BEGINNING TO SEARCH

No sooner did I begin to feel freed from Voltaire’s power than I began to exert myself to find Kaffar, if indeed he were to be found. There was much in my favour. I possessed freedom; I had plenty of money; I had plenty of time. On the other hand, there was much against me. Was he alive? Were Voltaire’s words true? Had I in my mesmeric condition yielded to his will in such a degree as to kill the wily Egyptian and hurl him in the pond? Again, if he were alive, where was he? Who could tell? Supposing he had gone to Egypt, how could I find him? Possibly he had a thousand haunts unknown to me.

I determined to go to Yorkshire, and soon found myself within the hospitable walls of Temple Hall. The house was very quiet, however for which I was very glad. I wanted to talk quietly with Tom; I wanted to investigate the whole matter.

When I had finished telling Tom my story, he seemed perfectly astounded.

“What, Justin!” he exclaimed, “do you mean to say that the villain used such means to get you out of his road and win Miss Forrest for himself?”

“I felt he was unscrupulous when I first met him,” I replied. “I am sure he guessed my secret, and determined to get me out of the way by fair means or by foul.”

We talked long concerning the matter; we tried to recall all that had been said and done; but, in spite of all, we could not hit upon any plan of action.

“Do you think she will marry Voltaire,” I said, after a short silence, “if I cannot find Kaffar or prove that he is alive?”

“I am sure she will, Justin. Never did I meet with any one who has a higher sense of honour than she. I believe she would rather die than do a mean thing.”

“And yet,” I said wearily, “I am almost certain I did not kill Kaffar. I can remember nothing distinctly, and yet I have the consciousness that I never struck him a blow.”

“And I, too, am sure you did not do this, Justin,” replied Tom. “I felt that he was acting, in spite of the terrible evidence against you. But what is the use? If you cannot find the Egyptian, he will marry Miss Forrest, and after that well, all seems hopeless.”

“It shall not be hopeless,” I said. “If he is alive, he shall be found, and I will bring him back, and she shall see him.”

“Ah, yes; and that reminds me, Justin, she bade me tell you that she would be in her own home at Kensington until after the next new year.”

This made me joyful in spite of everything. She still had an interest in me; she still believed me innocent.

“By the way, Tom,” I said, after another short silence, “have you found out anything in relation to the ghost which appeared here during my visit?”

“Nothing definite. Stay, I forgot. Simon Slowden said he had something particular to tell you when you came to Yorkshire again. I asked him the subject of this ‘something particular,’ and he said it was about the ghost. I tried to make him explain further, but could not.”

“I’ll see Simon at once,” I said. “I cannot afford to let anything pass without examining it. Any little thing might give a clue to the mystery.”

I sought Simon in the stable-yard, and found him as grim and platonic as ever.

“Glad to see yer honour,” said Simon, hastily. “I’ve made up my mind scores of times to write a letter, but I hev had sich bad luck wi’ letters, that I ‘adn’t the necessary quantity o’ pluck, you know.”

“Bad luck with your letters, Simon? How?”

“Why, yer see, yer honour, after the doctor experimented on me by vaccinatin’ me agin’ small-pox, cholera, and the measles, together wi’ ‘oopin’ cough and several other baby complaints as ’ev a hinjurious effect upon people as ’ev cut their wisdom teeth, you know as I told yer honour that I caught that ’ere werry disease of small-pox which spiled my beauty for ever. Well, as I told yer months ago, I went to the ’ousemaid for a mite ’o comfort, and catches ‘er a-courtin’ wi’ the coachman. So I goes ’ome, and I says I’ll write ’er a letter as would charm a dead duck in a saucepan. So I begins my letter this yer way: ’My dearest dear,’ I says, ’times es bad, and people be glad to catch anything; so I, thinkin’ small-pox better than nothin’, catched that. Forgive me, and I’ll never do so no more. I’m cryin’ all the day, as though I got my livin’ wi’ skinnin’ onions. Relieve me, my dear, or my feelin’s will be too much for me. They be fillin’ me faster ’n I can dispose of ’em; and if you don’t leave that ’ere coachman and smile on me, I shall either go up like a baloon, or else there’ll be a case of combustion.’ I went on in that ‘ere style, yer know, thinkin’ she’d melt like a h’yster in a fryin’-pan, but she didn’t; and the next thing I hears wus that the coachman wur at the willage alehouse readin’ my letter. Since then I’ve guv up the tender passion and guv up writin’ letters.”

“Well, you have had bad luck, Simon; but perhaps you’ll be more fortunate next time. Mr. Temple tells me you have something to tell me about the ghost. What is it?”

“You ain’t a-seen that ’ere hinfidel willain since he went away from ’ere, Mr. Blake, have ’ee?”

“I saw him in Hyde Park one day, but have never spoken to him.”

“Well, I’m in a fog.”

“In a fog! How?”

