The Mysterious Three

matter, I had decided that franknesswould be better.

  "I will telephone to St. George's," I said, a little later, "and ask forthe latest news. You'd better not go to see him until thehouse-physician gives you leave. He asked me to tell you that."

  The reply was satisfactory. Sir Charles was not in pain, thehall-porter said. He was slightly feverish. That was all. What grimconsolation!

  Two eager days passed. Still Lady Thorold showed no sign of life. Ihad telephoned to Messrs. Spink and Peters. Also I had telegraphed toHoughton Park, as it was said Lady Thorold intended to return there.But to no purpose. One thing that surprised me was that Whichelo hadnot been to the hospital. Where was he during these days? Had he, too,not heard of the calamity?

  "You have not heard the exciting news," I said to Faulkner, when I methim outside the Devonshire on the way to his club.

  "What exciting news?" he inquired, in his cool phlegmatic way. "You getexcited so easily, Dick, if you will forgive my saying so."

  He listened with interest to the news, and when I had done talking, hesaid quite calmly--

  "Curious to relate, I saw the Baroness, Paulton and Henderson not tenminutes ago."

  "Saw them!" I gasped. "Where?"

  "In Piccadilly, not thirty yards from here. They turned up DoverStreet, and went down in the tube lift."

  "Are you positive?"

  "Quite. I couldn't well forget them. They were walking together,laughing and chatting as though nothing were amiss. I admire that kindof nerve."

  Meanwhile, the newspapers were full of the remarkable discovery of themummified man in Sir Charles Thorold's house in Belgrave Street. Thehole cut in the ceiling gave rise to all sorts of wild surmises.

  It did not, however, occur to any of the reporters that the body mighthave been hidden between the ceiling and the floor.

  What the newspapers worried about most was the mummy's age. Experts puttheir heads together, and put on their spectacles. Some were of theopinion that it must be centuries old. Sir Charles, the one man whomight have thrown some light upon it could not, of course, bequestioned. Only one medical expert, an old professor, differed fromhis _confreres_. A wizened little man, himself not unlike a mummy, hemaintained, in the face of scientific ridicule, that the mummy found inBelgrave Street had been dead "less than twenty years." Further, hepronounced that the method of embalming was a process uncommon in thiscountry or in Egypt, but still in vogue in China and in Mexico. Hebelieved the body to be, he said, that of a man of middle-age, aSpaniard, or possibly a Mexican.

  The news of Sir Charles' condition was more satisfactory that evening,inasmuch as the sister at the hospital told me, when I called, that hewas still no worse. Perhaps, after all, Dr. Agnew had been mistaken.Oh, how I hoped he had been, for my own sake, almost as much as for mydarling's.

  "I think," I said to Vera, whose spirits rose a little when she heard myreport, "that to-morrow morning I will run down to Oakham, to haveanother look at Houghton."

  "What on earth for?" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. "I intendedasking father to-day, when I saw him at the hospital, if the report thathe intended returning to Houghton were true. He seemed so hot andrestless however, that I decided not to ask him until to-morrow. I dobelieve he is going to get better, don't you? But now, tell me whatgood do you think you will do by going out to Houghton?"

  "Good?" I answered. "I don't expect or intend to do good. No, it ismerely that something--I can't tell you what--prompts me to go again tosee the place."

  "How silly!" Vera declared, as I thought rather rudely. Modern girlsare so dreadfully outspoken. I do sometimes wish we were back in thedays when a matron would raise her hands in dismay and exclaim: "Oh,fie!" or "Oh, la!" when a young girl did aught that seemed to her"unladylike."

  Yet, in spite of Vera's remonstrance, I caught a train to Oakham earlynext morning. Sir Charles had had a restless night, the hospital portertold me on the telephone, before I started, but his condition wassurprisingly satisfactory.

  Then I rang up Dr. Agnew.

  "Don't you think he may, after all, recover?" I inquired eagerly.

  In reply the doctor said he "only hoped and trusted that he might."More than that, he would not tell me. I gathered, therefore, that hestill had serious fears.

