THE LOST CLUE

BY

MRS. O. F. WALTON

AUTHOR OF

"DOCTOR FORESTER," "A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADOLF THIEDE

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE ST. AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E. C.

1910

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. IN THE ARCADE

II. A DIFFICULT POSITION

III. CAPTAIN FORTESCUE'S PROMISE

IV. A TROUBLED NIGHT

V. THE SAFE OPENED

VI. THE TWO ENVELOPES

VII. A WALK THROUGH BORROWDALE

VIII. HONISTER CRAG

IX. A FINISHED CHAPTER

X. GOOD-BYE

XI. DAISY BANK

XII. BLACK COUNTRY ROSES

XIII. MOTHER HOTCHKISS

XIV. THE OLD OAK CUPBOARD

XV. 156, LIME STREET

XVI. THE BLOTTED WORD

XVII. A STRANGE LETTER

XVIII. WORDS TO BE REMEMBERED

XIX. GRANTLEY CASTLE

XX. THE PHOTO OF A FRIEND

XXI. LORD KENMORE

XXII. MR. NORTHCOURT'S OPINION

XXIII. A MOST CHARMING GIRL

XXIV. THE PICTURE GALLERY

XXV. WAITING FOR THE ANSWER

XXVI. A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY

XXVII. ANOTHER CHAPTER CLOSED

XXVIII. WATENDLATH FORGET-ME-NOT

XXIX. THE MISSING WORD FOUND

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

He saw that the little finger of the Earl's right hand had lost its last joint. Frontispiece

He turned round and saw Watson standing behind him.

Then he told them all; he laid before them the story of his life.

She gazed a long time at this picture.

THE LOST CLUE

CHAPTER I

IN THE ARCADE

NEW Street Station, Birmingham, is an exceedingly busy place at all times of the day; but at certain hours, when many trains are due, the bustle, hurry, and rush, in every part of it, are beyond description. Two great lines, the London and North-Western and the Midland, run through it; and although, to the initiated, there is nothing more easy than to locate the part of the station in which the various trains will arrive or from which they will depart, yet to a stranger in Birmingham, especially to one who has come from the quiet of some remote country place, the six different platforms, the numerous booking offices, and the busy stream of human life crossing and re-crossing the great bridge which spans the station from side to side, are both bewildering and perplexing.

It was at the busiest time of the ever-busy New Street day, that the London express came thundering into the station. It had rushed on like some great monster of the deep, flying through air instead of water, puffing, snorting, panting, but never once stopping after leaving Euston, until it came running triumphantly into Birmingham, having accomplished its journey of over a hundred and twelve miles in the short space of two hours.

As it steamed in, a long line of expectant porters awaited its arrival, and, as it began to slacken its speed, they kept their eyes fixed on the line of first-class carriages, for that way lay "tips." There was a dining-saloon on the train, and the first-class part of it was well filled. Most of the passengers were, however, going on further; but one gentleman, with a long kit-bag in his hand, came to the carriage door and prepared to alight from the train.

The porters made a rush in his direction, all eager to relieve him from his burden, and thereby to secure the bakhshish which English porters, as well as Arab ones, are seldom backward in scenting from afar.

The gentleman selected one of the group and handed him the bag, whilst the others retired discomforted.

"Where for, sir?"

"The Midland train north. Which platform will it be?"

"Number 5, sir. Any luggage in the van?"

"No, none. Let me see; it starts at 5.30. An hour to wait, I believe."

"Not quite, sir; you're late a bit. It isn't often the express loses a minute, but she's five minutes late to-day."

The traveller took out his watch to compare it with the great station-clock, and then followed the porter up the steps to the bridge. Arrived at No. 5, he dismissed the man, who departed with a beaming countenance, as he pocketed double the sum which he had expected to receive.

For some minutes the young man, for he was not more than twenty-five, paced the platform restlessly. He was impatient of the delay, and the noise and racket of the station jarred upon his nerves. The shriek of an approaching train, the rattle of a departing one, the rumble of the porters' trucks, the shouting of the newspaper boys, the ceaseless rush of people in all directions, tired him that day, he hardly knew why. He had not come from the country, and he was accustomed to London streets and London stations; he did not mind noise at other times, but to-day he felt as if he could not stand the discordant sounds for another hour. He resolved to leave the station, and to take a walk in the city until it was time for his train.

