The Hand in the Dark
was raining, and some of the guests were down in the gun-room shooting
at a target with Nepcote's revolver. He showed us this mark in the
handle, and said that it had saved his life in France. He was leading
his men in a night raid on the German lines, and a German officer fired
at him at close range, but the bullet glanced off the handle of the
revolver."
"Then there can be no doubt Hazel Rath got it from the gun-room," said
Caldew, returning the weapon to his pocket. "Captain Nepcote must have
left it behind him there, and that is where Hazel Rath found it."
"No, no! That seems impossible," said Phil.
"Well, I think it is quite possible," replied Caldew.
"Is it your opinion, then, that Miss Rath is guilty?" demanded Phil,
with a note of sharp anger in his voice.
"Phil!" said Miss Heredith. "You must not excite yourself."
But the young man took no notice of his aunt's gentle remonstrance. His
eyes were fixed on the detective.
"I have not the least doubt of it," was the detective's cold response.
"I must say I think you have made a terrible mistake," Phil said,
striding about the room in a state of great agitation. "Hazel would
not--she could not--have done this thing." He wheeled sharply around, as
though struck by a sudden thought. "Are the jewels safe?" he added.
"Yes," said Miss Heredith. "We found Violet's jewel-case locked, so I
put it away in the library safe."
"The question of robbery does not enter into the crime," remarked
Caldew. "The motive, as we have established it, is quite different."
"I have been told of the motive you allege against this unhappy girl,"
said Phil indignantly. "That idea is utterly preposterous. Again, I say,
I believe that you have made a blunder. I do not think Hazel would
handle a revolver. She was always very nervous of fire-arms."
"That is quite true," murmured Miss Heredith.
"A jealous woman forgets her fears," said the detective rather
maliciously. "She didn't stop to think of that when she wanted to use
the revolver."
"And where did she get it from?" asked Phil quickly.
Caldew shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent.
"You still persist in thinking that she obtained the revolver from the
gun-room?" Phil continued.
"Yes, I do."
"Do you not intend to make any further inquiries? You had better see
Nepcote about the revolver. I will give you his address."
"Captain Nepcote left here to go to the front, and we have not heard
from him since," Miss Heredith explained to the detective.
In a calmer moment Caldew might have realized the expediency of Phil's
suggestion, but his professional dignity was affronted at what he
considered the young man's attempt to interfere in the case and direct
the course of the police investigations. It was the desire to snub what
he regarded as a meddlesome interposition in his own business which
prompted him to reply:
"It is a matter of small importance, one way or the other. It is
sufficient for the Crown case to know the owner of the revolver. The
point is that the murder was committed with it, and it was subsequently
found in the girl's possession."
"I have nothing more to say to you," said Phil.
"Are you convinced now, Phil?" asked Miss Heredith sadly, when Caldew
had taken his departure. "It was hard for me to believe at first, but
everything seems so certain."
"I am not at all convinced," was the stern reply. "On the contrary, I
feel sure that some terrible mistake has been made. I would stake my
life on the innocence of Hazel Rath. How can you, who have known her so
long, believe she would do a deed like this? The detective who has just
left us is obviously a fool, and I am not satisfied that all the facts
about Violet's death have been brought to light. I am going to London at
once to bring another detective to inquire into the case. You know more
about these things than me, Musard--can you tell me of a good man?"
"If you are determined to bring in another detective, you cannot do
better than get Colwyn," replied Musard.
"Colwyn--the famous private detective? He is the very man I should like.
Where is he to be found?"
"He has rooms somewhere near Ludgate Circus. I will write down the
address. I think he will come, if he is not otherwise engaged."
"Why should he refuse?" demanded Phil haughtily. "I will pay him well."
"It is not a question of money with a man like Colwyn, and I advise you
not to use that tone with him if you want his help."
"Very well," said Phil, pocketing the address Musard had written down.
"I will catch the 6.30 evening train up. Aunt, you might tell them to
give me something to eat in the small breakfast-room. I do not want to
be bothered getting dinner in town."
"Phil, dear, you mustn't dream of going to London in your present state
of health," expostulated Miss Heredith tearfully. "Why not leave it
until you are stronger? Vincent, try and persuade him not to go."
"Phil is the best judge of his own actions in a matter like this,"
replied Musard gravely.
"At least let Vincent go with you, Phil," urged his aunt.
"I want nobody to accompany me," replied Phil, speaking in a tone he had
never used to his aunt before. "I will go and get ready. Tell Linton to
have the small car ready to drive me to the station."
CHAPTER XV
Colwyn had rooms in the upper part of a block of buildings on Ludgate
Hill, looking down on the Circus, above the rookery of passages which
burrow tortuously under the railway arches to Water Lane, Printing House
Square, and Blackfriars. It was a strange locality to live in, but it
suited Colwyn. It was in the thick of things. From his windows, high up
above the roar of the traffic, he could watch the ceaseless flow of life
eastward and westward all day long, and far into the night.
