"Of course I will meet him," Rathbone answered. "I shall be proud to meet a man like that. Any time you like."
"Well, I don't want to press things, Rathbone; but, personally, I should say there was no time like the present. We are sure to find Gouldesbrough in to-night after dinner. Suppose we walk up to Regent's Park and call on him. I know you will be received in the kindest way, in a way you never suspected before we talked the matter over."
"We'll do it," Rathbone answered, "and I shall leave his house to-night feeling a great burden has been removed from me."
Charliewood made no answer to this last remark but merely pushed the champagne-bottle over to his guest.
An hour afterwards the two men, both with the astrachan coats which brought them so curiously together turned up about their ears, were walking briskly towards Oxford Street. The fog was very heavy and few people were about, though Charliewood said he knew exactly how to find the way.
"You needn't worry," he said, "we'll go up Portland Place, and I can find Sir William's house without the least trouble. In fact, I think it would be a mistake to take a hansom on a night like this. The roads are horribly greasy. You can't see the lights of any vehicle a few yards ahead, and we're just as likely to be run into as not. Of course, if you'd rather ride----"
"Not a bit," Rathbone answered, "exercise will do me good, and I shall feel calmer and more prepared for the interview. I'm not a sybarite like you are, and after a dinner like you've given me I should not be nearly in such good form unless I did have a walk."
"Right oh!" Charliewood replied; "then come along. We will walk fast to keep warm."
They went on, neither talking much, because of the thick fog that stung the nostrils and the eyes and poured down the throat when the mouth was opened.
In about three-quarters of an hour they had passed up Portland Place, turned to the left and were drawing near the house they sought.
"It's not very far now," Charliewood said.
He shook as he said so, and his voice had a very muffled sound.
"Don't you talk, old fellow," Rathbone answered. "I can see you're cold, and this fog plays the deuce with the lungs. Do keep quiet; there's no need to say anything. I'll follow where you lead."
They stood at last before the little door in the high wall of Sir William Gouldesbrough's house.
In the distance the faint rumble of London came to their ears, but there was not a soul about. Nobody saw them as Charliewood opened the door with a pass-key, explaining to Rathbone that Sir William had given him the key in order to save the servants coming through the garden.
"I'm always in and out of the house," he explained, still with the cold and fog in his voice.
They opened the door, and it clicked behind them.
Rathbone brushed against some laurel bushes.
"I say," he said, "how dark it is here! You must conduct me, Charliewood, up this path. Let me take your arm."
He took his friend's arm, noticing with wonder how the cold seemed to have penetrated the bones of his host; for the big man's whole body was trembling.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked for thirty yards or so. Then Rathbone saw a dim light above his head. It was the lamp which hung in the porch. His feet knocked against the step.
"Here we are," Charliewood said; "six steps, and then the front door."
Once more Charliewood produced a key, opened the massive door of the hall, and entered with his friend.
"Take off your coat," he said, as Rathbone looked round wonderingly at the big, gloomy and dimly-lit place. "This is rather miserable, but Gouldesbrough has got a little snuggery down the passage, where we shall be quite comfortable. Are you ready? Very well, then, come along."
The house seemed absolutely still, save for Charliewood's echoing footsteps as he led the way towards the door on the right-hand side of the wide staircase.
Rathbone followed him. As he did so the sombre emptiness of the place began to steal over his nerves and influence them, coupled, no doubt, with the expectation of the coming interview.
He shuddered a little, and wished that he was back again in the cosy little room in Jermyn Street.
Then a green baize door opened, they passed through, and it swung back noiselessly behind them.
CHAPTER VII
ENGLAND'S GREAT SENSATION
In the course of a week or so London, and shortly afterwards the whole of England, realized that a new and absorbing sensation was dawning.
Perhaps there is nothing which more excites the popular mind than the sudden disappearance of anybody from whatever class of society.
It began to be realized, whispered and hinted at in the newspapers that a young and rising barrister of good family, named Mr. Guy Rathbone, of the Inner Temple, had suddenly vanished. It was but a year or two before that the whole of the country had been thrilled by the sad case of Miss Hickman. The event and the excitement it had raised at the time were still fresh in the public mind; and when it began to be rumoured that something even more sensational than that had taken place, the Press began to be on the alert. In ten days' time such as were known of the facts of Mr. Guy Rathbone's apparent departure from ordinary life had become the topic of the hour. The newspapers were filled with columns of surmises. Hour by hour, as the evening papers of London and the provinces appeared, new theories, clues, explanations filled the leader pages and the contents' bills. The "Rathbone Mystery," as it was called, absorbed the whole interest of the country. An announcement of war would have been momentarily disregarded by the man in the street, while he yet remained unsatisfied as to the truth about the young gentleman who seemed to have been utterly wiped out from the world of men and women, to have vanished into thin air without a trace of his movements or a single clue as to his whereabouts.
