seemed compelled to decide that the girl had gone offthrough her own free will, but in order to make quite certain that nomischief was afoot I leaped out of the train just as the whistle soundedfor its departure and searched the station through and through. Not asign of my charge could I discover.
Then I did what, perhaps, I ought to have done in the first place. Ibribed one of the porters to interrogate his comrades on the subject,and finally got word from one of the station hands what appeared to bethe real truth. A portly but distinguished looking stranger, whocarried himself with a military air and was exceedingly well dressed,was observed to step forward to the carriage in which Miss Velasquon wasseated as soon as the train drew to a standstill and to pass her a smallcard on which he had written something in very great haste. The girlnodded instantly she read his message. Thereon, the man whipped out a atrain key, and in a flash threw open the doorway, through which the girlslipped like a shadow, linking her arm in the stranger's as though hewere some old, intimate, and highly-trusted friend. Next instant theywere lost in the maze of people on the platform; but a news lad, whosold papers outside the main exit close to the trams, came forward, andhe declared that he recollected seeing the couple quite well, and thatthey entered a carriage that was waiting near at hand and drove off inthe direction of Victoria.
With that I had to be content. Whether it _was_ good or bad I had nomeans then to determine. I could only hope that things had turned outas well as they ought to have done. Inwardly, however, I registered avow that I would get more at the mind of my employer the next time hesent me tearing half across England to the rescue of a girl, no matterhow fascinating she might be, or in what peril. Then I bought a copy ofone of the evening papers, and hailing a hansom directed the driver totake me back to my offices in Stanton Street, where Don Jose hadpromised to telegraph to me.
For a time I sat well back in the soft, well-upholstered cab and let mythoughts run riot on the extraordinary series of adventures that hadbefallen since I had made that fierce fight in the auction room. Haveyou ever noticed that there is something mysterious in the mere factthat one has purchased a copy of the last edition of a paper that makesone a prey to retrospect? Nine times out of the ten on which I purchasean evening journal I never glance at the columns. But once let me omitto provide myself with a damp, evilly-folded sheet, and I am wretched.All my nerves are on the alert. I can think of nothing to interest me.The shortest journey seems of intolerable length. I finish up fagged,irritable, and stupid.
As a matter of fact, I am certain I should never have looked at thatparticular copy that particular night had not two leather-lunged paper"runners," who live on Metropolitan sensations, suddenly loomed up oneither side of the cab as we rattled past the site of the old MillbankPrison and waved their papers in front of me. "Horrible tragedy inWhitehall Court!" they roared.
The driver whipped up his horse, and the hansom shot past them into thegathering blackness, but the echo of their words rang through my brain."Horrible tragedy in Whitehall Court." Why, I recollected suddenly thatwas where Doris lived! Could something--oh, no, it was ridiculous; thisflight of Camille Velasquon had made me nervous. None the less, I madea frantic grab at my paper--it was a _Globe_, I remember--somehow onealways notes such trifles in a supreme crisis--and with tremblingfingers I turned to the fifth page, where, I knew from old experience, Ishould find the latest and most important intelligence given.
Ah! I was not mistaken. Here it was:
MURDER IN WHITEHALL COURT
ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS CRIME
But what was that? Familiar names? People, scenes, circumstances Irecalled as though they were my own! With a great gasp I held the pinksheet close to the cab lamp, and as we were whirling madly alongParliament Street, close to the actual scene of the crime itself, I readthis account of what had happened whilst I that morning had tried tosnatch but a few hours of broken slumber.
