CHAPTER X. A SURPRISE

I was decidedly disappointed by the inopportune arrival of Mr. Walter Monk. His daughter was just about to tell me much that I greatly desired to know, and his abrupt entrance had prevented her from speaking freely. It was most provoking, as I might not easily find her again in a confidential mood. However, as things were, it only remained to accept the situation philosophically, so I dismissed the lost opportunity with a shrug and turned to examine the new-comer. Already he was embracing the girl, whom he rather effectedly called "daughterling." I summed up his character from his use of that exotic word.

Mr. Monk presented himself, as a dapper, small-sized man, with a clean-shaven face, smooth grey hair parted accurately in the middle of his small head, and a pince-nez, which usually concealed two shallow brown eyes. On removing an expensive travelling-coat, lined with sable, he appeared in an admirably-cut tweed suit, with smart brown shoes, dark-blue socks, and a silk scarf of the same hue knotted neatly under an immaculately white collar. He struck me as a lap-dog man: a dandy, a petit-maitre, too precisely dressed, too finicky--that's the exact word--in his manner: too effeminate in his way of speaking. There was a suggestion of Miss Destiny's mincing ways in his whole attitude. How such a doll-like piece of humanity came to have so tall and stately a daughter was a question I could not answer, until it struck me that Gertrude might take after her deceased mother. Then I wondered afresh how such a woman could have married such a manikin.

"I am glad to see you, dear," said Gertrude, kissing him in such a motherly way, "but I did not hear the bell."

"I let myself in by using my latch-key," replied Mr. Monk, disengaging himself from an embrace which somewhat disarranged his careful attire, "and this gentleman, Gerty dear?"

"Mr. Vance--Mr. Cyrus Vance, the dramatist."

"How are you, Mr. Vance. I think," Mr. Monk put his finger reflectively to his forehead, "I think I have heard the name."

"I doubt it," was my reply, for the disparaging insolence of the little man somewhat amused me, "my fame has not travelled very far towards the West."

"Oh, I am sure it deserves to," said Mr. Monk politely. "Gerty, dear, can you give me a cup of coffee."

"Dinner will be ready soon, father."

"I do not want any, daughterling, as I dined in town. Rather early, to be sure, but the food was better than I could get here. Coffee, my love, coffee, and a cigarette, if you will permit smoking in your drawing-room."

This unnecessary politeness was a further revelation of Mr. Monk's character. Under the mask of courtesy, he secured his selfish ends, and imposed upon everyone by a heartless good breeding, which passed for amiability. I judged that in looks and manner and dress and inclinations he resembled Harold Skimpole, Esquire, and was quite as homeward-bound as that gentleman. I could have kicked myself for accepting a cigarette from a man of so mean a nature. But then he was Gertrude's father, after all, and it was necessary to secure his good will if I desired to marry her. She seemed to be fond of him, and treated him with playful love. Filial affections evidently warped her judgment, a state of things of which I am sure Mr. Monk took every advantage.

While Gertrude ran for the coffee, he lighted my cigarette--which he had just handed me--insisted that I should be seated, and then took possession of the best chair, which he selected with unerring judgment. "I was not aware that my daughter knew you, Mr. Vance," he said, gracefully examining his manicured nails. "Have we acquaintances in common?"

"Miss Destiny," I rejoined, laconically.

"My sister-in-law. Strange, since she is quite a home-bird--so attached to her modest little nest. Where did you meet her may I ask?"

"At Mootley, when Anne Caldershaw was murdered."

The cigarette fell from Mr. Monk's white fingers, and he shuddered. "Oh pray don't speak of that horrid thing," he cried, holding up a protesting hand, "it as cost me many sleepless nights. So old and valued a servant, as Anne was. I shall never get over it: never. I was in London and when I read the news in the papers, I nearly fainted, really I did, I assure you."

"Don't speak of it, papa, if it annoys you," said Gertrude, coming behind his chair to kiss the top of his head.

