The Secret of the Sands E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Fred M White
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

THE saffron glow in the evening sky filtered into the dining- room at Oversands, and caused the candles on the table to gleam fitfully under their green shades. The rest of the room was in shadow, picked out here and there by the dull gleam of polished oak, the gold picture frames, and the flash of silver on the sideboard. The wax candles made pools of light upon the table, at which three people were seated. At the head, Sir Horace Amory sat, facing his daughter Vera. Lady Amory had been long dead, and to Vera she was little more than a memory.
Over against the old Elizabethan sideboard sat Maria, Lady Amory, widow of Sir Gabriel Amory, Sir Horace's deceased uncle, from whom he had inherited the title and the property. There are few families of standing without some strange story or whispered rumour, and the Amorys were no exception to the rule. The servants in the house and the people in the village generally spoke of Lady Amory with a significant glance or a smile as the case might be.

Leseprobe

Fred M. White

The Secret of the Sands

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Table of contents

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER I.

THE saffron glow in the evening sky filtered into the dining- room at Oversands, and caused the candles on the table to gleam fitfully under their green shades. The rest of the room was in shadow, picked out here and there by the dull gleam of polished oak, the gold picture frames, and the flash of silver on the sideboard. The wax candles made pools of light upon the table, at which three people were seated. At the head, Sir Horace Amory sat, facing his daughter Vera. Lady Amory had been long dead, and to Vera she was little more than a memory. Over against the old Elizabethan sideboard sat Maria, Lady Amory, widow of Sir Gabriel Amory, Sir Horace's deceased uncle, from whom he had inherited the title and the property. There are few families of standing without some strange story or whispered rumour, and the Amorys were no exception to the rule. The servants in the house and the people in the village generally spoke of Lady Amory with a significant glance or a smile as the case might be. It was not that she was old; indeed, in years she had the advantage of Sir Horace. She was beautifully dressed, her face knew no wrinkles, her hair was glossy and abundant. Yet she conveyed the strange, uncomfortable impression that she was a dead thing behind a mask of wax, a corpse that had been galvanised into life. There were times when she talked on everyday topics glibly, though always with an effort, and nobody had ever seen smile on that regular face—the mask never relaxed. She had her moods, too; there were days when she kept to the seclusion of her room and refused to see anybody; at other times she would come down to meals without a word or a sign to those at the table. If she had feeling or affection for a living soul it was for Dick Amory, Sir Horace's scapegrace son, who had elected to try his fortune on the Stock Exchange. The cause of all this was unknown. The tale ran that Sir Gabriel Amory had passed most of his time in the South of France, and had not been in England for many years, while his wife had never been seen until after his death, when she came as a legacy to Oversands. Her secret—if secret she had—she kept rigidly to herself. Years ago she had expressed a desire to have a place of her own, and had taken a large rambling cottage on the far side of the River Fleem, about five miles away. But she was hardly ever there, and seemed to prefer Oversands for the most part. Still, there were certain black hours, when she disappeared and took up her quarters at the cottage, waited upon by a grim, silent old man and his wife, who had been with her all her lifetime. Sir Horace, however, had not the remotest notion who this strange relation of his really was. He could have answered no questions concerning her parentage or pedigree. That she was a lady was evident. He supposed that she was wealthy, but even this was pure surmise. On occasions she wore amazing jewels, but she was neither more nor less than a mystery, and therewith Sir Horace was fain to be content. It was a quiet meal, slow and decorous, and a trifle prolonged for so small a family gathering. Sir Horace was rather given to ceremony. The Amorys were not an old family, Sir Horace being the third of his line. Oversands had come into their possession eighty years before, having been purchased by the first baronet net after he acquired the title. Their wealth had mainly been made in the town of Shoremouth, close by, and the banking firm of Amory and Sons was an important concern still; not what it had been, of course, since the advent of the gigantic joint-stock banks, but a great many people in the town and the country round swore by Amorys. Sir Horace was highly esteemed and his position dignified. And yet he did not altogether look the part of a local magnate as he sat at the head of his dining-table playing with his glass. There was a moody frown on his face, a suggestion of anxiety in his eyes. Usually Vera Amory would have been quick to remark this, but she also appeared to be wrapped up in her own thoughts this evening. She was a dainty little creature, happy of disposition, and generally wore a sunny smile on her fascinating face. She had courage and resolution, too, or the firm lines of her mouth belied her. "If he doesn't mind he'll be in the quicksands!" Lady Amory cried. Her voice rang in the silent room with a startling suddenness, but the remark passed unheeded. These weird suggestions were quite in the ordinary course. The words were loud and distinct, but the wax mask was graven and placid as ever. "The sands will keep their secret," the speaker went on; "but I know them. If anybody says that I pushed her in, they lie. She committed suicide." Again the words rang clear and still, though Lady Amory sat placidly eating an orange. A frown of annoyance crossed Sir Horace's face. There were times when this sort of thing irritated him, and Vera intervened. "Quite right, aunt," she said, soothingly. "It was no fault of yours. Won't you come into the drawing-room with me and have some music?" "I'm going to bed," Lady Amory muttered. "If I don't it will get in the—everything gets into the newspapers nowadays. But they were disappointed about the inquest." Vera led her away gently. The poor creature was in one of her worst moods to-night. Lady Amory suffered herself to be conducted upstairs. "Keep away from the quicksands," she said; "and don't go near the Red House. It's safe for me because I know the secret, but you must avoid the place." The warning was uttered in a hoarse whisper. Vera shuddered slightly. That dangerous and desolate spot by the river near the old Red House had always been a nightmare to her. Gruesome legends hung around it. But why, Vera wondered, should that place be for ever uppermost in the mind of Lady Amory? She could not speak half-a-dozen sentences without alluding to it. More than once when she had wandered from the house she had been found sitting, gazing intently into those boiling, shifting grey sands, whence nothing ever emerged alive that had been engulfed in their deadly coils. With a long sigh of relief Vera found herself alone. The studied calm left her face, and she looked anxious and unhappy. Black and bitter trouble was coming, none the less dreadful because Vera had foreseen it for a long time. She took a letter from her pocket and read it again, though she had the words by heart:

