The Soul Stealer

Once more Rathbone coloured up to the eyes.

Charliewood went on.

"Then William unburdened himself to me fully. 'I only want Marjorie Poole to be happy,' he said, 'and when the proper time arrives I shall just write and tell her so. I was fond of her, deeply fond of her; what man would not be? I thought if she cared for me that she would be a worthy mistress of my house, and an ideal partner to share my fortune and the position I have won. But I am much older than she is. I am immersed, as you know, in grave, scientific pursuits, and I quite realize that I could not give her what as a young girl she has a right to expect. I don't say that I relinquish my claim upon her without a pang, but I have other interests, and my wife and love could in any case only be a part of my life. Do you know what I should like to do more than anything else, Eustace?' 'What?' I said. 'Why,' he continued, 'to meet this young Mr. Rathbone. To tell him all that I am telling you, perfectly frankly, to shake him by the hand, and, by Jove, to be the best man at his wedding, if he'd let me. Then I shall get back to my inventions with a quiet mind, knowing that the only girl who has ever touched me in the least degree is safe and happy.'"

Rathbone pushed back his chair and jumped up.

"Why, heavens," he said, "what a noble fellow! There's a man, if you like. I can quite see it all, Charliewood, and you've relieved my mind of a tremendous weight. I can see it all quite distinctly. One of the most distinguished and charming men of the day sees a beautiful and intellectual girl and thinks the time has come when he must marry. Of course, he can't really know what love is, like a younger man or a man who has not made his mark in the world. He can't feel what I feel, for instance. And so he bows to the inevitable, and in the kindest and most chivalrous way wants to make every one happy. Charliewood! It's just like a story-book!"

"I don't read 'em myself much, the papers do for me. But, 'pon my soul, since you put it in that way, so it is."

Mr. Charliewood quite forgot to add what sort of story-book. Even the most popular novels of to-day don't always have the traditional happy ending.

"Sit down, old fellow," Charliewood said with great kindness. "You mustn't miss this chicken, it is a rather special dish, and I'm going to ring for William."

"Oh, hang chicken!" Rathbone answered, his face glowing.

"Never abuse your dinner," Charliewood answered. "Only people who are not able to dine do that. You never know when you may dine again."

As he said this the wicked exhilaration at having successfully played with sure and dexterous fingers upon this young and impressionable nature flowed over the older man. An evil joy in his own powers came to him – a devilish satisfaction in his knowledge of the horrid future. For a moment the Tenant who had lately taken up his abode within Mr. Eustace Charliewood was looking out of his host's eye.

Rathbone laughed carelessly. Then, after the waiter had once more entered and left the room, he bent over the table and began to speak more earnestly.

"I suspect," he said, "that I owe you a great deal in this matter, Charliewood, more than you would care to confess. Now tell me, don't I?"

Charliewood waved his hand.

"Oh, we won't go into that part of the question," he said. "But there's just one thing I would like to say. Your feeling in the matter has been quite splendid, Rathbone. I admire you for the way you have felt and spoken since you have been telling me about your engagement, from first to last. Such a lot of men would have congratulated themselves upon winning the girl away from the other fellow without a thought of what the other fellow would feel. Now look here, I do think you owe William this much reparation – "

"Anything in the world I can do – " Rathbone was beginning.

"Well, there's one thing you can do," Charliewood answered, "you can satisfy him that you're the sort of man to whom he would care to surrender Miss Poole. He is willing and anxious to make friends with you. In fact, I know he is most anxious to meet you. I admit that it may be rather an awkward meeting for you, but I think that you owe it to him, considering the way in which he regards the whole affair."

"Of course I will meet him," Rathbone answered. "I shall be proud to meet a man like that. Any time you like."

"Well, I don't want to press things, Rathbone; but, personally, I should say there was no time like the present. We are sure to find Gouldesbrough in to-night after dinner. Suppose we walk up to Regent's Park and call on him. I know you will be received in the kindest way, in a way you never suspected before we talked the matter over."

"We'll do it," Rathbone answered, "and I shall leave his house to-night feeling a great burden has been removed from me."

Charliewood made no answer to this last remark but merely pushed the champagne-bottle over to his guest.

