FATAL FINGERS.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10536, 10 August 1912, Page 2

FATAL FINGERS.

(By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.) Author of " Lying Lips," " The Money Spider," etc. [All Rights Rkservkd.] CHAPTER XXVIII. tklls gohdon's seckst. A calm cloudless evening. The broad waters of the Channel lay bathed in tho brilliant after-glow, for the sun' was just disappearing below the horizon, and a fresh, health-giving breeze sprang up as Maidee and Gordon sat together upon a seat high upon Beachy Head. They wore alone. Already in the big lighthouse the light was flashing, it being lit at sundown, while away in the 'distance ships were passing—the busy traffic of England's great waterway. During tho past fortnight Maidee had almost completely recovered—sufficiently, indeed, to'ascend those steep, grass-covered slopes froir Eastbourne. She no longer used, her bath-chair, and nlrendy her cheeks'showed that she was deriving great 'benefit from the sea air. In her neat dark brown tailor-made coat and skirt, and small, close hat with white veil, she presented a smart nr>T>ear<ince while her fnce, distinguishable through the wisp of net, was surely one which would be remarked anywhere. Gordon, as he sat at her side, her hand tenderly in his, presented a well-set-up figure in dark grey tweeds and soft felt- hat. She was secretly proud of him-—when on the esplanade she saw how, on every side, pe°P' o turned and then whispered among themselves that the smart, cleanshaven vonnsr man was none other than Gordon' Cunningham, the man of the moment, whose name was mentioned almost daily in the papers. At the (4rand. men rnd women were erer anxious to make his acquaintance, while several young girls bad shyly brought her their autograph books, asking her to induce him to sign them. As she sat there, her face bathed in the crimson sundown, he had wound his arm tenderly about her waist, and, raising her veil, had kissed her upon the lips. - Then, after much hesitation, he at last summoned courage to tell her something—something which he had longed to reveal to her for months, and yet had not dared. "Maidee," he said at last, peering into her eyes, " I want you to forgive me. I—l want to .tell you something which, before we go further, you shoula know. I want to confess to you something—so that others may not tell you and, in the telling, distort the story." She started, staring at him in alarm. ■ "Why, Gordon 1" she asked, "what's the matter?"

" Nothing—only I want to tell you something—something about myself—a secret of my life." "A secret 1 Then tell me," and her gloved fingers closed convulsively uprn his as she looked into his face.

V WelL I want to tell you this, dearest," hj« said in a low, intense voice, his gaze fixed upon hers. " A few years ago, soon after 1 left college, I met an elderly man named Tulloch, a financial adventurer, who I have strong reasons to believe was a friend of my late father. Though a man who moved in that shady set which haunts the big London hotels in search of pigeons to pluck, and though always full of schemes that were bagus, yet he became my friend, and to his secret influence I certainly owe my advancement. He assisted me, he said, because he owed a debt of gratitude to my dead father. Sometimes his movements were very Btrange. He lived in chambers in South Audley Street, and was often absent abroad for long periods—looking after mining properties in which ne was interested. After my first journey in the East I met a young girl, who, though in humble circumstances, attracted me, and—well, I may as well confess it at once—l married her at the registry office at Marylebone." " Married 1" she shrieked, starting up and facing him in dismay. " Listen to the truth, darling," ho urged very quietly, still holding her hand, and slowly drawing her back to her seat. "Ours was a secret union. Nobody knew,—not even Tulloch, my closest friend. We lived in lodgings in the north of London under an assumed name, yet—well, I was not happy. From the first week I knew I bad committed a grave error. Yet I had married, and the girl was my wife. Before my marriage my wife had a pet i? X terrier, V€ry old nnd hnlf blind 2 that had belonged to her brother; and one day she declared that the poor animal, being useless and complained of by the landlady, she must destroy it."

'But why tell ms thisP" cried Maidee, interrupting. " You are married—Gordon !"