"No, my dear, I won't." He picked up the cigarette and waved his hand. "I banish the disagreeable vision. To a man of refinement, these crimes suggest painful thoughts, such as make one grow old. It is my aim in life, Mr. Vance," he added, turning to me, "to avoid the unpleasant. Beauty is my desire--beauty and peace. I cannot bear the poor and the sordid: I shrink from the great unwashed. Very estimable people, no doubt, but," he shuddered in his mincing way, "let them keep out of my sight."

"You are not a philanthropist, Mr. Monk?"

"Certainly not. Why should I trouble about the poor. They are quite happy in their own disagreeable way, and to meddle with them only makes them discontented. Yes, Mr. Vance"--he stopped suddenly and again applied the reflective forefinger. "Ah, yes, I remember now. I saw your name as one of the witnesses at the absurd inquest. That was why it sounded familiar."

"Why do you call the inquest absurd, papa?" asked Gertrude, handing him a cup of coffee, for while he was speaking it had been brought into the room.

"Such unnecessary trouble over a common woman," murmured Mr. Monk gracefully; "with a glass eye too--an incomplete woman. And so very ugly. Her one redeeming feature was that she could cook, though with my late brother she had small opportunity of exercising that great art. But let us change the subject, my child, lest horrid dreams should come to us all from contemplating the crimson theme of murder. You are staying here, Mr. Vance?" he asked, dropping his grandiloquent manner, and speaking alertly.

"At The Robin Redbreast."

"For some time?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It depends upon my fancy."

"I should not think Burwain had many attractions for a young man," said Mr. Monk, still alert, and decidedly inquisitive.

"Oh, I am not very young, sir, and after the turmoil of London, a change of scene to this restful place is agreeable."

"Quite so, quite so," he nodded an assent, but his eyes behind the pince-nez were still watchful. "But after this Mootley tragedy I should have thought you would have sickened of the country. By the way," he stirred his coffee negligently, "is there any chance that the assassin will be found?"

"I can't say; I mean to try," said I grimly, and wondered why Mr. Monk harped on the crimson theme he so much disliked.

"You meant to try," he stared and sat up quickly. "Why, may I ask?"

"I have the vice of curiosity," was my answer. "And the circumstances of the case are so odd, that I wish to solve the mystery."

"I don't see where the mystery comes into the matter, Mr. Vance, if you will pardon my having a contrary opinion to yourself. The woman who ran off with your motor car,--I remember what you had to do with the matter quite well now,--stabbed Anne with a hat-pin. Where is your mystery there?"

"Dear papa," said Gertrude, who was perched on the arm of his chair, "don't talk about the matter, as I see it agitates you greatly."

I glanced at her when she said this, as it struck me that if she was the woman who had taken my car, she naturally would not like the matter to be spoken about. But she appeared to be perfectly calm, and her color did not change when our eyes met. Mr. Monk was far more discomposed than she was. "My dear," he said in answer to her remonstrance, "I must steel myself to hear all about our old servant--at least about Gabriel's old servant. Where, I ask again, is the mystery?"

"In the fact that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye was stolen," I asserted.

"Well," admitted Mr. Monk reluctantly, "that is a strange article to steal I agree. Do you know why it was stolen, Mr. Vance?"

"I have a theory."

"What is your theory?" he pursued eagerly.

"Your late brother left fifty thousand pounds to Miss Monk here," I explained, "and that money cannot be found. I believe that Mrs. Caldershaw in some way knew of the whereabouts of this fortune and indicated the hiding-place in some way by means of the glass eye. It was stolen by the person who desired to gain that fortune."

"Dear me." Mr. Monk sat up briskly, and then rose to his feet, "have you any grounds for this strange belief?"

"None that would satisfy you, Mr. Monk."

"What do you think, my child?"

"There may be something in the idea," admitted Gertrude cautiously, "it may be worth Mr. Vance's while to search the matter out. I admit that I should be glad if he could find the money."

