Wallace Edgar
The Secret House

"T. B. Smith," said Farrington, shortly. "I have seen him – I have seen everybody but – "

"But – ?"

"The occupant of the royal box. She keeps in the shadow all the time. She is not a detective, too, I suppose?" he asked, sarcastically. He looked round. Frank Doughton, his niece and Lady Dinsmore were engrossed in conversation.

"Poltavo," he said, dropping his voice, "I want to know who that woman is in the opposite box – I have a reason."

The orchestra was playing a soft intermezzo, and of a sudden the lights went down in the house, hushed to silence as the curtain went slowly up upon the second act.

There was a shifting of chairs to distribute the view, a tense moment of silence as the chorus came down a rocky defile and then – a white pencil of flame shot out from the royal box and a sharp crash of a pistol report.

"My God!" gasped Mr. Farrington, and staggered back.

There was a loud babble of voices, a stentorian voice from the back of the stalls shouted, "House lights – quick!" The curtain fell as the house was bathed in the sudden glare of lights.

T. B. saw the flash and leapt for the side aisle: two steps and he was at the door which led to the royal box. It was empty. He passed quickly through the retiring room – empty also, but the private entrance giving on to the street was open and the fog was drifting through in great wreaths.

He stepped out into the street and blew a shrill whistle. Instantly from the gloom came a plain clothes policeman – No, he had seen nobody pass. T. B. went back to the theatre, raced round to the box opposite and found it in confusion.

"Where is Mr. Farrington?" he asked, quickly.

He addressed his remark to Poltavo.

"He is gone," said the other, with a shrug.

"He was here when the pistol was fired – at this box, my friend, as the bullet will testify." He pointed to the mark on the enamelled panel behind. "When the lights came he had gone – that is all."

"He can't have gone," said T. B. shortly. "The theatre is surrounded. I have a warrant for his arrest."

A cry from the girl stopped him. She was white and shaking.

"Arrest!" she gasped, "on what charge?"

"On a charge of being concerned with one Gorth in burglary at the Docks – and with an attempted murder."

"Gorth!" cried the girl, vehemently. "If any man is guilty, it is Gorth – that evil man – "

"Speak softly of the dead," said T. B. gently. "Mr. Gorth, as I have every reason to believe, received wounds from which he died. Perhaps you can enlighten me, Poltavo?"

But the Count could only spread deprecating hands.

T. B. went out into the corridor. There was an emergency exit to the street, but the door was closed. On the floor he found a glove, on the door itself the print of a bloody hand.

But there was no sign of Farrington.

CHAPTER VII

Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his taxi in front of the office of the Evening Times.

He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished, leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an adjoining florist shop.

He took the stairs three at a time.

"Chief in yet?" he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.

"No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record."

Frank nodded.

"I've got to get away early."

Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his papers. He unfolded his Times, his mind intent upon the problem of the missing millionaire. He had not seen Doris since that night in the box. The first paper under his hand was an early edition of a rival evening journal.

He glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed.

Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair.

"What's up?" he inquired.

"Farrington!" said Frank, huskily. "Farrington has committed suicide!"

"Yes, we've a column about it," remarked Jamieson, complacently. "A pretty good story." Then suddenly: "You knew him?" he asked.

Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I – I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared," he said.

Jamieson whistled softly.

Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat.

"I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris – " he broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.

Jamieson looked at him sympathetically.

"Why don't you go round to Brakely Square?" he suggested. "There may be new developments – possibly a mistake. You note that the body has not been discovered."

Out upon the pavement, Frank caught a passing taxi.

He drove first to the city offices which were Farrington's headquarters. A short talk with the chief clerk was more than enlightening. A brief note in the handwriting of the millionaire announced his intention, "tired of the world," to depart therefrom.

"But why?" asked the young man, in bewilderment.

