CHAPTER I A TRAGEDY RECALLED

"Do tell me, Frank, who is that remarkably beautiful woman over there to your left? It's a party of three, four tables away."

The two friends were dining at a smart restaurant in Piccadilly, and Henry Addison's companion, Frank Daneham, a fair, good-looking man of about forty, with the keen, far-seeing eyes of the artist (in which profession he had achieved great success), slowly turned his head and glanced towards the table in question.

"Yes," he said, "I'm not surprised at your question. That's Hermione Rodenberg, a dear friend of mine."

"What? Not the widow of old Rodenberg, the South African multi-millionaire who died last year?"

"That's just who she is. The man on her left with the rather saturnine cast of countenance, is Colonel Bessington—now retired—I joined his regiment during the little fracas—The other woman is Iza Marsh, Hermione's companion."

"By Jove!" Henry Addison pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Then she's rich as well as being the most beautiful creature I've ever clapped eyes on in my life."

"Yes, my boy. The richest woman in England, and incidentally the most unhappy."

"Not really? Well, of course, one can see that in her face," said Addison, with another glance at the exquisite profile, the dazzling pureness of complexion enhanced by dark chestnut curls, and above all the pathetic downward curve of the sensitive mouth. "But why so? Tell me."

"If you really want to know, I'm the man to spin the yarn," replied the other. "For I happen to be the only person living, except Hermione, who knows the true facts of a very remarkable story."

"Then by all means let's hear it," said Addison. "A fellow who has just got back from the African jungle has a keen ear for home stories. Besides, a woman with a face like that is bound to have something in her life worth hearing about."

"I'll tell you if you'll give me your solemn word of honour never to repeat it to a living soul. For it affects me too, and though it happened a long time ago, still one never knows. For you see, did the truth ever come to light, I might be liable to a long term of penal servitude for being accessory after the fact to a nasty little crime called murder."

"Lord! Man! You don't mean it?"

"Fact, I assure you. If I tell you, you will be the only man who knows. One other who guesses, is that fellow over there, Dick Bessington. But so long as it only remains at that all is well."

"Of course, you have my word, Frank, old man. That goes without saying."

"Right. Well, as a matter of fact, I'm rather glad to be able to talk about it. I've kept it locked up for nine years now, and there can be no harm in telling you, anyhow. But I'll wait until we get back to my rooms, where I can tell it without being overheard."

As they rose from the table half an hour later, Hermione Rodenberg looked round, saw them, and gave the artist a radiant smile. Then, making their way out through the maze of small tables, some still occupied, others already empty, the two friends returned to Daneham's rooms in Jermyn Street and were presently ensconced in easy chairs before a crackling wood fire, when the artist at once began his story.

"First of all, do you ever remember hearing about a young fellow called Dominic Arden?"

"Arden," repeated his friend. "Yes, of course I do. Old Scotch family, or rather, English migrated to Scotland many generations back. Old out-of-the-world place on the far north-east coast called Ardenmore.

"That's the man. Well, what I am going to tell you about happened in '17, when Dominic Arden was twenty and I a comparative youngster of thirty, who had laid down the brush for the temporary sword, as you know. The Ardens were as poor as rats; young Dominic—a remarkably good-looking lad, by the way—joined up as a ranker in my regiment. For we were great pals and I was awfully fond of him in spite of his queer red-hot temper. Well, before he came out, he and Hermione Craig were married."

"What? Mrs. Rodenberg?"

"The same. A complete love match, idyllic, poor kids!" Daneham paused, and his friend, regarding him intently, realized that he was about to listen to tragedy.

"Well, to go on. Dominic Arden was a bit of a dreamer, too. Had the gift of writing, and might have made a name for himself had he lived, but—well—it happened this way:

"Our headquarters—over in Flanders—were in an old farm-house. The C.O., Colonel Grimshawe, was a bit of a bully and not particularly nice in other ways. Hated the fellow myself and I wasn't alone in this, but Bessington and he were great pals. We had just had a hectic time and those who were left had retired to this comparatively peaceful spot for a spell of rest. I was alone with Grimshawe in his particular sanctum when the tragedy occurred. Dominic Arden had just come in with a message for me, and at the moment old Grimshawe happened to be talking about different women he had been mixed up with, and girls whom he would like to have been mixed up with, and among them he mentioned Hermione Craig. He had no idea, of course, that Dominic was her husband, and that was his only excuse—where there was none—for what he said. I remember his words distinctly, and he spoke just as Dominic came into the room.

