CHAPTER XII.

TO FACE THE MUSIC

By the firelight that same afternoon in the narrow, dingy sitting-room in Walworth old John Ambrose sat at ease in his shabby arm-chair. The tall, thin, sad-faced Roman Catholic priest with whom he had been chatting earnestly had just risen and left him.

Ambrose had resided there nearly two months, and, as he mused, he contemplated changing his abode.

“I’ve been here too long. Mario is right!” he croaked to himself as he warmed his hands, for outside it was bitterly cold, with a rough wind and driving sleet.

The quiet back street, the lamps of which were not yet lighted, looked inexpressibly dull and dismal.

With his white beard, his longish, silvery hair and his tall, spare figure, he presented the exact replica of the appearance of Richard Goodrick, the man now in his grave at Kensal Green. Yet only at home, at his lodgings, or wherever he met Maidee, did he assume that patriarchal appearance. He was a man of a hundred faces and as many disguises--a past-master in the art of assuming various characters and acting the parts to perfection.

A book lay open on the table--a dry-as-dust volume upon ecclesiastical architecture--while beside it were his big spectacles, and the _Hitopadesa_ in the original Sanscrit text, which, until Don Mario had called to consult him in confidence, he had been diligently studying. From a room somewhere at the back of the house came the muffled twanging of a mandoline played by a young Italian waiter of the Hotel Cecil, who was a fellow-lodger, and had brought his instrument with him from his native Tuscany.

“In some senses I’m safe enough here,” the old man argued with himself. “Yet it would certainly be judicious to make a move. Would that I dare leave London! But I cannot. No; I must remain near Maidee. Yet is it not almost time I threw off this disguise? Someone might perchance recognise my close resemblance to old Goodrick; and, if so, then any explanation would be exceedingly awkward. Each hour that I live in the disguise of the dead man increases my peril. Yes; I will take Mario’s advice. I must end it. I shall be safer--far safer--in the guise of a gentleman.”

The twanging of the mandoline recommenced in the back room as the young man sang one of the old stornelli of the Tuscan peasantry:

La mattina pel fresco e un bel cantare, Quando le Dame sentono l’amore; E stanno in su quell’ uscio a ragionare: Chi l’avera di noi quel bel garzone? E stanno in su quell’ uscio a far consiglio: Chi l’avera di noi quel fresco giglio?

“Ah!” sighed the old man, listening intently to the words. “How often, years ago, have I heard that sung in the maizefields and vineyards of the glorious Val d’Arno! The merry laughter of the women at work before their doors, plaiting the straws; the jangling of the convent bells; the slow tread of the white oxen at the plough--yes--they all come back to me now, those days of my bright, careless youth in the sunny land of the olive and the vine. I wonder whence the young fellow comes?” he added. “I must speak to him one day--he might be useful.”

Scarcely had the words fallen from his lips when he heard someone ascend the front-door steps and ring. Quickly he glanced out of the window, and saw, to his surprise, that it was Maidee.

In a moment he put on his heavy-rimmed spectacles, and opened the door, welcoming her warmly.

“Why, you’re in total darkness, Uncle John!” cried the girl, groping along the mantelshelf for the matches.

“Because of my eyes, my dear,” was the old man’s response. “I rest them all I can. But light the gas--of course.”

Maidee did as she was bid, while he lowered the dirty venetian blinds, and then drew a chair beside the fire for her.

Without invitation she threw off her long seal-skin coat, took off her gloves, and then sat with her neat feet upon the fender, laughing merrily at the man who, through all those years, had been her close friend and confidant.

“I didn’t expect you on such a night, child,” the old fellow said, looking straight into her face with his strangely sinister expression.

“I came because I want particularly to see you, Uncle John,” she replied seriously. “I want to ask you about Gordon.”

“About Gordon!” echoed Ambrose in surprise. “What about him?”

“Well, I feel certain there is something very wrong. Of late he is pale, agitated, nervous--quite unlike his usual self. What does it all mean? Why did you forbid me the other day to tell him anything concerning the real cause of poor uncle’s death?”

Ambrose--the man of many faces--held his breath. The girl’s question was a facer.

But, with that marvellous cunning which characterised his every utterance, he merely remarked:

“He seems nervous and pale, you say? Perhaps it is owing to overwork. He leads a very strenuous life, you must recollect.”

“No,” the girl declared, “it is more than overwork. He has some terrible anxiety upon his mind. I’ve watched him--and I’m quite certain of it.”

“Of what nature do you suspect--eh?”