“Why, I can’t understand a bit why that ’ere ghost wur a got up.”

“You think it was got up, then?”

“Certain of it, yer honour.”

“Well, tell us about it.”

“Well, sur, after you left all of a hurry like, we had a big party in the house, and all the servants ’ad to ’elp; and no sooner did I git in that ’ere house than I beginned to put two and two together, and then I see a hindiwidual that I beginned to think wur mighty like that ’ere ghost.”

“And who was that?”

“Why, that ’ere hancient wirgin, Miss Staggles.”

“Ah, what then?”

“Well, I heard somebody tellin’ her as ’ow you were gone to London, and I thought she looked mighty pleased. After dinner, I see her come out of the drawin’-room, and go away by herself, and I thought I’d watch. She went up to her room, yer honour, and I got in a convenient place for watchin’ her when she comes out. She weren’t a minnit afore she wur out, Mr. Blake, a-carryin’ somethin’ in her hands. She looks curiously ’round, and then I see her make straight for your bedroom door, and goes into your room. In a minnit more she comes out, with nothin’ in her hands. So then I says to myself, ‘She’s deposited some o’ her combustible matter in Mr. Blake’s room.’

“It was a bold and dangerous thing to do, yer honour, but I goes into your room and looks around. Everything seems right. Then I looks and sees that the drawer of the wardrobe ain’t quite shut, so I takes a step forward and peeps in.”

“And what did you see?”

“Why, I see the trappin’s of that ’ere ghost. The shroud, knife, and all the rest on’t.”

“Well, Simon?”

“Well, sur, I takes it to my shanty, and puts it in my own box, to show you at ‘a convenient season,’ as Moses said.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. The next mornin’ I see her a-airin’ her sweet self on the lawn, so I goes up to ’er all familiar like, and I says, ‘Top o’ the mornin’, Miss Staggles.’

“‘Who are you, man?’ she says.

“‘As nice a chap as you ever see,’ I said, ‘though I am marked wi’ small-pox. But that ain’t my fault, ma’am; it is owin’ to the experimentin’ o’ a vaccinatin’ doctor.’

“‘What do you want with me, man?’ she said.

“‘Why, ma’am,’ I said, ‘I’m young and simple, and I wur frightened wi’ a ghost t’other night, and I thought as how you, bein’ purty hancient, might assist me in findin’ things out about it.’

“With that, sur, she looked oal strange, and I thinks I’m on the right track, and I says again, ’That ’ere ghost wur well got up, mum. I’ve played a ghost myself in a theatre, and I could never git up like you did the other night.’

“‘Me get up as a ghost!’ she screamed. ‘Man, you are mad.’

“‘Not so mad,’ I says, ‘seein’ as ’ow I see you carry that ’ere ghost’s wardrobe, and put it in Mr. Blake’s room last night.’

“She went off without another word, yer honour, and the next thing I heard ’bout her was that she’d gone to London.”

“And why did you not tell Mr. Temple?”

“Well, Mr. Blake, he didn’t know anything ‘bout her evenin’ rambles wi’ that ‘ere hinfidel willain, and wasn’t acquainted wi’ the things that you and me hev talked about; besides, I thought as ’ow you wer the one that ought to know first of all.”

I thought long over Simon’s words, but could not understand them. Why should Miss Staggles pose as a ghost, even at the instigation of Voltaire? There could be nothing gained by it, and yet I was sure that it was not without meaning. Somehow it was connected with Voltaire’s scheme; of that I was sure, but at the time my mind was too confused to see how.

So far, not one step had been taken to prove whether Kaffar was dead or alive, and although I knew nothing of a detective’s business, I did not like taking any one into my confidence. I resolved to do all that was to be done myself.

In spite of everything, I spent a pleasant evening at Temple Hall. We talked and laughed gaily, especially as Tom was preparing for his wedding with Miss Edith Gray, and when I told Mrs. Temple how Tom had popped the question on the landing at midnight, after the appearance of the famous hall ghost, the merriment knew no bounds.

It was after midnight when I retired to rest, but I could not sleep. I could not help thinking about this great problem of my life. How could I find Kaffar? How could I tell whether he were alive or dead? After tossing about a long time, I hit upon a plan of action, and then my mind had some little rest.

The next morning I bade good-bye to my friends, and started for the station. When I arrived all was quiet. Not a single passenger was there, while the two porters were lolling lazily around, enjoying the warmth of the bright May sun.

I asked to see the station-master; he was not at the station. Then I made inquiries for the booking-clerk, who presently made his appearance. I found that there was a train leaving about midnight, which travelled northward, one that had been running some years.

“Were you at the booking-office on the day after New Year’s Day?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk.

“Do you remember a man coming for a ticket that night who struck you as peculiar?”

“What kind of a man, sir?”

“A foreigner. Small, dark, and wiry, speaking with an accent something like this,” I said, trying to imitate Kaffar.

