The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

V. Mammon’s Treasure House

       VI. Kitty

       VII. Mr Villiers Pays a Visit

       VIII. Madame Midas Strikes ‘Ile’

       IX. Love’s Young Dream

       X. Friends in Council

       XI. Theodore Wopples, Actor

       XII. Highway Robbery

       XIII. A Glimpse of Bohemia

       XIV. A Mysterious Disappearance

       XV. Slivers in Search of Evidence

       XVI. Mcintosh Speaks His Mind

       XVII. The Best of Friends Must Part

       XVIII. M. Vandeloup Is Unjustly Suspected

       XIX. The Devil’s Lead

       Part II

       I. Tempus Fugit

       II. Disenchantment

       III. M. Vandeloup Hears Something to His Advantage

       IV. The Case of Adele Blondet

       V. The Key of the Street

       VI. On Change

       VII. The Opulence of Madame Midas

       VIII. M. Vandeloup Is Surprised

       IX. A Professional Philanthropist

       X. In the Fernery

       XI. The Vision of Miss Kitty Marchurst

       XII. A Startling Discovery

       XIII. Diamond Cut Diamond

       XIV. Circumstantial Evidence

       XV. Kismet

       XVI. Be Sure Thy Sin Will Find Thee Out

       Epilogue. The Wages of Sin

      Prologue.

       Cast Up by the Sea

       Table of Contents

      A wild bleak-looking coast, with huge water-worn promontories jutting out into the sea, daring the tempestuous fury of the waves, which dashed furiously in sheets of seething foam against the iron rocks. Two of these headlands ran out for a considerable distance, and at the base of each, ragged cruel-looking rocks stretched still further out into the ocean until they entirely disappeared beneath the heaving waste of waters, and only the sudden line of white foam every now and then streaking the dark green waves betrayed their treacherous presence to the idle eye. Between these two headlands there was about half a mile of yellow sandy beach on which the waves rolled with a dull roar, fringing the wet sands with many coloured wreaths of sea-weed and delicate shells. At the back the cliffs rose in a kind of semi-circle, black and precipitous, to the height of about a hundred feet, and flocks of white seagulls who had their nests therein were constantly circling round, or flying seaward with steadily expanded wings and discordant cries. At the top of these inhospitable-looking cliffs a line of pale green betrayed the presence of vegetation, and from thence it spread inland into vast-rolling pastures ending far away at the outskirts of the bush, above which could be seen giant mountains with snow-covered ranges. Over all this strange contrast of savage arid coast and peaceful upland there was a glaring red sky—not the delicate evanescent pink of an ordinary sunset—but a fierce angry crimson which turned the wet sands and dark expanse of ocean into the colour of blood. Far away westward, where the sun—a molten ball of fire—was sinking behind the snow-clad peaks, frowned long lines of gloomy clouds—like prison bars through which the sinking orb glowed fiercely. Rising from the east to the zenith of the sky was a huge black cloud bearing a curious resemblance to a gigantic hand, the long lean fingers of which were stretched threateningly out as if to grasp the land and drag it back into the lurid sea of blood; altogether a cruel, weird-looking scene, fantastic, unreal, and bizarre as one of Dore’s marvellous conceptions. Suddenly on the red waters there appeared a black speck, rising and falling with the restless waves, and ever drawing nearer and nearer to the gloomy cliffs and sandy beach. When within a quarter of a mile of the shore, the speck resolved itself into a boat, a mere shallop, painted a dingy white, and much battered by the waves as it tossed lightly on the crimson waters. It had one mast and a small sail all torn and patched, which by some miracle held together, and swelling out to the wind drew the boat nearer to the land. In this frail craft were two men, one of whom was kneeling in the prow of the boat shading his eyes from the sunlight with his hands and gazing eagerly at the cliffs, while the other sat in the centre with bowed head, in an attitude of sullen resignation, holding the straining sail by a stout rope twisted round his arm. Neither of them spoke a word till within a short distance of the beach, when the man at the look-out arose, tall and gaunt, and stretched out his hands to the inhospitable-looking coast with a harsh, exulting laugh.

      ‘At last,’ he cried, in a hoarse, strained voice, and in a foreign tongue; ‘freedom at last.’

      The other man made no comment on this outburst of his companion, but kept his eyes steadfastly on the bottom of the boat, where lay a small barrel and a bag of mouldy biscuits, the remnants of their provisions on the voyage.

      The man who had spoken evidently did not expect an answer from his companion, for he did not even turn his head to look at him, but stood with folded arms gazing eagerly ahead, until, with a sudden