The Mysterious Mr. Miller

The car was, as the man beside me had said, a splendid “Mercédès” of the latest type, one of the best I had ever seen upon the road. The chauffeur was a smart fellow in uniform, probably French, and the party who were awaiting the repairs consisted of Ella – in a neat champagne-coloured motor-coat, with flat hat and a veil of the same colour with a plate of talc in front instead of glasses – a dark-haired lady somewhat older, also in motor clothes, a youngish man with a round boyish clean-shaven face, and lastly Mr Murray. The latter had so altered that had I met him in the street I should certainly not have recognised him. His beard was now white, his hair grey, and upon his face was a hard careworn look, in place of the easy nonchalant air he wore in those well-remembered days when I had been a welcome guest at Wichenford.

Ella was seated upon a stile chatting to her female companion, while her father was standing on the road some distance away, in earnest conversation with the young man.

Owing to my disguising dark goggles, I was able to look straight into their faces without fear of recognition. This was fortunate, for at present I had no intention of revealing my identity.

Could that round-faced, fresh-complexioned man be the fellow who, according to my love’s own admission, held her in his power?

The very suspicion maddened me, causing my blood to rise.

Murray appeared to be speaking to him in confidence, giving him certain instructions to which he was enlisting attentively, with brows knit, as though what he heard was far from reassuring.

Who was the man?

His identity and his relation towards my well-beloved I determined to ascertain.

“Let’s go on slowly into the next place, whatever it is,” I said.

“We’re about five miles from Ashburton, sir,” Gibbs replied.

“I want them to overtake us, and then we can follow them to their destination,” I said.

“They’re going to Plymouth. Wouldn’t it be better for us to go on there an’ wait for ’em?” suggested the man. “It’s now five o’clock, and they’ll probably put up there for the night.”

“No. They are going farther than Plymouth,” I said. “It’s a thousand pities you can’t remember where the chauffeur said they were going.”

“Perhaps the ladies ’ull want tea. If so, they’ll probably pull up at the ‘Golden Lion,’ just as we go into Ashburton. It’s the place where the coaches stop.”

“Then let’s stop there. If they also pull up, well and good. If they don’t, we can follow them,” I said, and five minutes later we came to a standstill before the inn where, at the back, I found a delightful garden sloping down towards the valley, where the blaze of colour and the scent of flowers were refreshing after the heat and dust of the great highway. Without removing my goggles I cast myself into a seat, and ordered a glass of “shandygaff.” Gibbs I had left outside with the car, ordering him to come and tell me when the party passed. That peaceful old garden was just the place in which to sit on a hot summer’s afternoon with all sight and sound of town shut out; only the green hills opposite and their all-pervading fragrance.

Suddenly, from where I sat, I heard the whirr of an approaching car which came to a standstill before the inn. Would Ella come through into the garden?

I did not wish to meet her with her friends. It was my desire to see her alone. Therefore I jumped to my feet and walked away to the farther end of the garden.

As I expected they came, all four of them, seated themselves at the table I had just vacated, and ordered tea.

For five minutes or so I watched them. Ella, with her veil raised, was talking and laughing merrily with the round-faced young man, while he, bending towards her across the table, appeared fascinated by her glance.

I bit my lip, and turning, made my way through the inn and out into the road, where both cars were standing, and both chauffeurs were gossiping.

For another five minutes I waited, then Gibbs, approaching me, touched his cap, and inquired if I were ready, adding under his breath: —

“I’ve found out where they’re goin’, sir. There’s some mystery about them, I believe. I’ll tell you when we get away.”

Chapter Twenty

Reveals the Truth

“They’re goin’ to a place called Upper Wooton, about half way between Saltash and Callington, on the Launceston road. I know the village – quite a tiny place,” Gibbs said, as we went up the picturesque street of Ashburton.

“Then we’d better go straight on there.”

“They’re goin’ through Plymouth, but the most direct way, and much shorter, is through Tavistock, which would bring us right into the cross-roads at Callington. We’d save a couple of hours by that, and, after all, they’ve got a ‘forty,’ you know, while ours is only a ‘sixteen’. They’ll make better pace than us up the hills.”

“Very well,” I said, “I leave it to you. We must be there first, in any case. Are they staying the night there?”

