searchand travel will be rewarded--and I shall be rich, and the world willwonder!" And, laughing contentedly, almost triumphantly within himself,he carefully replaced his precious document in his chest, and, rising,stood with his back to the fire in the attitude of a man entirelyconfident of what was written in the Book of Fate.
That midnight scene in all its strange, romantic detail, that occasionwhen the tired wayfarer and his daughter spent their first night as myguests, rose before me when, on that bright, cold afternoon followingthe inquest up at Manchester, I alighted from a cab in front of the bigwhite house in Grosvenor Square, and received word of Carter, the solemnmanservant, that Miss Mabel was at home.
The magnificent mansion, with its exquisite decorations, its genuineLouis Quatorze furniture, its valuable pictures and splendid examples ofseventeenth century statuary, home of one to whom expense was surely ofno account, was assuredly sufficient testimony that the shabby wayfarerwho had uttered those words in my narrow little dining-room five yearsbefore had made no idle boast.
The secret sewed within that dirty bag of wash-leather, whatever it mayhave been, had already realised over a million, and was still realisingenormous sums, until death had now so suddenly put an end to itsexploitation. The mystery of it all was beyond solution; and the enigmawas complete.
These and other reflections swept through my mind as I followed thefootman up the wide marble staircase and was shown ceremoniously intothe great gold and white drawing-room, the walls of which were panelledwith pale rose silk, the four large windows affording a wide view acrossthe Square. Those priceless paintings, those beautiful cabinets andunique _bric-a-brac_--all were purchased with the proceeds from thatmysterious secret, the secret which had in that short space of fiveyears been the means of transforming a homeless, down-at-heel wandererinto a millionaire.
Gazing aimlessly across the grey Square with its leafless trees, I stoodundecided how best to break the sad news, when a slight _frou-frou_ ofsilk swept behind me, and, turning quickly, I confronted the dead man'sdaughter, looking now, at twenty-three, far more sweet, graceful andwomanly than in that first hour of our strange meeting by the waysidelong ago.
But her black gown, her trembling form, and her pale, tear-stainedcheeks told me in an instant that this woman in my charge had alreadylearnt the painful truth. She halted before me, a beautiful, tragicfigure, her tiny white hand nervously clutching the back of one of thegilt chairs for support.
"I know!" she exclaimed in a broken voice, quite unnatural to her, hereyes fixed upon me, "I know, Mr. Greenwood, why you have called. Thetruth has been told to me by Mr. Leighton an hour ago. Ah! my poor dearfather!" she sighed, the words catching in her throat as she burst intotears. "Why did he go to Manchester? His enemies have triumphed, justas I have all along feared they would. Yet, great-hearted as he was, hebelieved ill of no man. He refused always to heed my warnings, andlaughed at all my apprehensions. Yet, alas! the ghastly truth is nowonly too plain. My poor father!" she gasped, her handsome face blanchedto the lips. "He is dead--and his secret is out!"
CHAPTER FOUR.
WHICH TRAVERSES DANGEROUS GROUND.
"Are you really suspicious, Mabel, that your father has been the victimof foul play?" I inquired quickly of the dead man's daughter, standingpale and unnerved before me.
"I am," was her direct, unhesitating answer. "You know his story, Mr.Greenwood; you know how he carried with him everywhere something he hadsewed in a piece of chamois leather; something which was his mostprecious possession. Mr. Leighton tells me that it is missing."
"That is unfortunately so," I said. "We all three searched for it amonghis clothes and in his luggage; we made inquiry of the luncheon-carattendant who found him insensible in the railway carriage, of theporters who conveyed him to the hotel, of every one, in fact, but canfind no trace of it whatsoever."
"Because it has been deliberately stolen," she remarked.
"Then your theory is that he has been assassinated in order to concealthe theft?"
She nodded in the affirmative, her face still hard and pale.
"But there is no evidence whatever of foul play, recollect," Iexclaimed. "Both medical men, two of the best in Manchester, declaredthat death was entirely due to natural causes."
