Chapter 3

THE SANDAL-WOOD CHEST.

"Well, Lord Aldean," asked Olive, when she met her companion, hatted and gloved, in the saloon next morning, "what next?"

"The next item on our programme is an official visit to Semberry," answered the young man, promptly. "A bit early for a call, perhaps; but I'm the bird, you know, after the worm--the Major's the worm. Won't do, you know, to let him and the Boldinis come together and arrange their little plans. Union's always strength, isn't it, Miss Bellairs?"

"Miss Bellairs!" repeated Olive, after him, with a long breath of satisfaction; "how good that sounds! But about Major Semberry. For all we know he may have seen the Boldinis last night."

Aldean wagged his head judiciously. "Not likely; they'd not seek him, believe me. Now that we have Semberry's share of the loot, both Boldini and his wife would rather be excused that interview. They are too anxious about their little selves to bother him."

"Perhaps; at all events, let us hope so. Shall I come with you?"

"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind. Better let me tackle Semberry in my own way. He won't climb down like Boldini, you know; in fact, I don't anticipate he will be an easy customer to deal with at all. He'll fight," said Aldean; "so shall I."

"I can't understand now why the Boldinis gave in so utterly."

"Had to--no choice for them," replied Jim promptly. "Case of devil and the deep sea, you know. Let's assume we are the deep sea, and the Anarchists and police and all of that ilk are the--well, the other thing. You see, police would have meant publicity, and publicity would have meant extinction for them, so far as this world is concerned; and that, though probably a relief to them in the future state, was not exactly what they sought at present."

"Could we have them arrested even now?" asked Olive.

"Well, perhaps, with an infinite amount of trouble and red-tapeism, we might get the British Consul to help us so far; but that sort of thing takes time, and they might bolt at any moment. I'm glad they had the sense to climb down. It's all right now. We have the money and the confession. They are no use to us any longer."

"Yes, we have the circular notes; and they, I suppose, are safe," said Miss Bellairs, reflecting. "But that cheque, Lord Aldean--Boldini might stop it by telegram."

"He'll only tumble back into the pit if he does," said Aldean, decisively; "but I won't trust him any more than you do. Before I see Semberry, I'll drop in at a bank I know here, and ask them to cash the cheque."

"They won't cash so large a cheque without inquiry, surely?"

"That's just the point; if not, the banker'll have to wire to the Cr�dit Lyonnais in Paris, and we'll soon know if Boldini's been up to hanky-panky. That's the worst of playing a game like this with a rascal," added Aldean, musingly; "he's always got an ace somewhere."

"We must watch his sleeve," laughed Olive. "Well, Lord Aldean, off you go to Major Semberry, and I'll wait here till you return."

"Bringing my sheaves with me," said Jim, with a grin, and forthwith departed.

Left alone, Olive sat down and wrote a long letter to Tui, in which she praised Lord Aldean's common sense and willing help in the most glowing terms. With joy she told Tui of her freedom; how Clara was Boldini's, alias Carson's, true wife; and how everything had gone off so much more quietly than either of them had dared to hope.

Her letter ended with a casual inquiry after Mallow, and expressed a hope that Tui had seen him. As the strength of a chain lies in its weakest link, so the strength of Olive's letter lay in the pointedly trifling allusion to Mallow. Small wonder if Tui smiled to herself at the studied indifference of those few lines. Women understand those things.

As Olive directed and stamped the envelope a knock came to the door, and a smiling waiter entered with a letter addressed in lead pencil to Miss Bellairs. She did not know the writing, but, when the man had gone, she soon discovered that the letter was from Clara. There were two hurriedly pencilled pages commencing abruptly, without date or address, as follows:--

