Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Richard Marsh

  "I'll make a clean breast of it. You fellows can keep a still tongue in your heads—keep a still tongue about what I am going to tell you." His hearers bowed. They were coming to the point—at last. "Eh"—in spite of his announced intention of making a clean breast of it, his Grace rather stumbled in his speech. "Before I was married I—I had some acquaintance with—with a certain lady. When I married, that acquaintance ceased. On the last occasion on which I saw her she informed me that she was indebted to you in the sum of a thousand pounds for jewellery. I gave her a cheque to discharge her liability to you, and to make sure that she did discharge the liability, I made the cheque payable to you, which, I now perceive, was perhaps not the wisest thing I could have done. But, at the same time, I wish you clearly to comprehend that I have every reason to believe that the lady referred to is, to put it mildly, a most unlikely person to—to rob any one."

  "We must request you to furnish us with that lady's name and address. And I would advise your Grace to accompany us in an immediate visit to that lady."

  "That is your advice is it, Mr. Golden? I am not sure that I appreciate it quite so much as it may possibly deserve."

  "Otherwise, as you will yourself perceive, we shall be compelled to put the matter at once in the hands of the police, and, your Grace, there will be a scandal."

  The Duke of Datchet reflected. He looked at Mr. Golden, he looked at Mr. Ruby, he looked at the ceiling, he looked at the floor, he looked at his boots—then he looked back again at Mr. Golden. At last he rose. He shook himself a little—as if to shake his clothes into their proper places. He seemed to have threshed the pros and cons of the matter well out, mentally, and to have finally decided.

  "As I do not want a scandal, I think I will take your excellent advice, Mr. Golden—which I now really do appreciate at its proper value—and accompany you upon that little visit. Shall we go at once?"

  "At once—if your Grace pleases."

  Chapter III

  The Duke of Datchet's brougham, containing the Duke of Datchet himself upon one seat, and Messrs. Ruby and Golden cheek by jowl upon the other, drew up in front of a charming villa in the most charming part of charming St. John's Wood. The Duke's ring—for the Duke himself did ring, and there was no knocker—was answered by a most unimpeachable-looking man-servant in livery. The man-servant was not only unimpeachable-looking—which every servant ought to look—but good-looking, too, which, in a servant, is not regarded as quite so indispensable. He was, indeed, so good-looking as to be quite a "beauty man." So young, too! A mere youth!

  When this man-servant opened the door, and saw to whom he had opened it, he started. And not only did he start, but Messrs. Ruby and Golden started too, particularly Mr. Golden. The Duke of Datchet, if he observed this little by-play, did not condescend to notice it.

  "Is Mrs. Mansfield in?"

  "I believe so. I will enquire. What name?"

  "Never mind the name, and I will make my own enquiries. You needn't announce me, I know the way."

  The Duke of Datchet seemed to know the way very well indeed. He led the way up the staircase; Messrs. Ruby and Golden followed. The man-servant remained at the foot of the stairs, as if doubtful whether or not he ought to follow. When they had reached the landing, and the man-servant, still remaining below, was out of sight, Mr. Golden turned to Mr. Ruby.

  "Where on earth have I seen that man before?"

  "I was just addressing to myself the same enquiry," said Mr. Ruby.

  The Duke paused. He turned to the partners.

  "What's that? The servant? Have you seen the man before? The plot is thickening. I am afraid 'the Duchess' is getting warm."

  Apparently the Duke knew his way so well that he did not think it necessary to announce himself at the door of the room to which he led the partners. He simply turned the handle and went in, Messrs. Ruby and Golden close upon his heels. The room which he had entered was a pretty room, and contained a pretty occupant. A lady, young and fair, rose from a couch which was at the opposite side of the apartment, and, as was most justifiable under the circumstances, stared: "Hereward!"

  "Mrs. Mansfield!"

  "Whatever brings you here?"

  "My dear Mrs. Mansfield, I have come to ask you what you think of Mr. Kesteeven's necklace."

  "Hereward, what do you mean?"

  The Duke's manner changed from jest to earnest.

