The Mysterious Three

by William Le Queux

just about to come out.

  "Ah, my dear Dick," he exclaimed, "you're the very man I want to see.How is Sir Charles?"

  "A very little better," I answered. "I have just come from thehospital. Lady Thorold is with him now."

  "Good. By the way, have you seen the tape news just in?"

  "What news?"

  He led me across to the machine at the further end of the hall, pickedup the tape, and held it out at arm's length. The startling words Iread were as follows--

  "The men whom the police are trying to arrest at Houghton Park to-day,shot three policemen dead, and seriously injured a fourth. Areinforcement of police has been summoned. Thousands of people haveassembled in the Park, which surrounds the house, and hundreds arearriving hourly on foot, on bicycles, in carriages, and in cars."

  While we stood there, the machine again ticked. This was the messagethat came up--

  "Houghton Park. Later: A number of bags of gold coin, mostly Frenchlouis, have just been found at Houghton Park. They were discovered bythe police, concealed between the rafters and the roof. There are saidto be several thousand pounds worth of these coins."

  So the mystery was slowly leaking out. I felt that everything must soonbe known. How did those sacks of gold come to be hidden in the roof atHoughton? Who had concealed them there? Could it be the same gold Ihad seen in the house in Belgrave Street? And if so, had Whichelo...

  I felt bewildered. What chiefly occupied my thoughts was the news ofthose policemen. Poor fellows! How monstrous they should not have beenallowed to fire upon the murderers.

  Too furious to speak, I left the club with Faulkner, and together wewalked along Piccadilly, towards Bond Street. As we sauntered past theBurlington, a pair of laughing, dark eyes met mine, and at once Irecognised--Judith!

  "_Ah, mon cher ami_!" she cried, revealing her white teeth as sheextended her well-gloved hand. She was gorgeously and expensivelydressed, in the height of Paris fashion, and I noticed that all whopassed us by--men and women alike--stared hard at her.

  "Did you come back with Lady Thorold?" I asked--why, I hardly knew--when we had talked for some moments.

  "_Mais, oui_," she exclaimed. "We were together in Mentone, when I readin a newspaper about this dreadful affair. I had just heard from afriend here that Mademoiselle Vera was staying at the _Grand Hotel_, soI told Lady Thorold. She was _desolee_ at the news about SirCharles--_pauvre homme_--and said she must return at once to see him,and asked me if I would come with her. So I said, `Oh, yes.' And hereI am. Do you remember our evening together at the ball in Monte Carlo?"she ended, with a rippling, silvery laugh.

  "Where are you staying?" Faulkner asked.

  "I? At the _Piccadilly Hotel_. You must come to supper with me there.What night will you come?"

  We made some excuse for not arranging definitely what night we wouldhave supper with her, and I laughed as I thought of the two louis I hadgiven the girl as a bribe to remove her mask, and of the sum I hadafterwards paid her to take me to Vera. And now she was staying at the_Piccadilly Hotel_, and giving supper parties--the girl whom I had oncebelieved to be Lady Thorold's maid!

  How strangely wags the world to-day!

  As we all three emerged into Burlington Gardens, boys came rushing pastwith the latest edition of an evening paper.

  "_Ah, gran' Dieu_!" she cried, as she caught sight of the contentsbills. For this was what we read on them--

  HOUGHTON PARK.

  SACKS OF GOLD DISCOVERED.

  AMAZING STORY.

  She snatched a paper from the nearest boy, but it contained only thenews we had just read on the club tape.

  Judith seemed more upset at the news of Sir Charles' condition, Ithought, than about the "Houghton Siege," as the papers called it. Shesaid she must go at once to Lady Thorold, and, hailing a passing taxi,left us.

  As I looked at the pictures of Houghton Park, in that paper we hadbought, I could not help wondering what the Rutland people must besaying.

  Only a month or two ago, the sudden flight of the Thorolds fromHoughton, and the events that had followed, had brought that exclusivecounty notoriety, which I knew it hated.

  Then there had been the mystery of old Taylor's death in the house inBelgrave Street, and quite recently the mystery of the mummifiedremains, both of which events had again brought Rutland indirectly intothe limelight of publicity, the Thorolds and myself being Rutlandpeople.

