The Lost Million

by William Le Queux

morning-coat of a rather old-fashioned cut, andpepper-and-salt trousers, an attire which gave him a quiet and somewhatdistinguished appearance.

  I sat before him, wondering at his remarkable dual personality--the manhunted by the police, and the wealthy occupier of that fine countrymansion.

  His small, shrewd eyes seemed to realise the trend of my thoughts as helounged back in his chair near the window, regarding me lazily.

  "I promised, Mr Kemball, that I would see you again as soon asopportunity offered," he said; "and feeling assured of the spirit ofgood fellowship existing between us, I have this afternoon let you intothe secret of my double life. That evening at Exeter I had a verynarrow squeak of it--by Gad! one of the narrowest in all my life. Anenemy--one whom I had believed to be my friend--gave me completely away.The police evidently expected to find me through you, for you werewatched constantly. Everywhere you went you were followed."

  "You know that?"

  "I do," he said. "The fact is I have a personal guardian who constantlywatches over me, and warns me of danger. You saw him on his cycle atLathbury. He watched you while I was absent in France shaking off thosebloodhounds of the law."

  "And you have now shaken them off, I presume?"

  "I think so. Scotland Yard has, happily, never yet associated HarveyShaw, Justice of the Peace for the County of Rutland, and one of thevisiting justices of Oakham Gaol, with Alfred Dawnay, alias Day, whomthey are so very eager to arrest," and he laughed grimly. "Mine is anamusing situation, I assure you, to sit on the Bench and try prisoners,well knowing that each police-officer who appears as witness would, ifhe knew, be only too eager to execute the warrant outstanding."

  And his broad, good-humoured face again expanded into a smile.

  "Certainly. I quite see the grim humour of the situation," I said.

  "And if you had not assisted me, Mr Kemball, I should, at this moment,have been under detention in His Majesty's prison at Brixton," he said."By the way, I have to return the suit of clothes you so very kindlylent to me. My man has them upstairs ready packed. I shall send themto you by parcel-post. Gates was, I think, rather surprised to findanother man's clothes among my kit. But fortunately he's used to myidiosyncrasies, and regards them as mere eccentricities on the part ofhis master. But he is always discreet. He's been with me these tenyears."

  "How long have you lived here, Mr--er--"

  "Shaw here," he interrupted quickly.

  "Mr Shaw. How long have you lived here? I thought the place belongedto Lord Wyville?"

  "So it does--at least to the late lord's executors. I've rented it forthe past three years. So in the county I'm highly respectable, and Ibelieve highly respected."

  "The situation is unusual--to say the least," I declared.

  "Perhaps I'm a rather unusual man, Mr Kemball," he said, rising andcrossing the room. I saw that in his dark green cravat he wore a finediamond, and that his manner and bearing were those of a well-borncountry gentleman. Truly, he was an unusual person.

  "I hope," he went on, halting suddenly before me, "that as you haveassociated yourself with my very dear and intimate friend, MelvillArnold, you will now become my friend also. It is for that reason Iventure to approach you as I have done to-day."

  "Well," I said, my natural sense of caution exerting itself as Irecollected the dead man's written injunction, "I must admit, Mr Shaw,that I am sorely puzzled to fathom the mystery of the situation. Eversince my meeting with poor Mr Arnold I seem to have been living in aperfect maze of inexplicable circumstances."

  "I have no doubt. But all will be explained in due course. Did Arnoldmake no explanation?"

  "None. Indeed, in his letter to me, which I opened after his burial, headmitted to me that he was not what he had pretended to be."

  "Few of us are, I fear," he laughed. "We are all more or lesshypocrites and humbugs. To-day, in this age of criminality andself-advertisement, the art of evading exposure is the art of industry.Alas! the copy-book proverb that honesty is the best policy seems nolonger true. To be dishonest is to get rich quick; to remain honest isto face the Official Receiver in the Bankruptcy Court. A dishonest manamasses money and becomes great and honoured owing to the effort of hispress agent. The honest man struggles against the trickery of theunscrupulous, and sooner or later goes to the wall."