  "Rather, Gertrude, what do you mean? What have I done that deserved such a return from you? What have I done to you that you should have endeavoured to drag my wife's name in the mire?"

  The lady stared. "I have no more idea what you are talking about than the man in the moon!"

  "You dare to tell me so, in the presence of these men?"

  "In the presence of what men?"

  "In the presence of your victims—of Mr. Ruby and of Mr. Golden?"

  Mr. Golden advanced a step or two.

  "Excuse me, your Grace—this is not the lady."

  "Eh?"

  "This is not the lady."

  "Not what lady?"

  "This is not the lady who called herself the Duchess of Datchet."

  "What the dickens do you mean? Really, Mr. Ruby and Mr. Golden, you seem to be leading me a pretty fine wild goose chase—a pretty fine wild goose chase! I know it will end in kicking—someone. You told me that the person to whom I had given that cheque was the person who had bestowed on you her patronage. This is the person to whom I gave that cheque."

  "This is not the person who gave that cheque to us."

  "Then—then who the devil did?"

  "That, your Grace, is the point—will this lady allow me to ask her one or two questions?"

  "Fire away—ask fifty!"

  The lady thus referred to interposed, "This gentleman may ask fifty or five hundred questions, but unless you tell me what all this is about I very much doubt if I shall answer one."

  "Let me manage it, Mr. Golden. Mrs. Mansfield, may I enquire what you did with that cheque for a thousand which I gave you? You jade! To tell me that Ruby and Golden were dunning you out of your life, when you never owed them a stiver! Tell me what you did with that cheque!"

  The Duke seemed at last to have said something which had reached the lady's understanding. She changed colour. She pressed her lips together. She looked at him with defiance in her eyes. A considerable pause ensued before she spoke.

  "I don't know why I should tell you. What does it matter to you what I did with it—you gave it me."

  "It does matter to me. As it happens, it matters also to you. If you will take my friendly advice, you will tell me what you did with that cheque."

  The look of defiance about the lady's lips and in her eyes increased.

  "I don't mind telling you. Why should I? It was my own. I gave it to Alfred."

  The Duke emitted an ejaculation—which smacked of profanity.

  "To Alfred? And, pray, who may Alfred be?"

  The lady's crest rose higher. "Alfred is—is the man to whom I am engaged to be married."

  The Duke of Datchet whistled. "And you got a cheque out of me for a thousand pounds to make a present of it to your intended? That beats everything; and pray to whom did Alfred give it?"

  "He gave it to no one. He paid it into the bank. He told me so himself."

  "Then I'm afraid that Alfred lied. Where is Alfred?"

  "He's—he's here."

  "Here? In this room? Where? Under the couch, or behind the screen?"

  "I mean that he's in this house. He's downstairs."

  "I won't ask how long he's been downstairs, but would it be too much to ask you to request Alfred to walk upstairs."

  The lady burst into a sudden tempest of tears.

  "I know you'll only laugh at me—I know you well enough to expect you to do that—but—I—I know I've not been a good woman, and—and I do love him—although—he's only—a—servant!"

  "A servant! Gertrude! Was that the man who opened the door?"

  Mr. Golden gave
vent to an exclamation which positively amounted to a shout. "By Jove!—I've got it!—I knew I'd seen the face before—I couldn't make out where—it was the man who opened the door. Your Grace, might I ask you to have that man who opened the door to us at once brought here?"

  "Ring the bell, Mr. Golden."

  The lady interposed. "You shan't—I won't have it! What do you want with him?"

  "We wish to ask him one or two questions. If Alfred is an honest man it will be better for him that he should have an opportunity of answering them. If he is not an honest man, it will be better for you that you should know it."

  Apparently this reasoning prevailed. Mr. Golden rang the bell; but his ring was not by any means immediately attended to. He rang a second and a third time, but still no answer came.

  "It strikes me," suggested the Duke, "that we had better start on a voyage of discovery, and search for Alfred in the regions down below."

  Before the Duke's suggestion could be acted on the door was opened—not by Alfred; not by a man at all, but by a maid.

