CHAPTER X.

RICHARD GOODRICK’S SECRET

That evening, about the same hour, a rather florid-looking and somewhat over-dressed, elderly man, wearing round-rimmed, gold spectacles, and speaking with a strong American accent, paused at the steps of the house in Charlwood Street. With an effort he composed himself, then ascended the steps and rang the bell.

He wore a soft, grey felt hat, and a fancy vest showed beneath his well-cut black overcoat, while upon his hands were a pair of new dog-skin gloves.

“Say, madam, your name’s Ayres, isn’t it?” he inquired of the woman who answered the ring.

“Yes, sir,” responded the affable landlady inquiringly. “That’s me.”

“And I guess this is the house where a certain Mr. Goodrick, a rather eccentric old gentleman, died the other day--eh?”

The woman replied in the affirmative. Then, in response to another question, the stranger learnt that the body was now lying at the mortuary, and was to be interred at Kensal Green Cemetery the following day.

“Well,” said the American, “my name’s Silas H. Stilwell, of Kansas City. I’ve heard that the old gentleman was a collector of antiques, and, as I’m a collector also, I wondered if you’d mind me having a sight of them--for a consideration, of course,” and, with an ingratiating smile, he pressed a couple of sovereigns into the good woman’s ready hand, adding: “We Americans are always interested in old English curios, you know. We have none of our own. Pardon me coming at this hour, but I’m full up right along, and I sail from Liverpool next Saturday. Been over in Europe two months, you know, and I’ve done Parrus, Ber-line, and Rome, and am just doing London before crossing to the other side. Say, Mrs. Ayres, this is a real grand old city of yours!”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” laughed the landlady, inviting him into the narrow hall. “But we cockneys don’t think so much of it.”

“Just as we don’t reckon much of New York,” said Mr. Stilwell.

“But, you know, sir, I’ve ’ad strick orders from the police not to let anyone see old Mr. Goodrick’s odds and ends. You may be a reporter!”

“Oh! I’m not a Press man,” laughed the American. “You needn’t fear me interviewing you, or anything of that sort. I merely want to have a look round to see what the old man collected. Perhaps some of his things’ll go to the hammer, and I’d like to see them before I go back home, as I could then leave a commission with someone to buy for me.”

“Yes, sir; I expect they’ll be sold. Mr. Medland--that’s the detective-inspector--told me they’re worth a lot o’ money, for it seems that our lodger was an expert in old things. All I knows is that ’e spent money over ’is ’obby when ’e could very ill afford it. ’E’d often go without ’is lunch, and buy some old cracked cup or some bit of old iron with the money.”

“Guess he was a true collector, Mrs. Ayres,” laughed the red-faced man. “To us who know a good piece of pottery when we see it, a really unique specimen is always irresistible. But, according to the papers, he committed suicide. Spent all his money upon his mania for collecting, like so many other educated men have done before him.”

Mrs. Ayres did not contradict him, remembering that she had been instructed by Inspector Medland to keep her own counsel.

The couple of sovereigns would, she was arguing, be honestly earned by showing the American the dead man’s collection, even though the police had forbidden her to allow anyone there. She saw that he was not a reporter, so she slipped the two coins into her apron pocket and requested the caller to follow her, ushering him into the stuffy little back-parlour, and turning up the gas.

The place was even in worse confusion than it had been when Richard Goodrick lived.

“The police have turned everything topsy-turvy,” remarked the woman.

“So I see,” exclaimed the American. “And they’ve broken one or two priceless specimens in their eager haste. Look at that beautiful Spode pastille-burner--quite unique--with the cover smashed.” And he took it from the floor and examined it. “Broken quite recently. It’s a shame--a very great shame.”

“I confess, sir, that I don’t know anything about these old things. Myself, I wouldn’t give ’em ’ouse room,” declared the woman.

“Guess you’d like the money they’ll fetch in a sale-room, Mrs. Ayres!” remarked the American laconically. “Why,” he declared, gazing admiringly around, “there are some things here worth a small fortune,” and, taking up a tiny porcelain bust, he added: “Ah! why here’s a Fulham portrait of ‘Prince Rupert.’ The only other known is in the British Museum!”

“I wouldn’t give such an ugly thing ’ouse room!” repeated Mrs. Ayres.

