The Lost Million Part 41

Slowly--very slowly--Asta recovered consciousness, but I was not allowed to see her, nor was she allowed, indeed, to speak.

Yet the knowledge that my beloved would again be given back to life was, in itself, all-sufficient for me.

I had at least solved two points in that amazing mystery of avarice and cunning. I had discovered the cruel ingenious manner in which Guy Nicholson had been killed because of the knowledge he had accidentally gained, and I had also established the fact that Shaw intended that poor Asta should succ.u.mb.

But what was the motive of this double crime? That point was, in itself, the most puzzling point of all.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER.

Through the whole of the following day I remained at the Hall, but as may be imagined the consternation was great when it became known to the servants, and through them to the countryside, that Mr Harvey Shaw, the eminently respectable county magistrate, was being searched for by the police.

Curious how quickly popularity disappears at the first breath of scandal. The very persons who had been loudest in Shaw's praises were now the first to hint at dark things and declare that they had all along suspected him of leading a double life.

Sir George remained, but the two local pract.i.tioners went forth to do their daily rounds. Asta had greatly improved, and though ordered not to refer to the tragic events of the past few hours, I was allowed to see her for five minutes about seven o'clock.

Wan and very pale, she was in a blue silk dressing-jacket, propped up with pillows. As I entered, she put out her small white hand and a single trembling word, my name, escaped her lips.

I saw in the shaded light that her big eyes were filled with tears-- tears of joy by which mine were also dimmed.

"I've--I've had such a bad dream!" she managed to say. "But, oh! Mr Kemball, how glad I am that it is only a dream, and that the doctor says I am getting better."

"I hope, Miss Seymour, that you'll be quite right and about again within a week," exclaimed Sir George cheerily.

And hearing those words she turned her wonderful eyes full on mine.

What words of sympathy and congratulation I uttered I scarcely know.

How can I remember! I only recollect that when the great specialist touched me upon the shoulder as sign to leave her bedside, I bent and kissed her soft white hand.

All through the day and all that evening I remained eagerly expecting to hear news of Shaw's arrest. Yet, knowing what a past-master he was in the art of evading the police, I despaired that he would ever be caught and brought up for punishment.

As I sat smoking in his armchair in the big morning-room I reflected deeply, and saw with what marvellous cunning and forethought he had misled Nicholson, Asta, myself--and, indeed, everybody--into a belief that he was devoted to the girl whom, so many years ago, he had adopted and brought up as his own daughter.

That decision to kill her lover and afterwards kill her was no sudden impulse, but the result of a carefully thought-out and ingenious plan.

Whether the huge tarantula had been put into my room at that French inn with evil intent, or whether it had got loose, and had concealed itself there, I could not determine. Yet in the case of Guy and Asta there must, I decided, have been some very strong incentive--a motive which none had ever dreamed. As regards the incident at Scarborough, he must have placed the tarantula in Asta's room in secret, and have succeeded in regaining possession of it. Indeed, inquiry I afterwards made showed that he had bribed one of the maid-servants while every one was absent to show him the house, his explanation being that he thought of purchasing it.

Shaw was a master-criminal. Bold and defiant, yet he was at the same time ever ready with means for escape, in case he was cornered. His exploit in the hotel at Aix showed how cunning and clever he was in subterfuge. He preserved a cloak of the highest respectability, and had even succeeded in being placed on the roll of Justices of the Peace--he, the man who regarded murder as the practice of a science, had actually sentenced poachers, wife-beaters, tramps, and drunkards to terms of imprisonment?

And yet so clever had he been that the Criminal Investigation Department had never recognised in the wealthy tenant of Lydford Hall the fugitive for whom they had so long been in search.

A second night I remained there, so as to be near the woman I loved so fervently.

Sir George gave me an a.s.surance, as we sat together before we turned in for a few hours' sleep, that his patient was progressing favourably, and that I might again see her the next day. Cardew also remained, and as we three sat smoking we discussed the strange affair, wondering what motive the man Shaw could possibly have in attempting so ingeniously and in such cold blood a second crime. But we could arrive at no definite conclusion. The whole affair was entirely shrouded in mystery.

