Mr. Marx's Secret by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER LI. DAWN.

  On the morrow as we walked out together, my father and I, making our wayas though by common consent up towards the bare brown hills, I rememberedthat there were many things which I wished to say to him.

  "I want to ask you about Mr. Marx, father," I began. "Everythingconcerning him is so utterly mysterious, especially his going away sosuddenly. Apart from the fear of his having used some sort of foul playtowards Hart--or Francis--I can't help thinking that there is somethingelse wrong with him. You trust him thoroughly, I suppose?" I addedhesitatingly.

  "I have always done so," my father answered quietly.

  "Do you like the man himself?" I asked.

  My father shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

  "I cannot say that he has ever aroused my feelings in any way," heanswered. "He has had work to do for me and has done it well andsilently. I have looked upon him somewhat as an automaton, although avaluable one. And yet----" he added musingly.

  "Yet what?" I interrupted.

  "Well, sometimes I have half fancied that he was playing a part, that hisinterest in our work was a little strained. He gave me the idea of a manworking steadily forward towards a set purpose, and I have never seemedable to reconcile that purpose with the completion of our task. Hissudden absences, too--for this is not the first of them,--are strange."

  "I should think so," I assented. "Has he taken anything away with himthis time?" I asked bluntly.

  A very grave look came into my father's face and he did not answer me atonce. When he did so his tone was low and anxious.

  "Yes, he has. About a fortnight ago we came to the end, virtually, of ourlong task. There was only a little revision wanted, which he was to haveleft for me. The night that he disappeared the manuscript disappearedalso. Evidently he took it away with him."

  "Perhaps he has taken it to the publishers," I suggested. My father shookhis head doubtfully.

  "Only this morning I have heard from them, begging me to forward itwithout delay," he said.

  I was silent. Even if he had taken the manuscript, what use could he makeof it? How could it profit him?

  Suddenly I stood still in the path. My heart gave a great leap and a crybroke from my lips. For the first time an idea, the vague phantom of anidea, swept in upon me, carrying all before it, and casting a brilliant,lurid light upon all that seemed so dark and mysterious.

  "This man, Marx," I cried, seizing my father's arm. "Tell me quickly. Hashe ever reminded you of anyone?"

  My father looked at me wonderingly.

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

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

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

  "That is not one of my men, Philip," he said hoarsely. "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 fatherunlocked, and entered the shrubbery walk.

  Once I looked round through an opening in the laurel leaves. The strangerwas leaning wearily against the railings round the lodge, waiting foradmittance.