The Lost Million. Le Queux William

by the bridge, and faced the river – a well-known resort of anglers and summer tourists. But of such things as fishing or scenery I cared nothing on that well-remembered day – the day appointed for me to keep the strange tryst made by the man now dead.

      The wording of Mr Arnold’s injunction was “to be present at the railway station of Totnes at five o’clock.” It did not mention the platform or the booking-office. Examination of the time-table showed that no train arrived at or left Totnes between the hours of four p.m., when the Plymouth train arrived, and the five-fifteen up-train to Exeter and Taunton. There were several expresses, of course, Totnes being on the Great Western main line between Plymouth and London.

      By this fact it seemed that the mysterious man whom I was to meet would already be in Totnes, and would come to the station in order to meet me. All day, therefore, my eyes were open for sight of a man wearing a red tie or a carnation in his coat.

      Mr Arnold had held suspicion that he might be watched. Why? What did he fear?

      I was not to approach him unless he unbuttoned his gloves and removed them.

      All that well-remembered day I idled by the cool rippling river, lingered by the rushing weir, watching the fishermen haul in their salmon-nets, and strolled about the quiet old-world streets of the rather sleepy place, eager for the arrival of five o’clock.

      The station being some distance from the town, I walked down to it about half-past four. The afternoon was blazing-hot, and scarcely anyone was astir, even the dogs were asleep in the shadows, and the heat-slumber was over everything.

      A hundred times had I tried to picture to myself what Mr Arthur Dawnay could be like. In the High Street, earlier in the day, I had seen a young man in tweed Norfolk jacket, obviously a tourist, wearing a red tie, but no carnation, and had followed him unnoticed to a house out on the outskirts of the town, where he was evidently lodging. Was his name Dawnay, I wondered! If he were actually the man whom I was to meet, then he certainly was a very prosaic looking person.

      Still I possessed my soul in patience, and with the dead man’s letter in my breast-pocket I walked through the booking-office and on to the platform.

      Several persons were about – ordinary looking individuals, such as one sees every day at the station of a small provincial town – but there was no man wearing either a red cravat or a carnation.

      I lit a cigarette and strolled up and down the platform where the booking-office was situated. The gate of the up-platform being kept locked, he would be compelled to pass through the booking-office.

      Twice expresses with ocean mails from Plymouth to London roared through, and slowly the hands of the big clock approached the hour of five.

      The appointment must have been made long ago by the man now dead – weeks ago, when he was still abroad; for the letter, I recollected, had been written on board the liner between Naples and London. But the principal point which puzzled me was the reason why the dead man’s letter should be delivered in such secrecy.

      A man with a red tie is very easily distinguishable, and I flatter myself that I possess a very keen eyesight; yet though minute after minute went by till it was already a quarter-past the hour, still no man answering the description given by the late Mr Arnold put in an appearance.

      Presently, on the opposite platform, the express from Plymouth to Bristol came in; and suspecting that he might arrive by it, I dashed up the stairs, two steps at a time, and across the footbridge. When halfway down the stairs I halted, for I could see all over the up-platform.

      Few passengers had alighted, but among them I instantly discerned a man wearing a cravat of scarlet satin. He was smartly dressed in a grey lounge-suit, and in his coat he wore a pink carnation. In his hand was an old-fashioned black ebony cane with silver knob.

      He was standing looking up and down the platform, as though in search of somebody. Therefore I sped down the remaining stairs and quickly approached him, though I had not seen his face distinctly.

      Suddenly, as I was within six yards of him, I recollected the dead man’s written words, and halted short.

      He was still wearing grey suède gloves. He had not removed them; therefore he was suspicious of being watched!

      I lit another cigarette, and with careless air sauntered past him in order to gain a good view of his features.

      He was, I saw, of middle height, and aged about fifty. His clean-shaven face, with heavy, square jaws, was pimply and rather bloated – a face which somehow filled me with repugnance, for it was the countenance of one who was a fast liver and who indulged a little too freely in alcohol. His grey suit, grey soft felt hat, and grey gloves gave to him a certain air of smartness and distinction; yet those small brown eyes, with a peculiar, indescribable expression searching up and down the platform, were the eyes of a man full of craft and double cunning.

      From the first moment I turned my gaze upon him I held him in distinct suspicion; while he, it appeared, in turn held somebody else in suspicion. I looked around, but could not discern anybody who might arouse his misgivings. About us were all honest Devon folk.

      The fact that he had not taken off his gloves still remained. My injunctions were not to approach him if he failed to remove them. He had the air of a bon vivant, even to the manner in which he tucked his ebony cane beneath his arm in order to light a choice cigar.

      Most of the passengers crossed the bridge on their way out, while others made their exit by the little wicket, some of them entering the dusty motor-’bus which plies to Paignton.

      Once, only once, his small narrow brown eyes met mine, and I saw in them a look of quick inquiry and shrewd cunning.

      Then, still wearing his gloves as sign to me to hold aloof, he leisurely crossed the bridge to the down-platform, and strolled along the hot, dusty road into the town.

      As far as I could discern, nobody was watching his movements at all; nevertheless, I could only suppose that he had great cause for precaution, otherwise he would have allowed me to approach and speak to him.

      True, there was a queer, insignificant-looking old lady in rusty black, who had been on the platform when I had arrived, who had crossed the bridge and waited for the train from Plymouth, and who was now making her way back into Totnes in the direction we were walking.

      Could it be possible that he feared her?

      It struck me that he might have recognised that I had travelled there to meet him in place of the man now deceased; therefore I hurried on and got in front so that he might, if he so wished, follow me to the Seymour Hotel.

      But judge my chagrin when at last we entered the main street, and while I turned down towards the bridge, he turned in the opposite direction, thus showing that he had not detected my anxiety to speak with him. And the old lady had followed in his footsteps.

      Suddenly a thought occurred to me. It was surely more than probable that Mr Dawnay was there to meet the man Arnold, in ignorance of his death. Therefore, having allowed him to get on some distance, I turned upon my heel and followed him.

      His movements were certainly curious. He was undoubtedly avoiding the unwelcome attentions of the old lady, who now seemed to be acting in conjunction with a dark-haired, middle-aged man with beetling brows, who wore a shabby brown suit and a last year’s straw hat.

      The man with the red cravat entered an inn in Fore Street, and remained there a full hour, the other man watching in the vicinity. Then, on emerging, he went to a chemist’s, and afterwards turned his footsteps back towards the station.

      I saw that his intention was to leave Totnes. Therefore, in preference to following on foot, I drove to the station in a fly.

      He had never once removed those grey suède gloves, though the day was so hot, for on the up-platform the man in the straw hat was still idling behind him. A number of people were waiting for the train, and I, discerning Mr Dawnay’s intention of travelling, entered the booking-office and bought a ticket for Exeter.

      At last the London express came roaring into the station, when the man whom I was there to meet quickly entered a first-class corridor compartment, and while I remained vigilant,