  "Send Alfred here."

  "I can't find him anywhere. I think he must have gone."

  "Gone!" gasped Mrs. Mansfield. "Where?"

  "I don't know, ma'am. I've been up to his room to look for him, and it is all anyhow, and there's no one there. If you please, ma'am, I found this on the mat outside the door."

  The maid held out an envelope. The Duke of Datchet took it from her hand. He glanced at its superscription.

  "'Messrs. Ruby and Golden.' Gentlemen, this is for you."

  He transferred it to Mr. Golden. It was a long blue envelope. The maid had picked it up from the mat which was outside the door of that very room in which they were standing. Mr. Golden opened it. It contained an oblong card of considerable size, on which were printed three photographs, in a sort of series. The first photograph was that of a young man—a beautiful young man—unmistakably "Alfred." The second was that of "Alfred" with his hair arranged in a fashion which was peculiarly feminine. The third was that of "Alfred" with a bonnet and a veil on, and a very nice-looking young woman he made. At the bottom of the card was written, in a fine, delicate, lady's hand-writing, "With the Duchess of Datchet's compliments."

  "I knew," gasped Mrs. Mansfield, in the midst of her sorrow, "that he was very good at dressing up as a woman, but I never thought he would do this!"

  *

  The Duke of Datchet paid for the diamonds.

  The Haunted Chair

  *

  Chapter I

  "Well, that's the most staggering thing I've ever known!"

  As Mr. Philpotts entered the smoking-room, these were the words—with additions—which fell upon his, not unnaturally, startled ears. Since Mr. Bloxham was the only person in the room, it seemed only too probable that the extraordinary language had been uttered by him—and, indeed, his demeanour went far to confirm the probability. He was standing in front of his chair, staring about him in a manner which suggested considerable mental perturbation, apparently unconscious of the fact that his cigar had dropped either from his lips or his fingers and was smoking merrily away on the brand-new carpet which the committee had just laid down. He turned to Mr. Philpotts in a state of what seemed really curious agitation.

  "I say, Philpotts, did you see him?"

  Mr. Philpotts looked at him in silence for a moment, before he drily said, "I heard you."

  But Mr. Bloxham was in no mood to be put off in this manner. He seemed, for some cause, to have lost the air of serene indifference for which he was famed—he was in a state of excitement, which, for him, was quite phenomenal.

  "No nonsense, Philpotts—did you see him?"

  "See whom?" Mr. Philpotts was selecting a paper from a side table. "I see your cigar is burning a hole in the carpet."

  "Confound my cigar!" Mr. Bloxham stamped on it with an angry tread. "Did Geoff Fleming pass you as you came in?"

  Mr. Philpotts looked round with an air of evident surprise.

  "Geoff Fleming!—Why, surely he's in Ceylon by now."

  "Not a bit of it. A minute ago he was in that chair talking to me."

  "Bloxham!" Mr. Philpotts' air of surprise became distinctly more pronounced, a fact which Mr. Bloxham apparently resented.

  "What are you looking at me like that for pray? I tell you I was glancing through the Field, when I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. I looked round—there was Fleming standing just behind me. 'Geoff.' I cried, 'I thought you were on the other side of the world—what are you doing here?' 'I've come to have a peep at you,' he said. He drew a chair up close to mine—this chair—and sat in it. I turned round to reach for a match on the table, it scarcely took me a second, but when I looked his way again hanged if he weren't gone."

  Mr. Philpotts continued his selection of a paper—in a manner which was rather marked.

  "Which way did he go?"

  "Didn't you meet him as you came in?"

  "I did not—I met no one. What's the matter now?"

  The question was inspired by the fact that a fresh volley of expletives came from Mr. Bloxham's lips. That gentleman was standing with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his legs wide open, and his eyes and mouth almost as wide open as his legs.

  "Hang me," he exclaimed, when, as it appeared, he had temporarily come to the end of his stock of adjectives, "if I don't believe he's boned my purse."

  "Boned your purse!" Mr. Philpotts laid a not altogether flattering emphasis upon the "boned!" "Bloxham! What do you mean?"

