Chapter Nineteen. Which Contains a Clue.

A door opened and there came forward a tall, thin, wiry old man with white hair and a pointed grey beard. He had evidently retired on our arrival in order to change his coat, for he wore a blue reefer jacket which had had but little wear, but the collar of which was twisted, showing that he had only that moment assumed it.

His face was deeply wrinkled with long, straight furrows across the brows; the countenance of a man who for years had been exposed to rigours of wind and weather in varying climates.

Having welcomed us, he laughed lightly when we explained our admiration for old houses. We were Londoners, we explained, and toll-houses and their associations with the antiquated locomotion of the past always charmed us.

“Yes,” he said, in a rather refined voice for such a rough exterior, “they were exciting days, those. Nowadays the motor car has taken the place of the picturesque coach and team, and they rush past here backwards and forwards, blowing their horns at every hour of the day and night. Half the time we have a constable lying in wait in the back garden ready to time them on to Campsall, and take ’em to the Petty Sessions afterwards!” he laughed; “and fancy this at the very spot where Claude Duval held up the Duke of Northumberland and afterwards gallantly escorted Lady Mary Percy back to Selby.”

The old fellow seemed to deplore the passing of the good old days, for he was one of what is known as “the old school,” full of narrow-minded prejudices against every new-fangled idea, whether it be in medicine, religion or politics, and declaring that when he was a youth men were men and could hold their own successfully against the foreigner, either in the peace of commerce or in the clash of arms.

To my utter surprise he told us that his name was Hales—the same as that of Mabel’s secret lover, and as we chatted with him we learned that he had been a good many years at sea, mostly in the Atlantic and Mediterranean trades.

“Well, you seem pretty comfortable now,” I remarked, smiling, “a cosy house, a good wife, and everything to make you happy.”

“You’re right,” he answered, taking down a long clay pipe from the rack over the open hearth. “A man wants nowt more. I’m contented enough and I only wish everybody in Yorkshire was as comfortable this hard weather.”

The aged pair seemed flattered at receiving us as visitors, and good-naturedly offered us a glass of ale.

“It’s home-brewed, you know,” declared Mrs Hales. “The likes of us can’t afford wine. Just taste it,” she urged, and being thus pressed we were glad of an excuse to extend our visit.

The old lady had bustled out to the kitchen to fetch glasses, when Reggie rose to his feet, closed the door quickly, and, turning to Hales, said in a low voice—

“We want to have five minutes’ private conversation with you, Mr Hales. Do you recognise this?” and he drew forth the photograph and held it before the old man’s eyes.

“Why, it’s a picture o’ my house,” he exclaimed in surprise. “But what’s the matter!”

“Nothing, only just answer my questions. They are most important, and our real object in coming here is to put them to you. First, have you ever known a man named Blair—Burton Blair.”

“Burton Blair!” echoed the old fellow, his hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned forward intently. “Yes, why?”

“He discovered a secret, didn’t he?”

“Yes, through me—made millions out of it, they say.”

“When did you last see him?”

“About five or six years ago.”

“When he discovered you living here?”

“That’s it. He searched every road in England to find me.”

“You gave him this photograph?”

“No, I think he stole it.”

“Where did you first meet him?”

“On board the Mary Crowle in the port of Antwerp. He was at sea, like myself. But why do you wish to know all this?”

“Because,” answered Reggie, “Burton Blair is dead, and his secret has been bequeathed to my friend here, Mr Gilbert Greenwood.”

“Burton Blair dead!” cried the old man, jumping to his feet as though he had received a shock. “Burton dead! Does Dicky Dawson know this?”

“Yes, and he is in London,” I replied.

“Ah!” he ejaculated, with impatience, as though the premature knowledge held by the man Dawson had upset all his plans. “Who told him? How the devil did he know?”

I had to confess ignorance, but in reply to his demand I deplored the tragic suddenness of our friend’s decease, and how I had been left in possession of the pack of cards upon which the cipher had been written.

“Have you any idea what his secret really was?” asked the wiry old fellow. “I mean of where his great wealth came from?”

