The Wiles of the Wicked Part 29

"I never heard of them in all my life. Who are they?" I inquired, interested.

"Friends of yours. They visit here often enough. You surely ought to know them. Lady Fraser is your wife's dearest friend."

"Fraser?" I said reflectively. "The only Fraser I know is a baker in Clare Market, who supplies my old servant, Mrs Parker, with bread."

Then, after a pause, I added, "And you say that these people are friends of mine? Have I many friends?"

"Lots. A rich man has always plenty of good-humoured acquaintances."

"They like to come down here for a breath of country air, I suppose, eh?" I laughed.

"That's about it," he answered. "A good many of them are not very sincere in their friends.h.i.+p, I fear. The man who has money, lives well, keeps a good table, and has choice wines in his cellar need never be at a loss for genial companions."

"You seem to be a bit of a philosopher, my friend." I remarked.

He smiled knowingly.

"I haven't acted as your secretary without learning a few of the crooked ways of the world."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Don't I always act honestly, then?" This was something entirely new.

"n.o.body can be honest in finance."

"Well," I said, resenting his imputation, "I wasn't aware that I had ever swindled a person of sixpence in my life."

"Sixpences in such sums as they deal in at Winchester House don't count.

It's the thousands."

We pa.s.sed a couple of gaping maid-servants in long-stringed caps, who stood aside, looking at me in wonder. No doubt the news that a demented man was in the house had reached the servants' hall. I was, in fact, on show to the domestics.

"Then you mean to imply that these financial dealings of mine--of which, by the way, I have no knowledge whatsoever--are not always quite straight?" I said, as we walked together down a long carpeted corridor.

He looked at me in hesitation.

"It's, of course, business," he answered--"sharp business. I don't mean to imply that the dealings at Winchester House are any more unfair than those of any other financier in the City; but sometimes, you know, there's just a flavour of smartness about them that might be misconstrued by a clever counsel in a criminal court."

"What?" I cried, halting and glaring at him. "Now, be frank with me, Gedge. Tell me plainly, have I ever swindled anybody?"

"Certainly not," he said, laughing. "Why, it's this very smartness that has made you what you are to-day--a millionaire. If you had not been very wide awake and shrewd you'd have been ruined long ago."

"Then, I suppose, I'm well known in the city, eh?"

"Your name's as well known as Bennett's clock, and your credit stands as high as any one's between Ludgate Hill and Fenchurch Street."

"Extraordinary!" I said. "What you tell me sounds like some remarkable fairy tale."

"The balance at your banker's is sufficient proof that what I say is truth," he remarked. "There may be a good many fairy tales in certain prospectuses, but there certainly is none in your financial soundness."

We wandered on from room to room. There must, I think, have been quite thirty sleeping apartments, guests' rooms, etc, all furnished in that same glaring style, that greenery-yellow abomination miscalled art.

"The next room," explained my secretary, as we approached the end of the corridor, "is Mrs Heaton's boudoir. I expect she's in there. I saw Dalton, her maid, enter a moment ago."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, leave her alone!" I said, turning at once on my heel. I had no wish to meet that awful rejuvenated hag again.

I fancy Gedge smiled, but if he did he was very careful to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt from me. He was, without doubt, a very well-trained secretary.

The thought of Mabel Anson crossed my mind. All the recollections of the dinner on the previous night, and the startling discoveries I subsequently made recurred to me at that moment, and I felt dazed and bewildered. This painted and powdered person could surely not be my wife, when I loved Mabel Anson with all my soul! Only yesterday I had sat at her side at dinner, and had felt the pressure of her soft, delicate hand upon mine. No; it could not be that I was actually married. Such a thing was utterly impossible, for surely no man could go through the marriage ceremony without knowing something about it.

Hickman's treachery angered me. Why, I wondered, had he enticed me to his rooms in order to make that extraordinary attempt upon my life? The wound upon my head was undoubtedly due to the blow he had dealt me. The theory that I had accidentally knocked my head against the marble statue and broken it was, I felt a.s.sured, only one of that fool Britten's brilliant ideas with which he misled his too-confiding patients. If this were so, then all the incidents subsequent to my recovery of consciousness were part of the conspiracy which had commenced on the previous night with Hickman's attempt.

We descended the stairs, pa.s.sing the footman Gill, who with a bow, said--

"I hope, sir, you feel better."

"A little," I answered. "Bring me a whisky and soda to the library."

And the man at once disappeared to do my bidding. "I suppose he think's I'm mad," I remarked. "This is a very remarkable _menage_, to say the least."

In the great hall, as I walked towards the library, was a long mirror, and in pa.s.sing I caught sight of my own figure in it. I stopped, and with a loud cry of wonder and dismay stood before it, glaring at my own reflection.

The bandages about my head gave me a terribly invalid appearance, but reflected by that gla.s.s I saw a sight which struck me dumb with amazement. I could not believe my eyes; the thing staggered belief.

On the morning before I had shaved as usual, but the gla.s.s showed that I now wore a well cut, nicely reddish-brown beard!

My face seemed to have changed curiously. I presented an older appearance than on the day before. My hair seemed to have lost its youthful l.u.s.tre, and upon my brow were three distinct lines--the lines of care.

I felt my beard with eager hands. Yes, there was no mistake. It was there, but how it had grown was inconceivable.

Beyond, through the open door, I saw the brilliant sunlight, the green lawn, the bright flowers and cool foliage of the rustling trees.

It was summer. Yet only yesterday was chill, dark winter, with threatening snow.

Had I been asleep like Rip Van Winkle in the legend? "Tell me," I cried excitedly, turning to the man standing behind me, "what's the day of the month to-day?"

"The seventeenth of July."

"July?" I echoed. "And what year is this?"

"Why, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, of course."

"Ninety-six!" I gasped, standing glaring at him in blank amazement.

"Ninety-six?"

"Certainly. Why?"

"Am I really losing my senses?" I cried, dismayed. "_Yesterday was six years ago_!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

GEDGE TELLS THE TRUTH.