I asked several questions, which were all answered to my satisfaction, and finally returned to town, prepared to draw up a lease by which the house and grounds known as The Rosary, Hampstead Heath, were to be handed over at a very high rent to Mrs. Scaiffe.
I felt pleased at the good stroke of business which I had done for a client, and had no apprehensions of any sort. Little did I guess what that afternoon’s work would mean to me, and still more to one whom I had ever been proud to call my greatest friend.
Everything went off without a hitch. The Rosary passed into the hands of Mrs. Scaiffe, and also into the hands of her brother, Señor Merello, a tall, dark, very handsome man, bearing all over him the well-known characteristics of a Spanish don.
A week or two went by and the affair had well-nigh passed my memory, when one afternoon I heard eager, excited words in my clerks’ room, and the next moment my head clerk entered, followed by the fair-haired English-looking girl who had called herself Muriel Scaiffe.
“I want to speak to you, Mr. Pleydell,” she said, in great agitation. “Can I see you alone, and at once?”
“Certainly,” I answered. I motioned to the clerk to leave us and helped the young lady to a chair.
“I cannot stay a moment,” she began. “Even now I am followed. Mr. Pleydell, he has told me that he knows you; it was on that account I persuaded my step-mother to come to you about a house. You are his greatest friend, for he has said it.”
“Of whom are you talking?” I asked, in a bewildered tone.
“Of Oscar Digby!” she replied. “The great traveller, the great discoverer, the greatest, most single-minded, the grandest man of his age. You know him? Yes—yes.”
She paused for breath. Her eyes were full of tears.
“Indeed, I do know him,” I answered. “He is my very oldest friend. Where is he? What is he doing? Tell me all about him.”
“He is on his way to England,” she answered. “Even now he may have landed. He brings great news, and the moment he sets foot in London he is in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot tell you what I mean. I dare not. He is your friend, and it is your province to save him.”
“But from what, Miss Scaiffe? You have no right to come here and make ambiguous statements. If you come to me at all you ought to be more explicit.”
She trembled, and now, as though she could not stand any longer, dropped into a chair.
“I am not brave enough to explain things more fully,” she said. “I can only repeat my words, ‘Your friend is in danger.’ Tell him—if you can, if you will—to have nothing to do with us. Keep him, at all risks, away from us. If he mentions us pretend that you do not know anything about us. I would not speak like this if I had not cause—the gravest. When we took The Rosary I did not believe that matters were so awful; indeed, then I was unaware that Mr. Digby was returning to London. But last night I overheard… Oh! Mr. Pleydell, I can tell you no more. Pity me and do not question me. Keep Oscar Digby away from The Rosary and, if possible, do not betray me; but if in no other way you can insure his leaving us alone, tell him that I—yes, I, Muriel Scaiffe—wish it. There, I cannot do more.”
She was trembling more terribly than ever. She took out her handkerchief to wipe the moisture from her brow.
“I must fly,” she said. “If this visit is discovered my life is worth very little.”
After she had gone I sat in absolute amazement. My first sensation was that the girl must be mad. Her pallor, her trembling, her vague innuendoes pointed surely to a condition of nerves the reverse of sane. But although the madness of Muriel Scaiffe seemed the most possible solution of her strange visit, I could not cast the thing from my memory. I felt almost needlessly disturbed by it. All day her extraordinary words haunted me, and when, on the next day, Digby, whom I had not seen for years, unexpectedly called, I remembered Miss Scaiffe’s visit with a queer and ever-increasing sense of apprehension.
Digby had been away from London for several years. Before he went he and I had shared the same rooms, had gone about together, and had been chums in the fullest sense of the word. It was delightful to see him once again. His hearty, loud laugh fell refreshingly on my ears, and one or two glances into his face removed my fears. After all, it was impossible to associate danger with one so big, so burly, with such immense physical strength. His broad forehead, his keen, frank blue eyes, his smiling mouth, his strong and muscular hands, all denoted strength of mind and body. He looked as if he were muscle all over.
“Well,” he said, “here I am, and I have a good deal to tell you. I want your help also, old man. It is your business to introduce me to the most promising and most enterprising financier of the day. I have it in my power, Pleydell, to make his fortune, and yours, and my own, and half a dozen other people’s as well.”
“Tell me all about it,” I said. I sat back in my chair, prepared to enjoy myself.
Oscar was a very noted traveller and thought much of by the Geographical Society.
He came nearer to me and dropped his voice a trifle.
“I have made an amazing discovery,” he said, “and that is one reason why I have hurried back to London. I do not know whether you are sufficiently conversant with extraordinary and out-of-the-way places on our globe. But anyhow, I may as well tell you that there is a wonderful region, as yet very little known, which lies on the watershed of the Essequibo and Amazon rivers. In that region are situated the old Montes de Cristaes or Crystal Mountains, the disputed boundary between British Guiana and Brazil. There also, according to the legend, was supposed to be the wonderful lost city of Manos. Many expeditions were sent out to discover it in the seventeenth century, and it was the Eldorado of Sir Walter Raleigh’s famous expedition in 1615, the failure of which cost him his head.”
