SECRETS OF STATE

Southern Cross, Volume 24, Issue 2, 15 April 1916, Page 13

SECRETS OF STATE

BY "WILLIAM LB QUEXXS.

CHAPTER. XII. •REVEALS A CURIOUS PROBLEM-'. The countenance of Enid Orlebar had changed ; her cheeks were blanched, and her face was .sufficient index to a mind overwhelmed witn grief and regret. "I ask you to explain, because; I fear that my information may be faulty. Captain Bellairs died died suddenly did he not ?" "Yes. It was a great blow to my step-father," the girl said ; "and — and by his unfortunate death I lost one iof my . best friends." "Tell me exactly how it occurred. I believe the tragic event happened on September 2nd; just one month after the conclusion of the manoeuvres, did it not ?" "Yes," she replied. "Mother and I had been staying at the White Heart, at Salisbury, while Sir Hugh had been inspecting the Territorials. Captain Bellairs had been with us as usual, but had been sent up to the war office by my step-father.' The same'day . t returned to London alone, on my way to a, visit up in •Yorkshire, and arrived at Hill street about seven o'clock. At a quarter to ten I received ~~an . urgent note from Captain Bellairs, brought foy a "(boy messenger, and written in a shaky hand, asking me to call at once at his chambers in Half Moon iStreet. He explained that he had been taken suddenly ill, and that he ■wished to see me on a, most important and private matter, fie asked me to go to him. as it was urgent. Mother and T had been to the chambers, to tea, several times before ; therefore. r(alising the . urgency of. his message, i I telephoned for'a.taxi, and went at once to him." She broke off short, and with difficulty swallowed the lump . which arose in her • throat. "Well *?" asked Fetherston in a 3ow. sympathetic voice. "When I arrived," she said, "I—l found him lying dead ! He had expired Just as T ascended the stairs." "Then.'you learned nothing, eh?" "Nothing,", she said., An *a. low volice. "T have ever since;wondered what could have been the private matter upon which he. so particularly desired to see me. He felt death creeping upon him, or —or else he knew himself to be a doomed man—oij? he would never have penned me that note." "The letter in question was not produced at the inquest ?" "No. My father \irged me to regard the affair as a secret. He feared a scandal, because I had gone to Harry's rooms." "You have no' idea, then,, what was the nature of the communication which the captain wFshed to make to you ?" asked the novelist. "Not the slightest," replied the girl, yet with some hesitation. "It is all a mystery —a mystery which has ever haunted me—a mystery iwhi'ch <ha.un.ts me still." They had halted, and were stand--jng together beneath a great oak tree, already partially bare of leaves. He looked into her beautiful face, sweet, and full of purity as a child's. Then, in a low, intense voice, he said : "Cannot you give me more minute details of the sad affair. ? Captain Bellah's was in his usual health! that day when he left you at Salisbury, was he not ?" ''Oh, ,yes. I drove him. to the station in- our car. I drive sometimes, you know, when Sir Hugh doesn't see me." "Have you any idea why your, father sent him up to the War Office ?", i "Not exactly, except that at breakfast he said to my mother that he.

TALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

Author of "The Invasion of England!," "Fatal Fituers, &c." [COPYRIGHT.]