"Meet me by the Red House at ten to-night.You must manage to slip away.I am in the most awful trouble and dare not show up.DICK."

It was not the first time that Dick Amory had distinguished himself in this fashion. His debts had been paid for him more than once; there had been stormy scenes and promises of reform, and on the last occasion Sir Horace had said that in future Dick must look to himself. But this fresh difficulty shaped like a still blacker and more bitter business. If Dick dared not show himself at home, then disgrace, dishonour, and other dreadful things that Vera did not dare to imagine too closely, seemed imminent. Was it possible that the police—— Sir Horace must be told. It was far too serious a problem for Vera to grapple single-handed. It was out of the question that she should go as far as the lonely Red House at that hour of the night. Vera went off at once to the library, where she found her father smoking his after-dinner cigar. He was not alone, as she had expected. A tall young man, with a pleasant, resolute face, lighted by frank, steady grey eyes, stood by the fireplace. He looked very handsome and manly in his evening dress. His features were oddly familiar to Vera. "You need not go away, dear," Sir Horace said. "This is Mr. Ronald Bastable, the son of my old steward, Joseph Bastable." "It is a long time since I saw you last, Miss Vera," the young man said. "Fifteen years, isn't it?" Vera smiled. "We were good friends in those days." Sir Horace frowned. Ronald Bastable appeared to forget that only a few years ago his father had been employed on the Oversands estates in quite a subordinate capacity. Joseph Bastable had made money since then. Half the new houses in the rising watering-place belonged to him, but though he had given his only son a public school and university education, he was still the ex-steward in Sir Horace's eyes. There had been a bitter quarrel between them two years ago, and Joseph Bastable had sworn that Sir Horace should eat his words some day. But Vera remembered nothing of this now. The young man before her had been her playmate. He had shown her where early violets and primroses were to be found, and had brought many additions to the collection of birds' eggs she had been so proud of in those days. Moreover, Ronald Bastable was plainly a gentleman. "My brother would be pleased to see you again," she said. "It's strange you should mention his name," Bastable replied. "I came on purpose to get his address. I called at his office in town, and they said he was probably here." "My son hardly ever comes here," Sir Horace said, stiffly. "I regret I cannot help you." It seemed to Vera that Bastable was looking grave, not to say anxious. "Is it of importance?" she asked. "Certainly," Bastable answered. "I am sorry not to be able to speak more freely, but my business is strictly private. All I can say is that I am extremely disappointed not to find your brother's address." A vague alarm possessed Vera. Was Bastable speaking to her in a language not meant for Sir Horace's ears. It was impossible to listen to those words without feeling that there was something behind them. The speaker was sympathetic, too. He would be a good and loyal friend in the hour of need. An impulse to take him into her confidence gripped Vera. It was singular that, after all these years, she should meet Ronald Bastable again in her present dilemma. "I am vexed," she said; "I would help you if I could. But I am interrupting your talk. Good-night, Mr. Bastable." She slipped out of the room before any effort was made to detain her, but stood in the shadow of the drawing-room waiting eagerly. Come what might, she would take Ronald Bastable into her confidence. At any rate, he would respect her secret, and it might be a matter of life or death to Dick. She heard the library door open presently, and saw Ronald cross the hall. Sir Horace bade his visitor a formal good-night, and fastened the front door behind him. No sooner was he safe in the library again than Vera rapidly crossed the drawing-room and opened the long French window leading to the lawn. The tall, athletic figure of Ronald Bastable was disappearing down the drive. There was not a moment to lose. She ran across the grass, and laid a timid hand on Ronald's arm.

