Kitabı oku: «The Mysterious Mr. Miller», sayfa 16
Chapter Thirty Five
An Evening at Hyde Park Gate
When Miller returned and found his daughter conscious but prostrate, he naturally attributed it to mal-de-mer, and began to poke fun at her for being ill upon such a calm sea.
She looked at me in meaning silence.
Then, when he had left us to walk towards the stern, she said in a low, apologetic voice: —
“Forgive me, Mr Leaf. I – I’m so very foolish. But what you have told me is so amazing. Tell me further – what have the police found at the villa?”
I wondered whether she had seen in any of the Italian papers an account of the second discovery – the man who had been so brutally done to death.
“Well, from what I gather the police found a dead woman locked in Nardini’s study.”
“And has she been identified?” she asked eagerly.
“I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your friend.”
“Ah, yes!” she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the tragedy. “And they know that – do they? Then they will probably endeavour to find me, eh?”
“Most probably.”
“Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then,” she remarked, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder if they will discover me here?”
“I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one.”
“I hope they’ll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least.”
“The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up,” I remarked.
“Yes. But how did you know?”
“A friend told me,” was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been in Rome.
“He told you my name?”
“He was an Italian, therefore could not pronounce it properly. The police evidently do not know, even now, that Nardini is dead.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But – well, what you’ve told me is utterly staggering.”
“Then you were not aware of the mysterious affair?”
“Aware of it! How should I be?”
“Well, you were Nardini’s friend. You were a frequent visitor at the Villa Verde. You told me so yourself, remember.”
She did not reply, but sat staring straight before her at the stream of moonlight upon the rolling waters.
Whether she were really acquainted with the details of the tragic affair or not, I was unable to decide. She, however, offered me no explanation as to who the unknown woman was, and from her attitude I saw that she did not intend to reveal to me anything. Perhaps the mere fact that I had gained secret knowledge caused her to hold me in fear lest I should betray her whereabouts.
The situation was hourly becoming more complicated, but upon one point I felt confident, namely, that she held no knowledge of the second tragedy at the villa – a tragedy in which her father was most certainly implicated.
The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat – the mysterious Mr Miller who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him – returned to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in the train for Charing Cross.
I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep. Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that wild scene of excitement when the dead man’s hoard had been discovered, or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.
“Oh!” he sighed. “After all, it’s good to be back again in England. A spell at home will do Lucie good. She’s growing far too foreign in her ways and ideas. For a long time she’s wanted to spend a year or so in England, and now I’m going to indulge her.”
“Then you won’t be returning abroad for some time?”
“Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough. Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight of the pink always sends a thrill through me.”
“Does Lucie ride?”
“Ride, of course. She’s ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her first pony when she was eight.”
“Then she’ll enjoy it. There’s very good society about Market Harborough, I’ve heard.”
“Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd they are. The Continent’s all very well for many things, but for real good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!” he laughed.
And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush.
When I walked into Sammy’s room at seven o’clock he sat up in bed and stared at me.
“Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, got a bit sick of travelling, you know,” I laughed, “so I simply came back, that’s all. They can give me a room here, I hear, so I’ll stay.”
“You’ll stay here till you go away again, eh?” my friend laughed, for he knew what an erratic wanderer I was.
I sat on the edge of the bed and chatted to him while he shaved and dressed.
While we breakfasted together in his sitting-room he suddenly said: —
“There was a fellow here the other day making inquiries regarding our dead Italian friend.”
“Oh, what was he? A detective?”
“No. I don’t think so. Miss Gilbert referred him to me. He was a thin-faced, clean-shaven chap, and gave his name as Gordon-Wright.”
“Gordon-Wright!” I gasped, starting to my feet. “Has that fellow been here? What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him nothing that he wanted to know. I didn’t care about him, somehow, so I treated him to a few picturesque fictions,” Sammy laughed.
“You didn’t tell him that the dead man was Nardini?”
“Not likely. You recollect that you urged me to say nothing, as the Italian Embassy did not wish the fact revealed.”
“Ah! That’s fortunate!” I cried, much relieved. “What did you tell him?”
