



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
the Hathi Trust Org. (The Ohio State University)











Transcriber's Note: Transcribed from page scans provided by the
the Hathi Trust Org. (The Ohio State University)






[Illustration: Front Cover]






[Illustration: Frontispiece]






THE SPIDER.


BY
FERGUS HUME,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE SOLITARY FARM," ETC.




WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO.
1910.






CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I.        A POSSIBLE PARTNERSHIP
II.       A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION
III.      HOW THE TRAP WAS SET
IV.       WHO WAS CAUGHT IN THE TRAP
V.        AFTER THE TRAGEDY
VI.       TWO CONVERSATIONS
VII.      LADY CORSOON'S APPEAL
VIII.     THE GRIEF OF IDA
IX.       WITCHCRAFT
X.        MYSTERY
XI.       THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK
XII.      A TEMPTING OFFER
XIII.     THE BAZAAR
XIV.      RUN TO EARTH
XV.       FACE TO FACE
XVI.      THE SEARCH
XVII.     IN THE TRAIN
XVIII.    AT BOWDERSTYKE
XIX.      A BOLD OFFER
XX.       GERBY HALL
XXI.      JUSTICE
XXII.     THE END OF IT ALL






THE SPIDER.




CHAPTER I.
A POSSIBLE PARTNERSHIP.


The exterior of The Athenian Club, Pall Mall, represents an ordinary
twentieth century mansion, which it is; but within, the name is
justified by a Græco-Roman architecture of vast spaces, marble floors,
painted ceilings, and pillared walls, adapted, more or less
successfully, to the chilly British climate. The various rooms are
called by Latin names, and the use of these is rigidly enforced.
Standing outside the mansion, you know that you are in London; enter,
and you behold Athens--say, the abode of Alcibiades; listen, and
scraps of speech suggest Imperial Rome. Thus, the tastes of all the
members, whether old and pedantic, or young and frivolous, are
consulted and gratified. Modern slang, as well as the stately tongue
of Virgil, is heard in The Athenian, for the club, like St. Paul, is
all things to all men. For that reason it is a commercial success.

Strangers--they come eagerly with members to behold rumoured
glories--enter the club-house, through imitation bronze gates, into
the vestibulum, and pass through an inner door into the atrium. This
means that they leave the entrance room for the general conversation
apartment. To the right of this, looking from the doorway, is the
tablinum, which answers--perhaps not very correctly as regards the
name--the purposes of a library; to the left a lordly portal gives
admittance into the triclinium, that is, to the dining-room. At the
end of the atrium, which is the neutral ground of the club, where
members and strangers meet, swing-doors shut in the pinacotheca.
Properly this should be a picture-gallery, but, in deference to modern
requirements, it is used as a smoking-room. These three rooms,
spacious, ornate, and lofty, open under a colonnade, or peristyle, on
to a glass-roofed winter garden, which runs like a narrow passage
round the three sides of the building. The viridarium, as the members
call this cultivated strip of land, extends only twenty feet from the
marble pavement of the peristyle, and is bounded by the side-walls and
rear-walls of adjacent houses. It is filled with palms and tropical
plants, with foreign and native flowers, and, owing to a skilful
concealment of its limitations by the use of enormous mirrors,
festooned with creepers and ivy, it really resembles vast
pleasure-gardens extending to great distances. The outlook from
tablinum, pinacotheca, and triclinium is a triumph of perspective.

Below the state apartments on the ground floor are the kitchens, the
domestic offices, and the servants' rooms; above them, the cubicles
are to be found, where members, both resident or non-resident, sleep
when disposed on beds more comfortable than classical. Finally, on the
top floor, and reached by a lift, are billiard-rooms, card-rooms, and
a small gymnasium for those who require exercise. The whole scheme is
modelled on a larger scale from the House of Glaucus, as described by
Bulwer Lytton in "The Last Days of Pompeii." A perusal of this famous
story suggested the novelty to an enterprising builder, and the
Athenian Club is the successful result.

The members of such a club should have been classical scholars, but
these were in the minority. The greater portion of those who
patronised this latest London freak were extremely up-to-date, and
defended their insistent modernity amidst ancient artificial
environment by Acts xvii. 21: "For the Athenians and strangers which
were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to
hear some new thing!" And certainly they acted well up to the text,
for all the scandal and novelty of the metropolis seemed to flow from
this pseudo-classical source. Plays were discussed in manuscript,
novels on the eve of publication; inventors came here to suggest plans
for airships, or to explain how the earth could signal to Mars. Some
members had brand new ideas for the improvement of motor mechanism,
others desired to evolve colour from sound, detailing with many words
how music could be made visible. As to politics, the Athenians knew
everything which was going on behind the scenes, and could foretell
equally truthfully a war, a change of Government, the abdication of a
monarch, or the revolt of an oppressed people. If any traveller
arrived from the Land-at-the-Back-of-Beyond with an account of a
newly-discovered island, or an entirely new animal, he was sure to be
a member of the club. Thus, although the interior of the Pall Mall
mansion suggested Greece and Rome, Nero and Pericles, the appointments
for comfort, for the quick dispatch of business or pleasure, and the
ideas, conversation, and dress of the members, were, if anything, six
months ahead of the present year of grace. The Athenian Club was
really a mixture or blending of two far-apart epochs, the very ancient
and the very modern; but the dark ages were left out, as the members
had no use for mediæval ignorance.

