Mr. Marx's Secret Part 44

"It is strange that you should ask that," he said. "Sometimes, especially when I have come upon him alone, or have seen him excited, his tone and little mannerisms have seemed somehow vaguely familiar. And yet," he added thoughtfully, "I have never been able to recall of whom they have reminded me."

I opened my trembling lips to speak, but a wave of cold doubt swept in upon me. Surely this thing could not be! I must be mad to let the idea linger for a moment in my mind. And yet----

At that moment of my hesitation, my father's hand fell heavily upon my arm. He pointed forward along the dark avenue with a shaking finger. In the dim twilight we could see the tall gaunt figure of a man in ragged clothes, making his way up to the castle.

"That is not one of my men, Philip," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Who is it?"

I shook my head.

"It is a stranger."

My father turned abruptly from the avenue into a side-walk.

"Follow me," he said; "we will go in by the private way."

We walked across the turf, through a little iron gate, which my father unlocked, and entered the shrubbery walk.

Once I looked round through an opening in the laurel leaves. The stranger was leaning wearily against the railings round the lodge, waiting for admittance.

CHAPTER LII.

WHERE IS MR. MARX?

Not until we had reached the Castle and were in the library did my father speak to me. Then his words were grave enough.

"We have done Mr. Marx an injury, Philip," he said slowly.

"How?" I asked.

"Listen, and you will know."

He went to the telephone and signalled. The answer came at once.

"Someone has been asking for me at the gate," he said. "Who is it?"

"A stranger, sir, to see you."

"What name?"

"Hart, sir."

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, sir. I told him that it would be useless, but he refuses to go away."

"You can pa.s.s him. Send him here at once."

My father turned away and looked at me with all the old weariness in his face, but with little agitation. Of the two, I was the more nervous. I crossed the room and laid my hand gently upon his shoulder.

"Thank G.o.d that I am here with you! What shall you say to him, father?

What does he want, think you? Money?"

My father shook his head sadly.

"He would send if that were all. He has what he wants and that is not much. I fear that he wants something else."

"What?"

"His good name cleared."

"He took the guilt willingly," I cried. "He must bear it now. He cannot escape from it."

"He can," my father answered. "He can tell the truth."

"No one would believe him. It would be his word against yours. What chance would he have?"

My father turned a stern, dark face upon me.

"So you think that I would swear to a lie, Philip? No! There was always this risk. I have felt that if ever he should demand to be set right with the world, it must be done."

"It shall be done."

We started, for the words came from the other side of the room. Standing in the deep shadows just inside the door was a tall, gaunt man, with long dishevelled beard and pale, ghastly face. His clothes were ragged and weather-stained and his boots were thick with mud. I looked towards him fascinated. It was the face of the lunatic who had twice attempted Mr.

Marx's life. It was Hart, _alias_ Francis, the man who held in his hands a life dearer to me than my own.

"Is it really you, Francis?" my father asked, in a shocked tone. "You are altered. You have been ill. Sit down."

He took no notice. Whilst my father had been speaking his eyes had been wandering restlessly round the room.

"Where is--he?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Do you mean Mr. Marx?" I said.

"Yes."

"He is in London."

"Ah!"

There was an expression in his face partly of disappointment, partly of relief. He drew a long breath and remained silent, as though waiting to be questioned.

"Do you want money?" my father asked.

"No."