CHAPTER XXVI

“You are right. My real name is Harry Lucas. My father was a

retired soldier who came out to farm in Rhodesia. He died when I

was in my second year at Cambridge.”

“Were you fond of him?” I asked suddenly.

“I—don’t know.”

Then he flushed and went on with sudden vehemence:

“Why do I say that? I _did_ love my father. We said bitter things

to each other the last time I saw him, and we had many rows over

my wildness and my debts, but I cared for the old man. I know how

much now—when it’s too late,” he continued more quietly. “It was

at Cambridge that I met the other fellow——”

“Young Eardsley?”

“Yes—young Eardsley. His father, as you know, was one of South

Africa’s most prominent men. We drifted together at once, my friend

and I. We had our love of South Africa in common and we both had

a taste for the untrodden places of the world. After he left

Cambridge, Eardsley had a final quarrel with his father. The old

man had paid his debts twice, he refused to do so again. There was

a bitter scene between them. Sir Laurence declared himself at the

end of his patience—he would do no more for his son. He must stand

on his own legs for a while. The result was, as you know, that

those two young men went off to South America together, prospecting

for diamonds. I’m not going into that now, but we had a wonderful

time out there. Hardships in plenty, you understand, but it was a

good life—a hand-to-mouth scramble for existence far from the

beaten track—and, my God! that’s the place to know a friend. There

was a bond forged between us two out there that only death could

have broken. Well, as Colonel Race told you, our efforts were

crowned with success. We found a second Kimberley in the heart of

the British Guiana jungles. I can’t tell you our elation. It wasn’t

so much the actual value in money of the find—you see, Eardsley

was used to money, and he knew that when his father died he would

be a millionaire, and Lucas had always been poor and was used to

it. No, it was the sheer delight of discovery.”

He paused, and then added, almost apologetically:

“You don’t mind my telling it this way, do you? As though I wasn’t

in it at all. It seems like that now when I look back and see those

two boys. I almost forget that one of them was—Harry Rayburn.”

“Tell it any way you like,” I said, and he went on:

“We came to Kimberley—very cock-a-hoop over our find. We brought

a magnificent selection of diamonds with us to submit to the

experts. And then—in the hotel at Kimberley—we met her——”

I stiffened a little, and the hand that rested on the doorpost

clenched itself involuntarily.

“Anita Grünberg—that was her name. She was an actress. Quite young

and very beautiful. She was South African born, but her mother was

a Hungarian, I believe. There was some sort of mystery about her,

and that, of course, heightened her attraction for two boys home

from the wilds. She must have had an easy task. We both fell for

her right away, and we both took it hard. It was the first shadow

that had ever come between us—but even then it didn’t weaken our

friendship. Each of us, I honestly believe, was willing to stand

aside for the other to go in and win. But that wasn’t her game.

Sometimes, afterwards, I wondered why it hadn’t been, for Sir

Laurence Eardsley’s only son was quite a _parti._ But the truth of

it was that she was married—to a sorter in De Beers’—though nobody

knew of it. She pretended enormous interests in our discovery, and

we told her all about it and even showed her the diamonds.

Delilah—that’s what she should have been called—and she played her

part well!

“The De Beers robbery was discovered, and like a thunderclap the

police came down upon us. They seized our diamonds. We only laughed

at first—the whole thing was so absurd. And then the diamonds were

produced in court—and without question they were the stones stolen

from De Beers’. Anita Grünberg had disappeared. She had effected

the substitution neatly enough, and our story that these were not

the stones originally in our possession was laughed to scorn.

“Sir Laurence Eardsley had enormous influence. He succeeded in

getting the case dismissed—but it left two young men ruined and

disgraced to face the world with the stigma of thief attached to

their names, and it pretty well broke the old fellow’s heart. He

had one bitter interview with his son in which he heaped upon him

every reproach imaginable. He had done what he could to save the

family name, but from that day on his son was his son no longer.

He cast him off utterly. And the boy, like the proud young fool

that he was, remained silent, disdaining to protest his innocence

in the face of his father’s disbelief. He came out furious from

the interview—his friend was waiting for him. A week later war was

declared. The two friends enlisted together. You know what happened.

The best pal a man ever had was killed, partly through his own mad

recklessness in rushing into unnecessary danger. He died with his

name tarnished. . . .

“I swear to you, Anne, that it was mainly on his account that I

was so bitter against that woman. It had gone deeper with him than

with me. I had been madly in love with her for the moment—I even

think that I frightened her sometimes—but with him it was a quieter

and deeper feeling. She had been the very centre of his universe—and

her betrayal of him tore up the very roots of life. The blow

stunned him and left him paralyzed.”

