CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LOVERS

Drawn up in a sheltered spot beyond the Wish Tower at Eastbourne was a bath-chair, and beside it sat a young man in blue serge, idly smoking a cigarette.

The invalid was Maidee, whose sweet face, lying upon the pillow, was pale and wan, and whose dark, deep-sunken eyes bore a strange, intense look as she turned them upon her lover.

Her mysterious attack on the night that Uncle John left London had very nearly proved fatal. The doctor, summoned at once by telephone, was entirely mystified by the symptoms, but suspecting poison when shown the hatpins, at once commenced to administer antidotes, telephoning for one of the best-known toxicologists, who, living close by, in Cavendish Square, came immediately to his assistance.

By their united efforts the life of the unfortunate girl had been saved, though for a week she had remained in a state of coma, hanging upon the brink of the grave. However, by dint of constant effort and careful nursing, she had now sufficiently recovered to be removed to the Grand Hotel at Eastbourne, where Lady Ravenscourt had rented a suite of pleasant rooms overlooking the sea.

Gordon was with her constantly, reading to her, walking beside her chair, or assisting her from one room to the other, for as yet she was too weak to walk without great effort.

He had paired for a month with a man who had gone to Egypt, and had come down to stay at the same hotel, so as to be near the woman he so dearly loved.

Her dangerous illness had brought them closer together. In the hours when he had sat at her bedside in Gloucester Terrace, he had held her hand and laid his very soul bare before her. She, too, knew now that he really loved her--and she was satisfied.

Yet, remembering the strange death of Sir George, she was ever anxious, ever nervous. That a dastardly attempt had also been made upon her life by the same means by which the baronet had been so foully done to death was only too apparent. Gordon knew it, but did not refer to the ghastly subject for fear of arousing terror within her, while she, on her part, kept her own counsel.

One day, when she had sufficiently recovered to receive a visitor, Inspector Medland came to her, and put some more of those strange questions regarding the mysterious Uncle John--the man whose face so closely resembled that of the statue of the dead statesman in Westminster Abbey. Medland had not been open and frank with her on that day when he had induced her to accompany him to the Abbey, and she, on her part, told him little.

She still regarded the strange old fellow whom she had called Uncle John with greatest respect and friendship. Therefore she was indignant with her questioner.

Once only had she written to the old man, addressing the letter to the poste restante at Maçon, an address he had sent her in a carefully worded telegram. She had managed to scrawl a few words telling him what had occurred, though it had been a very difficult task, for she had been so weak that she could hardly hold a pen.

He had received it, for in reply he had sent her a brief telegram of reassurance, urging her to be of good cheer. The telegram had been dispatched from the little French town of Arnay-le-Duc, which she had ascertained to be in the Midi.

The afternoon was bright and sunny, and before her, as she lay back in her chair, stretched the blue, calm expanse of sea. Few visitors were upon the promenade, for it was as yet too early in the season for the cotton-clad seaside girl and her male appendage.

On the right rose the green, breezy slopes of Beachy Head, while to the left ran the pretty promenade to the balconied Queen’s Hotel, and the long white pier.

Gordon had been reading extracts from a new book to her, an interesting account of the fall of the Sultan Abdul-Hamid, and had lain it aside, noticing that she had grown a trifle tired.

“Shall I call the man to take you back to the hotel, dearest?” he asked, bending over her tenderly, and noticing her fragile form.

“No, not yet, Gordon. It is quite warm and pleasant here. It is hardly three o’clock yet, is it?”

“Ten minutes to three,” he said, after glancing at his watch.

“How bright it is, to-day!” she remarked. “Look yonder. Is that a warship--that one far away there, with four funnels?”

“Yes, dear. That’s a first-class cruiser--one of the County class; going down to Portsmouth from Chatham, I suppose. But how do you feel now?”

The girl raised her dark eyes to her lover’s, and with a faint smile replied:

“Better, dear. I thank God I am much better--that He has spared me to you--the man I love.”

“Ah! yes,” he said, his manner changing instantly; “I, too, thank the Almighty always for His great goodness in giving you back to me. You narrowly escaped death, my darling--very narrowly.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, in a weak, faint voice, scarcely above a whisper. “It was intended, Gordon, that I should die.”

“By whom, do you suspect?”

“How can I tell?”

“My own theory, dearest, is that the unknown hand that killed Sir George and that recluse in Pimlico also made the attempt upon you.”

“But how?” she asked, stirring herself slightly. “Rayner is a most faithful maid. One cannot have any suspicion of her--or of any of Mrs. Beresford’s servants. What motive could anyone have to kill me?”

“Are you quite certain of Rayner’s loyalty?” asked the young man dubiously, as he finished his cigarette.

“Oh, Gordon! Think of the years she has been with us. If she were deceitful and flighty, or perhaps had some man at her back, as so many maids have, then it would be different. But surely Rayner is quite above suspicion?”