He left his bag at the Midland Luggage Office, climbed the long flight of steps in the midst of a continuous stream of people, passed with them a similar stream pouring downwards into the station, and then made his way to the street beyond.

As he did so, more than one person turned to look at him. He was a man who, even in a crowd, attracted attention. Tall and well built, he was every inch a soldier; his profession was patent to all who saw him; but it was not that which caused the passers-by to notice him, and to look after him as he walked on. It was not so much his upright manly figure, as his extremely handsome face, with its refined features, which made him a marked man. His dark hair, hazel eyes, long eyelashes, aquiline nose, and short upper lip, gave him a decidedly aristocratic appearance, which could not fail to strike the most casual observer.

"One of the upper ten, I should say!" remarked one man to another, as he crossed the station yard and turned into Corporation Street.

The shop windows were all lighted up, for it was December, and quite dark at half-past four. The street was crowded, for it was close upon Christmas, and multitudes of people, men, women, and children, were doing their Christmas shopping, or gazing idly into the brilliantly illuminated windows. But in spite of the crowds, he was glad he had come, for there were none of the discordant sounds of the station, and the keen air was refreshing to him after its close atmosphere.

A row of flower-sellers stood in the road at the edge of the pavement, and he stopped to buy a bunch of violets from a girl who looked tired and cold. He did not want the violets, but he was touched by her face, and he gave her three times the price that she asked for them.

Then he turned into the Arcade, which was a blaze of electric light. All the shops were displaying choice and attractive articles suitable for Christmas presents. In a niche in the wall, near one of the toy-shops, there stood on a pedestal an old man. He was dressed in red cloth, trimmed with swansdown, with long white hair and beard, and with a cocked hat on his head. He was supposed to represent Father Christmas, and he, too, looked cold and tired as he stood, motionless as a waxwork figure, taking no notice of the busy scene around him. A group of children had gathered at the foot of the pedestal, and were looking up in his face with admiring glances, hoping to beguile him to fill their stockings on Christmas Eve with all the pretty things their hearts desired.

On the right hand side of the Arcade were several jewellers' shops, a glittering mass of beauty. Tiny electric lamps illuminated the countless sparkling and costly articles exposed for sale, and made them even more bewitching and tempting than they had appeared by daylight. The door of one of these shops opened just as he passed it, and a young lady, stylishly dressed, and wearing beautiful ermine furs, came out of it. She caught sight of him immediately, and put out her hand as she exclaimed, in a surprised voice—

"Captain Fortescue! You here?"

"Yes, Lady Violet, and I never dreamt of seeing you. What are you doing in Birmingham?"

"We're staying with the De Courcys, only six miles out, and we've come in to do a little Christmas shopping, as we shan't have much time after we get home. Isn't it strange we should meet? Why, we haven't seen you since that jolly time in the Riviera! Come and speak to mother; she is in this shop buying Maude a bracelet. She promised her one for Christmas, and she thought Maude had better choose it herself; but she can't make up her mind, and I was coming outside to look at one we saw in the window. Come in, and give us your advice."

Captain Fortescue followed her into the jeweller's and saw the two ladies standing at the counter and bending over it. It was covered with bracelets of every variety, all of them sparkling with jewels and exceedingly beautiful and costly.

"Mother, whom do you think I found in the Arcade? Look here!"

The elder lady turned round. "Captain Fortescue! Is it possible? I'm delighted to see you again; we haven't seen you for months. Where are you stationed now?"

"I'm at Aldershot at present, but we're likely to be moved soon. I wrote to Evelyn, but he hasn't answered my letter."

"Naughty boy! He's a shockingly bad letter writer; he always was. But what are you doing in Birmingham?"

"I'm only passing through," said the Captain, looking at his watch. "I'm going on by the five-thirty, Lady Earlswood."

"How lucky we just met you! Now you must come and see us soon. We're having a large house-party for Christmas. Can't you join us? Evelyn will be at home."

"Yes, do come," said Lady Violet. "It will be like having those dear old days in the Riviera back again, and I want you to see the photos I took then. They have come out splendidly."

