Chapter Five
The Sign of the Gloves

Those moments of security seemed hours as I sat there with the pistol turned upon me.

Truly his was a strange greeting.

At length, however, daylight showed again as we commenced to descend the incline towards Newton Abbot, yet I saw that his hand – practised, no doubt, with a weapon by the manner he had whipped it forth – was still uplifted against me.

“Really, sir, you have no cause for alarm,” I assured him, with a laugh. “I could not approach; you openly, so I adopted the ruse of travelling with you in order to speak. You came to Totnes to-day in order to meet me, did you not?”

“No, I certainly did not,” he said, the expression upon his countenance showing him to be much puzzled by my words.

“Then perhaps you came to meet Mr Melvill Arnold?” I suggested.

“And why do you wish to know that, pray?” he asked, in the refined voice of a gentleman, still regarding me with antagonism. His small, closely set eyes peered forth at me with a ferret-like expression, while about his clean-shaven mouth was a curious hardness as his hand still held the weapon pointed in my direction.

“Because you are wearing the signs – the scarlet tie, the carnation, and I see that you carry the ebony walking-stick,” was my cool reply. I was trying to prevent myself from flinching before that grim, business-like weapon of his.

“And what if I am? What business is it of yours?” he asked resentfully, and in evident alarm.

“My business is with you if your name is Alfred Dawnay,” I said. “Mr Melvill Arnold is, I regret to say, dead, and – ”

“Dead!” he gasped, lowering his weapon and staring at me, the colour dying from his face. “Arnold dead! Is this the truth – are you quite certain?”

“The unfortunate gentleman died in my presence.”

“Where? Abroad, I suppose?”

“No; in a small hotel off the Strand,” was my reply.

The news I had imparted to him seemed to hold him amazed and stupefied.

“Poor Arnold! Dead!” he repeated blankly to himself, sitting with both hands upon his knees – for he had flung the pistol upon the cushion. “Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, raising his eyes to mine.

“Forgive me for receiving you in this antagonistic manner, sir, but – but you don’t know what Mr Arnold’s death means to me. It means everything to me – all that – ” But his lips closed with a snap without concluding his sentence.

“A few moments before he died he gave me this letter, with instructions to meet you at Totnes to-day,” and I handed him the dead man’s missive.

Eagerly, with trembling fingers, he broke open the black seals; but the letter was in a second envelope, also carefully sealed with black wax. This he also tore open, and breathlessly read the closely scribbled lines which it contained – the message from the dead.

He bit his full red lips, his cheeks went ashen pale, and his nostrils dilated.

“I – I wish to thank you for carrying out Arnold’s injunctions,” he managed to gasp. “I went to Totnes for the purpose of meeting him, for he had made the appointment with me three months ago. Yet it seemed that he must have had some presentiment that he could not keep it himself, or he would not have suggested me wearing a red tie, a carnation, and carrying this old-fashioned ebony stick which he gave me long ago.”

Briefly I recounted my meeting with him when he came on board at Naples, his sudden illness, and its fatal termination in the Strand hotel.

“Ah, yes,” sighed the man Dawnay – the man whom I was to help, but not to trust. “Poor Arnold was a great traveller – ever on the move; but for years he knew that he had a weak heart.”

I was about to make further inquiry regarding the man who had so strangely left me a legacy, but Dawnay suddenly exclaimed —

“You and I must not be seen together, Mr Kemball – for I notice by this letter that that is your name.”

“Where can I meet you again?” I inquired; for I recollected the dead man’s words that my strange companion might be in sore need of a friend.

“I hardly know,” was his hasty answer, as he replaced his pistol in his pocket. “I am closely watched. Probably you saw the man – a fellow in a straw hat.”

“Yes – and the old woman.”

“Ah! then you are observant, Mr Kemball,” he exclaimed, with a slight grin. “Yes, I am in danger – grave danger at this moment; and how to escape I know not.”

“Escape from what?”

“From arrest.”

“Is that young-looking man a police-officer?” I asked, much surprised.

“Yes; he’s older than he looks. I ought never to have dared to go to Totnes.”