An hour afterwards the two men, both with the astrachan coats which brought them so curiously together turned up about their ears, were walking briskly towards Oxford Street. The fog was very heavy and few people were about, though Charliewood said he knew exactly how to find the way.

"You needn't worry," he said, "we'll go up Portland Place, and I can find Sir William's house without the least trouble. In fact, I think it would be a mistake to take a hansom on a night like this. The roads are horribly greasy. You can't see the lights of any vehicle a few yards ahead, and we're just as likely to be run into as not. Of course, if you'd rather ride – "

"Not a bit," Rathbone answered, "exercise will do me good, and I shall feel calmer and more prepared for the interview. I'm not a sybarite like you are, and after a dinner like you've given me I should not be nearly in such good form unless I did have a walk."

"Right oh!" Charliewood replied; "then come along. We will walk fast to keep warm."

They went on, neither talking much, because of the thick fog that stung the nostrils and the eyes and poured down the throat when the mouth was opened.

In about three-quarters of an hour they had passed up Portland Place, turned to the left and were drawing near the house they sought.

"It's not very far now," Charliewood said.

He shook as he said so, and his voice had a very muffled sound.

"Don't you talk, old fellow," Rathbone answered. "I can see you're cold, and this fog plays the deuce with the lungs. Do keep quiet; there's no need to say anything. I'll follow where you lead."

They stood at last before the little door in the high wall of Sir William Gouldesbrough's house.

In the distance the faint rumble of London came to their ears, but there was not a soul about. Nobody saw them as Charliewood opened the door with a pass-key, explaining to Rathbone that Sir William had given him the key in order to save the servants coming through the garden.

"I'm always in and out of the house," he explained, still with the cold and fog in his voice.

They opened the door, and it clicked behind them.

Rathbone brushed against some laurel bushes.

"I say," he said, "how dark it is here! You must conduct me, Charliewood, up this path. Let me take your arm."

He took his friend's arm, noticing with wonder how the cold seemed to have penetrated the bones of his host; for the big man's whole body was trembling.

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked for thirty yards or so. Then Rathbone saw a dim light above his head. It was the lamp which hung in the porch. His feet knocked against the step.

"Here we are," Charliewood said; "six steps, and then the front door."

Once more Charliewood produced a key, opened the massive door of the hall, and entered with his friend.

"Take off your coat," he said, as Rathbone looked round wonderingly at the big, gloomy and dimly-lit place. "This is rather miserable, but Gouldesbrough has got a little snuggery down the passage, where we shall be quite comfortable. Are you ready? Very well, then, come along."

The house seemed absolutely still, save for Charliewood's echoing footsteps as he led the way towards the door on the right-hand side of the wide staircase.

Rathbone followed him. As he did so the sombre emptiness of the place began to steal over his nerves and influence them, coupled, no doubt, with the expectation of the coming interview.

He shuddered a little, and wished that he was back again in the cosy little room in Jermyn Street.

Then a green baize door opened, they passed through, and it swung back noiselessly behind them.

CHAPTER VII

ENGLAND'S GREAT SENSATION

In the course of a week or so London, and shortly afterwards the whole of England, realized that a new and absorbing sensation was dawning.

Perhaps there is nothing which more excites the popular mind than the sudden disappearance of anybody from whatever class of society.

It began to be realized, whispered and hinted at in the newspapers that a young and rising barrister of good family, named Mr. Guy Rathbone, of the Inner Temple, had suddenly vanished. It was but a year or two before that the whole of the country had been thrilled by the sad case of Miss Hickman. The event and the excitement it had raised at the time were still fresh in the public mind; and when it began to be rumoured that something even more sensational than that had taken place, the Press began to be on the alert. In ten days' time such as were known of the facts of Mr. Guy Rathbone's apparent departure from ordinary life had become the topic of the hour. The newspapers were filled with columns of surmises. Hour by hour, as the evening papers of London and the provinces appeared, new theories, clues, explanations filled the leader pages and the contents' bills. The "Rathbone Mystery," as it was called, absorbed the whole interest of the country. An announcement of war would have been momentarily disregarded by the man in the street, while he yet remained unsatisfied as to the truth about the young gentleman who seemed to have been utterly wiped out from the world of men and women, to have vanished into thin air without a trace of his movements or a single clue as to his whereabouts.