The Clue of the Twisted Candle

“A curious Christmas present,” said the other, examining the weapon.

“I suppose the mistaken donor imagined from my books that I lived in a veritable museum of revolvers, sword sticks and noxious drugs,” said Lexman, recovering some of his good humour; “it was accompanied by a card.”

“Do you know how it works?” asked the other.

“I have never troubled very much about it,” replied Lexman, “I know that it is loaded by slipping back the cover, but as my admirer did not send ammunition, I never even practised with it.”

There was a knock at the door.

“That is the post,” explained John.

The maid had one letter on the salver and the author took it up with a frown.

“From Vassalaro,” he said, when the girl had left the room.

The Greek took the letter in his hand and examined it.

“He writes a vile fist,” was his only comment as he handed it back to John.

He slit open the thin, buff envelope and took out half a dozen sheets of yellow paper, only a single sheet of which was written upon. The letter was brief:

“I must see you to-night without fail,” ran the scrawl; “meet me at the crossroads between Beston Tracey and the Eastbourne Road.  I shall be there at eleven o’clock, and, if you want to preserve your life, you had better bring me a substantial instalment.”

It was signed “Vassalaro.”

John read the letter aloud. “He must be mad to write a letter like that,” he said; “I’ll meet the little devil and teach him such a lesson in politeness as he is never likely to forget.”

He handed the letter to the other and Kara read it in silence.

“Better take your revolver,” he said as he handed it back.

John Lexman looked at his watch.

“I have an hour yet, but it will take me the best part of twenty minutes to reach the Eastbourne Road.”

“Will you see him?” asked Kara, in a tone of surprise.

“Certainly,” Lexman replied emphatically: “I cannot have him coming up to the house and making a scene and that is certainly what the little beast will do.”

“Will you pay him?” asked Kara softly.

John made no answer. There was probably 10 pounds in the house and a cheque which was due on the morrow would bring him another 30 pounds. He looked at the letter again. It was written on paper of an unusual texture. The surface was rough almost like blotting paper and in some places the ink absorbed by the porous surface had run. The blank sheets had evidently been inserted by a man in so violent a hurry that he had not noticed the extravagance.

“I shall keep this letter,” said John.

“I think you are well advised. Vassalaro probably does not know that he transgresses a law in writing threatening letters and that should be a very strong weapon in your hand in certain eventualities.”

There was a tiny safe in one corner of the study and this John opened with a key which he took from his pocket. He pulled open one of the steel drawers, took out the papers which were in it and put in their place the letter, pushed the drawer to, and locked it.

All the time Kara was watching him intently as one who found more than an ordinary amount of interest in the novelty of the procedure.

He took his leave soon afterwards.

“I would like to come with you to your interesting meeting,” he said, “but unfortunately I have business elsewhere. Let me enjoin you to take your revolver and at the first sign of any bloodthirsty intention on the part of my admirable compatriot, produce it and click it once or twice, you won’t have to do more.”

Grace rose from the piano as Kara entered the little drawing-room and murmured a few conventional expressions of regret that the visitor’s stay had been so short. That there was no sincerity in that regret Kara, for one, had no doubt. He was a man singularly free from illusions.

They stayed talking a little while.

“I will see if your chauffeur is asleep,” said John, and went out of the room.

There was a little silence after he had gone.

“I don’t think you are very glad to see me,” said Kara. His frankness was a little embarrassing to the girl and she flushed slightly.

“I am always glad to see you, Mr. Kara, or any other of my husband’s friends,” she said steadily.

He inclined his head.

“To be a friend of your husband is something,” he said, and then as if remembering something, “I wanted to take a book away with me—I wonder if your husband would mind my getting it?”

“I will find it for you.”

“Don’t let me bother you,” he protested, “I know my way.”

Without waiting for her permission he left the girl with the unpleasant feeling that he was taking rather much for granted. He was gone less than a minute and returned with a book under his arm.

“I have not asked Lexman’s permission to take it,” he said, “but I am rather interested in the author. Oh, here you are,” he turned to John who came in at that moment. “Might I take this book on Mexico?” he asked. “I will return it in the morning.”

They stood at the door, watching the tail light of the motor disappear down the drive; and returned in silence to the drawing room.

“You look worried, dear,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He smiled faintly.

“Is it the money?” she asked anxiously.

For a moment he was tempted to tell her of the letter. He stifled the temptation realizing that she would not consent to his going out if she knew the truth.

“It is nothing very much,” he said. “I have to go down to Beston Tracey to meet the last train. I am expecting some proofs down.”

He hated lying to her, and even an innocuous lie of this character was repugnant to him.

“I’m afraid you have had a dull evening,” he said, “Kara was not very amusing.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“He has not changed very much,” she said slowly.