  "What you say is, I fear, too true," I sighed. "Would that it wereuntrue. Virtue has very little reward in these days of unscrupulousdealing in every walk of life, from the palace to the slum."

  "Then I take it that you do not hold in contempt a man who, in dealingwith the world, has used his opponents' own weapons?" he asked.

  "How can I? In a duel the same weapons must be used."

  "Exactly, Mr Kemball, we are now beginning to understand each other,and--"

  At that moment the door opened without warning, and Asta re-entered.She had changed her frock, and was wearing a pretty muslin blouse andskirt of dove-grey.

  "Shall you have tea in here, Dad--or out on the lawn?" she inquired.

  "Oh, on the lawn, I think, dear. I just want to finish my chat with MrKemball--if you don't mind."

  "I'm awfully sorry I intruded," she laughed. "I thought you'dfinished." And with a sweet smile to me she closed the door and againleft us.

  How very dainty she looked; how exquisite was her figure! Surely hergrace was perfect.

  "Really," my companion said, "I don't know what I'd do without Asta.She's all I have in the world, and she's a perfect marvel of discretionand diplomacy."

  "She's indeed very charming," I said, perfectly frankly.

  "I'm glad you find her so. She has plenty of admirers, I can assureyou. And I fear they are spoiling her. But as I was saying, MrKemball," he went on, "I hope we now understand each other perfectly.Poor Arnold was such a dear and intimate friend of mine, and we wereequally interested in so many financial schemes that it has puzzled megreatly that he should have sought an obscure burial as he has done, andthat his affairs are not in the hands of some responsible lawyer. Didhe mention anything to you concerning the terms of his will?"

  "He never breathed a word regarding it. Indeed, I have no idea whetherhe had made one."

  "Ah!" sighed my companion; "so like poor Arnold. He always was fond ofpostponing till to-morrow what could be done to-day. His will--if hemade one--would be interesting, no doubt, for his estate must be prettyconsiderable. He was a wealthy man."

  I recollected the incident of the burning of the banknotes, and that setme pondering.

  "Do you anticipate that he made a will?" I asked. "I think not," wasShaw's answer. "He had a strong aversion to making a will, I know,because he feared that after his death the truth might be revealed."

  "The truth concerning what?"

  "Concerning a certain chapter of his life which for years had been verycarefully hidden. The fact is, Mr Kemball, that he feared exposure!"

  "Of what?"

  "Of some rather ugly facts. And for that reason he carefully avoidedmaking much explanation to you as to who he really was. He hadreasons--very strong reasons--for concealing his actual identity."

  "May I not know them?" I asked very slowly, fixing my eyes upon his.

  "Some day," was the rather strained reply. "Not now--some day--someday. I hope to be in a position to explain all to you--to reveal to youcertain matters which will hold you utterly dumbfounded and amazed."

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  THE STORY OF THE CYLINDER.

  I was taking tea beneath the trees with my host and Asta, when thereapproached a tall, dark-haired athletic young fellow in grey flannelsand straw hat. He was smiling merrily, and the sudden light in thegirl's eyes when she saw him was sufficient to reveal to me that theywere intimate friends.

  They grasped hands, while Shaw exclaimed in his slow deliberate drawl--

  "Hulloa, Guy! I thought you had gone up to town?"

  "No. I had a wire which put off my appointment until Thursday, so I'vecome ov
er for a cup of tea." Then she introduced the young fellow to meas Guy Nicholson.

  He seated himself in one of the long cane deckchairs, and as Asta handedhim some tea the pair began to chat about a tennis tournament which wasto be held at a neighbouring house. Presently he turned to me, and wehad a long conversation. He had the distinct bearing of a gentleman,smart, spruce, and upright, his handsome smiling face bronzed by thesun, while he seemed brimming over with good-humour.

  From the first I instinctively liked him. Shaw explained that the youngfellow was a near neighbour, whose father, an ironmaster in