“I said that it was true an Italian gentleman did die here, but he was a very old man named Massari. Before he died his son joined him, and after his death took all his belongings away. Was that right?”
“Excellent.”
“The stranger made very careful inquiries as to the appearance of the man who died, and I gave an entirely wrong description of him. I said that he had white hair and a long white beard, and that he walked rather lame, with the help of a stick. In fact I showed him a stick in the hall which I said belonged to the dead man. He was also very inquisitive regarding the man’s son who I said had taken away all his belongings. I described him as having a short reddish beard, but a man of rather gentlemanly bearing. The fellow Gordon-Wright struck me as an awful bounder, and that’s why I filled him up with lies. Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?”
“Friend!” I echoed. “No, the reverse. I wonder what he wanted to discover. You didn’t mention me, I suppose?”
“No. Why should I?”
“I’m glad of that, for there’s evidently some fresh conspiracy in progress.”
“Probably there is. He’s a shrewd fellow without a doubt.”
“An outsider, my dear Sammy,” I declared. “That fellow’s a thief – a friend of Miller’s.”
“Of Miller’s!” he cried, in his turn surprised. “Is he really one of the gang?”
“Certainly he is. Moreover, I happened to be present when he robbed an American in a hotel at Nervi, near Genoa, and if I said a word to the police he’d ‘do time,’ depend upon it.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because just at the present time it doesn’t suit my purpose,” was my reply. “I want first to find out the reason of his visit here.”
“Wants to establish the death of the fugitive, I suppose. He certainly, however, got nothing out of me. You know me too well, and can trust me not to give away anything that’s a secret.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes. He came here alone, but Miss Gilbert says that a lady was waiting for him in a hansom a few doors along the road – a young lady, she thinks.”
Was it my Ella, I wondered? If so, she might be in London staying with her aunt, as she so frequently did in the old days.
“How long ago did all this occur?” I asked.
“On Saturday – that would be four days ago. He came about five in the afternoon. When Miss Gilbert referred him to me he apparently resented it, believing that he could induce her to tell him all he wanted.”
“But even she doesn’t know that it was the notorious Nardini who died up stairs.”
“No, but I don’t fancy she’s such a ready liar as I am, old chap,” laughed Sammy. “He started the haw-haw attitude, and with me that don’t pay – as you know. I did the haw-haw likewise, and led him to believe that I was most delighted to be of any assistance to him in helping him to trace his friend.”
“His friend! Did he say that Nardini was his friend?”
“He didn’t mention his name. He only said that an intimate friend of his, an Italian from Rome, had, he knew, arrived in London and suddenly disappeared. He had prosecuted most diligent search, and having ascertained from the registrar of deaths that an Italian had died there he wondered whether it might not be his friend. Whereupon I at once described a man something like Father Christmas without his muff and holly, and at length he went away quite satisfied that the man who died upstairs was not the person he was in search of.”
“He didn’t say where he was living, or leave any address?”
“He wasn’t likely to if he’s one of Miller’s crowd,” my friend exclaimed. “But I wonder what’s in the wind? He has some distinct object in establishing Nardini’s death.”
“Probably fears some revelation which the fugitive might make if he had fallen into the hands of the police,” I suggested. “The ex-Minister wasn’t a very bright specimen himself from all accounts and from those papers we discovered. He was a blackmailer and a brute, as well as an embezzler.”
“Well,” declared Sammy, “if you really have direct evidence against this fellow Gordon-Wright, I should just tell the truth at Scotland Yard. I’d dearly love to see Miller in the dock, too, for if any one deserves to pick oakum for a few years, he does. But he’s such a cunning knave, and passes so well as a gentleman, that nobody ever suspects.”
“They say he’s dined and slept at half the best country-houses in Dorsetshire and Devonshire, and I believe he’s going to hunt from Market Harborough this coming season.”
“The deuce he is! What infernal audacity! I feel myself like denouncing him.”
“Better not – at least at present, my dear fellow. Besides – for his daughter’s sake.”
“Daughter be hanged! She’s as bad as her father, every bit.”
“No, I disagree with you there,” I protested. “The girl is innocent of it all. She believes implicitly in her father, but beyond that she is in some deadly fear – of what I can’t yet make out.”