Harry paused. After a minute or two he went on:

“As you know, I was reported ‘Missing, presumed killed.’ I never

troubled to correct the mistake. I took the name of Parker and came

to this island, which I knew of old. At the beginning of the war,

I had had ambitious hopes of proving my innocence, but now all that

spirit seemed dead. All I felt was, ‘What’s the good?’ My pal was

dead, neither he nor I had any living relations who would care. I

was supposed to be dead too, let it remain at that. I led a peaceful

existence here, neither happy nor unhappy—numbed of all feeling.

I see now, though I did not realize it at the time, that that was

partly the effect of the war.

“And then one day something occurred to wake me right up again. I

was taking a party of people in my boat on a trip up the river,

and I was standing at the landing-stage, helping them in, when one

of the men uttered a startled exclamation. It focused my attention

on him. He was a small, thin man with a beard, and he was staring

at me for all he was worth as though I was a ghost. So powerful

was his emotion that it awakened my curiosity. I made inquiries

about him at the hotel and learned that his name was Carton, that

he came from Kimberley, and that he was a diamond-sorter employed

by De Beers’. In a minute all the old sense of wrong surged over

me again. I left the island and went to Kimberley.

“I could find out little more about him, however. In the end, I

decided that I must force an interview. I took my revolver with

me. In the brief glimpse I had had of him, I had realized that he

was a physical coward. No sooner were we face to face than I

recognized that he was afraid of me. I soon forced him to tell me

all he knew. He had engineered part of the robbery and Anita

Grünberg was his wife. He had once caught sight of both of us when

we were dining with her at the hotel, and, having read that I was

killed, my appearance in the flesh at the Falls had startled him

badly. He and Anita had married quite young, but she had soon

drifted away from him. She had got in with a bad lot, he told

me—and it was then for the first time that I heard of the ‘Colonel.’

Carton himself had never been mixed up in anything except this one

affair—so he solemnly assured me, and I was inclined to believe

him. He was emphatically not of the stuff of which successful

criminals are made.

“I still had the feeling that he was keeping back something. As a

test, I threatened to shoot him there and then, declaring that I

cared very little what became of me now. In a frenzy of terror he

poured out a further story. It seems that Anita Grünberg did not

quite trust the ‘Colonel.’ Whilst pretending to hand over to him

the stones she had taken from the hotel, she kept back some in her

own possession. Carton advised her, with his technical knowledge,

which to keep. If, at any time, these stones were produced, they

were of such colour and quality as to be readily identifiable, and

the experts at De Beers’ would admit at once that these stones had

never passed through their hands. In this way my story of a

substitution would be supported, my name would be cleared, and

suspicion would be diverted to the proper quarter. I gathered that,

contrary to his usual practice, the ‘Colonel’ himself had been

concerned in this affair, therefore Anita felt satisfied that she

had a real hold over him, should she need it. Carton now proposed

that I should make a bargain with Anita Grünberg, or Nadina, as

she now called herself. For a sufficient sum of money he thought

that she would be willing to give up the diamonds and betray her

former employer. He would cable to her immediately.

“I was still suspicious of Carton. He was a man whom it was easy

enough to frighten, but who, in his fright, would tell so many lies

that to sift the truth out from them would be no easy job. I went

back to the hotel and waited. By the following evening I judged

that he would have received the reply to his cable. I called round

at his house and was told that Mr. Carton was away, but would be

returning on the morrow. Instantly I became suspicious. In the nick

of time I found out that he was in reality sailing for England on

the _Kilmorden Castle,_ which left Cape Town in two days’ time. I

had just time to journey down and catch the same boat.

“I had no intention of alarming Carton by revealing my presence on

board. I had done a good deal of acting in my time at Cambridge,

and it was comparatively easy for me to transform myself into a

grave bearded gentleman of middle age. I avoided Carton carefully

on board the boat, keeping to my own cabin as far as possible under

the pretence of illness.

“I had no difficulty in trailing him when we got to London. He went

straight to an hotel and did not go out until the following day.

He left the hotel shortly before one o’clock. I was behind him. He

went straight to a house-agent in Knightsbridge. There he asked

for particulars of houses to let on the river.

“I was at the next table also inquiring about houses. Then suddenly

in walked Anita Grünberg, Nadina—whatever you like to call her.

Superb, insolent, and almost as beautiful as ever. God! how I hated

her. There she was, the woman who had ruined my life—and who had

also ruined a better life than mine. At that minute I could have

put my hands round her neck and squeezed the life out of her inch

by inch! Just for a minute or two I saw red. I hardly took in what

the agent was saying. It was her voice that I heard next, high and

clear, with an exaggerated foreign accent: ‘The Mill House, Marlow.