If she was the woman who had taken the car, this speech was strangely daring, and while she made it, her eyes were fixed very straightly on mine. In fact, it was my eyes that fell first before hers. I must say that she puzzled me, in the face of what I knew, and more than ever I regretted the inopportune entrance of Mr. Monk, when she had been on the eve of making an explanation, which might have solved the mystery of her behavior.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Monk, trotting up and down the room, "I should be glad of the money myself," and again I noted that in his selfishness he did not appear to remember that his daughter owned the missing fortune, "well, well, well, well, well, it is a strange theory, and--if you will pardon my saying so, Mr. Vance--somewhat incredible."

"Theories are usually more or less incredible," said I, dryly. "However, if the glass eye can be found, we may prove the improbable to be the possible."

"The glass eye: h'm, the glass eye of Anne Caldershaw," Mr. Monk halted near my chair, and placed me--so to speak--in the witness-box. He questioned me most precisely concerning my theory, weighed my replies, made suggestion of his own, and appealed several times to Gertrude, to learn what she thought about the matter. Finally he concluded that there might be something in the matter, although he confessed that he saw no chance of recovering the missing eye, which was the clue to the missing money. "Always presuming," was Mr. Monk's final remark, "that you are correct, there is no doubt that the fortune is missing, and that we--my daughter and I--would be glad to obtain it. But the chances of finding the key--if it be the key--to the mystery of the hiding-place are very, very remote. Never mind, go on."

"I have explained everything I know, Mr. Monk."

"I don't mean that, sir. What I mean is, that I desire you to go on with the search for the glass eye, and for the criminal who slaughtered Anne. How do you propose to proceed, may I ask?"

"I haven't the least idea," I replied, despondently.

"No matter; do not despair. Nil desperandum is a most excellent motto for the young and ambitious. It has been my motto through life--" This came excellently from a man, who had done nothing but indulge himself throughout his fifty years of existence. But he made the statement in a light and airy manner, then turned to his daughter: "My dear, don't you think that after this very criminal conversation, we might have a little music to soothe and charm our weary souls?"

Gertrude, whom the examination had made thoughtful, excused herself on the plea of fatigue, so Mr. Monk took possession of the piano himself. He played gracefully, if not convincingly, and sang little songs in a pleasant voice of no great power. I would much rather have chatted with Gertrude, who was now staring meditatively into the fire, but Mr. Monk demanded my entire attention. He was jealous of applause, and I was obliged to watch him sitting at the piano like an enlarged white rabbit. I thought privately that he was an infernal nuisance, but as the father of Gertrude, he had to be treated diplomatically.

"Come daughterling," said Monk, when he had exhausted his stock of amiable ditties, "you are looking tired. Go to bed, my child, and leave Mr. Vance and myself to cigarettes in the smoking-room."

"There is no fire in the smoking-room, papa," said Gertrude, rising.

"Order the servant to light one at once, my love."

"It is not worth while," expostulated his daughter, and then I heard her say something in low tones regarding the price of coals. But Mr. Monk would take no denial, and--as usual--proceeded to gratify his selfish inclinations. However, as it turned out when we sought the smoking-room, the fire was not laid, so Mr. Monk, after a few severe words about the criminal negligence of servants, relinquished his point. "And I regret to see that you are not so excellent a housekeeper as I should wish you to be, Gertrude," he finished with chill dignity. "However,--let it pass. And before leaving this room, Mr. Vance, pray examine it carefully."

This was easy, as on entering he had lighted two powerful lamps--or rather he had ordered Gertrude to light them with my assistance--so the room was seen to the greatest advantage in the mellow radiance.

"It is the oldest portion of this old house," explained Mr. Monk, waving his delicate hand, "built by an ancestor of mine two hundred years ago in order to live a monastic life--quite like a Monk, ha! ha!" he ended, laughing at his small jest. "My late brother Gabriel always lived in this cell--I call it a cell, Mr. Vance. Rather dull you know, but the beam is extremely fine as you can see."