“Why not Totnes?” I asked.

“I was lying low – for a certain reason, Mr Kemball. All of us have to wash in dirty water sometimes, you know,” he smiled grimly. “You are an honest man, no doubt – I too was, once.”

“And now the police are in search of you – eh?”

I asked. So my estimate of the man was not very far wrong.

He nodded slowly in the affirmative.

A silence fell between us. This discovery, coupled with Arnold’s mysterious connection with the trial of the adventuress who called herself Lady Lettice Lancaster, caused me to ponder. Arnold had warned me not to trust him entirely.

The train was now rushing down the incline, and in a few moments would be at Newton Abbot, the junction for Torquay.

Without a word, my companion suddenly sprang to his feet, and taking a railway key from his pocket, went out into the corridor and locked both doors at either end of the carriage so that no one could pass along.

Then, returning to me, he said —

“Perhaps it would be better, Mr Kemball, if you went into the next compartment while we are stopping. We must not appear to have knowledge of each other.”

Scarcely had I time to enter the adjoining compartment when the train pulled up. I lit a cigarette, and sat gazing lazily out of the window, when, sure enough, the man in the straw hat who had travelled in the rear of the train strolled aimlessly along, and as he passed the compartment occupied by Dawnay glanced in to satisfy himself that he was still there.

The wait was long, for the corridor coaches from Torquay for London were being joined on. But at last we moved off again, and as soon as we did so I returned to the mysterious fugitive.

“Tell me, Mr Dawnay, something concerning Mr Arnold,” I urged earnestly, without preamble. “He did me the honour of entrusting me with certain purely personal matters, but gave me no information as to who or what he was.”

“Melvill Arnold was a most remarkable person,” declared the man in the red tie. “He divided his time between life in London and exploring the remains of the extinct civilisation in Egypt.”

“Then he lived in Egypt?”

“Mostly in the deserts. His knowledge of Egyptology was, perhaps, unequalled. The last letter I received from him was from El Fasher, in Darfur.”

“Arnold was not his real name?”

“Not exactly his baptismal one,” laughed Dawnay, lightly. “It would hardly have suited him to use that!”

“What was it? Is there any reason why I should not know?”

“Yes. I am scarcely likely to betray my dead friend, Mr Kemball.”

I was silent beneath his stern rebuke. At one moment I felt repulsion when I gazed upon his pimply face, yet at the next I experienced a curious sense of fascination. The mystery of it all had become most tantalising. Thought of the bronze cylinder and what it might contain flashed across my mind, whereupon I asked whether Arnold had had any permanent address in London.

“No. I usually wrote to him to the Poste Restante at Charing Cross. He was an elusive man always, and when in London – which was on very rare occasions – seemed to change his abode each day. He boasted that he never slept two nights running in the same bed. He had reasons for that – the same reasons, truth to tell, that I had.”

“He feared the police – eh?”

Dawnay’s fat face relaxed again into a grim smile. “But now that Arnold is dead I have to secure my own safety,” he exclaimed quickly. “I’m in an infernal trap here in this train. I may be arrested when I step out of it – who knows?”

“And would arrest entail serious consequences?” I asked slowly, my eyes fixed upon his.

“Yes, very serious consequences. For myself I don’t care very much, but for another – a woman – it would, alas! be fatal,” he added hoarsely.

A woman! Did he refer to that remarkable adventuress, details of whose strange career I had read in that old copy of the newspaper?

I remembered that Arnold, in his letter to me, had appealed to me to assist this man – who was evidently his very intimate friend.

“You must evade this person who is watching,” I said. “How can it be done?”

He shrugged his shoulders with an expression indicative of bewilderment.

A sudden thought occurred to me.

“You and I are about the same build. Could we not exchange clothes?” I suggested. “At Exeter, you could walk up to the front of the train and escape away, and out of the station, while I will still sit here, my back turned towards the window. The detective will believe you to be still in the train.”