“My dear madam,” exclaimed her visitor quietly, “if you were a connoisseur you would recognise that this was one of Dwight’s, made about 1680, and his work was undoubtedly the finest and most original production of any English potter. And look!” he cried in admiration. “Say! look at that exquisite slip-ware posset-cup of about the same date. You see the rich yellow tint. That was due to the galena, or lead glaze.”

“Oh, sir, I suppose all the old things is very interestin’, but I must say I like new things I buy at the shop,” exclaimed the woman. “Poor old Mr. Goodrick was always a-talkin’ some of his gibberish about tygs--whatever they were--salt glaze, Delft, Liverpool, and Astbury.”

“Yes. Of those I see some very remarkable specimens, and some beautiful pieces of lustre, too.”

“Well, I’ve got to see after my ’usband’s supper, or there’ll be trouble when ’e comes ’ome,” exclaimed the landlady. “I’ll leave you to have a look round yourself, sir.”

“You’re very trustful of me,” laughed the American. “You read honesty in my face--eh? Wal, you should never trust a collector,” he continued reproachfully.

“Oh, I trust you, sir,” replied the woman, her broad, ruddy face beaming as she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

The stranger listened intently until she had closed the door, whereupon his manner instantly altered.

“What a dastardly shame to have broken that beautiful silver-mounted bellarmine!” he exclaimed, taking up a large fragment of a narrow-necked bottle which bore upon its neck the crude representation of the squat, bearded face of Cardinal Bellarmine, who was so determined a persecutor of the Protestants in 1615. “I expect the police suspected something secreted there.”

Bending, he eagerly turned over a heap of tarnished antique silver and old brass, big leather-bound black-letter books, and a quantity of other odds and ends.

“The old gossip doesn’t suspect me, that’s very evident,” he laughed to himself. “I’ve given off some of the same jargon used by the dead man, and I suppose I’ve impressed her that I possess a special knowledge of old-English pottery. She evidently doesn’t know a Toby jug from a slip-ware cruisken.”

Standing before the fireplace, he gazed around upon the disordered room. Upon the threadbare carpet he saw a dark brown stain--the mark of the life-blood of Richard Goodrick, the man who had formed that miscellaneous collection. It caused him to halt and shudder.

“How strange!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, drawing his hand across his brow. “How very strange it all is! Yes,” and he bent as though to recover something from beneath the table; “Goodrick was in this position, reading something, when his assailant crept up behind and killed him. Yes, I see now exactly.”

Then, detecting a sound, he instantly straightened himself and listened intently.

“I must be quick,” he added to himself in a low, hoarse whisper, “or that woman will return, and my chance may slip by. It is fortunate that she does not suspect. That couple of sovereigns put into her hand was indeed money very well spent.”

Then, rousing himself, he recommenced his eager investigation of the piles of curios heaped just as the police had heedlessly cast them.

With some difficulty he removed a quantity of rusty armour, swords, and helmets from a big, carved dowry-chest, and, lifting the heavy lid, revealed a quantity of parchment books within--volumes which emitted a strong musty odour. In frantic haste he turned them over, but the object which he sought was not there. And he then closed the long, heavy lid with a sigh of disappointment.

“Surely they can’t have found it already!” he gasped in deep anxiety, his accent being no longer that of the American.

He seemed nervous and apprehensive; his hands trembled in his feverish haste.

In his eagerness he turned over pictures, rolls of moth-eaten tapestry, little cases of rare coins, matrices of ancient bronze seals, and other things, until, at last, with a low cry of delight, he came across the centre column of the old Sheffield plate candelabrum of the days of Queen Anne.

It lay concealed beneath an ancient carved Bible-box, and with eager hands he drew it forth, half fearing, it seemed, that his search might, after all, have been in vain. Quickly he took the column in both hands, and, wrenching it, unscrewed the base, and peered breathlessly within.

“Excellent!” he cried in quick exultation. “It’s there. They haven’t seized it after all!”

And, carefully taking out the small roll of neatly-written manuscript, he hastily thrust it into the breast-pocket of his coat, while just at the same moment the shuffling footsteps of the garrulous landlady were heard out in the hall.

Next second she entered the room, ere he could re-screw the two pieces of old plate together.

“Wal,” he exclaimed, reassuming the drawl, with a short laugh, “have you done your cooking, Mrs. Ayres?”

“Almost, sir,” she replied. “I hope you’ve been interested in the old rubbish. I wish they’d clear it all away. I want to ’ave the room re-papered and whitewashed. As it is, it reminds me too much of the poor old gentleman--especially with that horrible stain on the carpet.”

