“But this man Harford—or Shaw? Who was he?” I inquired eagerly.
“Of that I know very little, except that, before meeting Edgecumbe, he had lived for many years in Ecuador and Peru, where he had been engaged in the adventurous pursuit of collecting orchids and natural history specimens. Probably while there, he knew of the giant venomous tarantula, and had trained one to answer to his call,” was Mr Fryer’s reply. “Apparently, from what you have told me concerning the threatening letter, Edgecumbe’s sister suspected him of betraying her to the police, and, after serving her sentence for swindling, she and her husband again became on friendly terms with Harford, who, in the name of Harvey Shaw, was then posing as a county magnate, deriving his income partly from the proceeds of his financial transactions, and partly from the passing at various banks on the Continent the bogus notes printed in secret in a room at Ridgehill Manor. It was for that reason the police of Europe have, for the last ten years, been in search of Harford—the English police because of the charges against him in the City, and the European police because he has defrauded hundreds of bureaux-de-change all over the Continent by exchanging thousands of his marvellous imitations of Bank of England notes for foreign notes or gold. Yet being a man of such colossal ideas, such a splendid linguist, and possessing such marvellous powers of invention and clever evasion, he acted so boldly and sustained his rôle of English gentleman so well, that he often passed beneath the very noses of those in active search of him.”
“Then Edgecumbe was in entire ignorance of the true character of his late partner?” I exclaimed.
“Absolutely—until too late. He only became convinced on the day of his death. He wished you to assist him, though he warned you against him. Apparently, by slow degrees, during his rare visits to England, he had become cognisant of Harford’s criminal instincts, and of the fact that he was in possession of that venomous pet which the man had once—I believe—boastingly described as his ‘Hand,’ yet Edgecumbe was diplomatic enough not to quarrel with him. Asta, ignorant of her parentage, looked upon Harford as her father and held him in highest esteem. For Edgecumbe to denounce him would be to disillusion the girl in whom all his hopes were centred, and who regarded him, not as a father, but as a very dear friend. On arrival in England he seems to have written immediately to her, urging her to meet him, unknown to Harford, yet, when she went to the hotel it was only to discover, that he was dead.”
“But the terrible tarantula—the ‘Hand,’ as Harford termed it—surely Edgecumbe must have suspected something?” I said.
“He probably was unaware that the thing was so deadly venomous, and he never dreamed to what use the scoundrel would put it,” said the solicitor. “The truth only dawned upon him when too late! Remember he placed the utmost confidence in you—and in you alone—a stranger.”
“Yes. He gave me that bronze cylinder. I wonder what it can possibly contain?”
“Let us take a taxi down to Chancery Lane,” Mr Fryer suggested. “Let us carry it up here, open it—and ascertain.”