Part 3

Much at the same moment two men were sitting on the deck of a yacht, drifting idly before a light breeze in the Solent. One was a young, keen-faced fellow, with quick, alert eyes and a restless expression, who was known as Malcolm Grey. He was regarded as a coming man in science, more especially in electricity. Already one or two discoveries of his bade fair to revolutionise hitherto accepted theories, and he was engaged upon a series of investigations which had for their end the promulgation of life and the alleviation of human suffering. Scientific folk were looking forward with interest to the next pronouncement of Malcolm Grey.

His companion was a very different-looking man. He was short and inclined to be stout. The outline of his figure denoted great personal strength. His piercing black eyes had a humorous twinkle. A heavy dark moustache concealed the lines of his mouth. Dr. Tanza was a scientist, also, but his researches were more concerned with humanity, and particularly with the cause and prevention of crime. Tanza had devoted most of his life to this important subject, and, though some of his theories had been laughed at once, some of the best men in Europe were coming round to his way of thinking. Certainly he had been marvellously successful on two or three occasions and had operated upon the brains of criminals with the most amazing effect. As to the rest, he used his yacht and his great wealth for the sole purpose of developing his hobby. It was a small matter to him to travel half-way round the world to interview a wretched creature who had invented something atrocious in the way of fresh and startling crime. For the moment he appeared to be taking his leisure, though his friend knew that he had something on his mind.

"And now," said Grey, "tell me why you brought me down here. You know how busy I am and how precious my moments are. What have you in view?"

Tanza lighted a fresh cigarette and sipped his after-luncheon coffee with a ruminating air.

"I want your assistance," he said. "I think it will be worth your while. It isn't every day that I come across a criminal problem that interests me, but I think I have found one in the case of the mysterious death of Mrs. Charlock's French maid. Charlock is a man difficult to approach and resents interference of any kind. As it happens, you are acquainted with him, which makes our task easier. Between ourselves, I mean to get to the bottom of that affair, because I feel certain that here is a new phase of crime."

"Why do you think so?" Grey asked. "I read the account of the inquest and I didn't notice anything out of the common. I don't see how a woman of her class could have enemies in her household. She was a self-contained foreigner, mainly interested in saving money, and she seems to have kept apart from the rest of the domestics. The rest of the servants are English and appear to be of a humdrum, respectable type. As far as I can see, her death happened naturally. The woman was fooling about by the fountain, slipped on the marble and stunned herself against the sundial. That would account for the bruise on her forehead. She was unconscious when she fell into the water and consequently was drowned. The thing is simple."

"That is because you haven't studied the subject," Tanza said placidly. "I flatter myself that I have an unerring instinct for this class of thing, and that is why I feel sure that we have dropped upon something new in the way of crime. You have forgotten that the doctor who made the _post-mortem_ testified that there was little or no water in the lungs, which is rather against your drowning theory. Besides, one of the witnesses said that the woman's clothing was slightly singed. And, in addition to this, what could the Frenchwoman want in the garden at that early hour in the morning? Charlock swore that she was in the house just before daybreak, and soon after it was light he himself found her lying in the fountain. Depend upon it, she went to keep an assignation and met her death that way."

"What, in broad daylight?" Grey asked.

"That," Tanza said, with the air of a connoisseur, "is just where I am puzzled. It must have been nearly broad daylight, at any rate, when the woman left the house, and the sundial was in full view of the front windows. We've a precious clever rascal to deal with, I know. I have gone into all the records of new and ingenious crimes, and in all my experience I can find nothing to fit this case. That is why I called you in. The murderer is up-to-date and uses all the modern appliances which are not as yet known to the police. A good many of them may still be outside the ken of the average scientist. And the more my mind dwells upon the matter the more sure I am that science has been invoked by our miscreant. As you are well versed in all the latest discoveries, I asked you to spend a few days with me and make an examination of the scene of the trouble."

"Shouldn't we be rather intruding?" Grey protested. "Charlock is a very queer sort of man."

"I know that. In writing to him for his permission to test certain of my theories I mentioned that I was a friend of yours and that I should bring you along. I received a characteristic reply to the effect that I had best mind my own business, but that so long as you answered for my _bona fides_ no objection would be made. So we are going off this afternoon, and here is the boat coming to fetch us. I don't expect a very warm reception."

John Charlock was walking about the grounds when his visitors arrived. Despite his sternness he looked miserable. For the time being he could not work. He felt that he would be able to do little or nothing until he had disposed of his expensive household. He had another plan, too, in his mind, but for the moment it was not ripe for execution. He extended a more or less cordial welcome to Grey, but his manner to Tanza was chilly. If the latter noticed it, he did not disclose the fact.

