The Four Faces

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"Yes, old chap," I said, "I'll do anything you jolly well like. I'm sick
of doing nothing."

"First rate!" he answered. "Then that's settled. I've all sorts of ideas
and theories about the Holt Manor robbery and this affair of mine, and
that telegram to-day, and other things that have happened--some you know
about, some you don't. I have a friend who was for twenty years at
Scotland Yard--George Preston, wonderful chap, knows London upside-down
and inside-out, and now he's kicking his heels with nothing to do he'll
be only too glad to earn a bit. You might ring him up for me now, and
ask him to come here to-morrow."

Somebody knocked, and I went to the door, Jack having told me that he
did not want to see anybody likely to bore him.

It was only an hotel messenger. The clerk in the office had tried to
ring up the room, he said, but could get no answer. Turning, I saw that
Jack had forgotten to replace the receiver the last time he had spoken.

"What do you want?" I asked.

The messenger said that a "young gentleman" had just called. He wanted
to see "a Mr. Berrington" who was probably with Mr. Osborne.

"What about?" I said. "And didn't he give his name?"

"He wouldn't say what about, sir, though he was asked. He said it was
'most important.' He said to say 'Mr. Richard Challoner.'"

"Dick!" I exclaimed. "Good heavens, what is Dick doing up in London? Oh,
go down," I said to the messenger, "and send him up at once."

"It's Dick Challoner," I said, turning to Osborne and Easterton, "Sir
Roland's boy, the little chap I told you about who behaved so pluckily
when the thieves at Holt got hold of him. I wonder what _he's_ doing in
town, and why he wants to see me."

Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. I little suspected what an
amazing story I was about to hear.

CHAPTER IX

THE SNARE

Dick's face bore a broad grin as he entered the room. He looked
dreadfully mischievous. Assuming as serious an expression as I could
conjure, I said to him:

"Why, what's the meaning of this, Dick? How do you come to be in town?
Are you with Aunt Hannah?"

"It's all right--brother-in-law," he answered lightly. "No, I am not
with Aunt Hannah, nor is Aunt Hannah with me. I have come up on my own."

"'On your own'? What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you, but--won't you introduce me, Mike?"

"Easterton," I said, "this is Roland Challoner's boy, Dick. Jack, this
is the boy I told you about who was chloroformed by the thieves
at Holt."

Jack's eyes rested on Dick. Then he put out his hand.

"Come here, old chap," he said in his deep voice. For several moments he
held Dick's hand in his while he sat looking at him.

"Yes," he said at last, "I have heard about you--Dick. I heard about
what you did that day those men caught you. Keep that spirit up, my
boy--your family has never lacked pluck, if history is to be
trusted--and you'll become one of the kind of men England so badly
needs. What are you doing in London? Is your father with you?"

"No, I have come up on my own," Dick repeated. "I am going to tell Mike
why, in a moment. Are you Mr. Jack Osborne that Mike is always talking
to my sister about, who took Mike to that house--the house where the
fire was?"

"Yes, I am," Jack answered, laughing. "Why?"

"Oh, because my sister didn't like your taking Mike there, you know--she
didn't like it a bit. She and Mike are going to be married, you know,
and Mike is going to be my brother-in-law."

I pounced upon him to make him be quiet, though Easterton and Osborne
clamoured that he should be left alone and allowed to say anything he
liked, Jack declaring that he wanted to hear "more of this romance."

At last we all became serious, and then Dick said:

"I made a discovery this morning at Holt. There is someone hidden in the
old hiding-hole close to father's bedroom."

"Hidden in it!" I exclaimed. "Oh, nonsense!"

"Your telegram to Dulcie arrived at about half-past ten this morning,"
he went on, not heeding my remark, "and she and Aunt Hannah at once got
ready to go to town--I know what was in the telegram, because Dulcie
told me. About an hour after they were gone, I happened to go up to
father's bedroom to fetch something, and when I came out again I noticed
an odd sound--at first I couldn't think where it came from. It was like
someone breathing very heavily, someone asleep. I stood quite still, and
soon I found that it came from the priests' hiding-hole--you know it,
you have seen it. I went over on tip-toe, got into the angle where the
opening to the hole is, and pressed my ear down on the sliding board. I
could hear the sound quite well then--somebody breathing awfully
heavily. First I thought of sliding back the board and peeping in. Then
I decided I wouldn't do that until I'd got somebody else with me. I
noticed that the sliding board was unbolted--there is a little bolt on
the side of it, you know--so I very quietly pushed forward the bolt and
then went downstairs to look for James or Charles--that's the butler and
the footman, you know," he said to Jack. "Cook told me they had both
gone into Newbury for the day, and of course father's chauffeur was out
with the car--he had taken Aunt Hannah and Dulcie to Holt Stacey to
catch the train to London, and I knew that he would take a day off too,
because he always does when he gets the chance--father isn't expected
back until to-night. So then I went to try to find Churchill, or one of
the other gardeners--goodness knows where they were hiding themselves.
Anyway, I couldn't find them, nor could I find either of the keepers; in
fact, I seemed to be the only man on the place."