I could not help laughing.
“This sounds like an old geography lesson. What have you to do with this terra incognita?”
He leant forward and dropped his voice.
“Do not think me mad,” he said, “for I speak in all sanity. I have found the lost Eldorado!”
“Nonsense!” I cried.
“It is true. I do not mean to say that I have found the mythical city of gold; that, of course, does not exist. But what I have discovered is a spot close to Lake Amacu that is simply laden with gold. The estimates computed on my specimens and reports make it out to be the richest place in the world. The whole thing is, as yet, a close secret, and I have come to London now to put it into the hands of a big financier. A company must be formed with a capital of something like ten millions to work it.”
“By Jove!” I cried. “You astonish me.”
“The thing will create an enormous sensation,” he went on, “and I shall be a millionaire; that is, if the secret does not leak out.”
“The secret,” I cried.
“Yes, the secret of its exact locality.”
“Have you charts?”
“Yes, but those I would rather not disclose, even to you, old man, just yet.”
I was silent for a moment, then I said—
“Horace Lancaster is the biggest financier in the whole of London. He is undoubtedly your man. If you can satisfy him with your reports, charts, and specimens he can float the company. You must see him, Digby.”
“Yes, that is what I want,” he cried.
“I will telephone to his office at once.”
I rang the bell for my clerk and gave him directions.
He left the room. In a few moments he returned with the information that Lancaster was in Paris.
“He won’t be back for a week, sir,” said the clerk.
He left the room, and I looked at Digby.
“Are you prepared to wait?” I asked.
He shrugged his great shoulders.
“I must, I suppose,” he said. “But it i
s provoking. At any moment another may forestall me. Not that it is likely; but there is always the possibility. Shall we talk over matters tonight, Pleydell? Will you dine with me at my club?”
“With all my heart,” I answered.
“By the way,” continued Digby, “some friends of mine—Brazilians—ought to be in London now: a lady of the name of Scaiffe, with her pretty little step-daughter, an English girl. I should like to introduce you to them. They are remarkably nice people. I had a letter from Mrs. Scaiffe just as I was leaving Brazil telling me that they were en route for England and asking me to look her up in town. I wonder where they are? Her brother, too, Señor Merello, is a most charming man. Why, Pleydell, what is the matter?”
I was silent for a moment; then I said: “If I were you I would have nothing to do with these people. I happen to know their whereabouts, and—”
“Well?” he said, opening his eyes in amazement.
“The little girl does not want you to call on them, Digby. Take her advice. She looked true and good.” To my astonishment I saw that the big fellow seemed quite upset at my remarks.
“True!” he said, beginning to pace the room. “Of course the little thing is true. I tell you, Pleydell, I am fond of her. Not engaged, or anything of that sort, but I like her. I was looking forward to meeting them. The mother—the step-mother, I mean—is a magnificent woman. I am great friends with her. I was staying at their Quinta last winter. I also know the brother, Señor Merello. Has little Muriel lost her head?”
“She is anxious and frightened. The whole thing seems absurd, of course, but she certainly did beg of me to keep you away from her step-mother, and I half promised to respect her secret and not to tell you the name of the locality where Mrs. Scaiffe and Señor Merello are at present living.”
He tried not to look annoyed, but he evidently was so. A few moments later he left me.
That evening Digby and I dined together. We afterwards went exhaustively into the great subject of his discovery. He showed me his specimens and reports, and, in short, so completely fired my enthusiasm that I was all impatience for Lancaster’s return. The thing was a big thing, one worth fighting for. We said no more about Mrs. Scaiffe, and I hoped that my friend would not fall into the hands of a woman who, I began to fear, was little better than an adventuress.
Three or four days passed. Lancaster was still detained in Paris, and Digby was evidently eating his heart out with impatience at the unavoidable delay in getting his great scheme floated.
One afternoon he burst noisily into my presence.
“Well,” he cried. “The little girl has discovered herself. Talk of women and their pranks! She came to see me at my hotel. She declared that she could not keep away. I just took the little thing in my arms and hugged her. We are going to have a honeymoon when the company is floated, and this evening, Pleydell, I dine at The Rosary. Ha! ha! my friend. I know all about the secret retreat of the Scaiffes by this time. Little Muriel told me herself. I dine there tonight, and they want you to come, too.”
I was about to refuse when, as if in a vision, the strange, entreating, suffering face of Muriel Scaiffe, as I had seen it the day she implored me to save my friend, rose up before my eyes. Whatever her present inexplicable conduct might mean, I would go with Digby tonight.
We arrived at The Rosary between seven and eight o’clock. Mrs. Scaiffe received us in Oriental splendour. Her dress was a wonder of magnificence. Diamonds flashed in her raven black hair and glittered round her shapely neck. She was certainly one of the most splendid-looking women I had ever seen, and Digby was not many moments in her company before he was completely subjugated by her charms.
The pale little Muriel looked washed-out and insignificant beside this gorgeous creature. Señor Merello was a masculine edition of his handsome sister: his presence and his wonderful courtly grace of manner seemed but to enhance and accentuate her charms.