The apartment was of no great size with one narrow window opposite to one narrow door. Both of these were draped with faded crimson curtains to exclude light and draughts. The wide and spacious fireplace was decorated with reddish Dutch tiles, and at present was filled with ferns and grasses, as it doubtless had been throughout the summer. The floor was covered with a richly-hued crimson carpet from a Cairien loom, and the furniture--what there was of it--consisted of black oak. It really resembled a monastic cell in its severe looks, and the atmosphere was chill and deathlike, as though no human being ever dwelt in it. Gertrude shivered. "Come back to the drawing-room, papa," she said, impatiently, "you can't smoke in this ice-house."

"All the fault of your doubtful housekeeping, my dear. One moment. I wish Mr. Vance to admire this beam to which I called his attention some time ago. See the device and lettering, Mr. Vance. An odd motto and an odd device. My ancestor chose both, and had the beam carved. A very fine piece of work."

The beam, to which he so persistently drew my attention was a massive length of dark oak stretched across the ceiling immediately below the flat panels of black wood. In the powerful radiance of the two lamps I saw that an eagle was carved on the beam, and round him swarmed a cloud of winged insects. Beneath ran the motto in Gothic letters, and in Latin: Aquila non capit muscas!

"An eagle does not catch flies," translated Mr. Monk, with a shrewd glance in my direction. "A quaint saying for any man to choose. There is a story attached to it, I am certain. Perhaps Gertrude----"

"I don't know of any story, father," she interrupted quickly, anticipating a long conversation in this vault-like room. "Do return to the drawing-room, or you will catch cold."

This hint of possible danger to his precious person lured Mr. Monk away at once. I remained behind and extinguished the lamps for Gertrude, trying meanwhile to let her understand that I desired to resume our interrupted conversation. But she seemed to be absent-minded, and when we left the chill smoking-room, did not ask me to follow her father. I therefore assumed my overcoat and took my leave. At the last moment, Mr. Monk appeared with hospitable offers.

"A glass of wine: a slice of cake: a cigarette?" said he, graciously. "Ah, you will have nothing. Very good. Let us say good-night," he shook my hand with a royal air, "remember while you are here to come and see us. I may be away, but my daughter will always be charmed to show you the house. So pleased to have met you: so very, very pleased."

I finally tore myself from Mr. Monk's blandishments, and secured a friendly smile from Gertrude as I stepped out into the darkness. On the way back to the inn, through the unlighted village streets, I meditated on the position. Mr. Monk for his own selfish ends evidently desired me to find the criminal; less to avenge Mrs. Caldershaw than to secure the glass eye, which I believed to be the clue to the hiding-place of the fifty thousand pounds. If I could manage to be successful, it was probable that out of gratitude, he would permit me to marry his daughter. And Gertrude herself, judging from our interrupted conversation, was not averse to me. She was ready to take me for a friend, at all events, and from a friend to a lover is not a far remove; it only needed time and perseverance to accomplish.

It seemed to me that my best plan was to cultivate Mr. Monk's society while he remained at The Lodge, and between whiles, to secure, if possible, a private interview with the girl. Apparently there was something on her mind, which might, or might not have to do with the Mootley murder. But in any case if she were only frank with me, I could gage her attitude more accurately. Once I gained her confidence, and she knew me to be a true friend, if not a lover, she might explain to me how her cloak came to be in the possession of the eloping lady. Of course--although, as I have said before--I persistently declined to believe this, she might be the eloping lady herself. But in any case, it was apparent that I could not move a single step with the clue of the cloak until I learned all about it from the woman I now so devotedly loved.

Having more or less roughed out my plans, which were to see as much of Gertrude and her father as possible, I retired to bed and dreamed that I was a married man with a famous name and a large fortune. But the pleasant vision was rendered uncomfortable by the constant presence of a gigantic eye, which glared malignantly on me and on my schemes. I was glad when the morning broke.

For the next two or three days I was pretty constantly at The Lodge, and became intimate with Mr. Monk, although I did not see so much of Gertrude as I desired. Her father, in his selfishness, would not leave us alone, and moreover, learning that I had a motor car, requisitioned the same to pay visits to surrounding friends. He went to Gattlingsands, to Tarhaven, and even proposed a visit to Mootley in order to inspect the scene of the crime. I was quite willing to go.

