The Mysterious Three

My shot hit its mark. At once I saw that the advertisement really had reference to the affair.

“Surely,” I said, “there was no need to advertise? You could have communicated by post, telegram or telephone!”

“Ah! you are mistaken,” he answered quickly. “We had reasons for advertising – but I cannot explain them now. Tell me, knowing all that you know – how you discovered it I don’t attempt to guess – but what are you going to do?”

“Do? – Nothing. It’s no concern of mine.”

“But – but – ”

“There is no ‘but,’” I interrupted, “except that, having told you what I know, Mr Whichelo, I expect your full confidence in return.”

“And you shall have it, Ashton,” he exclaimed at once. “Oh, I can assure you, you shall have it.”

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me first,” I said abruptly, “how that will of your brother’s came to be found in the safe among the ruins of Château d’Uzerche after the fire. Had it not been found, you would, I understand, have been sole heir to the fortune your brother left to Frank Faulkner.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” he answered, with a quiet laugh. “I should have been. That will was stolen from my brother.”

“So I guessed. But by whom?”

“By Paulton and the Baronne, his companion.”

“Stolen by Paulton and the Baronne!” I echoed. “But in what way could they benefit by stealing it, as the money would have come to you had the will not been found? Why did they not destroy it?”

“Well – to tell the truth, they have a hold over me,” he went on quickly, “just as they have over Thorold. Probably they refrained from destroying it, intending to get Faulkner into their clutches.”

“I don’t follow you,” I said. “Even if they have a hold over you, as you say, they could not have benefited by you inheriting this money.”

“Ah! You are mistaken,” he answered. “They would have benefited considerably. Had I inherited that fortune, it must all have gone to them. I can’t say more than that.”

“Blackmail?” I asked.

He nodded.

“And do they blackmail Thorold in the same way?”

Again he nodded in the affirmative.

At last I seemed to be really on the verge of unravelling the mystery which had puzzled me so long – also on the way to discovering the closely-guarded secret of the Thorolds.

After a brief pause, I put another question to him.

“Is all that French gold I have seen, genuine?” I asked. “I know some of it is, because I had some tested.”

“How many?” he inquired, in a tone of surprise.

“Three. They were all good.”

“Most of them are base coin,” he said. “A small proportion only are coin from the French mint.”

“Then Thorold – and you, also, I take it – have had to do with uttering base coin.”

“You are wrong – in a sense. It may appear so to you. It would seem so to most people, most likely. In point of fact we are both innocent. We have been made a catspaw – how I cannot explain. You see, I am wholly frank with you. That is because I trust you, Ashton – and I don’t trust many men, I can assure you.”

This was getting interesting.

Whichelo, finding how much I knew, had unreservedly thrown off all pretence. I suppose he thought it his safest plan, as indeed it was. I had given him my word I would hold my peace if he dealt with me openly, and evidently he believed me.

From the morning-room we had strolled towards the back premises, and this conversation had taken place in the butler’s pantry, quite a big room. The only door was immediately behind us. All the time we had been conversing – and we must now have talked for over an hour – the door had stood half-open. Now, happening, for some reason, to turn round, I noticed that it was shut.

“Hullo!” I exclaimed, starting up surprised. “Why, I thought that door was open!”

At once we dashed over to it. I turned the handle to the right and tugged at it; then to the left and again tugged. It had been locked from the outside – shut and locked so carefully, that we had not heard a sound.

I bent down to examine the lock.

The key was still in it – on the outside!

I drew back, and held my breath. What did it mean?

Chapter Twenty Seven

In the Shadow

Whichelo was at once practical.

He turned, and glanced quickly at the long window. It was securely barred, horizontally, as well as vertically. Then he pushed a table forward, clambered upon it, and exerting all his strength, endeavoured to wrench one, then another, of the bars from its socket.

A silly action. He could not stir one of them.

“Paulton has locked us in,” he said, as he stood again beside me.

“Paulton!” I echoed.

“Yes – or Henderson. They and the Baroness – for whom I believe the police are seeking – are in hiding somewhere here. I thought it likely they would end by coming, as this is about the last place the police will be likely to search. They arrived yesterday, little knowing that I was in the vicinity. They’re hiding in here. I happen to know this, though they don’t know that I know it.”

“But why can they have locked us in?”

“I can’t say. Probably they’re up to some of their old rascality. They are full of ingenuity, and defy the police at every turn. The first thing we have to do is to get out.”

He looked about the long, narrow pantry. Soon his gaze fell upon a long-handled American fire-axe, suspended in a corner against the wall, beside a portable fire-extinguisher. He smiled, and crossed the room.

“When I lived abroad,” he remarked, as he took down the axe and felt its balance, “I was rather a good tree-feller. Now, this I call a really beautiful axe.”

Drawing himself to his full height as he spoke, he held the axe out at arm’s length, admiring it.

“Its balance is perfect, and there’s not an ounce of useless weight anywhere, either in the head, or in the stem. That is where American axes outclass our British axes entirely. Your axe of British manufacture is a clump of block steel stuck on the end of a heavy, clumsy stem. ‘Sound British stuff,’ it is, so the ironmonger will tell you. ‘Last a lifetime. Last for ever.’ And that is just what you don’t want, Mr Ashton. In these days we don’t need axes, or agricultural implements, or machinery, or anything else made to ‘last for ever.’ We want things made to last just long enough to give something better, time to be invented, and some improvements to be made, and no longer. That practice of the British nation of making things to ‘last for ever,’ has been the curse of our declining country for the past fifty years.”

“But what do you want the axe for?” I asked, anxious to stop his sudden flow of oratory.