All that was accurately known was summed up again and again in the Press and in general conversation, and it amounted to just this and no more.
Mr. Guy Rathbone was in fairly prosperous circumstances; he had an income of his own, was slowly but steadily climbing the laborious ladder of the Bar, was popular in society, and, as far as could be ascertained, had no troubles of any sort whatever.
It was shown that Rathbone was not in debt, and practically owed nothing whatever, except the ordinary current accounts, which he was accustomed to settle every quarter. He had a fair balance at the bank, and his securities, which provided him with his income, were intact. His life had been a singularly open one. His movements had never suggested anything secret or disreputable. His friends were all people in good circumstances, and no one had ever alleged any shady acquaintances against him. He was in perfect health, was constantly in the habit of taking exercise at the German Gymnasium, still played football occasionally, and held a commission in the Inns of Court Volunteers. He had never been observed to be downcast or despondent in any way. In short, there was no earthly reason, at any rate upon the surface, for a voluntary withdrawal on his part from the usual routine of his life.
The idea of suicide was frankly scouted by both friends, acquaintances and business connections. People do not destroy themselves without a real or imaginary reason, and this young man had always been regarded as so eminently healthy-minded and sane, that no one was prepared to believe even that he had made away with himself in a sudden fit of morbidity or madness. It was shown that there had been no taint of insanity in his family for several generations. The theory of suicide was clearly untenable. This was the conclusion to which journalists, police, and the new class of scientific mystery experts which has sprung up during the last few years unanimously came. Moreover, in the London of to-day, or even in the country, it is a most difficult thing for a man to commit suicide without the more or less immediate discovery of his remains.
There was not wanting the class of people who hinted at foul play. But that theory was immensely narrowed by the fact that no one could have had any motive for murdering this young man, save only a member of the criminal classes, who did so for personal gain. It was quite true that he might have been robbed and his body cunningly disposed of. Such things have happened, such things do, though very rarely, happen in the London of to-day. But the class of criminal who makes a practice and livelihood of robbery with violence, of attempted or actual murder, is a small class. Every member of it is intimately known to the police, and Scotland Yard was able to discover no single suspicious movement of this or that criminal who might reasonably be concerned in such an affair.
Moreover, it was pointed out that such criminals were either invariably brought to justice or that, at any rate, the _fact_ that some one or other unknown has committed a murder is invariably discovered within a week or so of the occurrence.
For fourteen days the hundreds of people engaged in trying to solve this mystery had found no single indication of foul play.
Where, then, was Guy Rathbone? Was he alive? was he dead? Nobody was prepared to say.
The one strange circumstance which seemed to throw a tiny light upon the mystery was this. For a fortnight or so before his disappearance, Mr.
Rathbone, usually in the habit of going a good deal to dinner-parties, dances, and so on, had declined all invitations. Many people who had invited him to this or that function now came forward and announced that their invitations had been declined, as Mr. Rathbone had said he was going out of town for a short time. Inquiries in the Temple showed that Mr. Rathbone had not been out of town at all. He had remained almost entirely in his chambers, and even his appearances in the Law Courts, where he had only done three days' actual work for the last week or two, had been less frequent than usual.
Rathbone was in the habit of being attended to by a woman who came early in the morning, lit the fires, prepared his bath and breakfast, and then swept the chambers. The woman generally arrived at seven and left about twelve, returning again for an hour about six in the evening, to make up the fires and do anything else that might be required. Rathbone either lunched in the Inner Temple or in one of the Fleet Street restaurants.
If not dining out, he generally took this meal at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, of which he was a member.
The waiters in the Temple Hall said that his attendance had not been quite as regular as usual in the fortnight or so before his disappearance, but they certainly thought that they had seen him every other day or so.
The woman who looked after the chambers stated that Mr. Rathbone had remained indoors a good deal more than usual, seeming to be engrossed in law books. On several occasions when she had arrived at six in the evening, she had found that he did not require his dress clothes put out, and had asked her to bring him in some sandwiches or some light food of that description, as he intended to work alone far into the night.
These slight divergencies from his ordinary habits were, every one agreed, significant of something. But what that something was nobody knew, and the wild suggestions made on all sides seemed to provide no real solution.