The Lost Million. Le Queux William

no information as to who or what he was.”

      “Melvill Arnold was a most remarkable person,” declared the man in the red tie. “He divided his time between life in London and exploring the remains of the extinct civilisation in Egypt.”

      “Then he lived in Egypt?”

      “Mostly in the deserts. His knowledge of Egyptology was, perhaps, unequalled. The last letter I received from him was from El Fasher, in Darfur.”

      “Arnold was not his real name?”

      “Not exactly his baptismal one,” laughed Dawnay, lightly. “It would hardly have suited him to use that!”

      “What was it? Is there any reason why I should not know?”

      “Yes. I am scarcely likely to betray my dead friend, Mr Kemball.”

      I was silent beneath his stern rebuke. At one moment I felt repulsion when I gazed upon his pimply face, yet at the next I experienced a curious sense of fascination. The mystery of it all had become most tantalising. Thought of the bronze cylinder and what it might contain flashed across my mind, whereupon I asked whether Arnold had had any permanent address in London.

      “No. I usually wrote to him to the Poste Restante at Charing Cross. He was an elusive man always, and when in London – which was on very rare occasions – seemed to change his abode each day. He boasted that he never slept two nights running in the same bed. He had reasons for that – the same reasons, truth to tell, that I had.”

      “He feared the police – eh?”

      Dawnay’s fat face relaxed again into a grim smile. “But now that Arnold is dead I have to secure my own safety,” he exclaimed quickly. “I’m in an infernal trap here in this train. I may be arrested when I step out of it – who knows?”

      “And would arrest entail serious consequences?” I asked slowly, my eyes fixed upon his.

      “Yes, very serious consequences. For myself I don’t care very much, but for another – a woman – it would, alas! be fatal,” he added hoarsely.

      A woman! Did he refer to that remarkable adventuress, details of whose strange career I had read in that old copy of the newspaper?

      I remembered that Arnold, in his letter to me, had appealed to me to assist this man – who was evidently his very intimate friend.

      “You must evade this person who is watching,” I said. “How can it be done?”

      He shrugged his shoulders with an expression indicative of bewilderment.

      A sudden thought occurred to me.

      “You and I are about the same build. Could we not exchange clothes?” I suggested. “At Exeter, you could walk up to the front of the train and escape away, and out of the station, while I will still sit here, my back turned towards the window. The detective will believe you to be still in the train.”

      “Capital?” he cried, starting up. “A splendid plan, Mr Kemball! By Jove! you are resourceful!” And he began quickly divesting himself of coat and trousers. “This train is express to Exeter, therefore we shall not stop at either Teignmouth or Dawlish.” I threw off my coat, vest, cravat, and trousers, and in five minutes had exchanged my garments for his, and had assumed the scarlet tie in place of my own, while he, on his part, got into my suit, which, however, seemed slightly tight for him. He laughed heartily as we stood regarding each other so quickly transformed.

      I assumed the grey suède gloves, slightly large for me, tilted the smart grey hat a little over my eyes, and then ensconced myself against the corridor, so that my back only could be visible when the train drew up at St. David’s Station in Exeter.

      Dawnay went out into the corridor to observe the effect critically.

      “Capital!” he cried. “Capital! Won’t the fellow be done in the eye!”

      “Yes,” I laughed; “it will be really amusing to watch his face when he comes to arrest me.”

      “But he may not come until you get to Paddington – after midnight. And what excuse shall you make for changing clothes with me?”

      “Oh, don’t bother about that,” I said, rather enjoying the prospect of a joke, but little dreaming of the serious predicament in which I was placing myself. “Where shall I meet you again?”

      “Ah! Be careful – be very careful, Mr Kemball. You will no doubt be watched. They will suspect you of an intention to meet me again in secret, and for that reason will keep strict surveillance upon you. Use the name Hamilton Davis, and write to me at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross. That is as safe as anywhere. I shall be in London; but I must be off now, and the moment the train stops I shall be out and away. There’s sure to be a crowd upon Exeter platform. Ah! You can’t tell what a great service you have rendered me in assuming my identity this evening – you have saved me. Good-bye – and a thousand thanks.”

      Then, with a wave of his hand and a merry smile, the elusive person – for such he no doubt was – went forth into the corridor and disappeared.

      I took up my previous position, so that when the train ran into Exeter I was seated with my back to the window, one leg upon the cushion, lazily reading a newspaper which I had found in Dawnay’s pocket.

      Much bustle was going on outside on the platform, and I knew that the police-officer had passed in order to reassure himself that I had not escaped. For perhaps ten minutes I sat there in lazy indolence, until at last the train moved off again, and once more I was free from observation.

      I could not for the life of me discern why the man had feared to be seen in my company. Arnold must have somehow foreseen that his friend would be watched, and had therefore prearranged the sign of the gloves. Perhaps he had expected that another enemy, not the police, would be watching. Yet even there, in the train, Dawnay had expressed fear lest we be observed together. It was a point the full meaning of which I failed to grasp.

      At Taunton we stopped again, and I assumed my attitude just as before, with my back to the window, when of a sudden the carriage door was flung open unceremoniously, and a man’s voice exclaimed —

      “Alfred Dawnay, I am a police-officer and I hold a warrant for your arrest!”

      I roused myself slowly and, facing the man who had addressed me, remarked in a cool voice —

      “I think you’ve made a slight mistake – eh? My name is not Dawnay.”

      The man in the straw hat uttered an ejaculation of surprise and stood staring at me dumbfounded, while a man at his side, evidently one of the Taunton police in plain clothes, looked at us both in wonder.

      “If you are not Dawnay, then where is Dawnay?” demanded the detective quickly.

      “How do I know?”

      “But you are wearing his clothes! You assisted him to escape, therefore you will have to make some explanation.”

      “I have no explanation to offer,” I said. “If you want Dawnay you’d better go and look for him. You have no warrant to arrest me merely because I happen to be wearing clothes resembling Dawnay’s.”

      “Perhaps not, my dear sir,” replied the detective, greatly annoyed at being thus outwitted. “But I tell you it will be better for you to be quite frank and outspoken with us. When did Dawnay leave this train – tell me?”

      “I don’t know,” I replied, which was really the truth. And the chagrin of the two police-officers was now fully apparent.

      “But you’ve rendered yourself liable to prosecution, don’t forget that,” said the man with the straw hat. “That man, Alfred Dawnay, alias Day, is wanted on a very serious charge.”

      “Of what?” I asked quickly.

      “Never mind what. You’ve assisted him to escape, and you’ll have to answer for it.”

      And he closed the door angrily, for the train was again about to move off towards London.

      What, I wondered, was the serious