Witness to the Deed Part 3

Malcolm was silent.

"I never wanted the poor little la.s.s. Frankly, I wanted her money, and the admiral's too--hang the old rascal, he won about fifty pounds of me.

But to continue. Now, Mr Malcolm Stratton, time is flying, and the lady will soon be at the church, where you must be first. I tell you that I will consent to keep under the tombstone where the law and society have placed me, for a handsome consideration. What do you propose?"

"To hand you over to the police," said Stratton firmly, but with despair in his tone.

"No, you do not. You propose to give me the money on the table there, to sign an agreement to pay me three hundred a year as long as I keep dead, and then to go and wed your pretty widow, and be off to the continent or elsewhere."

Bigamy--blackmailed by a scoundrel who would make his life a h.e.l.l-- through constant threats to claim his wife--a score of such thoughts flashed through Stratton's brain as he stood there before the cool, calculating villain watching him so keenly. Money was no object to him.

Mr Brettison would let him have any amount, but it was madness to think of such a course. There was only one other--to free the innocent, pure woman he idolised from the persecution of such a wretch, and the law would enable him to do that.

Malcolm Stratton's mind was made up, and he stood there gazing full in his visitor's eyes.

"Well," said the man coolly, "time is on the wing, as I said before.

How much is there under that letter weight?"

"One hundred and fifty pounds," said Stratton quietly.

"Write me a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds then, and the bargain is closed."

"Not for a penny," said Stratton quietly.

"You will. The lady is waiting."

"So are the police."

"What!" cried the man, rising slowly and with a menacing look in his countenance. "No fooling, sir. You see this, and you know I shall not be trifled with. Once more let me remind you that a noise here would hardly be heard outside. But you are not serious. The prize for you is too great. Police? How could you marry the lady then? Do you think my proud, prudish little Myra would take you, knowing me to be alive?

Stop, will you?" he cried with a savage growl like that of a wild beast, "or, by all that's holy--Here, what are you going to do, fool?"

"Summon the police," cried Stratton, who was half-way to the door, as the man sprang at him with the activity of a panther.

For the next minute there was a desperate struggle, as the men wrestled here and there, both moved by one object--the possession of the deadly weapon.

Then one arm was freed, there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a puff of ill smelling smoke partially hid the struggling pair.

Another shot with the smoke more dense.

A heavy fall.

Then silence--deathlike and strange.

Outside, on the staircase a floor higher, a door was opened; there were steps on the stone landing, and a voice shouted down the well: "Anything the matter?" After a moment another voice was heard: "Nonsense-- nothing. Someone banged his oak." There was the sound of people going back into the room above, and in the silence which followed, broken only by the faintly heard strain of some street music at a distance, the door below, on the first floor landing, was opened a little way, the fingers of a hand appearing round the edge, and a portion of a man's head came slowly out, as if its owner was listening.

The door was closed once more as softly as it was opened, and the sun, which had been hidden all the morning by leaden clouds, sent a bright sheaf of golden rays through the dust-incrusted staircase window, straight on to the drab-painted outer door, with the occupant's name thereon in black letters:

Mr Malcolm Stratton.

CHAPTER THREE.

A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.

"Well?"

"You rang, sir."

"No, confound you! I did not ring."

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure, sir. Electric bell's a little out of order, sir. Tell-tales show wrong numbers, sir."

"I engaged a suite of private rooms in this hotel, and there's not a bit of privacy."

"Very sorry, sir, indeed."

"And look here, waiter."

"Yes, sir."

"When you address me it is customary to say Sir Mark."

"Of course, Sir Mark; my mistake, Sir Mark. I'll mind in future."

"Has the carriage arrived?"

"Not yet, Sir Mark."

"Thank you; that will do. No; a moment. The wedding breakfast.

Everything is quite ready, I hope?"

"The head waiter has it in 'and, Sir Mark, and the table looks lovely."

"Thanks. Ahem! a trifle now. I shall remember you when I leave. I spoke a little testily just this minute. A little out of order, waiter.

Touch of my old fever, caught in the East."

The waiter smiled and bowed as he pocketed a new five-shilling piece, and looked with fresh interest at the fine looking, florid, elderly man who kept pacing the room with a newspaper in his hand as he talked.

"Anything more I can do, Sir Mark, before I leave the room?"

"Hang it all, no, sir," cried the old officer, flashing out once more irritably. "This is not a public dinner, and I have given you a vail."

"Of course, Sir Mark; and I didn't mean--"

"Then why did you use that confounded old stereotyped waiter's expression? I wonder you did not hand me a toothpick."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Mark, I'm sure."

"Go and read 'Peter Simple,' and take Chuck's, the boatswain's, words to heart."