The Mysterious Three

“The bird that knocked him out was badly hit. If he had killed it, he would have won second money.”

The young Englishman lay back, stretched himself, and yawned. “I’m getting fed up with this place,” he said at last. “I shall get back to England in a day or two. How long shall you remain here?”

“It depends – partly on Dago. We’re running a sort of syndicate together, you know – or probably you don’t know. He has to see one or two men here about it before we leave.”

“What sort of syndicate?”

“I am afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you – yet. I can tell you this – though, we have a lady interested in it, a very pretty girl. That ought to appeal to you,” and he laughed.

“Have I seen her?” the young man asked, looking at him curiously.

His companion pondered. Then suddenly he exclaimed —

“Why, yes – of course you have. She was playing trente-et-quarante the other night, and nothing could stop her winning. She won a maximum and went on and on, simply raking in the money. You and I were there together. I am sure you must remember.”

“That girl!”

The tone in which he uttered these words surprised me. Could it be Vera of whom they had been speaking? According to Lord Logan she had won heavily at trente-et-quarante. And if so, who was this man, this partner and friend of Dago Paulton’s? And what could the secret syndicate be in which both were interested?

I had my back to the door, and the middle-aged man who spoke between his teeth and was lying back in the lounge chair was almost facing me. Suddenly, a look of recognition came into his eyes – he had seen some one behind me enter, whom he knew.

“Ah, here is good old Dago,” he exclaimed. He held up his hand and signalled to him.

I had fitted a cigarette into my holder, struck a match, and lit up slowly, while I composed my thoughts. Now I half-turned to gaze upon this man of whom I had heard so much, and was now to see for the first time.

Chapter Thirteen

In the Web

I held my breath.

I should have recognised him at once from the panel portrait, though he looked some years older than when that photograph had been taken.

Of medium height, and rather broadly built, he had all the appearance of a gentleman. His hair was very short, with dark grey, rather deep-set eyes, and thick dark eyebrows. The hair was parted in the middle, and plastered down, but he was not in evening clothes, as were the men to whose conversation I had been listening.

He shook hands cordially with his friend, nodded to the good-looking young man, and called to the waiter to bring him a chair, those near by being all occupied. While waiting for the chair to be brought, he suddenly caught sight of me, evidently in recognition, for he turned quickly and spoke in a low tone to his friend, who at once glanced in my direction.

All this! “felt” rather than saw, for I was not looking directly at the two men.

Where had Paulton seen me before? That was the first thought that occurred to me, and of course I could not answer it. I had no recollection of having ever seen him previously. Suddenly, he crossed over to me.

“Mr Richard Ashton, I think?” he said in a genial tone, and with a smile.

“Yes,” I answered rather stiffly, none too pleased at his addressing me. I certainly had no wish to know him.

“My name’s Paulton,” he said, ignoring my coldness. “I’ve seen you before. You were pointed out to me one night at the Savoy. I want to introduce my friend. Henderson, let me present you to Mr Richard Ashton. Mr Ashton – Mr Henderson.”

It was done before I could say anything – before I could avoid it. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to pretend to appear pleased.

He asked me what I would drink, and I had to say something – though I hated drinking with the fellow. Put yourself in my place – drinking with a man who had tried in cold blood to kill me, and who had shot an innocent man dead! I felt it had been weak of me not to ignore his greeting and meet his look of recognition with a stony stare. But regret for a mistake was useless now. I had made a false step when I spoke to him, and I couldn’t suddenly, apparently for no reason, turn my back upon him.

A sudden terrific gust of wind shook the heavy windows, and a sheet of rain splashed against the panes like a great wave, distracting, for the moment, every one’s attention. A storm on the Riviera is always heavy and blustering.

“I have just come in,” Paulton said. “In all my life I don’t recollect such an awful storm as this, except once in the Jura, when I was out boar-shooting. How fortunate it didn’t start while the pigeon-shooting was on to-day.”

He turned to me suddenly.

“By the way, Ashton,” he said familiarly, “we have a mutual friend, I think.”

“Indeed?” I answered drily. “Who is that?”

“Sir Charles Thorold’s daughter, Miss Vera.”

I was astonished at this effrontery – so astounded that my surprise outweighed my feeling of indignation at the tone of familiarity in which he spoke of Vera. He might have been referring to some barmaid we both knew.

I think he detected my annoyance, but he said nothing. After a pause I replied, keeping myself in check —

“Is Miss Thorold a friend of yours?”

“A friend of mine? Rather. I should say so!”

He glanced across at Henderson, and they both smiled significantly. This was intolerable.

“I do know Miss Thorold,” I remarked, emphasising the “Miss Thorold,” “but I don’t remember that she has ever mentioned your name to me.”

“No, probably she wouldn’t mention it. Vera is discreet, if she is nothing else.”

The impertinence of this reply was so obvious, so pointed, that I knew it must have been intentional.

“Really, I don’t follow you,” I said icily. “What, pray, has Miss Thorold to say to you, and what have you to say to her?”

“Oh, a very great deal, I can assure you.”

“Indeed? How intensely interesting!”

“It is, very. Her flight from Houghton that night must have astonished you.”

I could bear the fellow’s company no longer. Emptying my tumbler, I rose with deliberation, and, excusing myself with frigid politeness, strode out of the fumoir.

In the vestibule I met the good-looking young Englishman. He had left the room soon after Paulton had entered. Now he came up and spoke to me.

“I hope you’ll forgive my addressing you,” he said in well-bred accents, raising his hat, “but I heard your name mentioned when Paulton introduced Henderson to you. May I ask if you are the Mr Richard Ashton?”

“It depends what you mean by ‘the’ Richard Ashton,” I answered. This young man attracted me; he had done so from the first.

“Do you happen to live in King Street, St. James’s?” he inquired abruptly.

“Yes, I do.”