Hear me to the end/' he said very earnestly. "It is but right that you should know the whole truth. A fewdays after the suggestion made by my wife I was, one evening, in Tulloch's rooms, and our conversation turned upon curios. From a drawer in his writing table he took a tiny bottlf, which he said was one of the curios he possessed—for the half-dr ; ed liquid it contained was a most deadly poison, a single drop of it, either taken by the mouth or injected into the blood, being sufficient to cause death. I examined it with curiosity, and asked where he had obtained it, but my inquiry evidently caused him annoyance, for he snatched it from my hand end threw it back into the drawer. Half an hour later, when he had gone into the next room to answer the telephone, I suddenly recollected the blind terrier. Therefore, I opened the drawer, took out the poisou, and next day gave it to my wite, telling her to handle the stuff with greatest care. She expressed disbelief that any poison could be so potent, but poured out a small quantity upon a piece of sugar, which she placed on the mantel-shelf of the sitting-room, intending,to give it tii the animal when he came in. I took the bottle back and left, for I was anxious to replace it in Tulloch's rooms. When 1 entered his chambers ho at once looked me in the face curiously, and asked what I had done with the poison. I fear I was confused, but was compelled to produce it and restore it to him- Judge my horror, however, when, a few hours later, I learnt through the newspapers that my wife had been found mysteriously poisoned almost as soon as I had left hor. She had had, I recollected, a Blight scratch on her left thumb. and, in holding the sugar as she dro.pScd the fluid upon it, she had, no oubt, absorbed the noxious drugwhatever it was. My first impulse was to 'go to Camden lown and made a statement to the police. But if I. did I should be compelled to acknowledge my secret marriage. Therefore, I refrained. In my despair I consulted Tulloch, when, to my dismay, he coolly declared me to be a liar, aiid accused mo of the wilful murder of the girl Helen Weaver. He had somehow ascertained that I had married."

" Helen Weaver!" gasped Maidee, pale and agitated. " And she was your wife, Gordon!" " Yes, dearest," he replied in a low tone " 1 fmve told you the whole truth because—well, because from that moment Tulloch became my enemy. He blackmailed me—then disappeared, and I heard he had died in Italy. But only recently he ha* reappeared again-

to taunt and torture me with a crime of which 1 am entirely innocent." " But, Gordon, has it not been proved that the, girl Weaver, and several other different persons in London, died by exactly the same mysterious drug as did Sir George and that poor old man in Pimlicor And yet this man Tulloch was, as you can prove, in actual possession of tho mysterious poisonl she exclaimed " I know," he admitted; "it is all a complete mystery. Tulloch returned, and urged me to put the question in the House—threatened that if I did not he would come to you and allege that I killed Helen; and yet, at the very moment when I had risen to interrogate the Home Secretary, I received an anonymous note declaring that if I dared my secret enemy would encompass my ruin. I stood with ruin on either side; I hesitated—and suppose I must have fainted." For a few moments silence fell be-, tween the pair, a silence only broken by the screaming of a gull above them. Then Maidee, her womanly sympathy asserting itself, took her lover's hand, saying: "Poor deart I did not know all that. I—l ought not to have misjudged you. Forgive me 1" "Of course, darling," he said, "I have told you this because—well, because I know not from one day to another that Tulloch may not return and again repeat the dastardly allegation against me." She paused, her face turned thoughtfully towards the darkening sea, for the evening light was no*v fast falling. " And yet, surely it is a very euspioious circumstance taat this man Tulloch, who is your e&emy, possessed the drug which uaa ror so long mystified both police and analysts. Medland has told me that both Sir George and the man Goodrick fell victims to it. Could Tulloch have been acquainted with the pairP" " Who knows P He is a strange person—a man who is a past-master of many professions, especially of politics. Once he told me, I remember, that he know Sir George." " Ah I Then it was he who killed him—without a doubt," the girl cried. " Cannot we tell Inspector Medland, and let him search for the culprit?" "I think that-would be injudicious at present," was the young man's reply. "Tulloch, having returned from the grave once, will again ,come back to taunt and torture me. When he reappears, then we will tell Medland of our suspicions." Maidee inquired what kind of man Tulloch was, and her lover replied, giving a description of him as near as was possible. " But," he edded, "his very profession compels him to travel rapidly and sometimes to change his personal appearance. He has often confessed to me that to have dealings with thieves one must bo a thief oneself." "Is he still in London?" " No—abroad, I expect. Were he in London he would, no doubt, call upon me. He is such .an enigma that, oh the one hand, he is ever doing me somo little service, and yet, on the other, he declares himself ready at any moment to expose my secret marriage with the ill-fated Helen Weaver and assert that she died by my hand." " I wish I could tell Undo John what you have explained to me," said the girl reflectively. "Uncle John? Who is heP"