“Then you’ve seen her lately, eh?”
“Quite recently,” I replied, though I told him nothing of the exciting events of the past seven or eight days. The knowledge I had gathered I intended to keep to myself, at least for the present.
About four o’clock that afternoon I called upon Ella’s aunt, a widow named Tremayne, who lived in a comfortable house in Porchester Terrace. I was ceremoniously shown into the drawing-room by the grey-headed old butler, and presently Mrs Tremayne, an angular old person in a cap with yellow ribbons, appeared, staring at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles and carrying my card in her hand.
I had met her on one occasion only, in the days when Ella and I used to meet in secret in those squares about Bayswater, and I saw that she did not recollect me.
“I have called,” I said, “to ask if you can tell me whether your brother, Mr Murray, is in London. I heard that he and Miss Ella have gone back to Wichenford, but I think that they may possibly be in town just now. I have only to-day returned from abroad, and do not want to journey down to Worcestershire if they are in London.”
She regarded me for a few moments with a puzzled air, then said in a hard, haughty voice: “Your name is somehow familiar to me. Am I right in thinking that you were the Mr Leaf whom my niece knew two or three years ago?”
“I am,” I replied. “I have met Miss Murray again, and our friendship has been resumed.”
“Then if that is so, sir,” replied the old lady, glaring at me, “I have no information whatever to give you concerning her. I wish you good-afternoon.” And the sour old lady touched the bell.
“Well, madam,” I said, in rising anger, “I believed that I was calling upon a lady, but it seems that I am mistaken. I fail to see any reason for this treatment. You surely can tell me if your brother is in town?”
“I refuse to say anything. My brother’s affairs are no concern of mine, neither are yours. There was quite sufficient unpleasantness on the last occasion when you were running after Ella. It seems you intend to resume your tactics.”
“On the contrary, I hear that your niece is engaged to be married to a gentleman named Gordon-Wright.”
“That is so,” she answered, thawing slightly and readjusting her glasses. “They are to be married very soon, I believe. The wedding was fixed for Thursday week, but it has been postponed for a short time. My brother is much gratified at the engagement. Mr Gordon-Wright is such a nice gentleman, and just fitted to be her husband. He dined here a week ago, but has now gone abroad.”
“And you found him charming?” I asked, though I fear that my voice betrayed my sarcasm.
“Most charming. They appear to be an extremely happy couple.”
“And because you think I have an intention to come between them, Mrs Tremayne, you refuse to answer a simple question!”
“I am not bound to answer any question put to me by a stranger,” was her haughty reply.
“Neither am I bound to return civility for incivility,” I said. “I congratulate this Mr Gordon-Wright upon his choice, and at the same time will say that when we meet again, madam, you will perhaps be a trifle less insulting.”
“Perhaps,” she said; and as the butler was standing at the open door I was compelled to bow coldly and follow him out.
As he opened the front door I halted a moment and said, as though I had forgotten to make inquiry of his mistress: —
“Miss Ella is staying here – is she not?”
“Yes, sir,” was the man’s prompt reply. “She came up from the country yesterday.”
I thanked the man, descended the steps, and walked along Porchester Terrace wondering how best to act. Of love there is very little in the world, but many things take its likeness.
I must see my love at all costs. She had continued to postpone her marriage so as to allow me time to unmask her enemy and free her from the peril which threatened.
Gordon-Wright was abroad. Therefore a secret meeting with Ella was all the easier. Yes, I would keep watch upon that house, as I had done in the days long ago, and see if I could not meet her and make an appointment. To write to her would be unwise. It was best that I should see her and reassure her.
Therefore through all the remainder of the afternoon I waited about in the vicinity, but in vain. Even if she went out to dine, or to the theatre, she certainly would return to her aunt’s to dress, and, sure enough, just before seven, she came along in a hansom in the direction of the Park.
I was about to raise my hat as my dear one passed, when I suddenly discovered that she was not alone. By her side, elegant in silk hat and frock-coat, sat the clean-shaven man who held her enthralled.
He was therefore not abroad, as the snappy old woman had said.
I turned my face quickly to the wall, so that neither should recognise me, and passed on.
