The Mysterious Three. Le Queux William
Vera’s fair face and appealing eyes floated like a vision into my thoughts. I must see her again, at once – but how could I find her, and where? Would the police try to find her, and her father and mother? But why should they? After all, perhaps Sir Charles and Lady Thorold’s flight from Houghton did not mean that they intended to conceal themselves. What reason could they have for concealment?
Then, all at once, an idea occurred to me. I smiled at my stupidity in not thinking of it before. There was the Thorolds’ house in Belgrave Street. It had been shut up for a long time, but perhaps for some reason they had suddenly decided to go back there. On my arrival at St. Pancras I would at once ring up that house and inquire if they were there.
But I was doomed to disappointment. While the porter was hailing a taxi for me, I went to the station telephone. There were plenty of Thorolds in the telephone-directory that hung inside the glass door, but Sir Charles’ name was missing.
Determined not to be put off, I told the driver to go first to Belgrave Street. The number of the Thorolds’ house was, I remembered, a hundred and two. By the time we got there it was past midnight. The house bore no sign of being occupied. I was about to ring, when a friendly constable with a bull’s-eye lantern prevented me.
“It’s empty, sir,” he said; “has been for months and months, in fact as long as I can remember.”
“But surely there is a caretaker,” I exclaimed.
“Oh, there’s a caretaker, a very old man,” he answered with a grin. “But you won’t get him to come down at this time of night. He’s a character, he is.”
There had been nothing in the newspapers that day, but, on the morning after, the bomb burst.
AMAZING STORY
WELL-KNOWN FAMILY VANISH
BUTLER’S BODY IN THE LAKE
Those headlines, in what news-editors call “war type,” met my eyes as I unfolded the paper.
I was in bed, and my breakfast on the tray beside me grew cold while I devoured the three columns of close-set print describing everything that had occurred from the moment of Sir Charles’ disappearance until the paper had gone to press.
I caught my breath as I came to my own name. My appearance was described in detail, names of my relatives were given, and a brief outline of my father’s brilliant career – for he had been a great soldier – and then all my movements during the past two days were summarised.
I had last been seen, the account ran, dining at the Stag’s Head Hotel with a gentleman, a stranger, whom nobody seemed to know anything about. He had come to the Stag’s Head on the evening of Monday, April 1, engaged a bedroom and a sitting-room in the name of Davies, and he had left on the night of Wednesday, April 3. He had intended, according to the newspaper, to sleep at the Stag’s Head that night, but between ten and eleven o’clock he had changed his mind, packed his suit-case, paid his bill, and left. Where he had come from, none knew; where he had gone, or why, none knew. How he had spent his time from his arrival until his departure, nobody had been able to discover.
“All that is known about him,” ran the newspaper report, “is that he was a personal friend of Mr Richard Ashton, and that he dined at the Stag’s Head Hotel with Mr Ashton on the Wednesday evening, his last meal in the hotel before his hurried departure.”
This was horrible. It seemed to convey indirectly the impression that I knew why the Thorolds had disappeared, and where they had gone. More, a casual reader might easily have been led to suppose that I was implicated in some dark plot, involving the death of the butler. I appeared in the light of a man of mystery, the friend of a man who might, for aught I knew, be some criminal, but whose name – this certainly interested me – he apparently intended should remain secret.
I turned over the page. Good heavens – my portrait! And the one portrait of myself that of all others I detested. Anybody looking at that particular portrait would at once say: “What a villainous man; he looks like a criminal!”
I remembered now, rather bitterly, making that very observation when the proofs had been sent to me by the photographer, and how my friends had laughed and said it was “quite true,” and that it resembled a portrait in a Sunday paper of “the accused in Court.”
There were also portraits of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, and a pretty picture of Vera, the best that had ever been taken of her. But the one portrait that I felt ought to have been reproduced, though it was not, was one of the bearded giant, who had given his name as Davies.
Thoroughly disgusted, I turned without appetite to my tepid breakfast. I had hardly begun to eat, when the telephone at my bedside rang.
Was that Mr Richard Ashton’s flat? asked a voice. Might the speaker speak to him?
Mr Ashton was speaking.
“Oh, this was the office of The Morning. The editor would greatly appreciate Mr Ashton’s courtesy if he would receive one of his representatives. He would not detain him long.”
I gulped a mouthful of tea, then explained that I would sooner not be interviewed. I was extremely sorry, I said, that my name had been dragged into this extraordinary affair.
The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I am at the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally I rang off.
A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what?
“The editor of the – ”
“No,” I answered as politely as I could. “I am extremely sorry. You see, I have just refused to be interviewed by The Morning, and it would hardly be fair to that journal if… Oh, The Morning was a paper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, but still… no… no… I was really sorry… I could not… I…”
I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were four gentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if —
“Tell them,” I interrupted, “that I cannot see them. And, John – ”
“Sir?”
“I am not at home to anybody – anybody at all. You understand?”
“Quite, sir.”
I noticed that his tone was not quite as deferential as usual. I knew the reason. Of course he had seen this odious paper, or some paper more odious still. Probably he and the other servants in the building had been discussing me, and hazarding all sorts of wildly improbable stories about me.
The telephone bell rang again. I forget what I said. I think it was a short prayer, or an invocation of some kind. My first impulse was not to answer the ’phone again at all, but to let the thing go on ringing. It rang so persistently, however, that in desperation I pulled off the receiver.
“Who the dickens is it? What do you want?” I shouted.
I gasped.
“What! Vera? Where are you? I want to see you. I must see you at once!”
My love was in dire distress. I could hear emotion in her voice. My heart beat quickly in my eagerness.
“Oh, come to me – do come to me!” she was saying hurriedly in a low tone, as though fearful of some one overhearing her. “I’m in such trouble, and you alone can help me. Tell me when you will come. Tell me quickly. At any moment someone may catch me talking on the telephone.”
“Where are you? Give me your address, quickly,” I answered, feverishly. I was madly anxious to meet her again.
“We are in London – but we go to Brighton – to-day – this afternoon – ”
“Your address in London, quick.”
“Twenty-six Upper – ”
There was a sudden clatter. The receiver had been put back. Some one had interrupted her.
I tapped the little lever of the instrument repeatedly.
“Number, please,” a monotonous