Stolen Souls Part 25

"Surely you know Griffiths, sir? He used to manage your old mine, the Bellefontaine, and is now in charge at Pike's Reef."

"I don't know him, and have no desire to make his acquaintance. Send him away," I said abruptly.

The man, who seemed puzzled, hesitated for a moment, and, after muttering some words in an undertone, re-entered the house.

For nearly half an hour I had remained alone, until the maid appeared, saying, "Mistress would like to see you in the drawing-room, sir."

I obeyed the summons, and on entering the room, found the woman who called me husband seated on a low chair, while near her stood a short, stout old gentleman, in a frock-coat of rather ancient cut, and wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez.

"Ah, my dear Medhurst!" exclaimed the man, greeting me effusively. "How are you this evening?"

"I haven't the pleasure of knowing you, sir," I said indifferently.

"You don't know Dr. Beale? Come, come, this won't do at all," he said, smiling.

I a.s.sured him that I had never set eyes upon him before, and went on to explain how I had been travelling to Paris and suddenly struck insensible, only to regain consciousness and find myself in Africa-- rich, married, and ten years older.

The doctor listened with grave attention, and subsequently we entered upon a long and rather heated discussion. All I wanted to discover was how I came to be there.

"Monomania, evidently," observed the doctor in a low voice, when we had been talking for some time. "It develops frequently into the most violent form of madness. He will have to be kept in seclusion and watched."

Again I resented the imputation that I was going insane, to which the medical luminary replied, "Very well, my dear fellow, very well. We will believe what you say. Calm yourself; for your wife is nervous and weak, remember."

I turned away disgusted. All my efforts to explain the remarkable facts had only been met with incredulity by the idiotic, soft-spoken old doctor, who undoubtedly imagined I was mad.

In desperation I strode out of the house, and spent the night in wandering about the grounds, and walking aimlessly through unfamiliar roads, subsequently sitting down upon the fallen trunk of a tree, where I fell asleep.

When I retraced my footsteps, the bright morning sun was glinting through the foliage of the dense wood that seemed to almost surround the house.

From a servant I learnt that my _soi-disant_ wife was too unwell to leave her room; and as I wandered through the place, I entered one apartment which was evidently a study--my own, possibly. Glancing round at the books, the two great iron safes, and the telephone instruments, I seated myself at the littered writing-table. Turning over the papers before me, I saw they related to mining enterprises involving large sums. Many of them were evidently in my handwriting, but the signatures were "Henry Medhurst," and the note-paper bore the heading, "Great Bellefontaine Gold Mines, Offices, 127 Commissioner Street, Johannesburg."

Upwards of an hour I sat plunged in thought, bewildered by the events of the past few hours. I felt I must make some strenuous effort to solve the enigma, and account for the intervening ten years that I had lost.

I could not have been asleep in the manner of the legendary Rip Van Winkle, but must have been existing during the period. Yet where did I live? And how?

It seemed clear from the doctor's words that if I remained, I should be placed under restraint as an imbecile. Therefore the thought suggested itself that I should return to Europe, and endeavour to find out what befell me on that midnight journey. Recollecting that I should require funds, I searched the drawers of the writing-table, and found a cash-box, in which was nearly four hundred pounds in gold and notes.

This was sufficient for the journey; and, with a feeling of joy, I transferred it to my pockets, and prepared for departure.

A few hasty lines I wrote to my self-styled wife, informing her of my intention, and stating that I should return as soon as I had gained the information necessary to restore my peace of mind. Afterwards I went to my room, crammed a few necessaries into a travelling-bag, and, without uttering a word of farewell, left the City of Gold _en route_ for England.

Arrived in London, I set about tracing my career; but from the outset I found it a task fraught by many difficulties. I must have altered considerably in personal appearance during my absence, for none of my friends recognised me. There was but one agency that seemed likely to render me a.s.sistance, namely, the Press. The files of the _Times_ and _Telegraph_ for 1883 I searched diligently, but gleaned nothing from them. Indeed, I spent several weeks in looking through various daily and weekly papers, published about the time of my fatal journey, without result, until one day it occurred to me that the French Press might aid me. Accordingly, I went to Paris, and on the following day called at the office of the _Gaulois_, where I obtained the file for the year I required. Turning to the paper for the day following my sudden oblivion, my eye fell upon the headline, "Terrible Accident on the Northern Railway." Eagerly I read and reread every word, for here was what seemed a clue to the mystery.

It appeared that the train in which I had travelled, when approaching Longpre, ran into some trucks, and was completely wrecked, seven persons being killed and about twenty injured. In a first-cla.s.s compartment two pa.s.sengers were discovered, one of whom had among his luggage a box containing a large sum in English gold and notes. Neither men had been injured by the accident; but one, presumably, in order to obtain possession of the money, had shot his fellow-traveller dead, and was making off with his booty when he was apprehended, and brought to Paris.

In the papers of following days I found a report of the examination before the Juge d'instruction, and the subsequent trial before the a.s.size Court of the Seine. According to the newspaper accounts, the man charged with wilful murder was young and well-dressed, but seemed enveloped in mystery, inasmuch as he conducted himself strangely, refusing to give his name or any account of himself, and preserving an immutable silence throughout the many days the case lasted. Judging from the prominence given to the report, the trial must have been a celebrated one, and considerable excitement was created in the French capital, owing to the fact that several prominent members of the medical profession, who had examined the accused, agreed that he was suffering from some strange mental affection, the precise nature of which they were unable to discover. It was owing to this that the culprit escaped the guillotine, being sentenced to hard labour for life, and transportation to the penal colony of New Caledonia.