Over the mosaic dog with his warning lettering, "Cave Canem,"
strolled, one warm evening in June, a young man of twenty-four, whose
physical appearance was more in keeping with the classical
surroundings than were his faultlessly fitting dress-clothes. His
oval, clean-shaven face was that of a pure-blooded Hellene, his curly
golden hair and large blue eyes like the sky of Italy at noon,
suggested the Sun-god, and his figure, limber, active, and slender,
resembled the Hermes of the Palestra. He was almost aggressively
handsome, and apparently knew that he was, for he swaggered in with a
haughty lord-of-the-world air, entirely confident of himself and of
his capabilities. His exuberant vitality was as pronounced as were his
good looks, and there was a finish about his toilette which hinted at
a determination to make the most of his appearance. He assuredly
succeeded in accentuating what Nature had done for him, since even the
attendant, who approached to remove the young man's light overcoat,
appeared to be struck by this splendid vision of perfect health,
perfect beauty, and perfect lordship of existence. All the fairies
must have come to the cradle of this fortunate young gentleman with
profuse gifts. He seemed to be the embodiment of joyous life.

"Is Mr. Arthur Vernon here?" he asked, settling his waistcoat,
touching the flower in his button-hole, and pulling a handkerchief out
of his left sleeve.

"In the pinacotheca, sir," was the reply, for all the attendants were
carefully instructed in correct pronunciation. "Shall I tell him you
are here, Mr. Maunders?"

The gentleman thus named yawned lazily. "Thanks, I shall see him
myself;" and with a nod to the man, he walked lightly through the
atrium, looking like one of Flaxman's creations, only he was more
clothed.

Throwing keen glances right and left to see who was present and who
was not, Mr. Maunders entered the pinacotheca. This was an oblong
apartment with marble walls on three sides and a lordly range of
pillars on the fourth, which was entirely open to the gardens. Beyond
could be seen the luxuriant vegetation of the undergrowth, whence
sprang tall palms, duplicated in the background of mirrors. The mosaic
pavement of the smoking-room was strewn with Persian praying-mats,
whose vivid colouring matched the pictured floor. There were deep
armchairs and softly-cushioned sofas, all upholstered in dark red
leather, which contrasted pleasantly with the snowy walls. Many
small tables of white metal and classical shapes were dotted here,
there, and everywhere. As it was mid-June and extremely close, the
fireplace--looking somewhat incongruous in such a place--was filled
with ferns and white flowers, in red pots of earthenware, thus
repeating the general scheme of colour. Red and white, snow and fire,
with a spread of green in the viridarium--nothing could have been more
artistic.

Under the peristyle, and near a fountain whence water sprang from the
conch of a Triton to fall into a shallow marble basin with prismatic
hues, were several copper-topped tables. Near them, basket chairs
draped with brightly-hued rugs, were scattered in picturesque
disorder. One of them was occupied by a long, slim man of thirty. With
a cigarette between his lips and a cup of coffee at his elbow, he
stared straight in front of him, but looked up swiftly when he heard
Maunders' springy steps.

"Here you are at last!" he remarked somewhat coolly, and glanced at
his watch. "Why didn't you turn up to dinner as arranged? It's close
on nine o'clock."

"Couldn't get away from my aunt," replied Maunders, slipping leisurely
into an adjacent chair. "She seemed to have the blues about something,
and wouldn't let me go. Never was there so affectionate an aunt as
Mrs. Bedge, and never one so tryingly attentive."

"Considering that she has brought you up in the past, supplies you
with money at present, and intends to make you her heir in the future,
you might talk more kindly of her."

Maunders shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, the Eton-Oxford education was
all right; she did well by me there. But I don't get much money from
her now, and judging from that, I may be heir to very little."

"You ought to be glad that you are an heir to anything," said Vernon
frowning, for his friend's light tones jarred.

"Why?" asked the other. "My parents are dead long since. Aunt Emily is
my only relative, and has neither chick nor child. If she didn't
intend to leave me her money she should not have brought me up to
luxury and idleness."

"It would certainly be better if she had made you work," assented the
host contemptuously; "but you were always lazy and extravagant."

"I was born sitting down; I am a lily of the field and a rose of
Sharon."

"Likewise an ass."

"You think so?" said Maunders drily. "Well, I hope to change your
opinion on that point before we part."

