Chapter 4

"MORE MYSTERY."

For various reasons, Mallow had not taken up his abode in the same hotel as Olive. He had found a clean, unpretentious, little place near the station, which suited him well enough in his present mood. Here he ate a solitary dinner, cooked and served in thoroughly English style. Invariably fastidious over his food, Laurence was not now inclined to be any more particular about it than he was about his lodging. He ate but little. A good cigar and some strong black coffee, he felt, would do more for him just now than any food. He inquired from the waiter how the trains ran to London, for he had no doubt that on the morrow it would be necessary for him to use them. Curiously enough the waiter knew all about the trains, notwithstanding the fact that he was an aboriginal as well as a waiter.

"On'y two decent ones from 'ere to Lunnon," said this Ganymede; "you'll see 'em, sir, in the time-tables. There's one leaves ten 'o the mornin', an' another at six at night. You gits to Lunnon in about three hours; so, yer see, they ain't express like even then."

"Ten in the morning," mused Mallow. "Ah! that's a trifle too early. I may as well have another day with Olive, to cheer her up. The evening train will suit me. I can see Drabble in Soho the next morning--that is, if he is in town."

Mallow finished his coffee and cigar. Then he lit a fresh one, slipped on his coat--for the night was chilly--and strolled round to the big hotel. He was shown at once to Mrs. Carson's sitting-room. He found her almost as much agitated as she had been when he left her.

"Oh, Laurence!" she said, calling him by his Christian name in her excitement. "How glad I am that you have come. She has gone!"

"She has gone? Who has gone?" asked Laurence, pausing in the act of removing his coat.

"Clara--my maid," replied Olive. "I cannot understand it at all. She appeared perfectly content with her place, and said nothing about leaving. It was only when I sent for her to dress me for dinner that I found she had gone. What can it mean?"

"It probably seems extraordinary to you," replied Mallow, coolly; "but I confess I am not surprised. Your Clara has gone to join Carson."

Olive gasped. "To join my husband?" she said incredulously. "What has Clara to do with him?"

"That is what I should like to know. Carson has been in the habit of meeting this girl for some time past. Before you were married, Aldean saw them together; but he carefully refrained from letting me know anything about it until quite recently. I suppose he was afraid of what I should do to the scoundrel. Save, under the present circumstances, I should not have told you. But, as I have little doubt she has gone to him, it is right you should know."

"Oh!" cried Olive, suddenly recollecting; "then she was the woman I saw! The night before my husband left me I saw him talking with a woman quite close to the hotel. I recognized him but her face I could not see. Yes, it must have been Clara."

"The scoundrel!" murmured Mallow, "there is clearly something between him and the girl. She was probably a spy."

"A spy--on me? For what reason?"

"Semberry could probably explain that. I understand that he was instrumental in finding the girl for you."

"That's true. A Mrs. Arne, whose address he gave me, was anxious to find a place for her; so I wrote, of course, in the usual way for her reference. It was an excellent one, and I did not hesitate to engage her. So far as that goes, she was a first-class servant.'

"She probably was no servant at all," said Mallow, bluntly. "She had neither the appearance nor the manners of one. Even Aldean noticed that. By the way, have you Mrs. Arne's letter?"

Olive nodded. "I keep all my letters for six months before I destroy them," she said, rising. "I should have hers. Wait one moment, I will go and fetch it."

Mrs. Carson returned with the letter. Mallow read it through carefully, but could gather nothing from it. He noted the address, 30, Amelia Street, Kensington, and commented on the firm, masculine character of the writing. "Mrs. Arne is evidently a woman of strong will and considerable character," he said, replacing his pocket-book. "For all we know, she may be mixed up in this plot."

"Plot?" echoed Olive, looking scared. "What plot?"

"Well," said Mallow, "I can hardly say definitely. There is certainly a plot of some kind. Sooner or later we shall know more about it. At present we must be content to know its object, which was undoubtedly to secure this fifty thousand pounds."

"For whom?"

"That is the question. Carson, Semberry, Clara Trall, or even Dr. Drabble--they all seem to have something to do with it."

"Then you think there is some connection between my husband and that horrid doctor?"

"Yes, I do. I must tell you that shortly before six o'clock this evening, as I was coming home from my walk, I picked up, in one of the small streets here, a letter, dropped evidently by this Clara of yours; for just as I was reading the address on it, she came rushing round the corner, snatched it from my hand, and flew off with it before I had time to do more than notice that it was she. It is more than probable that she left by the six-o'clock train."

"For London?"

"No; I don't think she went to London."

"Oh! I see. You think she has gone off to Florence to my husband?"

"Yes, I think that; and something more, Mrs. Carson. The letter I picked up was addressed to Jeremiah Trall, 49, Poplar Street, Soho."

"Clara's father, I suppose?"

"Well, it may be her father or it may be Dr. Drabble--49, Poplar Street, happens to be the town address he gave me. It would not surprise me in the least to find that in pursuit of his Anarchistic schemes he found it useful to have--well, let us call it a nom de guerre."

"But why should he take Clara's name?"

"We don't know that Trall is Clara's real name," retorted Mallow. "Mind you, this is purely hypothetical. Jeremiah Trall may or may not be Drabble. At all events, the address is the same; and Soho is the hotbed of Anarchism in London. The possession of that wrist-button by Drabble seems to me clearly to point to some intimacy with Carson."

"The so-called Carson?" interrupted Olive.