"This is very good of you, my dear sir," he said. "I hope you will not think I am here out of mere curiosity, for I am quite convinced that the death of your wife's maid was no ordinary occurrence. Having devoted most of my life to the study of crime, my experience tells me----"

"I have heard of you, of course," Charlock said civilly enough. "And, if such is your opinion, it is entitled to every respect. If I can do anything to help you I will. But I am certain that you are mistaken."

"We shall see," Tanza said drily. "In the first place, will you be good enough to show us the famous sundial where the accident took place, and perhaps you can tell me whether the poor woman's dress was singed? Was it round the skirt, for instance?"

"Personally, I could see no trace of it," Charlock said. "There was a certain fraying of the cloth round one of the wrists, and a swelling of the hand, as if the fingers had been recently charred. But, then, my wife tells me that Hortense inadvertently put her right hand on a pair of almost red-hot curling tongs a day or two ago, which gives the incident a very prosaic complexion. I think you can dismiss the singeing idea altogether."

For the moment the doctor looked disconcerted. But he had no intention of discarding his theory. He dropped behind, discussing the matter with Charlock, while Grey went forward to the part of the garden where the sundial was situated. He stood there admiring the beautiful carving of the marble and thinking how appropriate were the surroundings. The fountain was playing again. The sundial was like a gleaming statue in the sun. The Latin inscription on the top glistened in brass letters. There appeared to be nothing to connect the sundial with the cruel and cold-blooded murder. And, though Tanza talked scientifically about his theories, he did not appear to be making much progress.

"You are wrong," Charlock said. "I am sure the whole thing was no more than an unfortunate accident. I don't care what the doctor says. However, I sha'n't be here after to-morrow, but you are at liberty to come whenever you please and make what investigations you like. And now, if you will excuse me, I will get back to the house. You will pardon me if I don't ask you to come in."

Charlock turned away none too graciously, and the Italian doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"It is as well we are alone," he said. "I shall yet convince our friend that I am right. All the same, I am bound to confess that we look like having our trouble for our pains. Now, I suppose you don't see anything suspicious, anything which is hidden from unscientific eyes?"

"As a matter of fact, I can," Grey said quietly. "Only I waited till our friend was gone. Look here!"

He stooped and picked up a small object, which he slipped upon his thumb. Tanza lifted his brows interrogatively.

"Oh, it's a clue," Grey smiled. "What is it? Why, it is a finger torn from an india-rubber glove!"

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE PHOTOGRAPH*

Malcolm Grey handled the piece of dirty india-rubber almost tenderly. There was a smile on his face which somewhat irritated Tanza. The little Italian, usually so quick at picking up a clue, was quite baffled now. His instinct told him that Grey had made an important discovery. He stretched out his hand eagerly.

"Let me look at it," he said.

"Certainly," Grey said good-naturedly. "Look at it, by all means, but you won't make much out of the thing. It is simply a finger of a glove made of india-rubber, which might mean anything. But to me it conveys a good deal."

"And to me it conveys nothing," Tanza replied. "Now, let me see. Who are the sort of men who wear india-rubber gloves? I suppose they are manufactured for a certain class of sportsmen. I know they are used by electricians, and latterly by up-to-date burglars. You know these gentry have adopted india-rubber gloves to obliterate finger-marks. No doubt one of the fraternity has been here, though I am bound to confess that we are not getting much farther. What do you make of it?"

"If you don't mind, I won't tell you yet," Grey said. "Of course, you have already invented a theory of your own, which may be right and which may be wrong. You may not agree with me, but it is possible that if I tell you my theory you will modify yours, to the destruction of, perhaps, a really logical sequence of ideas. Now, if you keep your notion to yourself and I keep mine to myself we may get a definite conclusion all the sooner. Don't you think I am right?"

"Well, perhaps you are," Tanza said thoughtfully. "As for me, I have already got a notion, so we will both preserve our ideas and see which leads to the goal first."

"I am glad you said that," Grey remarked gravely. "I must confess that when I picked up that finger-stall I was startled. It indicated a fresh train of thought to me. It suggested one of the most startling and most original crimes of modern times. The idea came to me like a flash. But it is one thing to discover the source of a crime, and quite another to put your hand upon the criminal. And now, if you don't mind, I think I should like to be alone. There are one or two things I want to do before I can put my theory into practice, and it would be much more prudent if I exercised this discretion by myself."

"Right you are," Tanza said gaily. "I will return to the yacht. I suppose you will be back to dinner?"

