The Lost Million Part 34

Asta was at the Bath Hotel at Bournemouth. At least I could ring her up on the telephone, and tell her what I had seen! So the watcher and the watched having disappeared, I hurried across the park until at length I gained the main road, and went on at a brisk pace till I was back again at my hotel.

It took me a full hour to get on to Bournemouth, and after long delay I at last heard her sweet, well-remembered voice at the instrument.

I expressed regret at awakening her, but told her that I was leaving by motor in half an hour to meet her.

"Where is your father?" I inquired.

"I don't exactly know. He left me at Burford Bridge Hotel, at Box Hill, last Monday, and I came here to await him. Five days have gone, and I've had no letter."

"Then he hasn't been to Bournemouth?"

"No."

"Well," I said, "do not go out of the hotel until I arrive, will you?"

"Not if you wish me to remain in," was her reply; and then, promising I would be with her at the earliest moment, as I wished to see her on a matter of gravest importance, I rang off. Half an hour afterwards I paid my bill, even though it were the middle of the night, and going out to the garage, started my engine, and with my bag in the back of the car sped away in: the drizzling rain eastward out of Bath.

I chose the road through Norton St Philip, Warminster, and Wilton to Salisbury, where I had an early breakfast at the old White Hart, and then, striking south, I went by Downton Wick and Fordingbridge, through Ringwood and Christchurch, past the grey old abbey church and on through suburban Bos...o...b.. until, just after nine o'clock, I pulled up before the big entrance to the Bath Hotel in Bournemouth.

Into the pretty palm-court, where I waited, Asta, my lost love, came at last with outstretched hand, smiling me a welcome greeting. She looked dainty in blue serge skirt and muslin blouse, and there being no one else in the place at that early hour,--the idlers not yet having arrived to read the papers and novels,--we sat together in a corner to chat.

By the pallor of her soft, delicate countenance, I saw that she was nervous and troubled, though she showed a brave front, and affected a gay lightheartedness that was only feigned.

"Tell me, Miss Seymour," I said presently, bending to her very seriously, "what happened to you on that night in Aix?"

"Happened!" she echoed, her dark eyes opening widely. "Ah! It was, indeed, a narrow escape. Had Dad not provided himself with a key to the back stairs in readiness for emergencies, we should have both been arrested--just as you were."

"Yes," I smiled. "But I was released. What happened to you?"

"We caught the Paris express--only just as it was leaving; but Dad, fearing that our flight had been telephoned to Paris, decided to get out at Laroche, where we stopped to change engines, and from there we took train by Troyes and Nancy to Stra.s.sbourg. Then, once in Germany, we could, of course, escape Tramu's attentions," and she smiled.

"And from Germany?"

"We remained a week in Berlin; thence we went to Copenhagen by way of Kiel and Korsor, and ten days ago crossed from Hamburg to Harwich--home again."

"Your father is certainly extremely clever in evading the police," I said, with a laugh.

"Our only fear was for you," she said; "whether they would learn any thing by watching you."

"They learnt nothing, even though they submitted me to a very close examination. But," I added, "how did you know Tramu was in Aix?"

"I was ascending in the lift that evening, and as we pa.s.sed the first floor I saw him talking with the hotel manager. Dad had once pointed him out to me at Monte Carlo. So I suspected the reason of his visit there, and scribbled you a line of warning before we took our bags and slipped away."

"But for what reason is he so anxious to secure your arrest?" I asked, looking straight into her face. "Cannot you tell me the truth, Miss Seymour? Remember, I am your friend," I added earnestly.

"Please do not ask me," she urged. "I cannot betray the man who has been father to me all these years," she added in a low, pained voice.

"But are you quite certain that he is as devoted to you as he professes?" I asked very gravely.

"Absolutely. Am I not the only real friend he has?"

I recollected that letter written by the man who had loved her, and the allegations he had made.

"Do you know," I said, "the other night I had burglars at my home. They tried to break open the safe which contains that mysterious cylinder given into my charge by Mr Melvill Arnold."

"The cylinder!" she gasped, instantly turning pale as death. "Ah! that hateful cylinder, which brings upon its possessor misfortune and disaster. Why don't you get rid of it, Mr Kemball?"

"I have. It is now in the Safe Deposit Company's vaults in Chancery Lane."

She held her breath, her gaze fixed upon me. Then involuntarily she laid her slim white hand upon my coat-sleeve, and said--

"I--I always fear for your safety, Mr Kemball, while that thing is in your possession. Give it away. Destroy it--anything--only get rid of it!"

"But I cannot until the third of November. I accepted a sacred trust, remember, given by a dying man," I said.

"Yes--but--"

"But what?" I asked. Then in a low voice, as I bent towards her, I added: "Miss Seymour, I have deep suspicion that your father--a friend of Arnold's--knows what the cylinder contains, and is extremely eager to get possession of it. Is not that so?"

She was silent. Her lips moved nervously. Her indecision to speak told me the truth. We were friends, therefore she could not deliberately lie to me.

A faint smile overspread her pale, refined features. That was all, but it told its own tale.

"Well," I said, "the burglars, whoever they were, were experts, and only the electric alarm prevented the theft. What the ancient cylinder really contains I cannot imagine. Indeed, I am filled with anxiety and impatience for the dawn of November the third, when, without doubt, I shall learn the truth."

"Yes, no doubt," she said in a slow, tremulous tone. "And the truth will surely be a stranger one than you have ever dreamed."

Our _tete-a-tete_ was suddenly interrupted by a woman entering the lounge; therefore, as Asta had her hat and coat with her, I suggested that we should walk down to the beach, an idea which she readily adopted.

Then, when there was no one to overhear, I told her of my adventure in the night, of Tramu's inquiries in the neighbourhood of Ridgehill Manor, and of his surveillance of the movements of Mrs Olliffe and her father.

"Tramu!" she gasped, her face white as death. "Then he has found poor Dad! Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I had no wish to alarm you unduly, Miss Seymour," I said very quietly.

"But Dad may be arrested!" she cried. "Ah! how fatal to a.s.sociate again with that accursed woman."

"She is certainly no friend of yours."

"But she makes great pretence of friendship. I have often been her guest."

"For the last time, I trust."

"Yes. But what can we do? How can I warn Dad?" she asked in deep anxiety.

"Ah, Miss Seymour," I said, after a brief silence, "I fear that you think a little too much of your foster-father, and too little of your own self."

"Why?" she asked quickly, with some resentment. Again I hesitated. We had wandered upon the pier, but it was as yet early, and few people, save the early-morning exercise men, were about.