No other part of London offered such variety and scope in the study of
humanity. The City was stodgy, the Strand too uniform, Piccadilly too
fashionable, and the select areas for bachelor chambers, such as the
Temple and Half Moon Street, were backwaters as remote from the roaring
turbulent stream of London life as the Sussex Downs or the Yorkshire
Moors.
In addition to these things, the spot offered a fine contrast in walks
to suit different moods. There was that avenue of wizardry, Fleet
Street, whose high-priests and slaves juggled with the news of the
world; there was the glitter of plate-glass fronts between the Circus
and St. Paul's, the twilight stillness of the archway passages and their
little squeezed shops, the isolation of Play House Yard and Printing
House Square, the bustle of Bridge Street, and the Embankment. From his
window Colwyn could see the City shopgirls feeding the pigeons of St.
Paul's around the statue of Queen Anne.
To Colwyn, London was the place of adventures. He had lived in New York
and Paris, but neither of these cities had for him the same fascination
as the sprawling giant of the Thames. Paris was as stimulating and
provocative as a paid mistress, but palled as quickly. In New York
mysteries beckoned at every street corner, but too importunately.
Neither city was sufficiently discreet for Colwyn's reticent mind. But
London! London was like a woman who hid a secret life beneath an austere
face and sober garments. Underneath her air of prim propriety and calm
indifference were to be found more enthralling secrets than any other
city of the world could reveal. It was emblematic of London that her
mysteries, in their strangest aspects and phases, preserved the air of
ordinary events.
Colwyn saw nothing extraordinary in this. To him Life seemed so
perpetually inconsistent that there could be nothing inconsistent in any
of its events. It was to his faith in this axiom, expressed after his
own paradoxical fashion, that he partly owed some of those brilliant
successes which had stamped him as one of the foremost criminal
investigators of his day. He never rejected a story on the score of its
improbability. He had seen so many unusual things in his career that he
once declared that it was the unforeseen, and not the expected, which
occurs most frequently in this strange world of ours. That was, perhaps,
partly due to the wide gulf between human ideals and actions, but,
whatever the reason, Colwyn never lost sight of the fact that the
incredible, once it happened, became as commonplace as the meals we eat
or the clothes we wear. It seemed to Colwyn that the unexpected happened
too frequently to call forth the astonishment with which it was
invariably greeted by most people. In his experience, Life was almost
too prodigal of its surprises, so much so, indeed, as to be in danger of
reaching the limit of its own resources. But he consoled himself,
whimsically enough, with the belief that such an event was too probable
ever to happen.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, and Colwyn, getting up from a
table where he had been busily writing, walked to the window and looked
down on the deserted street beneath. It was a nightly custom of his. He
lived, as he worked, alone, attended only by a taciturn manservant who
had been with him for many years. He accepted with characteristic
philosophy the view that a man who spent his time unveiling shameful
human secrets had no right to share his life with anybody. Even the
articles of furniture of his lonely rooms, if endowed with any sort of
entity, might have worn a furtive air in their consciousness of the
secrets they had heard whispered in their owner's ears by those who had
sought his counsel and assistance in their trouble and despair. There
had been many such secrets poured forth in those lonely rooms, perched
up high above the roar of the London traffic. It was the Confessional of
the incredible.
As Colwyn stood at the window, the electric bell of the front door rang
sharply through the empty building. Looking down into the street, he saw
the figure of a man in the doorway beneath. He glanced at his watch. It
was late for a visitor. He walked to the lift at the end of the passage
and descended. As he did so, the bell in his rooms once more pealed
forth beneath the pressure of an impatient hand.
The visitor, revealed by the light in the hall, was a young man muffled
in a thick overcoat for protection against the sharp autumn wind which
was blowing along the rain-splashed street. He stepped inside the door
as Colwyn opened it, and, glancing at the detective from a pair of dark
eyes just visible beneath the flap of his soft felt hat, said:
"Are you Mr. Colwyn?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I am afraid it is a very late hour for a visit," said the other,
brushing the rain drops off his coat as he spoke, "but I should be very
glad if you could spare me a little time, late as it is. I have come
from the country to see you."
Colwyn nodded without speaking. Strange adventures had come to him at
stranger hours. He showed the way to the lift, switched off the electric
light he had turned on in the passage, and ascended with his visitor to
his rooms. There his companion, with an impulsiveness which contrasted
with the detective's quiet composure, again spoke:
"I want your assistance, Mr. Colwyn."
"Will you not be seated?" said the detective, as with a swift glance he
took in the external attributes of his young and well-dressed visitor.
"Thank you. I regret to disturb you at such a late hour, but the train I
travelled by was greatly delayed by an accident. I thought at first of
postponing my visit till the morning, but it is so urgent--to me, at all
events--that I determined to try and see you to-night."
"It was just as well that you did. I may be called out of London in the
morning."
"Then I am glad that I came. My name is Heredith--Philip Heredith."
Colwyn looked at his visitor with a keener interest. The London