“Oh, how can I tell!” she cried. “I’m terribly worried over him. He excuses himself by saying that he is hard at work upon another book. But surely that would not account for his extreme anxiety and nervousness. He starts in terror at the least sound or unusual movement.”

“Nerves unstrung--wants a change,” the old man almost snapped.

“He won’t take my advice, and go away. He is wanted in the House, he declares. But, Uncle John,” she added in a changed voice, “you’ve always been so open and straightforward with me, do tell me the reason I may not explain to him that my poor uncle did not take his own life?”

“My dear, there is a very strong reason,” he replied evasively.

“But what is it? Surely the secret need not be withheld from him!”

“Have not the police given you the strictest injunctions to preserve silence?” he asked. “You and I intend to bring the assassin to justice; therefore our very first duty is to regard the instructions of the authorities. They are utterly in the dark, it is true, while we are--or, at least, I am--in possession of certain facts. These, however, will be rendered entirely useless the instant the true cause of Sir George’s death leaks out.”

“I hardly understand,” she said. “I do not follow you.”

“My child,” he exclaimed a trifle impatiently, “as I told you the other day, act as I direct you, and leave the rest to me. You surely know me sufficiently well to be aware that I have your welfare at heart--as well as that of your lover.”

“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “You have been so very good to me, Uncle John. I know you are acting for my welfare, and with a view to avenging the death of my dear uncle. Yet, somehow, strange apprehensions have seized me--why, I cannot tell.”

“Not at all surprising!” exclaimed the old man in a thin voice. “The shock of the horrible discovery, no doubt, upset your nerves, and you now imagine all kinds of wild things.”

“But the point I want to clear up is: Who killed Sir George?”

The old man, his thin lips a trifle pale, shrugged his shoulders.

“At present,” he said in a low voice, “we cannot tell.”

“Someone entered the house with him on that fateful night--I feel certain of it,” cried the girl. “And the person who entered must have been one of his friends!”

“Perhaps so. But--well, what is the use of forming any theories without some firm basis for them, my child?” he said. “At present it is too early to discuss the affair. We have only to remain silent--to wait and to watch.”

“But are you certain of success, Uncle John?” asked the girl, looking into the old man’s shrewd eyes.

“In this world nothing is certain, my dear,” was the quiet reproof. “I can only do my utmost. So leave everything to me. By the way,” he added, as though in afterthought, “I have something to show you. I wonder if I can find it,” and, rising, he took a candle from the cupboard beside the fireplace and lit it. Then he went to the other cupboard near where she was seated, and began rummaging among some books.

Suddenly as he did so there was a flash of bright light, a sharp fizzling sound, and an odour of burnt hair filled the place.

“Ah!” shrieked the old fellow in dismay. “Look at what I’ve done!”

And Maidee, turning quickly, saw that his handsome white beard had been nearly wholly destroyed by the flare of the candle.

He looked hideously grotesque as he straightened himself and faced her.

“What a great pity!” she exclaimed. “How very unfortunate!”

“Yes,” he said, with a laugh. “I must shave it all off now, I suppose. It is, after all, very annoying. How I managed it I don’t know.”

“Why, when you have shaved it off, Uncle John, I really shan’t know you,” declared his fair visitor.

“Well, if you’ll wait a minute or two, I’ll just take it all off. I can’t go about like this, can I? Phew! What a horrid smell!”

And he opened the door and ascended to the stuffy little back bedroom on the second floor, leaving her seated before the fire to ruminate upon his refusal to satisfy her suspicions. On his way he met his landlady, showed her the evidences of his misfortune, and received her condolences. The handsome white beard in which her lodger took such pride had been utterly destroyed.

Upstairs, the cunning old fellow quickly removed its remains bodily, and, having scraped his chin over with a razor, clipped his hair short in the best manner he could--rendering it rather ragged withal--then returned to Maidee.

His changed appearance caused her to stare aghast. Then she burst out laughing.

“Well, Uncle John!” she cried, “if I had met you in the street I certainly should never have known you. The absence of beard has made you look twenty years younger. You must always remain so. You look quite smart!”

“Do I?” asked the old fellow, smiling contentedly. “Then my misfortune is beneficial, after all--eh?”

“Most beneficial. Your appearance has entirely changed, and certainly for the better. You look now just as you used to look when I was a little girl, and we used to sit together in the parks.”

“Ah! you remember, then, that I had no beard in those days!”

“Of course, I remember! How can I ever forget my dear Uncle Jack, who was almost as a father to me, even though we had to meet in secret and bribe nurses and governesses not to tell,” she laughed. “Lately I’ve often thought of your friend Don Mario. He was always so kind to me. Where is he?”