"Well, go on," I said, as he paused. "You were the only man on the
place. What did the only 'man' do then?"

"I'll tell you if you'll wait a moment--my brother-in-law is always so
beastly impatient," he said, turning again to Jack. "Don't you find him
like that, Mr. Osborne?"

"I do--always. But go on, old boy, I'm very interested."

"And so am I," Easterton laughed.

"Of course, it was no use telling cook or the maids; they'd have got
what cook calls 'styricks' or something, so then it suddenly struck me
the best thing for me to do would be to come right up to town and find
Aunt Hannah and tell her. I knew where she'd be, because you'd said in
your telegram--four hundred and thirty Grafton Street. I didn't know
where Grafton Street was, but I thought I could find out--I borrowed
money from cook for the railway ticket, though I didn't tell her what I
wanted it for, or she wouldn't have given it to me, and directly after
lunch I bicycled to Holt Stacey station and caught the train.

"I got to Grafton Street all right by a 'bus down Bond Street. There was
a policeman standing near the house in Grafton Street, and when I rang
the bell he came up and asked me what I wanted. I told him, and he said
he thought I'd find 'the two ladies I wanted' at the Ritz Hotel. I knew
where that was, and he showed me the way to get to it, down Dover
Street--of course, if I'd had money enough I'd have taken taxis and got
about much quicker. A giant in livery at the Ritz Hotel told me that
'two ladies answering to the description of the ladies I sought' had
left the hotel about a quarter of an hour before I got there, and he
didn't know where they had gone. Then I went to Brooks's to see if you
were there, but you weren't, though they said you'd been there. That put
the lid on it. I didn't know what to do, and I'd only got tenpence
ha'penny left. I was awfully hungry, so I went and had tea and buns at
the A.B.C. shop at Piccadilly Circus. While I was having tea I
remembered hearing you tell Dulcie that Mr. Osborne lived at the Russell
Hotel. I'd have telephoned to Mr. Osborne and explained who I was and
asked him if he could tell me where I could find you, and I'd have
telephoned too to your flat in South Molton Street to ask if you were
there, but I'd got only fivepence ha'penny left after tea, and you might
both have been out and then I'd have had only a penny-ha'penny and
Paddington seemed an awfully long way to walk to, and I wasn't quite
sure of the way, so I'd have had to keep asking, and that's such a
bore, isn't it?

"So after tea I got on to the tube and came here and asked for Mr.
Osborne. The man downstairs told me 'two gentlemen were with him,' and I
asked him what they were like. He told me as well as he could, and I
guessed from the description one of them must be you, and then just
after the messenger had come up to ask if it was you and to tell you I
was there, another hotel man turned up downstairs, and I talked to him,
and he said he knew a Mr. Berrington was with Mr. Osborne because he,
the man, had telephoned up your name a little while before, and Mr.
Osborne had said to show you up. And so here I am, and that's all."

He stopped abruptly, breathless after his long talk, which had been
delivered without an instant's pause.

"For your age you seem fairly intelligent," Jack said, with a look of
amusement.

"Yes, fairly," Dick retorted. "But my brother-in-law says that 'when he
was my age' the world was a much better and finer place, that the boys
did wonderful things--'when he was my age.' He says, for instance, that
he talked Latin and Greek and German and French and one or two other
languages just as you talk English, Mr. Osborne, 'when he was my age'--
funny how he has forgotten them all, isn't it? My sister told me only
yesterday that Mike talks French fluently, but that his German 'leaves
much to be desired.' Those were her words. Were all the boys wonderful
when you were my age too, Mr. Osborne, can you remember? Another thing
Mike says is that 'when he was my age' all boys were taught to swim by
being taken to the ends of piers and flung into the sea--Mike says he
was taught like that just as the rest were, and that he jolly well had
to swim or he'd have been drowned, which seems pretty obvious, doesn't
it, when you come to think of it? When did the fashion of teaching boys
to swim like that go out, Mr. Osborne? I'm jolly glad it has gone out."

