Chapter Seven
Treading among Shadows
The house was found very dirty and neglected. It contained but little furniture. Dust lay thickly upon everything. The windows, I was almost tempted to think, had not been opened since Sir Charles had last lived there three years ago. There was also a damp, earthy smell in the hall.
As I went slowly up the stairs, bare of carpet or any other covering, they creaked and groaned in a way that was astonishing, for the houses in Belgrave Street are not so very old. The noises the stairs made echoed higher up.
I had decided to enter the rooms on the ground floor last of all. The first floor looked strangely unfamiliar. When last I had been here the house had been luxuriously furnished, and somehow the landing, in its naked state, seemed larger than when I remembered it.
Ah! What fun we had had in that house long ago!
My friends the Thorolds had entertained largely, and their acquaintances had all been bright, amusing people, so different, as I had sometimes told my friends, from the colourless, stupid folk whose company one so often has to endure when staying in the houses of acquaintances. I often think, when mixing with such people, of the story of the two women discussing a certain “impossible” young man, of a type one meets frequently.
“How deadly dull Bertie Fairbairn is,” one of them said. “He never talks at all.”
“Oh, he is better than his brother Reggie,” the other answered. “Whenever you speak to Bertie he says, ‘Right O!’”
The door of the apartment that had been the large drawing-room was locked. On the bunch of keys, I soon found the key that fitted, and I entered.
Phew, what a musty smell! Most oppressive. The blinds were drawn half-way down the windows and, by the look of them, had been so for some considerable time. The furniture that remained was all hidden under holland sheets, and the pictures on the walls, draped in dust-proof coverings, looked like the slabs of salted beef, and the sides of smoke-cured pork one sees hung in some farmhouses. The carpets were dusty, moth-eaten and rotten.
Gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, I picked up the corners of some of the furniture coverings. There was nothing but the furniture underneath, except in one instance, where I saw, upon an easy-chair, a plate with some mouldy remnants of food upon it. No wonder the atmosphere was foetid.
I was about to leave the room, glad to get out of it, when I noticed in a corner of the ceiling a dark, yellow-brown stain, about a yard in circumference. This struck me as curious, and I went over and stood under it, and gazed up at it, endeavouring to discover its origin. Then I saw that it was moist. I pulled up one of the blinds in order to see better, but my scrutiny failed to give me any inkling as to the origin of the stain.
I went out, shut and locked the door, and entered several other rooms, the doors of all of which I found locked. One room was very like another, the only difference being that the smell in some was closer and nastier than the smell in others, though all the smells had, what I may call the same “flavour” – a “taste” of dry rot. I wondered if Sir Charles knew how his house was being neglected, how dirt and dust were being allowed to accumulate.
This was Lady Thorold’s boudoir, if I remembered aright. The inside of the lock was so rusty that I had difficulty in turning the key. Everything shrouded, as elsewhere, but, judging from the odd projections in the coverings, I concluded that ornaments and bric-à-brac had been left upon the tables.
Nor was I mistaken. As I lifted the cloths and dust sheets, objects that I remembered seeing set about the room in the old days, became revealed. There were several beautiful statues, priceless pieces of antique furniture from Naples and Florence, curious carved wooden figures that Sir Charles had collected during his travels in the Southern Pacific, cloisonné vases from Tokio and Osaka, a barely decent sculpture bought by Sir Charles from a Japanese witch-doctor who lived a hermit’s life on an island in the Inland Sea – how well I remembered Lady Thorold’s emphatic disapproval of this figure, and her objection to her husband’s displaying it in the way he did – treasures from different parts of China, from New Guinea, Burmah, the West Indies and elsewhere.
Another cloth I lifted. Beneath it were a number of photographs in frames, piled faces downward in heaps. I picked up some of them, and took them out to look at. A picture of Vera in a short frock, with a teddy-bear tucked under her arm, interested me; so did a portrait of Lady Thorold dressed in a fashion long since past; and so did a portrait of my old father in his Guards uniform. The rest were portraits of people I didn’t know. I looked at one or two more, and was about to replace the frames where I had found them, when I turned up one that startled me.
It was a cabinet, in a bog-oak frame, of the man whose likeness had caused the commotion at Houghton, the man who had called himself Smithson. But it was not a portrait similar to the one I had taken away. The same man, undoubtedly, but in a different attitude, and apparently many years younger.