must send Bellairs tip to London. That was all." "And at his rooms, who did you find ?" "Barker, his man," she replied. "The story he told me was a curious one, namely, that his master had arrived from Salisbury at two o'clock, and at half-past two had sent him out upon a message down to. Richmond. On his,return, a little alter 'Ave, he found his master absent, but the place smelt strongly ,of perfume, which seemed to point to the fact that the captain had had a. lady visitor " "He had no actual proof of> that,:' e-Nclaimed Fetherston, interrupting. "I think not. He surmised it from the fact -that his master disliked scent, even in,his toilet soap. Again, upon the table in the hall 1 Barker's quick eye noticed a small white feather ; this he ,showed me, and it was evidently from a feather . boa. ( In the fire-grate a letter had been burned. These two facts had aroused the.man servant's curiosity." "What time did the . captain return ?" "Almost, immediately. He,[ changed into his dinner jacket, and wient forth again, saying that he intended to dine at the Club, and return to his | rooms in time to change and catch the eleven-fifteen train from Waterloo to Salisbury that same night. He even told Barker which suit of clothes to prepare. i It seems, however, ytha.t he came in about a qtiarter-past nine and sent v ßarker on a message >to Watei'loo Station. (On the man's return he found his master half fainting in his armchair. , .He called Barker to get him a glass of waterMhis throat seemed on fire, he said. Then, obtaining pen and paper, he wrote that hurried message to me. Barker stated that three minutes after addressing the envelope he fell into a ■ state of coma, the only word lie uttered being my name." 'Ar'd she pressed her lips together. "It is evident, then, that he earnestly desired to speak to you—to tell you something," her companioit remarked. "Yes," she went on quickly. • " I found him • lying back in his big oldfashioned armchair quite dead. Barker had feared to leave Ms side, and had summoned the doctor and message boy by telephone. When I entered, how, the the doctor had not arrived." "It was a, thousand pities that you were too late. He wished to make some important statement to, you, without a. doubt." "I rushed to him at once, but, alas ! was just too late." "He carried that secret, whatever it was, with him to the grave," Fetherston said reflectively. "I wonder what it could have been ?" "Ah !" sighed the girl, her face paler. "I wonder —I constantly wonder." "The doctor who made the postmortem could not account for the death, I believe ? I have read the account of the inquest." "Ah ! then you know what transpired there," the girl said quickly. "I was in court, but was not ..called as a witness. There was no reason why I should be asked to make' my statement, for Barker, in his evidence, made no mention of the letter which the dead man had sent me. I sat and heard the of whom expressed themselves puzzled. The coroner put it to them whether they suspected foul play", but the reply they gave was a distinctly (negative one." "The poor fellow's, death was a mystery," her companion said. "I noticed that an open verdict was.returned." '' ."Yes. The .most searching inquiry

was made, although- the true facts regarding it were never made public Sir Hugh explained one day at the breakfast table that in addition > to the two doctors who made the examination of th e body, Professor . Dale, the analyst of f the Home Office, also made extensive'experiments,, but.could detect'-no symptom of poisoning." "Where- he had dined that night has never been discovered, eh ?'* "Never. Certainly he did not dine at the tOlub." "Pie may have dined with- his lady j visitor," Fetherston remarked, his eyes fixed upon her. She hesitated for a moment, as though j unwilling to admit, that Bel-'j lairs should .have entertained the unknown lariyLm secret. "He may have done, of course," she said, with some reluctance. "Was there any other fact beside the feather which; would lead.one to suppose that a' lady had visited him '?" "Only the perfume. Barker declaredl that it was a sweet scent, j such as he had never smelt before. The whole place reeked with it, as he put it." "No one saw the lady call at his chambers ?" "Nobody came forward with any statement," replied the girl. "I myself made every inquiry possible, but, as you know, a woman .-is' much handicapped in such a matter. Barker, who was'devoted to his master, spared no effort, but he has discovered nothing." "For aught we know to the contrary. Captain Bellairs' death may have been due to perfectly natural causes," Fetherston remarked. "It may have been, but the fact of his mysterious lady visitor, and that ; he dined at some unknown, place on that evening aroused my suspicions. Yet there was no evidence ever dither of poison| or of foul play.' Fetherston raised his i eyes and shot a. covert glance at her—a glance of distinct suspicion. JETis keen, calm gaze was upon, her, "noting the unusual expression .upon her countenance, and how her gloved'fingers had clenched themselves slightly as she had spoken.' Was she telling him all that'she knew .concerning the/affair ? That, was the question which had arisen at that moment within iris mind. He had perused carefully the cold, formal reports which; had appeared in the newspapers concerning the "sudden death" of Captain - Henry Bellairs, and had read suspicion, between the lines, as only, one versed in mysteries of crime could read. Were not such mysteries his profession ? He had)been first attracted by it as a possible plot for a novel, but on investigation had discovered, to his surprise, that Bellairs had been Sir I-lugh's trusted secretary and the Mend of Enid Orlebar. The poor fellow,had died in a manner both sudden and mysterious, as a good many persons die annually. To the outside world there was no suspicion whatever of foul play. Yet, being in. possession of certain knowledge, Fetherston had formed a theory—one that was amazing and startling—a theory which he had, l after long deliberation, made, up his mind to investigate and prove. This girl had loved Harry Bellairs