When I had succeeded in checking Dick's flow of talk and quelling his
high spirits, and had questioned him further with regard to the man he
declared to be in hiding at Holt--though without my being able to obtain
from him any further information--I turned to Jack.

"What do you make of it?" I said. "What do you suggest ought to be
done?"

"I think," he answered after a moment's pause, "that it affords an
excellent excuse for you to run down to Holt to-night."

"Oh, good!" Dick exclaimed, jumping with excitement. "And there's a
train at a quarter to seven that we can catch; it gets to Holt Stacey at
five minutes to eight."

Jack glanced up at the clock.

"In three quarters of an hour's time," he said. "That will suit you,
Mike, and you'll be glad, I know, of the excuse to go down to Holt to
see the flowers and--and things. Don't think I suppose for a moment that
you want to see either Dulcie Challoner or the old lady you call 'Aunt
Hannah,' but still if you should see them, and of course you will--"

"Oh, he'll see them right enough," Dick burst out, "especially my
sister. There aren't any flies on my brother-in-law, you bet!"

I boxed Dick's ears, but he didn't seem to mind. Perhaps I didn't box
them very hard, for instead of howling as he ought to have done, he
looked up at me sharply and exclaimed:

"Then you're coming down to Holt now! Hooray! We'll go down
together--how ripping! I'll telephone to say you're coming, and say to
get your room ready," and he sprang across to the instrument by
the bedside.

I stopped him, gripping him by the shoulder, though not before
he had pulled off the receiver and called through to the
operator--"Trunks, please!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," I said, "and look here, Dick, you are
in Mr. Osborne's rooms, and not in your own play-room, so don't
forget it."

I felt greatly preoccupied as the train sped down to Berkshire--anxious,
too, about many things, not the least of these being how I should be
received. Would Sir Roland have returned? Would Aunt Hannah have told
him everything? If so would he have adopted her view with regard to the
sending of that telegram, and with regard to other matters? And Dulcie,
would she at last have come to think as Aunt Hannah thought? I could not
believe she would have, but still--

As I have said, women are so extraordinary, that there is no knowing
what they may not do, no accounting for what they may do.

Knowing there would be no conveyance obtainable at Holt Stacey, I had
decided to go on to Newbury. On our alighting at Newbury I suddenly
heard Dick's shrill voice calling:

"Why, Mike, there's father!"

Sir Roland had just got out of a compartment further up the train, and
soon we were in conversation. He too had come from London, but whereas
Dick and I had only just caught the train, Sir Roland had, he said,
entered it as soon as it came into the station, which accounted for our
not having seen him at Paddington. As we walked along the Newbury
platform I explained to him very briefly the reason I had come down, and
how it was I had Dick with me, inwardly congratulating myself upon my
good fortune in thus meeting Sir Roland and so being able to explain
everything to him concerning what had happened that day, before he
should meet his sister and hear what she would tell him.

"It was only at the last moment I decided to come by this train," Sir
Roland said as he entered the taxi that a porter had hailed, and I
followed him, while Dick hopped in after us. "How tiresome it is one
can't get a conveyance at Holt Stacey; people are for ever complaining
to me about it. As I have not telegraphed for the car to meet me I had
to come on to Newbury."

"I came to Newbury for the same reason," I said; and then, as the taxi
rolled swiftly along the dark lanes, for we had a twelve miles' run
before us, I gave Sir Roland a detailed account of all that had happened
that day, from the time Easterton had rung me up at my flat to tell me
of Jack Osborne's disappearance and to ask me to come to him at once,
down to the sudden and unexpected arrival of Dick at Jack's rooms at the
Russell Hotel.

Sir Roland was astounded, and a good deal perturbed. Several times
during the course of my narrative he had interrupted in order to put
some question or other to Dick. At first he had reproved him for going
to London on what Dick called "his own"; but when I told him more he
admitted that what the boy had done he had done probably for the best.

"Oh, I haven't told you one thing," Dick suddenly interrupted.

"Well, what?" Sir Roland asked.

"While I was on my way to Holt Stacey this morning, Mrs. Stapleton
passed me in her car. I was on that part of the road, about a mile from
the lodge, where if you look round you can see a long bit of the avenue.
I wondered if Mrs. Stapleton were going to Holt by any chance, so I
bicycled rather slowly for a minute or two, and looked round once or
twice. I had guessed right, because all at once I saw her car going up
the avenue."

"Are you sure it was Mrs. Stapleton?" I asked, suddenly interested.

"Oh, quite. But I don't think she saw me, her car went by so fast."

"Was anybody with her?"

"No, she was alone--the chauffeur was driving."

