The Black Abbot
“Mr. Arthur Gwyn is waiting for you in the library,” said the girl.
“Mr. Gwyn!” he said in astonishment. “When did he come?”
“Ten minutes ago, sir.”
“Oh!” said Gilder blankly.
Had she sent her brother instead of a letter? Had she told him… well,
it was a situation that had to be faced.
He walked carelessly into the little library and found Arthur Gwyn
sitting in one of the easiest chairs, a book in his hand, a
half-smoked cigar between his teeth.
“Good-morning, Gilder.”
His voice was cheerful and almost amiable, and for a moment Mr.
Gilder’s heart leapt. This was a friendly ambassador sent by the girl
to make the necessary arrangements.
“I think we’d better forget all that’s passed,” said Arthur. “We both
lost our temper, and there’s no sense in keeping the old trouble
alive. You don’t mind my smoking?”
He replaced the book he had taken from one of the shelves, dusted his
knees carefully, and then laughed.
“You’re thinking of marrying Leslie, I understand?”
Gilder nodded, watching his visitor closely.
“Expecting a letter from her? Well, I’m afraid you won’t get it.”
“Why not?” asked the other, with a sudden tightening at his heart.
“Because friend Thomas, who spent the evening in wholesale
robbery--incidentally, he stole a very ancient dagger from my hall, a
silver teapot, and a few other etceteras--added to his infamy by
attempting to rob a letter box. He didn’t succeed in opening the box,
but he put the lock out of order.”
Gilder breathed again.
“So there was no collection, eh?” he said huskily. “Well, that is
rather a relief.”
There was a quizzical smile in Arthur Gwyn’s eyes; the discolouration
on the left cheek had faded to a pale green.
“I understand you’re going to help me?”
“I am going to get you out of your trouble, yes.”
“It occurred to me”--Arthur leaned sideways and very carefully dusted
the ash of his cigar into a silver tray on the library table--“it
occurred to me that you might care to give me proof and evidence of
your good feeling.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Gilder.
Arthur hesitated.
“I wondered whether you would write me a letter, to the effect that
you are lending me this very large sum. You see, Gilder, although you
plan to marry my sister, I am vain enough to wish that it should not
be regarded as a gift or the price--the price of her marriage--but as
a loan to me.” He laughed. “Don’t look at me like that, my dear
fellow. I am not asking you for money, I am seeking a salve to my
conscience. I don’t want people to say ‘Leslie Gwyn was sold for fifty
thousand pounds.’ I want to produce evidence that you did no more than
lend me the money.”
A slow smile dawned on Gilder’s face.
“There’s no objection to that,” he said. “I’ll give it to you now, if
you like. Do you mind if I address you as ‘Dear--Arthur’?”
“Charmed,” murmured Arthur.
“One has to keep up the pretence of friendliness,” said Gilder as he
wrote rapidly; “and really, I’ve no strong feeling against you, Gwyn.
You’ve been a useful man to me.”
“Damned useful,” said Arthur, without heat.
The man blotted the letter, brought it across, and Arthur Gwyn read it
carefully.
“Thank you,” he said, folded and put it into his pocket. “You may
think I’m rather weak--which of course I am--and vain. I’m afraid
there’s no doubt about that! You will hear from Leslie when the mail
box is cleared--that is, if the letters are intact. There is some
suspicion that our friend Thomas, baffled in his attempt to open the
box, and inspired with that instinct for destruction which is one of
the characteristics of the unbalanced criminal, threw in a couple of
lighted matches. I had the curiosity to smell at the letter slot, and
I think it is very likely that the police theory is correct.”
He rose, took up his silk hat, and stifled a yawn.
“We’ve had rather an exciting night in my part of the world. You’ve
probably read all about it in the newspapers?”
“Has Chelford been found?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Not at the time I left,” he said. “Unfortunately Leslie was a
witness, if not to the murder, to the finding of the first body. The
poor little girl was knocked all to pieces. Don’t bother her for a day
or two--do you mind?”
He held out his hand and Gilder took the soft, cool palm in his.
“I think we shall get on together, Gwyn.”
“I’m sure we shall,” said Arthur. “Do you mind showing me the way out?
Your flat is rather like a box of tricks, and I’m never sure which is
a door and which is a cupboard.”
Arthur dispensed with his car. A taxicab took him into the City, and
another cab to a small flat in Gray’s Inn where he slept when he was
in town. He changed into a plain blue suit, carefully and reluctantly
shaved off his moustache, and took from his pocket a pair of newly
purchased horn-rimmed pince-nez. Surveying himself in the glass with a
certain amount of satisfaction, he sat down and wrote a letter to his
sister, then, taking a final survey of the little flat where he had
spent many a happy bachelor evening, he locked the door, went out and
posted the letter in the Holborn post office.
Another taxicab took him to Croyden aërodrome, where he arrived in
the early afternoon. He showed the officer his brand-new passport.
“That’s in order, Mr. Steele,” said the official. “Your taxi is
waiting.”
His “taxi” was a sturdy two-seater aëroplane. Five minutes after his
arrival he was zooming up to the blue, and was soon a speck in the
hazy sky, heading for France, possibly for Genoa, as likely as not, by
an Italian liner, for Rio de Janeiro. Everything depended on how Mr.
Fabrian Gilder swallowed the pill which Arthur had administered.
XLV
“Burnt,” said Dick, with considerable satisfaction. “The poor brute
did some good in his life--Heaven forgive me for speaking ill of him.