For three days in succession I kept almost constant watch along that wide-open thoroughfare. Several times I saw Mr Murray, but hesitated to come forward and greet him. Mrs Tremayne drove out each afternoon in her heavy old landau and pair, but curiously enough I saw nothing further either of Ella or of the man to whom she was betrothed.
The hours of that vigil were never-ending. I wanted my dear one to know that I was awaiting her. Time after time I passed the house in the hope that she would recognise me from the window, but never once did I catch sight of her.
One afternoon I received a telegram from Miller asking me to call at the hotel. I did not know that they were still in London. On arrival I found him with Lucie. There was another caller, a middle-aged American named George Himes, who appeared to be an intimate friend. After some conversation we all four went out together, and subsequently Mr Himes, who seemed a very amusing type of shrewd New Yorker, invited all of us to his rooms to dinner – to take pot-luck, as he called it.
At first I declined, feeling myself an interloper. Miller’s friends were such a mixed lot that one never knew whether they were thieves, like himself, or gentlemen. Himes appeared to be a gentleman. Therefore on being pressed to join the party I consented, and later on we drove to a cosy little flat at Hyde Park Gate, where we dined most excellently, Lucie joining us when we smoked our cigars.
Himes, a rather stout rosy-faced man, seemed a particularly pleasant companion and full of a keen sense of humour, therefore the evening passed quite merrily. Miller and he were old friends, I gathered, and had not met for quite a long time.
“You won’t go for a minute or two, Mr Leaf,” he said, when, soon after eleven o’clock, Miller drained his glass and with Lucie rose to leave. “You’ll get home to Shepherd’s Bush quickly from here.” And thus persuaded, I remained and joined him in a final glass of whisky and soda.
We were alone in the pretty little smoking-room, lounging in the long low cane chairs. My host was lazily blowing rings of smoke towards the ceiling and remarking what a very excellent fellow Miller was, when I raised my whisky to my lips and took a gulp. It tasted curious, yet I did not like to spit it out or to make any remark.
My host, I noticed, had his eyes fixed strangely upon me, as though watching my countenance.
In an instant I grew alarmed. His face had changed. Its good-humour had given place to an expression of hatred and triumph.
At the same moment I felt a strange sensation of nausea creeping over me, a chill feeling ran down my spine, while my throat contracted, and my limbs became suddenly paralysed.
“You scoundrel!” I cried, staggering to my feet and facing him. “I know now! You’ve poisoned me – you devil!”
“Yes,” he laughed, with perfect sangfroid. “You are one of Jimmy Miller’s crowd, and one by one I shall exterminate the lot of you! I owe this to you!”
I swayed forward as I drew my revolver to defend myself, but next instant he had wrenched it from my nerveless grasp.
I saw his grinning exultant face in mine. There was the fire of murder in his eyes.
Then I sank to the floor and knew no more. He had mistaken me for one of Miller’s accomplices, and I was helpless in his revengeful hands.
Chapter Thirty Six
Two Mysteries
My first recollections were of endeavouring to see through a blood-red cloud that hid everything from my distorted vision.
The pains in my head and through my spine were excruciating, while my throat burned as though it had been skinned by molten lead poured down it. I tried to speak, but my tongue refused to move. I could articulate no sound.
I felt the presence of persons about me, people who moved and spoke softly as though in fear of awaking me. My eyes were, I believe, wide-open, and yet I could not see.
Some liquid was forced between my teeth by an unseen hand, and I drank it eagerly, for it was deliciously cold and refreshing.
Then I fell asleep again, and I believe I must have remained unconscious for a long time.
When at last I opened my eyes, I found myself in a narrow, hospital bed. A row of men in other beds were before me, and a nurse in uniform was approaching from the opposite side of the ward.
I turned my head, and saw that a rather plain-faced nurse was seated beside me, holding my hand, her finger, I believe, upon my pulse, while on the opposite side sat a bald-headed man in uniform – a police constable.
“Where am I?” I managed to ask the nurse.
“In St. George’s Hospital, and you may congratulate yourself that you’ve had a very narrow escape. Whatever made you do such a thing?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Take poison.”
“Take poison? What do you mean?”
