The Slave of Silence

by Fred M. White

  CHAPTER VIII

  The cabman gave a knowing wink and touched his hat. Berrington lay backinside the hansom abstractedly, smoking a cigarette that he had lighted.His bronzed face was unusually pale and thoughtful; it was evident thathe felt himself on no ordinary errand, though the situation appeared tobe perfectly prosaic. One does not usually attach a romantic interest toa well-dressed military man in a hansom cab during broad daylight inLondon. But Berrington could have told otherwise.

  "Poor little girl," he muttered to himself. "Sad as her fate is, I didnot think it was quite so sad as _this_. We must do something to saveher. What a fortunate thing it is that I have always had a love for thestudy of underground human nature, and that I should have found out somuch that appears only normal to the average eye. That innocent patch ofsalt in the shape of a bullet, for instance. Thank goodness, I am on mylong leave and have plenty of time on my hands. My dear little greylady, even your affairs must remain in abeyance for the present."

  The drive promised to be a long one, for half London seemed to have beentraversed before the cabman looked down through the little peep-hole andasked for instructions, as the hansom in front had stopped.

  "The gentleman inside is getting out, sir," he said. "He's stopped atthe corner house."

  "Go by it at a walk," Berrington commanded, "and see what house our manenters. After that I will tell you exactly what to do, driver. Only becareful as to the right house."

  The cab pulled up at length once more, and the house was indicated.Berrington proceeded a little further, and then sent his own driver awayrejoicing, a sovereign the richer for his task. Turning up his collarand pulling down his hat, Berrington retraced his steps.

  He was enabled to take pretty good stock of the house Richford hadentered, and without exciting suspicion, because there were trees on theopposite side of the road and seats beneath them. It was a fairly openpart of London, with detached houses on the one side looking on to akind of park. They were expensive houses, Berrington decided, housesthat could not have been less than two hundred and fifty a year. Theylooked prosperous with their marble steps and conservatories on theright side of the wide doorways; there were good gardens behind and nobasements. Berrington could see, too, by the hanging opals in the upperwindows that these houses had electric lights.

  "This is unusual, very unusual indeed," Berrington muttered to himself,as he sat as if tired on one of the seats under the trees. "The gentrywho cultivate the doctrine that has for its cult a piece of salt in theshape of a bullet, don't as a rule favour desirable family mansions likethese. Still, fortune might have favoured one of them. No. 100, AudleyPlace. And No. 100 is the recognized number of the clan. By the way,where am I?"

  A passing policeman was in a position to answer the question. AudleyPlace was somewhat at the back of Wandsworth Common, so that it wasreally a good way out of town. The policeman was friendly, mainly owingto the fact that he was an old soldier, and that he recognizedBerrington as an officer immediately. He was full of information, too.

  "Mostly rich City gents live in Audley Place, sir," he said. "There isone colonel, too--Colonel Foley of the East Shropshire Regiment."

  "An old college chum and messmate of mine," Berrington said. "I followedColonel Foley in the command of that very regiment. What house does helive in?"

  "That's No. 14, sir," the delighted officer grinned. "Excuse theliberty, sir, but you must be Colonel Berrington, sir. I was with youall through the first Egyptian campaign."

  Berrington blessed his own good fortune. Here was the very thing that hewanted.

  "We'll fight our battles over again some other day," he said. "I ampretty sure that I shall see a great deal more of you--by the way, whatis your name? Macklin. Thank you. Now tell me something as to who livesyonder at No. 100. I am not asking out of idle curiosity."

  "I can't tell you the gentleman's name, sir," Macklin replied. "But Ican find out. The people have not been there very long. A few goodservants, but no men, no ladies so far as I can tell, and the masterwhat you might call a confirmed invalid. Goes about in a bath chairwhich he hires from a regular keeper of this class of thing. Not a veryold gent, but you can't quite tell, seeing that he is muffled up to hiseyes. Very pale and feeble he looks."

  Berrington muttered something to himself and his eyebrows contracted.Evidently he was a good deal puzzled by what he had heard.

  "That is very strange," he said, "very strange indeed. I will notdisguise from you, Macklin, that I have a very strong reason for wishingto know everything about No. 100, Audley Place. Keep your eyes open andglean all the information you possibly can. Talk to the servants and tryto pump them. And write to me as soon as you have found out anythingworth sending. Here is my card. I shall do no good by staying here anylonger at present."

  The policeman touched his helmet and strode on his way. Berringtonstrolled along under the friendly shadow of the trees till he had leftAudley Place behind him. Once clear of the terrace he called a cab andwas whirled back to town again.

  Meanwhile, absolutely unconscious of the fact that he was being soclosely shadowed, Richford had been driven out Wandsworth way. He didnot look in the least like a modern millionaire of good health andenviable prospects as he drove along. His moody face was pale, his lipstrembled, his eyes were red and bloodshot with the brandy that he hadbeen drinking. The hand that controlled the market so frequently shookstrangely as Richford pressed the bell of No. 100 Audley Place. Therewas no suggestion of tragedy or mystery about the neat parlourmaid whoopened the door.

  "Mr. Sartoris desires to see me," Richford said. "He sent me amessenger--a message to the _Royal Palace Hotel_. Will you please tellhim I am here."