"I care nothing for what they say. The little sachet which my poorfather sewed with his own hands, and guarded so carefully all theseyears, and which for some curious reason he would neither trust in anybank nor in a safe deposit vault, is missing. His enemies have gainedpossession of it, just as I felt confident they would."
"I recollect him showing me that little bag of wash-leather on the firstnight of our acquaintance," I said. "He then declared that what wascontained therein would bring him wealth--and it certainly has done," Iadded, glancing round that magnificent apartment.
"It brought him wealth, but not happiness, Mr. Greenwood," she respondedquickly. "That packet, the contents of which I have never seen, he hascarried with him in his pocket or suspended round his neck ever since itfirst came into his possession years ago. In all his clothes he had aspecial pocket in which to carry it, while at night he wore it in aspecially made belt which was locked around his waist. I think heregarded it as a sort of charm, or talisman, which, besides bringing himhis great fortune, also preserved him from all ills. The reason of thisI cannot tell."
"Did you never ascertain the nature of the document which he consideredso precious?"
"I tried to do so many times, but he would never reveal it to me. `Itwas his secret,' he would say, and no more."
Both Reggie and I had, times without number, endeavoured to learn whatthe mysterious packet really contained, but had been no more successfulthan the charming girl now standing before me. Burton Blair was astrange man, both in actions and in words, very reserved regarding hisown affairs, and yet, curiously enough, with the advent of prosperity hehad become a prince of good fellows.
"But who were his enemies?" I inquired.
"Ah! of that I am likewise in utter ignorance," was her reply. "As youknow, during the past year or two, like all rich men he has beensurrounded by adventurers and parasites of all sorts, whom Ford, hissecretary, has kept at arm's length. It may be that the existence ofthe precious packet was known, and that my poor father has fallen avictim to some foul plot. At east, that is my firm idea."
"If so, the police should certainly be informed," I said. "It is truethat the wash-leather sachet which he showed me on the night of ourfirst meeting is now missing, for we have all made the most carefulsearch for it, but in vain. Yet what could its possession possiblyprofit any one if the key to what was contained there is wanting?"
"But was not this key, whatever it was, also in my father's hands?"queried Mabel Blair. "Was it not the discovery of that very key whichgave us all these possessions?" she asked, with the sweet womanlinessthat was her most engaging characteristic.
"Exactly. But surely your father, shrewd and cautious as he always was,would never carry upon his person both problem and key together! Ican't really believe that he'd do such a foolish thing as that."
"Nor do I. Although I was his only child, and his confidante ineverything relating to his life, there was one thing he persistentlykept from me, and that was the nature of his secret. Sometimes I havefound myself suspecting that it was not an altogether creditable one--indeed, one that a father dare not reveal to his daughter. And yet noone has ever accused him of dishonesty or of double-dealing. At othertimes I have noticed in his face and manner an air of distinct mysterywhich has caused me to believe that the source of our unlimited wealthwas some curious and romantic one, which to the world would be regardedas entirely incredible. One night, indeed, as we sat here at tableafter dinner, and while smoking, he had been telling me about my poormother who died in lodgings in a back street in Manchester while he wasabsent on a voyage to the West Coast of Africa, he declared that ifLondon knew the source of his income it would be astounded. `But,' headded, `it is a secret--a
secret I intend to carry with me to thegrave.'"
Strangely enough he had uttered those very same words to me a couple ofyears before, when one night he had sat before the fire in my rooms inGreat Russell Street, and I had referred to his marvellous stroke ofgood fortune. He had died, and he had either carried out his threat ofdestroying that evidence of his secret in the shape of the well-wornchamois leather bag, or else it had been ingeniously stolen from him.
The curious, ill-written letter I had secured from my friend's luggage,while puzzling me had aroused certain suspicions that hitherto I had notentertained. Of these I, of course, told Mabel nothing, for I did notwish to cause her any greater pain. In the years we had been acquaintedwe had always been good friends. Although
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