Closely I scrutinised it.
The enigma presented was complete. I am not a pilferer, but I considered that I should be justified in putting the portrait into my pocket, and I did so without another thought. Then I replaced all the frames where I had found them, and resumed my ramble over the house.
In the rest of the rooms on that floor, I found nothing further of interest. On the floor above, however, a surprise was in store for me.
The first two rooms were bedrooms, neglected-looking and very dusty. There were fewer coverings here. Dust was upon the floor, on the beds, on the chairs and tables, on the window-sills, on the wash-stands, on the chests of drawers, on the mantelpiece – everywhere. In the next room, the door of which I was surprised to find unlocked, just the same. A table of dark mahogany was thickly coated with dust.
Hullo! Why, what was this? I thought at once of a detective friend of mine, and wondered what he would have said, what opinion he would have formed and what conclusion he would have come to, had he been in my place at that moment. For on the table, close to the edge of it, was the clear outline of a hand. Someone had quite recently – apparently within the last few hours, and certainly since the previous day – put his hand upon that dusty table. I scanned the outline closely; then suddenly I started.
There could be no doubt whatever – it was not the outline of Taylor’s hand. The fingers that had rested there were long and tapering. This was not the impression of a man’s hand, but of a woman’s – of a woman’s left hand.
Evidently some one had been in this room recently. From point to point I walked, looking for further traces, but there were none that I could see. What woman could have been in here so lately? And did the old man asleep downstairs know of her entry? He must have, for she could not have entered the house, had he not admitted her. I felt I was becoming quite a clever detective, with an exceptional gift for deduction from the obvious. Another gleam of intelligence led me to conclude that this woman’s presence in the house probably accounted for Taylor’s determination not to let me go over the house.
I thought I heard a sound. I held my breath and stood still, listening intently, but the only sound that came to me was the distant shrill whistle of some one summoning a taxi. Outside in the passage, all was still as death. I walked to the end of the passage, peeped into other bedrooms, then returned to the room with the table bearing the imprint of the hand.
The windows overlooked Belgrave Street – double windows, which made the sound of the traffic down below inaudible. Carelessly I watched for some moments the vehicles and passers-by, unconsciously striving to puzzle out, meanwhile, the problem of the hand. Suddenly, two figures approaching along the pavement from the direction of Wilton Street, arrested my attention. They seemed familiar to me. As they came nearer, a strange feeling of excitement possessed me, for I recognised the burly form of Davies, or “Smithson,” and as he had called himself, and, walking beside him, Sir Charles Thorold. The two appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation.
They disappeared where the street turned, and as I came away from the window I noticed, for the first time, that the room had another door, a door leading presumably into a dressing-room. I went over to it. It was locked.
I tried a key on the bunch, but at once discovered that a key was in the door. The door was locked on the inside!
I knocked. There was no answer. And just then I distinctly heard a sound inside the room.
“Who’s there?” I called out. “Let me in!”
A sound, resembling a sob, reached me faintly. I heard light footfalls. The key turned slowly, and the lock clicked.
I turned the handle, and went in.
Chapter Eight
More Mystery
I halted on the threshold, wondering and aghast.
Vera, in her hat and jacket, stood facing me a few yards away. She was extremely pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and I saw at once she had been weeping.
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then, pulling myself together —
“Why, darling, what are you doing here?” I asked.
She did not answer. Her big, blue, unfathomable eyes were set on mine. There was in them an expression I had not seen there before – an odd, unnatural look, which made me feel uncomfortable.
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Why did you call upon me with Davies?”
Her lips moved, but no words came. I went over and took her hand. It was quite cold.
Suddenly she spoke slowly, and hoarsely, but like some one in a trance.
“I cannot tell you,” she said simply. “I wanted to see you.”
“Oh, but you must!”
Her eyes met mine, and I saw her arched brows contract slightly.
“Nobody says, ‘must’ to me,” she answered, in a tone that chilled me.
“Vera! Vera!” I exclaimed, dismayed at her strange manner, “what is the matter? What has happened to you, darling? Why are you like this? Don’t you need my help now? You told me on the telephone that you did.”
“On the telephone? When was that?”
