The Voice from the Void: The Great Wireless Mystery Part 11

"I only know her Christian name. It is Edna."

"You knew her personally?"

"Well--yes. I have met her."

"In what circ.u.mstances?"

"Curious ones. Very curious ones," the girl replied. "If my surmises are correct, Roddy, we are face to face with one of the strangest problems of crime that has ever arisen in our modern world," she added.

"But until I am able to substantiate certain facts I can tell you nothing--nothing, much as I desire to in order to place you upon your guard."

"What, am I still in peril?"

"Yes, I believe you are--in very great peril. So beware of yet another trap which may be cunningly laid for you by those who may pose as your friends."

And the girl, taking her companion's hand, gripped it between hers, and looking into his face, added:

"Roddy, trust me. Don't ask me for facts which I cannot give. There are reasons--very strong reasons--that compel me for the moment to remain silent. So trust me?"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

FEARS AND SURPRISES.

Three nights later.

Over the steps which led from the pavement in Park Lane to the front door of Mr Sandys' huge white mansion an awning had been erected. The people who went by upon the motor-buses to Oxford Street or to Hyde Park Corner noted it, and remarked that Purcell Sandys was giving one of his usual parties--functions at which the smartest set in high Society attended; gatherings which were always announced by the _Times_ on the day previous and chronicled--with the dresses worn by the female guests--on the morning following.

The huge white-painted mansion which was so well known to Londoners was to them, after all, a house of mystery. The gossip papers had told them how the famous financier--one of England's pillars of finance--spent three hundred pounds weekly on the floral decorations of the place; how the rooms, the mahogany doors of which had silver hinges, were full of priceless curios, and how each Wednesday night the greatest musical artistes in the world were engaged to play for the benefit of his guests at fees varying from five hundred to a thousand guineas.

All this was the truth. The Wednesday night entertainments of Purcell Sandys were unique. n.o.body in all the world was so lavish upon music or upon floral decorations. The grey-bearded old man, who usually wore a rather shabby suit, and habitually smoked a pipe, gave his guests the very best he could, for he loved flowers--as his great range of hot-houses at Farncombe Towers and at Biarritz testified--while good music always absorbed his senses.

Cars were constantly arriving, depositing the guests, and driving on again, while the servants in the wide, flower-decorated hall were pa.s.sing to and fro, busy with the hats and coats of the men, and conducting the ladies upstairs.

Through the hall came strains of dance music from the fine ballroom at the back of the house, one of the finest in the West End of London.

At the head of the great staircase Elma, in a simple but pretty frock of pale lemon, was doing the duty of hostess, as she always did, while her father, a burly, grey-bearded, rather bluff man in a well-fitting but well-worn evening suit, was grasping the hands of his friends warmly, and welcoming them.

On the opposite side of the road, against the railings of Hyde Park, a young man was standing, watching the procession of cars, watching with wistful eyes as he stood with half a dozen others attracted by the commotion, as is always the case outside the mansions of the West End where a party is in progress.

The young man was Roddy Homfray. As a matter of fact, he had pa.s.sed in a 'bus towards Hyde Park Corner, and seeing the awning outside Mr Sandys' house, had alighted and out of sheer curiosity made his way back. At his side were two young girls of the true c.o.c.kney type, who were criticising each female guest as she arrived, and declaring what a joy it must be to be able to wear fine clothes and go to parties in a car.

Roddy was just about to turn away and cross to Waterloo to take the last train home, when among the cars he saw a fine grey Rolls in which a man and a woman were seated. Next second he craned his neck, and then crossed the road to obtain a nearer view of the pair.

"Yes," he gasped aloud to himself, "that's the woman. I'm certain! And the man? No, I'm not quite so sure. He was older, I think."

Unseen, he narrowly watched the tallish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man alight, and saw him help out his companion, who was about forty, and wore a fur-trimmed evening wrap of gorgeous brocade and a beautiful diamond ornament in her dark hair.

"No! I'm not mistaken!" the young man muttered again to himself.

"That's the woman, without a doubt. But surely she can't be a friend of Mr Sandys!"

That she was, was instantly proved by the fact that she ascended the red-carpeted steps followed by her companion, and they were received within by the bowing man-servant.

He watched them disappear, and a few moments afterwards he boldly mounted the steps to the door, where his pa.s.sage was at once barred by a flunkey.

"I don't want to come in," said Roddy, in a low, confidential tone. "Do me a favour, will you? I'll make it right with you. I want to know the names of that lady and gentleman who've this moment gone in."

The servant viewed him rather suspiciously, and replied:

"Well, I don't know them myself, for I haven't been here long--only a week. But I'll try to find out if you'll come back, say, in a quarter of an hour."

"Yes, do," urged Roddy. "It's most important to me."

And then he slipped back down the steps and strolled along Park Lane, full of strange reflections.

That woman! It was the same woman of his hideous nightmare--the dark-faced woman who had held him beneath her evil influence, and forced him to commit some act against his will. But exactly what act it was he could not for the life of him recall. Sometimes he had an idea that he had been forced into the committal of a terrible crime, while at others the recollections all seemed so vague and fantastic that he dismissed them as the mere vagaries of an upset mind.

But he had found the woman. She was a friend of the Sandys! And did not Elma hold the photograph of the girl Edna, whom he had discovered in Welling Wood? The circ.u.mstances were more than strange!

A quarter of an hour later he returned to the house, and on slipping a ten-s.h.i.+lling note surrept.i.tiously into the hand of the servant the latter said:

"The gentleman's name is Mr Bertram Harrison, and the lady--a widow--is Mrs Freda Crisp."

"Freda Crisp?" he echoed aghast.

"Yes. That's the name Mr Hughes, the butler, told me," the flunkey declared.

Roddy Homfray turned away. Freda Crisp! How amazing! That was the name of the woman against whom his father had warned him. That woman was undoubtedly his enemy. Why? Could it be possible that she was Elma's enemy also? Was it possible that Elma, with the knowledge of the girl Edna, who had died in the wood and so mysteriously disappeared, suspected that handsome dark-haired woman of being implicated in the crime?

He recollected Elma's curious reticence concerning the girl, and her refusal to make any allegations before she had ascertained and proved certain facts.

He crossed the road and, halting, gazed through the railings out across the dark London park where in the distance the lights were twinkling among the bare branches. The night was cold, for a keen east wind had sprung up. He hesitated.

To remain the night in London would bring the truth no nearer, for with the gay party in progress he could not enter there in the clothes he wore. And besides, he had not yet met Elma's father. He longed to go there and watch the movements of that dark, gorgeously-dressed woman who had exercised such a strangely evil influence over him while he was in the grip of that mysterious drug. Who was she? Why had she and her companion held him in their toils for days, and then cast him aside at that remote spot by the Thames, hoping that he would die during the night?

What did it all mean?

He glanced at his watch, and saw that if he took a taxi he might just catch the last train. And this he did.

It was long after midnight when he entered the silent old Rectory and found his father bent beneath the green-shaded reading-lamp which stood on the study table.

The rector had been busy writing for hours--ever since old Mrs Bentley had cleared away his supper and wished him good-night.

Roddy, throwing off his coat, sank wearily into the wicker arm-chair before the welcome fire and took out his pipe, his father continuing writing his next Sunday's sermon after briefly greeting him.

As the young man smoked, he reflected, until at last he suddenly said:

"Haven't you finished your work, father? It's getting very late."

"Just finished--just finished, my boy!" said the old man cheerily, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his fountain-pen. "I've had a heavy day to-day--out visiting nearly all day. There's a lot of sickness in the village, you know."