“Who do you expect will clear it away?” asked her visitor, screwing the candlestick together, and replacing it upon the heap with well-feigned unconcern.

“The police will, I hope. The old man ’asn’t any relatives--as far as I know. So I suppose they’ll sell the things, and the proceeds’ll go to the Government. That’s what my ’usband says.”

“Well, when they are put up for sale, I shall be a buyer of some of them, I can assure you, Mrs. Ayres,” declared the American. “We never get such a splendid lot as this for sale on our side. I shall go to a man I know to-morrow, and commission him to buy for me. They are certain to be dispersed at Christie’s.”

“Well, sir, as you know all about such things, how much do you think this lot is worth?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” laughed Mr. Stilwell. “But, as an instance, you see that little Madonna on the wall? The one on panel--of the early Florentine school. It’s a very good picture, is that. I’d give in dollars for it an equivalent in your English money up to five hundred pounds, and think it dirt cheap. It will fetch double at Christie’s.”

“Five hundred pounds!” gasped the woman, staring at him. “What, for that one dark old picture with the chipped frame!”

“Yes. And I can tell you, Mrs. Ayres, that you have in this room certain objects worth several thousands--things which will be bought eagerly by your British or South Kensington Museums. Of course, I see that your late lodger was an undoubted expert. He evidently purchased what was unique. He knew well what he was about.”

“’E was a crank, I tell you,” declared the woman. “He was very tryin’ sometimes, with ’is snarling ways and ’is snappy speeches--but I’m very sorry ’e’s gone, poor old gentleman. What a sad end!”

“Yes,” sighed the American; “a very sad end indeed. I only wish I had had the pleasure of knowing him. With such a knowledge as he betrays by his collection, he must have been a most intensely interesting person.”

“Lor, sir, ’e could talk on any subjec’ you liked. My ’usband used to say as ’ow ’e knew more about politics than even the newspapers did. ’E ’ad a most wonderful memory for people an’ dates an’ speeches an’ the like. ’E’d often, when talking with my ’usband, quote speeches wot were made in Parliament twenty years ago. In fact, sir, old Nosey Goodrick, as they called ’im, was a walkin’ wonder. ’E only ’ad one real friend. ’E was an Italian priest, a shabby, snappy old man.”

“How strange, with all this fine collection, which he could have turned into money at any hour, he chose to put an end to himself when he found his purse empty,” the man remarked. “By the way,” he added, “did you see much of this priest?”

But the woman remained silent. She recollected those strict injunctions of Medland’s to say nothing whatever concerning the actual truth. She knew that Don Mario could not be found. The public were to remain in complete ignorance concerning her lodger’s mysterious end.

“My ’usband ought to be ’ome by now. ’E’s a-workin’ late in the City. It’s just their busiest time at the warehouse now,” remarked Mrs. Ayres, turning the conversation.

“I’d much like to see him, but I fear I must be getting along. I’ve a lot to do before I sail, so I’ll wish you good-evening,” her visitor said in haste. “Be careful that nobody takes away any of these things, for there’s not one object, not even one of those rusty old daggers, which is not worth a good sum.”

“I’ll be careful, sir, never fear, now that I know they’re so valuable,” she assured him.

“I wonder if you could get me a match,” he said, suddenly feeling in his pockets.

“With pleasure, sir,” answered the woman, at once hurrying to the kitchen.

The instant she had gone the American listened, and then bent to the floor near the fireplace, and with a quick movement tore up the corner of the old carpet, whence, from beneath a piece of tattered linoleum over which it had been tacked, he drew a long, faded, blue envelope containing some papers.

In breathless haste he took them out, glanced at them to make certain that they were what he sought, and, just as the woman was re-entering the room, thrust them hurriedly into his pocket.

Two minutes later, as he was hastening along Denbigh Street in the direction of Victoria Station, he laughed to himself and breathed more freely.

“Good!” exclaimed old Mr. Ambrose aloud, for, as the reader has no doubt surmised, the inquisitive American was none other than he, the mysterious man of marvellous evasiveness, of clever subterfuge, and sinister actions. “The fool of a woman suspects nothing! I need have had no fear--she never does. How fortunate that I recollected the envelope beneath the carpet! Had the police discovered it, everything would have been revealed. But I am quite safe--absolutely safe, now that they will not find Don Mario, and the secret of Richard Goodrick is mine--_and mine alone_!”