“Why, not three weeks ago. Surely you remember? It was the last time we spoke to each other. You had begun to tell me your address, when suddenly we were cut off.”
I saw her knit her brows, as though trying to remember. Then, all at once, memory seemed to return.
“Ah, yes,” she exclaimed, more in her ordinary voice. “I recollect. I wanted your help then. I needed it badly, but now – ”
“Well, what?” I said anxiously, as she checked herself.
“It’s too late – now,” she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist, and I felt that she shuddered.
“Vera, what has happened? Tell me – oh, tell me, dearest!”
I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for there was a strange light in her eyes.
“Why did you not come when I wanted you?” she asked, bitterly.
“I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?”
She paused in indecision.
“I’m sorry. You are too late, Dick,” and she shook her head mournfully.
“Oh, don’t say that,” I cried, not knowing what to think. “Has some misfortune befallen you? Tell me what it is. You surely know that you can trust me.”
“Trust you!”
There was bitterness, nay mockery, in her voice.
“Good heavens, yes! Why not?” I cried.
“There is no one in whom I can trust. I can trust you, Mr Ashton, least of all – now.”
Evidently she was labouring under some terrible delusion. Had some one slandered me – poisoned her mind against me?
“How long have you been here?” I asked suddenly, thinking it best to change the subject for the moment.
“Since early this morning,” she answered at once.
“Did you come here alone?”
“Alone? No, he brought me.”
”‘He?’ Who is ‘he’?”
“Dago Paulton.”
“Dago Paulton?” I echoed. “Is he the man Smithson?” I asked shrewdly.
“Of course. Who else did you suppose?” Then, suddenly, her expression changed to one of surprise.
“But you don’t know him, surely,” she exclaimed. “You have never even met him. He told me so himself.”
“No, but I know about him,” I said, with recollection crowding upon me.
“You don’t! You cannot! Who told you about him? And what did they tell you? Oh, this is awful, it is worse than I feared,” she exclaimed, in great distress. “And now it is all too late.”
“Too late for what? To do what?”
“To help me. To save me from him.”
“Does this man want to marry you?”
“He is going to. He must marry me. Ah! You don’t know – you – ”
My love shuddered, without completing her sentence.
“Why? Is it to save your father?” I hazarded again.
“To save my father – and my mother,” she exclaimed. And then, to my surprise, she sank upon a chair, flung her arms out upon the table in front of her, hid her face up on them, and began to sob hysterically.
“Vera, my dearest, don’t – oh! don’t,” I said beseechingly, as I bent down, put an arm tenderly about her, and kissed her upon the cheek. “Don’t cry like that, darling. It’s never too late, until a misfortune has really happened. You are not married to him. There may be a way of escape. Trust me. Treat me as a friend – we have been friends so long – tell me everything, and I will try to help you out of all your trouble.”
She started up.
“Trust you!” she burst forth, her face flushed. “Can I trust any one?”
“I’ve done nothing; I don’t know what you mean, or to what you refer!” I exclaimed blankly.
“Can you look at me like that,” she said slowly, after a pause, “and tell me, upon your oath, that you did not reveal my father’s secret; that you have never revealed it to anybody – never in your life?”
“I give you my solemn oath, Vera, that I have never in my life revealed it to anybody, or hinted at it, or said anything, either consciously or unconsciously, that might have led any one to suspect,” I answered fervently, with my eyes fixed on hers.
Truth to tell, I had not the remotest idea what the secret was, nor, until this instant, had it ever occurred to me to think that Sir Charles possessed a secret. I felt, however, that I had a part to play, and I was determined to play it to the best of my ability. Vera seemed to take it quite for granted that I knew her father’s secret, and I felt instinctively that, were I to endeavour to assure her that I was in complete ignorance of everything, she would not, under the circumstances, believe a single word I said.
“Do you believe me now?” I asked, as she did not speak.
“Yes – I do believe you,” was her slow response. And then she let me take her in my ready arms again.
She seemed to have been suddenly relieved of a great weight, and now she spoke in quite her ordinary way.
“Where is Paulton now?” was my next question. At last there seemed to be some remote possibility of the tangle of past events becoming gradually unravelled. I knew, however, that I was treading thin ice. A single careless word might lead her to suspect my duplicity. In a sense, I was still groping in the dark, pretending that I knew a great deal, whereas I knew nothing.
