"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 a.s.sist 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 p.r.o.ne 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 circ.u.mstances 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."