“No, sir, I don’t remember such a person. There were only three passengers that night I remember it very well, because my brother was here with me and they were all Yorkshire.”

“This midnight train is a stopping train?”

“Yes, sir. It stops at every station from Leeds.”

“How far is the nearest station in the Leeds direction?”

“Seven miles, sir. The population is rather thin here, sir. It gets thicker the closer you get to Leeds.”

“And how far the other way?”

Only a matter of three miles northward, sir. Theres a little village there, sir, has sprung up because of Lord ’s mansion, sir, and the company has put up a station.”

“And how far is the next station beyond that?”

“A long way, sir. It’s a junction where some go to catch the night express to Leeds. It must be eight miles further on. The train is now due, sir, that goes there.”

“And it stops at the next station?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

I booked immediately for it, and in a few minutes arrived there. It was, if possible, more quiet than the one from which I had just come; a more dreary place one could not well see.

I soon found the man who had issued tickets on the night I have mentioned. Did he remember such a passenger as I described?

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I do remember such a chap; partly because he was the only passenger, and partly because he looked so strange. He looked as if he’d been fightin’, and yet he was quite sober. He was a funny chap, sir; one as I shudd’n like much to do wi’.”

“And where did he book for?”

“Dingledale Junction, sir.”

“And he would be able to catch a train from there?”

“He would have to wait a quarter of an hour for the express to Leeds,” replied the man.

“And how long will it be before there’s another train to Dingledale Junction?” I asked anxiously.

“Three hours and a half, sir.”

This was an awful blow to me. To wait all this time at that roadside station was weary work, especially as I could do nothing. I found, however, that I could hire a horse and trap that would take me there in about two hours. I therefore closed with this offer, and shortly after drove away.

I felt sure I had made one step forward. Kaffar was alive. The blunt Yorkshireman’s description of him tallied exactly with the real appearance of the Egyptian. Of course I was not sure, but this was strongly in favour of his being alive. There was something tangible for which to work now, and my heart grew lighter.

Dingledale Junction proved to be rather a busy place. There were two platforms in the station, and a refreshment room. I found also that Mr. Smith was actually represented there, in the shape of a small boy, a dozen novels, and a few newspapers. This, however, did not augur so well for my inquiries. The officials here would not be so likely to notice any particular passenger. Still there was something in my favour. Kaffar would in any circumstances attract attention in a country place. His appearance was so remarkable, that any countryman would stop for a second look at him.

After a great many inquiries, I found that Kaffar, or a man strongly resembling him, had been there on the night in question, and had taken a ticket for Leeds. He had no luggage, and what made the porter in attendance remember him so vividly was the fact of his being angry when asked if he had any luggage to be labelled.

So far, then, my inquiries were successful; so far I might congratulate myself on making forward steps. And yet I was scarcely satisfied. It seemed too plain. Would Kaffar have allowed himself to be followed in such a way? I was not sure. On the one hand, he was very cunning, and, on the other, he knew but little of the means of detecting people in England.

I took the next train for Leeds, and there my success ended. I could find traces of him nowhere. This was scarcely to be wondered at. Leeds is a great commercial centre, where men of every nationality meet, and of course Kaffar would be allowed to pass unnoticed. Then I began to think what the Egyptian would be likely to do, and after weighing the whole matter in my mind I came to this conclusion: either he was in London with Voltaire, or he had gone back to Egypt. The first was not likely. If Kaffar were seen in London, Voltaire’s plans would be upset, and I did not think my enemy would allow that. Of course he might have means of keeping him there in strict secrecy, or he might have a score of disguises to keep him from detection. Still I thought the balance would be heaviest on the side of his returning to Egypt. I naturally thought he would return to his native land, because I had heard him say he talked none of the European languages besides English and a smattering of Turkish.

My next step, therefore, was to return to London, and then go to Dover, Calais, Newhaven, and Dieppe, to try to see whether Kaffar could be traced. At the same time, I determined to have a watch set upon Voltaire, and his every step dogged, so that, if he held any communication with Kaffar, necessary steps might be taken to prove to Miss Forrest my innocence, and thus she might at once be freed from the designs of the man she hated.

No sooner did I arrive in London, however, and took possession of my easy-chair than I knew Voltaire wanted me to go to him, and I knew, too, that a month before I should have had to yield to the power he possessed. I need not say that I did not go. My will was now stronger than his, and by exercising that will I was able to resist him. Still, none but those who have been under such a spell can imagine what a struggle I had even then. God only gives us power to use, and He will not do for us what we can do for ourselves. For two long hours I felt this strange influence, and then it ceased. Evidently he had failed in his design, and, for the time, at all events, had abandoned it.

Next morning, when I was preparing to visit Scotland Yard, a servant came into my room bearing a card on a tray. I took it and read, “Herod Voltaire.”

“Show him up,” I said to the servant.