The Four Faces

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At last they rose. Never, as long as I live, shall I forget the
expression that was on my darling's face as, with the widow's arm linked
within her own, she made her way towards the door.

I followed them to the supper room. They stopped, and, standing at one
of the tables, Mrs. Stapleton filled two glasses with champagne. She
gave Dulcie one, and herself emptied the other. She filled her own again
and once more emptied it. Dulcie only half emptied her glass, then
set it down.

Out of the room they went. While they put on their wraps I went in
search of my hat. A few minutes later Mrs. Stapleton and Dulcie were
entering a car which I at once recognized as Connie Stapleton's. As the
car started I saw a taxi approaching, and hailed it.

"Follow that car," I said to the driver. "Keep it in sight, and, when
you see it stop, stop forty or fifty yards behind it."

Right up into Hampstead the grey car sped. It slackened speed near
Southend Road, eventually pulling up at a house in Willow Road. Leaning
forward, I rubbed the frosted glass in the front of my taxi, and peered
out. I saw Mrs. Stapleton alight first; then she turned and helped
Dulcie to get out. Both entered the house. The door closed quietly, and
the car rolled away.

For some minutes I waited. Then I told my driver to pass slowly by the
house and make a note of the number. The number was "460."

That, at any rate, was satisfactory. I had discovered what was,
presumably, Mrs. Stapleton's London address. Only then did I begin to
wonder what Osborne and Preston would think when they found that I had
gone. So engrossed had I become in Dulcie's movements that for the time
all thought of my two companions had passed out of my mind. I thought of
returning to the house in Cumberland Place; then, deciding that it was
too late, I told the driver to go direct to my flat in South
Molton Street.

A letter was lying on the table in my sitting-room. I seemed to
recognize the writing, and yet--

I tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. To my surprise it
was from Dick, who was now back at Eton. "My dear Mike," it ran. "I have
something very important to say to you, and I want to say it at once.
But I don't want to write it. Can you come here to see me to-morrow as
soon as possible, or can you get leave for me to come to London to see
you? I don't want to go home, because if I did father and Aunt Hannah
and Dulcie would ask questions, and what I want to say to you is _quite
private_. Will you telegraph to me as soon as you get this to say what I
can do and where I can see you at once?

"Your affectionate brother-in-law-to-be,

"DICK."

I read the letter through again; then refolded it and put it in a
drawer. The letter, I saw by the postmark, had arrived by the last post.

What could the boy want to see me about? What could he have to say to me
that he wished to keep secret from his family? I could not imagine.
Anyway, I would, I decided, gratify him--I was very fond of Dick. Then
and there I wrote out a telegram to be sent off early in the morning,
telling him that I would come down in the afternoon; I had decided to
try to see something of Dulcie during the morning, also to telephone to
Holt to inquire for her, though without betraying to Sir Roland or Aunt
Hannah that I knew anything of her movements during the previous night.

But Sir Roland forestalled me. Shortly after eight o'clock I was
awakened by the telephone at my bedside ringing loudly. Still half
asleep, I grabbed the receiver and glued it to my ear.

"Had I seen anything of Dulcie? Did I know where she was and why she had
not returned?"

The speaker was Sir Roland, and he spoke from Holt Manor.

"Why, isn't she at home?" I asked, controlling my voice.

"If she were here I shouldn't ask where she is," Sir Roland answered
quite sharply. "Mrs. Stapleton called yesterday afternoon to ask if
Dulcie might dine with her in town and go to the theatre. Of course I
raised no objection"--Sir Roland in no way shared my suspicion
concerning Mrs. Stapleton; on the contrary, she attracted him and he
liked her, though Aunt Hannah did not--"and Dulcie dressed and went off
at about five o'clock. They were to go to 'The Rook,' Mrs. Stapleton
said, where she would dress, and then they would motor to London. Mrs.
Stapleton assured me that she would bring Dulcie back here by about
midnight or one o'clock, and Dulcie took with her the key of the back
door, so that nobody need wait up for her--she told her maid to go to
bed. Her maid has just come to tell me that when she went to awaken
Dulcie, she found that she had not returned. I have telephoned to 'The
Rook,' and they tell me there that Mrs. Stapleton has not been back to
the hotel since yesterday soon after lunch. So I suppose that after
leaving here she decided to motor straight to town, and dress there. I
suppose she has some _pied-a-terre_ in London, though she has never
told me so."

"And you say that Dulcie has the door key with her," I said. "Do you
think it was wise to give it to her?"

"Why in the world not? She has often taken it before. But tell me, have
you seen anything of Dulcie?"

