The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5700]
CHAPTER III
MISKA'S STORY
Stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He had refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting with Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the beautiful accomplice of "The Scorpion"--to the dark-eyed servant of the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means. He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a kind of savage joy.
In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a new telephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.
"Good-afternoon, sir," he said, taking up the destroyed instrument from the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon the table. "If it's not a rude question, how on earth did _this_ happen?"
Stuart laughed uneasily.
"It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting," he replied evasively.
The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.
"It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast furnace," he continued. "Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous outside a proper laboratory, I should think."
"They are," agreed Stuart. "But I have no facilities here, you see, and I was--er--compelled to attempt the experiment. I don't intend to repeat it."
"That's lucky," murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a carpet-bag. "If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!"
Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M'Gregor.
"A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, just the now," she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.
He took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. He felt that he had changed colour. For it was addressed in the handwriting of ... Mlle. Dorian!
"Thank you, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said and turned into the dining-room.
Mrs. M'Gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as her footsteps receded, Stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. That elusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. In the envelope was a sheet of thick note-paper (having the top cut off evidently in order to remove the printed address), upon which the following singular message was written:
"Before I go away there is something I want to say to you. You do not trust me. It is not wonderful that you do not. But I swear that I only want to save you from a _great_ danger. If you will promise not to tell the police anything of it, I will meet you at six o'clock by the Book Stall at Victoria Station--on the Brighton side. If you agree you will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannot find me there. Nobody ever sees me again."
There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.
Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down the room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt was profound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.
His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even as he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail again. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing this note in the hands of the police ... and he knew that he should be at Victoria Station at six o'clock.
He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to a series of crimes--for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet the only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighed against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous criminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Max was correct, "The Scorpion"