The Lost Million

by William Le Queux

low,hollow voice.

  Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the preciouscontents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

  What could that secret be?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  THE SIGN OF THE HAND.

  The problem grew daily more intricate. Try how I would, I could obtainno knowledge of the identity of the man known to me as Melvill Arnold.His name might be Edgcumbe, as it seemed from the letter I found in hispossession, yet in the learned circles of Egyptologists he was unknown.

  Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he waswealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes whichhe had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune.Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands.Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe hadbeen arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him.Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of thedead man's riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that HarveyShaw was really Arnold's friend and not his enemy, as the woman hadalleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would Inot have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter!

  I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed.Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid andstraightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with bothhim and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dinedwith me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those longsummer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object theelucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped.

  Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead ofhealing the wound caused by Guy's sudden end, only served to aggravateit. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes Iendeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief andsilence.

  To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least soundseemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared asthough she had something upon her conscience--some secret which shefeared moment by moment might be betrayed.

  One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room atLydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw.

  "Yes," he sighed, "you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I've noticedit too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants achange. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear ofit. Now, however, I've induced her at last to go for a motor-tour inFrance. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne,thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding the _pave_ of Paris, by Versailles,Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you everbeen there?"

  "No. It must be a very fine run," I said.

  "Then why don't you come with us?" he suggested. "I'm taking the sixty,and there'll be plenty of room."

  I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. Myown car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey.

  "Ah!" he laughed, noticing my indecision. "Of course, you'll come.Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow."

  "Very well," I said, "I'll come, if you really mean that there'll beroom."

  And so it was arranged.

  When he told Asta a few minutes later her face brightened, and sheturned to me, saying--

  "Well, this is really good news, Mr Kemball. Dad has often been on theContinent with the car, but he has never taken me before. He as thoughtthat the long runs might be too fatiguing."

  "Any thing, my dear, to get you out of this place," he said, with alaugh. "You must have a change, or else you'll be ill."

  Later on, a young man and a girl called, and we played tennis for anhour. Then when the visitors had gone, I sat for a little while withAsta in the drawing-room to get cool. She looked very sweet in hersimple lace blouse, short white skirt, and white shoes. Exertion hadheightened the tint of her cheeks, and something of the old expressionhad returned to her eyes.

  As we sat chatting, a peculiar low whistle suddenly reached our ears.

  I listened. The call was repeated, and seemed to come from the roomabove.

  "It's Dad," the girl said. "Of late he seems to have taken to whistlinglike that. Why, I can't tell, for we have no dogs."

  We listened again, and it was repeated a third time, a short shrill callof a peculiar note. Apparently he was in his room directly over thedrawing-room--which was the bedroom--and the window being open we couldhear distinctly.

  Again it was repeated, when Asta rose, and, going to the window, shoutedup--

  "Who are you calling, Dad?"

  "Oh, nobody, dear," was his reply. "I--I didn't know you were there. Ithought you were with Mr Kemball in the garden."

  The incident held me speechless for a few minutes, for I had suddenlyrecollected that after I had encountered Shaw at Titmarsh, on theoccasion of the discovery of poor Guy, I had heard an exactly similarwhistle. It was a peculiar note which, once heard, was not quicklyforgotten.

  We met Shaw outside on the lawn a few minutes later, when Astaexclaimed--

  "Why have you got into the habit of whistling so horribly, Dad? Onecould understand it if we had dogs. But to whistle to nothing seems soidiotic."

  "All, so it is, dear," he replied, laughing. "But I was not whistlingto nothing. I was trying to call Muir, the gardener, from the window.I could see him at work over by the croquet lawn, but the old fellowgets very deaf nowadays."

  Such was Shaw's explanation. It was surely not an unusual circumstance,yet it was full of meaning when regarded in the light of what afterwardstranspired.

  As I walked with him, and he discussed our projected trip over thosefine level roads of France, I could not help wondering why he haduttered that peculiar call on that well-remembered morning at TitmarshCourt.

  A fortnight later, in the crimson of the glorious afterglow, we swungdown the hill into the quaint old-world village of Arnay-le-Duc, in theCote d'Or, a quiet, lethargic place built around its great old chateau,now, alas! in ruins since the Huguenots gained their victory there underColigny in 1570. Scarcely had we entered the silent village street, theechoes of which were awakened by our siren, when we pulled up before thelong, low-built Hotel de la Poste, a building painted grey, with_jalousies_ of the same colour, and high sloping roof of slate, likemany of those ancient hostelries one finds on the great highways ofFrance--the posting houses of the days of Louis Quatorze, which nowadaysbear the golden double A of the Automobile Association.

  We were quite a merry trio, for since leaving England Asta had becomealmost her old self. The complete change of surroundings had wrought inher a wonderful improvement, and she looked sweet and dainty in her palemauve motor-bonnet and silk dust-coat. Shaw wore dark spectacles,pleading that the whiteness of the roads pained his eyes. But I hadshrewd suspicion that they were worn for disguise, for, curiouslyenough, of an evening he never removed them.

  What did he fear in France?

  That morning we had left Melun, where we had spent the night at theGrand Monarque, and after driving through the delightful Foret deFontainebleau, had lunched at the Hotel de l'Epee in busy Auverre, andthen spun away over the straight wide _route nationale_ throughVermenton, Avallon, and quiet old Saulieu, in the midst of the richvinelands, until we had accomplished the steep hills between that placeand Arnay-le-Duc.

  It was our intention to get on to Macon, a hundred kilometres farther,that night, but while we were sitting at dinner, in the unpretentiouslittle _salle a manger_, eating a tasty meal of trout and cutlets,washed down by an old and perfect bottle of Beaune, Harris, thechauffeur, who had been hired for the tour because he knew the Frenchroads, came and informed us of a slight breakdown of the engine, whichwould take him at least a couple of hours or so to repair.

  "Then we can't get on to Macon to-night, that's very certain," remarkedShaw.

  "That's a pity, Dad," exclaimed Asta
, "for I wanted to spend a few hoursthere. I've heard it is a wonderful place to buy antiques, and I wantsome old crucifixes to add to my collection."

  "Never mind, dear," he said, "we will lunch there to-morrow. We can'texpect to go through France without a single mishap. Very well,Harris," he added, "we'll stay here to-night."

  Three travellers in the wine trade, men who tucked their serviettes intotheir collars, and who ate and drank heartily, were our tablecompanions, and soon we were all chatting merrily in French, whileMadame and her two daughters waited upon us.

  The room was at the back, and looked out upon the spacious old courtyardinto which, in days bygone, the dusty Lyons mail used to rumble over thecobbles. It was bare, with highly polished oak floor, a mirror on thewalls, and an old buffet, as is the