Where is your Arthur?”
“My Arthur went to town very early,” said Leslie. “There is no news of
Harry?”
He shook his head.
“None,” he said.
He looked dreadfully tired and broken, she thought.
“I’m so sorry!”
He took her hand and patted it.
“I wish you would go away somewhere, Leslie,” he said. “Couldn’t you
take a long voyage?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I want you out of the way. I don’t exactly know why, but I’m rather
worried about you. Get Arthur----”
He stopped. It was quite possible that Arthur would not be a free
agent at the end of the week; and, reading his thoughts, she smiled
sadly.
“What am I to do about Mr. Gilder?”
“Let him write. He is hardly likely to leave you in peace. But you
understand, of course, that until Harry is found there is no danger to
your brother. Until he appears, no action can be taken.”
She looked at him pityingly.
“Do you think he is alive?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied shortly. “Puttler doesn’t think so, but I do. We are
dragging the Ravensrill to-day, but it is not deep enough to hide--a
body.”
He covered his face with his hands.
“I wish I were a million miles away, perched on some solitary star,”
he said wearily.
She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.
“You’d be very hot,” she said, with a pathetic attempt at gaiety,
“unless I have forgotten all my astronomy.”
He put his arm about her shoulder and hugged her. It was an
affectionate brotherly hug, and no more.
“You’ve got to go away, my dear. What about the prosaic Bournemouth?
Or the vulgar but wholesome Margate?”
Again she shook her head.
“Or London, which I am told is a health resort?”
“You’re very anxious for me to go really?”
“Very,” he said, with an emphasis that betrayed his concern.
She drew back from him and faced him.
“Dick, will you tell me something without any evasion?”
He nodded.
“Do you think that I am in any personal danger?”
“I am sure of it,” he said. “It would be cruel not to tell you the
truth. The shot that was fired the other day was intended for you. It
was fired by a man who is as brilliant a shot as any in England, and
the height of the bullet mark told us that it was aimed directly at
your heart.”
She listened, stupefied, unbelieving.
“But why?” she asked, bewildered. “I have no enemies, Dick; I have
wronged nobody. Who could do such a wicked thing?”
“If I told you, you would perhaps be no wiser,” he said. “There is a
man in this world who hates you and hates me, and has good reason from
his point of view. Now that I’ve told you the truth, will you go?”
She thought awhile.
“I’ll wait until Arthur comes back,” she said, “and ask him to take me
to London.”
And with that he was satisfied.
He was leaving the house when Puttler’s cycle swung into the drive.
“Anything wrong?” asked Dick quickly.
“I don’t know. Look at this.”
He took from his pocket a large sheet of foolscap paper; roughly
printed in pencil were the words:
Lord Chelford is safe. Don’t search for him, or he will be killed.
The Black Abot.
The word “Abbot” was printed with one “b.” The placard had been found
hanging to the twig of a tree, the jagged hole at the top showing
where the mystery man had threaded the paper.
“We found it halfway between the ruins and the house,” said Puttler.
“Curiously enough, we had only been searching that part of the grounds
a quarter of an hour before.”
Dick handed the warning back to him.
“Is that a bad joke or do you believe this paper?” asked Leslie
anxiously. “And, Dick, couldn’t I be some help? I know Fossaway Manor
so well, and I am sure there must be places where the police haven’t
looked. Do you know there are tiny caves in the banks of the
Ravensrill?”
“They’ve all been searched, and they’re not big enough to hold a
large-sized dog,” said Dick. “If you want to be helpful you can come
up to the Manor and put my correspondence in order. I am afraid it has
been neglected in these days, and there are a whole lot of bills and
things to be entered up.”
He had no real need for her, he thought, but whilst she was in the
neighbourhood he was anxious that she should be under his eyes. She
may have suspected something of this, but she gratefully accepted the
offer.
“Drive up,” he warned her; “keep to the main road and the main drive.
Don’t stop for anybody, however well you know them, and take no notice
if you hear somebody shout at you.”
In spite of her anxiety she laughed.
“How very alarming that sounds!”
After he had gone she busied herself with the affairs of the house,
arranged the dinner for that night, and was on the point of leaving,
when somebody rang the front-door bell. She was putting on her hat
before the mirror in her bedroom when the maid came up.
“Miss Wenner?” cried Leslie, aghast, and only then did she remember
that at Arthur’s request she had written inviting the girl to spend
the week-end with them.
Here was a complication she had not foreseen. And yet, in the space
between her room and the hall, she had made up her mind, that, if
there was one thing she welcomed at this moment, it was the society of
a woman.
Mary Wenner was in the hall and greeted her as effusively as if they
had been bosom friends, though in truth Leslie scarcely knew the girl.
“My dear, I’m so glad to be back in this lovely old country!” she
said. “I couldn’t help thinking, as I was driving past dear old
Fossaway Manor, how perfectly peaceful everything is!”
Leslie could have screamed! Peaceful!
“Perhaps it isn’t quite as peaceful as it looks, Miss Wenner,” she
said drily.
“Call me Mary,” begged the girl. “I do so dislike formalism and
standoffness! It will be so awkward if Arthur calls me by my name and
you call me Miss… I mean…?”
“Well, I’ll call you Mary with pleasure,” said Leslie. “I think you
know my name?”
“A beautiful name,” said the ecstatic Miss Wenner. “The only thing