before he N had met hex-, and because of lit the poor fellow had fallen beneath the hand of a secret assassin. She stood there in ignorance that he Had already seen and closely questioned Barker in London, and that the man had made an admission, an amazing statement—namely that the sweet Eastern perfume upon Enid Orlebar when she arrived so hurriedly and excitedly at Half Moon street was the same which had' greeted his nostrils when be entered his master's chambers on his return from, that errand upon which he had been ' sent. Enid Orlebar had been in the captain's rooms during his absence !

CHAPTER XIII. \ THE -MYSTERIOUS-' MR MAILiTWOOD. In Enid Orlebar's story there were several discrepancies.. She had declared th a t she arrived at Hill street about seven o'clock on that fateful night of the 2nd of September. . That might be "Vue, but might she not have arrived 'after her secret visit to Half Mooni street ?" In suppressing the fact that she had been there at all, she had v .acted with, considerable foresight. Naturally, her parents were not desirous of the . fact being stated publicly that she had gone alone to a bachelor's rooms, and they had .therefore assisted her to preserve the secret —known only to Barker and to the doctor. Yet her evidence had been regarded as immaterial, hence she had not been called as ,a witness Only Barker had suspected. That unusual perfume upon her had been puzzling him. Yet h~bw could he make any direct charge against the general's step-daughter, who had always been most generous to him in the ,matter of; tips ? Besides, did not the captain write a note/to her with his last dying (effort ? Yet what proof was there that. the pair had not dined together ? Fetherston had already made diligent inquiries at Hill street,/and had ,discovered from the butler that Miss Enid, on her artival home 'from Salisbury, had changed her gown, and 'gone out in a. taxi .at a quarter to eight. She had dined out, jbut where was unknown. , It was quite true that she had come-in before'ten o'clock, and soon afterwards had received a. note by boy messenger. In view of these facts, it appeared quite certain to Fetherston that Enid and Harry Bellairs had taken dinner tete-a-tete at some quiet restaurant. She was a merry, highspirited girl to whom, such an ad- ' venture would certainly appeal. "After dinner they had parted, and he had driven to his roonfs. Then, feeling bis strength failing, he had hastily summoned her to his side. . Why ? vIf he had suspected her of being the author of any foul play he-most certainly would not have begged her to i come to him in (his last moments. No. The enigma ,grew more and more inscrutable. And. yet there was a motive for poor Bellairs' tragic end—one which, in the light of his own knowledge, seemed only too apparent. k He strolled on beside the fair-faced girl, deep in wonder. Recollections of that devil-may-care cavalry officer who had been such a good friend clouded her brow, and as she walked her eyes were cast upon the; ground in silent reflection. She was wondering whether Walter Fetherston had guessed the truth, that she had loved that man who had met with such, an untimely end. Her companion, on his part, was equally puzzled: That story of Barker's finding a white feather was a curious one. It was true that the ~ man had found a white feather —but he had also learnt that when Enid Orlebar had arrived at' Hill street she had been wearing a white feather boa ! "It is not curious after all," he said, reflectively, •' "that the police should have dismissed the*affair as a death from natural causes. At fthe inquest, no suspicion whatever , was arousjetd. I wonder why Barker/ r [in his evidence, made '. of that perfume—or of the discovery of the feather ?" And as he uttered these words, tie fixed his grave eyes upon her, watching- her countenance intently. "Well," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, "if he had, it would have proved nothing, wouhi it ? If Captaii* Bellairs had received a lady_ visitor in secret that afternoon, it might haye had no connection with the circumstances of his death six hours later.". "And yet'it might," Fetherston re-