"About half-past six this morning a murder of a peculiarly atrociouscharacter was discovered in that block of flats known as EmbankmentMansions in Whitehall Court. It seems that Colonel Napier's valet, aman named Richardson, who was early awake in consequence of an attack oftoothache, was startled by hearing what he believed was a shout for helpproceeding from his master's room. He went at once to the door andknocked, and, on getting no reply, he turned the handle and entered,when he was horrified to see Colonel Napier stretched on the bed, with agreat dagger-thrust in the region of his heart, and quite dead. An openwindow showed at once the means chosen by the murderer to effect anentrance, which was rendered all the more easy by the fact that an ironpipe ran past it on its way from the roof to the earth. The valetsprang at once to the window, but he could see no sign of any person,and darting to an inner room he turned on a district messenger-call forthe police. Then he ran back to the bedroom. The colonel could notthen have been dead many seconds. Everything pointed to that. Nor wasit clear why the crime had been committed. Nothing had been removedfrom the bedroom--nothing at all. Detective-Inspector Naylor and otherofficers were quickly on the scene, but although they searched theycould not find any trace of the murderer or of the weapon with which theterrible deed was accomplished. At the time of writing, indeed, thecrime is enveloped in mystery, for Colonel Napier, who was formerlyMember of Parliament for Hereford, and had won high recognition forservices on the Indian frontier, was considered by all a most popularman. He was a widower, and leaves only one child, a daughter, who,luckily, at the time of the tragedy was away on a visit."
For a few moments after reading this I confess I felt at a loss tospeak, to move, even to think--the thing was so hideous, so appalling,so complete. The horror of it all seemed so acute that it crushed mebeneath its weight.
I could only sit with eyes that, look where they would, perceivednothing but the dread scene in the death chamber--that man I had a keenaffection for stricken to the heart.
Maybe some of us who suffer such awful shocks get curiously clairvoyantin the moments of our greatest trial. I cannot tell. I only know Idescended from that cab, paid the man his fare, and entered my office inStanton Street, like one in a trance. All the time my brain was beatingthrough a cloud of horror, doubt, and suspicion; but, finally, as Iflung myself into a chair in front of the fire, every point appeared toclear for me as though by magic. Then one terrible question stared upat me with awe-inspiring distinctness:
Was this crime the work of Jose Casteno?
Somehow the problem, when I had once stated it to myself and had takenit for ever out of that dim region of intangible speculation, did notsurprise me very greatly. Instinctively I recalled how significant hadbeen the Spaniard's appeal to the colonel when he threatened to compelDoris to hold no further communication with me. "I beg you withdrawthat, withdraw it this day, or you will regret your determination."Then I saw again Don Jose as he had looked when he knelt, just where Iwas sitting at that moment, with the sullen glare of the flames on hisupturned face and his dagger poised to catch the light on the edge thathe had just finished sharpening with so much intensity and precision.
After all, it was quite possible that the lust of murder had seized himin those seconds, the desire to make good his own words both to thecolonel and to myself. It would appear so easy to commit a crime whenall London slept; and, alas! it had been easy, painfully, pitilesslyeasy, to put an end to that gallant old soldier as he lay slumbering inhis bed. Certainly one great damning fact stood out against Casteno--the killing of the colonel's dog Fate. Who else could have any interestin the stabbing of that poor, faithful brute than the murderer of hismaster? And who else could have made that ugly gash in his side saveJose Casteno?
Nor, indeed, was that the only solid link in the chain of guilt I wasforging against the Spaniard. All at once I recalled how carefully hehad avoided the passage where the spaniel had been stricken down. Wasthat accident--or conscience? Also the agility he had shown inscrambling up that iron pipe outside the hunchback's shop when we wentto spy on Zouche f
rom that upstairs room. He had told me, of course, hehad learned the trick at sea. He may have done that; but might he notalso have acquired some recent practice outside Embankment Mansionswhich it seemed pretty clear the murderer entered by the same method?
Stung to desperation at my own foul success in linking my employer upwith this awful crime I resolved that I would lose no time in trackingthe man down, and his guilt. What did the Lake of Sacred Treasure infar-off Mexico matter to me in an hour red with blood as that was--theblood of one of my best and truest friends? Let the Earl of Fotheringayand Lord Cyril Cuthbertson plot and plan. Let Mr Cooper-Nassingtonferret out Peter Zouche and drag from him the secret of the ciphermanuscripts. Ay, let the Jesuits send their most trusty spies, I atleast would take no hand in the struggle again until I had torn the maskfrom this villain.
Rising impatiently, I began striding rapidly up and down the room.Hitherto the minutes had