Ambrose was silent, looking at her strangely with a fond, loving expression, which showed how deeply he was attached to the child now grown to be a woman.

And she, ignorant that the sudden and complete change in his personal appearance had been purposely effected, was greatly gratified by it.

“Oh,” he replied at last, “Mario went back to Italy long ago. He was very fond of you.”

Presently the fat landlady brought in the tea-tray, with two cups, and the strange pair sat over their meal in cosy comfort, the sweet-faced girl pouring out tea daintily, and handing it to the man so suddenly rejuvenated.

“What was it that you intended to show me?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied. “Only a rather rare little book of poems I bought the other day, which I thought you would like. I’ll find it, and give it to you when next you call,” was his careless reply, as he attacked a piece of toast.

Then, after about half an hour, Maidee put on her furs and gloves, and they both went forth to seek a taxi.

“You do look strange, Uncle John!” she declared, laughing merrily as together they turned into the busy Walworth Road. “I can’t help looking at you!”

“Well, I’m glad my appearance is not rendered more hideous,” he said, as he hailed a passing cab. And then, bidding her adieu, saw her into the vehicle, which sped away back to Gloucester Terrace.

Ambrose, on his return to his room, threw off his overcoat, and gave vent to a low laugh of triumph.

“One change has been satisfactorily effected,” he muttered to himself. “There is still another thing. Shall I do it?” he asked himself, standing by the fire and gazing thoughtfully upon the carpet. “Shall I do it? Is it really wise?”

He removed his spectacles and paced the room deep in thought, a strange, weird figure with aquiline features, roughly cut hair, and clean-shaven face.

Then, lighting his candle, he ascended to his room.

Returning presently, he ordered the tea-things to be cleared away, and, locking the door very carefully after the landlady had left, he sat down at the table, and drew from his pocket the faded blue envelope which he had secured from beneath the carpet of the dead man’s room in Pimlico.

The papers it contained--thin, flimsy papers, covered with minute writing, with two official-looking documents bearing signatures and seals--he spread before him, and slowly read them. For his age, he possessed wonderfully keen eyesight, being able to read the smallest print by gas-light.

Presently he rose, and, taking a stubby piece of pencil from the mantelpiece, he re-seated himself, and made rapid calculations upon the back of the envelope, which, from its appearance, had been carried in the pocket for a long time before being concealed.

The calculations were of money, and ran into thousands of pounds.

As he placed them on paper a grim smile crossed his thin lips and a strange expression lit up his crafty eyes.

Then, from the same pocket, he drew forth the precious piece of paper which the dead man had so cunningly concealed within the stem of the old Queen Anne candelabrum, and, unrolling it, he read it through from end to end--three times, as though in order to impress it upon his memory.

As he did so the third time he sighed, his brows slowly knit, and he appeared both puzzled and apprehensive.

“Suppose he suspected!” exclaimed the strange old man aloud in a low, half-frightened whisper. “Suppose the police--but--but no!” he laughed; “I am again merely raising a phantom in order to terrify myself. Nobody suspects--nobody can possibly know. Therefore I am safe--quite safe! Ah!” he chuckled weirdly to himself, as his thin fingers clenched into his palms. “Revenge! Yes, I shall have my revenge, after waiting all these long years--living unknown and unforgotten.”

Slowly the man of subterfuge rose to his feet, his face pale, hard drawn, with an expression upon it of hate and anger.

“Yes--yes!” he said hoarsely. “I’ll do it. Then I shall be quite safe. Nobody must learn the secret written here--nobody. I have no person in whom I can trust, upon whom I can rely--except Don Mario and Maidee, and--and, alas! she’s in love with Gordon!”

He turned to the table, and his thin, claw-like hands closed upon the precious papers which he had so cleverly contrived to secure. With his pale, thin lips pressed together, he tore the papers into pieces, and then, with an exultant cry, he cast them upon the fire.

“And so,” he chuckled to himself as he watched the sparks brighten and die from the blackened tinder, “and so the strange secret of Richard Goodrick and the mystery of his death will ever remain concealed from all the world--_save myself_!”

Hardly had the words fallen from his lips when there came a loud rap at the door and the sharp voice of his landlady, saying:

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mr. Ambrose.”

The old man started, slipped on his spectacles, unlocked the door noiselessly, and threw it open.

As he did so he found a figure upon the threshold, which, though differently dressed, he instantly recognised.

He fell back in speechless amazement.

It was the man whom he had seen giving evidence at the inquest upon the body of Richard Goodrick, the very last man he desired to face--Detective-Inspector Medland!