“Capital?” he cried, starting up. “A splendid plan, Mr Kemball! By Jove! you are resourceful!” And he began quickly divesting himself of coat and trousers. “This train is express to Exeter, therefore we shall not stop at either Teignmouth or Dawlish.” I threw off my coat, vest, cravat, and trousers, and in five minutes had exchanged my garments for his, and had assumed the scarlet tie in place of my own, while he, on his part, got into my suit, which, however, seemed slightly tight for him. He laughed heartily as we stood regarding each other so quickly transformed.

I assumed the grey suède gloves, slightly large for me, tilted the smart grey hat a little over my eyes, and then ensconced myself against the corridor, so that my back only could be visible when the train drew up at St. David’s Station in Exeter.

Dawnay went out into the corridor to observe the effect critically.

“Capital!” he cried. “Capital! Won’t the fellow be done in the eye!”

“Yes,” I laughed; “it will be really amusing to watch his face when he comes to arrest me.”

“But he may not come until you get to Paddington – after midnight. And what excuse shall you make for changing clothes with me?”

“Oh, don’t bother about that,” I said, rather enjoying the prospect of a joke, but little dreaming of the serious predicament in which I was placing myself. “Where shall I meet you again?”

“Ah! Be careful – be very careful, Mr Kemball. You will no doubt be watched. They will suspect you of an intention to meet me again in secret, and for that reason will keep strict surveillance upon you. Use the name Hamilton Davis, and write to me at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross. That is as safe as anywhere. I shall be in London; but I must be off now, and the moment the train stops I shall be out and away. There’s sure to be a crowd upon Exeter platform. Ah! You can’t tell what a great service you have rendered me in assuming my identity this evening – you have saved me. Good-bye – and a thousand thanks.”

Then, with a wave of his hand and a merry smile, the elusive person – for such he no doubt was – went forth into the corridor and disappeared.

I took up my previous position, so that when the train ran into Exeter I was seated with my back to the window, one leg upon the cushion, lazily reading a newspaper which I had found in Dawnay’s pocket.

Much bustle was going on outside on the platform, and I knew that the police-officer had passed in order to reassure himself that I had not escaped. For perhaps ten minutes I sat there in lazy indolence, until at last the train moved off again, and once more I was free from observation.

I could not for the life of me discern why the man had feared to be seen in my company. Arnold must have somehow foreseen that his friend would be watched, and had therefore prearranged the sign of the gloves. Perhaps he had expected that another enemy, not the police, would be watching. Yet even there, in the train, Dawnay had expressed fear lest we be observed together. It was a point the full meaning of which I failed to grasp.

At Taunton we stopped again, and I assumed my attitude just as before, with my back to the window, when of a sudden the carriage door was flung open unceremoniously, and a man’s voice exclaimed —

“Alfred Dawnay, I am a police-officer and I hold a warrant for your arrest!”

I roused myself slowly and, facing the man who had addressed me, remarked in a cool voice —

“I think you’ve made a slight mistake – eh? My name is not Dawnay.”

The man in the straw hat uttered an ejaculation of surprise and stood staring at me dumbfounded, while a man at his side, evidently one of the Taunton police in plain clothes, looked at us both in wonder.

“If you are not Dawnay, then where is Dawnay?” demanded the detective quickly.

“How do I know?”

“But you are wearing his clothes! You assisted him to escape, therefore you will have to make some explanation.”

“I have no explanation to offer,” I said. “If you want Dawnay you’d better go and look for him. You have no warrant to arrest me merely because I happen to be wearing clothes resembling Dawnay’s.”

“Perhaps not, my dear sir,” replied the detective, greatly annoyed at being thus outwitted. “But I tell you it will be better for you to be quite frank and outspoken with us. When did Dawnay leave this train – tell me?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, which was really the truth. And the chagrin of the two police-officers was now fully apparent.

“But you’ve rendered yourself liable to prosecution, don’t forget that,” said the man with the straw hat. “That man, Alfred Dawnay, alias Day, is wanted on a very serious charge.”

“Of what?” I asked quickly.

“Never mind what. You’ve assisted him to escape, and you’ll have to answer for it.”

And he closed the door angrily, for the train was again about to move off towards London.

What, I wondered, was the serious charge against Alfred Dawnay?