“Where is Mr. Farrington?” he asked, quickly.
He addressed his remark to Poltavo.
“He is gone,” said the other, with a shrug.
“He was here when the pistol was fired—at this box, my friend, as the bullet will testify.” He pointed to the mark on the enamelled panel behind. “When the lights came he had gone—that is all.”
“He can’t have gone,” said T. B. shortly. “The theatre is surrounded. I have a warrant for his arrest.”
A cry from the girl stopped him. She was white and shaking.
“Arrest!” she gasped, “on what charge?”
“On a charge of being concerned with one Gorth in burglary at the Docks—and with an attempted murder.”
“Gorth!” cried the girl, vehemently. “If any man is guilty, it is Gorth—that evil man—”
“Speak softly of the dead,” said T. B. gently. “Mr. Gorth, as I have every reason to believe, received wounds from which he died. Perhaps you can enlighten me, Poltavo?”
But the Count could only spread deprecating hands.
T. B. went out into the corridor. There was an emergency exit to the street, but the door was closed. On the floor he found a glove, on the door itself the print of a bloody hand.
But there was no sign of Farrington.
VII
Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his taxi in front of the office of the Evening Times.
He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished, leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an adjoining florist shop.
He took the stairs three at a time.
“Chief in yet?” he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.
“No, he’s not down yet. You’ve broken your record.”
Frank nodded.
“I’ve got to get away early.”
Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his papers. He unfolded his Times, his mind intent upon the problem of the missing millionaire. He had not seen Doris since that night in the box. The first paper under his hand was an early edition of a rival evening journal.
He glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed.
Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair.
“What’s up?” he inquired.
“Farrington!” said Frank, huskily. “Farrington has committed suicide!”
“Yes, we’ve a column about it,” remarked Jamieson, complacently. “A pretty good story.” Then suddenly: “You knew him?” he asked.
Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. “I—I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared,” he said.
Jamieson whistled softly.
Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat.
“I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris—” he broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.
Jamieson looked at him sympathetically.
“Why don’t you go round to Brakely Square?” he suggested. “There may be new developments—possibly a mistake. You note that the body has not been discovered.”
Out upon the pavement, Frank caught a passing taxi.
He drove first to the city offices which were Farrington’s headquarters. A short talk with the chief clerk was more than enlightening. A brief note in the handwriting of the millionaire announced his intention, “tired of the world,” to depart therefrom.
“But why?” asked the young man, in bewilderment.
“Mr. Doughton, you don’t seem to quite realize the importance of this tragedy,” said the chief clerk, quietly. “Mr. Farrington was a financial king—a multi-millionaire. Or at least, he was so considered up till this morning. We have examined his private books, and it now appears that he had speculated heavily during the last few weeks—he has lost everything, every penny of his own and his ward’s fortune. Last night, in a fit of despair, he ended his life. Even his chief clerk had no knowledge of his transactions.”
Doughton looked at him in a kind of stupefaction. Was it of Farrington the man was talking such drivel? Farrington, who only the week before had told him in high gratification that within the last month he had added a cool million to his ward’s marriage portion. Farrington, who had, but two days ago, hinted mysteriously of a gigantic financial coup in the near future. And now all that fortune was lost, and the loser was lying at the bottom of the Thames!
“I think I must be going mad,” he muttered. “Mr. Farrington wasn’t the kind to kill himself.”
“It is not as yet known to the public, but I think I may tell you, since you were a friend of Farrington’s, that Mr. T. B. Smith has been given charge of the matter. He will probably wish to know your address. And in the meantime, if you run across anything—”
“Certainly! I will let you know. Smith is an able man, of course.” Doughton gave the number of his chambers, and retreated hastily, glad that the man had questioned him no further.
He found his cab and flung himself wearily against the cushions. And now for Doris!
But Doris was not visible. Lady Dinsmore met him in the morning room, her usually serene countenance full of trouble. He took her hand in silence.
“It is good of you, my dear Frank, to come so quickly. You have heard all?”
He nodded.
“How is Doris?”
She sank into a chair and shook her head.
“The child is taking it terribly hard! Quite tearless, but with a face like frozen marble! She refused to believe the news, until she saw his own writing. Then she fainted.”
Lady Dinsmore took out her lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“Doris,” she continued, in a moment, “has sent for Count Poltavo.”
Frank stared at her.
“Why?” he demanded.
Lady