"And the car that went up the drive, are you sure it was the same?"

"Positive--that long grey car of hers, I'd know it anywhere; you can
recognize it ever so far away."

We were half a mile from the lodge, now. Soon we had shot through the
open gates, and were sliding up the splendid avenue. I felt intensely
excited, also happier than when in the train, for I knew I now possessed
Sir Roland's entire confidence. Delicious was it to think that in a few
minutes I should see Dulcie again, but what excited me--and I knew it
must be exciting Sir Roland too--was the thought of that man--or would
it prove to be a woman?--lying concealed in the hiding-hole. Who could
he be? How long had he been there? How had he got there and what could
he be doing?

I had told Sir Roland of the false conclusion Aunt Hannah had come to
with regard to the sending of that typed telegram, and how bitterly she
had spoken to me about it--I had thought it best to prepare him for the
absurd story that I felt sure Aunt Hannah would proceed to pour into his
ear directly she met him. To my relief he had laughed, appearing to
treat the matter of her annoyance and suspicion as a joke, though the
sending of the telegram he looked upon, naturally, as a very grave
matter. Consequently, upon our arrival at Holt, instead of inquiring for
his sister, and at once consulting her upon the subject of the day's
events, as he would, I knew, have done under ordinary circumstances, he
told Charles, the footman, to send the butler to him at once, and to
return with him.

We were now in the little library--Sir Roland and myself, Dick, the
butler and the footman, and the door was shut. Without any preliminaries
Sir Roland came straight to the point. He told the two servants of
Dick's discovery that morning, told them that presumably the man was
still in hiding where Dick had bolted him down, and that the four of us
were at once going, as he put it, "to unearth the scoundrel."

"And you will stay here, Dick," Sir Roland added. "We shall not need
your services at this juncture."

Dick was, I could see, deeply disappointed at, as he put it to me in an
undertone, "being side-tracked like this by the guv'nor when it was I
who marked the beggar to ground "; but his father's word was law, and
he knew it.

"Never mind, my dear old chap," I said, as I noticed a slight quiver of
the under lip, "directly we've unearthed him and got him safely bagged
I'll come and tell you what he looks like and all about him. You see,
your father doesn't want to run unnecessary risk--you're the only boy
he's got, and this man may be armed. You would be annoyed if the fellow
were to make holes in you, and I should be vexed too; greatly vexed."

Dick laughed at that, and when, a minute later, we left him, he was
happier in his mind.

No sound was audible as we stood above the priests' hole, listening
intently. This hiding-place was oddly situated, and ingeniously
constructed. In an angle formed by two walls with old oak wainscoting
was a sliding floor--in reality it was a single board, but it was made
to resemble so exactly several boards set parallel and horizontally that
none could believe it to be a single board unless they were shown.
Immediately beneath was a room, or closet, not much bigger than a very
large cupboard, which could accommodate three men standing, or two
seated. In olden days this sliding board was covered with tapestry, and
being made in such a way that, when stamped upon or struck, no hollow
sound was emitted, it formed a safe place of concealment for any
outlawed person for whom the emissaries of the law might be in search.
To this day the board slides away into the wall as "sweetly" as it did
in the days of the Reformation; but Sir Roland, owing to an accident
having once occurred through someone leaving the hole uncovered, had
affixed a small bolt to the board and given orders that this bolt should
always be kept pushed into its socket.

When we had all stood listening for fully a minute, Sir Roland said
suddenly:

"Charles, draw the bolt and slide back the board--get back, James!" he
exclaimed sharply to the butler, who in his anxiety to see what would be
revealed was bending forward.

"D'you want to be shot? Whoever the man may be he is pretty sure to be
armed."

An instant later the board had vanished into the wall, and Sir Roland
stood peering down exactly as he had warned his butler not to do.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed.

Casting prudence aside, we all pressed forward and looked down into the
hole. Huddled in a heap at the bottom was a man in hunting kit--white
breeches, top boots and "pink" coat. Sitting along the floor, he was
bent almost double, so that we could not see his face.

"Hello!" Sir Roland called out, "who are you? What are you doing there?"

But the figure didn't move.

At one end of the hiding-hole a ladder was nailed vertically. The feet
of the man touched its lowest rung. Turning, Sir Roland began carefully
to descend.

"Let me, sir!" the butler exclaimed excitedly, "let me--it's not
safe--he may attack you, sir!"

Without answering Sir Roland continued to clamber down. Now he stood
upon the floor of the hiding-hole, at the foot of the figure. We saw him
stoop, raise the man's head, and bend the body upward until the back
rested against the other end of the hole.

