The Broken Thread

by William Le Queux

his library, being his hobby, was cosily furnished--a pleasant,restful place, the long, stained-glass windows of which looked out uponthe quaint old Jacobean garden, with its grey, weather-beaten sundial,its level lawns, and high, well-clipped beech hedges.

  Raife stood gazing at the safe, which, standing open, just as it waswhen his father had surprised the intruder, revealed a quantity ofpapers, bundles of which were tied with faded pink tape: a number ofvaluable securities, correspondence, insurance policies, and the usualprivate documentary treasures of an important landowner. Papersconcerning the estate were mostly preserved at the agent's office inTunbridge Wells: only those concerning his own private affairs did SirHenry keep in the library.

  What had his dead father meant by those dying words uttered to oldEdgson? That warning to be careful of the trap! What trap? What couldhis father fear? What truth was it which his father had hesitated totell him--the important truth the telling of which had been too late.

  He recollected his father's words as uttered to the faithful oldservant: "I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from thefirst. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard. This is mine!"

  "And, further, who was the woman whom he had referred to as `her'?"

  The young man gazed upon the dark patch on the carpet near the door,soaked by the life-blood of his unfortunate father. The latter, sosuddenly cut off, had carried his secret to the grave.

  That big, sombre room, wherein the tragedy had taken place, lookedpleasant and cheerful with the bright, summer sunlight now slanting uponit. The big, silver bowl of roses upon the side-table shed a sweetfragrance there, while the spacious, old-fashioned mahoganywriting-table was still littered with the dead man's correspondence.

  The writing-chair he had vacated on the previous night, before going tobed, stood there, the silk cushion still crushed just as he had risenfrom it. His big briar-pipe lay just as he had knocked it out andplaced it in the little bowl of beaten brass which he used as anash-tray.

  The newspapers which he had read were, as usual, flung upon the floor,while the waste-paper basket had not been emptied that morning. Theservants had not dared to enter that room of disaster.

  Young Raife re-crossed the room, and again examined the open door of thesafe.

  He saw that it had not been forced, but opened by a duplicate key--onethat had, no doubt, been cut from a cast secretly taken of the one whichhis father always carried attached to his watch-chain. So well had thefalse key fitted that the door had yielded instantly.

  In the darkness in that well-remembered room, the room which herecollected as his father's den ever since he was a child, the two men--the baronet and the burglar--had come face to face.

  "I wonder," Raife exclaimed, speaking to himself softly, scarce above awhisper. "I wonder if there was a recognition? The words of the poorguv'nor almost tell me that, in that critical moment, the pair, boundtogether in one common secret, met. They hated each other--and theykilled each other! Why did the guv'nor admit that he had been a fool?Why did he wish to warn me of a trap? What trap? Surely at my age I'mnot likely to fall into any trap. No," he added, with a bitter smile,"I fancy I'm a bit too wary to do that."

  He paced up and down the long, silent, book-lined chamber, much puzzled.

  As he did so, the sweet, pale, refined face of Gilda Tempest again arosebefore him. He had only met her casually, a few hours ago, yet, somehowwhy he could not explain, they had seemed to have already become oldfriends and, amid all his trouble, anxiety and bewilderment, he foundhimself wondering how she fared, and whether the dear little black pom,Snookie, was guarding his dainty little mistress.

  True, a black shadow had fallen upon his home, a tragic event which hadrendered him a baronet, and in a few months he would be possessor ofgreat estates, nevertheless that thought had not yet occurred to him.His only concern had been for his bereaved mother, to whom he was sodevoted, and from whom his father had hidden his strange secret.Through that dark cloud of mourning, which had so suddenly envelopedhim, arose the beautiful countenance of the girl into whose societychance had so suddenly thrown him, and he felt he must see her again,that he must stroll at her side once again, at all hazards.