In the morning I was permitted to see Asta again. She seemed much better and spoke quite brightly.

"Mr Kemball," she said, after we had been chatting for some minutes, "I--I--I want to tell you something--something very important--when we are alone."

"No, not now. Miss Seymour," interrupted Sir George, shaking his finger at his patient, and laughing. "Later on--a little later on. You must not excite yourself to-day."

And so, with a pretty pout, she was compelled to remain silent at the doctor's orders.

I suppose I must have been there a full quarter of an hour, though the time pa.s.sed so rapidly that it only appeared like a few moments. Then I bade her be of good cheer and went forth again.

She had made no mention of the man who was a fugitive.

The only poignant remark she had made was a warning.

"Be careful when you go into my bedroom. There is something in there,"

she had said. But I had only laughed and promised her that I would not intrude.

About eleven o'clock Redwood arrived, and as he met me in the hall he pushed a copy of that day's _Times_ under my nose, asking--

"Seen this, Mr Kemball? It concerns you, I fancy. That's the name you mentioned yesterday, isn't it?"

Eagerly I scanned the lines which he indicated. It was an advertis.e.m.e.nt, which read--

"_Re_ Melvill, Arnold.--Will the gentleman to whom Mr Melvill Arnold has entrusted a certain ancient object in bronze kindly deliver it according to promise, first communicating with Messrs. Fryer and Davidson, solicitors, 196 London Wall, London, E.C."

I read it again and again.

Then of a sudden I recollected that it was the third of November. On that day I had instructions to deliver the bronze cylinder to the first person who made application for it!

The low, soft-spoken words of the dying man as he had handed me the heavy cylinder, bidding me keep it in safe custody, recurred to me as I stood there with the newspaper in my hand. So I resolved to go at once to London, and call upon the firm who had advertised.

Soon after three o'clock, therefore, I ascended in the lift of a large block of offices in London Wall, and entered the swing doors of Messrs.

Fryer and Davidson.

When asked by the clerk for my name, I gave a card, adding that I had called in response to the advertis.e.m.e.nt, and a few moments later found myself in a comfortable private room with a thin, clean-shaven, thin-faced, alert-looking man of middle age, who introduced himself as Mr Cyril Fryer, the head of the firm.

After thanking me for my call he said--

"Perhaps, Mr Kemball, I may tell you briefly what I know of our client Mr Melvill Arnold's rather eccentric action. He lived mostly abroad in recent years for certain private reasons, and one day, early this year, we received from him a somewhat curious letter upon the notepaper of the Carlton Hotel, saying that he had returned to England unexpectedly, and that he had entrusted a certain bronze cylinder, containing something very important, to the care of a friend. That friend was, curiously enough, not named, but he instructed us to advertise to-day--the third of November. We made inquiry at the Carlton, but he was unknown there.

To-day we have advertised, according to our client's instructions, and you are here in response."

"There is considerable mystery surrounding this affair, Mr Fryer," I exclaimed in reply.

"I do not doubt it. Our client, whom I have known for a good many years, was a very reserved and mysterious man," replied the solicitor, leaning back in his padded chair.

"Well," I said, "I met him on board s.h.i.+p between Naples and London," and then in detail described his sudden illness, how he had induced me to accept the trust, and his death, a narrative to which Mr Fryer listened with greatest interest.

"Then the letter must have been written on the afternoon of his arrival in London. He probably wrote it in the smoking-room of the Carlton.

But why he should seek to mislead us, I cannot imagine," exclaimed the solicitor.

"I recollect," I said. "I was with him in a taxi, when he stopped at the Carlton and went inside, asking me to wait. I did so, and he returned in about a quarter of an hour. In the meantime he must have written to you. He was very ill then, and that same evening he died."

"He did not mention us?"