"Well, we have not quite proved that yet. The links of the chain run something like this: Mrs. Arne, whoever she may be, gives Clara (whoever she may be) a character which is palpably false. I mean false as regards her identity, not her capability; for that you proved to be all that was said for it. From this fact we are justified in concluding that she, Mrs. Arne, is in some way implicated. I feel convinced myself that Clara was not a servant. Semberry induces you to engage her--that proves his connection; and Carson meets Clara several times, and clearly is intimate with her. The wrist-button would seem to connect Drabble with Carson, and the Soho address associates him with Clara. Save the address and the wrist-button, which, of course, are substantial facts, the rest is deduction pure and simple. But it is logical deduction, and, to my thinking, it points strongly to a secret association for some secret purpose between all these people. The purpose, I take it, was to secure this sum of fifty thousand pounds."

"But what makes you think that Clara has not gone to London?"

"That letter," replied Mallow, promptly. "It was very bulky. I believed it contained a report of our conversation here to-day. Clara was in the next room. You remember how, when she heard my voice, she came in with an obviously feigned excuse? I noticed when she returned to the bedroom she left the door ajar. Overhearing us, of course, she became aware of your doubts as to Carson's identity. She probably became alarmed lest you should go further and discover her connection with him. That, I think, is the reason of her sudden departure; whilst the very existence of the letter seems to me to show that London was not her destination. Had she been going there, she need not have written it. She could have called at Poplar-Street, Soho, and said what she had to say. Do you follow? She has probably got out at some station on the way up, and is now on her way to Dover, en route for Italy."

Olive passed her hand over her forehead. "It's all very confusing," she said, in a troubled voice.

"And all very fanciful, you might add," rejoined Mallow. "Are you sure she has taken her box?"

"The chambermaid said so."

Mallow shook his head. "We had better not rest content with second-hand evidence when we can have first," said he. "Where is her room? Can we go and see?"

"Oh yes. I should have gone before, but I have been so confused with one thing and another. Let us go and search it at once."

Taking a lighted candle from a side table, Olive led the way along the corridor. The room was not far away. They could find no box there.

"She must have removed it while I was out," said Olive in dismay. "I took a stroll shortly after you left; my head was aching so. Oh, what a wicked, artful girl!"

"She is probably quite used to these fittings," said Mallow, looking round the room. "Hallo! torn-up paper in the grate! We must look at this. Hold the candle a moment, please, Mrs. Carson."

Clara had not been fool enough to leave behind anything likely to betray her. But one envelope which Mallow found proved the truth of one of his suppositions. It had an Italian stamp on the corner, and was addressed "Miss Clara Trall, Grand Hotel, Sandbeach, Inghilterra."

"My husband's writing!" cried Olive, as Mallow rose and dusted his knees.

"Yes; and from Florence--dated four days back. Look at the post-mark. This puts the matter beyond a doubt, Mrs. Carson. Your husband wrote to her to join him in Italy. She has gone to Dover, not to London."

"But, surely, what can Clara be to that man?"

"An accomplice, certainly."

They returned to the sitting-room. Mrs. Carson sat down looking hopelessly bewildered. "What are we to do now?" she asked. "Communicate with the police?"

"No," said Mallow; "we have no facts to give them. We know that Carson has possession of the money; but, you must remember, he has legal possession of it. We know that he is in Italy, and that Clara has joined him. There is nothing there for the police, is there? Beyond this we can say nothing; not even that Carson is an impostor. But it will not be long now before we are able to settle that point; Mrs. Purcell arrives from India in a couple of days' time, and a portrait of Carson----"

"I have one," interrupted Olive. "He was so vain that he actually had some done by one of these men on the beach. There were some copies in this room. I dare say I can find them. But tell me, Mr. Mallow, what do you intend to do now?"

Whilst she was hunting for the photographs, Mallow explained. "I think," he said, "I had better go to London and see this Mrs. Arne. Then I shall look up Semberry, and after that--well, then, I think I'll drop in on Dr. Drabble in Soho."

"Will you broach the matter directly?"

"No; I don't think it would be wise to do that. If things are as I suspect, we have to deal with a dangerous lot. I'll find out all I can without letting them have any suspicion--that is to say, from Mrs. Arne and Semberry. As for Drabble, I intend to join him. I shall become an Anarchist."

"Become an Anarchist?" echoed Olive, turning round, the photographs in her hand.

"Yes; it is my only chance of gaining his confidence. I must do it if I am to get at the truth."

"But you will bring trouble upon yourself."

"Oh no," laughed Mallow, "I shall stop short of throwing bombs, I promise you."

"Oh, it is dangerous," said Mrs. Carson, sighing. "How can I thank you sufficiently for all the trouble you are taking--here are the photographs."

Laurence glanced at one. It represented Carson standing straight and stiff against a stone wall for all the world as if he were going to be shot. It was not a work of art, but the likeness was excellent. Mallow nodded as if he were well satisfied.

"It will serve our purpose capitally," he said, putting it in his pocket. "Mrs. Purcell should have no difficulty in saying if this is or is not the man she saw in Bombay. Well, Mrs. Carson," he added abruptly. "I must say good night."

"Good night. What time to-morrow do you leave?"

"Not until the evening train--six o'clock. Mrs. Purcell does not arrive for two days yet, so I have plenty of time. Good night."

Thus did Mallow take his first step on the dark and tortuous way he was to follow. It led him downward into an under-world of crime and danger. But he found some good even in those sordid depths. Doubt and mystery surrounding him, holding his life in his hand, on and on he went, never flinching, never yielding, never losing sight of his clue until at last it led him to the truth.