"I should like to come very much, but I'm afraid it is impossible."

"Is it really quite impossible?" said Lady Earlswood. "Do try to arrange it."

"I'm afraid I shall not be able to do so. You see, my poor old father has not been very well lately—in fact, I am going there now. What is the matter I don't quite know yet. I had a letter from him yesterday morning, written apparently in good spirits, and then to-day I had a wire begging me to go at once. If he is ill and needs me, of course whatever leave I get, I must spend with him."

"Yes, of course; but it may not be that. He may want to see you for some other reason. If so, do let me know. Just send me a line or a wire with the one word 'Coming.' That will be quite enough."

"Thank you, Lady Earlswood, I shall certainly not forget. Now I must leave Lady Maude to choose her bracelet and hurry back to New Street."

"Must you really? Can't you have tea with us at Fletcher's? We are going there in a minute or two."

"I'm afraid not. I shall miss my train if I do."

He said good-bye to them, and walked quickly down the Arcade, but Lady Violet came to the door again to look at another bracelet in the window—at least, so she said; but her eyes, when she got outside, were certainly not turned in the direction of the brightly-lighted shop window.

"How little they know," he said to himself, as he went down the crowded steps to Platform No. 5. "I sometimes think I ought to tell them that I am not one of themselves."

CHAPTER II

A DIFFICULT POSITION

CAPTAIN FORTESCUE was in good time for his train, and secured a corner seat in the carriage. He bought a book at the stall and opened it when the train started, but he read only a few pages. He was wondering why his father had sent for him, and what explanation of the telegram he would receive on his arrival.

When he was last at home, he had thought his father was aged and altered, and therefore he had suspected that illness was the reason of his summons. Yet, from the letter received the day before, he had evidently been out as usual, and it contained no hint of his feeling indisposed at the time of writing it. Was there any other cause which had led to this unexpected and sudden call to return home at once?

Between Captain Fortescue and his father there was nothing whatever in common. Their ideas, their way of looking at things, their habits of life were totally and diametrically opposed. His father was a wealthy man, but not even his son could stretch his filial affection sufficiently far to call him a gentleman.

Mr. Fortescue was a man who had risen, people were accustomed to say, when they spoke of him. And yet he had not risen. His position in life was altered; instead of being a miner, obliged to work hard for his daily bread, he had become a landed proprietor. How this had been accomplished, his son had not the remotest idea; but he had never risen. He was exactly the same uneducated, vulgar man that he had been in his days of hard work and poverty. He could barely read or write, both were done in his own fashion, and he never made the slightest effort to improve in either. He cared for little but eating and drinking: he domineered over his servants and dependants at one moment, and spoilt them the next: he was lavish in his expenditure at times, and at other times would haggle over a halfpenny: he had not even learnt to speak King's English; his talk was the talk of the mine; even his groom could speak more grammatically, and could express himself with a less provincial accent.

No one realized all this more than Mr. Fortescue's own son; and yet it gave him a pang even to harbour the thought of it for a moment. For he had been a good father to him in many ways. He had shouted at him and blustered at him from his youth up, but he had never grudged him anything. He had lavished money in the most prodigal way on his son's education. He had sent him to the most expensive preparatory school that could be found, when he was only seven years old. From thence, the boy had gone to Eton, and in due course had passed into Sandhurst. No nobleman's son had ever had more spent upon him. The best coaching that London could produce had been his; he had been given every opportunity, every possible advantage.

Fortescue had been gazetted to a cavalry regiment, and his pay consequently was far from adequate for his expenses; but no money that he needed was withheld from him. A handsome allowance was supplemented by numerous cheques, to supply the wherewithal for various outgoings in the way of travelling or pleasure. The Honourable Evelyn Berington, Lady Earlswood's younger son, who had been his friend throughout the whole of his Sandhurst course, had far less money to spend than he had. And all this made Fortescue feel that, whatever his father might be, and however much his lack of refinement might jar upon him, it was his bounden duty to give him the affection and respect due from a loyal and grateful son. Besides which, Kenneth Fortescue was a man of honest religious belief. He knew the requirements of the Fifth Commandment. He know that, so far as it was possible for him to honour his father, that honour must be readily and cheerfully given.