CHAPTER II.

Bastable's eyes shone softly as he turned to his companion. He could see she was in distress. The pleading expression of her face was sufficient to tell him that.

"I hope you won't think this is wrong," she said. "But I have not forgotten. I know your father and mine are bitter enemies, but that is no reason why we should not be friends. It seemed strange that you should come to Oversands to-night of all times, but I see the hand of Providence in it. My brother is in trouble!"

Bastable appeared to hesitate for a moment. "Has he told you this, Miss Vera?" he asked. "Sir Horace does not know——"

"Oh, my father knows nothing. The news only came to me just before dinner. It reached me in the form of a note delivered by a child. Have you seen Dick lately?"

"I have seen a good deal of him in London. I am a barrister, Miss Amory, and belong to the same club as your brother, and more than once I have been in a position to give him some little, well——"

"You have lent him money?" Vera exclaimed. "How odd that Dick should never have mentioned your name in his letters! But I am wasting time. My brother has got into some very serious trouble. He tells me that he dare not show his face at Oversands. Mr. Bastable, is it really as bad as that?"

Bastable looked down into the white, sad face that was turned to his. "I am afraid so," he said, gently. "Dick gave me a hint to that effect a night or two ago. He was anxious that I should advise him. I am inclined to believe that he did not tell me everything, but so far as I could gather it was very bad."

"You mean that that foolish boy has—has disgraced us?"

Bastable was silent for a while. Vera's worst fears were confirmed. "Your brother is very friendly with a lawyer called Bowen," he went on presently. "I fear that Bowen and Dick have been speculating with the property of a client of Bowen's—an old lady who died recently. Her trustees have asked for accounts, and the whole thing must come out. Unless something like twenty thousand pounds is forthcoming in the next few hours it is probable that——"

There was no occasion for Bastable to say more. The thing was as plain as daylight to Vera. Dick was little better than a thief—a criminal flying from justice.

"Oh, this is dreadful," the girl whispered. "It will break my father's heart. But we must save that wretched boy if we can, Mr. Bastable. Have you any scheme——"

"Would it not be as well to find out where he is first?"

"Oh, I had forgotten that!" Vera cried. "Dick is hiding at the Red House. That dreadful place always had a fascination for him. In his letter he says he will be there by ten o'clock to-night, and wants me to meet him. I could not do it—I have as much pluck as most girls—but I simply dare not go. When I came into the library to-night, I was going to tell my father everything. Ought he not to know?"

"Not just now," Bastable said after a pause. "It is possible I may be able to save the situation. I'll go and see Dick for you. I will explain how his address came into my hands. You had better return to the house lest anybody should discover that you have been out."

