CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MARBLE FACE

The early days of March.

The afternoon was dull and wintry, with a dispiriting greyness hanging over London.

Big Ben, high above, had just chimed, and the great bell had boomed forth three o’clock.

In Parliament Square, that little oasis of green grass in Westminster, the traffic of motor-’buses and taxi-cabs was increasing, and foot passengers, wrapped warmly against the east wind, hurried to and fro up Victoria Street, Whitehall, and over Westminster Bridge.

Within Westminster Abbey, in the grand old north transept--the entrance to which is in Parliament Square--all was hushed, gloomy and gradually darkening. The huge old pile stood mysterious and full of deep shadows on that grey, depressing, windy afternoon.

The noise of the traffic did not penetrate within those time-mellowed precincts, where the dim light struggled red, blue and orange through the magnificent rose-windows, showing the figures of the apostles in ancient glass. The high groined columns, the vaulted roof, and the dark, solemn interior, vast and gloomy, with its many splendid monuments and statues standing forth in relief, impressed the small crowd of sightseers which, year in, year out, are never absent from England’s most historic abbey.

In the Statesmen’s Corner--just as one enters from the hurry of Parliament Square--many visitors of various tongues came and went. They paused, conversing in whispers before the two rows of life-sized statues of the departed great; Gladstone, Beaconsfield, the Cannings, Pitt, Peel and the others, reflecting, admiring and remembering, for that, and Poets’ Corner in the south transept, opposite, are the two most sought-for spots by the hundreds of thousands of strangers who annually make a pilgrimage to Westminster.

The double row of illustrious British statesmen, each upon his circular pedestal, and each in characteristic attitude, stood silent, impressive, almost ghostly, in the gloom, while those who entered stood by, consulting their guide-books.

Surely no corner of our giant London, the hub of the hustling modern world, is so full of memories of the great--of the men who made the British Empire what it is to-day--than that spot, and on that afternoon one overheard expressions of admiration in a dozen tongues.

Of the many who passed by probably not one noticed, back in the deep shadow, just within the door, an elderly, ill-dressed and rather decrepit-looking man, white-haired and white-bearded, and wearing a shabby, snuff-coloured overcoat, who had paused to rest upon one of the old oak benches.

Unseen, he sat motionless, his pale face turned towards one of the high marble effigies--that of a statesman in the robes of a doctor of laws, a noble, handsome-looking man with prominent nose, rather high cheek-bones, his right hand across his breast, and his left at his side. It stood close to the statue of Gladstone, and its circular base bore in great bold, black letters the simple inscription:

ERECTED BY PARLIAMENT To The Right Honourable The Earl of Ellersdale, K.G., Twice Prime Minister of England.

Born 1832. Died 1890.

With its back to one of the high, round Norman columns on the left, it stood out in strong relief, with a softly tempered light, shed from a long stained-glass window, revealing the clear-cut profile. The light from the window behind fell directly across it, bringing it into more prominence than the statues on either side, rendering the sculptor’s masterpiece an almost speaking effigy of the dead Premier as he had so frequently been seen in the House of Commons in the act of delivering one of his world-famous speeches.

The shabby old man sitting back in the shadow was well known to the black-gowned vergers. He haunted the precincts of the Abbey at all hours. Often he would remain there a whole day, wandering up and down the nave, or along the ancient cloisters. Sometimes he would wish them a whispered “good-day,” but generally, with his shabby old silk hat in his hand, he would shuffle on aimlessly, now and then sitting upon a bench to rest.

He would have no doubt been warned off as a suspicious character long ago had not the officials known him for years. They called him “Old Chestnut,” on account of the colour of the threadbare overcoat which he had worn summer and winter ever since his first appearance there. He was a trifle eccentric, they declared, like many of those strange characters who frequent our public buildings, and just as harmless as the little old woman in faded black shawl who came every morning for years and sat for one hour upon a certain bench in the south transept before the bust of Thackeray, her lips moving as though in prayer.

“Old Chestnut”--for nobody knew his real name--sometimes entered the Abbey as soon as it was opened to the public and did not leave till closing time, on such occasions surreptitiously consuming dry biscuits from his pocket. Now and then he would join parties of visitors and be conducted by one of the vergers, who explained the various historic portions of the Abbey. This he had done dozens of times, always giving the verger a tip, just like the rest of the sightseers.

On other occasions, apparently in order that the people should regard him as a stranger, he would carry a tattered Baedeker and pretend the greatest interest in all he investigated.

With the man who sold guides and post cards at the stall just outside the north door he was on terms of friendship, and would spend hours chatting with him. Indeed, on occasions he would keep an eye upon the stall if the vendor of guides had reason to absent himself.

Many theories had been put forward by the officials of the Abbey, from the Dean himself down to the sweepers, regarding the reason of the old man’s regular attendance there. As far as could be gathered, there was no special attraction for him in the silent, gloomy interior, save that he seemed to delight in wandering among the monuments of the illustrious dead, at the same time watching the constant stream of the living.