  I arrived at the _Stag's Head_, in Oakham, in time for lunch. Directlyafter lunch I started out for Houghton in a hired car.

  What a lot had happened, I reflected, as in the same car in which thechauffeur had been shot, we purred down the main street, since I hadlast set out along that road. What a number of stirring incidents hadoccurred--incidents crowded into the space of a few weeks. But at lastthey seemed to be coming to an end. That thought relieved me a gooddeal. Ah, if only--if only Thorold would recover!

  The drive to Houghton from Oakham was a pretty one, past woods and richgrazing pastures until suddenly, turning into the great lodge-gates, wewent for nearly a quarter of a mile up the old beech avenue to wherestood the old Elizabethan house, a large, rambling pile of stone, sofull of historic associations.

  On pulling up at the ancient portico, I found to my surprise, the frontdoor ajar. I pushed it open and entered. There was nobody in the bigstone hall--how well I remembered the last day when we had all had teathere after hunting, and that fateful message from the butler that "Mr.Smithson" had called to see Sir Charles. I made my way into thedrawing-rooms, then into the morning-room, and afterwards into thedining-room. The doors were all unlocked, but the rooms were empty. Itwas while making my way towards the kitchen quarters that I heardfootsteps somewhere in the house.

  They were coming down the back stairs.

  I waited at the foot of the stairs, just out of sight. They were firm,heavy footfalls. A moment later, a tall man stood facing me.

  It was the dark giant I had first met at dinner at the _Stag's Head_,when we had shared a table on the night of the Hunt Ball--the man whom Inow knew to be Henry Whichelo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

  MR. SMITHSON AGAIN.

  He gave a hardly perceptible start on seeing me. Then he extended hisbig hand and grasped mine in the most friendly way.

  "Well, this is a real surprise--a very pleasant surprise, Mr. Ashton,"he said, looking me full in the eyes. "I have often thought of yousince the evening we met and had that pleasant meal together, and I toldyou my name was Smithson, because I knew the name would puzzle you. Andwhat are you doing here? Making an ocular survey--as I am?"

  The ready lie rose to my lips. It is very well for moralists to tell uswe should always speak the truth. There are occasions when an aptitudefor wandering into paths of falsehood may prove extremely useful. Itdid so now.

  "No," I answered, "I'm not. I am on my way to my little place abouttwenty miles from here--it is let now, but I think of returning to livethere--and it occurred to me to look in at Houghton again. I saw itmentioned, in some paper the other day, that the Thorolds arereturning."

  "Yes, that is so," Whichelo answered. "Sir Charles has instructed me tosee to everything, and make all arrangements. I have only to-day heardthat he is very ill at the hospital. Have you seen him?"

  I told him the latest bulletin. Then I asked him if he had any idea ofLady Thorold's whereabouts.

  "All I know," he answered, "is that she was abroad when last I heard ofher."

  "Abroad? Was that lately?"

  "About a week ago. She was then somewhere in the Basses Alpes. Has shenot been to see Sir Charles?"

  "No. We don't know where she is."

  "Who do you mean by `we'?"

  "Vera Thorold and myself."

  "That's strange," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, of course Lady Thoroldcan't have heard of his illness. She would have come at once, or at anyrate have telegraphed, if she had."

  We talked a little longer--we had strolled into the morning-room, andsat down there--when Whichelo said suddenly--

  "That discovery of a mummy in Sir Charles' town house is
curious, eh?How would you account for that, Ashton? And for the hole in theceiling?"

  "I don't account for it at all," I replied quickly, trying to lookunconcerned beneath his narrow, scrutinising gaze. "What is your theorywith regard to it?"

  "Oh, I never theorise in cases of that kind," he replied. "What is theuse of theorising? One is almost certain to be wrong."

  "You must, however," I said with some emphasis, "have some view or otheras to the mummy's age. Do you think it is an ancient mummy, or a modernone?"

  He smiled, showing his wonderfully white teeth, which contrastedstrangely with his crisp, black beard.

  "I