"How can I thank you for all this kindness?" Vera murmured. "But you will let me know soon? I shall not have a moment's peace so long as that poor boy——"

"I will see you to-morrow?" Bastable suggested. "You must meet me somewhere. I know it is awkward, but in the circumstances it would be imprudent to write. Shall we say to-morrow at midday in the yew avenue?"

"Where we used to meet for one of our stolen expeditions," Vera smiled faintly. "How far off those days appear to be! And to think that you should come back into my life in this fashion. But I must go. Good-night, Mr. Bastable!"

She held out her hands with a sudden impulse that touched Bastable. How sweet and fair and dainty she had grown, to be sure! He had never forgotten his little playmate, though he had not seen her for years. Most of the time she had been at school, and after that quarrel between Sir Horace and his father, Oversands had been a closed place to him. Now she was talking to him as if there were no social gulf between them. Her hands lay in his—he raised one of them to his lips.

"I have always remembered you," he said. "I was glad to help you in the old days, and I will help you now, Miss Vera. If by any possible chance your brother can be saved it shall be done. I have a scheme in my mind, but this is not the time or place to discuss it."

"I must try to be patient till to-morrow," Vera murmured.

"Twelve o'clock to-morrow. I only hope I may bring you good news."

Bastable turned away more or less abruptly and strode down the drive. The full round shield of the silver moon was rising, and his shadow fell on the undergrowth. He had the best part of an hour's walk before him if he wished to reach the Red House near ten o'clock.

He had ample food for thought as he walked along. He was recalling the old days when he and Vera had been children together, she a pretty little thing of seven, he a boy of 12. Then his father had been merely an upper servant of Sir Horace's; but the quarrel followed, and Joseph Bastable was summarily dismissed. There had been some suggestion of dishonesty, but that might have been only idle gossip.

Many things had happened in the past 14 years. In that interval the fortunes of the Amorys had gone back, whilst Joseph Bastable had flourished exceedingly. He had set up in Shoremouth as an agent just at the time when the place had begun to prosper. He had speculated boldly but shrewdly in land, with the result that to-day, as we have said, half the town belonged to him. He had been mainly instrumental in bringing to Shoremouth the joint stock bank that had affected the prosperity of Amory and Sons. He boasted more or less openly that he would bring Sir Horace to his knees and drive him out of Oversands. He had made a gentleman of Ronald—but, then, Ronald was a gentleman in any case.

Joseph Bastable had other ambitions, but these he did not mention in public. He had discussed them with Ronald to the younger man's embarrassment. However, it looked as if fate were about to crystallise these dreams into concrete realities.

The moon was riding high in the blue dome when Ronald left the high ground for the flat marshes by the side of the river. Here it was dreary and desolate to a degree. It seemed almost impossible to believe that the sylvan beauties of Oversands were so near, that within two miles lay the attractive town of Shoremouth.

The tide was out, and the wide range of sands lay bleak and deserted. At certain spots it was possible to cross the river by means of flat rocks that formed stepping-stones, but these depended upon the conditions of the tide, and now and again they were covered with slimy sand and weed that made the passage dangerous. One false step and there was an end of you. The shifting quicksands were capable of sucking down a good-sized boat without leaving a single trace behind.

A hundred yards or so back from the mud and sands stood a house that bore some resemblance to a martello tower. It was a wild and lonely spot, and there were various legends to account for the building of it. It had never been occupied in the recollection of the oldest inhabitant, though it was partially furnished. There had been a rumour lately that Sir Horace had been sounded by a prospective tenant, but he had not confirmed it. The place looked grim and repellent now in the glare of the moon. Ronald approached the building carelessly—he was not in the least afraid of meeting anybody, though it was a spot that most people avoided after dark.

The door yielded as Ronald pushed it; in the dingy sitting-room somebody had been smoking, for the musty atmosphere smelt strongly of tobacco. Very softly Bastable called Dick Amory by name. The call was repeated three times before any reply came. Then a head was cautiously thrust round the doorway from the hall, and Dick Amory entered listlessly. There was an unsteady smile on his weak, handsome face, and the irresolute lips quivered.

"How you frightened me!" he whispered. "I've been sitting in this infernal old kennel till my nerves are all to pieces. How did you manage to find me?"