“He is coming to-night to fetch me.”
“At what time?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“And you are to wait here until then?”
“Yes.”
“What have you had to eat?”
“Some tea, and bread and butter,” and she glanced towards a table, on which stood a teapot and an empty plate.
“You can’t subsist on that,” I said quickly.
“More food is to be brought to me by old Taylor at five o’clock.”
I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter-past four.
“Why don’t you go out and go away?” I suggested. “There is surely nothing to prevent you. Why do you remain here in helpless inactivity?”
“Where should I go? I haven’t any money. I haven’t a sou. Besides – besides – I dare not disobey. If I did, he – he’d – he’d bring disaster – terrible disaster, upon me!”
“I can lend you some money,” I said. Then a thought struck me.
“Why not come away with me?” I exclaimed. “I will get you a room at an hotel, see to you, provide you with money, and take care that nobody objectionable – neither this fellow Paulton, nor anybody else – molests you.”
“Ah, Dick, if only I dared!” she exclaimed fervently, with shining eyes.
“You love me, Vera – do you not?”
“You know that I do, Dick.”
“Then leave here. Who is to prevent you? Where are your father and mother?”
She turned sharply.
“How can you ask that?” she cried, with a quick glance. I pulled myself together on the instant. I was forgetting to be cautious.
“Wouldn’t it be safe for you to appeal to them for help?” I asked vaguely.
She paused, evidently reflecting, and I breathed more freely.
“Under the circumstances – no,” she said at last, with decision. “They must await developments. I must remain here. Listen! What was that?” And she started in fear.
The door stood ajar. The door of the room I had been in, which opened on to the passage, was also open. Both of us listened intently. The sound of men’s voices, somewhere in the house, became audible.
I crept out into the passage on tiptoe, walked a little distance along it, stopped, and listened again. Yes, there were voices in the hall. Two men were talking. At once I recognised that Sir Charles Thorold, and the man known as Davies, were engaged in earnest conversation in low tones. In the otherwise silent and deserted house, their words were distinctly audible.
“We must get a doctor – we must,” I heard the big fellow say deeply. “I thought at first the fellow was asleep, then that he was drunk. The pulse is hardly perceptible.”
“But how can we?” Thorold answered. “It isn’t safe. There would be inquiries, and if he should die there would surely be an inquest, and then – ”
He dropped his voice, and I could not catch the last words. Then Davies again spoke.
“I found this umbrella, and these gloves, on the table in his room,” I heard him say, “and there are two tea-cups on the table. Both have been used, used within the last half-hour, I should say. The tea in them is still warm, and the teapot is quite hot.” My heart stopped its beating. I put out an arm to support myself. A slight feeling of giddiness came over me. I broke out into a cold perspiration, for I had left my gloves and umbrella in the old man’s room!
My mouth turned suddenly dry, as I thought of the tea I had doctored with the drops from the flask, of which only a little was needed to send “a strong man to sleep – for ever.”
But Davies and Sir Charles were talking again, so I pulled myself together.
“How do you account for this umbrella and the gloves?” I heard Davies ask, and Thorold answered: “Let me have a look at them.”
They were silent for some moments.
“He has had some one there, that’s evident,” Sir Charles said. “Who on earth can it have been? This is an expensive umbrella, silk, and gold-mounted, and these gloves, too, are good ones. It’s extraordinary their owner should have forgotten to take them with him.”
“He may be in the house still,” answered Davies. “I hope, for his own sake, he isn’t,” Sir Charles said, in a hard voice. “Let us come and have a look at poor old Taylor. We shall find the keys in his pocket, anyway, and when we have attended to the other matter, we’ll go up and see Vera, and try to bring her to her senses with regard to Paulton. She must do it – hang it – she must! I hate the thought of it, but it’s my only chance of escape from this accursed parasite!”
Voices and footsteps died away. Once more the house was silent as death.
Truly, that deserted house was a house of mystery.
Chapter Nine
The Gentleman Named Paulton
On creeping back to her room, I found Vera awaiting me anxiously.
She, too, had heard the men talking, she had recognised her father’s and his companion’s voices, though unable to catch what was being said. I bent, and we exchanged kisses. In a few words I told her what had occurred, and explained the situation. I wanted to ask her about the man Davies; how she came to know him, and if she had known him long. There were other matters, too, that I wished to talk to her about, but there was no time to do so then.
