Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was "pumping" me, I knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my replies.

Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.

I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circ.u.mstances of his death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so completely hidden.

I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness, and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet, from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the police.

And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in prison! It seemed utterly incredible.

Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether Arnold had made a will. But I told her that, so far as I knew, there was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.

"I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors," she said. "He would not trust them."

"Then who is in charge of the dead man's estate?" I asked, hoping for some information.

"Ah! That's a complete mystery, Mr Kemball," was her reply. "That Mr Arnold was wealthy--tremendously wealthy--there is no doubt. Yet he was as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income. It was derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware."

"He was a complete mystery in many ways."

"In every way. I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess that I was most puzzled always. He lived in secret, and it appears that he has died in secret," replied Mrs Olliffe. "I had hoped, Mr Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in which he has disposed of his property."

"Unfortunately, I know nothing," was my reply. "He merely asked me to perform several little services for him after his death; and having done them, there my knowledge ends."

She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd, deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said--

"I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will. But, on the contrary, I know full well that I should not. All I can tell you, Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold's, then only evil can result."

"Why?" I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before me.

"Because Arnold was a worker of evil."

"Then you were not his friend, eh?"

"Yes, I was. Only I have warned you," was her quick reply.

Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar a.s.sertion. Had he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it in their possession?

I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting. As I sat chatting with her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey, and of her curiously romantic life. Now that she was free, she was, without doubt, again carrying on her old game. Once a woman is an adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.

Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance with the dead man Arnold.

More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a mystery complete and profound. She had known him intimately, yet she would tell me very little concerning him.

"He was, of course, very eccentric," she declared. "One of his fads was that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession. He was constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the appearance of being poor."

"Where did he live usually?" I asked.

"Half his time he was abroad--in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover."

I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently, after she had taken tea with me, she left.

Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near Kelston, about three miles out of the city.

At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.

"Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe's a widow," said the stout, white-bearded landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. "She's been here close on two years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven't been very many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson--and he's always there, more or less."

"Nicholson!" I cried, startled at mention of the name. "Was he Mr Guy Nicholson, from t.i.tmarsh?"

"I don't know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He hasn't been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work for Mrs Olliffe. He's a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only wish there were a few more of his sort about."

"He's a friend of Mrs Olliffe's, you say? Has he been coming here for long?"

"Ever since she's been here. They used to say he came to see Miss Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes just as much since she's left. Ah!" he added, "now I recollect. Only a week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr Nicholson at t.i.tmarsh, near Corby, I think it was."

I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.

When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor. It was, I found, a splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely timbered park, and in full view from the high road. Would the country folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the curious truth?

While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled, ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw back into a hedge. In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.

But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of thought.

Guy had been that undesirable woman's friend. Was it possible that she had been implicated in the poor fellow's mysterious end?

That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking-- thinking very deeply.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CONTAINS SOME FRESH FACTS.

I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with me at the club.

"You were poor Guy's intimate friend," I remarked as we sat together.

"Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere near Bath?"

"Oh yes," was his reply, as he sat twisting his winegla.s.s by the stem.

"He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe."

"Have you ever met the widow?" I asked.

"Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy."

"Where is the young lady now?"

"Somewhere in India, I think. Her father's a civilian out there."

"But this Mrs Olliffe," I said. "Don't you know any thing about her?"