I didn't like telling an untruth, but, questioned in that point-blank
way, I had to prevaricate; otherwise I should have been forced to say
all I knew.

"She has not been to see me," I answered. "Perhaps Mrs. Stapleton's car
broke down and they have been obliged to seek refuge at some wayside
inn. I wouldn't be anxious, Sir Roland," I added, knowing how little it
needed to make him anxious about Dulcie. "You will probably get a
telegram from one of them presently."

We exchanged a few more remarks, and then Sir Roland exclaimed suddenly:

"Hold the line a moment. Hannah wants to speak to you."

Aunt Hannah, who, whatever faults she possessed, rarely lost her head,
spoke sensibly and incisively. She didn't like this affair at all, she
said, and intended to speak very seriously to Dulcie immediately upon
her return. Also she was determined to put an end to this strong
friendship between her niece and Mrs. Stapleton. On Dulcie's side, she
said, it was nothing less than an absurd infatuation. She would not have
minded her being infatuated about some women, but she had come
thoroughly to mistrust Mrs. Stapleton.

I asked her to telephone or telegraph to me the moment Dulcie got home,
and said that if I saw Dulcie in town or heard anything of her during
the morning I would at once ring up Holt Manor. With that we rang off.

"Can I see Mrs. Stapleton?" I inquired, as the door of the house in
Willow Road was opened by a maid with rather curious eyes; I had come
there straight from my flat, no longer wearing my disguise, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock. Just then I had an inspiration, and I added
quickly, before she had time to answer, "or Mr. Hugesson Gastrell?"

An arrow shot at random, it proved a lucky shot, for the maid answered
at once:

"Mrs. Stapleton isn't dressed yet, sir; but Mr. Gastrell can see you, I
expect. What name shall I say?"

I was shown into a small morning room, and there I waited for, I
suppose, five minutes. At last I heard footsteps approaching, and in a
moment Gastrell entered.

"Dear me, this is a surprise," he exclaimed cordially, extending his
hand. "I didn't know I had given you this address. Well, and what can I
do for you?"

His tone, as he said this, was rather that of a patron addressing an
inferior, but I pretended not to notice it, and, drawing upon my
imagination, answered:

"I don't think you did give me this address; it was somebody else--I
forget who--who mentioned it to me the other day in course of
conversation. Really I have come to see Mrs. Stapleton and inquire for
Miss Challoner."

"Miss Challoner? Do you mean Miss Dulcie Challoner, Sir Roland's
daughter?"

"Yes."

An extremely puzzled look came into his eyes, though this he was
probably not aware of.

"But what makes you think Miss Challoner is here?" he inquired quickly.

"She spent the night here with Mrs. Stapleton."

He looked still more puzzled.

"Did she really?" he answered in a tone of surprise which obviously was
feigned.

"Yes. Didn't you know?"

"This is the first I have heard of it, but I dare say you are right.
Mrs. Stapleton has rooms in this house--it's a little private
establishment of mine--but beyond that I know little of her movements.
I'll go and inquire if you'll wait a moment."

"Clever scoundrel!" I said aloud when he had left the room and shut the
door. "Rooms here," "knows little of her movements," "first he has heard
of it." But I am going to bowl you out in the end, my friend, I ended
mentally as I seated myself and picked up one of the morning papers
which lay upon the table. It was the _Morning Post_. I noticed that
several little bits had been cut out of the front page--presumably
advertisements.

I had scanned one or two pages and was reading a leading article when
Gastrell returned.

"You are quite right," he said, offering me his cigarette case. "Miss
Challoner is here. After supper last night at the Carlton with Mrs.
Stapleton she didn't feel very well, so Mrs. Stapleton persuaded her to
come back and sleep here instead of motoring back to Newbury. She told
her maid to telegraph early this morning to Sir Roland Challoner, in
case he should feel anxious at Miss Challoner's not returning last
night, but the maid stupidly forgot to. She is sending a telegram now.
Miss Challoner is quite all right this morning, and will be down
presently, but I am afraid you won't be able to see Mrs. Stapleton, as
she isn't up yet."

I thanked him for finding out, thinking, as I did so, that certainly he
was one of the most plausible liars I had ever come across; and then for
a few minutes we conversed on general topics.

"You don't remember who it was told you my address?" he presently asked
carelessly, flicking his cigarette ash into the grate.

"I am sorry, I don't," I answered, pretending to think. "It was some
days ago that somebody or other told me you lived here, or rather that
you had an address here."

"Oh, indeed. It's odd how people talk. By the way, how did you come to
know that Mrs. Stapleton and Miss Challoner were here?"

