I started on the Star, and my first glimpse showed me that Gordon's prophecy as to my being the most famous man in England was not far off the mark.
STUART NORTHCOTE STABBED TO DEATH.
MURDERED MILLIONAIRESS DOUBLE AT BOW STREET.
WHO IS JOHN BURTON?
AMAZING MYSTERY IN HIGH LIFE.
The staring headlines spread themselves all across the front page, three columns of which were devoted to an account of the morning's proceedings, followed by a sensational description of Northcote's brief but dazzling career in London society.
With regard to the murder itself, the paper seemed to be almost as much in the dark as I was. I gathered, however, that the body of Stuart Northcote had been found three days before in an East End lodging-house, dressed in the commonest of seafaring clothes. He had been stabbed to death, apparently after a fierce struggle, for a track of blood-stains down the stairs marked where his murderer had escaped.
Beyond stating that the dead man had had a visitor late on the previous night, the landlord of the house had been apparently unable to throw any light on the matter. He had heard no signs of fighting; and if he had, he declared that he would probably have taken no notice. Fights are not regarded very seriously in a Stepney lodging-house.
An examination of the murdered man's papers had, it seemed, led the police to the startling belief that he was none other than Stuart Northcote, the famous millionaire. They had conducted their investigations with the utmost secrecy and dispatch, and the result had been my sensational arrest, and what the Star described in its leading article as "a mystery of truly staggering dimensions."
"Truth," finished the editor in his summing-up, "is stranger than fiction, and even a Sherlock Holmes might at the moment be baffled to pronounce a judgment upon this amazing crime."
The penny papers, if slightly less dramatic, devoted an equal amount of space to the affair—in fact, as far as I could see, any other topic of discussion was temporarily shelved. In no paper did I find any suggestions as to the real identity of Stuart Northcote, while only one—the Globe—seemed aware of the fact that I had been staying with Maurice at Woodford in the guise of his murdered cousin. All were agreed, however, that it was an "astounding" and "mysterious" business, and one and all repeated the remark of the editor of the Star that "truth was stranger than fiction."
I began to wonder what Mercia's feelings must be. By now she knew from Billy the true part that I had played in the affair, and that it was only my intervention that had saved her father's murderer from the earlier vengeance of the League. I knew this would make no difference between us; for if her love for me had sprung into life when she believed that I was Prado, it would certainly survive any subsequent shock that Fate could deal out. I was more concerned as to the anxiety I feared she would be suffering. Billy, of course, would have tried to assure her that I was perfectly safe; but knowing what she did about the feelings cherished for me by Maurice and Sangatte, she would doubtless be nervous as to whether there was not some conspiracy on foot to connect me with the crime. I did not want to write to her, for I had a pretty confident notion that if I did my letter would be opened. In any case, it would certainly lead the police to subject her to all sorts of inconvenient questions.
I was just pondering over these problems when the constable entered and told me that Billy had again called, and that if I wished to see him no objection would be raised.