The Mysterious Three Part 14

I had almost feared the events of the past weeks might have altered her regard for me, and it afforded me intense relief to find I was mistaken.

For I was desperately in love with her, more so than I cared to admit even to myself. And now I found to my joy that my love for her was apparently fully reciprocated.

And yet why should she care for me? This puzzled me, I confess, though I know as a thoroughgoing man of the world and as a cosmopolitan that women do take most curious likes and dislikes. I am neither clever, good-looking nor amusing, nor, I believe, even particularly "good company" as it is called. There are scores upon scores of men just like myself. You meet them everywhere, in town and in the country. Society teems with them, and our clubs are full of them. Men, young and middle aged, who have been educated at the public schools and Universities, who have comfortable incomes, are fond of sport, who travel up and down Europe, who have never in their lives done a stroke of work--and don't intend ever to do one if they can help it--who live solely for amus.e.m.e.nt and for the pleasure of living.

What do women see in such men, women who have plenty of money and therefore do not need to marry in order to secure a home or to better themselves? What did--what could Vera Thorold see in me to attract her, least of all to tempt her to wish to marry me?

"Vera, my dearest," I said, when we had talked of each other's affairs for a considerable time, "why not marry me now? I can get a special licence! Then you will be free of all trouble, and n.o.body will be able to molest you. I shall have a right to protect you in every way possible."

"Free of all trouble if I marry you, Richard?" she answered, reflectively, evading my question, and looking at me queerly.

"And why not?" I asked. I felt rather hurt, for her words seemed to imply some hidden meaning. "Don't you think I shall be good to you and treat you properly?"

"Oh, that would be all right," she answered, apparently amused at my misconstruing her meaning. "I am sure, d.i.c.k, that you would be good to any girl. I have already heard of your spoiling two or three girls, and giving them presents they had no right to accept from you--eh?" she asked mischievously.

I am afraid I turned rather red, for, to be candid, I am something of a fool where women are concerned. At the same time I was surprised at her knowing the truth, and I suppose she guessed this, for, before I had time to speak again, she went on--

"You must not forget that I am a modern girl, my dear old d.i.c.k. I know a great deal that I suppose I have no business to know, and when I hear things I remember them. Don't for a moment flatter yourself that I think you perfect. I don't. My frank opinion of you is that you really are an awfully good sort, kind, sympathetic, unselfish--singularly unselfish for a man--generous to a fault, and extravagant. In short, I like you far, far better than any man I have ever met, and I love you very much, you dear old boy--but there it ends."

"I should rather say it did!" I answered. "If you really think all that of me, I am more than satisfied."

"On the other hand," she continued quickly, "I don't pretend to think-- and you needn't think I do--that you are not just like most other men in some respects, in one respect in particular."

"What is the one respect?"

"You are dreadfully susceptible--oh, yes, d.i.c.k, you are! There is no need for any one to tell me that. I can see it in your face. Your eyes betray you. You have what I once heard a girl friend of mine call, `affectionate eyes.' She said to me: `Never trust a man who has "affectionate eyes," and I never have trusted one--except you.'"

"I am flattered dear. Then why not do what I suggest?" I asked, raising her soft hand to my lips.

"It wouldn't be safe, d.i.c.k, it really wouldn't. We must wait until-- until Paulton is dead."

"Until Paulton--is--until he--is dead!" I gasped. "Good Heavens! that may not be for years!"

She smiled oddly.

"He may live for years, of course," she answered drily.

"What do you mean?" I asked, staring at her in amazement.

"I mean," she said, looking straight at me, and her voice suddenly grew hard, "that when he is dead, the world will be rid of a creature who ought never to have been born."

Her eyes blazed.

"Ah! d.i.c.k--Ah! d.i.c.k!" she went on with extraordinary force, sighing heavily, "if you only knew the life that man has led--the misery he has caused, the horrors that are traceable to his vile diabolical plots. My father and mother are only two of his many victims. He is a man I dread. I am not a coward, no one can call me that, but--but I fear Dago Paulton--I fear him terribly." She was trembling in my arms, though whether through fear, or only from emotion, I could not say. Nor could I think of any apt words which might soothe her, except to say--

"Leave him to me, dearest. Yet from what you tell me," I said after a pause, "I can only suppose that some one is--how shall I put it?--going to encompa.s.s Paulton's death."