His question was interrupted by Dulcie's entering, wrapped in a great
fur coat. There were dark marks under her eyes that I had never seen
there before, but she seemed in quite good spirits as she came across
the room and greeted me.

"How in the world did you find out I was here!" she exclaimed. "It is
most astonishing. Did you know that Connie had rooms here? I didn't,
until last night. It was so good of her to put me up. I can't think what
it was upset me so last night, but I am quite all right this morning.
Connie has just telegraphed to father to explain my absence--you know
how little it takes to worry him. I've got my evening dress on under
this coat that Connie's lent me. She wanted to lend me one of her day
dresses, but not one of them comes near fitting me."

I gasped. I couldn't answer. It was bad enough to find people like
Gastrell and Jasmine Gastrell and Connie Stapleton perjuring themselves
in the calmest way imaginable; but that Dulcie, whom I had until now
implicitly believed to be everything that was good should thus look me
in the eyes and lie to me--with as much self-assurance as though she had
been accustomed to practising deception all her life.

A kind of haze seemed to rise before my eyes. My brain throbbed. All the
blood seemed suddenly to be going out of my heart. Mechanically putting
out an arm, I supported myself against the mantelpiece.

"Mike! Mike! What is the matter? Are you ill? do you feel faint?"

Her voice sounded a long, long way off. I heard her words as one hears
words in a dream. My mouth had turned suddenly dry. I tried to speak,
but could not.

"Here, Berrington, drink this and you'll feel better."

These were the next words I remember hearing. I was lying back on the
settee, and Gastrell was holding a tumbler to my lips. It contained
brandy slightly diluted. I drank a lot of it, and it revived me to
some extent.

Still uncertain if I were sleeping or awake, I passed out through the
hall, slightly supported by Dulcie, and clambered after her into the
taxi which awaited us outside.

"Go to Paddington," I heard her say to the driver, as she pulled the
door to. No servant had come out of the house, and Gastrell had
disappeared while we were still inside the hall.

CHAPTER XVI

SECRETS OF DUSKY FOWL

To this day that drive to Paddington recalls to mind a nightmare. The
entire confidence I had placed in Dulcie was shattered. Had anybody told
me it was possible she could deceive me as she had done I should, I
know, have insulted him--so infuriated should I have felt at the bare
thought. And yet she clearly had deceived me, deceived me most horribly,
inasmuch as she had done it in such cold blood and obviously with
premeditation. Her eyes, which had always looked at me, as I thought, so
truthfully, had gazed into mine that morning with the utmost coolness
and self-possession while she deliberately lied to me. Dulcie a liar!
The words kept stamping themselves into my brain until my head throbbed
and seemed on the point of bursting. As the car sped along through the
busy streets I saw nothing, heard nothing. The remarks she made to me
seemed to reach my brain against my will. I answered them mechanically,
in, for the most part, monosyllables.

What did it all mean? How could she continue to address me as though
nothing in the least unusual had occurred? Did she notice nothing in my
manner that appeared to be unusual? True, she addressed to me no term of
endearment, which was singular; but so engrossed was I in my
introspection and in my own misery that I scarcely noticed this.
Indeed, had she spoken to me fondly, her doing so just then would but
have increased the feeling of bitterness which obsessed me.

Several times during that drive I had been on the point of telling her
all I knew, all I had seen and heard: the suspicions I entertained
regarding her friend Connie--her abominable friend as she now seemed to
me to be; the grave suspicions I entertained also regarding Gastrell,
with whom she seemed to be on good terms, to say the least--these,
indeed, were more than suspicions. But at the crucial moment my courage
had failed me. How could I say all this, or even hint at it, in the face
of all I now knew concerning Dulcie herself, Dulcie who had been so much
to me, who was so much to me still though I tried hard to persuade
myself that everything between us must now be considered at an end?

I saw her off at Paddington. Mechanically I kissed her; why I did I
cannot say, for I felt no desire to. It was, I suppose, that
instinctively I realized that if I failed to greet her then in the way
she would expect me to she would suspect that I knew something. She had
asked me during our drive through the streets of London who had told me
where to find her; but what I answered I cannot recollect. I made, I
believe, some random reply which apparently satisfied her.

For two hours I lay upon my bed in my flat in South Molton Street,
tossing restlessly, my mind distraught, my brain on fire. Never before
had I been in love, and perhaps for that reason I felt this cruel
blow--my disillusionment--the more severely. Once or twice my man,
Simon, knocked, then tried the door and found it locked, then called out
to ask if anything were amiss with me. I scarcely heard him, and did
not answer. I wanted to be left alone, left in complete solitude to
suffer my deep misery unseen and unheard.

