CHAPTER V.

IS ABOUT UNCLE JOHN

Maidee Lambton, loosening her rich furs, seated herself in the frowsy old arm-chair before the fire, while the quick-eyed old man before her stood upon the hearthrug regarding her long and earnestly, as though hesitating to place confidence in her.

The room, very cheaply furnished, bore the unmistakable air of “weekly payments.” The furniture, covered with embossed red velvet, had once been gaudy, but was now faded and rickety. The recesses each side of the fireplace were filled with dwarf cupboards, upon which were displayed cheap ornaments reposing upon wool mats, while the post of honour was occupied by a case of stuffed birds, much moth-eaten and decayed.

Suddenly the old man turned with a start, saying: “This light is too strong for my eyes to-night,” and crossing to the gas-jet beside the fireplace, he lowered it, apologising for doing so, and adding: “Of late my sight is growing very bad. The glare of these incandescent gas mantles tries them terribly.”

Maidee was surprised. It was the first time through all the years they had been acquainted that old Mr. Ambrose--for that was the name by which he was known to her--had complained of his eyesight.

Left an orphan at the age of three, Lady Ravenscourt had adopted her, and she had lived with Sir George and his wife as their niece, for she usually called them uncle and aunt. After a series of governesses, she had been sent to Eastbourne to school, and afterwards to Versailles and Dresden, concluding with a year in Rome and Florence. It was only about nine months before that she had returned to make her début, and to live permanently at Carlton House Terrace. She had been presented at the last Court, and had a great many admirers, some of them most eligible young men, while on coming of age she would become entitled to nearly eight thousand a year from her late father.

Her acquaintance with old Mr. Ambrose, whom she always called “Uncle John,” was certainly a very romantic one, and began fully twelve years before.

Seated with Miss Denman, her governess, one spring afternoon in Kensington Gardens, the old gentleman had sat upon the same seat, and entered into conversation with them. At first Miss Denman, the very soul of discretion, was disinclined to talk, but, finding him to be quite a harmless and benevolent old gentleman, they chatted. He seemed much struck with little Maidee, who in those days wore her hair tied at the sides with white ribbons, and promised that if they came there next day he would bring her some chocolates.

At first the governess was reluctant, but Miss Maidee, child-like, was anxious for a present, and finally persuaded Miss Denman to take her to keep the appointment.

To the child’s great delight the chocolates proved to be a most beautiful and expensive box, so that Miss Denman marvelled that an old gentleman so meanly dressed could afford to give such elaborate presents. But he seemed infatuated with the child, and thus there commenced Maidee’s curious friendship with an old and somewhat eccentric man who was a perfect stranger.

At first Miss Denman was always with her when they met, and was nothing loath to receive now and then a little present for herself, but as Maidee grew older, and was allowed to go about alone, she grew into the habit of meeting him in secret at various places, and sitting at his side, chattering as a young girl will chatter.

He seemed never tired of hearing all about her home life--of Sir George and his wife, of the brilliant dinners and dances at Carlton House Terrace, and of the visitors who called there.

Sometimes she would notice an expression of sadness, as a deep sigh would escape him when she told him of various people and described their idiosyncrasies. She, petted by everyone who called at her adopted father’s house, already knew half the great ones of London.

And as she grew up she often wondered who the strange old man could really be, and who were his friends.

Once, when she was about fourteen, he had said to her in reply to a question:

“Ah! yes, child. Once I had very many friends, just as you have; but that was long ago. To-day I--I have only you.”

“Only me!” she had echoed, opening her big eyes widely.

And he had smiled at her, and taken her small hand in his own.

“Yes, Maidee,” he had said. “Of course, you don’t know all. You will, perhaps, some day--after I am gone.”

She had not understood him, and sat puzzled. His clothes were old and shabby, his hat frayed and worn, and his old ebony stick, with an ivory ball for handle, was a relic of an age bygone.

They generally met in one or other of the parks, but most frequently in Kensington Gardens, for it was more rural and quieter there.

At rare intervals he would bend and print a fervent kiss upon her white, childish brow; and to her the knowledge that such clandestine meetings, if ever discovered, would result in much trouble at home only added zest to the adventures.

Then she went away to school, and the meetings became few and infrequent. Yet they exchanged letters regularly. Indeed, never through all the years until that night had they been out of touch with one another.

As Maidee grew older she realised that her devoted friend was not so penurious as she had once imagined. True, he lived in cheap lodgings, and changed his abode very frequently; yet he never seemed to be in want of funds. Many little trifles he had given her as souvenirs, but on her eighteenth birthday he had met her at the lodgings he then occupied off the Old Kent Road, and presented her with a beautiful diamond necklet, which he desired her to wear beneath her dress as a token of his esteem and regard.

She wore it always. Even as she sat there in that shabby chair near the fire it was clasped about her white neck and concealed beneath her bodice. Sir George and his wife, of course, knew nothing of all this, for she was always careful to hide the valuable ornament, as she was also to conceal her strange friendship with the old fellow who seemed to lead such a lonely and erratic life.