The property of Sir Eustace Pedler. That sounds as though it might

suit me. At any rate, I will go and see it.’

“The man wrote her an order, and she walked out again in her regal

insolent manner. Not by word or a sign had she recognized Carton,

yet I was sure that their meeting there was a preconceived plan.

Then I started to jump to conclusions. Not knowing that Sir Eustace

was at Cannes, I thought that this house-hunting business was a

mere pretext for meeting him in the Mill House. I knew that he had

been in South Africa at the time of the robbery, and never having

seen him I immediately leaped to the conclusion that he himself

was the mysterious ‘Colonel’ of whom I had heard so much.

“I followed my two suspects along Knightsbridge. Nadina went into

the Hyde Park Hotel. I quickened my pace and went in also. She

walked straight into the restaurant, and I decided that I would

not risk her recognizing me at the moment, but would continue to

follow Carton. I was in great hopes that he was going to get the

diamonds, and that by suddenly appearing and making myself known

to him when he least expected it I might startle the truth out of

him. I followed him down into the Tube station at Hyde Park Corner.

He was standing by himself at the end of the platform. There was

some girl standing near, but no one else. I decided that I would

accost him then and there. You know what happened. In the sudden

shock of seeing a man whom he imagined far away in South Africa,

he lost his head and stepped back upon the line. He was always a

coward. Under the pretext of being a doctor, I managed to search

his pockets. There was a wallet with some notes in it and one or

two unimportant letters, there was a roll of films—which I must

have dropped somewhere later—and there was a piece of paper with

an appointment made on it for the 22nd on the _Kilmorden_ Castle.

In my haste to get away before any one detained me, I dropped that

also, but fortunately I remembered the figures.

“I hurried to the nearest cloak-room and hastily removed my make-up.

I did not want to be laid by the heels for picking a dead man’s

pocket. Then I retraced my steps to the Hyde Park Hotel. Nadina

was still having lunch. I needn’t describe in detail how I followed

her down to Marlow. She went into the house, and I spoke to the

woman at the lodge, pretending that I was with her. Then I, too,

went in.”

He stopped. There was a tense silence.

“You will believe me, Anne, won’t you? I swear before God that what

I am going to say is true. I went into the house after her with

something very like murder in my heart—and she was dead! I found

her in that first-floor room—God! It was horrible. Dead—and I was

not more than three minutes behind her. And there was no sign of

any one else in the house! Of course I realized at once the terrible

position I was in. By one master-stroke the blackmailed had rid

himself of the blackmailer, and at the same time had provided a

victim to whom the crime would be ascribed. The hand of the

‘Colonel’ was very plain. For the second time I was to be his

victim. Fool that I had been to walk into the trap so easily.

“I hardly know what I did next. I managed to go out of the place

looking fairly normal, but I knew that it could not be long before

the crime was discovered and a description of my appearance

telegraphed all over the country.

“I lay low for some days, not daring to make a move. In the end

chance came to my aid. I overheard a conversation between two

middle-aged gentlemen in the street, one of whom proved to be Sir

Eustace Pedler. I at once conceived the idea of attaching myself

to him as his secretary. The fragment of conversation I had

overheard gave me my clue. I was now no longer so sure that Sir

Eustace Pedler was the ‘Colonel.’ His house might have been

appointed as a rendezvous by accident, or for some obscure motive

that I had not fathomed.”

“Do you know,” I interrupted, “that Guy Pagett was in Marlow at

the date of the murder?”

“That settles it then. I thought he was at Cannes with Sir Eustace.”

“He was supposed to be in Florence—but he certainly never went

_there._ I’m pretty certain he was really in Marlow, but of course

I can’t prove it.”

“And to think I never suspected Pagett for a minute until the night

he tried to throw you overboard. The man’s a marvellous actor.”

“Yes, isn’t he?”

“That explains why the Mill House was chosen. Pagett could probably

get in and out of it unobserved. Of course he made no objection to

my accompanying Sir Eustace across in the boat. He didn’t want me

laid by the heels immediately. You see, evidently Nadina didn’t

bring the jewels with her to the rendezvous as they had counted on

her doing. I fancy that Carton really had them and concealed them

somewhere on the _Kilmorden Castle_—that’s where he came in. They

hoped that I might have some clue as to where they were hidden. As

long as the ‘Colonel’ did not recover the diamonds, he was still

in danger—hence his anxiety to get them at all costs. Where the

devil Carton hid them—if he did hide them, I don’t know.”

“That’s another story,” I quoted. _“My_ story. And I’m going to

tell it you now.”