Bastable proceeded to explain. Amory listened gloomily.

"It's uncommon good of you, old chap," he said. "Well, the mischief is done, and there is no help for it. I expect they have issued a warrant by this time. I should have gone and made a clean breast of it to the old man, but I didn't dare to show myself at Oversands. I'll have to get you to do it for me, Bastable. Don't forget to let me have some cigarettes and whisky to-morrow. I can manage till then. So long as I lie close I'm safe here until the governor can find the money. It will be a bit of a pull for him, especially as things haven't gone very well lately. What a fool I was to let Bowen drag me into this mess! I never had a penny of the money. It's an infernal shame that I should be the one to suffer!"

Amory's voice faded into a whine and something like tears stood in his eyes. It was almost impossible to sympathise with a poor weak creature like this. It was hard to believe that this was a relation of Vera Amory's.

"I should drop that if I were you," Bastable said, sternly. "There is nothing to be gained by self-pity. I have a scheme of sorts, and I want you to follow me carefully. I don't say that I shall be able to save you, but I'm going to have a good try. If——"

Amory grasped the arm of his companion with convulsive force. His face was white and set with ghostly fear. He trembled violently. "Quiet!" he whispered. "There's someone in the house!"

Bastable became rigid at attention. Surely enough somebody was shuffling along the hall towards the door. It seemed to Bastable that he could hear the notes of a tune coming from between half-closed lips. Then the door of the sitting-room opened a little and a hand lay upon the jamb. The hand—long, white, slim, with beautifully-moulded pink nails—stood out clear as a cameo in the white moonlight, and as it came so it vanished.

"Did you see that?" Bastable whispered. "You didn't? It was wonderfully plain. An exquisite slim white hand, with a superb old marquise diamond and ruby ring upon it. I should know that ring again anywhere!"

Amory made no reply for the chattering of his teeth. He managed to find his voice again presently. "Don't move," he whispered. "Don't leave me. Perhaps the fellow has gone away. You never saw any ring; it was pure imagination on your part."

CHAPTER III.

For a moment Ronald Bastable was disposed to regard the whole thing as a delusion. The events of the evening had got upon his nerves, and the rest was a mere matter of imagination. But why should he be a prey to panic? He was young, clean-living, and clean-minded, and, moreover, in excellent training. The hand, too, had been so real; he had noticed the clear pinkness of the nails; he could recognise the marquise ring again anywhere.

A cautious search of the house disclosed nothing in the way of a clue. There was no sign that anybody else had been there. The shabby old furniture and fusty carpets showed no trace of disturbance. The back door was fastened, and the rusty key was in the lock. As to the front door, Bastable had taken the precaution of securing it when he entered. It was still fast.

"Oh, you imagined it all," Dick Amory said, irritably. "Don't keep harping upon that. I've got to remain alone in this dismal hole all night, and I don't want my mind filled with horrors. Now, what's to be done?"

Apparently very little could be done as far as Bastable could see. A scheme was maturing in his mind, but the time was not ripe yet. He went off presently towards Shoremouth. He promised to look up Amory again in the morning. Just now he felt in the mood for company. It was not too late to turn into the club for an hour.

The club of Shoremouth was somewhat of a new institution. There were a great many residents with plenty of time on their hands, retired soldiers and sailors and the like, who had come to the place on account of its bracing air, and there was also a fair sprinkling of visitors most of the year round. In the season the club was crowded with temporary members affiliated to various London institutions of a similar kind. The club was always open to visitors of undoubted social position.

The smoking room was comparatively empty as Ronald entered. It would be a good idea to look at the London evening papers. He might glean some information as to what was happening as to the affair of Dick Amory and his quondam friend Bowen, the solicitor. Probably a warrant had been issued for the apprehension of both. If so, it would be well to know how the land lay. Perhaps, up to the present, no ugly suspicions had been aroused. Still, he must make sure.