marked. "What more natural than that the lady who- visited him clanBarker had, no' doubt, been sent out of the.way on purpose that he should not see her—should . have dined with him later?" The girl moved uneasily, tapping the ground with her stick. - : "Then you suspect, a woman of having had a hand in his death ?' '■ she exclaimed in a changed' voice, her eyes agajn cast upon the .ground. "I do not know sufficient of the details to entertain any distinct suspicion," he replied. "I regard the . affair,as a mystery, and in mysteries I am always interested." "You intend to bring the facts into a book," she remarked. "Ah, I see.'' "Perhaps—if I obtain a solution of the enigma, Aor enigma, it certainly is." "You agree with me, then, that poor Harry was the victim of foul play ?". she asked in a low, intense voice, eagerly watching his face the 'while. "Yes," lie answered very slowly, "and, further, that the woman who visited him that afternoon was an accessory. Harry Bellairs .was murdered !"■ • J Her cheeks blanched, and she went pale to the lips. He saw the sudden change in her, and realised what a supreme effort she was making to betray no alarm, but the effect of his cold, calm words had been almost electrical. He watched her countenance slowly flushing, but pretended not to 1 notice her confusion, And so he walked on at her side, fulli of wonderment. Plow much did she know ? Why, 'indeed, had Harry Bellairs fallen the victim of a secret assassinj? No trained olTicer of the Criminal Investigation Department was more ingenious in making- serrret inquiries, more clever in his subterfuges or in disguisling- his real objects, than Walter Fetherston. Possessed of aanple means, and pursuing the detection of crime, he had, on many occasions, placed the authorities in possession of information which had amazed them, and which had earned for him the high esteem of those in office at the (police headquarters. The case of Captain' Henry Bellairs he had taken up merely because he recognised in it some unusual circumstances, and without sparing effort he had investigated it rapidly and secretly from every standpoint. He had satisfied himself. Certain knowledge that he possessed was not possessed by any officer at Scotland Yaxd, and only by reason of that secret knowledge had he been able to arrive at the definite conclusion that there»had been a strong motive for the, captain's death, and that if he - had been secretlj- poisoned—which seemed to be the case, in spite of the analyst's evidence —then he had been poisoned by the velvet hand of a woman. Walter Fetherston was ever regretting his inability to put any of the confidential information he acquired into his books. "If I could only write half the truth-of what I know,; people would declare it to be fiction," he had often assured intimate friends. And those friends had pondered, and wondered to what he referred. He : wrote of crime, weaving those wonderful romances which held breathless his readers in every comer of the globe, and describing criminals and life's undercurrents with such fidelity that even criminals themselves had expressed wonder as to how and whence he obtained his accurate information. But the public were in ignorance that, in his character of Mr Maltwood, he pursued a strange profession, one which was fraught with more romance and excitement than any other calling a man could adopt. In comparison with his life, that of a detective was really a tame one, while such success had he obtained that in certain important official circles in London he was held in highest esteem, and frequently called- into consultation. Walter Fetherston, the quiet, re- . ticent novelist, was entirely different from the gay, devil-may-care Maltwood, the accomplished linguist, thorough-going cosmopolitan, and constant traveller, the easy-going rnam of means known in society in | every European capital. Because of this few friends who ''were aware of his dual personality were puzzled. At the girl's side he strode on along the road which led through the wood,/thei road over which every evening i rumbled the old post-dili-gence on its way through the quaint old,, town of Etain to the railway at Spihcourt. On that very road a bat-