“Their man says so. ’E’s a stranger, however, and ’e says they’re a rum party.”

“Oh! Why?” I asked in quick surprise.

“Well – sir,” responded Gibbs, somewhat reluctantly, “it ain’t for me to repeat what ’e said, seein’ as they’re friends o’ yourn.”

“Oh! whatever you say will make no difference,” I assured him. “Besides, they’re not exactly my friends. Two of them I’ve never seen before in my life. So you can speak quite frankly. Indeed, I’m very anxious to hear what makes their man think they are mysterious.” I recollected that Murray’s reticence had aroused the curiosity of the hotel proprietor at Swanage, and wondered what else had occurred to cause the chauffeur to suspect that something was wrong.

“The car belongs to somebody named Rusden, who lives in Worcestershire, and the chauffeur is in his employ. Mr Rusden has lent the car to the party,” Gibbs explained. “The chauffeur started from Stourbridge yesterday morning, with orders to meet a lady and gentleman at Chippenham station at midnight last night, and take ’em on all through the night to Swanage. There ’e picked up the gentleman and the young lady, and after two hours’ rest was ordered to drive on down to Plymouth with all possible speed.”

“But what makes him think there’s any mystery about them? He, no doubt, received orders from his master.”

“No, ’e didn’t. That’s just it. Mr Rusden told him to go to Chippenham and take the lady and gentleman to Aylesbury, whereas they gave him orders entirely different. An’ besides that, the chauffeur overheard something this morning.”

“What did he overhear?”

“The two men were talking together, and the elder said ’e hoped as ’ow they wouldn’t be followed, or the whole show ’ud be give away.”

“Curious,” I remarked. “Very curious.”

“Yes, sir. ’E told me as ’ow all along the road they’ve been urgin’ ’im to go faster, but ’e wasn’t goin’ to risk being caught by a ‘heg’og’. ’E’s evidently rather troubled, because ’e don’t know what ’is master ’ull say at ’im comin’ down here. Perhaps they’re flyin’ from the police – who knows?”

I laughed his suggestion into ridicule, yet at heart I was much puzzled. What could it mean?

Why were they in such fear of being followed?

“Well,” I said, “at any rate we’ll push on to Upper Wooton, and see what they’re going to do there.”

“Then we’ll go by Tavistock. The road is just off on the right, about a mile or so farther on,” my companion said. “We ought to be there before dark, if we get no punctures,” and he drew down his goggles from his cap and increased the speed of the car.

Once or twice I looked back, but saw no sign of the blue car following us. Murray and his friends were, no doubt, quietly having their tea in that pretty old garden.

For nearly an hour I sat in rigid silence, as one so often does for long periods when motoring. Was that round-faced fellow upon whom Ella had smiled actually her lover? Who, I wondered, was the elder woman? And why had they come to Chippenham at midnight to be met by a motor-car and drive on through the night? There was certainly some motive in that long night ride.

Was it possible that they were really escaping? It certainly seemed very much like it.

Ella’s movements in leaving Lucie and her father so suddenly, and in flying from me when she had confessed that she still loved me, were all suspicious. Some very strong and sinister motive underlay it all – of that I felt absolutely convinced.

Darker clouds gathered over the hills between Two Bridges and Tavistock, and another sharp shower fell, making us uncomfortably wet, but we never, for one moment, slackened speed. The rain laid the dust, for which we were thankful. At Gunnislake, just as the twilight was falling, we crossed the Cornish border, and by lighting-up time we were at the cross-roads outside Callington, with only four miles farther to negotiate.

This we quickly accomplished, at last running into a quaint old-world Cornish village which Gibbs informed me was the destination of the suspicious quartette.

There was but one inn, “The Crown,” and putting the car into the coach-house there, we ordered dinner. Cold meat and beer were all that the landlord could offer, but I ate ravenously, my ears all the while keenly on the alert for the hum of the car which we had outstripped.

After I had eaten I went out into the semi-darkness and looked round the quiet peaceful old village street of snug thatched cottages, the row broken by a red brick chapel and a corrugated iron church-room.

Only one gentleman lived in the vicinity, so the landlord informed me. His name was Mr Gordon-Wright, a London gentleman, and he lived at the “Glen,” which we had passed about half a mile before entering the village. Gordon-Wright! And this was his hiding-place!

