The Broken Thread. Le Queux William

he is dead,” was the thin-faced woman’s hushed response.

      “Dead!” gasped Raife, staggered. “Then the fellow murdered him!”

      Miss Holt nodded in the affirmative.

      At that moment old Edgson entered with a message. The doctor had returned to see her ladyship.

      Raife barred the old servant’s passage, saying:

      “Miss Holt has told me, Edgson. Explain at once what had happened when you were all alarmed.”

      “Well, Master Raife, I rushed down, sir,” replied the old fellow, white-faced and agitated. “Burton, the footman, got down first, and when I rushed into the library I found the poor master lying on the carpet doubled up, with blood all over his pyjama-jacket. He recognised me, sir, and declared, in a low, weak voice, that the thief had shot him. At first I was so scared that I couldn’t act or think. But, on switching on the lights, I saw the body of a stranger – an elderly man, wearing thin indiarubber gloves – lying near the French window.”

      “Then my father was still conscious?”

      “Quite. I sent Burton to the telephone to ring up Doctor Grant, in Tunbridge Wells, while I did all I could to restore the poor master. He was then quite sensible. With Burton’s aid I managed to get him on to the couch in the bedroom, and then he spoke several disjointed sentences while we waited for the doctor’s arrival. He asked for you, sir, and told me to give you a message.”

      “A message, Edgson! What message did he leave for me?” asked the son, eagerly.

      “His words were these, sir: ‘Tell Master Raife that the blackguard deliberately shot me! Tell him – to be careful – to be wary of the trap. I – I hesitated to tell the boy the truth, but now, Edgson, alas! it is too late!’”

      “The truth!” ejaculated young Remington. “What did he mean, Edgson? What did he mean about being careful of the trap?”

      “Ah! I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the old servant, shaking his head gravely. “Some secret of his, no doubt. I pressed the master to reveal it to me; but all he would reply was: ‘I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, Edgson. This is mine!’ Then he murmured something about ‘her’ and ‘that woman’ – a woman in the case, it struck me, Master Raife.”

      “A woman!” echoed young Remington.

      “So it seemed. But, Master Raife, in my position I couldn’t well inquire further into the poor master’s secret. Besides, her ladyship and others came in at the moment. So he uttered no other word – and died before Doctor Grant could arrive.”

      “But what does this all mean, Edgson?” asked the dead man’s son, astounded.

      “I don’t know, Master Raife,” replied the grave-faced old man. “I really don’t know, sir.”

      “To my mind, it seems as though his secret was, in some mysterious way, connected with the fellow who shot him,” declared the young fellow, pale and anxious. “My poor mother does not know – eh?”

      “She knows nothing, Master Raife. In the years I have been in the service of your family, I have learnt discretion. I have told you this, sir, because you are my master’s son,” was the faithful man’s response.

      “You had no inkling of any secret, Edgson?”

      “None in the least, sir, though I have been in Sir Henry’s service thirty-two years come next Michaelmas.”

      “It’s a complete mystery then?”

      “Yes, sir, a complete mystery. But perhaps you’d like to see the master’s murderer? We’ve taken his body over to the empty cottage at the stables. I’m expecting the detectives from London every minute. Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard for assistance.”

      “Yes. Take me over there, Edgson,” said Raife, boldly. “I wonder if I know him! This secret of my father’s which he intended to reveal to me, though prevented by death, I mean to investigate – to unravel the mystery. Come, Edgson.”

      And the young master – now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet – followed the grave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive, where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock of which, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out the hour.

      Chapter Three

      The Fatal Fingers

      Upon a bench in the front room of the artistic little cottage, the exterior of which was half hidden by Virginia creeper, lay the body of the stranger.

      He was of middle age, with a dark, well-trimmed moustache, high cheek-bones, and hair slightly tinged with grey. He was wearing a smart, dark tweed suit, but his collar had been disarranged, and his tie removed, in the cursory examination made by the police when called.

      Upon his cold, stiff hands were thin rubber gloves, such as surgeons wear during operations. They told their own tale. He wore them so as to obviate leaving any finger-prints. Upon his waistcoat there was a large damp patch which showed where Sir Henry’s bullet had struck him.

      Old Edgson stood beside his young master, hushed and awed.

      “He’s evidently an expert thief,” remarked Raife, as he gazed upon the dead assassin’s calm countenance. The eyes were, closed and he had all the composed appearance of a sleeper. “Have they searched him?”

      “I don’t know, sir,” replied the old man.

      “Then I will,” Raife said, and, thereupon, commenced to investigate the dead man’s pockets.

      The work did not take long. From the breastpocket of his jacket he drew out a plain envelope containing three five-pound notes, as well as a scrap of torn newspaper. The young fellow, on unfolding it, found it to be the “Agony” column of the Morning Post, in which there was, no doubt, concealed some secret message. There were, however, a dozen or so advertisements, therefore which of them conveyed the message he was unable to decide. So he slipped it into his pocket until such time as he was able to give attention to it.

      In the dead man’s vest-pocket he found the return half of a first-class ticket from Charing Cross to Tunbridge Wells, issued four days previously, while in one of the trousers-pockets were four sovereigns, some silver, and in the other a bunch of skeleton keys, together with a small, leather pocket-case containing some strange-looking little steel tools, beautifully finished – the last word in up-to-date instruments for safe-breaking.

      Raife, holding them in his hand, carried them to the window and examined them with keen curiosity. It was, indeed, a neat outfit and could be carried in the pocket without exciting the least suspicion. That the unknown assassin was an expert thief was quite clear.

      Old Edgson was impatient to return to the house.

      “Perhaps her ladyship may be wanting me, sir,” he suggested. “May I go, sir?”

      “Yes, Edgson,” replied the young man. “Tell my mother, if you see her, that I’ll be back presently.”

      And the old servant, with his mechanical bow, retired, leaving his young master with his father’s murderer.

      Raife gazed in silence upon the face of the dead stranger. Then, presently, speaking to himself, he said:

      “I wonder who he is? The police will find out, no doubt. He’s probably known, or he would not have been so careful about his finger-prints. By jove!” he added, “if I’d met him in a train or in the street I would never have suspected him of being a criminal. One is too apt to judge a man by his clothes.”

      The local police had evidently gone through the man’s pockets for evidence of identification, but finding none, had replaced the articles in the pockets just as they had found them. Therefore, Raife did the same, in order that the London detectives might be able to make full investigation. The only thing he kept was the scrap torn from the Morning Post.

      He turned the body over to get