"Mr. Doughton, you don't seem to quite realize the importance of this tragedy," said the chief clerk, quietly. "Mr. Farrington was a financial king – a multi-millionaire. Or at least, he was so considered up till this morning. We have examined his private books, and it now appears that he had speculated heavily during the last few weeks – he has lost everything, every penny of his own and his ward's fortune. Last night, in a fit of despair, he ended his life. Even his chief clerk had no knowledge of his transactions."

Doughton looked at him in a kind of stupefaction. Was it of Farrington the man was talking such drivel? Farrington, who only the week before had told him in high gratification that within the last month he had added a cool million to his ward's marriage portion. Farrington, who had, but two days ago, hinted mysteriously of a gigantic financial coup in the near future. And now all that fortune was lost, and the loser was lying at the bottom of the Thames!

"I think I must be going mad," he muttered. "Mr. Farrington wasn't the kind to kill himself."

"It is not as yet known to the public, but I think I may tell you, since you were a friend of Farrington's, that Mr. T. B. Smith has been given charge of the matter. He will probably wish to know your address. And in the meantime, if you run across anything – "

"Certainly! I will let you know. Smith is an able man, of course." Doughton gave the number of his chambers, and retreated hastily, glad that the man had questioned him no further.

He found his cab and flung himself wearily against the cushions. And now for Doris!

But Doris was not visible. Lady Dinsmore met him in the morning room, her usually serene countenance full of trouble. He took her hand in silence.

"It is good of you, my dear Frank, to come so quickly. You have heard all?"

He nodded.

"How is Doris?"

She sank into a chair and shook her head.

"The child is taking it terribly hard! Quite tearless, but with a face like frozen marble! She refused to believe the news, until she saw his own writing. Then she fainted."

Lady Dinsmore took out her lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"Doris," she continued, in a moment, "has sent for Count Poltavo."

Frank stared at her.

"Why?" he demanded.

Lady Dinsmore shook her head.

"I cannot say, definitely," she replied, with a sigh. "She is a silent girl. But I fancy she feels that the Count knows something – she believes that Gregory met with foul play."

Frank leaned forward.

"My own idea!" he said, quietly.

Lady Dinsmore surveyed him with faint, good-humoured scorn.

"You do not know Gregory," she said, after a pause.

"But – I do not follow you! If it was not murder it must have been suicide. But why should Mr. Farrington kill himself?"

"I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so unselfish," returned Lady Dinsmore, composedly.

"Then what – "

"Why are you so absolutely sure that he is dead?" she asked softly.

Frank stared at her in blank amazement.

"What do you mean?" he gasped. Was she mad also?

"Simply that he is no more dead than you or I," she retorted, coolly. "What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For when did Gregory ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No, depend upon it, he is not dead. For purposes of his own, he is pretending to be. He has decided to exist – surreptitiously."

"Why should he?" asked the bewildered young man. This was the maddest theory of all. His head swam with a riot of conflicting impressions. He seemed to have been hurled headlong into a frightful nightmare, and he longed to emerge again into the light of the prosaic, everyday world.

The door at the farther end of the room opened. He looked up eagerly, half expecting to see Farrington himself, smiling upon the threshold.

It was Doris. She stood there for a moment, uncertain, gazing at them rather strangely. In her white morning dress, slightly crumpled, and her dark hair arranged in smooth bandeaux, she was amazingly like a child. The somewhat cold spring sunlight which streamed through the window showed that the event of the night had already set its mark upon her. There were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.

Frank came forward hastily, everything blotted from his mind but the sight of her white, grief-stricken face. He took both her hands in his warm clasp.

The girl gave him a long, searching scrutiny, then her lips quivered, and with a smothered sob she flung herself into his arms and hid her face on his shoulder.

Frank held her tenderly. "Don't," he whispered unsteadily – "don't cry, dear."

In her sorrow, she was inexpressibly sweet and precious to him.

He bent down and smoothed with gentle fingers the soft, dusky hair. The fragrance of it filled his nostrils. Its softness sent a delicious ecstasy thrilling from his finger-tips up his arm. All his life he would remember this one moment. He gazed down at her tenderly, a wonderful light in his young face.