  As his father's only son, he had a right to investigate the contents ofthe open safe, for he knew that one executor was away at Dinard, whilethe other, an uncle, lived in Perthshire. At present, his father'slawyer had not been communicated with, therefore he crossed again to thesafe and methodically removed paper after paper to examine it.

  Most of them were securities, mortgages, bonds, and other suchdocuments, which, at that moment, did not possess much interest for him.

  One bundle of old and faded letters which he untied were in ahandwriting he at once recognised--the letters of his mother before shehad become Lady Remington. Another--a batch written forty years ago--were the letters from his grandfather, while his father was at Oxford.With these were other letters from dead friends and relatives; but,though he spent an hour in searching through them, Raife discovered noclue to the strange secret which Sir Henry had died without divulging.

  Then he afterwards replaced the papers, closed the safe and re-locked itwith the false key which still remained in it.

  His mother was still too prostrated to speak with him, therefore heagain went across to the cottage where the police were with the deadassassin.

  As he entered, one of the detectives was carefully applying printer'sink to the tips of the cold, stiff fingers, and afterwards takingimpressions of them upon pieces of paper.

  The secret of the dead thief's identity would, they declared amongthemselves, very soon be known.

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  REVEALS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES.

  "Tell him to be careful--to be wary of--the trap?"

  Those dying words of Sir Henry's rang ever in his son's ears.

  That afternoon, as Raife stood bowed in silence before the body of hisbeloved father, his mind was full of strange wonderings.

  What was the nature of the dead man's secret? Who was the woman to whomhe had referred a few moments before he expired?

  The young fellow gazed upon the grey shrunken face he had loved so well,and his eyes became dimmed by tears. Only a week before they had beenin London together, and he had dined with his father at the CarltonClub, and they had afterwards gone to a theatre.

  The baronet was then in the best of health and spirits. A keensportsman, and an ardent golfer, he had been essentially an out-doorman. Yet he now lay there still and dead, killed by an assassin'sbullet. Raife's mother was inconsolable and he had decided that it wasbest for him to keep apart from her for the present.

  To his friend, Mutimer, he had sent a wire announcing the tragic news,and had, by telephone, also informed Mr Kellaway, the family lawyer,whose offices were in Bedford Row, London. On hearing the astoundingtruth, Mr Kellaway--to whom Raife had spoken personally--had announcedhis intention of coming at once to Tunbridge Wells.

  At six o'clock he arrived in the car which Raife had sent for him--atall, elderly, clean-shaven man in respectful black.

  "Now, Mr Kellaway," said Raife, when they were alone together in thelibrary, and the young baronet had explained what had occurred. "Youhave been my father's very intimate friend, as well as his solicitor formany years. I want to ask you a simple question. Are you aware that myfather held a secret--some secret of the past?"

  "Not to my knowledge, Mr Raife--or Sir Raife, as I suppose I ought tocall you now," was the sombre, and rather sad, man's reply.

  "Well, he had a secret," exclaimed Raife, looking at him, searchingly.

  "How do you know?"

  "He told Edgson, the butler, before he died."

  "Told his servant his secret!" echoed the lawyer, knitting his brows.

  "No. He told him something--not all."

  "What did he tell him?" asked Mr Kellaway, in quick eagerness.

  "My father said he wished that he had been frank with me, and revealedthe truth."
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  "Of what?"

  "Of his secret. He left me a message, urging me to beware of the trap.Of what nature is the pitfall?" asked the young man. "You, his friend,must know."

  "I regret, but I know absolutely nothing," declared the solicitor,frankly. "This is all news to me. What do you think was the nature ofthe secret? Is it concerning money matters?"

  "No. I believe it mainly concerns a woman," the young man replied. "Myfather had no financial worries. He was, as you know, a rich man.Evidently he was anxious on my behalf, or he would not have given Edgsonthat message. Ah! If his lips could only speak again--poor, dearguv'nor."

  And the young man sighed.

  "Perhaps Edgson knows something?" the solicitor suggested.

  "He knows nothing. He only suspects that there is a lady concerned init, for my