to lose their savour and when Narcum amazed said to himself that the man had come to the end of his usefulness and had lost every attribute of the successful criminologist. For the next three cases he brought him and watched in a manner that would have disgraced the nearest Tyro. Two he failed utterly to solve although the solutions were eventually worked out by the ordinary forces of the yard and in the third he let his man get away under his very nose and convey government secrets to a foreign power. It was but natural that these three dismal failures should find their way to the newspapers and that in the hysterical condition of modern journalism they should be flung out to the world at large with all the ostentation of leaded type and panicky scareheads and that learned editors should discourse knowingly of the limitations of mentality and the well authenticated cases of the sudden warping of abnormal intelligences resulting in the startling termination of amazing careers or sniveled dismally over the complete collapse of that imaginative power which hitherto had been this detective's greatest asset and which now, on the principle that however deep a well may be if a force-pump be put into it it must some time suck gravel seemed to have come to its end. These things when Clicke heard of them affected him not at all. He seemed not to care whether his career was ended or not whether the world praised or censured. Neither his pride nor his vanity was stirred even to the very smallest degree but Narcum loyal still took these gloomy prophecies and editorial vaporings much to heart and strove valiantly to confound the man's detractors and to put the spur to the man himself. He would not believe that the end had come that his mental powers had run suddenly against a dead wall beyond which there was no possibility of proceeding. Something was weighing upon his mind and damping his spirits, that was all. And it must be the business of those who were his friends to take steps to discover what that something was and, if possible, to eliminate it. He therefore sought out Dollops and held secret conclave with him and Dollops dolefully epitomized the difficulty thus. A skirt! That's what's at the bottom of it, sir. No letter at all these ten days past. She's chucked him, I'm afraid. And with this brief preface told all that he was able to tell which, after all, was not much. He could only explain about the letter that used to come off and on in the other days and which brought such a flow of high spirits to the man for whom it was intended. He could only say that it was addressed in a woman's hand and bore always the one postmark. And when Narcom heard what that postmark was and recollected where Lady Chepsto's country seat lay and who was with her, he puckered up his lips as if he were about to whistle and made two slim arches with his uplifted eyebrows. Sir, if only you could sneak off and run down there without his knowing of it. It wouldn't do to write a letter, Mr. Narcombe. He'd be on to that before you could turn round, sir. The boy ventured, hopefully. But if only you could run down there and give her a tip what she's a-doing of and what she's a-chucking away. What a man she's a-throwing down. Maybe, sir, maybe. Yes, maybe, agreed the superintendent after a moment's reflection. At any rate, it's worth a trial. And went forthwith. Not that it was a prudent thing to do. Not that it is wise for any man at any time to interfere even with the best intentions with the course of another man's love affairs. And finally, not that it was a tall necessary or had any influence whatsoever upon the events which succeeded the step. Indeed, he might have spared himself the trouble for he had barely covered a fifth of the distance when the country post was delivered in London. And Cleek, rocketing up in one sweep from the pit to the gateway, stood laughing huskily with a letter from Ailsa in his hand. He ripped off the envelope and read it greedily. Dear friend, she wrote, I cannot imagine what you must think of my silence. But whatsoever you do think cannot be half so terrible as the actual cause of it. I have been in close touch with misery and death, with things so appalling that heart and mind have had room to hold nothing else. Indeed, I am still so horribly nervous and upset that I scarcely know how to think coherently, much less right. I can only remember that you once said that if ever I needed your help, I was to ask. And, oh, Mr. Cleek, I need it very, very much indeed now. Not for myself, let me find time to add that. But for a dear, dear friend, the friend I have so often written about, Captain Morford, who is involved in an affair of the most distressing and mysterious character and whose only hope lies, I feel, in you. Will you come to the rescue for my sake? That is what I am asking. Let me say, however, that there is no possibility of a reward for the Captain is in no position to offer one. But I seem to feel that that will not weigh with you. Neither can I ask you to call at the house, for, as I have already told you, she Chepsto does not care for the Captain, and under those circumstances it would be embarrassing to ask him there to meet you. So then, if no other case intervenes, and you really can grant me this great favour, will you be in the neighbourhood of the Lichgate of Lintonhurst Old Church at nine o'clock in the morning