"Dear!" he whispered again.

She lifted a pallid face to him. Her violet eyes were misty, and tiny drops of dew were still tangled in her lashes.

"You – you are good to me," she murmured.

At his answering look, a faint colour swept into her cheeks. She gently disengaged herself and sat down.

Lady Dinsmore came forward, and seating herself beside the girl upon the divan, drew her close within the shelter of her arms.

"Now, Frank," she said, cheerily, indicating a chair opposite, "sit down, and let us take counsel together. And first of all," – she pressed the girl's cold hand – "let me speak my strongest conviction. Gregory is not dead. Something tells me that he is safe and well."

Doris turned her eyes to the young man wistfully. "You have heard something – later?" she asked.

He shook his head. "There has been no time for fresh developments yet. Scotland Yard is in charge of the affair, and T. B. Smith has been put upon the case."

She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

"He said he was going to arrest him – how strange and ghastly it all is!" she whispered. "I – I cannot get it out of my head. The dark river – my poor uncle – I can see him there – " She broke off.

Lady Dinsmore looked helplessly across to the young man.

It was at that moment that a servant brought a letter.

Lady Dinsmore arched her eyebrows significantly. "Poltavo!" she murmured.

Doris darted forward and took the letter from the salver. She broke the seal and tore out the contents, and seemed to comprehend the message at a glance. A little cry of joy escaped her. Her face, which had been pale, flushed a rosy hue. She bent to read it again, her lips parted. Her whole aspect breathed hope and assurance. She folded the note, slipped it into her bosom, and, without a word, walked from the room.

Frank stared after her, white to the lips with rage and wounded love.

Lady Dinsmore rose briskly to her feet.

"Excuse me. Wait here!" she said, and rustled after her niece.

Frank Doughton paced up and down the room distractedly, momentarily expecting her reappearance. Only a short half-hour ago, with Doris' head upon his breast, he had felt supremely happy; now he was plunged into an abyss of utter wretchedness. What were the contents of that brief note which had affected her so powerfully? Why should she secrete it with such care unless it conveyed a lover's assurance? His foot came into contact with a chair, and he swore under his breath.

The servant, who had entered unobserved, coughed deprecatingly.

"Her ladyship sends her excuses, sir," he said, "and says she will write you later."

He ushered the young man to the outer door.

Upon the top step Frank halted stiffly. He found himself face to face with Poltavo.

The Count greeted him gravely.

"A sad business!" he murmured. "You have seen the ladies? How does Miss Gray bear it? She is well?"

Frank gazed at him darkly.

"Your note recovered her!" he said, quietly.

"Mine!" Surprise was in the Count's voice. "But I have not written. I am come in person."

Frank's face expressed scornful incredulity. He lifted his hat grimly and descended the steps, and came into collision with a smiling, brown-faced man.

"Mr. Smith!" he said, eagerly, "is there any news?"

T. B. looked at him curiously.

"The Thames police have picked up the body of a man bearing upon his person most of Mr. Farrington's private belongings."

"Then it is true! It is suicide?"

T. B. looked past him.

"If a man cut his own head off before jumping into the river, it was suicide," he said carefully, "for the body is headless. As for myself, I have never witnessed such a phenomenon, and I am sceptical."

A train drew into the arrival platform at Waterloo and a tall man alighted. Nearer at hand he did not appear to be so young as the first impression suggested. For there was a powdering of grey at each temple and certain definite lines about his mouth.

His face was tanned brown, and it required no great powers of observation and deduction to appreciate the fact that he had recently returned to England after residence in a hot climate.

He stood on the edge of the curb outside the new entrance of the station, hesitating whether he should take his chance of finding a cab or whether he should pick up one in the street, for the night was wet and cold and his train had been full.

Whilst he stood a big taxi came noiselessly to the curb and the driver touched his cap.

"Thank you," said the man with a smile. "You can drive me to the Metropole."

He swung the door open and his foot was on the step when a hand touched him lightly, and he turned to meet the scrutiny of a pair of humorous grey eyes.

