The curse of the Reckaviles

by Walter S. Masterman

At every turn he was met by this mysterious individual. Was there anything in this Curse theory after all? Surely we had outgrown these ideas!

There was only one thing to do; for some unexplained reason attempts had been made to get into the library after the murder. What was the object? And had that object been accomplished?

The queer old man, the memory of whom sent a cold shudder down his back, had done nothing, and the supposed burglars had been disturbed, but had they tried to come again?

Here was evidently the key to the mystery.

Fletcher made up his mind that he would spend his nights in the room, and stake all on this chance.

For nights he watched, a tortured man. He sat in the dark, and tried to reconstruct the scene. Here was Lord Reckavile talking to—someone. Then there was a sudden attack—but by whom? Reckavile or the other. By the evidence Reckavile was the aggressor, but nothing could alter the fact that a knife was sticking in his ribs.

His mind turned in a curious way to the round leather object found on the dead man. What was it, and had it any bearing on the crime?

There were signs of the coming dawn, and a very dim light was filtering into the room, for the blinds were not drawn, when very faintly a slight jarring noise came to his ears; someone was approaching through the Hall. He silently slid behind the sofa, and lay there clutching the powerful electric torch which he had brought with him. The sounds grew louder and there was a creak of a board, then he heard a whisper which told him that more than one person was approaching. His senses were strained to catch the slightest indication as to who the visitors might be. He was convinced now that they were standing close to him. He could hear rapid breathing, but no other sound broke the silence. Now was the time for action. This time he had come armed, and holding his revolver in the right hand, he rose to his feet and switched on the torch.

Utter amazement kept him spellbound. Close to the old desk, and bending over it were two men, who rose and faced him at the sudden flood of light. The one was his mysterious visitor, the old man who had appeared before, but strange as this was, the sight of the other is what filled him with astonishment, for this was no other than Sinclair, his own Chief at Scotland Yard.

“Who is that?” asked Sinclair shading his eyes from the glare of the torch.