of Thursday? You will win the everlasting gratitude for your sincere friend, El Salon. Would he be there? He laughed aloud as he put the question to himself. A Bradshaw was on his table. He caught it up, found that there was a train that could be caught in thirty-five minutes' time, and clapped on his hat and caught it. That night he slept at the inn of the three desires, which, as you may possibly know, was a size but a gun-shot beyond the boundary wall of the Glebe of Lintonhurst Old Church, slept with an alarm-clock at his head, and every servant at the inn from the boots to the barmaid tipped a shilling to see that he did not oversleep himself. He was up before any of them, however, up and out into the pearl dusk of the morning, before ever the alarm-clock shrilled its first note, the sun's sheen slid lower than the spurs of the weather-cock on the spire of Lintonhurst Old Church, and twice he had walked past the big gates and looked up the still avenue to the windows of the huge house whose roof covered her before Lintonhurst Old Church spoke up through the dawn hush, and told the parish it was half-past four o'clock. By five he had found a pool in the beech-woods with mallows and marsh marigolds and a screen of green things all round it and a tent of blue sky over the sun-touched treetops, and had stripped and splashed into it and set all the birds to flight with the harsher song of human things. By seven he was back at the three desires, by eight he had shaved and changed and breakfasted and was out again in the fields and the leafy lanes, and by nine he was at the litchgate of the church. CHAPTER 31 She was there already, sitting far back at the end of one of the narrow wooden side benches with the shadow of the gate's moss-grown roof and of the big cypress above it, partly screening her. Her shrinking position evincing a desire to escape general observation as clearly as her pale face and nervously drumming hand betrayed a state of extreme agitation. She rose as clique lifted the latch and came in and advanced to meet him with both hands outstretched in greeting and a rich colour staining all her face. I knew that you would come. I was as certain of it as I am now this minute," she said, with a little embarrassed laugh. Then dropped her eyes and said no more, for he had taken those two hands in his and was holding them tightly and looking at her with an expression that was half a reproach and half a caress. I am glad you did not doubt," he said, with an odd, wistful little smile. It is good to know one's friends have faith in one, Miss Lawn. I had almost come to believe that you had forgotten me. Because I did not write. Oh, but I could not. Indeed, I could not. I have been spending days and nights in a house of mourning. Lady Chepster gave me leave of absence and my heart was so full I did not write even to her. I have been trying to soothe and to comfort a distracted girl, a half-crazed old man, a bereft and horribly smitten family. I have been doing all in my power to put hope and courage under the heart of a despairing and most unhappy lover. Meaning Captain Morford. Yes, he has been almost beside himself, and since this last blow fell, oh, I had been so sure that it would not that between us all we would manage to avert it, yet in spite of everything it did fall. It did. If I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget it. Calm yourself, Miss Lawn.  Try to tell me plainly what it is that has happened, what the danger is that threatens this, oh, Captain Morford. Oh, nothing threatens him personally, she replied. He says he could stand it better if it were only that, and I believe him, I truly do. The thing that nearly drives him out of his mind is the thought that one day she, the girl he loves, the girl he is to marry, the girl for whose dear sake he stands ready to give up so much, the thought that one day her turn will come, that one day she too will be stricken down as mother and brothers have been, is almost driving him frantic. Mother and brothers? Brothers? Cleek looked up sharply, and there was a curious break in his voice, a yet more curious brightening of his eyes. Miss Lawn, am I to understand that this Captain Morford is engaged to a girl who has brothers? Yes, that is no. She has brothers no longer. There is only one left living now, Mr. Cleek, only one. Think of it, of that whole family of six persons, but three are left, Miriam, Flora and Ronald. Miriam, Flora and Miss Lawn, will you tell me, please, the name of the lady to whom Captain Morford is engaged? Why, Miriam Comstock, of course, did I forget to mention it? I think so, said Cleek, and shook out a little jerky laugh, and stood looking at her foolishly, not quite knowing what to do with his feet and hands. But suddenly, oh, come, let's have the case, let's have it at once. He broke out impetuously. Tell me what it is, what I'm to do for this Captain Morford, and I'll do it if mortal man can. And no mortal man can if you cannot. I've faith enough in you for that." She began. Then stopped short, and sucked in her breath, and crept back to the extreme end of the lich gate, and stood shaking and very pale. Someone had come suddenly round the angle of the church, and was moving up the road that ran past the gate. Please, no, let me get away as quickly as possible. She said in a swift whisper, as Cleek, startled by the change in her, made an eager step forward. It is known that I have been with them, the Comstocks, and it is all so mysterious and awful. Who can tell whose hand it may be, who may be spying, or what? It is best that I should give no hint that assistance has been asked for. Best that nobody should see me talking with you. Mr. Narcum says that it is. Mr. Narcum? Yes. He was in the neighbourhood accidentally. He called last night. I told him, and he was glad that I had sent for you. He is over there on the other side of the churchyard.  