"'My dear fellow, Hermione Craig is just like all the rest of them. You pay your money, you know, at least I do—' and he ended with a nauseating laugh full of meaning. I won't attempt to describe my feelings here, for, you see, I had seen Dominic come in and I had seen his face. The next thing I realized was that he was standing over the colonel, his face the colour of chalk and his eyes full of hell.

"'You'll take that back, you swine!' he said, between gritted teeth. 'It's a damned lie and you know it. You'll take it back now, this moment, or, by God! I'll kill you.'

"My dear fellow, I can hardly even now bear to think of what happened then. And it was all so quick. There was no time even for me to interfere. Grimshawe had risen, his red face purple with rage. He could hardly speak. I heard him stammer something about a damned scoundrel, and the next thing I knew was a sickening thud as Dominic, who had immense strength of arm, felled him with a blow, and he went down with his head striking a portion of the iron fender while Dominic stood over him and I, galvanized into action at last, sprang to my feet.

"Well, of course you have guessed what happened. The colonel was dead when I got to him. The blow itself, though it split his skull—for he fell on a point and was a tremendously heavy man—might not have been instantly fatal, but I think it was actual shock that killed him. Anyhow, he was dead, and there was I, a witness to something that, if not actual murder (which in point of fact it was, if you take the intention into consideration), could only be paid for by death. And there was Dominic, the lad whom I loved almost as a brother and there also, was my duty."

"My God! How ghastly!" ejaculated Henry Addison. "And what actually, did you do, old man?"

"What I actually did no one save Dominic, Hermione, myself, and now you, will ever know. Dominic was still standing over his victim when I looked up from where I knelt beside the body.

"'He's dead,' I said.

"I'm glad to hear it,' said Dominic. 'I meant to kill the swine.' His voice was loud, and a couple of Tommies alone in the next room heard the words through the thin wooden partition which served as a wall, and are still alive to give evidence, were it ever necessary. I got up then, and faced him.

"'You know what this means, old man?' I said, and he replied quite quietly:

"'Yes, I know. But after all, one more murder out here, judicial or otherwise, is of little account.' And then he put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the face. 'Tell her, old man, tell her—' But a sob choked him and it was then that I knew I couldn't send him to his death—not that kind of death—and I flung him away and pointed to the door.

"'Go, now at once,' I whispered. 'I will explain, only for God's sake go.'

"'What! And leave you here to face it? Oh no.' He laughed at the idea.

"But I explained to him that I meant to tell the real facts of what had happened, with the addition only of an imaginary ending.

"'Take my revolver,' I said, thrusting it into his hand, 'I shall say that you threatened to shoot me and so got away. I shall give you three minutes to clear out and take your chance, and then I shall give the alarm. If you don't agree to this I shall shoot you first and then myself, and that's all there is about it.' That settled it, of course.

"'After all,' he said, 'you are only giving me another choice of death, but it's an honourable one, and for that I thank you. Good-bye, old man. God bless you. You will know what to tell her, for even if I escape with my life, I'm dead to her for ever.'

"When I looked up again he was gone. I waited three minutes and then summoned help, and it was Bessington who came in first. I told him what had happened, with the added lie at the end. But I have never been quite sure that Bessington believed my story. For the fact of there being no trace of Dominic Arden when they hurried out in search of him, told rather against me. And Bessington, like his friend, Grimshawe, is not altogether a pleasant man.

"Well, the end of the story is only what one could expect. Dominic must have made his way to the fighting zone again, for his body was among the killed, three days later; that is, if one can really identify a man by his disc and number and so on, without the addition of any physical help. For the head of the dead soldier was smashed to a pulp, though undoubtedly the height, build, and general appearance was that of Dominic Arden.

"All the same, Harry, I have a queer feeling that he is not dead, and that one day—Ah well! of course it's ridiculous. He could never show up again in any case."