Twilight had deepened into night as I sat upon a rough bench outside the inn, my ears still strained in order to catch sound of the approach of the car.

Gibbs’ theory was that they had probably stopped to dine in Plymouth, and certainly that seemed a very feasible one.

Would they put up at the inn, I wondered? Or were they making their way to Gordon-Wright’s? Out of curiosity, and in order to kill time, I rose and strolled along the village across the bridge and up the steep hill on to the road down which we had descended.

In passing in the car I had no recollection of having noticed a house, but as I now approached on foot I saw on the left a large clump of trees, surrounding a big white house.

On nearer approach the “Glen” proved to be one of those ugly, inartistic, early Georgian structures which a later generation had covered with stucco, surrounded by a large but ill-kept flower-garden, and beyond a thick spinney, all being allowed to run wild and unattended.

The garden was shut off from the high-road by a high wall of red brick, but the gates were iron, and through them, as I passed, I could obtain a good view of the house, inasmuch as the drawing-room windows were open, and the lamps beneath their white silk shades revealed that the place was cheaply upholstered in a rather gaudy chintz. The hall door, too, was open, and within I recognised an air of need. The hall of every house is an index to the state of the finances of its owner.

I halted for a moment and peered through the gate. From what I saw I at once concluded that either the house had been let furnished for the summer or that Mr Gordon-Wright, alias Lieutenant Shacklock, was not overburdened with surplus wealth.

As I looked, a middle-aged and most respectable, but round-shouldered old man-servant crossed the hall, carrying a tray. He was evidently laying the dinner table.

A moment later a shadow within the drawing-room betrayed the presence of some one there, while to my nostrils came the fragrant smell of a very good cigar.

A suit-case had been deposited in the hall, and the man-servant, on his return, caught it up and disappeared with it up the red-carpeted stairs.

All this I was watching with idle curiosity, having nothing better to do, when of a sudden the distant note of a motor-horn reached my ear, causing me to start away from where I stood and turn back a few steps in the direction of the village.

My heart leaped within me. Far off I could see the reflection of the head-lights as the car came tearing through the village and up the road at headlong pace.

Was it the blue car? Would it pass on, and leave me behind, after all?

In a few moments the white lights swept into full view, and I stepped to the side of the road to allow them to pass, when, to my joy, the driver began to blow his horn violently, as though to announce his approach.

Yes! They were halting at the “Glen,” after all!

With loud trumpeting that echoed among the trees the car flashed past me, and came to a sudden stop before the iron gates, but ere it did so the gates were flung open wide by the servant, and a man came out of the house shouting them a warm and cheery welcome.

The bright rays from the head lamps shone full upon him, dazzling him and preventing my presence being revealed.

I saw his face, and my eyes became riveted upon it.

And while I stood there, breathless and stupefied, the party descended, laughing boisterously and exchanging greetings.

I looked again. Was it only some strange chimera of my vision? Could it be the amazing truth? What further bitterness had life in store for me?

My Ella was standing enfolded in the arms of the man who had greeted them, and he was at that moment kissing her fondly upon the lips before them all.

And the man? His countenance was, alas! only too familiar to me.

He was the fellow I had met only that very morning under Miller’s roof – the man whom I had known in Nervi as Lieutenant Shacklock, R.N.!

Chapter Twenty One

The Peril of Ella Murray

In an instant the bewildering mystery of it all became apparent.

The fellow Shacklock, the dark-faced man whom I could at once denounce to the police as a rogue and a thief, held her enthralled!

“Welcome, dearest!” he said, as his lips touched hers. “I hope you are not too tired.”

But I saw that she was pale, and that she shrank from his touch. Ah! yes! she loathed him.

Standing there in the shadow of the overhanging trees, I watched them all disappear into the house.

The servant in black, after carrying up their luggage, shut the gate, therefore I crept forward and peered into the drawing-room. It was, however, empty, for they had all passed upstairs to remove the stains of travel before sitting down to dinner.

A thousand weird thoughts surged through my brain. That man Gordon-Wright was my enemy, and I intended that he should not win my love.

