Читать книгу The Edge of the Sword - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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LIONEL had no words to say for the moment. He was a firm believer in the long arm of coincidence; he had seen too much of it to be a scoffer. Truth is ever stranger than fiction. There are mysteries, rejected of editors as too improbable, which find more than their parallel in the daily press. And yet here was a case that staggered a hardened offender. In his imagination he had actually drawn a series of true happenings. He had finished the story before they began.

"I begin to understand," he said presently. "You have come to regard the author, Rodney Payne, as a malignant foe who was gloating over your misfortune. And instead of that you find a man who used to be, nay, still is, your lover. Well, that accounts for certain things, but it does not account for everything. As I said before these coincidences frequently happen. They had done so in my case. I once hit upon what I considered to be a fine series of eventful happenings, and I placed them in the form of a long story. I had disposed of the story to a magazine, and it was going to be published, when I was attracted by the title of a dramatic book published by a well-known author. The title suggested my tale. I read the book, and I found that the other man had practically written my story. I don't think that the editor of that magazine has ever quite forgiven me, and he still cherishes the idea that in some way I picked the brain of the other man. Elsie, can it be that there is anything in the theory of mental telepathy? Could your brother's brain in some way have communicated his idea and plans to mine? In my story the nobleman's secretary half-kills his master and steals the gems. And your brother has apparently done this——"

Lionel paused; the stricken misery on Elsie's face forced him to silence. He had a shrewd idea of what was uppermost in her mind. She did not know what to think or how to act. She had come to him, half to save her, half to ask his advice.

"My mind is in a ferment," she said. "I half anticipated some attempt at blackmail on the part of Rodney Payne. He seemed to know so much of our doings, he seemed to take a malignant pleasure in letting me know that he was in advance of our ideas. And when I had a telegram from Dick this morning telling me what had happened, I could not contain myself any longer. I was bound to see this Rodney Payne without delay. For the sake of old times you will help us, you will try to get to the bottom of the mystery?"

"It looks as if we had already done so," Lionel said, sadly. "After what you have told me about your brother, after what I know——"

"Yes, yes. My eyes have been opened lately. It is a terrible thing. But I am sure that Dick had nothing to do with this outrage. He has fallen deeply and sincerely in love with Gladys Manningtree. For her sake he was going to do better. Of course, Lord Manningtree knew nothing of this; the engagement was a secret from him. You may argue that the whole business is slightly irregular, and I am not going to disagree with you. After reading your fiction, and studying the extraordinary parallel facts, I have come to a certain conclusion. You may laugh at me, but there it is. Now, in the story still to be finished, do you make the secretary steal the jewels?"

"No, I don't," Lionel admitted, with a faint smile. "My idea has been to keep up the mystery that surrounds the character of the girl Kate Bradley."

"Oh, I knew it, I knew it!" Elsie cried. "I thought that that anaemic woman was going to develop strangely. I have felt it from the first. What an extraordinary medley it all is—the jumbling together of fact and fiction. I am glad that I came to you now, Lionel, more glad than I can say. Supposing that the prototype of Kate Bradley, Lord Manningtree's pensioner, I mean, reads the Record story as well as other people. There is no reason why she should not do so. Don't you think that she would have felt nervous and anxious and frightened, as I have done the last few days?"

"Very likely she would, if she had a conscience, Elsie. My dear girl, you have interested me in spite of myself. The study of criminology has always had a certain fascination for me. These disclosures of yours appeal to me personally. I am going to devote myself to the case. I am going to act on your suggestion—I am going to try and get you out of the mess. There is no reason why the imaginative novelist should not beat the detectives. We will suppose for a moment that your brother is innocent——"

"Oh! he is, Lionel. I can prove that at once. He was in London last night, he only went back to Manningtree Hall by the early mail his morning."

"If he can prove that there is an end of the mystery as far as we are concerned."

A shade of anxiety crossed Elsie's pretty face. "I hope he won't be asked," she whispered. "He was not supposed to be in London. He came up in a secret way. Oh! I can't tell you why, I promised not to."

"Promised that you would not tell me?" Lionel asked.

"Tell anybody. Do not forget the fact that you—as you—had not entered into my calculations an hour ago. But you may take my definite assurance for it that Dick was not in the house at the time of that tragedy. He had nothing to do with it."

"Which proves nothing," Lionel said, thoughtfully. "He might have had the emeralds all the same. And there is a new danger that you have not considered. You were wondering if the alter ego of my Kate Bradley has read my story. If she has, and if she has anything to do with the tragedy, she would make suspicion point to your brother if she was a woman of that kind. On the whole I shall make it my business to meet this creature."

"I had not thought of that," Elsie said, with a pale face.

