CHAPTER XXI

SADIE MAXELL was as white as the paper on which she had been writing.

“How did you get in here?”

Timothy did not answer. He stepped round so that he was between the woman and the door.

“Where is Cartwright?”

“Cartwright?” she repeated. “What do you want to know of him?”

“Lower your voice, if you please,” said Timothy sharply. “What is Cartwright to you?”

She licked her dry lips before she spoke. Then:

“I married Cartwright or Benson in Paris—years ago,” she said.

Timothy took a step back.

“You married Cartwright,” he said incredulously. “That explains why you came away?”

She was looking at him steadily.

“If it wanted any explanation—yes,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going after the man you have upstairs, the fake Moor, who came into this house half an hour ago, and I’m going to hand him to justice.”

Before he knew what had happened, she gripped him by his coat with both hands.

“You are not going to do anything of the kind, Mr. ‘Take A Chance’ Anderson,” she said between her teeth, and her voice trembled with passion. “I hated him once, but that was before I knew him. I would sooner see you dead as the other man died than that you should bring him more trouble.”

“Let me go,” said Timothy, trying to press loose her hands.

“You’ll leave this house and forget that you were ever here. Oh, you fool, you fool!”

He had wrenched himself clear of her and flung her backward.

“I have a few words to say to your friend,” he said, “and I think you’d better stay here whilst I’m saying them. I hate having family quarrels in public, anyway.”

He had not heard the door open behind him and it was the “swish” of the loaded cane which warned him. It did not strike him fair on the head, as was intended, but caught him a glancing blow and he fell on his knees, turning his face to his attacker. He knew it was Brown even before the blow fell.

“Shall I settle him?” said a voice as the stick went up again.

“No, no!” cried the woman, “for God’s sake, no!”

It was at that moment that Timothy low-tackled his assailant. Brown tried to strike, but he was too late and went crashing to the floor, his head against the wall. He made one effort to rise, and then with a groan collapsed.

Timothy rose, shaking himself and rubbing his bruised shoulder. Without a word, and with only a look at the woman, he made for the door and banged it in her face. His head was swimming as he made his way up the stairs, swaying at every step. From the broad landing at the top led three doors, only one of which was closed. He turned the handle and went in.

A man was standing by the window, which overlooked the calm expanse of ocean, glittering in the light of the rising sun. From shoulder to heel he was clad in a long white mantle and a dark blue turban encircled his head.

“Now, Cartwright,” said Timothy, “you and I will settle accounts.”

The man had not moved at the sound of the voice, but when Timothy had finished he turned.

“My God!” cried Timothy. “Sir John Maxell.”

CHAPTER THE LAST

“TIMOTHY,” said Mary, “I was just thinking about that beautiful house you took me to see at Cap Martin.”

“Were you, dear?” said Timothy without any show of interest.

They were on the cross-Channel boat and Boulogne was astern.

“Yes,” said the girl. “Do you know, I had a feeling that you had taken me there to show me to somebody, some friend of yours perhaps. All the time I was walking about the garden I had a sense of being watched. It is not an uncomfortable sensation, but just that overlooked feeling one has sometimes. I love Monte Carlo. Do you think we shall go back there after—after——”

“It is likely,” said Timothy.

The girl rose and went forward along the deck to get a view of a passing destroyer. Timothy took a letter from his pocket and read it for about the twentieth time. It was undated and began:

“MY DEAR ANDERSON,—I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your kindness and for the big, generous sympathy you have shown me. Especially am I glad that you brought Mary so that I could see her again, for I just hungered for a sight of the child. Won’t you please forgive Sadie? She acted without my knowledge but in my interests, as she thought, in trying to keep you away from Monte Carlo after she had planned to bring the girl so that I could see her.

“Yes, I killed Cartwright, but I shot him in self-defence. His body lies at the bottom of a disused well in the garden of my house. It is perfectly true that I had been associated in business with him and that I was in his Moorish syndicate and heavily involved. I was so very deeply involved at one time, and so near to ruin that, deceived by some statement which had been made to Sadie’s fortune, I made her acquaintance and married her. During the past year I have never ceased to thank God that I did so, for she had been the most loyal companion and friend that a man could desire.

“It was I who fired the shot through my own window. I contemplated flight from Cartwright, and was manufacturing evidence against him in advance—God forgive me. Sadie guessed, and when she watched me drawing from the well the bag containing proof that Cartwright’s charge was not wholly false, she knew the end was near.

“I am perfectly happy, and spend most of my time developing my property in Morocco, under the protection of El Mograb, an old Moorish friend of mine, and the supreme protection of the Sultan, who, as the Pretender, received considerable help from me. I am six months of the year with Sadie, for Sadie either lives on the Riviera or at Cadiz and is easily reachable in my hired yacht.

“I think it best for all concerned, and especially for our dear Mary, that I remain as dead. Some day the whole story may be told, but no useful purpose would be served by publishing it to-day. The card with the message was intended for her, but I am glad that it fell into your hands. As you guessed, it was I who flung Mary’s money into your room—I dared not post it to her for fear I was betrayed by my writing, and I knew that you were safe. God bless you both and bring you happiness and prosperity, to which I hope this property of mine will one day contribute.”

Timothy folded the letter and was putting it in his pocket, then changed his mind and took it out. He read it again, then tore it into pieces and flung it over the side of the ship.

Then he too went forward to the wife he had married in Paris—much against the wishes of a scandalised Mrs. Renfrew—who nevertheless termed it “a pretty romance” in the article she wrote for the _Bath County Herald_.

THE END

_WARD, LOCK & CO.'S NEW FICTION_

A Wonder for Wise Men By Wallace B. Nichols

THOUGH an historical romance, this book is much more than that, for its theme touches present-day ideas in a remarkable manner, especially as concerns the hideous uselessness of war. It is set in the reign of Henry VII and deals with the aftermath of the Wars of the Roses. The principal character becomes one of the King’s most trusted instruments in the founding of modern England, and the story marches to an emotional and uplifting close. This is an historical novel where the characters are not puppets of impossible romance, but living human beings as real as the people about us every day.

_By the same Author_:

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Mr. Fortune Explains By H. C. Bailey

“MR. FORTUNE” has long since established himself as one of the brightest stars in the galaxy of modern crime detectives. He works on the friendliest terms with Scotland Yard, but his methods—and incidentally his manners—are peculiarly his own. Here we have a series of the most widely divergent mysteries successively solved by a bland, imperturbable middle-aged gentleman whose sole concern in life appears to be that he shall not miss his lunch or any other comfort that is due to him. No one who has read other “Mr. Fortune” volumes will on any account miss this, while those who have yet to make the dear man’s acquaintance are to be envied for the joy that awaits them.

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ONE would think it impossible for anybody to walk down into the crowded new Piccadilly Circus Tube Station and there be swiftly murdered without immediate discovery of the assassin. But from the slenderest of clues the whole failure of a great vengeance is discovered, and Mr. Ben Bolt has provided in his new story a series of situations and adventures that would keep the sleepiest reader agog for the end.

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⁂ This story reveals the author as one of the best among modern writers of mystery.

Gambler’s Hope By J. J. Bell

ADMIRERS of “Wee Macgreegor” and kindred works will be interested to see what the talented author makes of a more ambitious theme. Subtle characterization is here combined with the thrills of an Armada treasure hunt, complicated by the misunderstandings and perplexities of three widely divergent love affairs. The scenes are laid partly in Spain, partly in the Western Isles, and what with bloodstained daggers, mysterious scraps of parchment, buried caskets, plotting priests, mysterious garden-haunting strangers, and speedy motor-boats, the reader is kept constantly guessing.

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TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.