The whole position of affairs was utterly incomprehensible. This man, whom I could prove to be a clever international thief, was the most intimate friend of James Harding Miller, gentleman, of Studland. While he had been visiting there, Ella had escaped from her father and gone to Studland, in all probability to see him, or to consult him upon some important matter. She had made no sign to the Millers that she was previously acquainted with their guest. The conclusion, therefore, was that both Lucie and her father were in utter ignorance of the curious truth. Ella had left suddenly and travelled by motor-car to Upper Wooton, while he must have left immediately after my departure from Studland, and travelled by train by way of Yeovil.

To Mr Murray and the rest of the party he appeared as though he had not been away from home. Only Ella knew the truth, and she was silent. That there was some extraordinary manoeuvre in progress I was convinced. The Murrays of Wichenford were one of the county families of Worcestershire, and Ella’s father had always been an upright, if rather proud man. He was, I knew, the very last person to associate with a man of Shacklock’s stamp had he but known his real character.

On the contrary, however, he had grasped the man’s hand warmly when he descended, saying: —

“Why, my dear fellow, it’s quite two months since we met! How are you?”

And the pseudo-lieutenant was equally enthusiastic in his welcome in return. He was the host; “the London gentleman” known locally as Mr Gordon-Wright.

This was by no means extraordinary. In our country villages and their vicinity hundreds of people are, at this moment, occupying big houses, and under assumed names passing themselves off for what they are not. Summer visitors to the rural districts are often a queer lot, and many a gentleman known as Mr Brown, the smug attendant at the village church, is in reality Mr Green whose means of livelihood would not bear looking into. From time to time a man is unmasked, and a paragraph appears in the papers, but such persons are usually far too wary when it is a matter of effacing their identity under the very nose of the police, and enjoy the confidence and esteem of both the villagers and “the county.”

So it evidently was with “Mr Gordon-Wright.”

Consumed by hatred, and longing to go forward and unmask him as the ingenious swindler who stole Blenkap’s money, I stood at the gate, eager to obtain another glimpse of the woman who he intended should be his victim.

What was the nature of his all-powerful influence over her, I wondered? She loved me still. Had she not admitted that? And yet she dare not break from this man whose life was one long living lie!

“Fortunately I’ve discovered you,” I said, between my teeth, speaking to myself. “You shall never wreck her happiness, that I’m determined! A word from me to Scotland Yard, and you will be arrested, my fine gentleman.” And I laughed, recollecting how entirely his future was in my hands.

He had already dressed for dinner before the arrival of the party, and I overheard him shouting to Murray not to trouble to change, it being so late. Then he came along the hall, and stood at the door, gazing straight in my direction, his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket, awaiting his guests.

He could not see me, I knew, for the roadway was rendered very dark at that point by the trees that almost met overhead. Therefore I watched his thin clean-shaven face, and saw upon its evil features an expression of intense anxiety which was certainly not there when we had met earlier that day in Dorsetshire.

Ella was the first to descend. She had exchanged her dark dress for a gown of pale blue Liberty silk, high at the throat, and, though simply made, it suited her admirably. The fellow turned at the sound of her footstep, and hurrying towards her, took her hand, and led her outside upon the gravelled drive.

“The others, of course, have no idea that I’ve been to Studland!” I heard him whisper to her anxiously as they stood there together in the shadow, away from the stream of light that shone from the open door.

“I told them nothing,” was her calm answer, in a voice that seemed inert and mechanical.

“I only arrived here an hour ago. I feared that you might be here before me. You, of course, delayed them by excuses, as I suggested.”

“Yes. We had tea on the way, and we came the longer way round, by Plymouth, as you told me.”

“It was lucky for you that you left the Millers as early as you did,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because they had a visitor. He came an hour or so after you’d gone. I found him talking to Lucie, and she introduced me. His name was Leaf.”

I saw that she started at mention of my name. But with admirable self-control she asked: —

“Well, and what did he want?”

“Wanted to see you. And what’s more, Lucie told me after he’d gone that he had once been engaged to you. Is that true?”

“I’ve known him a good many years,” was my loved one’s evasive answer, as though she feared to arouse his anger or jealousy by an acknowledgment of the truth.

“I ask you, Ella, a simple question – is what Lucie Miller has said true? Were you ever engaged to that man?” he asked very seriously.

