CHAPTER 2

was his astonishment at finding the pretty villa overlooking the moonlit Mediterranean in possession of the police, amongst whom he observed the shabby furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street of Nice.

  The chief official approached him and addressed him in excellent English. “We sent you a rather guarded message, Mr. Lydon, as we felt we could break the news better to you when you came here. A very terrible tragedy has occurred.”

  Lydon held his breath. He knew now that the mystery about Hugh Craig’s frequent disappearance which had so puzzled him was about to be solved by this bland, courteous official.

 “A terrible tragedy?” he faltered. “In Heaven’s name what has happened?” The man proceeded to explain. “This house is tenanted by a Madame Makris, a widow. Her husband was a Greek merchant, she is an Englishwoman. She lived here with her daughter, Mademoiselle Elise Makris, the only child of the marriage. Mademoiselle and your friend, Mr. Hugh Craig, were very close friends; according to the mother’s statement, they were more than friends, very devoted lovers. It seems a few days ago they had a violent quarrel—I am still quoting Madame Makris—the cause of which was not divulged. To-night Mr. Craig dined here, and after dinner he and the young lady went and sat on the veranda, according to their usual custom on the occasions when he visited the house.”

Lydon interrupted with a question. “There are only three nights on which he has dined away from the hotel where we were staying together. I suppose he paid several day visits?”

“Madame Makris tells me hardly a day has passed that he did not come here, staying for longer or shorter periods. The young people have known each other for some five years. Well, the mother upon those occasions did not intrude herself very much; she left the lovers alone as much as possible. She followed her usual course this evening, occupying herself in writing letters and attending to her household accounts.

“Suddenly she was startled by the sound of shots proceeding from the veranda where Mr. Craig and her daughter were seated. She rushed hastily from the room in which she was sitting and was horrified at the sight which presented itself. Mademoiselle was bleeding from a wound in the neck. After shooting her, the young man turned the pistol on himself and sent a bullet through his brain. The young woman was still alive, Mr. Craig was dead when she reached him. The second shot had done its work instantaneously.

“Madame Makris at once rang up the police. We came with a doctor and Mademoiselle was taken to the hospital behind the railway station. For the unfortunate young man nothing could be done. After Madame had made her statement to us, we telephoned to you to come up.”

Dazed as he was by the tragic occurrence, Lydon could grasp the fact that, although Hugh had never breathed to his friend a word of his secret connection with the denizens of the Villa des Cyclamens, he had been perfectly frank with them as to his relations with Lydon. Otherwise, how did Madame Makris know that they were staying together at the same hotel?

So the volcano which he had always suspected was slumbering under that placid exterior had suddenly burst into flame with these awful consequences to Elise Makris and the man himself.

“Can Madame suggest any explanation of this frenzied act?” was Lydon’s next question.

The courteous official shook his head. “Madame says she knows nothing, that the whole thing is inexplicable to her.”

“Mademoiselle Makris is in the hospital, you say. Do they give any hope of her recovery? Is the wound a serious one?”

“Very serious, I am told,” was the reply. “They can pronounce no definite opinion at the moment. From what I can gather she seems to be hovering between life and death. Perhaps you would like to see the body; we have laid it in one of the bedrooms?”

Leonard went to the chamber, and gazed upon the pallid features of the friend whom he had last seen in full health and strength. As he stood there, looking down on the rigid form, he felt overcome by the memories of their long association. They had been intimate so many years.

A little under the age of fifteen they had foregathered at Harrow, drawn together by that strange attraction which sometimes unites totally opposite temperaments. They had gone up form by form in company. Hugh the mental superior, beating his friend at the last lap of all, and attaining the proud position of Head of the School. In the same year they had been put into the cricket eleven and had done battle against Eton at Lord’s. At Balliol, whither they both proceeded, the intimacy grew stronger, and here again history repeated itself. They both represented their University in cricket against Cambridge, as they had represented Harrow.

And now this life, so full of promise and opportunity, had been blotted out by his own rash act. And, even more terrible, Hugh Craig had gone to his last account with the sin of murder, or at least attempted murder, on his soul. What terrible thing was it that had so unhinged his mind?

The police had found the pistol clutched firmly in his dead hand. This fearful deed, then, was not due to some sudden temptation of the moment. It must have been premeditated or he would not have taken a loaded weapon with him to this peaceful villa. When Hugh had bade his friend good-bye, he must have had murder, and afterwards self-destruction, in his mind.

When the young man had left the death-chamber, he inquired after Madame Makris, and was informed that she was prostrated with grief, as was quite natural. He exchanged a few words with the furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street a short time ago.

“I saw you together the other day,” he said, “but you did not see me, and I hastened as quickly as possible out of sight, as I did not wish to appear to be spying upon my friend. Do you know anything that can throw light upon this?”

The shabby individual lowered his eyes as he answered. “No, monsieur, I am sorry to say, nothing. My acquaintance with Monsieur Craig was very slight.”

