A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

Paul's reason for advertising the name of Lemuel Krill was a very natural one. He believed that in the past of the dead man was to be found his reason for changing his name and living in Gwynne Street. And in that past before he became a second-hand bookseller and a secret pawnbroker might be found the motive for the crime. Therefore, if a reward was offered for the discovery of the murderer of Lemuel Krill, alias Aaron Norman, something might come to light relative to the man's early life. Once that was known, the clue might be obtained. Then the truth would surely be discovered. He explained this to Hurd.

"I think you're right, Mr. Beecot," said the detective, in his genial way, and looking as brown as a coffee bean. "I have made inquiries from the two servants, and from the neighbors, and from what customers I could find. Aaron Norman certainly lived a very quiet and respectable life here. But Lemuel Krill may have lived a very different one, and the mere fact that he changed his name shows that he had something to conceal. When we learn that something we may arrive at the motive for the murder, and, given that, the assassin may be caught."

"The assassin!" echoed Paul. "Then you think there was only one."

Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he said. "I speak generally. From the strange circumstances of the crime I am inclined to think that there is more than one person concerned in this matter. However, the best thing to be done is to have hand-bills printed offering the five hundred pounds reward. People will do a lot to earn so much money, and someone may come forward with details about Mr. Krill which will solve the mystery of Norman's death."

"I hope you will gain the reward yourself, Hurd."

The detective nodded. "I hope so too. I have lately married the sweetest little wife in the world, and I want to keep her in the way she has been accustomed to be kept. She married beneath her, as I'm only a thief-catcher, and no very famous one either."

"But if you solve this mystery it will do you a lot of good."

"That it will," agreed Billy, heartily, "and it will mean advancement and extra screw: besides the reward if I can get it. You may be very sure, Mr. Beecot, that I'll do my best. Oh, by the way," he added, "have you heard that Mr. Pash is being asked for many of those jewels?"

"No. Who are asking for them? Not that nautical man?"

Hurd shook his head. "He's not such a fool," said he. "No! But the people who pledged the jewels are getting them back—redeeming them, in fact. Pash is doing all the business thoroughly well, and will keep what jewels remain for the time allowed by law, so that all those who wish to redeem them can do so. If not, they can be sold, and that will mean more money to Miss Norman—by the way, I presume she intends to remain Miss Norman."

"Until I make her Mrs. Beecot," said Paul, smiling.

"Well," replied Hurd, very heartily, "I trust you will both be happy. I think Miss Norman will get a good husband in you, and you will gain the sweetest wife in the world bar one."

"Everyone thinks his own crow the whitest," laughed Beecot. "But now that business is ended and you know what you are to do, will you tell me plainly why you warned me against Grexon Hay?"

"Hum," said the detective, looking at Paul with keen eyes, "what do you know about him, sir?"

Beecot detailed his early friendship with Hay at Torrington, and then related the meeting in Oxford Street. "And so far as I have seen," added Paul, justly, "there's nothing about the man to make me think he is a bad lot."

"It is natural you should think well of him as you know no wrong, Mr. Beecot. All the same, Grexon Hay is a man on the market."

"You made use of that expression before. What does it mean?"

"Ask Mr. Hay. He can explain best."

"I did ask him, and he said it meant a man who was on the marriage market."

Hurd laughed. "Very ingenious and untrue."

"Untrue!"

"Certainly. Mr. Hay knows better than that. If that were all he wouldn't think a working man would warn anyone against him."

"He guessed you were not a working man," said Paul, "and intimated that he had a liaison with a married woman, and that the husband had set you to watch."

"Wrong again. My interest in Mr. Hay doesn't spring from divorce proceedings. He paints himself blacker than he is in that respect, Mr. Beecot. My gentleman is too selfish to love, and too cautious to commit himself to a divorce case where there would be a chance of damages. No! He's simply a man on the market, and what that is no one knows better than he does."

"Well, I am ignorant."

"You shall be enlightened, sir, and I hope what I tell you will lead you to drop this gentleman's acquaintance, especially now that you will be a rich man through your promised wife."

"Miss Norman's money is her own," said Paul, with a quick flush. "I don't propose to live on what she inherits."

"Of course not, because you are an honorable man. But I'll lay anything you like that Mr. Hay won't have your scruples, and as soon as he finds your wife is rich he'll try and get money from her through you."

"He'll fail then," rejoined Beecot, calmly. "I am not up to your London ways, perhaps, but I am not quite such a fool. Perhaps you will enlighten me as you say."

Hurd nodded and caught his smooth chin with his finger and thumb. "A man on the market," he explained slowly, "is a social highwayman."

"I am still in the dark, Hurd."

"Well, to be more particular, Hay is one of those well-dressed blackguards who live on mugs. He has no money—"

"I beg your pardon, he told me himself that his uncle had left him a thousand a year."