"Still," Lionel went on, "if the worst comes to the worst, Dick must tell the truth at all hazards and clear himself. Already an idea has occurred to me. I feel as if I was making up a new story which fascinated me. Where are you staying?"

"I am still at the old place." Elsie explained. "If you want to see me——"

"I will call. I will come and see you to-morrow night at half-past ten. It is a little late, but I have much to do in the meantime, Elsie. I am glad you came; I am glad to find that you are mistaken in 'Rodney Payne.' A little later, perhaps——"

Lionel checked the warm words that rose to his tongue. But Elsie understood, for her face flushed a dainty pink and her blue eyes sought the floor.

"I am detaining you," she said, coldly. "I have stayed too long already."

Lionel said no more; he felt, perhaps, that the time was not ripe for it. He sat and mused for a long time after Elsie had gone, and, on the whole, his reflections were not pleasant ones. Then, gradually, the extraordinary story that the girl had told took a grip on him. There was a fascination about it that precluded all idea of further work. He began fitting the pieces of the puzzle together, and then gradually the way to the solution of the problem came to him.

He took a hearty lunch and walked off immediately to the office of the Daily Record. The news editor, who was previously responsible for the story page, was in, and ready to see his visitor. Lionel's explanation was brief and to the point.

"I want to make a slight alteration or two in the instalment of my story for to-morrow There is a little discrepancy I have discovered, not much in itself, but it may be spotted by some lynx-eyed reader, who will write you on the matter."

"I know 'em," the editor growled. "Make the alterations if you like. I shall be glad of it. I'll ask Morris to bring down the copy of the story that was given out to-day. You can sit at that desk and work it out at your leisure."

The work did not take long; it was merely a few words added by a cunning hand, but it entirely altered the "curtain" of the instalment. The Record always insisted upon a strong "curtain" at the end of each portion of their serials, and it seemed to Lionel that he had added to the strength of his story. With a few words of apology he turned to leave the office. He began to feel pretty sure of his ground now; he had only to wait in patience for a day or so.

"By the way, there was a lady asking for you to-day," the editor said. "An exceedingly pretty girl, too. You might have been a long-lost brother by her anxiety. I told her that we did not give the names of our writers in a general way, but she looked at me so pleadingly that I couldn't resist. I hope you didn't mind my giving her your address?"

"Not at all," Harvey said, coolly. "As a matter of fact, the young lady in question is an old friend of mine, whom I had lost sight of for some time. She called on me to-day."

"Well, that's all right," the editor said, cheerfully. "We had a letter, too, to-day from a lady in Essex who desired your address. Said she was a relative of yours lately from Australia. I sent her a postcard. If you get a begging letter from somewhere in Essex, blame me. I'm afraid that I chucked the letter into the waste-paper basket."

Lionel went on his way, without giving further thought to the matter. He was pretty used by this time to getting letters from strangers by post asking for all kinds of things, from his advice on a manuscript to a request for an autograph. He had no time to ponder over these things now, he was far too busy for that. He decided to put away his work for the next day or two, and devote himself to the mystery that surrounded the assault on the Earl of Manningtree. The papers that came out late were full of the mystery. The noble victim was not dead—indeed, strong hopes of his recovery were held—but he was still unconscious and likely to remain so for some time longer. Nobody could say whether or not robbery was the motive; nothing appeared to be missing, but the safe was locked and the key was gone. Till the Earl grew better it was impossible for any definite steps to be taken.

Lionel went down to New Scotland Yard, but he could learn nothing new there.

He was bound to admit that he had not made much progress as he walked back to his rooms about ten o'clock the following night. He was going to call upon Elsie presently, but there was something he had to do first. He took his latchkey from his pocket, knowing that already his prim landlady and the prim maid had gone to bed. As there were no other lodgers, Lionel was surprised to find a key in the door. He was surprised also to see the landing gas was lighted, and that the pin-point of flame had been turned up in his room. A woman passed him hurriedly on the stairs, a young woman with a veil over her face. She was poorly dressed, but Lionel did not fail to note the valuable rings on her slim hands.

"May I ask," he began, "whether or not you have made——"

"It is all right," the stranger said. She did not stop to explain. "I—I used to lodge here. I came to see Mrs.—Mrs.——I used my old latchkey. I'll leave it in the door. You will please give it to the landlady to-morrow. I shall miss my train."

The slim figure flitted away before Lionel could say any more. He came back after closing the front door and wondered what it meant. On his table lay a flat box, and on the top of it a note addressed to himself. The note, was short, only a few lines:

"For heaven's sake cease to persecute me. If you knew my story you would pity me. Take these and keep silent. They are worth a queen's ransom."

Hastily Lionel tore the cover off the box. As the light flashed on the contents he staggered back.

"As I'm alive, the Manningtree emeralds!" he cried, hoarsely. "The gems from the safe! What a story—if you could only get an editor to believe it!"