"I think you had better take another cab, Dr. Goldworthy," said the stranger.

"I am afraid – " began the doctor.

The driver of the car, after a swift glance at the new-comer, would have driven off, but an unmistakable detective-officer had jumped on to the step by his side.

"I am sorry," said T. B. Smith, for he it was who had detained the young doctor, "but I will explain. Don't bother about the taxi driver; my men will see after him. You have had a narrow escape of being kidnapped," he added.

He drove the puzzled doctor to Scotland Yard, and piece by piece he extracted the story of one George Doughton who had died in his arms, of a certain box containing papers which the doctor had promised to deliver to Lady Constance, and of how that lady learnt the news of her sometime lover's death.

"Thank you," said T. B. when the other had finished. "I think I understand."

CHAPTER VIII

It was the morning after the recovery of Farrington's body that T. B. Smith sat in his big study overlooking Brakely Square. He had finished his frugal breakfast, the tray had been taken away, and he was busy at his desk when his man-servant announced Lady Constance Dex. T. B. looked at the card with an expressionless face.

"Show the lady up, George," he said, and rose to meet his visitor as she came sweeping through the doorway.

A very beautiful woman was his first impression. Whatever hardness there was in the face, whatever suggestion there might be of those masterful qualities about which he had heard, there could be no questioning the rare clearness of the skin, the glories of those hazel eyes, or the exquisite modelling of the face. He judged her to be on the right side of thirty, and was not far out, for Lady Constance Dex at that time was twenty-seven.

She was well, even richly, dressed, but she did not at first give this impression. T. B. imagined that she might be an authority on dress, and in this he took an accurate view, for though not exactly a leader of fashion, Lady Constance had perfect taste in such matters.

He pulled forward a chair to the side of his desk.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

She gave a brief smile as she seated herself.

"I am afraid you will think I am a bore, disturbing you, Mr. Smith, especially at this hour of the morning, but I wanted to see you about the extraordinary happenings of the past few days. I have just come up to town," she went on; "in fact, I came up the moment I heard the news."

"Mr. Farrington is, or was, a friend of yours?" said T. B.

She nodded.

"He and I have been good friends for many years," she replied, quietly; "he is an extraordinary man with extraordinary qualities."

"By the way," said T. B., "his niece was staying with you a few nights ago, was she not?"

Lady Constance Dex inclined her head.

"She came to a ball I was giving, and stayed the night," she said. "I motored back to Great Bradley after the dance, so that I have not seen her since I bade her good night. I am going along to see what I can do for her," she concluded. She had been speaking very deliberately and calmly, but now it was with an effort that she controlled her voice.

"I understand, Mr. Smith," she said suddenly, "that you have a small scent bottle which is my property; Mr. Farrington wrote to me about it."

T. B. nodded.

"It was found in the area of Mr. Farrington's house," he said, "on the night that the two men were killed in Brakely Square."

"What do you suggest?" she asked.

"I suggest that you were at Mr. Farrington's house that night," said T. B. bluntly. "We are speaking now, Lady Constance, as frankly as it is possible for man and woman to speak. I suggest that you were in the house at the time of the shooting, and that when you heard the shots you doubled back into the house, through the kitchen, and out again by a back way."

He saw her lips press tighter together, and went on carelessly:

"You see, I was not satisfied with the examination I made that night. I came again in the early hours of the morning, when the fog had risen a little, and there was evidence of your retirement plainly to be seen. The back of the house opens into Brakely Mews, and I find there are four motor-cars located in the various garages in that interesting thoroughfare, none of which correspond with the tire tracks which I was able to pick up. My theory is that you heard the altercation before the house, that you came out to listen, not to make your escape, and that when you had satisfied yourself you hurried back to the mews, got into the car which was waiting for you, and drove off through the fog."

"You are quite a real detective," she drawled. "Can you tell me anything more?"

"Save that you drove yourself and that the car was a two-seater, with a self-starting arrangement, I can tell you nothing." She laughed.