At dinner we were served by Spanish servants, and a repulsive-looking negro of the name of Samson stood behind Mrs. Scaiffe’s chair.
She was in high spirits, drank freely of champagne, and openly alluded to the great discovery.
“You must show us the chart, my friend,” she said.
“No!” he answered, in an emphatic voice. He smiled as he spoke and showed his strong, white teeth.
She bent towards him and whispered something. He glanced at Muriel, whose face was deadly white. Then he rose abruptly.
“As regards anything else, command me,” he said; “but not the chart.”
Mrs. Scaiffe did not press him further. The ladies went into the drawing-room, and by and by Digby and I found ourselves returning to London.
During the journey I mentioned to him that Lancaster had wired to say that he would be at his office and prepared for a meeting on Friday. This was Monday night.
“I am glad to hear that the thing will not be delayed much longer,” he answered. “I may as well confess that I am devoured by impatience.”
“Your mind will soon be at rest,” I replied. “And now, one thing more, old man. I must talk frankly. I do not like Mrs. Scaiffe—I do not like Señor Merello. As you value all your future, keep that chart out of the hands of those people.”
“Am I mad?” he questioned. “The chart is seen by no living soul until I place it in Lancaster’s hands. But all the same, Pleydell,” he added, “you are prejudiced. Mrs. Scaiffe is one of the best of women.”
“Think her so, if you will,” I replied; “but, whatever you do, keep your knowledge of your Eldorado to yourself. Remember that on Friday the whole thing will be safe in Lancaster’s keeping.”
He promised, and I left him.
On Tuesday I saw nothing of Digby.
On Wednesday evening, when I returned home late, I received the following letter:—
I am not mad. I have heavily bribed the kitchen-maid, the only English woman in the whole house, to post this for me. I was forced to call on Mr. Digby and to engage myself to him at any cost. I am now strictly confined to my room under pretence of illness. In reality I am quite well, but a close prisoner. Mr. Digby dined here again last night, and, under the influence of a certain drug introduced into his wine, has given away the whole of his discovery except the exact locality.
He is to take supper here late tomorrow night (Thursday) and to bring the chart. If he does, he will never leave The Rosary alive. All is prepared. I speak who know. Don’t betray me, but save him.
The letter fell from my hands. What did it mean? Was Digby’s life in danger, or had the girl who wrote to me really gone mad? The letter was without date, without any heading, and without signature. Nevertheless, as I picked it up and read it carefully over again, I was absolutely convinced beyond a shadow of doubt of its truth. Muriel Scaiffe was not mad. She was a victim, to how great an extent I did not dare to think. Another victim, one in even greater danger, was Oscar Digby. I must save him. I must do what the unhappy girl who was a prisoner in that awful house implored of me.
It was late, nearly midnight, but I knew that I had not a moment to lose. I had a friend, a certain Dr. Garland, who had been police surgeon for the Westminster Division for several years. I went immediately to his house in Eaton Square. As I had expected, he was up, and without any preamble I told him the whole long story of the last few weeks.
Finally, I showed him the letter. He heard me without once interrupting. He read the letter without comment. When he folded it up and returned it to me I saw that his keen, clean-shaven face was full of interest. He was silent for several minutes, then he said—
“I am glad you came to me. This story of yours may mean a very big thing. We have four prima facie points. One: Your friend has this enormously valuable secret about the place in Guiana or on its boundary; a secret which may be worth anything. Two: He is very intimate with Mrs. Scaiffe, her step-daughter, and her brother. The intimacy started
in Brazil. Three: He is engaged to the step-daughter, who evidently is being used as a sort of tool, and is herself in a state of absolute terror, and, so far as one can make out, is not specially in love with Digby nor Digby with her. Four: Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother are determined, at any risk, to secure the chart which Digby is to hand to them tomorrow evening. The girl thinks this so important that she has practically risked her life to give you due warning. By the way, when did you say Lancaster would return? Has he made an appointment to see Digby and yourself?”
“Yes; at eleven o’clock on Friday morning.”
“Doubtless Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother know of this.”
“Probably,” I answered. “As far as I can make out they have such power over Digby that he confides everything to them.”
“Just so. They have power over him, and they are not scrupulous as to the means they use to force his confidence. If Digby goes to The Rosary tomorrow evening the interview with Lancaster will, in all probability, never take place.”
“What do you mean?” I cried, in horror.
“Why, this. Mrs. Scaiffe and Señor Merello are determined to learn Digby’s secret. It is necessary for their purpose that they should know the secret, and also that they should be the sole possessors of it. You see why they want Digby to call on them? They must get his secret from him before he sees Lancaster. The chances are that if he gives it up he will never leave the house alive.”
“Then, what are we to do?” I asked, for Garland’s words confirmed the suspicions which had impelled me to seek counsel with him over the letter.
“Leave this matter in my hands. I am going immediately to see Inspector Frost. I will communicate with you directly anything serious occurs.”
The Measure of Malice Page 9