Captain Morford is within easy call, and has agreed to come when he is wanted. Do go, do go quickly, Mr. Cleek. There's someone coming up the road, and I am horribly frightened. But why? It is merely a farm labourer," said Cleek, glancing through the open side of the litchgate and down the road. You can see that for yourself. Yes, but who knows? Who can tell? There is no clue to the actual person, and he is so cunning, so crafty. Oh, please, will you go? Afterward, if you like, we can meet here again. Today I am too frightened to stay. He saw that she was in a state of extreme nervous terror, that it would be cruel to subject her to any further suffering, and without one more word walked past her into the churchyard and made his way over the green ridge that rose immediately behind the building and down the slope beyond until he came to the extreme other side. And there, in the shade of a thickly-grown spinny, he found Mr. Maverick Narcombe, sitting with his back against a beech tree, smoking a nerve-soothing cigar and expectantly awaiting him. My dear fellow, I never was so glad," he said, tossing away his smoke and jumping up as Cleek appeared. A happy coincidence, my motoring down here, eh, what? Wife in these parts visiting. Run, my, turning up just after Miss Lorne had written you and at a time when we both are needed, wasn't it? Very," said Cleek, pulling out a cigarette and stretching himself full-length upon the ground. Would as soon have expected to run foul of a specimen of the great orc, endeavouring to rear a family in the neighbourhood of Trafalgar Square. Well, what's it now, Mr. Narcombe? I'm told you know the details. A match, please, if you have one. Thanks very much. Now then, let's have the facts. What sort of a case is it? The naughtiest in all my experience. The strangest that even you have ever handled," replied the superintendent impressively. It's a murder. Three murders, in fact, with a possible fourth and a fifth in the near future if the diabolical rascal who is at the bottom of it isn't pulled up sharp and his amazing modus operandi discovered. The case will interest you, my dear chap. It is so startlingly original in its methods of procedure. So complex, so weird, and so appallingly mysterious. Conceive, if you can, my dear fellow, an individual so supernaturally cunning that he not only kills without a trace, but kills in the presence of watchers. Kills whilst the victim is in the very arms of those watchers, and yet escapes unseen, unknown, without a clue to tell when, where, or how he entered the room or left it, when, where, or how he struck the blow or why. Yet did strike it, despite the sleepless vigil of a man who not only sat up all night with the victim, but held him in his arms to be sure that nobody could get at him. Nobody is so much as approach him without his guardian's knowledge. Creek twitched round sharply and sat up, leaning upon his elbow and looking at Narcum as though he darted his sanity. Let me have that again, he said in sharp, crisp tones. A man killed whilst another man held him, held him in his arms, and watched over him, and yet the other man saw nothing of the murderer. Is that what you said? That's it precisely. Only I must tell you that in the instance when the victim was held in the arms of the person watching him, it was not a man that was killed, but a boy. There had been a man killed, however, four weeks previously in the same house, in the same mysterious manner, and by the same unknown agency. A month earlier a woman, too, had been done to death there in the same way. The man was the brother of that boy, and the woman was the mother of both. Cleek moved so quickly that he might fairly have been said to flash from a sitting to a standing position, and then began to feel round in his pockets for his cigarette case with a nervous sort of haste, which Narcom knew and understood. Ah, he said in a tone of satisfaction. I thought the case would interest you. You've been down in the dumps lately and needed something to buck you up a bit. I told Captain Morford that this would be sure to do it. Heard of him, haven't you? Extremely nice chap. Home on leave from Bombay. Only recently got his captaincy. Grandson and heir to that fine old snob, Sir Gilbert Morford, who's known everywhere as the titled teapot. You know, Morford and Morford's unrivaled tea, knighted for something or other. The Lord knows what or why, and puts on more side of his tin-plate title than royalty itself. The captain is a decent sort, however. He'll give you the full particulars of this astounding case. Wait a bit, I'll call him. Pausing a moment to put the first two fingers of each hand into his mouth, and blow out a shrill ear-splitting whistle. That'll fetch him. He'll be here before you can say Jack Robinson. He wasn't, of course, but you couldn't have said it half a hundred