"What a horrible tragedy," said Addison. "And what happened to her—the wife?"

"As you see, she is still living—by some miracle—for she and Dominic were twin souls. At the time I could not think why a merciful Providence allowed her to live. After she had searched in vain for traces of him she finally believed in his death, and then, two years ago, to my complete amazement, she married old Rodenberg; is now once more a widow, and Bessington is head over ears in love with her, and God knows what will happen in that quarter. What interests me most at the moment is that she has just bought Ardenmore, the loneliest, most God-forsaken place you can imagine, and where she swears she is going to live."

"Did the Ardens sell it then, or what?"

"As a matter of fact there are no more Ardens left. The old folk sold the place soon after their son's death, and then died, broken-hearted. Then the new owner got tired of it, never lived there, I believe—and very gladly sold it to Mrs. Rodenberg. She, poor soul, was extremely badly off—went out as a companion—until she married Rodenberg who, of course, left her everything he possessed. I often wondered—" And then Daneham broke off and stared across into vacancy.

"What? Tell me, I am tremendously interested."

"Well, I wondered if actually she married him in order to buy the place back. For you see, Dominic worshipped every corner of it. And now she's going to live there, presumably—this is what she gives out to the world generally—in order to escape from the money-grabbers, begging letters, and all the things which make life a complete hell to the rich, I believe."

"Ah, well, personally I could put up with a taste of that kind of hell," observed Addison, dryly.

"You think so, but I doubt your sticking it for long. However, there it is. Ardenmore is a gloomy house, hundreds of years old, standing in a dense forest, with a queer old tower on the coast, once a smuggling base, and, if rumour is right, repeating itself historically now. There is also a secret connected with that tower which Dominic discovered but never lived to tell. The place is twenty miles from the nearest station, no telephone, no anything. Hermione goes there directly with her companion and any heavily-bribed servants who are willing to go. Of course, she knows her own business best, but—well—I wonder!"

"It makes one wonder a bit," agreed his friend.

"Does she still believe that Dominic Arden died—out there?"

"That I am unable to tell you, for she never speaks of it now, though in other respects she treats me as a true friend. What she really thinks about that, is locked away in her heart, known only to herself—and God."

"But she has bought back Ardenmore. Why?"

Frank Daneham shook his head and shrugged eloquently.

"And supposing," persisted the other, "that young Arden did turn up, what would happen?"

"My dear fellow," the artist gave a short laugh, "if seen and caught he would be hanged for murder. Why, as I told you, that fellow Bessington doubts my story, and what's more, doesn't believe that Arden was really killed. He is probably, and for all I know to the contrary, always on the watch for his return. That's the very devil of the whole thing, don't you see, for remember he's in love with Arden's wife."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Addison. "What a situation!"

CHAPTER II ARDENMORE

"Are you absolutely determined to go and live in that ghastly place, Hermione?" demanded Colonel Bessington, rather grimly, as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece in the drawing-room of Mrs. Rodenberg's beautiful house in Mayfair. He stared down at her as she sat leaning forward, her frail-looking hands clasped round one knee, her eyes looking into vacancy.

"I am absolutely determined to live alone in Ardenmore," she replied quietly. "I am tired of all this, tired of everything connected with my life in London. I want to go somewhere where I can be alone—quite alone, and where I shall be able—just to think."

"Well, from all accounts you appear to have selected the one place in the modern world where thought will be your only entertainment," observed the other dryly. "And in my opinion you are making a big mistake. It's wrong, all wrong. No woman, and certainly no woman as beautiful as you, has any right to go and bury herself away like that."

"We all have a right to choose our own lives," she replied quietly. "Beauty does not come into it at all."

"Yes, it does, when there happens to be someone who worships your beauty; who adores you body and soul; who would sacrifice life, honour, and all he holds most dear for your sake. Then I maintain that you have no right to do what you contemplate doing, and I protest against it, and implore you to reconsider it."

Hermione raised her eyes to his working face.

"Please, please, Dick!" she cried, in a voice of entreaty. "You know what I said about all that. You know that it's no use, no use at all. I shall never marry again, on that I am determined."