Though I pride myself upon a rapidity of decision in moments of crises, and have misled the more ingenuous among my friends into believing that I really am a man of exceedingly strong character, who would never find himself at a loss if brought suddenly face to face with a critical problem, I don’t mind admitting that I am an invertebrate, vacillating creature at such times. Oh, no, I never lose my head. Don’t think that. But when instant decision is needed, and there are several decisions one might come to, I get quite “jumpy,” half make up my mind to take one course, half make up my mind to take the opposite course, and finally take the third, or it may be the fourth or fifth.
“Well, you had better get away at once, dear,” Vera urged quickly, when I had told her what I had heard below.
“But what are you going to do?” I asked.
“Oh, I know what I’m going to do,” she replied at once, “but I want to have your plan. I know, dear, you are never at a loss when ‘up against it,’ to use your own phrase. You have often told me so, or implied it.”
Now I did not entirely like her tone. There was a curious gleam in her eyes, which I mistrusted. I had noticed that gleam before, on occasions when she had been drawing people on to make admissions that they did not wish to make. She was rather too fond, I had sometimes thought, of indulging in a form of intellectual pastime that I have heard people who talk slang – a thing that I detest – call “pulling you by the leg.” The suspicion crossed my mind at that moment, that Vera was trying to “pull my leg” – and I frankly didn’t like it.
“This is no time for joking, Vera,” I said, for the “gleam” in her eyes had now become a twinkle. “This is a time for action – and very prompt action.”
I wondered how she could jest at such a moment. “That is why I want you to act,” she answered innocently, “and to act promptly. However, as I believe you have no idea what to do, Dick, I’m going to tell you what to do, and you must do it – promptly. Now, follow me. I know my way about this place.” She led me softly along the corridor, turned to the right, then to the left, and then to the left again. Presently we reached the top of a flight of steep, and very narrow wooden stairs.
“Follow me,” she whispered again, “and keep one hand on that rope,” indicating a cord that served as a bannister. “These stairs are slippery, or they always used to be. As a child, I used to fall down them every Sunday.”
We were on the first floor. The stairs continued to the ground floor. She turned suddenly.
“How about your gloves and umbrella?”
There was the curious look in her eyes again, so I paid no attention.
“Have you matches?” she asked, a moment later.
I struck one, and, stooping, we made our way along a narrow, dark passage, with a low ceiling. Five stone steps down into a damp, stone tunnel, about twenty feet in length, then to the right, and we came to a wooden door.
“Give me your keys,” she said.
I did so, and she unlocked the door. It led into a little stone-flagged yard. On three sides of it were high walls, walls of houses. The wall on the fourth side, only a few feet high, was surmounted by iron rails. Stone steps led up to the gate at the end of the rails. She opened the gate, re-locking it when we had passed out, and we stood in a stone-flagged cul-de-sac, about fifteen yards long, across the open end of which, the traffic of the street could be seen passing to and fro.
“And now,” she said, when we had reached the street, disobeying the injunction of Paulton, “you are going to tell me what I must do next.”
I hailed a taxi, and we drove off in it, discussing plans as we went along.
Then I secured a room for her in a comfortable little hotel I knew of, in a street off Russell Square. The difficulty that now arose, was how to get her luggage.
She told me all her things were packed, as she was to have left for Paris that night, alone. The order received from her father was, that she should remain in an obscure lodging near Rue la Harpe, the address of which, he had given her. There she would receive further instructions. These instructions, she told me, were to come either from her father, or from Paulton. She had strict orders not to communicate with Davies. Her luggage was in Brighton. Sir Charles and Lady Thorold had been staying in Brighton, and she had come up that morning. Paulton had met her at Victoria, and taken her in a cab direct to her father’s empty house in Belgrave Street. He had told her that if she dared go out before he came to her at ten that night, he would go to the police.
“But who is this man Davies?” I asked.
“A friend.”
“But cannot you tell me something more concerning him?” I demanded.
“At present, no. I regret, Dick, that I am not allowed to say anything – my lips are sealed.”
“And Paulton. Why obey him so subserviently?”
“Ah!” she sighed. “Because I am compelled.”
With these rebuffs, I was forced to be satisfied.