Ronald turned over an evening paper carefully. Here was something at length that promised to be of interest. It related to a missing solicitor:—

"STRANGE AFFAIR IN IVY COURT.""The police authorities are investigating a remarkable affair in connection with the disappearance of a well-known city solicitor, Mr. Arthur Bowen by name. For some years past Mr. Bowen has tenanted offices situated in Ivy Court, Fenchurch-street, a blind thoroughfare occupied for the most part by warehouses. At the end of the court, facing the street, is a small house of two rooms, rented by Mr. Bowen, who retains the upstairs room for his own office, whilst the two clerks work downstairs. At certain times of the day the court is comparatively deserted, since the warehouses can be entered by side doors, and in any case are mostly used for the purposes of import and export only. Thus the majority of the people passing along the court are clients and solicitors, who come to call on Mr. Bowen."Yesterday morning, Mr. Bowen came to business as usual. He greeted his two clerks in his usual cheery manner, and then proceeded to his own room to transact the business of the day. About 12 o'clock a telegram arrived from a client in the country who needed some papers urgently, and one of the clerks was despatched with them by train a few minutes after the receipt of the wire. At half-past 12 the other clerk went off to his lunch. On his return an hour later he found nobody in the office, for apparently Mr. Bowen had been called out on business."As the cash-box was open and several important papers lay about, the clerk went to Mr. Bowen's room to see if anything was wrong. The room was empty, papers and documents were scattered about in disorder, and the large safe in the corner had vanished. The safe, weighing upwards of a ton, had been wrenched from the walls and carried away bodily. All the private books and ledgers had gone also, and no trace of Mr. Bowen could be seen. On the office table were several spots of blood and a soaked handkerchief with the unfortunate solicitor's monogram upon it."We understand that, up to the time of going to press, the police have been unable to throw much, if any, light on the mystery. Nothing more has been seen of Mr. Bowen, and the authorities are compelled to believe that he has been the victim of foul play. If so, it passes comprehension how a brutal crime could have been accomplished in broad daylight within a few yards of a busy thoroughfare like Fenchurch-street."

Ronald Bastable read the paragraph again. It certainly was a most remarkable chain of events. Bowen appeared to be a man who possessed powerful enemies. At any rate, this would mean a respite for Dick Amory. It would give him time to turn round and find the money he had embezzled along with Bowen. Ronald was about to throw the paper aside when something in the "stop press" edition attracted his attention:—

"A CLUE TO THE IVY COURT MYSTERY.""Late this afternoon the police were called up on the telephone by a firm of carriers and furniture dealers carrying on business in College Place. The firm appear to have had an express letter from Mr. Brown asking that a van should be sent round to Ivy Court at one o'clock precisely to remove some furniture and a safe to premises in Orchard Lane. The van was despatched at the precise time mentioned in the letter, and the carter in charge was met at the entrance to the court by a gentleman, who informed him that the goods were not ready yet, but that they would be packed with as little delay as possible. The van was backed into the court, and the gentleman gave the driver, and vanman half-a-crown, at the same time telling them to get some refreshment, as their services would not be required or half an hour at least."On the men returning at the expiration of the time, they found that the offices were empty and the van had been removed. The rooms were in a state of disorder, the safe had been cut from the wall, and no sign of it was to be seen. In the course of the afternoon the van was discovered near St. Paul's Churchyard, empty and apparently derelict. The police are now making a diligent search for a thin man of middle age with a dark moustache, speaking with a slight foreign accent, this being the description of the stranger who handed the half-crown to the vanman and his colleague. The police have satisfied themselves that the letter ordering the van and purporting to be in Mr. Bowen's handwriting is a forgery."

Here was a fascinating mystery in itself, quite apart from any connection it might have with the fortunes of Dick Amory. It was a daring and original scheme, and had succeeded by reason of its simple audacity. Probably the telegram which had drawn one clerk out of the way was a blind. Beyond all question these scoundrels knew every detail of the daily routine in Bowen's office. They were aware that the lawyer was in the habit of being alone in his office for an hour in the middle of the day. It was the hour, too, when the business of the city was generally at a standstill; and if anybody did come along, a confederate could easily put him off with an excuse. A blow on the head would keep Bowen quiet whilst the thieves were removing the safe. The way in which they had obtained the van was ingenious. Here was a crime that London would already be discussing.

