o'clock!" I exclaimed. "Has she been here to-day?"
"No. And she didn't come yesterday either," was the man's reply."Perhaps she'll come later on. We don't close till half-past seven justnow."
So I waited in patience in the vicinity, eagerly watching for the adventof the one person beside myself and the undertaker who knew of the lastresting-place of the mysterious man who had deliberately destroyed hisfortune.
I wandered among the graves for a full hour, until of a sudden thecemetery-keeper approached me, and in a low voice said--
"Look, over yonder, sir! That tall young lady in black with thechauffeur carrying the wreath: that's the lady who comes daily to MrArnold's grave."
I looked, but, curiously enough, she had turned and was leaving the spotwithout depositing the wreath she had brought.
"Somebody's watching her, sir," remarked the man, "Perhaps sherecognises you. She's taking the wreath away again!"
The chauffeur was walking close behind her along the central avenue asthough about to leave the burial-ground, when of a sudden she crossedthe grass to a newly made grave, and there her man deposited the wreath.
She had detected somebody watching--perhaps she had suspicion of thekeeper in conversation with myself; at any rate, she resorted to theruse of placing the wreath upon the grave of a stranger.
Fortunately, I had been able to obtain a good look at her handsome,refined features, and I decided that hers was a countenance which Ishould recognise again anywhere.
I looked around, but could see no one in the vicinity to arouse hersuspicion--nobody, save myself.
Why did she hold me in fear? By what manner had she been aware of themysterious man's death, or that I had been his friend?
I watched her turn and leave the cemetery, followed by her motor-driver.
Why did she hold the dead man in such esteem that she came there eachday and with tender hands placed fresh flowers upon his grave? Whatrelation could she be? And why did she thus visit his lastresting-place in secret?
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE MAN WITH THE RED CRAVAT.
Of necessity I went down to Upton End in order to see old Tucker and hiswife, who had acted as caretakers in my absence.
Thomas Tucker--a tall, thin, active, grey-moustached man of sixty-five--was a servant of the old-fashioned faithful school. For thirty-twoyears--ever since the day of his marriage--he had lived in the prettyrose-embowered lodge, and had been taken over by my father as part ofthe estate. Indeed, in such high esteem did the governor hold him thathe was given an entirely free hand in all outside matters; while hiswife--a well-preserved, round-faced woman, equally devoted to hermaster--was entrusted with the care of the servants and other domesticaffairs.
Hence, when I found myself possessor of the place, I too reposed thesame confidence in the faithful pair as my father had done. But nowthat he was dead and I was alone, Upton End seemed, alas! very grim andsilent. True, the old place, with its quaint corners and historicassociations, its dark panelling, polished floors, and antiquefurniture, its high box hedges, level lawns, and wealth of roses, wouldhave delighted the artist or the antiquarian; but modern man that I was,I failed to find very much there to attract me.
It was a house built for entertainment, and was only tolerable whenfilled by a gay house-party. The lawns, gardens, and park were lookingtheir best in those balmy days of June; yet as I walked about, listeningto Tucker as he showed me some improvements in tree-planting and in thegreen-houses, I found myself already reflecting whether, after all, itwas worth while keeping the place up further, now that I scarcely evervisited it.
The rural quiet of the place palled upon me--so much so, indeed, thatwhile sitting on the wide veranda smoking in the sunset on the thirdevening after my arrival I made up my mind to leave again next day.This I did, much to Tucker's regret.
The old fellow watched me climb into the dog-cart, and touched his strawhat in respectful silence. I knew how the poor old fellow hated hismaster to be absent.
Again in London, I waited in eager impatience until the nineteenth ofthe month, when I left Paddington for Totnes, in Devon. It was, Ifound, a quaint old town among green hills through which wound thepicturesque Dart--a town with a long, steep high street, a city gateway,with shops built over the footpath, like those in the Borgo Largo inPisa.
The Seymour Hotel, where I took up my quarters, was situated by thebridge, and faced the river--a well-known resort of anglers and summertourists. But of such things as fishing or scenery I cared nothing onthat well-remembered day--the day appointed for me to keep the strangetryst made by the man now dead.