“Yet on the day following your mysterious attack Lady Ravenscourt told me that Rayner’s actions were very suspicious. I saw her, and I must admit that she looked haggard--full of fear--as though she were afraid of being accused.”

“Your fancy, Gordon,” replied the girl, again smiling faintly.

“But it was she who had access to the hatpins, remember. During your unconsciousness I called in Medland, and he made most exhaustive inquiries. He took possession of the pins, and it was found that all four of them had been infected with some most deadly poison. The Home Office analyst experimented with it. A touch of one of the pins upon a rabbit caused death with almost electrical rapidity, while a cat died in seventy seconds, and a sheep in one hundred and twenty seconds--two minutes.”

“Was it a known poison?” she asked with a slight shudder.

“No,” he replied. “According to the analyst’s opinion your life was saved through the pin first passing through your felt hat. By that means much of the deadly compound was removed, and the poison thus lost some part of its effect.”

“But can’t any expert in poisons recognise it?” she asked eagerly.

Her lover shook his head.

“There is one curious fact, however, which has greatly puzzled them at Scotland Yard, namely, that in several cases--eight or nine during the past few years--cases of wilful poisoning by this selfsame rapid and untraceable poison have been brought before the police, and investigated by Professor Salt.”

“So Medland has told me. He mentioned the name of one poor girl named Weaver, who lived at Camden Town, and was found dead.”

The keen, clean-shaven face of Gordon Cunningham went livid, and he drew back behind the covering of the chair so that Maidee should not discern his confusion.

“I--I believe so,” he managed to exclaim. “But, of course, I am not aware of the details.”

“Tell me, Gordon,” she said after a brief pause, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the sunlit waves upon the yellow shingle. “I want to know your opinion. Do you believe that Sir George’s death was really due to the same poison as that placed upon my hatpins?”

Cunningham hesitated. He stirred uneasily, and then said:

“Well, I hardly know what to believe, dear. The poison administered to Sir George was very rapid in its action, as shown by the fact that he was unable to alarm the household. Besides, you will recollect you told me that there was a tiny punctured hole in the neck. A similar mark was, I hear, upon the neck of Richard Goodrick.”

“There is a great mystery connected with that poor, unfortunate man, is there not?” asked the girl, her eyes fixed upon her lover’s face.

“Only that he was a recluse, I believe. Like many another man, he hated the outside world, and devoted his life to antiquarian study.”

“Nothing more?” she asked, turning her thin, wan face to his.

“Not as far as I am aware. The police certainly failed to find any of his relations. Why?”

“Because, Gordon, I always think that there must have been some very remarkable and close connection between Sir George and that obscure old man in Pimlico,” was her reply.

“Of what nature?”

“Ah! I do not know--except that Sir George found himself in possession of some great secret of the old recluse. By that curious statement this seems conclusively proved.”

“But who killed both men by such subtle means, and with such a master hand?”

“The same person, Gordon, who endeavoured to close my lips,” was her slow, half-whispered reply.

“Who was it? Have you any suspicion?”

“None. Neither have the police. It is all a mystery still. And yet the hand which killed the girl Weaver in Camden Town is, in all probability, the hand which struck down poor Sir George--which prepared my hatpins, so that I should inflict death upon myself.”

“No! no!” cried the young man, starting to his feet, involuntarily. “No, that is not true--I----” Next instant, however, he recovered himself, adding:

“Oh, pray pardon me, Maidee; I’m sorry if I startled you. Only I--I felt that you should not make such a wide-sweeping condemnation. The death of a poor girl in Camden Town long ago can surely have no connection with the dastardly attempt upon you!”

“But the same poison was used,” she exclaimed with a look of apprehension upon her thin white face. “I have escaped on this occasion, but how can I guard against another attempt? If I am marked down as the next victim, death may lurk in anything.”

“No, no,” he cried, endeavouring to reassure her. “Thank God that this attempt has failed. And we will be careful that there is not another. We will act together--we will devote every day, nay, every hour of our lives, to the unmasking of the murderer!” he added, again taking her thin, trembling hand in his.

“But, Gordon, I--I feel I am in peril--in deadly peril!”

“No, darling. With me at your side you are safe, I assure you--quite safe,” he cried in a strange voice. “Rest assured. Trust in me--and no harm shall befall you.”

And she looked up into his pale, determined face and saw fervent love and passionate affection mirrored there.

Gordon Cunningham loved her, and would soon make her his wife.

Sweetly she smiled, while he, glancing round to make sure they were not observed, bent until his lips touched hers.

“My darling!” he murmured softly. “My darling, no further harm shall ever come to you. I will never rest until I know whose criminal hand it was that prepared the awful death for you--_never_!”

And he turned away for a moment to hide the hard, haggard look upon his countenance, for terror showed in his eyes.

Was it that before them there had arisen the pale, ghostly vision of the soft-haired little typist--the dead girl, Helen Weaver?