Grey made no reply. Already he seemed to be immersed in his own thoughts. He was more or less oblivious of the presence of his companion. When he was alone he walked round the marble basin of the fountain, scrutinising every inch of the ground with minutest attention. Round and round he went, with his eyes bent upon the earth, his body doubled. But though he spent some considerable time there, nothing seemed to reward his search. He shook his head as he turned away from the fountain, and proceeded to walk backwards and forwards across the lawn, like a man searching for some object which he has dropped. It was not till he got to the edge of the grass that his face lighted and a grim smile trembled on his thin lips. From the gravel path he took up a mass of silk thread all ravelled up together, and a little farther on was a piece of wire about the length of a pin, and also a small square of india-rubber not larger than a postage stamp. These trivial objects Grey placed in an envelope which he put in his pocket. As he looked up he saw Charlock watching him curiously out of one of the windows of the house. He was about to move away, when the artist beckoned to him. He lingered a moment, and Charlock appeared at the front door and asked him curtly if he would come in.

"I want to ask you a question or two," Charlock said. "You seem to have built up a pretty good reputation since we used to meet at the Old Bohemian Club in Craven Street. I believe you have studied medicine, among other things?"

"Quite right," Grey smiled. "All the same, you don't look as if you want a doctor. You are the picture of health."

Charlock smiled in his grimmest fashion.

"Am I?" he said. "In that case my looks belie me. I am not a crank or a faddist, but certain signs which I have had lately are not to be disregarded. I am strong enough physically, but those early days of poverty have left their mark. It isn't good for a young man to starve for weeks at a time, as I used to do. And of late I have been working far too hard. You see, the trouble that worries me is here."

Charlock laid his hand upon his heart. He seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. The smile died from Grey's lips and he became serious. He had seen too many men of perfect _physique_ with that fatal heart weakness to make light of Charlock's fears. He motioned him to a chair.

"Take off your coat and waistcoat," he said, "and let me listen. It is as well to be on the safe side."

The speaker laid his ear to Charlock's heart for a moment or two, and when he rose there was a certain gravity in his eyes, which Charlock noticed with a cynical smile.

"Well," he said, "is it very bad?"

"No," Grey said gravely. "I don't think so. Of course, I can't be absolutely certain without a stethoscope, but I think there is nothing organically wrong. You have been overstraining yourself and there is a weakness which is more or less pronounced. A month's holiday, with plenty of open air and exercise, will put you right again. Still, there is another test which ought to settle the matter. Do you happen to have such a thing in the house as a bottle of sal volatile? Or a little brandy would do."

"No brandy for me," Charlock said. "I never touch the stuff. I shouldn't wonder if there was a bottle of sal volatile in that unfortunate maid's room. I understand that Hortense was hysterical and used to doctor herself with the remedy you speak of. I'll ring the bell and see."

A servant came in answer to the summons, but she stood hesitating as Charlock told her what he needed. She was a domestic of the country type, with vacant face and staring eyes. She shook her head stubbornly.

"I couldn't do it, sir," she said. "I wouldn't go into Hortense's room--no, not if you was to double my wages. It isn't safe, my mother always said, to go into the room of a suicide. It makes you feel that way yourself."

Charlock appeared to be on the verge of an explosion of temper, when Grey cut in. Expostulation was useless.

"Oh, never mind," he said. "Show me the room and I'll look for myself. Now come along. I won't even ask you to come inside. If you will point out the room to me----"

The round-eyed domestic accepted the compromise cheerfully. She piloted Grey up the stairs and indicated a room at the far end of the corridor. Then she retired precipitately, to Grey's great amusement. He knew that it was useless to argue with rustics of that sort. He entered the room and glanced around him.

The bedroom was comfortably furnished. There was a variety of pictures and knickknacks on the walls, and a book-shelf was laden with French novels. The maid had furnished her bedroom in imitation of a lady's boudoir. She was of luxurious habits, too, for a fire was laid in the grate and an attempt had been made to light it. Paper and sticks were charred away, but the coal had been obstinate and had refused to burn. A few letters had been torn up and thrown in the back of the fire, and these, for the most part, were charred and smoked until only a few words could be read. In a spirit of idle curiosity, Grey knelt down and examined these. He smiled to himself at his own weakness. Clearly he had caught this fever of investigation from his Italian friend. After a moment or two, however, his amused smile vanished, he grew deeply interested. A fragment of one of the letters was in his hand. He could make out a few words thereon, among which stood out prominently the expression "be cautious," and then, lower down, the still more significant words "the sundial."

There was nothing on the back of the paper, nothing more to indicate the writer's meaning. But, whoever the writer was, he had conveyed a warning to Hortense by means of his letter, and in some strange, inscrutable way that warning was mixed up with the old Roman sundial. No doubt the maid had torn up the letter and thrown it on the fire while the sticks were still burning, taking it for granted, of course, that the letter was destroyed.

"A lucky find," Grey murmured to himself. "There is more here than meets the eye. I shall have a fine story for Tanza. Still, it is one thing to know how a crime is committed and another to discover the perpetrator. I wonder if I can find a further clue--hallo!"