The wording of Mr Arnold's injunction was "to be present at the railwaystation of Totnes at five o'clock." It did not mention the platform orthe booking-office. Examination of the time-table showed that no trainarrived at or left Totnes between the hours of four p.m., when thePlymouth train arrived, and the five-fifteen up-train to Exeter andTaunton. There were several expresses, of course, Totnes being on theGreat Western main line between Plymouth and London.
By this fact it seemed that the mysterious man whom I was to meet wouldalready be in Totnes, and would come to the station in order to meet me.All day, therefore, my eyes were open for sight of a man wearing a redtie or a carnation in his coat.
Mr Arnold had held suspicion that he might be watched. Why? What didhe fear?
I was not to approach him unless he unbuttoned his gloves and removedthem.
All that well-remembered day I idled by the cool rippling river,lingered by the rushing weir, watching the fishermen haul in theirsalmon-nets, and strolled about the quiet old-world streets of therather sleepy place, eager for the arrival of five o'clock.
The station being some distance from the town, I walked down to it abouthalf-past four. The afternoon was blazing-hot, and scarcely anyone wasastir, even the dogs were asleep in the shadows, and the heat-slumberwas over everything.
A hundred times had I tried to picture to myself what Mr Arthur Dawnaycould be like. In the High Street, earlier in the day, I had seen ayoung man in tweed Norfolk jacket, obviously a tourist, wearing a redtie, but no carnation, and had followed him unnoticed to a house out onthe outskirts of the town, where he was evidently lodging. Was his nameDawnay, I wondered! If he were actually the man whom I was to meet,then he certainly was a very prosaic looking person.
Still I possessed my soul in patience, and with the dead man's letter inmy breast-pocket I walked through the booking-office and on to theplatform.
Several persons were about--ordinary looking individuals, such as onesees every day at the station of a small provincial town--but there wasno man wearing either a red cravat or a carnation.
I lit a cigarette and strolled up and down the platform where thebooking-office was situated. The gate of the up-platform being keptlocked, he would be compelled to pass through the booking-office.
Twice expresses with ocean mails from Plymouth to London roared through,and slowly the hands of the big clock approached the hour of five.
The appointment must have been made long ago by the man now dead--weeksago, when he was still abroad; for the letter, I recollected, had beenwritten on board the liner between Naples and London. But the principalpoint which puzzled me was the reason why the dead man's letter shouldbe delivered in such secrecy.
A man with a red tie is very easily distinguishable, and I flattermyself that I possess a very keen eyesight; yet though minute afterminute went by till it was already a quarter-past the hour, still no mananswering the description given by the late Mr Arnold put in anappearance.
Presently, on the opposite platform, the express from Plymouth toBristol came in; and suspecting that he might arrive by it, I dashed upthe stairs, two steps at a time, and across the footbridge. Whenhalfway down the stairs I halted, for I could see all over theup-platform.
Few passengers had alighted, but among them I instantly discerned a manwearing a cravat of scarlet satin. He was smartly dressed in a greylounge-su
it, and in his coat he wore a pink carnation. In his hand wasan old-fashioned black ebony cane with silver knob.
He was standing looking up and down the platform, as though in search ofsomebody. Therefore I sped down the remaining stairs and quicklyapproached him, though I had not seen his face distinctly.
Suddenly, as I was within six yards of him, I recollected the dead man'swritten words, and halted short.
He was still wearing grey suede gloves. He had not removed them;therefore he was suspicious of being watched!
I lit another cigarette, and with careless air sauntered past him inorder to gain a good view of his features.
He was, I saw, of middle height, and aged about fifty. His clean-shavenface, with heavy, square jaws, was pimply and rather bloated--a facewhich somehow filled me with repugnance, for it was the countenance ofone who was a fast liver and who indulged a little too freely inalcohol. His grey suit, grey soft felt hat, and grey gloves gave to hima certain air of
The Lost Million Page 5