“Well, sir,” exclaimed the constable, in a not unkind tone, “I found you the night before last on a seat in Kensington Gardens. There was this empty bottle beside you,” and he held up a small dark blue phial.
“Then you think that I attempted suicide!” I exclaimed, amazed.
“I didn’t think you’d only attempted it – I believed you’d done the trick,” was the man’s reply. “You’ve got the ’orspitel people to thank for bringing you round. At first they thought you a dead ’un.”
“And I do thank them,” I said. “And you also, constable. I suppose, however, I’m in custody for attempted suicide, eh?”
“That’s about it, sir. At least that’s why I’m on duty ’ere!”
“Well,” I exclaimed, smiling, “I wonder if you’d like me to make a statement to your inspector. I could tell him something that would interest him.”
“Not now, not now,” protested the nurse. “You’re not strong enough. Go to sleep again. You’ll be better this evening.”
“Well, will you ask the inspector to come and see me this evening?” I urged.
“All right, sir. I’ll see ’im when I go off duty, and tell ’im what you say.”
Then the nurse shook a warning finger at me, and gave me a draught, after which I fell again into a kind of dreamy stupor.
It was evening when I awoke, and I found a grey-bearded inspector at my bedside.
“Well?” he said gruffly. “You want to see me – to say something? What is it?”
“I want to tell you the truth,” I said.
“Oh! yes, you all want to do that. You go and make a fool of yourself, and then try and get out of it without going before the magistrate,” was his reply.
“I have not made a fool of myself,” I declared. “A deliberate attempt was made upon my life by an American named George Himes, who had a flat at Hyde Park Gate. I never went into Kensington Gardens. I must have been taken there.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, rather dubiously. “Do you know what you’re saying? Just tell me your story again.”
I repeated it word for word, adding that I dined at the American’s flat with my friend James Harding Miller and his daughter, who were staying at the Buckingham Palace Hotel.
“I want to see Miss Miller. Will you send word to her that I am here?”
“You say then that she and her father can testify that you dined at Hyde Park Gate. Can they also testify that you were given poison?”
“No. They left previous to Himes giving me the whisky.”
“And why did he do it?”
“I think because he mistook me for another man.”
“Poisoned you accidentally, eh?” he said, in doubt.
“Yes.”
“Very well,” he answered, with some reluctance, “I’ll make inquiries of these people. What’s your name and address?”
I told him, and he wrote it down in his pocket-book. Then he left, and so weak was I that the exertions of speaking had exhausted me.
My one thought was of Ella. I cared nothing for myself, but was filled with chagrin that just at the moment when I ought to be active in rescuing her from the trap into which she had fallen I had been reduced to impotence. Through the whole night I lay awake thinking of her. Twice we were disturbed by the police bringing in “accidents,” and then towards morning, tired out, I at length fell asleep.
My weakness was amazing. I could hardly lift my hand from the coverlet, while my brain was muddled so that all my recollections were hazy.
I was, of course, still in custody, for beside my bed a young constable dozed in his chair, his hands clasped before him and his tunic unloosened at the collar. Just, however, before I dropped off to sleep another constable stole in on tiptoe and called him outside. Whether he came back I don’t know, for I dozed off and did not wake again until the nurse came to take my temperature, and I found it was morning.
I was surprised to see that the constable was no longer there, but supposed that he had gone outside into the corridor to gossip, as he very often did.
At eleven o’clock, however, the inspector came along the ward, followed by two men in plain-clothes, evidently detectives.
“Well,” he commenced, “I’ve made some inquiries, and I must apologise, sir, for doubting your word. Still suicides tell us such strange tales that we grow to disbelieve anything they say. You notice that you’re no longer in custody. I withdrew the man at five this morning as soon as I had ascertained the facts.”
“Have you found that fellow Himes?”
“We haven’t been to look for him yet,” was the inspector’s reply. “But – ” And he hesitated.
“But what?” I asked.
“Well, sir, I hardly think you are in a fit state to hear what I think I ought to tell you.”
“Yes. Tell me – tell me everything.”
“Well, I’ll do so if you promise to remain quite calm – if you assure me that you can bear to hear a very extraordinary piece of news.”