" Only an old gentleman I call uncle, though he is no relation," she replied. Then, on being pressed by her lover, she, in contradiction of Ambrose's express wishes, revealed to him her long and strange friendship with the unknown old gentleman who had frequented the parks in order to get of her and listen to her childish prattle. "How very strange!" exclaimed Gordon, when he had board her to the end. "I wonder who he could be?"

" I don't know, nor do I car©. Only, he is my closest and clearest friend. 1 am anxious to see him, to ask his opinion regarding this fellow Tulloch—to ask whether he suspects that Tulloch is also responsible for that dastardly attempt to kill mo." "Where is this Uncle John? Where does he live?"

" Pie has recently lived over in Walworth ; but at present he is away. I last wrote to him to the poste restante at Macon. He surely will return to London very soon." Gordon did not reply. He was thinking over the remarkable and romantic revelation which his well-beloved had just made. Who could be the mysterious Uncle JohnP

Together they sat hand in hand, almost in silence, watching the great grey night clouds rising away to the left—watching until the navigating lights of the shipping began to twinkle in the dark blue, and the great, broad, warning ray from the lighthouse showed a bright beam across the darkening waters.

Then they rose. For a. moment he

fondly held her slim form in his arm*, kissing her passionately upon the lips. Then they retraced their steps down the hill into Eastbourne, both 'filled with grave wonderment. - • That same evening, almost at the very hour when the pair rose to leave that seat high on the summit ofj tho promontory, a respectably-dressed woman called at Scotland and w> the constable at the door gave her name as Mrs Jewell, the-wife of a private detective living at Willesden, arid having an office in King Street, Covent Garden. She sa'd she wished to oee an officer of the Criminal Investigation* Department. After a brief delay, she wan taken up in the lift and shown to one of the big,: bare waiting-rooms at the end of the corridor, a cheerless, depressing place, in which many a strange story had been told and many a -crime revealed. Presently to her came two officers, on© of whom was Inspector Medland. "I am in great distress, sir," she , said, addressing Medland, who was the older of the pair. "I have lost my husband." The detective smiled. Tho story of lost husbands is an everyday one at the Yard. " WellP" he said in his sharp, businesslike way. " Tell me the facts—as briefly as you can, please." " My husband and 1 had a few words back in January, and he left home to go to his omce as usual in the morning. He was at the office all day. About seven o'clock, just as Martin, his clerk, was about to leave, a gentleman call&d. I've got the card which he gave." And she produced the visit-ing-card of Sir George Raveriscourt. ;. This caused Medland to become at once interested. * " " Yes," he said ; " go on." "Well, the gentleman had been tb see my husband before, it seems," explained Mrs Jewell, " and after Martin left he remained talking in iny husband's private room. Some private inquiry, I sui'.posc, for my husband does a lot of work for the aristocracy. From that moment till this he hasn't been seen." - "You say this occurred in January. Whv didn't you come hero before, Mrs Jewell?" ~ ■;■■,-■' "Because when he left.the house in the morning he-said he wouldn't come back. He'd said that before, and he'd always come brick nftrr. a dr.j or two, so I waited and wcitvd; but hasn't come. Therefore, I'm how afraid that something must hare happened \to him." . . .