"We can stop at Murchester and see my friend, Lord Cannington, who is in the gunners," I suggested.

Mr. Monk started, and turned to ask questions. "You know Lord Cannington?"

"Very well. I have known him for years. And you?"

"Some friend of mine knows him," said Mr. Monk, quietly, although I fancied that he was secretly perturbed. "The name struck me as familiar. A charming young man, I believe. I wish Gertrude knew him. Should this money be recovered, I wish her to marry a title if possible."

This suggestion did not suit me at all. Cannington was just the kind of inflammable youth to fall at Gertrude's feet, quite independent of the fortune. Much as I liked the boy, I did not see why I should search out fifty thousand pounds for him and allow him to marry the woman I loved. I therefore determined--selfishly perhaps--to keep Mr. Monk and Lord Cannington apart, and threw cold water on the journey to Murchester. And as Mr. Monk himself did not seem very keen about the visit, we did not go.

But he did take me to see Miss Destiny, and asked her graciously to The Lodge, rather to the annoyance of Gertrude, who had not much love for her miserly aunt. In fact while Monk remained in Burwain--which he did for quite a week--Miss Destiny hovered round the house like a bee round a flower. Once or twice I met her driving in her so-called trap--I agreed with Mrs. Faith that it was a cart--in the company of Lucinda, and she behaved pleasantly to me, although she could not deny herself the impish delight of hinting at my devotion to Gertrude.

"Not that you'll ever marry her, Mr. Vance. Walter has other plans. She is to be used to forward his fortunes, as he wants money."

I said nothing, but privately determined that the girl should not be sacrificed like a modern Iphigenia on the altar of selfish paternal desires. I kept my counsel, and let Monk talk as he pleased, and was unobtrusively agreeable to Gertrude. Miss Destiny I saw very little of.

On the sixth day of Mr. Monk's stay in Burwain, I went one afternoon to The Lodge and found the little old lady in conversation with Striver. The handsome gardener was trying to evade the pertinacity of Miss Destiny, who insisted that he should look after her domain for nothing. "I am sure that my brother," so she spoke of Mr. Monk, "pays you well Joseph, so you can easily give a couple of hours a day to my little place."

"I have my duties here," said Striver, scowling as I approached. "But if Mr. Monk gives me orders, I can arrange, for a certain sum."

"Oh, I can't pay you a single penny," cried Miss Destiny shrilly. "It's not to be expected. But, if you come, you will find me a friend."

"In what way?" asked the gardener, sharply, and not too politely.

Miss Destiny did not answer in words. She looked at Striver, then looked at me, and finally glanced towards the house, where Gertrude was standing in the doorway. My rival flushed crimson, and I did also, as we both knew exactly what she meant. On seeing the tell-tale color, she burst into a roguish laugh, and walked towards the porch. A moment later, and she disappeared with her niece into the house. Striver and I looked at one another.

"You have no right to come here," said the gardener, who looked handsomer than ever in his rough working clothes.

"What do you mean, man?"

"Oh, it's all very well calling me man in that lordly way," he said violently, "but I know quite well that you are in love with----"

"There is no need to mention names," I interrupted, throwing up my hand, "and I forbid you to speak to me in this way."

"You forbid me," cried my rival, laughing bitterly, "as if I feared you, Mr. Cyrus Vance. You have more need to fear me. Yes. After all, I believe you know more about my aunt's death than you chose to say."

I did not deign to reply to this absurd remark, but moved towards the house in the hope of meeting Mr. Monk. Usually he was in the drawing-room, and as the French windows were open, all three, I advanced towards the middle one, while Striver, leaning on his spade looked after me enviously. He grudged that I should be able to enter the house while he was chained to the garden and to his work. However, I had no time to consider his feelings and was about to step into the room, when I saw on a small table near it a glittering object. It was a glass eye.