taliori of Uhlans- had been annihilated almost to a man at the outbreak of the war in '7O, while within their sight /was that mound where General Lebas had been mortally wounded by a shell fired from Boinville out at the edge of the forest... . - Every metre they" trod was historic ground—ground which must one day ere'long be trodden by the legions of Imperial Germany on their advance westward, and, alas ! be strewn by their corpses. For some time,, neither spoke. . At last Walter asked, "Your. step-fatner has been up to the fortress with Captain Le.Pontois, I suppose ?" "Yes, once-or twice," was her " reply, eager to change the subject. "Of., course, to a soldier, fortifications and ""suchlike things are always of interest." "I saw them walking up to the fortress together the other day," he remarked with a casual air. "What ?■" she asked quickly. ( "Have you been here before." "Once," he laughed. "I came over from Commercy and spent the day in i your vicinity in the :hope , that I might perhaps meet you alone accidentally." . He did not tell her that he had watched her shopping with Madame Le Poneois, or that he had • spent i several days at a small auberge at the tiny village of MarcheviilenWoevre, only two'miles .distant. "I had no idea of that," .she replied, her. face flushing slightly. ( "When do you return to London ?" he asked. "I hardly know. Certainly not before next Thursday, as we have amateur theatricals at General Molon's. I'm playing the part of Miss Smith, the English govei'ness, in Barbour's comedy * Le Pyree.' " "And then you return to London, eh ?" "I hardly know. Yesterday I had a letter from Mrs Caldwell saying that she contemplated going to Italy thlis winter, therefore, perhaps mother will let me go. I wrote to her this morning. .The proposal i's to spent part of the time in Italy and then cross from Naples vto Egypt. I love Egypt. We were there threewinters ago,4 at Shepherd's.'' "Your father and mother will remain at home, I suppose?". "Mother hates travelling nowadays. She says she had quite sufficient of living abroad in my father's lifetime. We were practically exiled for three years,, you know. I was born in Lima, and I never saw England until I was eleven. The diplomatic service takes a family so out of touch with home." But Sir Hugh will go abroad this winter, as'usual, eh?" "I have not heard him speak of ; HI beliepe he's too busy at the War Office just now. They ' have some more reforms in, progress, I hear," and she smiled. He was looking straight into the girl's handsome face, his heart torn between love and suspicion. Those days at Biarritz recurred to him. ; how he would watch for her and go and meet her down towards Grand Plage, till, by degrees it had become to both the most nattiral thing in the world.. On those rare evenings when they did not ; meet, the girl was conscious of a little feeling of. disappointment which she was too shy to own even to her own heart. -Walter Petherston owned it . freely enough. In that bright springtime the day was incomplete unless he saw her ; and he knew that, even now, every hour was making her grow dearer to him. Prom that chance meeting.at the hotel their friendship had grown, and had ripened into warmer, dearer —a secret held closed in /each heart, but none the less sweet' for that, After leaving Biarritz, the man had torn himself away from her—why, he hardly knew. Only he felt upon him some fatal fascination, strong and irresistible. It was the first time in his life that he had been what is vulgarly known as "over head and ears in love." He returned to England, and then, a month later, his investigation of Henry Beilairs' death, for the purpose of obtaining a plot for a , new. novel " he •contemplated, revealed to him a staggering and astounding truth. Even then, in face of that secret knowledge he had gained, he had been ,powerless, and he had gone up to Monifieth deliberately ; again to meet her—to be drawn again' beneath the spell of those wondrous eyes. '^" There was. love in:the man's heart. But sometimes it embittered hlinx It did at that moment as they strolled still onward over that carpet of moss and falien,leaves. • He had loV-

ed. her, a s he believed her to be -a. woman with a heart and soul too pure to harbour an evil thought. J But her story of the death of poor \ Beilairs, the man who had loved her, ihad convinced him that his suspicions, were, alas ! only too well founded. ■..'•„•■■'" *To be Continued).