That afternoon as he sat back in the shadow resting, one of the vergers nodded across to him, and he returned the salute with a quiet smile, as though gratified by the recognition. Ever since early morning he had been wandering about, and was now resting in Statesmen’s Corner with the monument to the great Lord Ellersdale straight before him, his eyes half-closed, his thin, clasped hands resting upon his cherry stick, his old silk hat placed carefully at his side.

In the gloom of the great nave the dark figure of a tall man halted and stood watching him, unseen--a thin man with a yellow face--Don Mario.

Only for a moment he watched, then, apparently satisfied, he turned upon his heel and walked out, like an evil shadow, a strange, sinister smile upon his hard features.

Though half asleep, “Old Chestnut” was nevertheless watching with keen interest a party of American women, some of whom wore blue veils, being conducted around by a guide.

“The Statesmen’s Corner,” the man was saying in his parrot-like way; “here are buried the greatest of England’s statesmen during the past two centuries. Gladstone and Beaconsfield you see stand side by side with that smaller monument between them; the Cannings in a group, and that, yonder, is Ellersdale, and is declared by critics to be the finest piece of sculpture of the whole. Perhaps it is owing to its better position, with a better light, that it is the more noticeable--but in any case it is a fitting monument to the great statesman who, in more than one serious crisis, was the saviour of his country.”

“He was a fine man, and always a good friend of the United States, anyway,” declared one of the women, and then the party moved across to the south transept--to Poets’ Corner.

The old man’s eyes followed the party, and an amused expression crossed his white face.

The quaint opinions of American tourists often caused him to smile. Sometimes the ignorance of English history displayed by questioners was utterly amazing, and many most extraordinary questions had he overheard in the course of his long years of idling within those time-mellowed, historic precincts. Sometimes--in order to kill the hours, it seemed--he would explain things to a party of country cousins--working people who could not afford to pay the fee for a guide. He knew the Abbey as well as the vergers themselves, and certainly when he spoke it was evident that he possessed a deep and profound knowledge of its history and antiquities.

The party of Americans passed away into the gloom, and the corner where he sat again became silent and deserted. That was no unusual thing. Sightseers usually came in batches. If one person paused before a monument, then another would be attracted to the same spot, and another and another, and so on.

Big Ben had just rung out the notes of the quarter, and so dark had it now become that the electric lights had been switched on in the more remote parts of the nave, the little lamps glowing like stars in the vast, black void of the great interior.

Of a sudden the door close to where the old man was seated opened, and two figures entered from Parliament Square--a man in a dark overcoat, accompanied by a slim, well-dressed young girl in black, wearing a large hat, a long sealskin coat and a veil.

“It is just here,” exclaimed the man briskly, as they passed by where “Old Chestnut” was seated. “See, at the corner--the one standing out there in the light.”

And both walked straight on towards the statue of the dead Premier, the man conversing with his companion in low, hushed whispers.

The man concealed in the shadow regarded them idly, but suddenly it seemed as though in their backs he recognised something familiar, for he bent forward, half rising from his seat, eager and uncertain.

The pair had halted before the statue of the Earl of Ellersdale, and the girl was bending forward as she read the inscription. Then, looking up at it, she stood for a few moments quite motionless.

The man was speaking--whispering rapid questions into her ear. But she neither responded, nor did she move. It seemed as though the marble features of the illustrious deceased held her in strange fascination.

Both their backs were turned to the silent, unseen watcher, and at that distance, in the falling gloom, it had become difficult to distinguish detail.

He saw, however, that the man placed his hand upon the girl’s arm, and pointing upwards, asked her something. She replied, whereupon the man slowly nodded.

Then the girl, suddenly turning her face from the lifelike sculptured features, addressed some quick questions to her companion, to which he made reply.

The old man, even at that distance, could overhear their whispering.

For a few moments the pair stood, their backs still turned, both their faces raised in eagerness to the marble effigy, standing forth white and ghostly in the dim, religious twilight.

The man’s gloved hand was raised, and he spoke to the girl, as though he were pointing out the marvellous handiwork of the most famous sculptor of the day. She whispered rapidly, moving further forward to obtain a better view of the profile of the marble features.

Then he raised his hand again as, side by side, they stood in apparent amazement.

The quick action of “Old Chestnut” at that moment was curious. He had swiftly withdrawn deeper into the shadow beside the door, back into a niche near an old sixteenth century tomb, where he hoped to escape observation.

Sight of the strangers had startled him. His thin lips were pressed together as he stood staring at them, almost terrified, for they had both turned to retrace their steps slowly to the door. Then he turned his back, and became interested in the crumbling old tomb.

His suspicions had become confirmed. He stood aghast.

The serious, earnest girl who had been there to inspect the statue of the late Earl of Ellersdale so closely was none other than Maidee Lambton, while her companion was Detective-Inspector Medland!

The pair, walking together and conversing in low whispers, passed close by the pale-faced, anxious old man who, in the gloom, had his back still turned to them, and then went out again into the noise and bustle of Parliament Square.

And the weird and silent watcher, gazing at the closed door after they had disappeared, stood with a look of abject terror upon his white, haggard countenance.

“Then my secret is out!” he whispered hoarsely to himself. “_They know the truth!_”