into view. It was well out of sight of the woodon the hill where the shots had been fired. I uttered an exclamation asI saw that the big white gate was shut. It was hardly ever shut.
Slowing down, I brought the car to a standstill within a few yards ofthe lodge, jumped out, and ran forward to open the gate.
It was fastened with a heavy chain, and the chain was securelypadlocked.
Shouting failed to bring any one out of the lodge, so I clambered overthe gate and knocked loudly at the door. But nobody answered, and, whenI tried to open the door, I found it locked.
There seemed to be but one way out of the difficulty. I have said thatI am strong, yet it needed all my strength to lift that heavy gate offits hinges. It fell with a crash back into the road, and I managed todrag it away to one side. Then starting the engine again, I set offonce more for Oakham "all out."
I went straight to the hospital, but a brief examination of the poorfellow sufficed to assure the doctors that the man was already dead.Then I went to the police-station and told them everything I knew--how aman giving the name "Smithson" had called at Houghton Park to see SirCharles Thorold; how Thorold had repudiated all knowledge of the man;how Sir Charles and Lady Thorold and their daughter, and Lady Thorold'smaid, Judith--I did not know her surname--had suddenly left Houghton,and mysteriously disappeared; how I had, that afternoon, found the houseshut up, though I had seen a man disappear from one of the windows; howI had discovered the butler's body in the lake; how my driver had beenshot dead by some one hidden in a wood upon a hill, and how other shotshad been fired at me by the assassin.
At first the police seemed inclined to detain me, but when I hadconvinced them that I was what they quaintly termed "a bona fidegentleman," and had produced what they called my "credentials,"--theseconsisted of a visiting card, and of a letter addressed to me atHoughton Park--and given them my London address and telephone number,they let me go. I found out afterwards that, while they kept me talkingat the station, they had telephoned to London, in order to verify mystatements that I had a flat in King Street and belonged to Brooks'sClub.
The coffee room of the _Stag's Head Hotel_ that night was crowded, forit was the night of the Hunt Ball, and every available bed in the hotelhad been engaged some days in advance. Those dining were all strangersto me, most of them young people in very high spirits.
"I've kept this table for you, sir," the head waiter said, as heconducted me across the room. "It is the best I could do; the otherplace at it is engaged."
"And by a beautiful lady, I hope," I answered lightly, for I knew thiswaiter to be something of a wag.
"No, sir," he answered with a grin, "by a gentleman with a beard. Acharming gentleman, sir. You'll like him."
"Who is he? What is he like?"
"Oh, quite a little man, sir, with a nervous, fidgetty manner, and afalsetto voice. Ah," he added, lowering his voice, "here he comes."
There was a twinkle of merriment in the waiter's eyes, as he turned andhurried away to meet the giant who had just entered the room. I don'tthink I had ever before seen so tall and magnificent-looking a man. Hemust have stood quite six feet four, and was splendidly built. Hisdark, deep-set eyes peered out with singular power from beneath bushybrows. He had a high, broad forehead, and thick black hair. His beard,well-trimmed, reached just below his white tie, for of course he was inevening clothes.
There was a noticeable lull in the buzz of conversation as the newcomerappeared, and all eyes were set upon him as he strolled with an easy,swinging gait across the room towards my table. I saw dowagers raisetheir lorgnettes and scrutinise him with great curiosity, mingled withapproval, as he went along.
Instinctively I rose as he approached. I don't know why I did. Ishould not have risen had any ordinary stranger been brought over to mytable to occupy a vacant seat. The man looked down at me, smiled--itwas a most friendly, captivating smile--nodded genially, and then seatedhimself facing me. I am a bit of a snob at heart--most of us are, onlywe won't admit it--and I felt gratified at the reflected interest I knewwas now being taken in me, for many people were staring hard at us both,evidently thinking that this remarkable-looking stranger must beSomebody, and that, as we were apparently acquainted, I must be Somebodytoo.
