set me pondering.
“Do you anticipate that he made a will?” I asked. “I think not,” was Shaw’s answer. “He had a strong aversion to making a will, I know, because he feared that after his death the truth might be revealed.”
“The truth concerning what?”
“Concerning a certain chapter of his life which for years had been very carefully hidden. The fact is, Mr Kemball, that he feared exposure!”
“Of what?”
“Of some rather ugly facts. And for that reason he carefully avoided making much explanation to you as to who he really was. He had reasons – very strong reasons – for concealing his actual identity.”
“May I not know them?” I asked very slowly, fixing my eyes upon his.
“Some day,” was the rather strained reply. “Not now – some day – some day. I hope to be in a position to explain all to you – to reveal to you certain matters which will hold you utterly dumbfounded and amazed.”
Chapter Eight
The Story of the Cylinder
I was taking tea beneath the trees with my host and Asta, when there approached a tall, dark-haired athletic young fellow in grey flannels and straw hat. He was smiling merrily, and the sudden light in the girl’s eyes when she saw him was sufficient to reveal to me that they were intimate friends.
They grasped hands, while Shaw exclaimed in his slow deliberate drawl —
“Hulloa, Guy! I thought you had gone up to town?”
“No. I had a wire which put off my appointment until Thursday, so I’ve come over for a cup of tea.” Then she introduced the young fellow to me as Guy Nicholson.
He seated himself in one of the long cane deckchairs, and as Asta handed him some tea the pair began to chat about a tennis tournament which was to be held at a neighbouring house. Presently he turned to me, and we had a long conversation. He had the distinct bearing of a gentleman, smart, spruce, and upright, his handsome smiling face bronzed by the sun, while he seemed brimming over with good-humour.
From the first I instinctively liked him. Shaw explained that the young fellow was a near neighbour, whose father, an ironmaster in the North, had died a couple of years ago, leaving him a handsome fortune.
“He’s always about with Asta,” he added confidently in a low voice. “And I have suspicion that she has grown very fond of him.”
As I glanced across at the pair I saw how well suited they were to each other. She looked the personification of all that is lovely. Her cool muslin blouse and grey skirt fell to her young form prettily; her dark wavy hair shadowed the great brown eyes now that she had removed her motor-bonnet, making them seem to hold in their depths a vague knowledge that should never come to the ken of man, save perhaps at that moment when love would drag from them their slumbering secrets.
But that was only one of Asta’s moods, and almost before I had taken notice of it she was laughing merrily with her companion as she handed him the cake.
I saw that her eyes did not flinch from the steady gaze of those others, but I knew that there was a certain quick thumping beneath the pretty blouse that made her realise she was not quite so adamant as she had believed.
She believed that her secret was her own. It did not matter about her heart. No one could see, and so no one knew.
When we had finished tea the pair rose and strolled away together through the rosery, towards the flower-garden ablaze with bright blossoms. And as they passed beneath the arches of crimson ramblers and were lost to sight, my host exclaimed, with a sigh and a sad smile —
“Ah! How delightful it would be to find oneself young again – young again like you, Mr Kemball!”
I laughed, and we lit cigarettes and began to chat. I confess that the mystery surrounding this man who had so openly admitted to me that he was an adventurer as well as a county magistrate greatly attracted me. I found myself fascinated by the whole unusual circumstances. One curious fact I had noted was that while Asta was aware of Arnold’s death she had never told the man whom she knew as father. What motive had she in concealing the truth? Again, it seemed very evident that the young man Nicholson little dreamed that Mr Harvey Shaw was anything else than the wealthy idler which he pretended to be. And surely Asta had not undeceived him.
As together we strolled about the beautiful well-kept grounds, and as he showed me his motor garage, wherein stood four cars of various types, his electric lighting plant and electric pumps for the water supply, I tried to obtain from him some further information regarding the man Arnold.
But to all my ingenious inquiries he remained dumb.
Therefore I turned my attention to Asta, and discovered that he had adopted her when she was left alone a little child of eight.
“My life, Mr Kemball, has been very full of change and variety. Sometimes for months I have been compelled to live in strict seclusion – sometimes in places hardly civilised. I spent a year in the mountains of Northern Albania, for instance, living with one of the mountain tribes; and on another occasion necessity compelled me to live for eight months in an obscure village in Corfu. But through it all little Asta has been my companion – ah, yes! – and how often she has cheered my lonely, solitary life!”
I saw that, whatever might be this man’s character, he was devoted to her. While she, on her part, had shown herself to be ever watchful of his interests.
“Then she really is quite a cosmopolitan!” I exclaimed.
“Certainly. She speaks three languages perfectly. Few girls of her age have, like her, seen life in all its various phases, from that of the peasant hut to life here in an English home. But,” he added, “when Arnold spoke to you in confidence did he tell you nothing?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Nothing concerning his past?”
“Nothing.”
“He did not mention me – eh?” asked my companion.
“Only to urge me to carry that letter to you at Totnes.”
“And he gave you nothing else? I understood you to say that he treated you with a certain amount of confidence,” and he looked me narrowly in the face.
“He gave me two objects,” I replied. “A small golden figure of the Egyptian god Osiris – a very ancient relic – and a curious and much corroded cylinder of bronze.”
“Great Heavens! The bronze cylinder!” he gasped, starting and standing before me open-mouthed. His face was blanched at mention of it.
“Yes.”
“He gave you that, eh?” he cried in distinct alarm. “And you accepted the trust – you were fool enough to do that?”
“Of course I did. Why?”
“Ah! You would not have done so had you but known the terrible evil which must now threaten you,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, his manner changing to one of great alarm. He seemed agitated and nervous.
“I don’t quite follow you,” I said, much puzzled at