“None whatever,” was my reply. “Perhaps you can tell us something?”

“No,” he snapped, “I can’t. He became suddenly rich, although only a month or so before he was on tramp and starving. He found me and I gave him certain information for which I was afterwards well repaid. It was this information, he told me, which formed the key to the secret.”

“Was it anything to do with this pack of cards and the cipher?” I inquired eagerly.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen the cards you mention. When he arrived here one cold night, he was exhausted and starving and dead beat. I gave him a meal and a bed, and told him what he wanted to know. Next morning, with money borrowed from me, he took train to London and the next I heard of him was a letter which stated that he had paid into the County Bank at York to my credit one thousand pounds, as we had arranged to be the price of the information. And I tell you, gentlemen, nobody was more surprised than I was to receive a letter from the bank next day, confirming it. He afterwards deposited a similar sum in the bank, on the first of January every year—as a little present, he said.”

“Then you never saw him after the night that his search for you was successful?”

“No, not once,” Hales answered, addressing his wife, who had just entered, saying that he was engaged in a private conversation, and requesting her to leave us, which she did. “Burton Blair was a queer character,” Hales continued, addressing me, “he always was. No better sailor ever ate salt junk. He was absolutely fearless and a splendid navigator. He knew the Mediterranean as other men know Cable Street, Whitechapel, and had led a life cram-full of adventure. But he was a reckless devil ashore—very reckless. I remember once how we both narrowly escaped with our lives at a little town outside Algiers. He pulled an Arab girl’s veil off her face out of sheer mischief, and, when she raised the alarm, we had to make ourselves scarce, pretty quick, I can tell you,” and he laughed heartily at the recollection of certain sprees ashore. “But both he and I had had pretty tough times in the Cameroons and in the Andes. I was older than he, and when I first met him I laughed at what I believed to be his ignorance. But I soon saw that he’d crammed about double the amount of travelling and adventure into his short spell than ever I had done, for he had a happy knack of deserting and going up country whenever an opportunity offered. He’d fought in half-a-dozen revolutions in Central and South America and used to declare that the rebels in Guatemala, had, on one occasion, elected him Minister of Commerce!”

“Yes,” I agreed, “he was in many ways a most remarkable man with a most remarkable history His life was a mystery from beginning to end, and it is that mystery which now, after his death, I am trying to unravel.”

“Ah! I fear you’ll find it a very difficult task,” replied his old friend, shaking his head. “Blair was secret in everything. He never let his right hand know what his left did. You could never get at the bottom of his ingenuity, or at his motives. And,” he added, as though it were an afterthought, “can you assign any reason why he should have left his secret in your hands?”

“Well, only gratitude,” I replied. “I was able on one occasion to render him a little assistance.”

“I know. He told me all about it—how you had both put his girl to school, and all that. But,” he went on, “Blair had some motive when he left you that unintelligible cipher, depend upon it. He knew well enough that you would never obtain its solution alone.”

“Why?”

“Because others had tried before you and failed.”

“Who are they?” I inquired, much surprised.

“Dick Dawson is one. If he had succeeded he might have stood in Blair’s shoes—a millionaire. Only he wasn’t quite cute enough, and the secret passed on to your friend.”

“Then you don’t anticipate that I shall ever discover the solution of the cipher?”

“No,” answered the old man, very frankly, “I don’t. But what of his girl—Mabel, I think she was called?”

“She’s in London and has inherited everything,” I replied; whereat the old fellow’s furrowed face broadened into a grim smile, and he remarked—

“A fine catch for some young fellow, she’d make. Ah! if you could induce her to tell all she knows she could place you in possession of her father’s secret.”

“Does she actually know it?” I cried quickly. “Are you certain of this?”

“I am; she knows the truth. Ask her.”

“I will,” I declared. “But cannot you tell us the nature of the information you gave to Blair on that night when he re-discovered you?” I asked persuasively.

“No,” he replied in a decisive tone, “it was a confidential matter and must remain as such. I was paid for my services, and as far as I am concerned, I have wiped my hands of the affair.”