" What causes you to suspect that, oh?" asked; the inspector. " Because only yesterday I fourd'out that Sir Raveriscourt had died on the very riieht my-husband disappeared—the nirdrfc of the seventeenth of January I" ..-.-'/ • " T ,- e sovrnteenth of January!'! echoed for he know tho'man Jewell 'quite. wtl. Ep hrd bwr a sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Department, and on Tetircivent had set ur> as a private detective. '" And be disappeared on the ni"ht of Sir George's den+b— eh? W«ll.. what do you suspect P" h' v nrked. CHAPTER XXIX. THE ACCVSATION. After lying in a state of coma in his darkened room -for over two days, Don Mario slowly struggled back to consciousness. ' : When, oh opening his eyes at last, he saw the pale, anxious face of his, friend Ambrose bent over him, he started, glaring at him in horror, as though some hideous phantom of the pastnad risen against him. ''"■ "Well, mv dear ffiend." exclaimed Ambrose* softly, " arc you better P" "Eh? What? Where am IP"'asked the priest, staring around his own room. Then, a second later, he sank back, saying: "Ahl> I see! Wliy—l'm at home I I—dreamt I was somewhere else " ''' Then for hours he lay motionless in silence, tended by old Teresa and the enuffy old hunchback sacristan. For days ho remained convalescent, seated in'his chair and receiving visits from the villagers, male and female, who came to offer (.heir congratulations, and then afterwards went into the church to offer thanks for his recovery.

The priest's story of his attack was that, in walking along at early morning, be had become suddenly seized by a curious pain in the head..bad become dazed, and fallen. More than that he did not know.

For nearly three weeks ho remained indisposed.; then of a sudden he grew quite well. But none knew that during the whole- period he was secretly flinging away the doctor's medicines and daily injecting a certain antidote into his own arm.

The truth was that he bad half re covered while lying in his laboratory and had manngecl to get out. >hut tl door, and walk nearly balf a mile * fore sudden exhaustion overtook him and he fell where he was found.

' One warm night towards the end of June, when the whole village was asleep, he crept forth, again down to the cottage, and there secured the little bottle sealed -vith black wax—the phial containing tho rediscovered poison of the Doge Dandolo. Then, noticing that the' rabbits in their cage were dead, he set to work to destroy all his apparatus, and bury it in a hole he dug in the wood a little distance from the Afterwards he reascended to his presbytery, and just before dawn returned again to bed. feree days later Don Mario had left Saiita Lucia to spend a few weeks at his imaginary home in the North, taking with him the Signor Inglese, while the young priest, Don Lippo, from the Abruzzi had taken up his temporary abode at the little white presbytery in the- piazza. ; Nearly six months went by. '■ In the dark November days in London —and the November of 1908 was exceptionally dull—two men were occupying furnished lodgings in a rather dingy, drab house in Walpole Street,' off King's Road, Chelsea. One was Don Mario, the other his friend, John Ambrose. A few evenings before a serious contretemps had occurred, for Ambrose, while entering Sloane Square station, had beon recognised by Medland, who, in surprise, had accosted him. They had walked side by side for a long distance, right from where they met to Scotland Yard, whence the inspector invited him in, and then closely questioned him. J. ' When he "emerged an hour later ma expression was unusual. Perhaps the detective's questions had been disconcerting ; but, in any case, his manner had entirely changed. He,seemed to have aged fully ten years, for he retraced his steps to the underground station at Westminster bent, serious and very thoughtful. . Next day he returned to Scotland Yard—at Medland's request, be it said —and was there interrogated by tho Director of Criminal Investigations himself, while his friend the priest remained at home, as he always did during the day. ; • ■ Of 'ate he had become silent and reserved, for, truth to tell, he had been seized by certain suspicions regarding his friend Ambrose, and he was calmly plotting a terrible vengeance. One damp, foggy evening, about nine O'clock, Lady Ravenscourt and Mra Beresford, being out to dinner with an old lady in Brook Street, Maidee .and Gordon were -together in the drawingroom, happy in each other's love. The girl, in a pretty gown of; palest pink chiffon, was seated at the piano, Singing sweetly the old popular song, >' Le Flaneur," the light, cheery chorus if which ran: Moi, Je flane; Qn'oa m'abpTouve ou me condsminel Moi, je fiane, , Je voir tout, Je mis paxtoui. Suddenly she was interrupted by the Entrance of a maid bearing a card. She. took it, rose from the piano, and for a second stood rigid. I "There are two gentlemen, missone is a clergyman, I think," the girl aaid. ■ . . i "A clergyman!" exclaimed Maidee, who, turning to Gordon, who had alsy risen and was standing beside her, added: "Uncle John has called I You will now have an opportunity of meeting him. Show the gentlemen up," she added to the maid.