"Who knows?" she asked vaguely, looking up into my eyes.

I shrugged my shoulders, but said nothing. There was nothing I could say. This much I had suspected at any rate--Paulton had been responsible for the chauffeur's death--or Vera believed him to have been.

When I left my beloved late that night, and returned to King Street, I was not satisfied with my discoveries. So many mysteries still remained unsolved. What was the danger that had threatened her when she had rung me up at my flat, and begged me to help her? Where had she been staying? What danger threatened her now? What hold had the man Paulton over her, and why did she fear to disobey him? Most perplexing of all-- what was her father's secret, and why had he fled from Houghton?

There were many minor problems, too, which still needed solution. Who was Davies; what was his true name, and why was he so intimate with Sir Charles?

Again I seemed to see that curious stain on the ceiling of the room in Belgrave Street, and once more I wondered what had caused it. It might be, of course, merely a stain caused by some leaking pipe, and yet--

I thought of that remarkable conversation I had heard in the hall of the unoccupied house. What had they meant when they said they must "bring Vera to her senses"? Also, why had they seemed averse from calling in a doctor to see the old man Taylor, and to--

Taylor! I had been so much engrossed with Vera and her bondage of terror for the past few hours that I had forgotten all about him.

Taylor. Had he recovered consciousness, I wondered, or had he--

A cold s.h.i.+ver ran through me as this last thought occurred to me.

It must have been quite two o'clock in the morning before I fell asleep.

I am not an early riser, and my first feeling when I was awakened by John shaking me rather roughly, was one of annoyance. With difficulty I roused myself thoroughly. My servant was standing by the bedside, looking very pale.

"There are two police-officers downstairs," he said huskily. "They have come--they say they have come, sir--"

"Well, out with it," I exclaimed wrathfully, as he checked himself abruptly. "What have they come for? Do they want to see me?"

He braced himself with an effort--

"They say, sir," he answered, "that--that they've come to arrest you!

It is something to do, I think, with some old man who's been found dead in an unoccupied 'ouse."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CONTAINS SOME STRANGE NEWS.

My heart seemed to stop beating. Old Taylor, then, was dead, and I sat up in bed, staring straight before me.

For nearly a minute I did not speak. All the time I felt John's calm gaze, puzzled, inquisitive, fixed upon me. I had gone through enough unhappiness during these past weeks to last me a lifetime, but all that I had endured would be as nothing by comparison with this. I could not blind myself to one fact--I had poisoned old Taylor deliberately. Had I, by some hideous miscalculation, the result of ignorance, overdosed him, and brought his poor old life to a premature end? I might be charged with manslaughter. Or worse!

Why! I might be convicted of murder. I might even be hanged! The grim thought held me breathless.

And Vera--my thoughts fled to her at once--what would become of Vera?

Even if I were only imprisoned, and only for a short spell, Vera would have none to look to for help, none to defend her. She would be at the mercy of her persecutors! I think that thought appalled me even more than the thought that I might be tried for manslaughter or murder.

"Oh," I said at last to John, "it's some mistake. The police have made some grotesque blunder. You had better show them up, and I will talk to them."

No blunder had been made, and I knew it.

I must say that I was surprised at the officers' extreme courtesy.

Seeing they were about to arrest me on suspicion of having caused a man's death, their politeness, their consideration for my feelings, had a touch of irony.

They waited while I had my bath and dressed. Then we all drove together to the police-station, chatting quite pleasantly on topics of pa.s.sing interest. At the police-station my name and address and many other particulars, were taken down in writing. With the utmost gravity a pompous inspector asked me "what birthmarks I possessed, if any," and various other questions ending with "if any." I wondered whether, before he had done, he would ask me my s.e.x--if any.

Nearly a month dragged on--days of anxiety, which seemed years, and I had had no word from Vera!