If the man was not actually lying, it was obvious there was nothing to be got out of him. Lydon impatiently asked him if he was one of the regular police. To this question he replied that he was not, that he followed the profession of private inquiry agent, as it would be called in England. That he was naturally in the course of his business frequently in communication with them, and that having heard of the terrible tragedy at the Villa, he had begged permission to accompany them there.

Later on, Lydon put himself into communication with the dead man’s family, and Hugh’s elder brother came over to Nice at once to superintend the arrangements. Geoffrey Craig, a rather severe-looking man, who held a minor Governmental post, was as much bewildered by the catastrophe as Lydon himself. He had never heard of the Makris family in connection with his brother.

Hugh Craig was buried in the beautiful English cemetery out beyond the Magnan, what time the girl whom he had tried to kill was lying between life and death in the hospital.

Lydon was obliged to defer his departure for a few days in consequence of these tragic happenings. Before he left he called upon Mrs. Makris, who was now sufficiently recovered to receive him.

She was a stoutly-built, rather over-dressed woman, with a face which still showed traces of good looks. He had been told by the police she was an Englishwoman, and her thoroughly British accent confirmed the fact. But he had a shrewd suspicion that Jewish blood ran in her veins.

While he was waiting in the pretty salon of the Villa des Cyclamens for the unhappy mother, he noticed upon a writing table a gorgeous carved sapphire made into a pendant, the stone worn upon the breastplate of the High Priest of the Hebrews as the sign of Issachar. He rather marvelled that such a valuable article was allowed to lie there. In the distraction occasioned by the tragedy, it was of course possible that neither Madame Makris nor any other member of the household had heeded it.

The Jewish-looking woman bore upon her still good-looking face the deep traces of her grief. When Lydon murmured a few words of sympathy, the ready tears fell immediately.

“My darling Elise was all the world to me; we were devoted to each other,” she said in a broken voice. “And this state of suspense is awful. Two whole days have passed, and still they are not certain whether she will live or die.”

Lydon again expressed his deep sympathy. “I have been very terribly shocked too, although I cannot for a moment pretend to compare my feelings with yours. Hugh Craig and I have been friends from boyhood, and I should have judged him the last man in the world to have given way to such an awful impulse. Have you no inkling of the cause which led to such an unexpected catastrophe?”

Madame Makris shook her head, a head covered with thick dark hair in which there was not a trace of grey, in spite of her years, which might have been anything from forty-five to fifty.

“Not the slightest, Mr. Lydon. There had been some disagreement between them a little time previously, for I discovered my poor girl in tears after he had left. I pressed her to tell me the reason of her agitation, but she parried all my efforts to extract the truth from her. She assured me it was quite a trifling matter, and that she would not have been affected by it, except for the fact that she was in low spirits.”

“May I ask, madame, if they had known each other for long?”

“Some few years,” was the answer. “There was no regular engagement between them, but it was understood that they would marry as soon as they could. Elise was always rather reticent on the subject, but I gathered that there was some difficulty in the way with regard to Mr. Craig’s family. It was a very old and honourable one, and it was expected of him that when he did marry he would choose somebody of his own order. We are, of course, quite middle-class people, and by no means wealthy. My husband was a merchant.”

Lydon pointed to the writing-table. “That is rather a valuable thing to leave lying about, if I may say so, madam.”

The dark-haired woman looked at it with an air of indifference. “I had forgotten it in the preoccupation of my great trouble. It belongs to Elise. Her uncle, Monsieur Lianas, gave it to her on her twenty-first birthday. She was wearing it when the tragedy occurred. I only brought it back from the hospital this morning, and heedlessly laid it down there. But you are quite right; it is too valuable to be left lying about. I will lock it up directly. Heaven knows if my poor child will ever wear it again,” she concluded with a burst of tears.

Leonard went back to England the next day, very sad at heart at the loss of his lifelong friend. He pondered much over the meagre information that Madame Makris had given him. The young people had known each other for some years. There had been no formal engagement between them, but it was an understood thing they were to be married as soon as they were in a position to do so.

And during those years, although they had met so frequently, Craig had never dropped a word about Elise or her mother to his friend. So strange a silence passed beyond the bounds of ordinary reticence. There must be some reason for it, most likely some mystery behind it. He could quite understand that Hugh might find some difficulty in reconciling his family to his marriage with a foreigner of no particular position. But it was strange that a man should be in love and never say anything about it to his closest friend.

As was natural under such painful circumstances, his thoughts of Gloria Stormont had been temporarily pushed into the background; but after a little, when the first violence of the shock had passed away, her charming image again recurred to him.

What a beautiful girl she was, and how delightfully unaffected! Was it likely he would ever come across her again? Her uncle had spoken of it as a probability when he remarked that after all the world was a small place.

And a fortnight later, Howard Stormont’s prophecy was fulfilled. Lydon suddenly made up his mind to run down for a week-end to the Metropole at Brighton. As he ascended the steps of the well-known hotel about an hour before dinner-time, the first person he encountered in the vestibule was the genial Stormont, looking more prosperous and rubicund than ever.

Nothing could have been more hearty than the greeting Lydon received.