"I am afraid you have been all the way to Great Bradley making inquiries," she mocked him. "Everybody there knows I drive a car, and everybody who takes the trouble to find out will learn that it is such a car as you describe."

"But I have not taken that trouble," said T. B. with a smile. "I am curious to know, Lady Constance, what you were doing in the house at that time. I do not for one moment suspect that you shot these men; indeed, I have plenty of evidence that the shots were fired from some other place than the area."

"Suppose I say," she countered, "that I was giving a party that night, that I did not leave my house."

"If you said that," he interrupted, "you would be contradicting something you have already said; namely, that you did leave the house, a journey in the middle of the night as far as I can gather, and evidently one which was of considerable moment."

She looked past him out of the window, her face set, her brows knit in a thoughtful frown.

"I can tell you a lot of things that possibly you do not know," she said, turning to him suddenly. "I can explain my return to Great Bradley very simply. There is a friend of mine, or rather a friend of my friend," she corrected herself, "who has recently returned from West Africa. I received news that he had gone to Great Bradley to carry a message from some one who was very dear to me."

There was a little tremor in her voice, and, perfect actress as she might be, thought T. B., there was little doubt that here she was speaking the truth.

"It was necessary for me that I should not miss this visitor," said Lady Constance, quietly, "though I do not wish to make capital out of that happening."

"I must again interrupt you," said T. B. easily. "The person you are referring to was Dr. Thomas Goldworthy, who has recently returned from an expedition organized by the London School of Tropical Medicine, in Congoland; but your story does not quite tally with the known fact that Dr. Goldworthy arrived in Great Bradley the night before your party, and you interviewed him then. He brought with him a wooden box which he had collected at the Custom House store at the East India Docks. An attempt was made by two burglars to obtain possession of that box and its contents, a fact that interested me considerably, since a friend of mine is engaged upon that somewhat mysterious case of attempted burglary. But that is confusing the issue. These are the facts." He tapped the table slowly as he enumerated them. "Dr. Goldworthy brought this box to Great Bradley, telegraphed to you that he was coming, and you interviewed him. It was subsequent to the interview that you returned to London for your party. Really, Lady Constance, your memory is rather bad."

She faced him suddenly resolute, defiant.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "You do not accuse me of the murder of your two friends; you cannot even accuse me of the attempt on Mr. Farrington. You know so much of my history," she went on, speaking rapidly, "that you may as well know more. Years ago, Mr. Smith, I was engaged to a man, and we were passionately fond of one another. His name was George Doughton."

"The explorer," nodded T. B.

"He went abroad," she continued, "suddenly and unexpectedly, breaking off our engagement for no reason that I could ascertain, and all my letters to him, all my telegrams, and every effort I made to get in touch with him during the time he was in Africa were without avail. For four years I had no communication from him, no explanation of his extraordinary behaviour, and then suddenly I received news of his death. At first it was thought he had died as a result of fever, but Dr. Goldworthy who came to see me convinced me that George Doughton was poisoned by somebody who was interested in his death."

Her voice trembled, but with an effort she recovered herself.

"All these years I have not forgotten him, his face has never left my mind, he has been as precious to me as though he were by my side in the flesh. Love dies very hard in women of my age, Mr. Smith," she said, "and love injured and outraged as mine has been developed all the tiger passion which women can nurture. I have learnt for the first time why George Doughton went out to his death. He used to tell me," she said, as she rose from her chair, and paced the room slowly, "that when you are shooting wild beasts you should always shoot the female of the species first, because if she is left to the last she will avenge her slaughtered mate. There is a terrible time coming for somebody," she said, speaking deliberately.

"For whom?" asked T. B.

She smiled.

"I think you know too much already, Mr. Smith," she said; "you must find out all the rest in your own inimitable way; so far as I am concerned, you must leave me to work out my plan of vengeance. That sounds horribly melodramatic, but I am just as horribly in earnest, as you shall learn. They took George Doughton from me and they murdered him; the man who did this was Montague Fallock, and I am perhaps the only person in the world who has met Montague Fallock in life and have known him to be what he is."