"I don't want you to think worse of me than you do, for the trouble I brought on you was not of my making. I am--or, rather, I was--a tool in the hands of the Anarchists, and against my will I was forced to play what I know was a mean part. My father, Michael Trall, was a gentleman, and at one time very rich. But he gambled away all his money, and left my mother and myself to starve in London. I am now thirty years of age, but never since an infant have I seen my father. Neither have I heard of him; nor do I even know what he is like in appearance. But I do know that he was a bad father and a bad husband, who broke his wife's heart. My poor mother died when I was only two years of age; and I might have been an outcast in the streets but that my good uncle Jeremiah took charge of me. He had a little money, and until I was twenty we lived on that. He was kind to me; but, alas! he was the slave of drink--and, by indulgence in it, so weakened his will and self-respect that he was the prey of any scoundrel who cared to meddle with him. Dr. Drabble met him ten years ago or more, and, seeing in him a useful tool, inveigled him into the toils of the Anarchists. I tried to rescue my uncle as he had rescued me, but in vain; so, to protect him, I also took the oath to the brotherhood. I was forced to implicit obedience--I was ordered to Casterwell as your servant, in order to spy upon you. I confess that, in one sense, I went willingly--for I am Carlo's wife; and, as Dr. Drabble had arranged that he was to marry you for the sake of the money, I was jealous. I consented to keep quiet, only because I wanted the fifty thousand pounds. I had made up my mind that Carlo and I should use it, and once and for ever free ourselves from the brotherhood. You have taken that hope from us; but I don't blame you even now. The money was yours, and we swindled you. Carlo and I are going away, and you will never see us or hear from us again. He is a poor, weak creature in your eyes; but in mine he is the man I love, and I hope to be happy with him in the future--if only we can escape the relentless hand of the brotherhood. If I knew who killed Carson, I would tell you; but I do not. I suspect Drabble, since he brought the bangle to Carlo; but this is mere suspicion. Did you know the miserable life I have had, you would pity me. I am sorry if I was rude last night. I do not wish to be rude; but I am surrounded on all sides by terror and death, and care not sometimes what I say or do. You have been very good to me; and I thank you. Marry Mr. Mallow--I know he loves you--and forget Carlo and the miserable woman, Clara Boldini.

"P.S.--When Carlo and I are safe and settled we intend to send for my uncle to live with us. We will rescue him from the brotherhood. Carlo is not a bad man--indeed, he is not. Weakness is his only fault. With me he begs your pardon for his wickedness; but remember his character, his oath, his helplessness, and forgive him.--C.B."

It was a sad letter, written by a woman who, surrounded by better people and under good influence, might have remained true to the better part of her nature. By the tides of life she had been swept to the lee shore of disaster. Olive felt that in no small degree fate had been against her, and in her generosity she was unwilling to be the one to cast a stone at the unfortunate woman. On the contrary, her impulse prompted her to help Clara with money and advice--to rescue her and her weak husband from their danger, and to help them to their first step on the way to a new life.

With such philanthropic intentions she started off to the Hotel du Sud.

An hour later Aldean returned, followed by a man with a hand-barrow. It was laden with a curious-looking chest of yellowish wood, bound with brass. Dismissing his porter, Aldean had the box taken upstairs and placed in a corner of the salon. He was disappointed that Olive should be absent when he returned with this trophy of his victory over Semberry, but, to pass the time, he set to work to examine the chest's contents. A thin brass key unlocked it, and Aldean was soon so deeply interested in his search that he almost forgot the absence of his fellow-worker. By the time he had reached the bottom of the trunk, the floor of the room was strewn with wearing apparel of all kinds. The chest was literally packed with garments of every colour and pattern imaginable. Shooting-suits of rough home-spun; tropical garbs of white boots, riding-breeches, high brown boots, shirts, scarves, collars, under-wear--all more or less impregnated with the scent of the wood. But amongst all these now useless articles not a scrap of writing. Aldean was disappointed. He had fancied that a stray letter or a journal, or even a card, might have been forthcoming to throw some light on the owner's past. Yet he might have guessed that all evidence likely to inculpate Semberry, or Drabble, or Mrs. Arne would have been removed by one of them before the chest left London. Two out of the three, at least, were old hands at obliterating tracks.

With an observant eye and a careful ear Aldean overhauled the box outside and in. He rapped at the sides, pushing here and tugging there; but, so far as he could see, there was no hollow space either at the sides or below. The chest was plainly made of five thick slabs, which sounded dead and dull when he tapped them. Then Aldean turned his attention to the lid, which was clasped with two broad brass bands dividing it into three equal spaces. These were carved in the laborious Chinese way with impossible flowers and stiffly flying birds.