“But you could tell me something concerning this strange quest of Blair’s—something, I mean, that might put me on the track of the solution of the secret.”

“The secret of how he gained his wealth, you mean, eh?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, my dear sir, you’ll never discover that—mark me—if you live to be a hundred. Burton Blair took jolly good care to hide that from everybody.”

“And he was well assisted by such men as your self,” I said, rather impertinently, I fear.

“Perhaps, perhaps so,” he said quickly, his face flushing. “I promised him secrecy and I’ve kept my promise, for I owe my present comfortable circumstances solely to his generosity.”

“A millionaire can do anything, of course. His money secures him his friends.”

“Friends, yes,” replied the old man, gravely; “but not happiness. Poor Burton Blair was one of the unhappiest of men, that I am quite certain of.”

He spoke the truth, I knew. The millionaire had himself many times declared to me in confidence that he had been far happier in his days of penury and careless adventure beyond the seas, than as possessor of that great West End mansion, and the first estate in Herefordshire.

“Look here,” exclaimed Hales, suddenly, glancing keenly from Reggie to myself, “I give you warning,” and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “You say that Dick Dawson has returned—beware of him. He means mischief, you may bet your hat on that! Be very careful of his girl, too, she knows more than you think.”

“We have a faint suspicion that Blair did not die a natural death,” I remarked.

“You have?” he exclaimed, starting. “What causes you to anticipate that?”

“The circumstances were so remarkable,” I replied, and continuing, I explained the tragic affair just as I have written it here.

“You don’t suspect Dicky Dawson, I suppose?” the old fellow asked anxiously.

“Why? Had he any motive for getting rid of our friend?”

“Ah! I don’t know. Dicky is a very funny customer. He always held Blair beneath his thumb. They were a truly remarkable pair; the one blossoming forth into a millionaire, and the other living strictly in secret somewhere abroad—in Italy, I think.”

“Dawson must have had some very strong motive for remaining so quiet,” I observed.

“Because he was compelled,” answered Hales, with a mysterious shake of the head. “There were reasons why he shouldn’t show his face. Myself, I wonder why he has dared to do so now.”

“What!” I cried eagerly, “is he wanted by the police or something?”

“Well,” answered the old man, after some hesitation, “I don’t think he’d welcome a visit from any of those inquisitive gentlemen from Scotland Yard. Only remember I make no charges, none at all. If, however, he attempts any sharp practice, you may just casually mention that Harry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming up to London to pay him a morning call. Just watch what effect those words will have upon him,” and the old man chuckled to himself, adding, “Ah! Mr Dicky-bird Dawson, you’ve got to reckon with me yet, I fancy.”

“Then you’ll assist us?” I cried in eagerness. “You can save Mabel Blair if you will?”

“I’ll do all I can,” was Hales’ outspoken reply, “for I recognise that there’s some very ingenious conspiracy afoot somewhere.” Then, after a long pause, during which he had re-filled his long clay, and his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon mine, the old man added, “You told me a little while ago that Blair had left you his secret, but you didn’t explain to me the exact terms of his will. Was anything said about it?”

“In the clause which bequeaths it to me is a strange rhyme which runs—

”‘King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens.
He’d one short of seven—and nine or ten scenes!’

“and he also urged me to preserve the secret from every man as he had done. But,” I added bitterly, “the secret being in cipher I cannot obtain knowledge of it.”

“And have you no key?” smiled the hard-faced old seafarer in the thick reefer.

“None—unless,” and at that moment a strange thought flashed for the first time upon me, “unless the key is actually concealed within that rhyme!” I repeated the couplet aloud. Yes, all the cards of that piquet pack were mentioned in it—king, eight, knave, queen, seven, nine, ten!

My heart leapt within me. Could it be possible that by arranging the cards in the following order the record could be read?

If so, then Burton Blair’s strange secret was mine at last!

I mentioned my sudden and startling theory, when the tall old fellow’s grey face broadened into a triumphant grin and he said—

“Arrange the cards and try it.”