The Lost Million

When at last Mrs Olliffe’s visitors rose and left, I requested a word with her alone.

“Certainly,” she said – not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room – a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.

When we were seated, I began without preamble —

“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”

“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that – well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”

“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.

“Had he any enemies – any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“And you suspect them of – ”

“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”

“Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion,” I said. “I was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I remained with him nearly the whole time until the end.”

“Nearly. You were absent sometimes.”

“Of course. I was not with him both night and day.”

“And therefore you can’t say with absolute certainty that his enemies had no access to him,” she said.

“But even if they had, they can have profited nothing,” I said.

“How do you know? Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy. Where is it all? Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed.”

I shook my head and smiled.

“I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild. Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that effect.”

“I’ll never believe it,” she declared. “If there had not been foul play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known. He was a friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for speaking quite frankly.”

“You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with authority that his end was due to natural causes.”

“It is curious that he should have trusted you – a perfect stranger,” she said, with coolness. “You did not explain the nature of your trust.”

“It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you to-day,” I said. “Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain Mr Alfred Dawnay, and – ”

“To Alfred Dawnay!” she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour faded from her face. “He wrote to him?” she cried. “Then – ”

She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have fallen.

I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she had never dreamed – something which upset all her previous calculations.

“Tell me, Mr Kemball,” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice, scarce above a whisper, “tell me – what did he write?”

“Ah! I do not know. I was merely the bearer of the letter.”

“You have no idea what Arnold told that man – what he revealed to him?”

“I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold’s death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay.”

“To Dawnay! His worst enemy and his – ”

“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”

The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.

“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him – to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance – after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.

“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.

“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”

“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.

“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.

“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.

“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”

“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.

But she was distrustful and evasive.

“An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would cause the whole world to stand aghast,” replied the woman, in a low, hollow voice.

Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

What could that secret be?

Chapter Sixteen

The Sign of the Hand

The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtain no knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold. His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in his possession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.

Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune. Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands. Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him. Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the dead man’s riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey Shaw was really Arnold’s friend and not his enemy, as the woman had alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!

I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed. Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.