"I know you said all that, but I refuse to acknowledge it as final. You, of all women, need the protection of a man who loves you, and I do more than that, for I worship you. I refuse to allow you to go out of my life."

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.

"Do you mean that you'll even follow me there—to Ardenmore, if I ask you not to?"

"I mean—just that." The stern lips widened in a smile in which there was no mirth.

"Is that kind? Is it honourable? Is it the act of a man who really loves? I thought that true love was self-sacrificing."

"True love is what I feel for you, Hermione, and in plain English, I simply can't live without you."

She rose suddenly to her feet and faced him.

"Don't make me hate you, Dick," she said. "I should loath to do that, of all things. But I know you, and in a way I understand and am terribly sorry for you. If only you had not given up your profession, there would have been something to hold you to occupy you, to live for besides this fantastic dream of yours. But as it is—well—let us compromise. Let me have at least a month alone just to put myself right with myself and with life and everything else. Then, if you still wish it, you may come and see me. But remember, I give you no hope at all. I shall never change now—never, never."

There was finality in her tone, could he but have heard it, but he heard nothing save the idle words of a woman who thought she knew what she wanted and one day would learn from him how mistaken she had been. But at the moment he was wise enough to comply with her request.

"Very well," he said. "I agree to abide by that. You shall have your month, and then..." He took both her hands and pressed burning kisses upon them, held them tight for a moment, looking into her eyes, and then without another word abruptly turned and left her.

She stood where she was until the front door closed with a loud bang, and then she turned as quick steps came into the room.

"Well, has he gone?" asked a crisp voice, and her friend and companion, kindly-faced, plump Iza Marsh sailed—for so only could her progress be described—towards her.

"Yes, gone. Quite gone."

"Thank God for that. I can't bear the man, never could. I suppose he proposed again?"

"Yes."

"Like his impudence. Well, my dear, you'll be a clever woman if you can keep him out of Arden—thingummy-bob. If there's no road to the place he'll fly there."

"He has given me one month——"

"Without the option. Kind of him. Well, all I can say is—damn his impudence. However, enough of him. I believe I've found you a cook. I mean, of course, a cook who won't object to being buried alive. She's Irish, and that, I suppose, accounts for it, as they're mostly semi-insane. But she can cook, which is the great point. Have you successfully bribed the great Phillimore yet, or is it a hopeless job?"

"Phillimore doesn't need bribing, Marshy dear. He likes the country and he has a cousin, an old soldier, who is out of a job and keen to take the place as odd man. He can also drive a car. If one could only get a housemaid, life would be perfect."

"A housemaid, child! In that house! Might as well talk of the chambermaid at the Ritz. You'll want three at least. If you were willing to give sixty quid a year I believe you'd get six."

"I'll give anything so long as I can get them."

"Very well, then, I'll take it on. And now, what the devil is one going to do about hair?"

"Hair?" repeated Hermione. "What hair? Whose hair?"

"Yours and mine, child. Since we had it cut off in order to save trouble, I personally, have spent more time and money on my head than I did in all the years before it was shingled. There are no hairdressers in Ardenmore Glen, you know, so the only solution to the problem that I can think of is to lie on the floor at night and let the mice gnaw it. The place is sure to be swarming with them."

"You silly old thing," said Hermione, laughing "Locharbie is only twenty miles away, and is quite a big town. And in any case what does it matter? I shall love to be untidy for once."

"You, yes. It'll suit you, my dear. But what about me? My style of illusive beauty requires a French maid and a Parisian coiffeur to make anything like a decent show."

"To me you are perfect, darling, whatever you look like." And suddenly Hermione's arms were round the elder woman's neck. "Oh, Marshy! I'm just longing to be there, alone with you and with my dear ghosts."

"Poor child!" Iza Marsh held her very close for a moment. "But we must have no ghosts, my dear. No ghosts and no memories. Enough that you have got the old place back and that your boy will know it is being cared for. That, after all, is what matters, and what you, in fact, went through two years of hell for."

"Yes. I suppose it was wrong of me to marry him only for that. But at least I tried to make him happy."

"And no one knows that better than he did, my dear. You have nothing to reproach yourself with." There was silence for a moment.

"I wonder," said Hermione at last, "If Dominic really will know."