  Mr. Bloxham did not immediately explain. He dropped into the chair behind him. His hands were still in his trouser pockets, his legs were stretched out in front of him, and on his face there was not only an expression of amazement, but also of the most unequivocal bewilderment. He was staring at the vacant air as if he were trying his hardest to read some riddle.

  "This is a queer start, upon my word, Philpotts," he spoke in what, for him, were tones of unwonted earnestness. "When I was reaching for the matches on the table, what made me turn round so suddenly was because I thought I felt someone tugging at my purse—it was in the pocket next to Fleming. As I told you, when I did turn round Fleming was gone—and, by Jove, it looks as though my purse went with him."

  "Have you lost your purse?—is that what you mean?"

  "I'll swear that it was in my pocket five minutes ago, and that it's not there now; that's what I mean."

  Mr. Philpotts looked at Mr. Bloxham as if, although he was too polite to say so, he could not make him out at all. He resumed his selection of a paper.

  "One is liable to make mistakes about one's purse; perhaps you'll find it when you get home."

  Mr. Bloxham sat in silence for some moments. Then, rising, he shook himself as a dog does when he quits the water.

  "I say, Philpotts, don't ladle out this yarn of mine to the other fellows, there's a good chap. As you say, one is apt to get into a muddle about one's purse, and I dare say I shall come across it when I get home. And perhaps I'm not very well this afternoon; I am feeling out of sorts, and that's a fact. I think I'll just toddle home and take a seidlitz, or a pill, or something. Ta ta!"

  When Mr. Philpotts was left alone he smiled to himself, that superior smile which we are apt to smile when conscious that a man has been making a conspicuous ass of himself on lines which may be his, but which, we thank Providence, are emphatically not ours. With not one, but half a dozen papers in his hand, he seated himself in the chair which Mr. Bloxham had recently relinquished. Retaining a single paper, he placed the rest on the small round table on his left—the table on which wore the matches for which Mr. Bloxham declared he had reached. Taking out his case, he selected a cigar almost with the same care which he had shewn in selecting his literature, smiling to himself all the time that superior smile. Lighting the cigar he had chosen with a match from the table, he settled himself at his ease to read.

  Scarcely had he done so than he was conscious of a hand laid gently on his shoulder fro
m behind.

  "What! back again?"

  "Hullo, Phil!"

  He had taken it for granted, without troubling to look round, that Mr. Bloxham had returned, and that it was he who touched him on the shoulder. But the voice which replied to him, so far from being Mr. Bloxham's was one the mere sound of which caused him not only to lose his bearing of indifference but to spring from his seat with the agility almost of a jack-in-the-box. When he saw who it was had touched him on the shoulder, he stared.

  "Fleming! Then Bloxham was right, after all. May I ask what brings you here?"

  The man at whom he was looking was tall and well-built, in age about five and thirty. There were black cavities beneath his eyes; the man's whole face was redolent, to a trained perception, of something which was, at least, slightly unsavoury. He was dressed from head to foot in white duck—a somewhat singular costume for Pall Mall, even on a summer afternoon.

  Before Mr. Philpotts' gaze, his own eyes sank. Murmuring something which was almost inaudible, he moved to the chair next to the one which Mr. Philpotts had been occupying, the chair of which Mr. Bloxham had spoken.

  As he seated himself, Mr. Philpotts eyed him in a fashion which was certainly not too friendly.

  "What did you mean by disappearing just now in that extraordinary manner, frightening Bloxham half out of his wits? Where did you get to?"

  The new comer was stroking his heavy moustache with a hand which, for a man of his size and build, was unusually small and white. He spoke in a lazy, almost inaudible, drawl.

  "I just popped outside."

  "Just popped outside! I must have been coming in just when you went out. I saw nothing of you; you've put Bloxham into a pretty state of mind."

  Re-seating himself, Mr. Philpotts turned to put the paper he was holding on to the little table. "I don't want to make myself a brute, but it strikes me that your presence here at all requires explanation. When several fellows club together to give another fellow a fresh start on the other side of the world—"