I A few seconds later, old Mr Ambrose, well dressed and distinguishedrlooking, entered the room.

| i'Whyl" gasped Cunningham, staring at him aghast. "You, Tullochl -What does this meanP'V

Maidee stood amazed as the two men faced each other, "Yes," replied Ambrose,. "I am here to-night, Cunningham, to offer you an explanation; and this gentleman with me is Don Mario Mellini, who, like myself, knew your father very well."

The priest, who had followed hat in hand, bowed low In his graceful Italian manner, expressing his great delight at meeting the son of his old friondT

"But, my dear Uncle Johnl" cried Maidee, " what does all this mean? Why did you pretend to Gordon to be .Tulloch, an adventurer. You surely are not an adventurer I" " Well, my child," replied the old fellow, smiling upon her as he took her little hand, "I fear that the world would, if it knew the truth, f condemn me as such. But I and my friend here have come to reveal to you certain curious facts, and to make one or two matters quite plain. Though it is much, against my desire to disclose my real identity to your lover, yet I do .-o because I feel that I have acted wrongly —that I allowed my feelings of revenge to obtain the mastery. I regarded his father as one of my friends, yet, alas I he proved to be one of my worst enemies. Hence my brutal desire, first to raise hla son to fame, and then slowly to crush him by blackmail and threats of exposure of a crime which I know that he did not commit."

"You refer to the mysterious death of his wife!" the girl cried. '' Then he is innocentP" . $> • " Certainly. I can vouch for his innooence„ana I am here to seek' his pardon—and yours, Maidee. When I formed my plot of vengeance I had no idea that he would meet you, and fall In love with you., Surely it was the irony of fate that my dear niece, to whom I have ever been devoted, should love the gon of my worst enemy—one of the men responsible for my downfall."

" What downfall?" inquired the girl, 111 Do tell us. You are always so very mysterious, Uncle John," while at the same moment Gordon placed his arm about her slim, neat waist in protection as they stood together. - i " Maidee, listen then," said the old | man in a strange, . tremulous voice, ! after he had stood_ in silence for a few , moments, looking into her dark eyeß. I" Have you ever heard of a man—a [ politician of some note—called the Earl • of Ellersdale P' ; " The Earl of Ellersdale!" cried Gordon Cunningham. "Why, he was Prime Minister, and died about eighteen years ago. He was an intimate friend of my father." "Yes, he was," said Ambrose. Maidee, staring straight at the old man at that moment, suddenly gave vent to a loud cry of dismay. 14 The Earl of Ellersdale 1" she gasp|«d. "Why—why, Inspector Medland itook me to see his statue in Westmin> •«ter Abbey; and now—and now that I [Bee you side face, I—l recognise the I likeness 1 Are you—are you his bro*herP"

" No, Maidee." was the low Teply : "I am the dead Earl 1"

The giri and her lover stood astounded. It was upon Cunningham's lips to jeer at the man's amazing statement. Next instant, however, the priest exclaimed in his very, good English: "If any corroborative'evidence is necessary, I am here to testify that my friend is actually the Earl of Ellersdale, with whom I was on terms of intimate acquaintanceship until three days before his death." "Ever since my death—a death connived at, nay, insisted upon—by the two persons into whose hands grave circumstances compelled-me to place my future, my friend Don Mario , has continued to be my I lived in obscurity in Pimlico as Richard Goodlick." i

" Richard Goodrick 1 Are you, then, the man who died so mysteriously on ihe night when Sir George was assassinated?" cried Maidee, astounded. "Yes, my child," replied the old gentleman, fire showing in his dark eyes. "Let me explain." , But Gordon Cunningham's attitude was still antagonistic towards the old man. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven how, as Tulloch, he had bullied •hid blackmailed him. "I do not see, dear, why we should be compelled to listen to all these explanations," he said, addressing hi 3 well-beloved. "Bear me!" cried the Earl. "You must ;hear! It is but right that you iboth should know the truth."