times before he was, or at least before Cleeke, startled by a rustling of the bows, glanced round, and saw a tall, fairish young man who had no more the appearance of a soldier than a current has of a gooseberry. He looked more like a bank clerk than anything else that Cleeke could think of at the minute, and none too prepossessing bank clerk at that, for nature had not been any too lavish of her gifts as regards personal attractiveness. Seeming to prefer to make up for her miserliness in the bestowal of good looks by an absolute prodigality in the gifts of ears. Ears as big as an oyster-shell, and so prominent that they seemed even larger than they were, and that is saying a great deal. Still, unprepossessing as the man was, there was a certain charm of manner about him and a certain attractiveness in his voice, Cleeke discovered, when he was introduced to him and found himself being sized up, so to speak, by a pair of keen grey eyes. Now let us have the details of the case, if you please, Captain," said Cleeke, coming to the point of the interview with as little beating about the bush as possible. Mr. Narcombe has given me a vague idea of the nature of it, but I want something more than that, of course. I am told that three persons in one family have been done to death in a most mysterious manner, and without any clue to the assassin or his motive. Indeed, that the hand which strikes, strikes even in the presence of others, yet remains unknown and invisible. Frankly, I never heard of but one instance which at all resembles this, or—no, Mr. Narcombe, it is nothing that ever came your way, no affair that has happened since you and I first met, sir. It was a long time ago, eight or ten years to be exact, and a good many miles from England. The cases were somewhat similar judging from the scanty outline you have given me, and—what's that? No, the criminal was never apprehended. He got away, and his methods were never generally known. Even if they had been, there were not those which any desperado might have emulated, any Tyro practised. They required a certain knowledge of anatomy, chemical action, even surgery. I don't believe that ten people in the world knew about the thing at that time. I stumbled upon what I believed was a solution of the mystery, whilst I was taking a course of chemistry for—well, for the purpose of demonstrating the possibility of manufacturing precious stones of a size and weight to make them a profitable speculation. The science in medicine was not so advanced in those days, as it is now, and when I ventured to suggest to certain doctors what I believed to have been the cause of the mysterious deaths and the modus operandi of the murderer, I simply got laughed at for my pains. I felt pretty certain of my facts, however, and pretty certain of the man who was guilty. A pardon? No, not alive now. That fellow had his brains blown out in a bar and brawl before I left New Zealand. New Zealand? struck in Captain Morford agitatively. I say that's a rum go, isn't it, Mr. Nockham? New Zealand is where the Comstocks come from, or rather the father and mother did. By Jove, clique, that looks suspicious, old chap! chimed in, Nockham. Don't think, do you, that there can possibly be any connection between the two cases? In other words, that fellow you suspected in New Zealand didn't really die after all. Shortly, they're chemists, not a doubt about his death, Mr. Nockham. I was in the bar room when he was killed. Three bullets went through his head and he was as dead as Napoleon Bonaparte by the time he struck the floor. The methods may be the same, but not the man. There is not the ghost of possibility of there being any connection between the two. But let us give the Captain a chance to explain the case. When, where and how did these mysterious murders begin, Captain, if you please? At Lylek Lodge, over winter-way, replied the Captain, trying to answer all three questions at once. They started about a week after the Comstocks went to live there, and the thing was so appalling that place seemed so certainly under a curse that although he had paid a good round sum for it and had spent a pot of money having the house decorated and the garden laid out just as Miriam and her mother fancied it. Miriam is Miss Comstock, my fiancée, Mr. Clicke. Nothing would induce Mr. Hamstead to stop in it another hour after the second murder occurred. Mr. Hamstead? Who is Mr. Hamstead, Captain? The late Mrs. Comstock's bachelor uncle, a very rich old chap who was once a sheep farmer in New Zealand and afterwards in Australia. Mrs. Comstock hadn't seen him since she was a very little girl, until he came to England some few months ago, to settle down and to take care of her children and her. How did it happen that she hadn't seen him in all that time? I take it there must have been some good reason, Captain. Yes, rather. You see, it was like this. The Hamsteads—Mrs. Comstock was a Hamstead by birth, and Uncle Phil was her father's only brother. The Hamsteads had never been well to do as a family. Indeed, none of them, but dear old Uncle Phil, ever had a hundred pounds they could call their own, so when Miss Hamstead's father died, which was about eight months after his brother left New Zealand and went to Australia, she married a young joiner and cabinet-maker, George Comstock, to whom she had long been engaged, and a few weeks later, fancying