With regard to the plan for recovering her luggage, I rose to the occasion. After pondering the problem for a quarter of an hour, I suggested that she should write a note to her mother in Brighton, saying that Paulton had suddenly changed his plans, and that her luggage was wanted at once. It was to have been sent off at eight o’clock that night, when Paulton would meet it at Victoria, she had told me. The bearer of the note we would now send to Brighton – a District Messenger – would be instructed to bring the luggage back with him. I looked up the trains in the railway-guide, and found it would be just possible for the messenger to do this in the time. To avoid any mishap, I told the messenger to alight, on his return journey, at Clapham Junction, and bring the luggage from there, in a taxi, to the hotel near Russell Square.
We dined together upstairs, at the Trocadero– ah! how I enjoyed that evening! How delightful it was to sit tête-à-tête with her. Before we had finished dinner, word was brought to us that Vera’s luggage had arrived.
“I think I managed that rather well,” I said. “Don’t you?”
“No,” she answered, “I don’t.”
“No?”
“As you ask me, I may as well tell you that I think you could hardly have ‘managed’ it worse. You have simply put Paulton on my track.”
“But how?”
“How! Really, my dear Dick, your intelligence resembles a child’s. You send a messenger for my luggage. Acting on your instructions, he brings it from Brighton to Clapham Junction by train, then hails a taxi, and brings the luggage on it direct to this hotel. Paulton is told by my mother in Brighton, that a messenger from London called for the luggage. All he has to do, is to ring up the messenger offices, until he finds the one where you engaged your messenger. Having found that out, he ascertains from the messenger the address to which he took the luggage in the taxi, and at once he comes and finds me.”
“But,” I said quickly, “Paulton is not in Brighton.”
“How can that matter? He can easily find out who took my luggage. I tell you, dear, if Paulton finds me, worse still, if he finds me with you, the result will be terrible for all of us. You should yourself have gone to Clapham, met the messenger-boy there, and yourself have brought the luggage here.”
I felt crushed. I had believed my plan had been laid so cleverly. At the same time, my admiration for Vera’s foresight increased, though I did not tell her so.
We went back to the hotel at once, took away the luggage with us, and by ten o’clock that night she was comfortably settled in another small hotel, within a stone’s throw of Hampstead Heath.
My sweet-faced, well-beloved told me many things I wanted to know, but alas! not everything, and all the time we conversed, I had to bear in mind the important fact that she believed me to be familiar with Sir Charles’ secret – the secret that had led to his sudden flight from Houghton with her mother, herself and the French maid. I mistrusted that French maid – Judith. I had disliked the tone in which she had addressed Vera, when she had called her away from me that night at Houghton, and told her that Lady Thorold wanted her. I had noticed the maid on one or two previous occasions, and from the first I had disliked her. Her voice was so smooth, her manner so artificially deferential, and altogether she had seemed to me stealthy and cat-like. I believed her to be a hypocrite, if not a schemer.
The man who had called himself Davies, Vera told me, in the course of our long conversation that evening, was not named Smithson at all. That was a name he had adopted for some motive which, she seemed to take it for granted, I must be able to guess. Mexican by birth, though of British-Portuguese parentage, he had spoken to her, perhaps, half-a-dozen times. He appeared to be a friend of her father, she said, though what interest they had in common she had never been able to discover.
Speaking of Paulton, she said, her soft hand resting in mine, that he had known her mother longer than her father, and he had, she believed, been introduced by her mother to Sir Charles, since which time, the two men’s intimacy had steadily increased.
She gave no reason for the dismay the sight of the framed panel portrait of “Smithson” had created, or for the sudden dismissal that night of all the servants at Houghton, and the subsequent flight. I could not quite decide, in my mind, if she took it for granted that I, knowing Sir Charles’ secret – as she supposed – knew also why he had left Houghton thus mysteriously, or whether she intentionally refrained from telling me. But certainly she seemed to think there was no reason to tell me who had done poor James, the butler, to death, or who had fired the rifle shots from the wood, and killed the chauffeur. At the inquest on the butler, the jury had returned an open verdict.
Could he have been drowned by Paulton, and drowned intentionally? Or was Davies responsible for his death? That it must have been one of those two men I now felt certain – supposing he had not committed suicide, or been drowned by accident.