“Yes, yes,” I cried impatiently. “What is it? Whom does it concern?”
He hesitated a moment, looking straight into my eyes. “Then I regret to have to give you sad news, concerning your friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Mr Miller. He is dead.”
“Miller dead!” I gasped, starting up in bed and staring at him.
“He died apparently from the effects of something which he partook of at the house of this American.”
“And Lucie, his daughter?”
“She is well, though prostrated by grief. I have seen and questioned her,” was his answer. “She is greatly distressed to hear that you were here.”
“Did you give her my message?”
“Yes. She has promised to come and see you this afternoon. I would not allow her to come before,” the inspector said. “From her statement, it seems that on leaving the house in Hyde Park Gate she and her father walked along Kensington Gore to the cab-rank outside the Albert Hall, and entering a hansom told the man to drive to the Buckingham Palace Hotel. Ten minutes later, when outside the Knightsbridge Barracks, Mr Miller complained of feeling very unwell, and attributed it to something he had eaten not being quite fresh. He told his daughter that he had a strange sensation down his spine, and that in his jaws were tetanic convulsions. She grew alarmed, but he declared that when he reached the hotel he would call a doctor. Five minutes later, however, he was in terrible agony, and the young lady ordered the cab to stop at the next chemist’s. They pulled up before the one close to the corner of Sloane Street, but the gentleman was then in a state of collapse and unable to descend. The chemist saw the gravity of the case and told the man to drive on here – to this hospital. He accompanied the sufferer, who, before his arrival here, had breathed his last. The body was therefore taken to the mortuary, where a post-mortem was held this morning. I’ve just left the doctor’s. They say that he has died of some neurotic poison, in all probability the akazza bean, a poison whose reactions must resemble those of strychnia – in all probability the same as was administered to you.”
“Poor Miller!” I exclaimed, for even though he were a thief he possessed certain good qualities, and was always chivalrous where women were concerned. “Could nothing be done to save him?”
“All was done that could possibly be done. The chemist at Knightsbridge gave him all he could to resuscitate him, but without avail. He had taken such a large dose that he was beyond human aid from the very first. The doctors are only surprised that he could walk so far before feeling the effects of the poison.”
“It was a vendetta – a fierce and terrible revenge,” I said, in wonder who that man Himes might be. That he owed a grudge against Miller and his accomplices was plain, but for what reason was a mystery.
“A vendetta!” exclaimed one of the detectives who had been listening to our conversation. “For what?”
“The reason is an enigma,” I replied, with quick presence of mind. “When I accused him of poisoning me, he merely laughed and said he would serve all Miller’s friends in the same way. It was the more extraordinary, as I had not known the fellow more than four or five hours.”
“And you were not previously acquainted with him?” asked the detective.
“Never saw him before in my life,” I declared.
“Well, you’ve had a jolly narrow squeak of it,” the plain-clothes officer remarked. “Whatever he put into Miller’s drink was carefully measured to produce death within a certain period, while that given to you was perhaps not quite such a strong dose.”
“No. I only took one drink out of my glass. Miller, I remember, swallowed his at one gulp just before leaving. It was his final whisky, and Himes mixed them both with his own hand.”
“He had two objects, you see, in inducing you to stay behind, first to prevent you both being struck down together, and secondly he intended that it should appear that you had committed suicide. Miss Miller does not recollect the number of the house – do you?”
“No. I never saw the number, but would recognise it again. Besides, Hyde Park Gate is not a large place. You could soon discover the house.”
“He probably lived there under another name.”
“He had only recently come over from America, he told us,” I said.
“And in all probability is by this time on his way back there,” laughed the detective. “At any rate we’ll have a look about the neighbourhood of Hyde Park Gate and gather what interesting facts we can. We want him now on charges of wilful murder and of attempted murder.”
“How long will it be before I can get out?” I asked. “Well, the doctor last night said you’d probably be in here another fortnight, at the least.”
“A fortnight!” What might not happen to Ella in that time! Would Miller’s death change the current of events, I wondered?
For poor Lucie I felt a deep sympathy, for she had regarded her father as her dearest friend, and had, I think, never suspected the dishonest manner in which he made his income.