"Yes, the truth!" interrupted the deep voice of a stranger, as at the same moment tho burly form of Inspector Medland—whose visit had been arranged in secret with the Earl—entered the drawing-room. "Excellent; let us, at last, hear tho truth I" . The girl, her lover, and Don Mario nil started staring at the intruder, who. bowing, smiled, merely explaining that he had called upon Miss Lamhton, as he desired to have a chat with her. _ "I'm considerably interested in this meeting," ho added. "There are One or two little matters which I am veryanxious to clear up," he added, casting a meaning look towards the Earl. Don Mario, his face livid, stood as though transfixed to the spot. He was staggered by the turn of events. '"Well," said the ex-Promier, drawing himself up proudly and clearing his throat, " Let mo explain—let me relate the strange events which led to my supposed death and disappearance into obscurity," and then in a few brief sentences he described the house party at Ellersdale, the mysterious death of Rollo, Maidee's father, and the terrible accusation brought against himself. He told them of the cigar found to be poisoned, the second cigar lying m the box, and the phial discovered in the buhl cabinet, of which he alone held the kev; how his friends Cunningham and Nesbitt had declared that all protest of innocence would be unavailing with a jury in face of,his sister-in-law's statement, and pointed out the scandal which must be brought ur>on the Party Hence with the clever connivance of the doctors and his friends he had died, while those who had known the truth were now also dead—all save his friend Don Mario." Maidee listened to the old Earl's story in silence. At last she said: "Then my mother could, if she had chosen, have cleared you of the terrible charge P" " Yes, child," was his slow reply. "Your mother, I fear, was fiercely antagonistic towards me, because I had been strongly against your father's marriage. Hence she had made some statement that was false; and I could no longer remain Prime Minister unless I could prove my innocence. For that reason i went into obscurity, and am believed by the world to have died." "Ah! it was a wicked conspiracy I Who, then, killed my poor father?"

"That still remains a mystery," was the Earl'B slow response, "an entire mystery." He did not add that for some time he had suspected Gordon of the crime.

" But, surely, my mother ought never to have made a statement that was deliberately false. It was shameful to have wrecked your life thus. See " " Hush, child," said the old gentleman reproachfully; " remember she was your mother, and it pains me exceedingly to have related before you what 1 have been compelled to tell." The priest stood there, his sallow, olean-shaven countenance pale and drawn, his brow slightly knit, his sharp eyes fixed upon the speaker's faoe. " But what evidence can you show that you were not responsible for youi brother's, tragic end?'' asked, Gordon OunningHam, still doubtful, and recollecting that mainly due to his father the Earl's disappearance from the political world had been accomplished. " There is unfortunately no proof of my innocence," replied the old Earl. ■" Only my own word that, though Rollo had quarrelled with me, I bore him no malice." Gordon smiled, but with & somewhat dissatisfied, air. Whereupon Medland, who had stood with liis hands in his pockets, at that moment stepped forward, saying: "I think that this, which I found when searching the contents of the safe In Sir George Ravenscouri's library at Carlton House Terrace after his death, may throw an. interesting light upon the ocourrsnoe," and he produced a letter written in a feminine hand upon black-edged nbtepaper, and addressed to Sir George from a hotel in Geneva,

The Earl took it with trembling fingers, read it through eagerly, and then turning swiftly and fiercely upon Don Mario, lie pointed at him with his finger, saying: <7 At last the truth is told! There stands the assassin of my brother Rollo —he, the man who for twenty years I have regarded as my faithful friend I"

' Maidee and her lover stood aghast—dumbfounded.

Yet as they looked upon the priest they saw that his mouth was half open, and that he stood motionless as a statue, unable to utter a single word in self-defence.

His face had changed. Guilt was plainly written there. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

He had lowered his quick, penetrating eyes and drawn his pale lips tightly before his accuser. (To b© concluded next week.)