“Well met, my dear fellow, glad to see you. I said it would not be long before we ran across each other again. My sister and Gloria are with me. Are you alone? Good, you must join our table. Well, as soon as you have settled about your room, let us celebrate the occasion with a cocktail. Good old Metropole, you can’t beat it. I’m not very busy just now, so we’re here for a week. My sister is a bit run down, and the sea breezes will set her up.”

What a good-hearted fellow he was, Lydon thought. Gloria had said of him he was one of the kindest and most generous of men. Over their cocktails the young man told him of the tragic happenings at the Villa des Cyclamens. But Stormont had read it in the papers. Of course it was impossible that anything could be kept quiet in the case of a man of Hugh Craig’s position.

“A very mysterious affair, and I suppose nobody will ever know the rights of it,” he remarked when Leonard had communicated all the details he knew, which, as we know, were somewhat meagre. “Well, I cannot say I ever took very kindly to your poor friend, for the reason probably that he took very little pains to conceal his dislike of me. But it is a terrible ending to a promising career. I suppose, in the course of time, he would have ended up as an ambassador. The Clandon family have a knack of falling into soft jobs. Now, you won’t see the womenfolk before dinner, as they are in their rooms, and I shan’t mention I have met you. When you walk up to our table it will be a pleasant surprise for them. We all took a great fancy to you at Nice.”

The young man had no reason to complain of his welcome at the hands of the two ladies when he met them at dinner. Mrs. Barnard told him it was a most agreeable surprise, and although Gloria did not make flattering speeches, she flushed prettily and her eyes looked very bright when she shook hands with him.

They spent a very delightful evening together. Early the next morning Stormont expressed his intention of taking his sister a long motor drive, with a view of getting as much fresh air as possible; they would be back to luncheon.

“You two young people can do what you like with yourselves,” he said gaily. Certainly, he was a most complaisant person. Lydon was rather surprised that he should throw them into each other’s society like this. Surely he must have ambitious views for his niece’s future. And he could not help wondering what it was his friend Hugh had seen in the man which made him dislike him so intensely. Little vulgarisms in speech and manner peeped out now and again, but surely those were not enough to account for such a fierce aversion, more especially as Craig, in spite of his aristocratic lineage, was rather a democratic sort of fellow at heart, and a thorough cosmopolitan.

The two, thus dismissed to their own resources, went on to the West Pier, where they sat for some little time, then they walked up and down the Parade for a couple of hours, till it was time to return to the hotel. During these happy and precious moments Leonard felt that he was making great headway with the charming girl. She talked to him with as much freedom as if they had been friends of old standing. She told him all about her uncle’s place, Effington Hall, and of her mode of life there. According to her account, it was a very beautiful place, with lovely gardens, and the rather commonplace-looking Howard Stormont appeared to dwell in great luxury, with a large retinue of servants. As he listened, he wondered if he would ever be asked to join the numerous company which the owner invited there.

Stormont did not seem to mind his enjoying the girl’s society on a casual visit to the seaside, but would he draw the line at the familiarity born of a long stay in a country house? Had he been in the uncle’s place, he was inclined to think he would.

His visit did not terminate with the week-end. He stayed on another couple of days, being pressed to do so by Stormont himself during this extension of time. The brother and sister left the young couple very much to themselves, and Lydon made splendid running with Gloria. So much so that, before he left, she had promised to run up to town from Effington soon after they returned there, and lunch with him in town.

Lydon had suggested it with rather a shamefaced air. “I don’t feel I have the cheek to ask you in front of your uncle and aunt after such a short acquaintance,” he explained. “I expect they would think it confounded impertinence on my part.”

Gloria had blushed very becomingly when she answered him. “Well, one cannot be quite sure. They are pretty modern, considering all things, but perhaps not quite so modern as you and I. I often run up to shop; it is really no distance from London. I will give you good notice when I am coming, and I can tell them about it later when we have all got to know each other better.”

Lydon went back to London very delighted that the girl liked him well enough to take the bold course of meeting him secretly. In due course, when he went in to breakfast in his comfortable chambers at Ryder Street, he found the expected note from Miss Stormont appointing two days later for their luncheon.

There was another letter from the well-known firm of Shelford & Taylor, solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, asking him to give them a call, as they wished to hand him a communication from one of their clients.

He knew these people had attended to the affairs of most of the members of the Clandon family, Hugh included. Greatly wondering, he called on them that morning, and was received by the head of the firm, who handed him a bulky letter.

“This was received from our client, and your friend, the Honourable Hugh Craig, very shortly after the terrible tragedy, with instructions to hand it to you after the lapse of a certain period which has now expired. I am filled with curiosity to know if this letter, dispatched to us on the morning of the day on which this awful thing occurred, throws any light upon the affair.”

Leonard read slowly through the long communication, and, laying it down, met the inquiring gaze of the solicitor.

“Yes,” he said, in a sad voice. “This reveals the motives which impelled him to attempt the life of Elise Makris, and make an end of his own. I will tell you.”