The Lost Million

Chapter Nine

Reveals Guy’s Suspicions

All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the mysterious cylinder proved unavailing. Apparently he was entirely in ignorance of its actual contents – of the Thing referred to by the man now dead.

Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled about the beautiful gardens in the sunset. He was a bright, merry, easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition for foreign travel. He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.

Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who had spent many thousands on improvements. My father had known him but slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much gratified to know his son.

From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed friendship towards each other. We were both bachelors, and I saw that we had many tastes in common. His airy carelessness of manner and his overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the devoted slave of the pretty Asta.

Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone with Nicholson on the terrace.

“Have you known Asta long?” he asked me suddenly.

My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of his question – if he were not jealous of her.

“I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?”

“Oh yes,” I replied lamely. “We’ve been acquainted for some little time.”

Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes unusually serious. Then, after a pause, he said —

“Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers were. I want to speak very frankly with you.”

“Well?” I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.

“I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of Harvey Shaw?”

“My opinion,” I echoed. “Well, I hardly know. He’s rather a good fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy – ”

“Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends, and all that,” he interrupted. “But – but what I want you to tell me is, what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a mask?”

“I don’t quite follow your meaning,” was my reply.

“May I speak to you in entire confidence?”

“You certainly may. I shall not abuse it.”

“Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman’s bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name.”

“Why should any word be said against him?”

I queried. “Is he not your friend, as well as mine?”

“Granted, but – well, he has been here several years, and I have known Asta all the time. Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her. But were it not for her I would never darken his doors.”

“Why?” I asked, much surprised.

“Well,” he said with hesitation, lowering his voice. “Because there’s something wrong about him.”

“Something wrong? What do you mean?”

“What I allege. I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil.”

“Then you have suspicion of him, eh? Of what?”

“I hardly know. But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly. I do not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta. They are glances of hatred.”

“My dear fellow,” I laughed. “You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so.”

“Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?”

“Why should he? She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever since her childhood.”

“I know. You are Shaw’s friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion there may be against him. Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing.”

“But what causes you to suspect this?” I asked, looking at him very seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun.

“Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball. I have proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I allege,” he cried, in a low, confidential tone. “This man Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be.”

I was silent. What could he know? Surely Asta had not betrayed her foster-father! Of that I felt confident.

“But you say you have proof. What is the nature of the proof?”

“It is undeniable. This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained all these years, has changed towards her. There’s evil in his heart.”

“Then you fear that – well, that something may happen, eh? – that he might treat her unkindly. Surely he is not cruel to her!”

“Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him.”

“But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be.”

“Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret.”

I held my breath. What could he know?

“Well?” I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety.

“I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago – I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence – I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards.”

“Well, and what do you make out from that incident?” I asked.

“That he visited the place in secret that night, though Asta believed him to be on the Continent.”

“But the disguise?”

“Ah! there you are! Surely a gentleman doesn’t go about in shabby clothes and trudge miles through the mud and rain without some sinister motive. The express from London had stopped at Corby twenty minutes before, therefore I concluded that he had arrived by that, and was making his way to pay a secret visit.”

“Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?”

“Quite confident.”

“You told her nothing?”

“Of course not. I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes very wide-open. Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is not what he pretends to be.”

The situation was, I saw, a most critical one. The young man loved Asta very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse. This was curious, having regard to Arnold’s written words of caution. The latter’s suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in London.

“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” I asked him.

“Not to a soul.”

“Then if I may be permitted to advise,” I said, “I should say no word to anybody – not even to Miss Seymour. I will assist you, and we will continue to watch and act together.”

“Good!” he cried. “Your hand upon it, Kemball.” And we grasped hands.

“I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta,” he said in a low hoarse voice. “I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem to have a distinct presage of evil.”

“Personally, I don’t think you need have any uneasiness upon that score,” I said. “Miss Seymour is his sole companion – probably his confidante – for he has but few friends.”

“Exactly. But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?”

I had not looked at the matter in that light. My companion’s discovery was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but suspicion of Shaw’s hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd. But when a man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.

“Well,” I said, “now that you have been frank with me so far, and have taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you really do suspect?”

“You are Shaw’s friend. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,” he said.

“I am no more his friend than you are,” I replied, recollecting Arnold’s warning regarding the Hand – whatever that might be. “Have I not agreed with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised to help you to watch? What actual conclusions have you formed?”

“H-s-s-h!” he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me, and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.

“They’re worrying Dad on the telephone from London,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “He gets so out of patience with it. But really it is awfully trying sometimes. They ring you up and then keep you half an hour waiting.”

“I know,” laughed Guy. “My own experience is exactly the same. Why, only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an hour.”

As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked inexpressibly dainty and charming. Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man. They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked Shaw for her hand. Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion which had entered his mind.

I saw the love-light in her magnificent brown eyes, she stood laughing with him, while he took from his case a cigarette, tapped its end lightly, as is the habit of some men, and lit it.

