Part 17 (1/2)

He walked straight into the library, where he had obviously been sitting, for an arm-chair was drawn to the fire, a reading lamp was lighted on the table, and papers and magazines lay scattered about.

The police officer in plain clothes, who stood with his subordinate, somewhat undecided, hardly knew how to begin. It was a hard task to break such awful news to this lonely old man.

At last it was done; the word ”accident” and ”your nephew” were blurted out by the man in command. But hardly were these out of his lips than Lord Radclyffe--livid and trembling--had jumped to his feet.

”Luke!” he contrived to exclaim, and his voice was almost choked, his lips and hands trembled, beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. ”Something has happened to Luke.”

”No, no, my lord! that's not the name--Philip was on the card and on the letters--Philip de Mountford--that was, I think, the poor gentleman's name.”

”And an accident has happened to Mr. Philip de Mountford?”

The voice was quite different now. No longer choked with anxiety, calm and as if mildly interested in pa.s.sing events. It was obvious even to the strangers present that one nephew was of far greater moment than the other.

”I am afraid, my lord, that it's worse than an accident----”

The officer paused a moment, satisfied that he was doing all that was necessary and possible to mitigate the suddenness of the blow.

”It's foul play,” he said at last; ”that's what it was.”

”Foul play? What do you mean by that?”

”Mr. Philip de Mountford has been murdered, my lord--his body now lies at the police station--would you wish him conveyed home at once, my lord--or wait until after the inquest?”

There was silence in the room for a moment or two, while the old-fas.h.i.+oned clock ticked stolidly on. At the awful announcement, which indeed might have felled a younger and more vigorous man, Lord Radclyffe had not moved. He was still standing, his hand resting on the table beside the piled up newspapers. The light of the lamp veiled by a red shade illumined the transparent delicacy of the high-bred hand, the smooth black surface of the coat, and the glimmering whiteness of the s.h.i.+rt front with its single pearl stud. The face itself was in shadow, and thus the police officer saw little or nothing of that inward struggle for self-mastery which was being put so severely to the test.

Lord Radclyffe, face to face with the awful event, strove by every power at his command to remain dignified and impa.s.sive. The lessons taught by generations of ancestors had to bear fruit now, when a representative of the ancient name stood confronting the greatest crisis that one of his kind has ever had to face--the brutal, vulgar fact of a common murder. The realities of a sordid life brought within the four walls of a solemn, aristocratic old house.

For a moment before he spoke again the old man looked round about him, the tall mahogany bookcases filled with silent friends, the busts of Dryden and of Milton, the globes in their mahogany casings: all heirlooms from the generations of de Mountfords who had gone before.

It seemed as if the present bearer of the historic name called all these mute things to witness this present degradation. A crime had smirched the family escutcheon, for to some minds--those who dwell on empyrean heights to which the matter-of-fact sordidness of every-day life never reaches--to those minds the victim is almost as horrible as the a.s.sa.s.sin.

Lord Radclyffe however fought his own battle silently. Not with one tremor or one gasp would he let the two men see what he felt.

Conventionality wielded her iron rod in this shabby old library, just as she had done in the ball room of the Danish Legation, and whilst not two hundred yards away Louisa Harris sang Guy d'Hardelot's songs and smilingly received praise and thanks for her perfect performance, so here the old man never flinched.

He gave to his nerves the word of command, and as soon as he had forced them to obey, he looked straight at the police officer and said quite calmly:

”Please tell me all that I ought to know.”

He sat in his high-backed chair, curtly bidding the two men to sit down; he made no attempt to shade his face and eyes; once the battle fought and won he had nothing more to hide: his own face, rigid and still, his firm mouth, and smooth brow were mask enough to conceal the feelings within.

The officer gave the details at full length: he told Lord Radclyffe all that was known of the mysterious crime. The old man listened in silence until the man had finished speaking, then he asked a few questions:

”You have a clue of course?”

”I think so, my lord,” replied the officer guardedly.

”Can I help in any way?”

”Any information, my lord, that you think might help us would of course be gladly welcomed.”