The Mystery of the Four Fingers. Fred M. White
Then, as if nothing interested him further, he leaned back in his chair, and appeared to give himself over entirely to his enjoyment of the orchestra. In all probability no diner there besides Venner and Gurdon had noticed anything in the least out of the common.
“This is very dramatic,” Gurdon said. “Here is a melo-drama actually taking place in a comedy ‘set’ like this. I am glad you will be in a position later on to gratify my curiosity. I confess I should like to learn something more about this Mark Fenwick, who does not appear to be in the least like one’s idea of the prosaic money spinner.”
“He isn’t,” Venner said grimly. “Anything but that. Why, three years ago that man was as poor and desperate as the most wretched outcast who walks the streets of London to-night. And one thing you may be certain of—wherever you dine from now to your dying day, you will be under the roof of no more diabolical scoundrel than the creature who calls himself Mark Fenwick.”
There was a deep note in Venner’s voice that did not fail to stimulate Gurdon’s curiosity. He glanced again at the millionaire, who appeared to be talking in some foreign tongue with his companion. The tall, fair girl with the shining hair had her back to the friends, so they could not see her face, and when she spoke it was in a tone so low that it was not possible to catch anything more than the sweetness of her voice.
“I wonder what she is doing with him?” Gurdon said. “At any rate, she is English enough. I never saw a woman with a more thoroughbred air. She is looking this way.”
Just for a moment the girl turned her head, and Venner caught a full sight of her face. It was only for an instant; then the fair head was turned again, and the girl appeared to resume her dinner. Venner jumped from his chair and took three strides across the room. He paused there as if struggling to regain possession of himself; then he dropped into his chair again, shielding his face from the light with his hands. Gurdon could see that his companion’s face had turned to a ghastly grey. Veritably it was a night of surprises, quick, dramatic surprises, following close upon one another’s heels.
“What, do you mean to say you know her, too?” Gurdon whispered.
Venner looked up with a strange, unsteady smile on his face. He appeared to be fighting hard to regain his self-control.
“Indeed, I do know her,” he said. “My friend, you are going to have all the surprises you want. What will you say when I tell you that the girl who sits there, utterly unconscious of my presence, and deeming me to be at the other end of the world, is no less a person than—my own wife?”
II. THE FIRST FINGER
Gurdon waited for his companion to go on. It was a boast of his that he had exhausted most of the sensations of life, and that he never allowed anything to astonish him. All the same, he was astonished now, and surprised beyond words. For the last twenty-five years, on and off, he had known Venner. Indeed, there had been few secrets between them since the day when they had come down from Oxford together. From time to time, during his wanderings, Venner had written to his old chum a fairly complete account of his adventures. During the last three years the letters had been meagre and far between; and at their meeting a few days ago, Gurdon had noticed a reticence in the manner of his old chum that he had not seen before.
He waited now, naturally enough, for the other to give some explanation of his extraordinary statement, but Venner appeared to have forgotten all about Gurdon. He sat there shielding one side of his face, heedless of the attentions of the waiter, who proffered him food from time to time.
“Is that all you are going to tell me?” Gurdon asked at length.
“Upon my word, I am very sorry,” Venner said. “But you will excuse me if I say nothing more at present. You can imagine what a shock this has been to me.”
“Of course. I don’t wish to be impertinent, old chap, but I presume that there has been some little misunderstanding—”
“Not in the least. There has been no misunderstanding whatever. I honestly believe that the woman over yonder is still just as passionately fond of me as I am of her. As you know, Gurdon, I never was much of a ladies’ man; in fact, you fellows at Oxford used to chaff me because I was so ill at ease in the society of women. Usually a man like myself falls in love but once in his lifetime, and then never changes. At any rate, that is my case. I worship the ground that girl walks upon. I would have given up my life cheerfully for her; I would do so now if I could save her a moment’s pain. You think, perhaps, that she saw me when she came in here to-night. That is where you have got the impression that there is some misunderstanding between us. You talked just now of dramatic surprises. I could show you one even beyond your powers of imagination if I chose. What would you say if I told you that three years ago I became the husband of that beautiful girl yonder, and that from half-an-hour after the ceremony till the present moment I have never set eyes on her again?”
“It seems almost incredible,” Gurdon exclaimed.
“Yes, I suppose it does. But it is absolutely a fact all the same. I can’t tell you here the romance of my life. I couldn’t do it in surroundings like these. We will go on to your rooms presently, and then I will make a clean breast of the whole thing to you. You may be disposed to laugh at me for a sentimentalist, but I should like to stay here a little longer, if it is only now and again to hear a word or two from her lips. If you will push those flowers across between me and the light I shall be quite secure from observation. I think that will do.”
“But you don’t mean to tell me,” Gurdon murmured, “that the lady in question is the daughter of that picturesque-looking old ruffian, Mark Fenwick?”
“Of course, she isn’t,” Venner said, with great contempt. “What the connection is between them, I cannot say. What strange fate links them together is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I do not like it, but I let it pass, feeling so sure of Vera’s innocence and integrity. But the waiter will tell us. Here, waiter, is the lady dining over there with Mr. Fenwick his daughter or not?”
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter responded. “That is Miss Fenwick.”
There was silence for a moment or two between the two friends. Venner appeared to be deeply immersed in his own thoughts, while Gurdon’s eyes travelled quickly between the table where the millionaire sat and the deep armchair, in which the invalid lay huddled; and Venner now saw that the cripple on the opposite side of the room was regarding Fenwick and his companion with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse.
Dinner had now come pretty well to an end, and the coffee and liqueurs were going round. A cup was placed before Fenwick, who turned to one of the waiters with a quick order which the latter hastened to obey. The order was given so clearly that Gurdon could hear distinctly what it was. He had asked for a light, wherewith to burn the glass of Curacoa which he intended to take, foreign fashion, in his coffee.
“And don’t forget to bring me a wooden match,” he commanded. “Household matches. Last night one of your men brought me a vesta.”
The waiter hurried off to execute his commission, but his intention was anticipated by another waiter who had apparently been doing nothing and hanging about in the background. The second waiter was a small, lithe man, with beady, black eyes and curly hair. For some reason or other, Gurdon noticed him particularly; then he saw a strange thing happen. The little waiter with the snaky hair glanced swiftly across the room in the direction of the cripple huddled up in the armchair. Just as if he had been waiting for a signal, the invalid stretched out one of his long arms, and laid his fingers significantly on the tiny silver box he had deposited on the table some little time before. The small waiter went across the room and deliberately lifted the silver box from the table. He then walked briskly across to where the millionaire was seated, placed the box close to his elbow, and vanished. He seemed to fairly race down the room until he was lost in a pile of palms which masked the door. Gurdon had followed all this with the deepest possible interest. Venner sat there,