A few moments later Shaw joined us, smiling merrily, and as he came up he clapped Guy on the back heartily, saying —

“You two fellows will stay and have dinner, won’t you? I’m glad you are friends, as you ought to be.”

“I really think I must go,” I said. “It will take me hours to get home by train.”

“Train! Why, Gray will drive you back, of course,” he cried. “No, never mind about dressing. Asta will excuse us, and you’ll stay.”

So, having glanced at each other meaningly, we both accepted, and very soon were seated in the long handsome dining-room, where the table, laden with splendid old silver, was decorated tastefully with roses.

Wheaton served us with due stateliness, yet as I sat watching his grey clean-shaven face, I felt somehow that there was a strange mysterious craftiness in its expression, unusual in the countenance of a gentleman’s servant. The manner in which he performed his service was, however, perfect. More than once, during the merry meal, I glanced across at Guy Nicholson, and wondered what were his thoughts.

Fortunately he betrayed nothing in his face, for he joked and laughed with his host, and praised the excellent claret which Wheaton had served with such dignity.

The girl had eyes only for her lover, while Shaw himself, seated at the head of the table, was full of fun and overflowing geniality. How very strange was the situation!

After dinner we took our coffee and liqueurs on the verandah, for the night was breathless and balmy, and the air full of the sweet scent of the flowers.

Then after a long gossip alone with Shaw, at half-past ten the car was ordered for me and came round to the front entrance.

Before leaving I managed to obtain a word alone with Nicholson.

“You’ll come over and see me,” I asked. “Now, don’t disappoint me, will you?”

“No, I won’t.” Then he whispered quickly: “I told you that I had certain proofs. I’ve been upstairs. When I come I will show them to you. They will astound you, and they are fully corroborated by what I have noticed to-night. Perhaps it escaped you. Beware of Wheaton. He’s only been here six months, but I know something – have seen something?”

And we shook hands and parted.

Chapter Ten

The Evil of the Ten Plagues

In the days that followed I was intensely anxious to visit Lydford Hall again, but I had received a warning note from Shaw, urging me not to do so without taking every precaution. I might be followed, for the danger of detection was not yet at an end.

Therefore I remained in eager expectancy of Guy’s visit. He had vaguely promised to come over “in a day or two.” But as a week passed and I heard nothing from him, I wrote, and by return of post received a reply that he would motor over and lunch with me on Sunday.

“I have something of greatest importance to tell you,” his letter concluded; “so I hope you can make it convenient to be in on that day.”

I received the letter on Thursday morning, and at once replied that I would be at home. I would await his visit with keenest impatience.

The warm breathless days at Upton End passed but slowly. Truth to tell, I found life there extremely dull. I had many friends in the neighbourhood, but they were mostly elderly persons, or angular girls of superior education. I had little in common with them, and already found myself longing to travel again.

More than once when smoking my lonely cigar before going to bed, I had taken out the mysterious cylinder from the big safe built in the wall of the library and held it in my hand pondering. What could be the Thing it contained – the thing which would amaze the world!

The weird story told to me by Shaw concerning it haunted me; yet what evil could its possession bring upon me? I had heard, of course, of authenticated stories of certain Egyptian mummies which have brought disaster and death to those who disturbed their long sleep; yet in my case I had become the unwilling agent of another.

On the night of receiving Nicholson’s letter, after every one had retired, I was sitting as usual smoking, with the long window open to the verandah, for the air was close and oppressive. Outside the night was glorious, the moon shone brightly, and not a breath of wind stirred.

I opened the steel door in the wall by the fireplace, and from the safe took out the dead man’s letter to me with the heavy cylinder. It was a curious fancy of mine to handle and examine it.

I read and re-read that letter traced by the hand of the man whom I had known as Arnold, but whose real name seemed most probably to have been Edgcumbe. Then I read that strange letter threatening vengeance, and held in my hand the old copy of the newspaper which told the curious story of Lady Lettice Lancaster.

It was all mysterious, but surely most mysterious of all was that bronze cylinder. Why should the dead man have feared to expose its contents to the world?

Civilisation would be staggered by the revelation, it was declared. What terrible secret of ages past could be therein contained? Why had the dead man called it a Thing? Was it really some living thing imprisoned in that strong unbreakable casing?

I carried it across to the green-shaded lamp upon my writing-table, and taking up a strong magnifying glass examined it closely, and at last determined that the welding by which it had been closed had been done ages ago. As far as I could detect it had never been opened. How, therefore, could Arnold have known what it contained? – unless the papyri that had been discovered with it had given an explanation.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the existence of any papyri of great interest would probably be known in the Egyptian Department of the British Museum. Therefore by inquiry there I might perhaps learn something. So I resolved, after Guy’s visit, to run up to London and see one of the officials. As Arnold was an Egyptologist, he would, no doubt, be known and his discoveries noted.