And yet, at times, the incongruity of his position was keenly realized by him. He felt it very strongly on this particular December night, when he was being carried away swiftly into the darkness north of Birmingham. That was the real reason which prevented him from reading as he journeyed on; he was too busy doing battle with himself; he was fighting against his natural repugnance to all that was common or vulgar, his innate shrinking from the home where refinement of feeling or expression found no place. He was deeply grateful to his father for all that he had done for him in the past; and yet, that night, he was inclined to think that it had been a terrible mistake. He had been educated out of his proper position; his friends and acquaintances were all men moving in an utterly different circle; his sympathies and interests and attractions were in a sphere which he could never have any right to enter. If Lady Earlswood had seen his father, she would never have dreamt for a moment of inviting him to her Christmas house-party or of reckoning him amongst her friends.

Captain Fortescue was a most honourable man, and he felt sometimes as if he were a walking impostor. There had been times when he had suddenly felt it incumbent on him to tell them the truth, and had even been on the very verge of doing so. As they had walked together by the sea, under the blue Italian sky, he had, more than once, been on the point of blurting out the fact that he was the son of a man who had once been a common miner.

He had, however, at the last moment, withheld from making this disclosure; not so much because he was afraid of what they might think of him, or of how they might treat him, but because he had felt that it would be hardly treating his father fairly, were he to reveal what that father had told him in the strictest confidence. If he, by his honest toil, had earned the money to place himself in a position of affluence, and moreover to give his son the education of a gentleman, was it right that that son should publish his father's humble origin to the world?

Thus time had drifted on, and he had moved in the highest circles, and had been received into the best society, and no one knew anything of his father beyond the fact that he lived at Ashcliffe Towers, near Sheffield, had a large estate, and was evidently a very wealthy man.

When, two hours later, the train ran into the large Sheffield station, his thoughts were still pursuing the same unpleasant and difficult course. He called a hansom and was soon driving rapidly through the busy streets and out towards the country beyond. As he went, he wondered again what he should find at his journey's end, and whether his father would come out as usual to welcome him on his arrival. After about half an hour's drive, the cab turned in at a lodge gate, and he could see, through the fir trees in the avenue, the lights in the windows of his home.

An old butler came to the door in answer to the cabman's ring. He had lived with his father for years, and had known him from a boy. Mr. Fortescue objected to keeping many servants; they were only a trouble, he said, and he did not care to have a young jackanapes of a footman to stand and watch him when he ate. Elkington had white hair, and his hand trembled as he took the bag from the driver. He did not speak until the man had driven off, and then he said:

"I'm glad you've come, sir!"

"What's the matter, Elkington? Is my father ill?"

"Very ill, sir," said the old man. "Come into the library, sir; the doctor's upstairs now."

"That bag's too heavy for you, Elkington! It makes you pant: let me take it."

"No, no, sir; I can manage all right. I'm getting a bit short of wind, that's all."

"I heard from my father yesterday; he seemed quite well then."

"Yes, sir; and he was all right yesterday, and when he got up this morning. He came down to breakfast as usual; he always will have it at eight, you know. Well, he'd just sat down and was beginning, when there come a big ring at the front door bell. It's Watson's duty to go to the door when I'm waiting, but she never came down, and just as I was getting the master his bacon, the bell rings again. Well, he shouted and he stormed—beg your pardon, sir; you know how he carries on; you'll forgive me saying it."

"I know, Elkington; go on."

"So I put the bacon down, sir, and I went myself to see who was there. It was a boy with a telegram; he held out the yellow envelope to me, and he stood waiting while I took it in to the master.

"'What have you got there, Elkington?' he said. And when he saw what it was, he turned the colour of the table-cloth—that ghastly and white.

"'Take it out of the envelope, Elkington,' he says, 'my hand trembles so.'

"So I took it out and handed it to him, and he just looked at it one minute, and then he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and the telegram slipped down on the floor under the table. I was that frightened, sir, I didn't know what to do. And then Watson came running in to know what was the matter. She do give herself airs, that woman, sir! Well, if you'll believe me, she swept me aside, and she took the master in her charge, and no one should touch him or do anything for him but herself. I said I would go for the doctor, and she said, 'No, I shouldn't, and he would be all right presently.'