"Pooh, he might as well have doubled the sum and increased the value of the lie. He hasn't a penny. What he did have, he got through pretty quickly in order to buy his experience. Now that he is hard up he practises on others what was practised on himself. Hay is well-bred, good-looking, well-dressed and plausible. He has well-furnished rooms and keeps a valet. He goes into rather shady society, as decent people, having found him out, won't have anything to do with him. But he is a card-sharper and a fraudulent company-promoter. He'll borrow money from any juggins who is ass enough to lend it to him. He haunts Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade, and is always smart, and bland, and fascinating. If he sees a likely victim he makes his acquaintance in a hundred ways, and then proceeds to fleece him. In a word, Mr. Beecot, you may put it that Mr. Hay is Captain Hawk, and those he swindles are pigeons."

Paul was quite startled by this revelation, and it was painful to hear it of an old school friend. "He does not look like a man of that sort," he remonstrated.

"It's not his business to look like a man of that sort," rejoined the detective. "He masks his batteries. All the same he is one of the most dangerous men on the market at the present in town. A young peer whom he plucked two years ago lost everything to him, and got into trouble over some woman. It was a nasty case and Hay was mixed up in it. The relatives of the victim—I needn't give his title—asked me to put things right. I got the young nobleman away, and he is now travelling to acquire the sense he so sadly needed. I have given Mr. Hay a warning once or twice, and he knows that he is being watched by us. When he slips, as he is bound to do, sooner or later, then he'll have to deal with me. Oh I know how he hunts for clients in fashionable hotels, smart restaurants, theatres and such-like places. He is clever, and although he has fleeced several lambs since he plucked the pigeon I saved, he has, as yet, been too clever to be caught. When I saw you with him, Mr. Beecot, I thought it just as well to put you on your guard."

"I fear he'll get little out of me," said Paul. "I am too poor."

"You are rich now through your promised wife, and Hay will find it out."

"I repeat that Miss Norman's money has nothing to do with me. And I may mention that as soon as the case is in your hands, Mr. Hurd—"

"Which it is now," interpolated the detective.

"I intend to marry Miss Norman and then we will travel for a time."

"That's very wise of you. Give Hay a wide berth. Of course, if you meet him, you needn't tell him what I have told you. But when he tries to come Captain Hawk over you, be on your guard."

"I shall, and thanks for the warning."

So the two parted. Hurd went away to have the bills printed, and Paul returned to Gwynne Street to arrange with Sylvia about their early marriage. Deborah was in the seventh heaven of delight that her young mistress would soon be in a safe haven and enjoy the protection of an honorable man. Knowing that she would soon be relieved from care, she told Bart Tawsey that they would be married at the same time as the young couple, and that the laundry would be started as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Beecot left for the Continent. Bart, of course, agreed—he always did agree with Deborah—and so everything was nicely arranged.

Meanwhile Pash worked to prove the will, pay the death-duties, and to place Sylvia in full possession of her property. He found in one of the safes the certificate of the girl's birth, and also the marriage certificate of Aaron Norman in the name of Lemuel Krill. The man evidently had his doubts of the marriage being a legal one if contracted under his alias. He had married Lillian Garner, who was described as a spinster. But who she was and where she came from, and what her position in life might be could not be discovered. Krill was married in a quiet city church, and Pash, having searched, found everything in order. Mrs. Krill—or Norman as she was known—lived only a year or two after her marriage, and then died, leaving Sylvia to the care of her husband. There were several nurses in succession, until Deborah grew old enough to attend alone on her young mistress. Then Norman dismissed the nurse, and Deborah had been Sylvia's slave and Aaron's servant until the tragic hour of his death. So, everything being in order, there was no difficulty in placing Sylvia in possession of her property.

Pash was engaged in this congenial work for several weeks, and during that time all went smoothly. Paul paid daily visits to the Gwynne Street house, which was to be vacated as soon as he made Sylvia his wife. Deborah searched for her laundry and obtained the premises she wanted at a moderate rental. Sylvia basked in the sunshine of her future husband's love, and Hurd hunted for the assassin of the late Mr. Norman without success. The hand-bills with his portrait and real name, and a description of the circumstances of his death, were scattered broadcast over the country from Land's End to John-O'Groats, but hitherto no one had applied for the reward. The name of Krill seemed to be a rare one, and the dead man apparently had no relatives, for no one took the slightest interest in the bills beyond envying the lucky person who would gain the large reward offered for the conviction of the murderer.

Then, one day Deborah, while cleaning out the cellar, found a piece of paper which had slipped down behind one of the safes. These had not been removed for many years, and the paper, apparently placed carelessly on top, had accidentally dropped behind. Deborah, always thinking something might reveal the past to Sylvia and afford a clue to the assassin, brought the paper to her mistress. It proved to be a few lines of a letter, commenced but never finished. But the few lines were of deep interest.