  Now, to cap everything, came this "Siege of Houghton Park," to which thenewspapers, one and all, accorded the place of honour in their columns.It was the "story of the day." This final ignominy would give Rutland'ssmug respectability its deathblow. Never again, would its countyfamilies be able to rear their proud heads and look contemptuously downupon the families of other counties and mentally ejaculate--"We thankthee, O Lord, that we are not as these publicans." Henceforth, proudand exclusive Rutland would bear the brand of Cain, or what "the county"deemed just as bad--the brand of Public Notoriety. Yes, there isamazing snobbishness, even yet, in our rural districts. Yet there isalso still some sterling British broad-mindedness--the old Englishgentleman, happily, still survives.

  Faulkner had asked me to go to a theatre with him. He knew, he said, hecould not ask Vera, with her father so ill, but Violet de Coudron wouldbe there. He would try to get a fourth, as he had a box. There was nogood in moping, he ended, sensibly enough.

  I returned to King Street to dress, intending to telephone first, to thehospital, to inquire for Sir Charles. On the table, in my sitting-room,a telegram awaited me. Somehow I guessed it must be from Vera in herdistress, and hurriedly tore it open--

  "Father sinking fast," it ran, "and beseeching for you to come to him.Come at once. Most urgent--Vera."

  I rang for my man. The telegram had been awaiting me abouthalf-an-hour, he said.

  Telling him to telephone to the hospital, to say I was on my way, andalso to Faulkner, to tell him I couldn't go to the theatre, I hurrieddown the stairs, dashed out into the street, and hailed the first taxi Imet.

  Was the actual truth at last to be revealed?

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

  A STRANGE TRUTH IS TOLD.

  I went straight up to the side-ward in the hospital where Thorold lay,the hall-porter, in his glass-box, having nodded me within. At the doorof the ward I met the sister, in her blue gown.

  "I am so glad you have come, Mr. Ashton!" she exclaimed. "He wants somuch to see you, and I fear he has not long to live."

  The dark-eyed woman, with the medal on her breast, seemed genuinelydistressed. Thorold, for some reason, had always attracted women. Ithink it was his sympathetic nature that drew women to him.

  I waited in the corridor. Suddenly Vera came out, a handkerchiefsaturated with antiseptic before her mouth, to avoid infection.

  Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red from weeping. On seeing me,she began to sob bitterly; then she buried her face in her hands.

  I did my best to comfort her, though it was a hard task. At last shespoke--"Go in to him--go in to him now, dear," she exclaimedbroken-heartedly. "He wants you alone--quite alone."

  The invalid was quite conscious when I entered, a handkerchief similarto Vera's having been given me by a nurse. He was propped up withpillows into almost a sitting posture. The other bed in the side-wardwas unoccupied, for it was being used for isolation. After what I hadbeen told, I was surprised at his appearance, for he struck me aslooking better than when I had last seen him. A faint smile of welcomeflickered upon his lips as he recognised me. Then he grew serious.

  Without speaking, he indicated a chair beside the bed. I drew it near,and seated myself.

  "We are quite alone?" he whispered, looking slowly about the room."Nobody is listening--eh? Nobody can hear us?"

  "Nobody," I answered quickly. A lump rose in my throat. It wasdreadful to see him like that. Yet, even then, I could hardly realise Iwas so soon to lose my valued and dearest friend, who had been such astriking
figure in the hunting-field.

  He put out his thin hand--oh, how his arm had shrunk in those fewdays!--and let it rest on mine. It felt damp and cold. It chilled me.The moisture of death seemed already to be upon it.

  "Listen, Dick, my boy," he said very feebly. "I have much to tell you,and--and very little time to tell it in. But you are going to marryVera, so it--so it's only right that you should know. Ah, yes, I cantrust you," he said, guessing the words I had been about to utter. "Iknow--oh, yes, I know that what I say to _you_ won't make any differenceto our long friendship. But even if it should," he said, grimly, "itwouldn't matter--now we are so very soon to part."

  I felt the wasted hand grip more firmly upon my wrist.

  "I have known you for half your life, my boy," he said, after a pause,"and