there would be a better chance for advancement in his trade in England than out there. Mr. Comstock sold out what few belongings he had in the world, and brought his wife over here. Ah, I see! Then, of course, she had no opportunity of seeing her uncle until he came here. No, not a ghost of one. She corresponded with him for a time, however, wrote him after the first child was born, and christened Philip in honour of him. In those days it used to take six months to get a letter to Australia, and another six to get word back. So the baby was more than a year old when Uncle Phil wrote that if he didn't marry in the meantime and have a son of his own, which was very unlikely, he would make young Phil his heir, and come out after him, too, one of these fine days. One moment. Was the person you allude to as young Phil one of the sons that was murdered? Yes, he was the first victim, poor chap. Oh, I see! said Cleak. I see! So there is money in the background, eh? Well, go on. What next? Hear any more from Uncle Phil after that? Oh, yes, for a long time. Miriam and Flora were born, and word of their arrival in the world was sent out to him before the final letter for years and years reached them. In that letter he wrote that he was doing better and better every year, and getting so rich that he didn't have time to do anything but just stop where he was and gather in the shekels. There'd be enough for all when he did come, however, and he was altering his will so that in case anything should happen to young Phil which, God forbid, he wrote, the girls would come next, and so on, to all the heirs of his niece. After that letter years went by, and never another one. There he, thinking that he had married after all, for in his last letter he had spoken of a young widow who had lately been engaged to fill the post of housekeeper at his ranch, gave up all hope when, after three times writing, no reply came, and finally desisted entirely. He says, however, that it was just the other way about, that he did write, wrote six or seven times, but could get no reply. And as he afterwards found the housekeeper in question a designing and deceitful person, and shipped her off about her business, he makes no doubt that she received and destroyed Mrs. Comstock's letter to him, and burnt his to her, hoping no doubt to invagle him into marrying her. Quite likely if she were a designing woman, commented Cleek, but go on, please, what next? Oh, years of hardship, during which Mr. Comstock died, and his widow had to earn their own living unaided. Young Phil got a post as bookkeeper, flora taught music and painting. Mrs. Comstock did needlework, and Miriam became a governess in the family of a distant connection of my grandfather, Sir Gilbert Moorford. That's where and how I met her, Mr. Cleek, and—well, that's another story. His cheeks reddening, and a flash of fire coming into his eyes. My grandfather says he will chuck me out neck and crop if I marry her. But it does not matter. I will. Yes, you will if the cut of that chin stands for anything, commented Cleek. Well, to get on, the Comstocks were down in the deeps, and no hope of hearing any more from Australia and Uncle Phil, eh? What next? Why, all of a sudden, he dropped in on them, bless his bully old heart, and then goodbye to hard times and any more struggling for them. He'd been in England, searching for them, for seven months, before he found them, but when he did find them, there was a time. Inside of ten hours, the whole world was changed for them.   And in the midst of all this peace and plenty, brightness and hope, the first blow fell. Mrs. Comstock, going to bed at night in perfect health, was found in the morning, stoned dead. Of course, as no doctor could give a death certificate when none had been in attendance upon her, the law stepped in, the coroner held an inquest, an autopsy was decided upon, and the result of it was a deeper and more amazing mystery than ever. She had died, but from what? Every organ was found to be in a thoroughly healthy condition. The heart was sound, the lungs betrayed no sign of an anaesthetic, the blood and kidneys, not the faintest trace of poison. Everything about her was perfectly normal. She had not died through drugs, she had not died through strangulation, suffocation, electrical shock, or failure of the heart. She had not been stabbed, she had not been shot, she had not succumbed to any mortal disease, yet there she was, stoned dead, slain by something which no one could trace and for which science could find no name. Narcum opened his lips to speak, but Cleak signalled him to silence, and stood studying the captain from under down-drawn brows, looking and listening, and thoughtfully rubbing his thumb and forefinger up and down his chin. End of Chapter 31. Of course the family was horribly shocked and upset by this sudden and mysterious interruption to the dream of peace, went on the captain, but nothing was left but to accept the verdict of death from unknown causes, and to believe it the will of God. The body was buried a few days later, and comforting each other as best they could, the sorrowing uncle and heartbroken nieces and nephews settled down to living their lives without the one who had been the sunshine of the home, and whose loss seemed the greatest blow that could have been dealt them.  