“Maidee,” he said, crossing the half-darkened room, and seating himself on the opposite side of the fireplace, “I want you to tell me all about the terrible affair at home--all as far as you know. How was the murder discovered?”

She looked at him in surprise, for it suddenly occurred to her that the papers, though hinting at suicide, had not suggested murder.

“How do you know, Uncle John, that Sir George was murdered?” she asked him, looking across at his face hidden in the shadow. Her voice told him that she was greatly surprised at his question.

He started perceptibly and, fidgeting slightly in his chair, replied:

“Er--well--I--I, of course, saw what was in the papers, child, and jumped to a conclusion. Perhaps I’m wrong--eh?” And he cursed himself for his foolishness. The girl was no longer a child; he had forgotten that fact.

His remark had aroused faint suspicions within her mind. Always, through all these years, he had been deeply interested in Sir George’s sayings and doings. Was he now in possession of some secret knowledge concerning the tragedy? Or had he actually guessed the truth?

“Ah!” she replied, “you are not wrong. Sir George was no doubt killed while in the act of writing in his library.”

“By whom?”

“The police have not yet ascertained,” was her response. “He seemed to have written a record of some extraordinary character, for when Burgess discovered him he was still conscious, and begged him with his last breath to destroy what he had penned.”

“He desired to conceal it from the police--eh?”

“Yes.”

“And was it destroyed?”

“No; Burgess gave it to the police.”

“What was its nature?”

“I do not exactly know. Burgess showed it to my aunt, who ordered it to be given to the police. She told me that it gave the name of some man who lived in Pimlico.”

Ambrose started in his chair, and, bending forward towards her in sudden eagerness, asked in that curious husky voice of his:

“What did he write concerning him? Tell me. It is important that I should know--most important. Don’t conceal anything from me, child. Some day you will know the reason I ask this.”

“My aunt told me nothing--except that my uncle had put on record the fact that on the evening before his death he had visited the person in question, and made some extraordinary discovery.”

“A discovery!” gasped the old man, with a strange, haunted look. “Of what nature?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you must at once find out for me,” he said anxiously. “You say Burgess read what Sir George wrote before his death. Then he would tell you, if you asked him! The original you will not see, now that the police have possession of it. Burgess was a fool--an infernal fool!”

“Why?” asked the girl in surprise.

“He should have carried out his master’s wish, and destroyed it.”

“The reason he failed to do so was quite natural. It mentioned a man’s name.”

“A name Sir George evidently wished to conceal,” snapped the old man.

“Apparently so. And the reason of his eagerness has greatly puzzled the detectives.”

A grim smile crossed the old fellow’s features--a smile of cunning.

“No doubt they are puzzled,” he remarked, with a short, harsh laugh. “But, surely, Burgess should have carried out his master’s dying wish. You say he urged the butler to destroy what he had written?”

“Yes. And Burgess promised.”

“Then the man should have kept his promise. A promise to the dying should always be held sacred.”

“Save in such an event as occurred early this morning. For aught the police know, this man living in Pimlico may be the assassin! Perhaps he killed Sir George in order to prevent some secret of his being betrayed!”

“Who suggests that?” asked Ambrose quickly, again leaning forward in eagerness. “Do the police suspect it?”

“I am entirely unaware of their suspicions,” replied the girl. “During to-day Burgess has been submitted to the closest examination by one detective after another. The police informed my aunt this afternoon that they intended to presume suicide at the inquest, in order to be allowed a clear ground in which to hunt for the assassin.”

“Hardly fair to the dead man--is it?”

“Perhaps not, Uncle John; but if the murderer be brought to justice, then it is surely permissible. The truth will be cleared up afterwards,” Maidee said. “Inspector Medland apologised to me for the course they had decided upon at Scotland Yard, and assured me that, even in face of the verdict of suicide, every effort would be made to solve the mystery.”

“But they have no suspicion--eh?” asked the old man in a low, hard voice, scarce above a whisper.

“How can I tell?”

“The inspector did not mention this mysterious person living in Pimlico?” he asked anxiously.

“Well, yes--he did.”

“What did he say?”

“Only that Sir George had evidently made some remarkable discovery which he intended to place on record for the eyes of his executors only, and they, in turn, were to preserve the secret for ten years after his death.”

“Then, no doubt, the record upon which he was engaged when he was so swiftly and silently done to death revealed his discovery!” gasped the old man hoarsely.

His nails pressed themselves into his palms, for next instant he saw by the girl’s manner that, notwithstanding all the precautions he had taken, he had betrayed himself by his suggestion that Sir George’s death was not a case of suicide.

He had been a blundering idiot, a chattering fool--and had aroused her suspicions.

A hard, sinister light shone in the old man’s eyes. If the girl suspected, then she must be silenced! He could not afford to run any further risks.