"It will take a deal of changing. But all this talk is beside the
purpose of our meeting. You made this appointment with me, and----"

"Didn't keep it to the minute. I'm nearly two hours late. Well, what
does it matter?"

"Everything to me. I am a busy man," snapped the other sharply.

"So you say." Maunders looked very directly at his host. "Some fellows
don't think so. Your business----"

Vernon interrupted. "I have no business; I am an independent man."

"And yet a busy one," rejoined Maunders softly; "strange."

There was that significance in his tone which made Vernon colour,
although he remained motionless. He certainly was about to make a
hasty observation, but his guest looked at him so straightly and
smilingly, that he bit his lip and refrained from immediate speech.
Maunders, still smiling, took a cigarette from a golden case and
lighted up. "You might offer me a cup of coffee."

Vernon signalled to a passing attendant. "A cup of coffee for Mr.
Maunders."

"With a vanilla bean," directed the other man. "I don't like coffee
otherwise. And hurry up, please!" Then, when the servant departed, he
turned suavely to his host. "I forget what we were talking about."

"So do I," retorted Vernon coolly.

Maunders, smoking delicately, rested his wrists on the copper edge of
the table and looked searchingly into his friend's strong face. And
Vernon's face was strong--much stronger than that of his companion. He
likewise had blue eyes, but of a deep-sea blue, less shallow and more
piercing than those of Maunders. His face was also oval, with finely
cut features, but more scored with thought-marks; and his hair was as
dark, smooth, and short-cropped as that of the other's was golden,
curly, and--odd adjective to use in connection with a man--fluffy.
Both were clean-shaven, but Vernon's mouth was firm, while the lips of
Maunders were less compressed and betrayed indecision. The former had
the more athletic figure, the latter a more graceful one, and although
both were well groomed and well dressed, Vernon was less of the dandy
in his attention to detail. Poetically speaking, one man was Night and
the other Day; but a keen observer would have read that the first used
strength of body and brain to achieve his ends, while the last relied
more on cunning. And from the looks of the twain, cunning and strength
were about to try conclusions. Yet they had been child-friends,
school-friends, and--so far as their paths ran parallel--were
life-friends, with certain reservations.

"You were always as deep as a well, Arty," said Maunders, finally
removing his eyes from the other's face and turning to take his cup of
coffee.

"Don't call me Arty!" snapped Vernon irritably.

"You were Arty at Eton, when we were boys, tall and short."

"We are not at Eton now. I always think that there is something weak
in a man being called by his Christian name outside his family--much
less being ticketed with a confounded diminutive."

"You can call me Conny if you like, as you used to."

"I shan't, or even Constantine. Maunders is good enough for me."

"Oh is he?" The fair man glanced shrewdly over the coffee-cup he was
holding to his lips. "You hold to that."

"I hold to the name, not to the individual," said Vernon curtly.

"You don't trust me."

"I don't. I see no reason to trust you."

"Ah, you will when I explain why I asked you to meet me here," said
Maunders in his frivolous manner.

"I daresay; go on."

His friend sighed. "What a laconic beast you are, Arty."

"My name is Vernon, if you please."

"Always Vernon?" asked Maunders in silky tones. The other man sat up
alertly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I want you to take me into partnership."

"Partnership!" Vernon's face grew an angry red. "What the devil do you
know?"

"Softly! softly! I know many things, although there is no need to
swear. It's bad form, Vernon, deuced bad form. The fact is," he went
on gracefully, "my aunt keeps me short of money, and I want all I can
get to enjoy life. I thought as I am pretty good in finding out things
about people that you might invite me to become a partner in your
detective business."

Vernon cast a hasty glance around. Fortunately, there were no guests
under the peristyle, and only two men, out of earshot, in the
pinacotheca. "You are talking rubbish," he said roughly, yet
apprehensively.

"I don't think so. Your father died three years ago and left you with
next to nothing. Having no profession you did not know what to do,
and, ashamed to beg, borrow, or steal, you turned your powers of
observation to account on the side of the law against the criminal."
Maunders took a card from his waistcoat pocket and passed it along.
"'Nemo, Private Enquiry Agent, 22, Fenella Street, Covent Garden,' is
inscribed on that card. Nemo means Nobody, I believe; yet Nemo, as I
know, means Arthur Vernon of The Athenian Club."

The man addressed tore the card to pieces and threw them amongst the
flowers. "You talk rubbish," he said again, and still roughly. "How do
you connect me with this private enquiry agent?"

"Ah, that's too long a story to tell you just now." Maunders glanced
at his watch. "I am due at a ball in an hour, and want the matter
settled before I leave here."

"What matter?"

"The partnership matter." There was a pause. "Well?"

"I have nothing to say," said Vernon firmly.

Maunders rose. "In that case I'll cut along and go earlier than I
expected to Lady Corsoon's ball."

"Lady Corsoon!" Vernon changed colour and bit his lip.

"Yes. She didn't ask you to her ball, did she? She wouldn't