I was holding the cylinder in my hand, carrying it across the room to replace it in the safe, when my eye caught a dark shadow thrown across the lawn. So quickly, however, did it disappear that I stood half inclined to believe it to exist only in my imagination. It seemed to be a long shadow, as though some person had crossed in the moonlight the high bank on the opposite side. Yet my collie, who would bark at the slightest sound in the night, lay near and uttered neither bark nor growl. I went out to the verandah and looked about me; but all was perfectly still. The world lay asleep beneath the great full moon.

For a few moments I stood puzzled. No intruder should be there at that hour. Yet the fact that Prince had not been disturbed reassured me, so I closed the window, locked the cylinder and the correspondence carefully in the safe, and then went upstairs to bed.

My room was directly over the library, and something prompted me to watch. So I extinguished my light and sat peering through the chink between the blind and the window-sash. For nearly half an hour I waited, my eyes fixed upon the great wide, moonlit lawn.

Suddenly I saw the shadow again, plainly and distinctly – the dark silhouette passed bade again.

It was probably a poacher from the wood beyond. I knew that my rabbits were being trapped with wires; therefore resolving to tell Johnson, the keeper, in the morning, I retired to bed.

Next day, among my letters, I found one from my solicitors, which made it necessary for me to go at once to London; and after doing my business in Bedford Row, I strolled along to the British Museum.

I had but little difficulty in discovering Professor Stewart, whose knowledge of Egyptology is probably the widest of any living man.

Without telling him too many details, I related the story I had heard of the finding of a bronze cylinder in the tomb of King Merenptah, and that certain papyri were discovered with it. Could he give me any information upon the subject.

“Well – a little,” replied the tall, grey-bearded, bald-headed man, looking at me through his spectacles with great deliberation. “It is true, I believe, that an interesting cylinder of metal was found in the tomb of Merenptah, coeval with Moses, and with it were some fragments of papyri fairly well-preserved, but on examination they were found not to be of the nineteenth dynasty, as would have been expected.”

“Who examined them?” I asked eagerly.

“I did myself, about two years ago, if I recollect aright,” replied the Professor. “They were brought to me one day for my opinion by a man whose name I now forget. He was elderly, grey-bearded, and apparently possessed considerable knowledge of Egyptian subjects. He left them with me, so that I might decipher them, as he wished to compare his own decipher with mine. But, curiously enough, I have never seen him since. The papyri I have still locked away, awaiting his return.”

“Then they are here?” I cried eagerly.

“Certainly. Would you like to see them?”

I replied eagerly in the affirmative, and he left me for some minutes, returning with a big cardboard portfolio, which he opened, showing half a dozen pieces of brown crumbling paper-like substance covered with puzzling hieroglyphics. With them were several sheets of blue foolscap, upon which he had written his translation.

“Here is what the record contains,” he said.

“Perhaps, if you are interested in such matters, you would like to read it. It is a curious piece of literature of apparently the Pharaonic dynasty of the Ptolemies – or 323-30 B.C., which ended with Cleopatra.”

I took the folios of modern paper in my hand and from them read as follows, written in the Professor’s own crabbed writing: —

”…For of a Verity death, sickness, and sorrow, who knoweth which, may fall upon thee. Therefore, beware of the wrath of Ra, beware lest this cylinder of bronze be opened and its secret be revealed to men, for therein lieth the Thing that shall not speak until the Day of Awakening.

“For:

“He that seeketh knowledge of that which is hidden is accursed of Amon with the ten plagues and doeth so at his own risk, and must meet his fate being cursed of the wolf-god Osiris, ruler of the underworld. Truly, cutting off the head of, or the forsaking life is better than the satisfaction of curiosity of what is therein contained.

“Touch not the cylinder with thine hand, for if…

“Let it remain here in the tomb of the Great Merenptah, King of Kings, Lord… wherein it has been placed to slumber until released by Osiris, to whom all kings and princes bow the knee and to whom…

“Observe, He is all-glorious, on whose pleasure fortune waiteth, in whose valour victory, and in whose anger death.

“Since:

”…a gem be tied at the feet and a piece of glass be worn upon the head, yet still glass is glass, and gems are gems.

“It is said:

“Wisdom is of more consequence than strength. The want of it is a state of misery. And as in the night darkness is kept at a distance by the lord of shades (the moon) thus love by seeing and being seen delights the young. The woman…

“Again:

“Women are never to be rendered faithful and obedient; no, not by gifts, nor by honours, nor by sincerity, nor by services, nor by severity, nor by precept!.. What women eat is twofold; their cunning fourfold; their perseverance sixfold; their passions eightfold; and their patience tenfold. Wherefore the understanding which upon unexpected occurrences remaineth unaffected, may pass through the greatest difficulties. He who hath sense and worshippeth the Sun-God hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? Where hath…