The waiter's eye caught mine, and I heard him give a low chuckle ofsatisfaction at the practical joke he had played upon me.
"I suppose you are also going to the ball, sir," the big man said to mein his great, deep voice, when he had told the waiter what to bring him.
"No, I'm not. I rather wish I were," I answered. "Unfortunately,however, I have to return to town to-night. Are you going?"
"To town?"
"No, to the ball."
He hesitated before answering.
"Yes--well, perhaps," he said, as he began his soup. "I am not yetcertain. I want to go, but there are reasons why I should not," and hesmiled.
"That sounds rather curious."
"It is very curious, but it is so."
"Do you mind explaining?"
"I do."
His eyes were set on mine. They seemed somehow to hold my gaze infascination. There was in them an expression that was half ironical,half humorous.
"I believe this is the first time we have met," he said, after a pause.
"I'm quite sure it is," I answered. "You will forgive my saying so, butI don't think any one who had once met you could very well forget it."
He gave a great laugh.
"Perhaps you are right--ah! perhaps you are right," he said laughing,wiping his moustache and mouth with his napkin. "Certainly I shallnever forget you."
I began, for the first time, to feel rather uncomfortable. He seemed totalk in enigmas. He was evidently what I believe is called "acharacter."
"Do you know this part of the country well?" I asked, anxious to changethe subject.
"Yes--and no," he answered slowly, thoughtfully.
This was getting tiresome. I began to think he was trying to make funof me. I began to wish the waiter had not put him to sit at my table.
Presently he looked again across at me, and said quite suddenly--
"Look here, Mr. Ashton, let us understand each other at once, shall we?"
His eyes looked into mine again, and I again felt quite uneasy. He knewmy name. I felt distinctly annoyed at the waiter having told him myname without first asking my permission, as I concluded he must havedone. It was a great liberty on his part, I considered--animpertinence, more especially as he had not mentioned this stranger'sname to me.
"I shall not be at the ball--and yet I shall be there," the big mancontinued, as I did not speak. "Tell me, do you return to Houghtonafter going to London?"
"You seem to know a good deal about me, Mr. --" I said, rather nettled,but hoping to draw his name from him.
He did not take the hint.
"Sir Charles is well, I hope? And Lady Thorold?" he went on. "And howis their charming daughter, Miss Vera? I have not seen her for somedays. She seems to be as fond as ever of hunting. I think it acold-blooded, brutal sport. In fact I don't call it `sport' at all--twenty or so couples of hounds after one fox, and the chances all infavour of the hounds. I have told her so more than once, and I believethat in her heart she agrees with me. As a matter of fact, I'm here inOakham, on purpose to call on Sir Charles to-morrow, on a matter ofbusiness."
I was astounded, also annoyed. Who on earth was this big man, whoseemed to know so much, who spoke of Vera as though he knew herintimately and met her every day, and who apparently was acquainted alsowith Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, yet whom I had never before set eyeson, though I was so very friendly with the Thorolds?
The stranger had spoken of my well-beloved!
"You will forgive my asking you, I am sure," I said, curiosity gettingthe better of me, "but--well, I have not the pleasure of knowing yourname. Do you mind telling me?"
"Mind telling you my name?" he exclaimed, with a look of surprise."Why, not in the leas
t. My name is--well--Smithson--if you like. Anyname will do?"
He must have noticed my sudden change of expression, for he said atonce--
"You seem surprised?"
"I--well, I am rather surprised. But you merely are not Smithson," Ianswered awkwardly. I was staring hard at him, scrutinising his face inorder to discover some resemblance to the portrait which at that momentlay snugly at the bottom of my valise. The portrait showed aclean-shaven man, younger than this strange individual whom I had met,as I believed, for the first time, barely a quarter of an hour before.Age might have wrought changes, and the beard might have served as adisguise, but the man in the picture was certainly over thirty-four, andmy
The Mysterious Three Page 4