Hmm! said Cleek reflectively. Rather significant that. It was, I assume, that circumstance which first suggested the idea of something more than mere chance, being at the back of these sudden and mysterious deaths. That and one other circumstance. The condition of the bed-clothing, Mr. Cleek, showed that in Philip's case there had been something in the nature of a struggle before he had succumbed to the power which had assailed him. In other words, he had not been as doubtless the poor mother had, so infinitely inferior in point of strength to the murderer, as to be absolutely powerless in the wretched grip from the very first instant of the attack. He had fought for his life poor fellow, but it must have been a brief fight, and death itself for almost instantaneous. For although the bed-clothing was tangled round his feet in a manner which could only have occurred in a struggle, he did not live long enough to get off the bed itself, or slide so much as one foot to the floor. He died as his mother had died, and the verdict of the doctors and of the coroner's jury was the same, death from unknown causes. Hmm! said Cleek again. And were all the symptoms, or rather the absence of symptoms, the same? Precisely. All the organs were discovered to be in a normal condition. The blood was untainted by any suggestion of either mineral or animal poison. The heart was sound, the lungs healthy. There was neither an internal disturbance nor an external wound, unless one could call a wound a slight—a very slight swelling upon the left side of the neck. A small thing, not so big as a sixpence. And appearing very much like the inflammation resulting from the bite of a gnat, or a spider, Captain. Exactly like it, Mr. Cleek. In fact, the doctors fancied at first that it was the result of his having been bitten by some poisonous insect, and were for accounting for his death that way. But, of course, the entire absence of poison in the blood soon put an end to that idea, so it was certain that whatever he died from, it was not from a bite or a sting of any sort. Clever chaps, those doctors, commented Cleek with a curious one-sided smile. However, they were quite correct in that I imagine poison, either animal, vegetable, or mineral, was not the means of destruction. Still, I should have thought that at this second postmortem, the likeness of the son's case to that of the mother's, would have impelled them to extra vigilance, and resulted in a much more careful searching and minute examination of the viscera. If my theory is correct, I do not suppose they would have found anything in the contents of the thorax or the abdomen. But it is just possible that analysis of the matter removed from the cranial cavity might have revealed a small blood clot in the brain. The captain twitched up his eyebrows and stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. A fall that, by Jove, you know, this beats me. To think of your guessing that," he said, as a matter of fact, that's precisely what they did to Mr. Cleek. But as they couldn't arrive at any conclusion, nor trace a probable cause of its origin, they were more in the dark than ever. Selwyn, the local practitioner, was for putting it down as a case of apoplexy on the strength of that small blood clot. But as there was an entire absence of every other symptom of apoplectic conditions, the other doctors scouted the suggestion as preposterous, pointed out that generally healthy state of the brain and of the heart, lungs, arterial walls, etc., as utterly refuting such a theory. And in the end the verdict on the son was the verdict given on the mother, death from unknown causes, and he was buried as she had been buried with the secret of the murder undiscovered. And then what, Captain? The family now consisted of Miriam and Flora, the two girls, Paul, a boy of thirteen, old Mr. Homestead's special pride and pet, and Ronald, a little chap of eleven. In this new home they hoped and prayed to be free from the horrible visitant who had made the memory of the old one a nightmare to them. But they couldn't forget Mr. Cleak what the tenth of each month had taken from them, and grew sick with dread at the steady approach of the tenth of this one. And as this is the twelfth, said Cleak, the day before yesterday was the tenth. Did anything happen? Yes, replied the Captain, his voice dropping until it was little more than a whisper. I tried to cheer them. Miss Lawn tried to cheer them. We sat with them, tried to make them think that our presence there would act as a shield and a guard, and tried to think so ourselves. But old Mr. Homestead took even stronger measures. Nothing shall touch Paul, nothing that lives and breathes, he said desperately. I'll take him into my room, I'll sit up with him in my arms all night. And did so? Yes, at twelve o'clock Miss Lawn, Miss Combs, Doc, and I went in to say good night to him.  I'll never forget how he clutched the boy to him, nor the cry he gave when the door opened to admit us, the sob of relief when he saw it was only us.  The last look I had at the picture as I went out, Mr. Cleak, the dear old chap was holding his pert in his arms and smiling down into his boyish face. So he was still sitting, Miss Combs, Doc, tells me, when she came down this morning.  Then called her to his side and shook the little fellow to awaken him. It was then only that he discovered the truth. The boy was stoned dead. End of chapter thirty-two