An exclamation escaped us simultaneously. The face was that of a man of
twenty-seven or so, though the stubbly beard and moustache, apparently a
week's growth or more, at first gave the idea that he was much older.
The eyes were closed and sunken. The mouth gaped. The face was deathly
pale and terribly emaciated.

"By Gad!" gasped Sir Roland, as he took hold of the wrist and felt for
the pulse. "My Gad, I think he's dead!"

CHAPTER X

NARRATES A CONFESSION

Half an hour later the man found in the hiding-hole lay upon a bed in
one of the spare rooms.

Though not dead, he had, when discovered, been in the last stage of
exhaustion. The doctor telephoned for had at once discovered that what
we already suspected was true--the man's left ankle was very badly
sprained. It must, he said, have been sprained ten or twelve days
previously. In addition, the man was almost like a skeleton.

"You found him not an hour too soon," the doctor said when, after
completing his diagnosis, and giving instructions concerning the
treatment of his patient to the nurse who had just arrived, he rejoined
us in the smoking-room downstairs. "He is in a state of complete
collapse. For days he has evidently not touched food."

He looked at us in turn with an odd expression as he said this. He was
clearly mystified at finding a man at Holt Manor dying of starvation--a
starving man dressed for the chase, a man obviously of refinement, and
undoubtedly to be described as a gentleman.

Sir Roland decided under the circumstances to tell the doctor
everything: how the man's presence had been discovered by Dick, how we
had afterwards found him lying upon the floor of the hiding-hole,
apparently dead, and how, with the help of ropes, we had finally pulled
him out. The doctor had, of course, heard of the robbery at Holt nearly
a fortnight before, and he at once put two and two together.

For two days the stranger quivered between life and death. Two nurses
were in constant attendance, and the doctor called frequently. It was on
the afternoon of the third day that he expressed a desire to talk to Sir
Roland; he had, until then, been allowed to speak only a word or two.

He wanted, he said, "to speak with Sir Roland alone"; but to this Sir
Roland would not agree.

"If you want to speak to me, you can speak quite freely before this
gentleman," he said; I was in the room at the time.

At first the man seemed distressed, but at last, finding that Sir Roland
would make no concession, he said in a weak voice:

"I'm dying, Sir Roland, I feel it, and before I go there are things I
should like to say to you--things that it may be to your advantage
to hear."

His voice, I noticed, had in it the _timbre_ peculiar to the voices of
men of education.

"Say anything you like," Sir Roland answered coldly.

"You have been exceedingly kind to me: there are men who, finding me in
concealment as you found me, and after what has happened in this house,
would at once have called in the police. You may believe me or not, but
I am extremely grateful to you. And I want to show my gratitude in the
only way I can."

He paused for nearly a minute, then continued:

"Sir Roland, I will tell you as much as I am justified in telling about
the robbery; but first, has anybody concerned in it been arrested?"

Sir Roland shook his head.

"Nobody--as yet," he answered. "The police have not discovered even the
smallest clue."

"I and another were in your bedroom when your son suddenly sprang from
behind the screen," the stranger went on. "Again you may believe me or
not, but I tried to prevent my companion from doing him any injury. It
was I who put the chloroform on the boy, but I did him no other harm, I
swear, sir."

I saw Sir Roland's eyes blaze. Then, as his glance rested upon the
stranger's starved, almost ashen face--it seemed to be gradually
growing livid--the sternness of his expression relaxed.

"How came you to be in hiding here?" he asked abruptly. "How many
accomplices had you?"

"Seven," the stranger replied, without an instant's hesitation. "The
robbery was carefully planned; it was planned so carefully that it
seemed without the bounds of possibility that it could fail to succeed.
I and others were at your hunt breakfast--"

"Were your accomplices all men?" I interrupted sharply.

The man's stare met mine. He looked at me with, I thought, singular
malevolence.

"They were not," he answered quietly. He turned again to Sir Roland.
"Just after your son had been rendered unconscious, I had the misfortune
to slip up on the polished floor and sprain my ankle badly. No sooner
did my companion realize what had happened, than he snatched from me all
the stolen property I held, in spite of my endeavour to prevent him,
then emptied my pockets, and left me. Dismayed at being thus
deserted--for unless I could hide at once I must, I knew, quickly be
discovered--I crawled out of the room on all fours, and along the
landing as far as the angle where the hiding-place is. The hole was
open--we had opened it before entering your room, lest we might be
surprised and suddenly forced to hide. Almost as I reached it I heard
somebody coming. Instantly I scrambled down and slid the board over
my head."

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