CHAPTER VIII.

THE MAN OF THE MOMENT

A tall, slim, dark-haired, athletic-looking young man of twenty-six was lounging in a big arm-chair in the saloon of Boodle’s, idly smoking a cigarette and gazing out into the winter gloom of St James’s Street.

His clean-shaven, aquiline face showed shrewdness and cleverness, but his knit brows betrayed a deep seriousness somewhat alien to his nature. He was a merry, easy-going, good-looking fellow, very popular in the clubs and in society, for he was hailed on every hand as a coming man.

The younger son of Gilbert Cunningham, of Cunningham, in Devonshire, who had held office as an Under-Secretary of State, he had, on coming of age, inherited an ample income from his aunt, old Lady Lindley-Bruce. In addition to his brilliant University career, he had distinguished himself by travelling in the Near East, more especially in Albania and the disturbed districts of Macedonia, and writing the most thorough and comprehensive account ever published of the tangle of politics concerning those distressful countries.

In Parliament a Cabinet Minister had quoted the young man’s words and declared them to be a solemn warning to England, hence the Press had taken up the book, and in a week Gordon Cunningham found himself famous.

From that moment he had never remained idle, and had steadily progressed. He was constantly travelling, constantly writing, and constantly being interviewed. At the last General Election he had stood successfully for the Kingsbridge Division of Devonshire, and in the House had given a maiden speech upon the Turkish maladministration in Macedonia which had been listened to with great interest and had been the subject of a leader in the _Times_ next day.

Both parties had declared Gordon Cunningham to be a very brilliant young man whose political career was assured. At Kingsbridge he had, by dint of sheer hard work and constant speaking, turned a minority into a big majority, and had received the hearty congratulations of the Prime Minister himself.

He had followed in his father’s footsteps, for Gilbert Cunningham had distinguished himself in the House, and afterwards at the Foreign Office. Like father, like son, was vividly illustrated in his case, for as he sat there idling at Boodle’s, his face was almost the exact replica of the picture of his dead father which hung in the long gallery at Cunning ham Court overlooking Dartmoor.

The short winter’s day was fading. Outside, in the street, passers-by hurried along beneath streaming umbrellas, and already the gas-lamps were being lit everywhere. Yet the young man still sat, his eyes fixed before him moodily, taking no notice of the group of men who were gossiping by the fire on the other side of the great, old-fashioned room; taking no notice either of the fact that a shabby, ill-dressed old Roman Catholic priest had taken shelter from the rain in a doorway opposite.

He had just returned from the funeral of Sir George Ravenscourt, which had taken place in the village churchyard at Pyrton, at the foot of the Chiltern Hills, where the Baronet had a pretty week-end house on the hill above Cuxham.

It had been a very solemn and depressing ceremony. A special train had been run from Paddington to Watlington, the nearest station, and by it a large assembly of the dead man’s personal and political friends had travelled, among them many whose names were as household words.

No ladies had been present, and the ceremony in the old village church had been as brief and quiet as possible. The whole neighbourhood was in mourning, and the church had been filled by the country-folk in their Sunday black, for Sir George was greatly respected and esteemed in the district.

Lady Ravenscourt and Maidee had remained in London, plunged in grief, and the wet, dismal day seemed to add gloom to the tragic circumstance.

Before the arrival of the special train at Watlington several persons, mostly connected with the funeral arrangements, had arrived by the first train from London, due at nine-eighteen, with the luggage-van full of great square boxes containing floral tributes from all parts of the country.

Among the early arrivals who were strangers in Watlington was a tall, well-dressed old gentleman with a reddish, narrow, rather bony face, clean shaven, erect, and spruce in his neat black and silk hat, with its broad mourning band.

He apparently knew his way, for on leaving the station he turned to the left along the county road leading into the town, instead of taking the right-hand road to Pyrton. The special was not due till noon, the funeral being fixed for one o’clock. Therefore the stranger, having plenty of time at his disposal, walked through the mud into Watlington and entered the old Bell Hotel.

In the coffee-room he ordered some breakfast, and as he ate his meal he chatted with the waiter, who guessed his errand by his garments.

The rain having ceased, he later on retraced his steps to the station, and as the special came in took up a position where he could watch the mourners as they passed the porter who was collecting tickets.

When all had entered the carriages which stood awaiting them, the stranger was still apparently uncertain, for hiring a closed fly, he followed them to the picturesque little church in Pyrton village, seating himself alone in a pew at the back and watching the service conducted with due solemnity by the white-haired rector.

Upon the coffin were some of the magnificent wreaths, and the quaint little Early-English church was nearly filled by mourners.

The stranger who had come down from London had a pair of keen, dark eyes which, though his head was apparently bent in prayer, searched everywhere. His hard, thin lips bore a distinctly evil expression, as now and then they moved, though no sound escaped them.

Bending forward, his elbows on the ledge before him, he buried his face in his hands, and as he did so his features slowly relaxed into a grin of satisfaction.

Apparently he had recognised among the mourners the person of whom he had been in search.

Presently, when the first portion of the service had been concluded, and the coffin was borne forth into the churchyard, he rose and slowly followed the mourners out.

“I wonder,” he murmured to himself as he passed out into the gravelled walk; “I wonder if there will be equal mourning for poor old Richard Goodrick! Hardly--for he was a nobody--and yet what would these men here think, how would they act--if only they knew the truth!”