Grey almost started as he pulled from the grate a photograph which had been torn across the middle. He placed the two pieces together and examined them by the light of the window. There was a puzzled expression on his face as he looked at the photograph, which was that of two men dressed for some outdoor sport. One face was strange to him, but he recognised the other.

"Arnold Rent," he muttered. "Rent, to a certainty."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*THE RUBICON*

John Charlock had finished his breakfast and was busy with his correspondence. He looked up presently as his wife came in. The tall, slender figure looked graceful and attractive in the thin black dress she was wearing, and Charlock's artistic eye was pleased with the picture. He knew that Kate's gown was an expensive one, and that there was about it a marked, if subdued, suggestion of festivity. His brows contracted. Surely that dress must have been ordered since he had spoken of the need of economy.

"Your grief is chastened," he said. "It is good to see how you are bearing up under your crushing sorrow. You have come to the conclusion that it is your duty not to repine. Well, what is it? Going off somewhere for the day? A little innocent enjoyment will do you no harm."

"I was thinking of it," Kate Charlock said coldly. "I am going to Southampton to spend the day with some friends. But I shall be back in time for dinner."

Charlock rubbed his hands together slowly. There was a peculiar smile upon his rugged face.

"Oh, I am glad to hear that," he said. "Whatever you do, don't forget to come back to dinner, because I have a pleasant surprise awaiting you. I was not sure until I got my letter this morning, but now all doubt is removed. Good-bye and a pleasant day to you. Make the most of your chances."

Kate Charlock asked no questions. She had no curiosity concerning her husband's meaning. She came back in the cool of the evening. She passed through the lodge gates and noted the untidy state of the drive. The place was littered here and there with straw and shavings. The marks of the wheels of a heavy waggon were to be plainly seen on the side of the lawn. Kate was vexed, for she had always prided herself upon the symmetry and tidiness of her garden. She looked towards the gardener's lodge, and, to her surprise, observed that it was empty.

Her heart sank with a foreboding of coming evil as she quickened her pace towards the house. Here the litter increased. Shavings and scraps of paper had blown across the velvet lawn, a broken packing-case or two stood by the front door. With feelings of alarm and agitation, Kate Charlock looked up at the long rows of blank windows, which seemed to be staring her out of countenance. The window-boxes with their brilliant flowers had gone and the fine lace curtains and the rose-tinted silk blinds had vanished. Where a few hours before had been the picture of a refined English home was now mere chaos and desolation. With faltering footsteps and trembling limbs, Kate Charlock passed through the front door, which stood wide open for all the world to enter.

Her footsteps echoed on the bare boards. More by instinct than anything else, she called her husband by name. She could hear her voice echoing from room to room. She knew now that the place was absolutely and entirely bare. Then there was the sound of an answering footfall and John Charlock stood by the side of his wife in the dismantled drawing-room.

"Well," he said, "and what do you think of it? I promised you a surprise, and here it is. For days I have been expecting the creditor who holds the bill of sale to carry out his threat and remove everything. This morning he informed me what he was going to do, and he has done it. Save your own belongings, which are packed away in your dressing-room, the house is empty. I didn't tell you this before, because I did not wish to spoil your holiday. But you will see that it is impossible to remain. Fortunately, the cottage is ready. Now, if you will dry your eyes and try to play the woman, we will go off together where we can have a roof over our heads and no more of this sickening anxiety for the future. Come."

Charlock held out his hand, but the woman shrank from him. There was terror as well as grief in her eyes. She shuddered with loathing from head to foot. She could not do it. Come what might, she could not do it. In her heart of hearts she had never expected such a crushing blow. It was so like John Charlock to spring it on her in this cruel fashion.

"No," she said, as she wiped the tears angrily from her cheeks. "Between you and me there is an end of all things. I am not coming with you. If I were starving at this moment I would decline to cross the threshold of your cottage. Oh, you need not worry. I shall make a living somehow. To-night I shall stay with Mrs. Bromley-Martin and ask her advice and assistance. Henceforward our lives shall be spent apart."

"And that is your last word?" Charlock asked.

"I have no more to say, except good-bye."

Charlock turned and strode resolutely from the house. There was a queer smile on his face, though his heart was hot and angry. He passed out through the gates in the direction of his cottage. He gave no heed to his wife standing in the deserted home. And he had gone out of her mind directly.

What was she to do? How would the next chapter in the story read? She had spoken bravely enough about her friend Mrs. Bromley-Martin, but she knew in her heart of hearts how shallow and insincere all the so-called friendships in her own set were. Still, she was not penniless. Her husband had told her where she would find all her belongings, and her jewels were worth some hundreds of pounds. She would gather those together and go and stay at a hotel for the night. She was still debating the matter in her mind when she heard footsteps in the hall, and her courage deserted her for the moment. She drew a breath of something more than relief as Arnold Rent came forward.

"This is almost providential," she sighed. "How did you come to know that I was in such sore need of you?"