you believe it, sir. There’s lots of things – pictures and curios which your father, the late Sir Lionel, collected – which would fetch a big price in London, you know, sir.”
“Well,” I laughed, “if burglars really do pay us a visit, Prince will see to them. I’d be sorry to face the dog if I were a thief.”
“So would I, sir. Only there’s such a thing as a dose o’ strychnine on a bit o’ meat, you know.”
“Abroad, yes. In Italy it is the favourite ruse of burglars, Tucker. But here in England we are much more secure.”
And then, watering-can in hand, the faithful old fellow passed out, while I sat down to my lonely breakfast.
A week after I had written to the Charing Cross Post Office I received a note, dated from the Hôtel de la Boule d’Or at Provins, a small town some sixty miles east of Paris.
“I am delighted to have your address,” it read. “At the present moment my movements are very uncertain, but as soon as I can see you again I will write to Upton End. Be careful, however, that when you meet me you are not watched. I fear you may be troubled by unwelcome watchers. If you are, pray forgive me, and recollect how grateful I am to you for the service which you have rendered me, and which one day I hope to repay.”
That was all. There was no signature.
And so I was compelled to wait for a further communication from the man who was undoubtedly in hiding in that obscure old town in the valley of the Voulzie.
Time after time I took out that corroded cylinder – wherein was something which the dead man had declared would cause the whole world to stand aghast – and held it in my hand full of wonder. Upon the table, in the big old-fashioned library, stood the weird little figure of the ancient god of the Egyptians – the great Osiris. Sight of it, each time that I entered there, recalled to me that sunset hour in the little hotel off the Strand, the hour when Melvill Arnold had passed silently to the Beyond.
Three weeks went by in eager expectancy. By careful inquiry and judicious watchfulness, I came to the conclusion that the surveillance set upon me by Scotland Yard had been withdrawn. Hence it seemed to me that they had found traces of the fugitive they sought. Probably, if he were a known criminal, his presence in France had been reported through the Prefecture of Police in Paris. It was part of the international police system to do so.
Was Alfred Dawnay again in peril of arrest, I wondered?
One morning, however, I received the long-expected message, for among my letters I found a note asking me to be alone outside Lathbury – a small hamlet a little way out of Newport Pagnell, on the Northampton Road – at three o’clock that afternoon. The heavy handwriting was the same as the letter from Provins, and I knew it to be from Dawnay.
Therefore, with considerable eagerness, I set out about two o’clock to walk to the place appointed for meeting. I passed up the long street of Newport Pagnell, but nobody followed me. It was early-closing day, and the place was sleepy and deserted. Out again upon the dusty high road I met nobody save a middle-aged man on a motor-cycle, who dashed past me at a tearing pace, and who, as later on I approached the inn at Lathbury, had pulled up to make some repair.
Suddenly I regarded him with suspicion. Was it possible that he was following me to watch my movements?
As I went by he looked up, full into my face, and then I felt certain that I had seen him somewhere before. But where I could not recollect.
I had half a mind to turn back and thus throw him off the scent if he were a detective; nevertheless, compelled as I was to act warily, I strolled on through the village, and out upon the open road, up the hill in the direction of Gaythurst.
I glanced at my watch and found it already a quarter-past three. But nobody was yet in sight. Probably Dawnay was standing concealed somewhere behind the hedge in order to satisfy himself that the coast was quite clear before approaching me.
Behind, at some distance away, I heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and, stepping to the side of the road, prepared to be suffocated by the thick white dust.
The car swung through the village and rushed up the hill, but as it came behind me slowed down, until it passed me at quite a slow pace. Then I saw it was a powerful limousine, painted and upholstered in stone-grey, and within sat a woman alone.
A few yards in front of me it stopped dead, and the woman leaned out of the door, when, to my utter amazement, I recognised her to be the same pretty young girl whom I had seen in Highgate Cemetery – the mysterious person who had so tenderly placed fresh flowers upon the grave of Melvill Arnold.
“Excuse me!” she exclaimed, addressing me in a musical voice, as she opened the door. “I believe you are Mr Kemball, are you not?”
“That certainly is my name,” I said, raising my straw hat instinctively.
“Well, I – I’ve come here to meet you,” she laughed merrily. “Would you come inside, and then I can tell you all.”
So at her invitation I got in beside her, when the ear moved off swiftly again, and next moment we were swinging along towards Northampton, the driver evidently having already received his instructions.
“I suppose I ought to explain, Mr Kemball, that Mr Harvey Shaw, the gentleman known to you as Dawnay, deemed it wiser not to come and meet you in person, because – well – ” and she laughed sweetly, displaying even rows of pearly teeth. “I think you probably realise the reason.”
“Fully,” I answered, quite taken aback by the ruddiness of her appearance. “But I had suspicion as I came along of a motor-cyclist who stopped before the inn. He is a man I have seen somewhere before.”
“Oh, he is a friend. He is there as scout for us,” she said. “He has been watching you, and has signalled that all is clear, and so we may proceed without fear. Mr Shaw has asked me to take you to him.”
“Where is he?”
“At Rockingham, beyond Kettering,” was her reply, and as she turned her splendid brown eyes upon me, I judged her to be about nineteen or twenty, and saw that hers was a face more perfect in its beauty than ever I had before gazed upon. Her sombre black heightened the pallor of her complexion, yet her lips were full and red, her soft cheeks dimpled and perfect in their contour, while her large splendid eyes revealed an inexpressible sweetness and charm. From the first moment I realised that she was full of good-humour, with a bright, cheerful disposition, and yet quiet of manner and full of exquisite refinement. The expression in her great wide-open eyes was perhaps just a trifle too shrewd, and she seemed, as I began to chat with her, possessed of a ready wit and a quaint philosophy.
Of her wondrous and striking beauty there could be no two opinions. She was perfect, from the crown of her neat little straw motor-bonnet to the top of her brown glacé shoe. Her hands were small and well-gloved, and her pointed chin gave to her sweet delicate face an air of piquant irresponsibility that added greatly to her attractiveness.
Between the smart chauffeur and ourselves the window was closed; therefore we could converse without being overheard.
“Mr Shaw told me how generously you assisted him when you met at Totnes,” she exclaimed at last. “Ah, Mr Kemball!” she added, suddenly growing very serious, “you cannot tell how great a service you rendered us then.”
“Us?” I echoed. “Then I presume you are a relation?”
“His