I suppose I must have slept at last--in bed at three and up at eight, my
night had been a short one--for when presently I opened my eyes I saw
that the time was half-past two. Then the thought flashed in upon me
that in my telegram I had promised to go to Eton to see Dick by the
train leaving Paddington at three. I had barely time to catch it. A
thorough wash restored me to some extent to my normal senses, and at
Paddington I bought a sandwich which served that day instead of lunch.

Once or twice before I had been down to Eton to see Dick, though on
those occasions I had been accompanied by Sir Roland. I had little
difficulty now in obtaining leave to take him out to tea. He wanted to
speak to me "quite privately," he said as we walked arm in arm up the
main street, so I decided to take him to the "White Hart," and there I
ordered tea in a private room.

"Now, Mike," he said in a confidential tone, when at last we were alone,
"this is what I want to draw your attention to," and, as he spoke, he
produced a rather dirty envelope from his trousers pocket, opened it and
carefully shook out on to the table several newspaper cuttings, each
three or four lines in length.

"What on earth are those about, old boy?" I asked, surprised. "Newspaper
advertisements, aren't they?"

"Yes, out of the _Morning Post_, all on the front page. If you will wait
a minute I will put them all in order--the date of each is written on
the back--and then _you_ will see if things strike _you_ in the way
they have struck me."

These were the cuttings:

"R.P, bjptnbblx. wamii. xvzzjv. okk.
zxxp.--DUSKY FOWL."

"Rlxt. ex. lnvrb. 4. zcokk. zbpl. qc.
Ptfrd. Avnsp. Hvfbl. Ucaqkoggwx.--DUSKY
FOWL."

"Plt. ecii. pv. oa. t1vp. uysaa. djt. xru.
przvf. 4.--DUSKY FOWL."

"Nvnntltmms. Pvvvdnzzpn. ycyswsa.
Bpix. uyyuqecgsqa. X. W. ljfh. sc.
jvtzfhdvb.--DUSKY FOWL."

"I can't make head or tail of them," I said when I had looked carefully
at each, and endeavoured to unravel its secret, for obviously it must
possess some secret meaning. "What do you make of them, Dick--anything?"

"Yes. Look, and I will show you," he answered, going to the
writing-table and bringing over pen, ink and paper. "I have always been
fond of discovering, or trying to discover, the meanings of these queer
cypher messages you see sometimes in some newspapers, and I have become
rather good at it--I have a book that explains the way cyphers are
usually constructed. I have found out a good many at one time and
another, but this one took me rather a long time to disentangle. I can
tell you, Mike, that when I found it concerned you I felt
frightfully excited."

"Concerned me!" I exclaimed. "Oh, nonsense. What is it all about?"

"Follow me carefully, and I'll show you. I guessed from the first that
it must be one of those cyphers that start their alphabet with some
letter other than A, but this one has turned out to be what my book
calls a 'complex alphabet' cypher. I tried and tried, all sorts of
ways--I began the alphabet by calling 'b' 'a'; then by calling 'c' 'a';
then by calling 'd' 'a,' and so on all the way through, but that was no
good. Then I tried the alphabet backwards, calling 'z' 'a'; then 'y'
'a'; right back to 'a,' but that wasn't it either. Then I tried one or
two other ways, and at last I started skipping the letters first
backwards, and then forwards. Doing it forwards, when I got to 'l' I
found I had got something. I called 'l' 'a'; 'n' 'b'; 'p' 'c'; and so
on, and made out _bjptnbblx_, the first word in the first cypher, to be
the word 'improving,' and the two letters before it in capitals 'R.P.'
to be really 'D.C.' The next cypher word, _wamii_, stumped me, as the
code didn't make it sense; then it occurred to me to start the alphabet
with 'm' instead of 'l,' skipping every alternate letter as before, and
I made out _wamii_ to mean 'shall.' The next cypher word, _xvzzjv_, I
couldn't get sense out of by starting the alphabet with either 'l' or
'm,' so I tried the next letter, 'n,' skipping alternate letters once
more, and that gave me the word 'settle.' I knew then that I had got the
key, and I soon had the whole sentence. It ran as follows:

"_D.C. improving shall settle all soon.--Dusky Fowl._"

"Still, I wasn't much the wiser, and it never for a moment occurred to
me that D.C. stood for Dulcie Challoner--"

"Good heavens, Dick!" I cried, "you don't mean to tell me that
Dulcie--"

"Do be patient, brother-in-law, and let me go through the whole thing
before you interrupt with your ejaculations," Dick said calmly. "Well,
four days went by, and then in the _Morning Post_ of February 7th the
second advertisement appeared:

"Rlxt. ex. sroehnel. 28. Zcokk. zbpl. qc.
Ptfrd. Avnsp. Hvfbl. Ucaqkoggwx.--DUSKY
FOWL."