He stepped aside to allow a Parliamentary Under-Secretary and the First Lord of the Treasury to pass by slowly together hat-in-hand towards the open grave. “Fools!” he laughed to himself as he turned away from them. “It is hard upon Sir George to condemn him as a suicide, yet the police, no doubt, believe it to be a very clever move--that by it they have allayed any suspicion held by the assassin. But they have not. Oh, dear no! The man who struck down George Ravenscourt is too clever, too evasive for them. He left nothing to chance.”

Standing aside some distance from the silent, bare-headed crowd around the open grave, the stranger seemed both watchful and exultant. His presence there seemed to indicate that he desired to witness the actual burial, rather than mourn the loss of the noteworthy politician.

His appearance was entirely different from when he had sat in the coroner’s court and heard the fictitious story of old Mr. Goodrick’s death, yet he was the same--the man John Ambrose.

During the ceremony of lowering the coffin and the casting of earth upon it, he edged his way close to Gordon Cunningham, who stood, silk hat in hand, beside Edward Ravenscourt, British Consul at Malmö, the late Baronet’s brother, who had succeeded to the title. The old man contrived to look long and intently into Gordon’s face, as though photographing every line of its contour upon his memory.

His keen eyes had narrowed, and the exultant, sinister expression had given way to a look of distinct malice.

Then, suddenly, as the young man stepped back before turning to leave the graveside, he swung round upon his heel, the wind blowing his scanty grey hair, and with an imprecation muttered to himself:

“Fancy you, Gordon Cunningham, mourning that man’s death--you of all men! For years--ah! till the day of your death, my fine young fellow, you will be haunted by memories of this dismal, depressing scene! You who are hailed as a remarkable young man of unusual talent--a man bound to make his mark in the world, they say. Well--you will leave it upon the annals of crime--or my name is not John Ambrose!”

He halted, pretending to read a half-effaced epitaph, until the young man, walking slowly beside a well-known member of the Opposition, had passed him by.

Then he followed leisurely, dogging Cunningham’s footsteps with pertinacious resolution, though the young man was all unconscious of the attraction he possessed for the stranger.

“That man just laid to his long rest was my enemy, just as he was my friend,” he went on, muttering to himself. “He was always indiscreet--his only failing. Had he lived his indiscretion would have cost me my secret--aye, perhaps my life. Yet probably, even now, he has been sufficiently indiscreet to betray me. Ah! If I only knew--if that fool Burgess would only speak and tell Maidee the truth!”

He saw Gordon speaking slowly and earnestly with his companion, emphasising each word with his clenched hand.

“Ah! yes!” he said, his sharp, penetrating gaze fixed upon Maidee’s lover. “You are a very fine person in your own estimation! The public acclaims you as a leader in embryo, and so exceedingly shrewd and clever are you that you believe yourself quite secure. Your presence here is sufficient evidence of your amazing unscrupulousness and daring. The police have no suspicion. You are quite assured of that. I alone know the truth--the astounding truth!”

The carriages were quickly filled, and John Ambrose, returning to the station in his fly, purposely entered the same compartment as the young member for Kingsbridge.

Only two other men, Gordon’s friends, were seated in the corners of the first-class compartment, and on the journey up to London the stranger, sitting huddled in his corner, managed to join in their conversation.

“Ah!” he exclaimed presently, “the police have made a great error in believing our poor friend Sir George’s death was self-sought.”

“Why?” asked Cunningham quickly, a trifle pale. “What leads you to believe otherwise, sir?” The stranger bore a noticeable likeness to one of his friends--and yet it was only a likeness.

“Well, I happen to be a very old and intimate friend of the man we have just buried,” Ambrose replied, fixing the young man with those remarkable eyes of his. “And I know him to be one who would never take drugs. Had he been in any trouble, he would have faced the music like a man. George Ravenscourt was never a coward--never a drug-slave.”

“Even the bravest of men have ended their lives in order to conceal some family skeleton,” remarked one of his fellow travellers, a fat man of forty-five.

“I admit that, sir,” replied Ambrose; “but George Ravenscourt, though he held a secret, was the victim of foul play. Of that I, as one of his oldest and most intimate friends, am convinced,” he said, never taking his gaze for an instant off Gordon Cunningham.

“What circumstance has convinced you?” asked the fat man with curiosity.

“Circumstances within my own knowledge,” exclaimed the old gentleman quietly, yet firmly, his calm, intense gaze still full upon the face of Maidee’s lover. “George Ravenscourt was murdered--cruelly murdered by one who vainly endeavoured to learn his secret.”

“Murdered!” cried the other man, also the dead man’s friend. “Do you know this positively?”

“Yes,” replied Ambrose in that same hard, earnest tone. “I know it positively. He was wilfully poisoned, I tell you!”

He watched the young man seated silent in the corner grow pale as death, for he had uttered that home-thrust in order to observe the effect it had upon him.

His two companions noticed Cunningham’s silence and pallor, but in their ignorance put it down to fatigue. They were inclined to disagree with the stranger’s declaration.

Yet it was upon that direct allegation uttered by the well-dressed old man that Gordon Cunningham, two hours later, sat in Boodle’s, brooding and wondering.

Who could the old fellow be? he asked himself.

What did he know? Was he in possession of the truth?