Which was I, the murderer or the murdered?

I felt confident I was one or the other. Therefore, I resolved to find out whether this mysterious convict was still alive; and if so, to seek an explanation from him. The thought occurred to me that an official in the Prisons Department, whom I had known, might be able to furnish me with the information. After some difficulty I discovered him, but he had long ago retired into private life. So entirely had my personal appearance changed, that he did not recognise me. Therefore, by representing that I was an English solicitor, anxious to discover a next-of-kin, and offering to pay handsomely for the investigation, I prevailed upon him to seek an interview with the chief of the department, and ascertain whether the convict was still living.

When I called a few days later, he placed in my hands a memorandum signed by the chief, certifying that after two years at La Nouvelle--as the French prison island is termed,--prisoner Number 8469, committed for life for murder, had effected his escape by means of an open boat in company with Jean Montbazon, who had been convicted of forging Spanish bonds. Both were known to have landed on the Queensland coast after a perilous voyage; but they had disappeared before the Australian police were communicated with, and all efforts to trace them had been futile.

Having, however, been employed in the Government mines near Noumea, it was expected that they had obtained work in one of the remote mining districts, where they could effectively hide until the search was over.

To find this man Montbazon was no easy task, but if I chanced to be successful, he might, I thought, tell me something of his whilom comrade in adversity.

I was puzzled how to proceed, but at length resorted to advertising as the only expedient. In the chief French and Colonial newspapers I caused to be inserted a brief paragraph addressed to "Jean Montbazon, late of Noumea," stating that his companion upon the voyage from New Caledonia to Australia wished particularly to meet him, and giving my address at the Table Bay Hotel, Cape Town, whither I proceeded.

Patiently I awaited a reply, but although I had spent a large sum upon the advertis.e.m.e.nt, it apparently failed to reach the man whose acquaintance I desired to make.

For many weeks I remained at the hotel, feeling no desire to return to Johannesburg until I had cleared up the mystery and accounted for my lost ident.i.ty. Times without number I was tempted to relinquish the effort to trace my past, yet with sheer, dogged perversity, I remained and hoped.

At last my patience was rewarded, for one evening, while I was sitting on the balcony of the hotel, enjoying a cigar in the starlight, the waiter brought me a visitor.

Judge my dismay when I recognised the face of my secretary.

"Well, old fellow," he exclaimed familiarly, "and what means all this confounded mystery?"

I sat speechless in amazement.

"I saw the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _Cape Times_, and, concluding that something was wrong, came down here. What is it?" he continued, sinking lazily into a chair by my side.

"The advertis.e.m.e.nt?" I gasped. "I--I don't understand you."

"Your advertis.e.m.e.nt was addressed to Jean Montbazon, your humble and obedient servant, who shared your lot at La Nouvelle, and who escaped with you."

"What?" I cried. "Is that true?"

"I think, _mon cher ami_, you must have taken leave of your senses, as madame declares you have. Come, now, what's the matter?"

"Are--are you really Jean Montbazon?"

"That's my baptismal cognomen, though Fred Norton suits me better just now."

"Look here," I said earnestly: "I admit I'm not quite myself; indeed, I have forgotten everything. Tell me how we escaped, and why I am so rich, while you are my secretary."

The man looked at me incredulously, remarking, "_Ma foi_! I thought you were a bit vacant before you left Johannesburg so mysteriously, but you now seem stark mad. It would take a long time to recount all our adventures, and some would be rather unpleasant reminiscences. You were sent to penal servitude for life for murder, and I for forgery. We were pals in the same labour-gang, and one day, finding an open boat upon the beach, we resolved to escape, and embarked. In the boat was a keg of water and a barrel of biscuits, which sufficed to keep body and soul together until, after a terrible voyage lasting many days, we ran ash.o.r.e near Port Curtis, in Queensland. Having regained our freedom, we tramped to the gold diggings, and worked together for about a year. You had extraordinary luck, and soon became rich, while I was often obliged to exist upon your charity. In a year, however, an unfortunate incident occurred at our camp at Gum Tree Gulch. A man who was known to have a quant.i.ty of dust in his belt was found dead, with an ugly wound upon his head; and, in consequence of this, Australia became too warm for you and I. Therefore we left the camp hurriedly one night, without wishing adieu to our comrades, and came here, to South Africa, to try our luck.

As usual, your good fortune did not desert you. Already rich, you bought some big claims in the Randt, and worked them with almost incredible results. Then the boom came."

"And how did that affect me?"

"You had previously married a wealthy woman before the gold fever set in. When the boom came, you sold both her property and yours at such prices that within three weeks you were almost a millionaire."

"What am I now?" I asked, amazed at this remarkable story.

"You are owner of two of the richest gold workings in the Transvaal, and I--always a Lazarus--am your confidential secretary. Most confidential, I a.s.sure you," he added, smiling. "The master a murderer; the servant a forger!"

Having thus filled up the long blank in my memory, I did not rest until I had satisfactorily accounted for the events of that fateful night.