The Mysterious Three

The enigma presented was complete. I am not a pilferer, but I considered that I should be justified in putting the portrait into my pocket, and I did so without another thought. Then I replaced all the frames where I had found them, and resumed my ramble over the house.

In the rest of the rooms on that floor, I found nothing further of interest. On the floor above, however, a surprise was in store for me.

The first two rooms were bedrooms, neglected-looking and very dusty. There were fewer coverings here. Dust was upon the floor, on the beds, on the chairs and tables, on the window-sills, on the wash-stands, on the chests of drawers, on the mantelpiece – everywhere. In the next room, the door of which I was surprised to find unlocked, just the same. A table of dark mahogany was thickly coated with dust.

Hullo! Why, what was this? I thought at once of a detective friend of mine, and wondered what he would have said, what opinion he would have formed and what conclusion he would have come to, had he been in my place at that moment. For on the table, close to the edge of it, was the clear outline of a hand. Someone had quite recently – apparently within the last few hours, and certainly since the previous day – put his hand upon that dusty table. I scanned the outline closely; then suddenly I started.

There could be no doubt whatever – it was not the outline of Taylor’s hand. The fingers that had rested there were long and tapering. This was not the impression of a man’s hand, but of a woman’s – of a woman’s left hand.

Evidently some one had been in this room recently. From point to point I walked, looking for further traces, but there were none that I could see. What woman could have been in here so lately? And did the old man asleep downstairs know of her entry? He must have, for she could not have entered the house, had he not admitted her. I felt I was becoming quite a clever detective, with an exceptional gift for deduction from the obvious. Another gleam of intelligence led me to conclude that this woman’s presence in the house probably accounted for Taylor’s determination not to let me go over the house.

I thought I heard a sound. I held my breath and stood still, listening intently, but the only sound that came to me was the distant shrill whistle of some one summoning a taxi. Outside in the passage, all was still as death. I walked to the end of the passage, peeped into other bedrooms, then returned to the room with the table bearing the imprint of the hand.

The windows overlooked Belgrave Street – double windows, which made the sound of the traffic down below inaudible. Carelessly I watched for some moments the vehicles and passers-by, unconsciously striving to puzzle out, meanwhile, the problem of the hand. Suddenly, two figures approaching along the pavement from the direction of Wilton Street, arrested my attention. They seemed familiar to me. As they came nearer, a strange feeling of excitement possessed me, for I recognised the burly form of Davies, or “Smithson,” and as he had called himself, and, walking beside him, Sir Charles Thorold. The two appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation.

They disappeared where the street turned, and as I came away from the window I noticed, for the first time, that the room had another door, a door leading presumably into a dressing-room. I went over to it. It was locked.

I tried a key on the bunch, but at once discovered that a key was in the door. The door was locked on the inside!

I knocked. There was no answer. And just then I distinctly heard a sound inside the room.

“Who’s there?” I called out. “Let me in!”

A sound, resembling a sob, reached me faintly. I heard light footfalls. The key turned slowly, and the lock clicked.

I turned the handle, and went in.

Chapter Eight

More Mystery

I halted on the threshold, wondering and aghast.

Vera, in her hat and jacket, stood facing me a few yards away. She was extremely pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and I saw at once she had been weeping.

For a moment neither of us spoke. Then, pulling myself together —

“Why, darling, what are you doing here?” I asked.

She did not answer. Her big, blue, unfathomable eyes were set on mine. There was in them an expression I had not seen there before – an odd, unnatural look, which made me feel uncomfortable.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Why did you call upon me with Davies?”

Her lips moved, but no words came. I went over and took her hand. It was quite cold.

Suddenly she spoke slowly, and hoarsely, but like some one in a trance.

“I cannot tell you,” she said simply. “I wanted to see you.”

“Oh, but you must!”

Her eyes met mine, and I saw her arched brows contract slightly.

“Nobody says, ‘must’ to me,” she answered, in a tone that chilled me.

“Vera! Vera!” I exclaimed, dismayed at her strange manner, “what is the matter? What has happened to you, darling? Why are you like this? Don’t you need my help now? You told me on the telephone that you did.”

“On the telephone? When was that?”

“Why, not three weeks ago. Surely you remember? It was the last time we spoke to each other. You had begun to tell me your address, when suddenly we were cut off.”

I saw her knit her brows, as though trying to remember. Then, all at once, memory seemed to return.

“Ah, yes,” she exclaimed, more in her ordinary voice. “I recollect. I wanted your help then. I needed it badly, but now – ”

“Well, what?” I said anxiously, as she checked herself.

“It’s too late – now,” she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist, and I felt that she shuddered.

“Vera, what has happened? Tell me – oh, tell me, dearest!”

I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for there was a strange light in her eyes.

“Why did you not come when I wanted you?” she asked, bitterly.

“I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?”

She paused in indecision.

“I’m sorry. You are too late, Dick,” and she shook her head mournfully.

“Oh, don’t say that,” I cried, not knowing what to think. “Has some misfortune befallen you? Tell me what it is. You surely know that you can trust me.”

“Trust you!”

There was bitterness, nay mockery, in her voice.

“Good heavens, yes! Why not?” I cried.

“There is no one in whom I can trust. I can trust you, Mr Ashton, least of all – now.”

Evidently she was labouring under some terrible delusion. Had some one slandered me – poisoned her mind against me?

“How long have you been here?” I asked suddenly, thinking it best to change the subject for the moment.

“Since early this morning,” she answered at once.

“Did you come here alone?”