The Temptress

Already a small crowd had collected, for the cabmen from the shelter opposite had quickly discerned that something unusual had occurred, and, on learning of the crime, grouped themselves around the vehicle in a state of great excitement, and eager to obtain a glimpse of the corpse.

A minute later the conductor returned with two constables. These were immediately followed by a detective-sergeant, who chanced to be passing, and another constable. The detective himself was astounded, although he had been present on more than one occasion when bodies had been found.

The circumstances having been briefly explained, he despatched one of the men to Agar Street for the hospital ambulance, and gave other orders, which were executed with obedience and promptitude.

“Do you know the gentleman by sight?” asked the detective of the conductor, as they both stood gazing upon the body, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance.

“No, I’ve never seen him before,” the man replied; “and the strangest part of the affair is, that when I got off at the Haymarket corner he wasn’t inside. There were two gentlemen in the ’bus.”

“They got out at Spring Gardens,” interrupted the driver. “I stopped for them.”

“Then he must have entered immediately afterwards,” remarked the detective thoughtfully.

“Yes, that’s the only way I can account for it.”

“It is certainly an extraordinary case,” the officer said, bending down and re-examining the dead man’s wound. “From the time he got into the ’bus until you discovered him dead could not have been more than six or seven minutes?”

“Not so much,” replied the driver. “I generally reckon it takes four minutes from Dent’s to the corner here, including the stoppage in front of the lions.”

“But you didn’t pull up there to-night?”

“No, because I was not aware I had any fare inside.”

“Ah?” exclaimed the detective confidently. “The murder was evidently cleverly planned, and the assassin has got away very neatly indeed.”

“It couldn’t be suicide, could it?” suggested one of the constables.

“Impossible, for the knife has disappeared. But here’s the ambulance; we must remove the body and disperse the crowd.”

At that moment a hansom, which had turned from the Strand towards Pall Mall, was compelled to pull up owing to the throng of eager onlookers which had now become so augmented as to reach across the road.

Pushing up the flap in the roof with his walking-stick, the fare, a well-dressed and rather handsome young man, whose face bore that frank, good-humoured expression which always impresses favourably, asked – “What’s the fuss, cabby?”

“Can’t exactly make out, sir,” replied the man. “They say a murder’s been committed.”

“Somebody murdered!” he exclaimed in surprise. “By Jove, a crime in a ’bus isn’t a sight to be witnessed every day. Wait over there, cabby, opposite the church. I’ll go and have a look.”

Alighting, he quickly made his way through the excited crowd. As he edged in towards the omnibus, two constables, who had just lifted the body out, were placing it carefully upon the stretcher, for a doctor had already made an examination and pronounced that death had been almost instantaneous.

In the brief moment while the constables arranged his head the light of the gas lamps outside the public-house shone full upon the pale, bloodless features, revealing a man of about thirty-five, whose face was well moulded and refined, with closed eyes, very wavy hair, and short, pointed beard. That he was a gentleman was evident. His hands looked soft and white, his finger-nails showed that attention had been bestowed upon them; a large diamond glittered on his finger, and in his scarf was another valuable stone. His attire, too, was the reverse of common, for his overcoat was lined with sable in a style which only a West-End tailor could produce, and his other garments were of the best quality and latest fashion.

“Poor fellow – he looks as if he’s asleep,” exclaimed a woman sympathetically, at the young man’s elbow.

“Ah,” remarked another, “he’ll never wake again. Whoever killed him accomplished the deed very effectually.”

“He’s a thorough gentleman, too,” commented a cabman, who was eagerly watching with several of his companions. “I wonder what the motive could have been?”

“They’ll call Teddy Mills’s ’bus the hearse, now,” said another cabman; but his companion replied —

“G’arn, ’Arry, it ain’t no laughing matter.”

“Well, it’s a bold stroke, at any rate,” rejoined the man addressed. “Why, he couldn’t have been seated in the ’bus a minute before he was killed.”

“Is it such a mysterious affair, then?” asked the young man who had alighted from the cab, turning to them.

“Mysterious? I should rather think it was. It all happened between the corner of Pall Mall and here. The victim must have entered the ’bus as it was going along, but whether the murderer was inside or whether he followed, nobody knows.”

“Pass along, please; pass along!” two constables commanded.

The body, which had by this time been placed on the ambulance and lightly covered, was being wheeled away, and the police were busy dispersing the ever-increasing crowd.

“By Jove, it’s terrible! Such sights are enough to give one the blues,” the young man exclaimed aloud, as he made his way towards his cab. “I wonder who the Johnnie is? The face seems familiar, yet for the life of me I can’t recollect where I’ve seen it before. But, there, it isn’t any use making oneself glum over the troubles of others, and, goodness knows, my own cursed luck is hard enough.”

He sighed, and, springing into the hansom, shouted – “Drive on, cabby, as fast as you can make that bag of bones travel.”

The man laughed at his fare’s humorous cynicism, and, whipping his horse, drove rapidly away.

Chapter Three

In Bohemia

“Look here, Hugh, what is the cause of this confounded gloominess?”

“Nothing that concerns anybody, except myself,” was the morose reply.

“Well, you needn’t snarl like that at an old friend. Come, out with it, and let’s have no secrets.”

“There’s not much to tell, old fellow, beyond the fact that I’m ruined.”

“What!” exclaimed John Egerton, open-mouthed in amazement. “Ruined?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really serious; or is this another of your confoundedly grim jokes?”

“It’s too true, alas!” the other replied, with a sigh. The artist, laying his palette and mahlstick aside, turned and faced his visitor, exclaiming —

“Sit down and relate the circumstances; we must see what can be done.”

“Nothing can prevent the catastrophe. I’ve considered the problem long enough, and can find no solution.”

“Well, don’t knock under without a struggle, my dear old chap. Men work for fame and fortune, but expect happiness as a gift. Confide in me, and perhaps we may arrange things.”

The other smiled sadly, but shook his head.

It was the afternoon following the events related in the previous chapter. The two speakers who were in such serious conversation stood in a shabby studio in Fitzroy Square gravely contemplating one another.

John Egerton, the owner of the place was a successful artist, whose works sold well, whose black and white illustrations were much sought after by magazine proprietors, and whose Academy pictures had brought him some amount of notoriety. His success was well deserved, for, after a rather wild student life on the Continent, he was now exceedingly industrious. Art was his hobby, and he had but little pleasure outside the walls of his studio. Though discarding a collar, and attired negligently in a paint-besmirched coat very much the worse for wear, a pair of trousers much bespattered, and feet thrust into slippers, yet his face spoke of genius and indomitable perseverance, with its deep grey eyes, firm, yet tender mouth, and general expression of power and independence.