"The code was the same as the first, and I deciphered it quite easily.
Here it is," and he read from a bit of paper he held in his hand:

"_Date is February 28. Shall stay at Mount Royal Hotel,
Bedlington.--Dusky Fowl_."

There was nothing more after that until February 12th, when the third
advertisement appeared, same code,--here it is deciphered:

"_Car will be at Clun Cross two day February 28.--Dusky Fowl_."

"That 'Dusky Fowl' bothered me a lot. I couldn't think what it meant.
Several times I had gone through the names of all the 'dusky birds'
I could think of--blackbird, rook, crow, raven, and so on, but
nothing struck me, nothing seemed to make sense. Then the next
day--yesterday--an advertisement in the same code appeared which
startled me a lot because your name and Mr. Osborne's were in it, and it
didn't take me long then to get at the meaning of 'Dusky Fowl.' Here is
the advertisement from yesterday's _Morning Post_, and directly I had
read it I wrote that letter asking you to come to see me at once, or to
let me come to you."

He read out:

"_Osborne and Berrington suspect. Take precautions. D.C. with me
Hampstead.--Dusky Fowl_"

"'Dusky Fowl' evidently stands for 'rook,' and 'rook' for 'Rook Hotel,'
and 'Rook Hotel' for 'Mrs. Stapleton.' And that being the case, who else
can 'D.C.' stand for but 'Dulcie Challoner'? It's as plain as a
pike-staff."

"By Jove, Dick," I said after a few moments' pause, "I believe you are
right!"

"I am sure I am," he answered with complete self-assurance.

This clearly was a most important discovery. I decided to take the
cuttings and their solutions to Osborne the moment I got back to town,
and I intended to go back directly after delivering Dick safely back at
his school.

"Really," I exclaimed, feeling now almost as excited as the boy, "you
are pretty clever, old chap, to have found out all that. I wonder,
though, why Mrs. Stapleton doesn't telegraph or write to the man or
people these messages are intended for. It would be much simpler."

"It wouldn't be safe, Mike. I read in a book once that people of that
sort, the kind of people Mr. Osborne always speaks of as 'scoundrels,'
nearly always communicate in some sort of cypher, and generally by
advertising, because letters are so dangerous--they may miscarry, or be
stopped, or traced, and then they might get used as evidence against the
people who wrote them. By communicating in cypher and through a
newspaper of course no risk of any sort is run."

"Except when the cyphers get deciphered," I said, "as you have
deciphered these."

"Oh, but then people seldom waste time the way I do, trying to find
these things out; when they do it's generally a fluke if they come
across the key. It took me hours to disentangle the first of those
advertisements--the rest came easy enough."

All this conversation had distracted my mind a good deal, and I began to
feel better. For several minutes I was silent, wrapped in thought, and
Dick had tact enough not to interrupt me. I was mentally debating if
Dick might not, in more ways than one, prove a useful associate with
Osborne, Preston and myself in our task of unveiling the gang of clever
rogues and getting them convicted. One thing, which had struck me at
once, but that I had not told Dick, for fear of exciting him too much,
was that Bedlington was the large town nearest to Eldon Hall, the Earl
of Cranmere's seat, the place the mysterious, unseen man in the house in
Grafton Street had asked Jack Osborne about while he lay bound upon the
bed; also that February 28th was the date when Cranmere's eldest son
would come of age, on which day a week's festivities at Eldon would
begin--and festivities at Eldon were events to be remembered, I had been
told. What most occupied my thoughts, however, was the question I had
asked myself--should I make a confidant of little Dick and tell him how
things now stood between Dulcie and myself?

"Dick, old boy," I said, at last, "I wonder if I can treat you as I
would a grown man--as I would treat some grown men, I should say."

"I dare say you could, brother-in-law," he answered. "Why don't you
try?"

"Supposing that you were not to become my brother-in-law, as you seem so
fond of calling me, would you be sorry?"

"I jolly well think I should!" he replied, looking up sharply. "But what
makes you say a thing like that? It's all rot, isn't it?"

He seemed, as he looked at me with his big brown eyes which were so like
Dulcie's, to be trying to discover if I spoke in jest or partly
in earnest.

"You are going to marry Dulcie, aren't you? You're not going to break it
off? You haven't had a row or anything of that kind"

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