“There was not an actual engagement,” was her answer, and I saw that she feared to tell him the truth.

What right had the fellow to question her? I had difficulty in restraining myself from rushing forward and boldly exposing him as the thief and adventurer he was.

“Lucie, in answer to my question, told me that you had lost sight of each other for several years, and that you believed him dead.”

“That is so.”

“And that he has been travelling on the Continent the whole time?”

“I believe he has,” was her reply, whereupon he remained in silence for some moments, as though reflecting deeply. Was it possible that, after all, he had recognised me as the man who he had intended should be his cat’s-paw in the Blenkap affair?

I felt certain that he was endeavouring to recall my face.

“Your father knows nothing of my friendship with Miller?” he asked suddenly, with some apprehension.

“I have told him nothing, as you forbade me.”

“Good. He must not know. It’s better not.”

“Why?”

“Well, because your father has a long-standing quarrel with Miller, has he not? If he knew we were friends he might not like it. Some men have curious prejudices,” he added.

His explanation apparently satisfied her, but he, on his part, returned to his previous questions regarding myself.

“Tell me,” he urged, “who is this fellow Leaf? If you were fond of him I surely have a right to know who and what he is?”

“He’s a gentleman whom I first knew years ago, soon after I came home from school.”

“And you fell in love with him, like every school-girl does, eh?”

She nodded in the affirmative, but vouchsafed no further information.

“Well,” he said, in a tone of authority, “you will not meet him again under any consideration. I forbid it. Remember that.”

She was silent, her head downcast, for in that man’s hands she was as wax. He held her in some thraldom that I saw was as complete as it was terrible. His very presence seemed to cause her to hold her breath, and to tremble.

“Last night,” he continued, “you crept downstairs after you had gone to your room, and you listened at the door of the smoking-room, where I was talking with Miller,” and he laughed as he saw how she started at his accusation. “Yes, you see I know all about it. The faithful Minton, who saw you, told me,” he went on in a hard voice. “You overheard something – something that has very much surprised you. Now there’s an old adage that says listeners never hear any good of themselves. Therefore we must come to a thorough understanding as soon as we can get a quiet half-hour alone together.”

“I think it is perfectly unnecessary,” she said, with some attempt at defiance.

“There, I beg to differ,” he answered. “You have learnt a secret, and I must have some adequate guarantee that that secret is kept – that no single word of it is breathed to a living soul. You understand, Ella,” he added, in a low, fierce half-whisper, lowering his dark clean-shaven face to hers. “You understand! My life depends upon it!”

Chapter Twenty Two

At Dawn

The dark-haired woman who had accompanied Ella in the motor-car came forth and joined the pair, preventing any further confidences, and a few minutes later the dinner-gong sounded, and all three went in to join Mr Murray and his companion.

The windows of the dining-room were closed almost immediately, therefore I neither saw nor heard anything more of that strange household.

My one desire was to see Ella alone, but how could I give her news of my presence?

I turned on my heel and strolled slowly back down the dark road in the direction of the village. The first suggestion that crossed my mind was to send her a telegram making an appointment for the following morning, but on reflection I saw that if they had fled in secret, as they seemed to have done, then the arrival of a telegram would arouse Mr Gordon-Wright’s suspicions. Indeed he might actually open it.

I was dealing with a queer fish, a man who was a past-master in alertness and ingenious conspiracy. As Minton, at the Manor, was in the confidence of Miller, so that round-shouldered old fellow was, no doubt, Gordon-Wright’s trustworthy sentinel.

A dozen different modes of conveying a note to her suggested themselves, but the one I adopted was, perhaps, the simplest of them all. I returned to the inn, scribbled upon a small piece of paper a few lines to my well-beloved asking her to meet me at a spot I indicated at six o’clock next morning, and then I called Gibbs, took him into my confidence, and gave him instructions to take the pair of lady’s gloves with fur gauntlets that I had found in one of the pockets of the car, go boldly to the house, ask to see “the young lady who had just arrived by motor-car,” and tell her a fictitious story how he had found the gloves where they had stopped at Plymouth, and as he was passing through Upper Wooton on the way to Launceston he thought he would like to restore them to her.