"My dear daughter," these ran, "when I die you will find that I married your mother under the name of Lemuel Krill. That is my real name, but I wish you to continue to call yourself Norman for necessary reasons. If the name of Krill gets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from the public. I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as I have written—" Here the letter ended abruptly without any signature. Norman apparently was writing it when interrupted, and had placed it unfinished on the top of the safe, whence it had fallen behind to be discovered by Deborah. And now it had strangely come to light, but too late for the request to be carried out.

"Oh, Paul," said Sylvia, in dismay, when they read this together, "and the bills are already published with the real name of my father."

"It is unfortunate," admitted Paul, frowning. "But, after all, your father may have been troubled unnecessarily. For over the fortnight the bills have been out and no one seems to take an interest in the matter."

"But I think we ought to call the bills in," said Sylvia, uneasily.

"That's not such an easy matter. They are scattered broadcast, and it will be next to impossible to collect them. Besides, the mischief is done. Everyone knows by this time that Aaron Norman is Lemuel Krill, so the trouble whatever it may be, must come."

"What can it be?" asked the girl anxiously.

Paul shook his head. "Heaven only knows," said he, with a heavy heart. "There is certainly something in your father's past life which he did not wish known and which led to his death. But since the blow has fallen and he is gone, I do not see how the matter can affect you, my darling. I'll show this to Pash and see what he says. I expect he knows more about your father's past than he will admit."

"But if there should be trouble, Paul—"

"You will have me to take it off your shoulders," he replied, kissing her. "My dearest, do not look so pale. Whatever may happen you will always have me to stand by you. And Deborah also. She is worth a regiment in her fidelity."

So Sylvia was comforted, and Paul, putting the unfinished letter in his pocket, went round to see Pash in his Chancery Lane office. He was stopped in the outer room by a saucy urchin with an impudent face and a bold manner. "Mr. Pash is engaged," said this official, "so you'll 'ave to wait, Mr. Beecot."

Paul looked down at the brat, who was curly-headed and as sharp as a needle. "How do you know my name?" he asked. "I never saw you before."

"I'm the new office-boy," said the urchin, "wishin' to be respectable and leave street-'awking, which ain't what it was. M'name's Tray, an' I've seen you afore, mister. I 'elped to pull you out from them wheels with the 'aughty gent as guv me a bob fur doin' it."

"Oh, so you helped," said Paul, smiling. "Well, here is another shilling. I am much obliged to you, Master Tray. But from what Deborah Junk says you were a guttersnipe. How did you get this post?"

"I talked m'self int' it," said Tray, importantly. "Newspapers ain't good enough, and you gets pains in wet weather. So I turns a good boy"—he grinned evilly—"and goes to a ragged kids' school to do the 'oly. The superintendent ses I'm a promising case, and he arsked Mr. Pash, as is also Sunday inclined, to 'elp me. The orfice-boy 'ere went, and I come." Tray tossed the shilling and spat on it for luck as he slipped it into the pocket of quite a respectable pair of trousers. "So I'm on m'waiy to bein' Lord Mayor turn agin Wittington, as they ses in the panymine."

"Well," said Beecot, amused, "I hope you will prove yourself worthy."

Tray winked. "Ho! I'm straight es long es it's wuth m'while. I takes m'sal'ry 'ome to gran, and don't plaiy pitch an' torse n'more." He winked again, and looked as wicked a brat as ever walked.

Paul had his doubts as to what the outcome of Mr. Pash's charity would be, and, being amused, was about to pursue the conversation, when the inner door opened and Pash, looking troubled, appeared. When he saw Paul he started and came forward.

"I was just about to send Tray for you," said he, looking anxious. "Something unpleasant has come to light in connection with Krill."

Beecot started and brought out the scrap of paper. "Look at that," he said, "and you will see that the man warned Sylvia."

Pash glanced hurriedly over the paper. "Most unfortunate," he said, folding it up and puffing out his cheeks; "but it's too late. The name of Krill was in those printed bills—a portrait also, and now—"

"Well, what?" asked Paul, seeing the lawyer hesitated.

"Come inside and you'll see," said Pash, and conducted Beecot into the inner room.

Here sat two ladies. The elder was a woman of over fifty, but who looked younger, owing to her fresh complexion and plump figure. She had a firm face, with hard blue eyes and a rather full-lipped mouth. Her hair was white, and there was a great deal of it. Under a widow's cap it was dressed À la Marie Antoinette, and she looked very handsome in a full-blown, flowery way. She had firm, white hands, rather large, and, as she had removed her black gloves, these, Paul saw, were covered with cheap rings. Altogether a respectable, well-dressed widow, but evidently not a lady.

Nor was the girl beside her, who revealed sufficient similarity of features to announce herself the daughter of the widow. There was the same fresh complexion, full red lips and hard blue eyes. But the hair was of a golden color, and fashionably dressed. The young woman—she likewise was not a lady—was also in black.

"This," said Pash, indicating the elder woman, who smiled, "is Mrs. Lemuel Krill."

"The wife of the man who called himself Aaron Norman," went on the widow; "and this," she indicated her daughter, "is his heiress."

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