"Rum thing," muttered Jim, shaking the lid. "Looks like an overgrown glove-box." Round the lid ran a deep rim, fitting down on to the lower portion of the box when locked; and, on examination of the inner side of this, Aldean found a row of brass nails--ostensibly mere ornaments. With infinite patience he pressed every one of the decorations hard. He found that one behind the hasp yielded with difficulty to pressure. Two other nails, one near each end of the lid, proved equally loose. Jim pressed and pressed all three, until suddenly with a click the whole inner skin of the lid fell down, and between this and the top there proved to be a narrow space extending to all four sides. With the lid fell a long blue envelope, sealed with a coat-of-arms in red wax. "Clever dodge," said Jim, picking up the envelope and admiring the workmanship which so skilfully concealed the space in the lid. "But a chap could hide only thin things in it; there's no room for anything else." He looked at the envelope. "The Rev. Manners Brock, Casterwell," he read. "Jupiter! that's queer. Wonder what's inside? feels like dozens of pages. 'Spose this is a letter from Carson, senior, to his old friend. Wonder why Carson, junior, hid it so carefully?"

While he was turning it over, his fingers itching to break the seal, and see if the contents could in any way explain the mystery of Carson's death, Olive came hurriedly into the room. Without stopping to comment on the disordered floor, or the extraordinary figure of Lord Aldean grovelling before the chest with the blue envelope in his hand, she burst out into excited speech the moment she saw him.

"Lord Aldean, they have gone away--Clara and Boldini. They left the hotel last night about nine o'clock!"

"I'm not astonished," replied Jim, getting on to his legs. "Where have they gone to?"

"The people at the hotel couldn't tell me," said Olive, exasperated somewhat at his calm reception of the news. "They paid their bill, packed their things, and went off in a cab to the Central Station. A porter wanted to go with them and look after their luggage, but Clara would not allow him. They have gone!'

"Best thing they could do, Miss Bellairs. Dare say they are afraid of the Anarchists tracking them here. Wonder where they have cleared to?"

"I went to the station to try and find out," said Olive, disconsolately; "but, although I saw the stationmaster and described the appearance, he could give no information. I believe they disguised themselves."

"Well, it doesn't matter much," said Aldean, soothingly; "we have the money and their confession. Let 'em go, if they want to."

"How did they get away without money? They said they had none."

"Another lie, I suppose," said Aldean, sagaciously; "must have had some coin somewhere. Don't you bother, Miss Bellairs; we're done with them--yes! and with Semberry too. Look here," and Aldean produced a packet of papers from his inside pocket. "Here's the Major's confession."

"Did he confess?" gasped Olive, taking the papers.

"Rather. What's more, he wrote out his confession, and I stood over him until he did. There it is, signed by him, witnessed by me, and giving a full account of the conspiracy from first to last."

"Wonderful! However did you manage it?"

"I threatened him with the War Office," replied Aldean, complacently; "told him that Boldini had owned up; and let him see that I knew quite enough to have him cashiered, if nothing else."

"Then he didn't show fight, as you expected?"

"Oh yes, he did. He blustered about his name and position. But I told him I'd take 'em both from him if he didn't own up. In the end he did. You have the gist of it in your hand. He'd have wrung my neck if I hadn't told him I'd wring his if he tried that game. First-class fighting man the Major."

"And what is all this?" asked Olive, with a glance at the sartorial chaos.

"Oh, this is Carson's chest, which Semberry was bringing over to Boldini. I made him give it to me; and for the last half hour I have been hunting for papers and things to see if I could find out anything of importance."

"And you have found nothing?"

"Yes; a secret hiding-place. Look at it, Miss Bellairs. Clever thing, isn't it? Found it by chance. Only a letter in it addressed to Mr. Brock."

Olive took the letter and read the inscription. "It's from Dr. Carson, I suppose," she said, turning it over. "I wonder what's in it?"

"Don't know! Can't be anything about the murder if Carson, senior, wrote it. If we are to believe Boldini and Semberry, the whole scheme was invented by Drabble and this Madame Death-in-Life."

"And which of them killed poor Carson?"

"Ah!" Jim shook his head gravely. "That is just the one thing Semberry could not tell me. He doesn't know."