  The neat parlourmaid opened the drawing-room door and ushered Richfordin. It was a big room looking on the street, but there was nothingabout it to give the place the least touch of originality. The furniturewas neat and substantial, as might have befitted the residence of aprosperous City man, the pictures were by well-known artists, the carpetgave to the feet like moss. There was nothing here to cause Richford toturn pale, and his lips to quiver.

  He paced up and down the room uneasily, starting at every sound untilthe maid returned and asked if the gentleman would be good enough tostep this way. Richford followed down a passage leading to the back ofthe house into a room that gave on to a great conservatory. It was afine room, most exquisitely furnished; flowers were everywhere, the bigdome-roofed conservatory was a vast blaze of them. The room was so warm,too, that Richford felt the moisture coming out on his face. By the firea figure sat huddled up in a great invalid chair.

  "So you have come," a thin voice said. "Most excellent Richford, you arehere. I was loath to send for you on this auspicious occasion, but itcould not be helped."

  There was the faintest suggestion of a sneer in the thin voice. Richfordcrossed the room and took another chair by the side of the invalid. Theface of the man who called himself Carl Sartoris was as pale as marbleand as drawn as parchment, the forehead was hard and tangled with a massof fair hair upon it, the lips were a little suggestive of cruelty. Itwas the dark eyes that gave an expression of life and vitality,surprising in so weak a frame. Those eyes held the spectator, theyfascinated people by their marvellous vitality.

  "What devil's work are you upon now?" Richford growled.

  "My dear sir, you must not speak to an invalid like that," Sartorissaid. "Do you not know that I am sensitive as to my own beloved flowers?It was my flowers that I asked you to come and see. Since you were herelast, the room has been entirely redecorated. It seemed to me to be goodthat I should share my artistic joy with so congenial a companion."

  "Damn your flowers!" Richford burst out passionately. "What a cruel,unfeeling fellow you are! Always the same, and will be the same till thedevil comes for you."

  "Which sad event you would regard with philosophic equanimity," Sartorislaughed. "So, we will get to business as soon as possible. I see thatSir Charles Darryll is dead. I want to know all about t
hat affairwithout delay. What did he die of?"

  "How should I know? Old age and too much pleasure. And that's all I cantell you. I found him first."

  "Oh, indeed. The evening paper says nothing about that."

  "For the simple reason that the evening papers don't know everything,"Richford growled. "Quite early to-day I found Sir Charles dead in hisbed. I dared not say a word about it, because, as you know, I was goingto marry his daughter. But, of course, you all knew about _that_, too.You see if I had made my little discovery public, Beatrice would haveknown that death had freed her and her father from certain veryunpleasant consequences that you and I wot of, and would have refused tomeet me at the altar. So I locked the door and discreetly said nothing,my good Sartoris."

  The little man in the invalid chair rolled about horribly and silently.

  "Good boy," he said. "You are a credit to your parents and the countryyou belong to. What next?"

  "Why, the wedding, of course. Lord Rashborough, as head of the family,was giving Beatrice away. Sir Charles did not turn up, but nobodywondered, as he had never been known to attend to an appointment in hislife. And so we were married."

  Once more the little man shook with unholy mirth.

  "And the girl knows nothing about it?" he asked. "I suppose you'll tellher some day when she is not quite so loving as she might be? Ho, ho; itis a joke after my own heart."

  Richford laughed in his turn, then his face grew dark. He proceeded totell the rest of the story. The little man in the chair became quieterand quieter, his face more like parchment than ever. His eyes blazedwith a curious electric fire.

  "So you have lost your wife before you have found her?" he asked. "Youfool! you double-dyed fool! If that girl chooses to tell her story,suspicion falls on you. And if anybody makes a fuss and demands aninquest or anything of that kind----"

  "They are going to hold an inquest, anyway," Richford said sulkily. "Dr.Andrews was in favour of it from the first, and the family doctor,Oswin, has agreed. The police came around and sealed up that suite ofrooms before I left the hotel. But why this fuss?"

  "Silence, fool!" came from the chair in a hissing whisper. "Let me havetime to think. That senseless act of folly of yours over the telegrambids fair to ruin us all. You will say so yourself when you hear allthat I have to tell you. Oh, you idiot!"

  "Why?" Richford protested. "How did I know Sir Charles was going to die?And if his death took place in a perfectly natural manner and there wasno foul play----"

  "Oh, _if_ it did. Perhaps it was wrong on my part not to take you morefully into my confidence. But there is one thing certain. Listen to me,Richford. Whatever happens between now and this time to-morrow _theremust be no inquest on the body of Sir Charles Darryll_!"

  The words came with a fierce hissing indrawing of the speaker's breath.He tried to get up from his chair, and fell back with a curse ofimpotence.

  "Push me along to the door," he said. "Take me to that little roombehind the library where you have been before. I am going to show yousomething, and I'm going to reveal a plot to you. We shall want all yourbrutal bulldog courage to-night."

  The chair slid along on its cushioned wheels, the door closed with agentle spring, and, as it did, a female figure emerged from behind agreat bank of flowers just inside the conservatory. She crossed ontip-toe to the door and as gently closed it. As the light fell it lit upthe pale sad features of the grey lady--the Slave of Silence.