The Doom of London, The Ends of Justice, The Five Knots, The Edge of the Sword, The Island of Shadows, The Master Criminal, The Mystery of the Four Fingers, A Crime on Canvas…
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By Order of the League
The Midnight Guest
A Fatal Dose
The Island of Shadows
The Crimson Blind
Tregarthen's Wife
Blackmail
The Weight of the Crown
A Shadowed Love
My Lady Bountiful
A Golden Argosy
The Cardinal Moth
The Corner House
The Ends of Justice
The House of Schemers
The Lord of the Manor
The Slave of Silence
The Yellow Face
The Nether Millstone
The Five Knots
The Edge of the Sword
The Lonely Bride
Craven Fortune
The Law of the Land
The Mystery of the Four Fingers
The Sundial
Netta
A Queen of the Stage
The Scales of Justice
A Crime on Canvas
The Golden Rose
Paul Quentin
A Front of Brass
Hard Pressed
The White Glove
A Mummer's Throne
The Secret of the Sands
The Man Called Gilray
The House of Mammon
A Royal Wrong
A Secret Service
The Sentence of the Court
Powers of Darkness
The Mystery of the Ravenspurs
The Day
Ambition's Slave
The Seed of Empire
The Salt of the Earth
The Lady in Blue
The Case for the Crown
The Wings of Victory
The Leopard's Spots
The Honour of His House
The Man who was Two
The Mystery of Room 75
The Councillors of Falconhoe
The Master Criminal (True Crime Tales)
The Doom of London
The Gipsy Tales
The Real Drama
The Romance of the Secret Service Fund
The Adventures of Drenton Denn…
Frederick White (1859–1935), mostly known for mysteries, is considered also as one of the pioneers of the spy story.
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CHAPTER III
Table of Contents Mr Carver of Bedford Row, in the county of Middlesex, was exercised in his mind; and the most annoying part of it was that he was so exercised at his own trouble and expense; that is to say, he was not elucidating some knotty legal point at the charge of a client, but he was speculating over one of the most extraordinary events that had ever happened to him in the whole course of his long and honorable career. The matter stood briefly thus: His client, Charles Morton, of Eastwood, Somersetshire, died on the 9th of April in the year of grace 1882. On the 1st of May, 1880, Mr Carver had made the gentleman’s will, which left all his possessions, to the amount of some forty thousand pounds, to his niece, Eleanor Attewood. Six months later, Mr Morton’s half-sister, Miss Wakefield, took up her residence at Eastwood, and from that time everything had changed. Eleanor had married the son of a clergyman in the neighborhood, and at the instigation of his half-sister, Mr Morton had disinherited his niece; and one year before he died, had made a fresh will, leaving everything to Miss Wakefield. Mr Carver, be it remarked, strongly objected to this injustice, seeing the baneful influence which had brought it about; and had he been able to find Eleanor, he hoped to alter the unjust state of things. But she disappeared with her husband, and left no trace behind; so the obnoxious will was proved. Then came the most extraordinary part of the affair. With the exception of a few hundreds in the bank at Eastwood, for household purposes, not a single penny of Mr Morton’s money could be found. All his property was mortgaged to a high amount; all his securities were disposed of, and not one penny could be traced. The mortgages on the property were properly drawn up by a highly respectable solicitor at Eastwood, the money advanced by a man of undoubted probity; and, further, the money had been paid over to Mr Morton one day early in the year 1882. Advertisements were inserted in the papers, in fact everything was done to trace the missing money, but in vain. All Miss Wakefield had for her pains and trouble was a poor sum of about eleven hundred pounds, so she had to retire again to her genteel poverty in a cheap London boarding-house. This melancholy fact did not give Mr Carver any particular sorrow; he disliked that lady, and was especially glad that her deep cunning and underhand ways had frustrated themselves. In all probability, he thought, Mr Morton had in a fit of suspicion got hold of all his ready cash and securities, for the purpose of balking the fair lady whom he had made his heiress; but nevertheless the affair was puzzling, and Mr Carver hated to be puzzled. Mr Carver stood at his office in Bedford Row, drumming his fingers on the grimy window-panes and softly whistling. Nothing was heard in the office but the scratch of the confidential clerk’s quill pen as he scribbled out a draft for his employer’s inspection. ‘This is a very queer case, Bates, very queer,’ said Mr Carver, addressing his clerk. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mr Bates, continuing the scratching. That gentleman possessed the instinct of always being able to divine what his chief was thinking of. Therefore, when Mr Bates said ‘Yes, sir,’ he knew that the Eastwood mystery had been alluded to. ‘I’d most cheerfully give—let me see, what would I give? Well, I wouldn’t mind paying down my cheque for’—— ‘One thousand pounds, sir. No, sir; I don’t think you would.’ ‘You’re a wonderful fellow, Bates,’ said his admiring master. ”Pon my honor, Bates, that’s the exact sum I was going to mention.’ ‘It is strange, sir,’ said the imperturbable Bates, ‘that you and I always think the same things. I suppose it is being with you so long. Now, if I was to think you would give me a partnership, perhaps you would think the same thing too.’ ‘Bates,’ said Mr Carver earnestly, never smiling, as was his wont, at his clerk’s quiet badinage, ‘if we unravel this mystery, as I hope we may, I’ll tell you what, Bates, don’t be surprised if I give you a partnership.’ ”Ah, sir, if we unravel it. Now, if we could only find’—— ‘Miss Eleanor. Just what I was thinking.’ At this moment a grimy clerk put his head in at the door. ‘Please, sir, a young person of the name of Seaton.’ ‘It is Miss Eleanor, by Jove!’ said Bates, actually excited. ‘Wonderful!’ said Mr Carver. In a few seconds the lady was ushered into the presence of Mr Carver. She was tall and fair, with a style of beauty uncommon to the people of to-day. Clad from head to foot in plain black, hat, jacket, and dress cut with a simplicity almost severe, and relieved only by a white collar at the throat, there was something in her air and bearing which spoke of a culture and breeding not easily defined in words, but nevertheless unmistakable. It was a face and figure that men would look at and turn again to watch, even in the busy street. Her complexion was almost painfully perfect in its clear pallid whiteness, and the large dark lustrous eyes shone out from the marble face with dazzling brightness. She had a perfect abundance of real golden hair, looped up in a great knot behind; but the rebellious straying tresses fell over her broad low forehead like an aureole round the head of a saint. ‘Don’t you know me, Mr Carver?’ she said at length. ‘My dear Eleanor, my dear Eleanor, do sit down!’ This was the person whom he had been longing for two years to see, and Mr Carver, cool as he was, was rather knocked off his balance for a moment. ‘Poor child! Why, why didn’t you come and see me before?’ ‘Pride, Mr Carver—pride,’ she replied, with a painful air of assumed playfulness. ‘But surely pride did not prevent your coming to see your old friend?’ ‘Indeed, it did, Mr Carver. You would not have me part with one of my few possessions?’ ‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ said the lawyer, with assumed severity. ‘Now, sit down there, and tell me everything you have done for the last two years.’ ‘It is soon told. When my uncle—poor deluded man—turned me, as he did, out of his house on account of my marriage, something had to be done; so we came to London. For two years my husband has been trying to earn a living by literature. Far better had he stayed in the country and taken to breaking stones or working in the fields. It is a bitter life, Mr Carver. The man who wants to achieve fortune that way must have a stout heart; he must be devoid of pride and callous to failure. If I had all the eloquence of a Dickens at my tongue’s end, I could not sum up two years’ degradation and bitter miserable poverty and disappointment better than in the few words, “Trying to live by literature,”—However, it is useless to struggle against it any longer. Mr Carver, sorely against my inclination, I have come to you to help us.’ ‘My dear child, you hurt me,’ said Mr Carver huskily, ‘you hurt me; you do indeed. For two years I have been searching for you everywhere. You have only to ask me, and you know anything I can I will do.’ ‘God bless you,’ replied Eleanor, with the gathering tears thick in her eyes. ‘I know you will. I knew that when I came here. How can I thank you?’ ‘Don’t do anything of the sort; I don’t want any thanks. But before you go, I will do something for you. Now, listen to me. Before your uncle died’—— ‘Died! Is he dead?’ ‘How stupid of me. I didn’t know’—— Mr Carver stopped abruptly, and paused till the natural emotions called forth in the young lady’s mind had had time to expend themselves. She then asked when the event had happened. ‘Two years ago,’ said Mr Carver. ‘And now, tell me—since you last saw him, had you any word or communication from him in any shape or form? Any letter or message?’ Eleanor shook her head, half sadly, half scornfully. ‘You don’t seem to know Miss Wakefield,’ she said. ‘No message was likely to reach me, while she remained at Eastwood.’ ‘No; I suppose not. So you have heard nothing? Very good. Now, a most wonderful thing has happened. When your uncle died and his will came to be read, he had left everything to Miss Wakefield. No reason to tell you that, I suppose? Now comes the strangest part of the story. With the exception of a few hundreds in the local bank, not a penny can be found. All the property has been mortgaged to the uttermost farthing; all the stock is sold out; and, in fact, nothing is left but Eastwood, which, as you know, is a small place, and not worth much. We have been searching for two years, and not a trace can we find.’ ‘Perhaps Miss Wakefield is hiding the plunder away,’ Eleanor suggested with some indifference. ‘Impossible,’ eagerly exclaimed Mr Carver—‘impossible. What object could she have in doing so? The money was clearly left to her; and it is not likely that a woman so fond of show would deliberately choose to spend her life in a dingy lodging-house.’ ‘And Eastwood?’ ‘Is empty. It will not let, neither can we sell it.’ ‘So Miss Wakefield is no better off than she was four years ago!’ Eleanor said calmly. ‘Come, Mr Carver, that is good news, at any rate. It almost reconciles me to my position.’ ‘Nelly, I wish you would not speak so,’ said Mr Carver seriously. ‘It hurts me. You were not so hard at one time.’ ‘Forgive me, my dear old friend,’ she replied...