One or two other people had lounged into the smoking-room. These persons were unknown to Ronald, and he put them down as visitors. Two men came in presently and sat down immediately opposite to him. They were evidently strangers, from the way in which they glanced about them. The elder of the two was tall and somewhat striking-looking; he had a fierce military moustache obviously dyed some purple hue and waxed in spikes that turned upwards. He wore a glass in his right eye, and he spoke to the waiter with a foreign accent. The other man appeared to be timid and retiring and glanced nervously about him as if afraid of something. His face was half-hidden behind a bushy beard and whiskers of iron grey; his eyes were shielded by blue glasses. Evidently the man suffered from some nervous trouble; plenty of such came to Shoremouth for the air at all times of the year. With a ready ease and politeness, the foreigner dropped into conversation with Ronald.

"Very pleasant quarters you have here, sir," he said. "It's a change after the bustle and glitter of a London club. My friend, Sir George Lumley, recommended me to come here and bring my relative, Mr. Sexton. He's been working too hard, with the inevitable result. But they tell me there is no air like Shoremouth for nerves."

"Many doctors recommend it," Ronald said.

"Ah! They are right sir," the man with the purple moustache replied. "I feel the better for the change myself. I've had experience of climates all over the world, and I find none to beat England. I speak as a man of science."

"You are thinking of settling here?" Ronald asked, casually.

"Now, how did you guess that, sir?" the stranger asked, smilingly. His keen eyes played over Bastable like a searchlight. "You are a thought-reader. I have taken a hand in most matters connected with practical science, but my latest hobby is the flying machine. Without boasting, I can promise the world something new in that way before long. The difficulty is to find a quiet place for one's experiments. I believe that I have solved the problem here in Shoremouth. I'm talking of a place called the Red House. The place has a bad reputation, and most people give it a wide berth. Those lonely sands are an ideal place for aeroplane trials. Who owns the place?"

"It is the property of Sir Horace Amory," Bastable explained.

A queer smile played like summer lightning over the face of the stranger. His moustache seemed to disappear into his lip in a way that struck Ronald as sinister. The nervous little man seemed to be interested now.

"I've heard the name before," the stranger said, drily. "I daresay Sir Horace will only be too glad to let the place, especially if I am prepared to take it as it stands. Sexton, I'll trouble you for the loan of a pencil. I'll take Sir Horace's address."

The little man fished a pencil from his pocket, and the moustachioed stranger proceeded to remove one of his grey suede gloves. As he shot his hand free of his cuff, Ronald started. For a moment his glance was fixed on the hand of the newcomer.

On his third finger he wore a ring. In ordinary circumstances there was nothing remarkable in that. But it happened to be the very marquise ring that Ronald had seen on the hand of the door jamb at the Red House! He looked again to see if he were mistaken. But it was no mistake, he could have sworn to that ring anywhere.

CHAPTER IV.

It required an effort on Ronald's part to control himself and turn his gaze casually elsewhere. He was annoyed to find the nervous little man in the blue spectacles was regarding him suspiciously. But he was sure of his facts, and he was certain as to that magnificent ring. At the risk of incurring further suspicion he must have another look at the stranger. The ring was the same undoubtedly, but the hand was different. This was no long, slim white hand with perfectly manicured nails, pink and white and rounded, but a hand brown and sinewy, the knotted veins standing out from the hairy back like cords. Still, Ronald was far from satisfied.

He was not at all taken with the stranger. The man's manner was easy; he was accustomed to good society; he was cultured and polished. But he was a little too friendly and plausible, and his eyes were those of a wolf. It was singular that a man of this type should view with a favourable eye such a desolate and dreary place as the Red House. His boast as to the aeroplane might be true, or it might be a blind to conceal something sinister. It was significant, too, that the foreigner should be enamoured of the place at the moment when it was imperative that the movements of Dick Amory should be kept secret.

Ronald rose and strode casually into the hall, and thence to the bar. The steward was idle.

"Who is the dark visitor with the eyeglass, Salmon?" Ronald asked.

"Gentleman of the name of De Lava sir—Count Henri De Lava," the steward explained. "He came with Sir George Lumley's card. The other gentleman is an invalid and they are both staying at the Grand. They only joined this afternoon."

"Did they dine here, Salmon?"