She would say no more, and T. B. was too cautious a man to force the pace at this particular moment. He saw her to the door, where her beautiful limousine was awaiting her.

"I hope to meet you again very soon, Lady Constance."

"Without a warrant?" she smiled.

"I do not think it will be with a warrant," he said, quietly, "unless it is for your friend Fallock."

He stood in the hall and watched the car disappear swiftly round the corner of the square. Scarcely was it out of sight than from the little thoroughfare which leads from the mews at the back of the houses shot a motor-cyclist who followed in the same direction as the car had taken.

T. B. nodded approvingly; he was leaving nothing to chance. Lady Constance Dex would not be left day or night free from observation.

"And she did not mention Farrington!" he said to himself, as he mounted the stairs. "One would almost think he was alive."

It was nine o'clock that evening when the little two-seated motor-car which Lady Constance drove so deftly came spinning along the broad road which runs into Great Bradley, skirted the town by a side road and gained the great rambling rectory which stood apart from the little town in its own beautiful grounds. She sprang lightly out of the car.

The noise of the wheels upon the gravel walk had brought a servant to the door, and she brushed past the serving man without a word; ran upstairs to her own room and closed and locked the door behind her before she switched on the electric light. The electric light was an unusual possession in so small a town, but she owed its presence in the house to her friendship with that extraordinary man who was the occupant of the Secret House.

Three miles away, out of sight of the rectory in a fold of the hill was this great gaunt building, erected, so popular gossip said, by one who had been crossed in love and desired to live the life of a recluse, a desire which was respected by the superstitious town-folk of Great Bradley. The Secret House had been built in the hollow which was known locally as "Murderers' Valley," a pretty little glen which many years before had been the scene of an outrageous crime. The house added to, rather than detracted from, the reputation of the glen; no man saw the occupant of the Secret House; his secretary and his two Italian servants came frequently to Great Bradley to make their purchases; now and again his closed car would whizz through the streets; and Great Bradley, speculating as to the identity of its owner, could do no more than hope that one of these fine days a wheel would come off that closed car and its occupant be forced to disclose himself.

But in the main the town was content to allow the eccentric owner of the Secret House all the privacy he desired. He might do things which were unheard of, as indeed he did, and Great Bradley, standing aloof, was content to thank God that it was not cast in the same bizarre mould as this wealthy unknown, and took comfort from the reflection.

For he did many curious things. He had a power house of his own; you could see the chimney showing over Wadleigh Copse, with dynamos of enormous power which generated all that was necessary for lighting and heating the big house.

There were honest British working men in Great Bradley who spoke bitterly of the owner's preference for foreign labour, and it was a fact that the men engaged in the electrical works were without exception of foreign origin. They had their quarters and lived peacefully apart, neither offering nor desiring the confidence of their fellow-townsmen. They were, in fact, frugal people of the Latin race who had no other wish than to work hard and to save as much of their salaries as was possible in order that at some future date they might return to their beloved Italy, and live in peace with the world; they were well paid for their discretion, a sufficient reason for its continuance.

Lady Constance Dex had been fortunate in that she had secured one of the few favours which the Secret House had shown to the town. An underground cable had been laid to her house, and she alone of all human beings in the world was privileged to enter the home of this mysterious stranger without challenge.

She busied herself for some time changing her dress and removing the signs of her hasty journey from London. Her maid brought her dinner on a tray, and when she had finished she went again into her boudoir, and opening the drawer of her bureau she took out a slender-barrelled revolver. She looked at it for some time, carefully examined the chambers and into each dropped a nickel-tipped cartridge. She snapped back the hinged chamber and slipped the pistol into a pocket of her woollen cloak. She locked the bureau again and went out through the door and down the stairs. Her car was still waiting, but she turned to the servant who stood deferentially by the door.

"Have the car put in the garage," she said; "I am going to see Mrs. Jackson."

"Very good, my lady," said the man.