Читать книгу Netta - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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DR. MANNING had finished his day's work; he had dined comfortably, and was reclining in his big chair with a well-earned cigar after dinner.

There was a tap at the door presently and Masters came in. His face had lighted up and his eyes were shining.

"I was just going to ring for you," Manning said. "I want you to do something for me, something more or less connected with the events of this morning. Of course you made nothing of those torn papers?"

"Well, I fancy I have," Reggie said guardedly. Evidently lie was keeping himself well in hand. "For the most part those papers conveyed nothing to one's mind. But there was one torn sheet that I put together and I lasted on a card. It looks like foreign note-paper, and is written in a cramped hand. There are only three words on it. See here."

Reggie laid the paper under the strong light of the electric reading-lamp. As he said, it was nothing more or less than a sheet of flimsy foreign note, with three words across the centre:

"Your next throw."

"Well, what do you make of that?" Manning asked.

"I could make nothing out of it at first," Peggie said, "except that it was some sign from a confederate. I was going to give it up altogether, when the solution came to me like a flash. It alludes to the dice."

"To the dice! What possible connexion can there be with the dice?"

"Well, the words say 'Your next throw.' That must allude to dice; at any rate it is a dicing metaphor, indicating that some dangerous or desperate enterprise is about to be attempted, and that the operator on this occasion was to have been Gordon Falmer. Isn't it more than curious that such a metaphor should have been used to a man who had two dice tattooed on his arm?"

"By Jove, you are right," Manning cried, excitedly. "It's some secret society or that kind of thing; I see exactly what you mean now. Unless it implied that Falmer was to be the victim of some vendetta, and the letter was sent as a warning."

"Do you mean that he might have been murdered in some way?"

"I don't. I am certain that Falmer died of heart disease. We have got a rough clue to work upon now, and it's odd if we don't make something out of it. What I want to know is the name of that drug we smelt so strongly to-day, and what it is. There is some far deeper mystery here than we are aware of."

"Well, we can go a bit farther on that track, anyway," Reggie smiled. "As I told you, my mysterious friend of Miller's Circus uses, or, at any rate, handles the same drug. Suppose I spend an hour watching the show and then try to draw my man afterwards?"

Manning nodded his approval of this course. Masters merely stopped to make some slight change in his attire, and this being done he made his way through the crowded streets of the busy seaport town till he came at length to the spot where Miller's International Circus had been erected.

Reggie nodded carelessly to the box-keeper, who knew him by sight, and took his place.

Reggie yawned his time away over a cigar; from where he sat he could see partly behind the scenes. A row appeared to be in progress, and from time to time angry voices penetrated into the ring. Reggie caught glimpses of a little dark man, who seemed to be restrained from doing something violent by his companions. Presently he burst from them and dashed into the arena.

He stood there swaying backwards and forwards, apparently hopelessly intoxicated. With a yell he staggered on just as Mme. Lestante, the queen of bare-backed riders, flashed by. There was a swerve and a stumble, and one of the horse's hoofs caught the intoxicated performer full on the side of the head. Then he toppled forward, and lay wriggling convulsively in the sawdust.

A murmur of horror followed from the spectators. Before anybody could interfere Reggie had jumped into the ring and raised the prostrate man as if he had been a child. Presently he laid down his burden out of sight on a pile of empty sacks.

"I hope he isn't killed," the big proprietor of the circus muttered. He stood there in his fur coat and heavy boots, scowling at the prostrate figure. "One of the greatest draws and one of the most troublesome rascals in the show. Is he badly hurt, Mr. Williams?"

Reggie was not able to tell. Presently the other opened his eyes and looked round.

"What's the matter?" he asked. His tone was quiet and refined, his accent perfect. "What was I doing, Miller?"

"Making a fool of yourself, as usual," the big man grunted. "Came here drunk and insisted upon going on at once,"

"Well, I can't go on to-night now," said Signor Lebandi, as he chose to call himself. "You'll have to make my excuses, Miller. My hat—what a head I've got!"

He reeled as he rose to his feet, and would have fallen but for Reggie.

"Better let me take you home," the latter said quietly. "One of the horses kicked you. The blow has sobered you, but you can't perform to-night. If one of these people will call a cab I'll see you are properly looked after."

A cab was called and driven away to Lebandi's lodgings. He had only one large bed-sitting-room, which was littered up with belongings of all sorts—boxing-gloves, foils, fishing-rods, bats, and the like. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with the raw drug that Reggie had noticed that morning at Loudwater.

But no bottles or glasses of any kind were to be seen. There was a perfect litter on the dressing-table, on which any number of small objects had been piled.

One or two things, however, attracted his attention—two tiny articles that he pounced upon and, without the slightest scruple, put into his pocket. Then he went off quietly down the stairs. The landlady was waiting below.

"He's better, I fancy," Reggie explained. "Only he must see a doctor. Don't let him have the chance of refusing. If he is not really better to-morrow send for Dr. Manning. You won't forget to send for Dr. Manning?"

"No better doctor in Coalend," was the reply. "I'll not forget that, sir."

Manning was still up when his servant returned. One quick glance at Reggie's face told him that the latter had news.

"My man was drunk, and met with an accident," Reggie explained. "I took the opportunity of conveying him home to his rooms. The fellow calls himself a Spaniard, yet his English is perfect, and his rooms are like those of a sporting 'Varsity undergraduate. There is a photo of a college set in which our man is one, unless I am greatly mistaken. And the whole room reeks of that drug which was so powerfully in evidence at Loudwater."

"You didn't manage to put your hand upon it?" Manning asked eagerly.

"I didn't," Reggie confessed. "I durst not go too far for fear he should wake up again. But I have so arranged it that you are to be called in professionally to-morrow, so we have made a good start."

"All the same, I imagine you have got something, Reggie."

"Well, I may as well confess that I have," Reggie said quietly. "I saw these on the dressing-table, and took the liberty of borrowing them. They look like being a most important clue to the mystery."

Reggie drew the small objects from his pockets, and laid them on the table. They were darkish brown irregular cubes with crimson patches on them. Manning could not repress a cry as his eyes lighted on them.

"Dice," he exclaimed, "dice made of human knuckle-bones, and painted as to the pips in a vivid scarlet! Where have I seen the like before?"

Reggie laughed as he turned the cubes over.

"Where is your memory?" he asked. "They are a facsimile of the dice tattooed on the arm of Gordon Falmer."