Pharos, The Egyptian, Guy Boothby [best young adult book series .txt] 📗

be serious when you say you believe I had anything to do with that dreadful affair?"

"You know very well what I do and what I do not believe," I answered. "I await your reply."

"Since you press me for it, I will give it," he continued. "But remember this, if I have to convince you of my innocence, your only chance will be gone, for I shall never feel the same toward you again."

As he said this the old fierce light came into his eyes, and for a moment he looked as dangerous as on that evening in the studio.

"I repeat, I ask you to convince me," I said as firmly as my voice could speak.

"Then I will do so," he replied, and dived his hand into his coat pocket. When he produced it again it held a crumpled copy of a newspaper. He smoothed it out upon his knee and handed it to me.

"If you will look at the third column from the left, you will see a heading entitled 'The mysterious murder in Bonwell Street.' Pray read it."

I took the paper and read as follows:

MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN BONWELL STREET.

EXTRAORDINARY CONFESSION AND SUICIDE.

"Shortly before nine o'clock this morning, a tall, middle-aged man, giving the name of Johann Schmidt, a German, and evidently in a weak state of health, entered the precincts of Bow Street Police Station, and informed the officer in charge that he desired to give himself up to justice as the murderer of Herman Clausand, the curiosity dealer of Bonwell Street, the victim of the shocking tragedy announced in our issue of Tuesday last. Schmidt, who spoke with considerable earnestness and seemed desirous of being believed, stated that several years before he had been in the deceased's employ, and since his dismissal had nursed feelings of revenge. On the day preceding the murder he had called at Bonwell Street, and, after informing Clausand that he was out of employment and starving, asked to be again taken into his service; the other, however, refused to entertain his request, whereupon Schmidt very reluctantly left the shop. For the remainder of the day he wandered about London, endeavouring to obtain work, but about midnight, having been unsuccessful, he returned to Bonwell Street and rang the bell. The door was opened by Clausand himself, who, as we stated in our first account of the murder, lived alone. Schmidt entered, and once more demanded employment, or at least money sufficient to enable him to find shelter for the night. Again Clausand refused, whereupon the man picked up a dagger from a stand near by and stabbed him to the heart. Frightened at what he had done, he did not stay to rob the body, but made his way through the house and out by the back door. Passing into Murbrook Street, he saw a policeman coming toward him, but by stepping into a doorway managed to avoid him. Since that time, up to the moment of surrendering himself, he had been wandering about London, and it was only when he found starvation staring him in the face that he determined to give himself up. Having told his story, the man was about to be searched prior to being conducted to a cell, when he drew from his pocket a revolver and placed the muzzle to his forehead. Before the bystanders could stop him he had pulled the trigger; there was a loud report, and a moment later the wretched man fell dead at the officer's feet. The divisional surgeon was immediately summoned, but on his arrival found that life was extinct. Inquiries were at once made with a view to ascertaining whether the story he had told had any foundation in fact. We have since learned that the description he gave of himself was a true one, that he had once been in Clausand's employ, and that on the day preceding the murder he had openly asserted in a public-house in the neighbourhood of Soho his intention of being revenged upon the dead man.

"The coroner has been informed, and an inquest will be held to-morrow morning."

* * * * *


After I had read it, I stood for some moments looking at the paper in my hand. Then I turned to Pharos, who was still seated on the block of stone watching me intently. Since this miserable wretch had confessed to the crime, it was plain that I had wronged him in supposing he had committed it. A weight was undoubtedly lifted from my mind, but for some reason or another the satisfaction I derived from this was by no means as great as I had expected it would be. At the back of my mind there was still a vague impression that I was being deceived, and, do what I would, I could not rid myself of it.

"That, I think, should convince you, Mr. Forrester," said Pharos, rising and coming toward me, "how very unwise it is ever to permit one's feelings to outweigh one's judgment. You made up your mind that you disliked me, and for the simple reason that I had the misfortune to lose my way on that particular evening, and to reach your studio about the same time that that terrible murder was committed, you were ready at a moment's notice to believe me guilty of the crime."

"What you say is quite true," I answered humbly. "I acted very foolishly, I admit. I have done you a great wrong, and you have behaved very generously about it."

"In that case we will say no more about it," he replied. "It is an unpleasant subject; let us forget it and never refer to it again. As I asked you to believe when last I saw you, my only desire is that you should think well of me and that we should be friends. As another proof of my kindly feeling toward yourself, I will go further than I originally intended and say that I am willing to restore the mummy I took from you. It is here in Naples, but, if you wish, it shall be at once returned to your house in London."

This was more than I had expected from him, and it impressed me accordingly.

"I could not dream of such a thing," I replied. "Since you have been so generous, let me follow your example. I have wronged you, and, as some small return, I ask you to keep the king's magician, and do with him as you please."

"I accept your offer in the spirit in which it is made," he replied. "Now, perhaps, we had better be going. If you have nothing better to do this evening I should be glad if you would dine with me. I think I can promise you a better dinner than you will get at your own hotel, and afterward, I have no doubt, we shall be able to induce my ward to give us some music. You had better say 'Yes,' for, I assure you, we shall both be disappointed if you refuse."

"You are really very kind," I began, "but----"

"With your permission we will have no 'buts,'" he replied, with a wave of his hand. "The matter is settled, and I shall look forward to a pleasant evening. My carriage is at the gate, and if you will drive back with me I shall be doubly honoured."

If there had been any way of getting out of it, I think I should have taken advantage of it; but as I could not discover one, I was perforce compelled to accept his invitation.

"I wonder if this city has the same fascination for you, Mr. Forrester, that it has for me?" said Pharos, after I had given my consent to the arrangement he proposed. "For my own part I never come to Naples without paying it a visit; but how very few are there of the numbers who visit it weekly that really understand it! What tales I could tell you of it, if only they interested you! How vividly I could bring back to you the life of the people who once spoke in this forum, bathed in yonder baths, applauded in the theatre nineteen hundred years ago! Let us follow this street which leads toward the Temple of Isis, that Temple in which the Egyptian goddess was worshipped by such as pretended to believe in her mysterious powers. I say _pretended_, because it was the fashion then to consult her oracles--a fashion as insulting as it was popular."

By this time we had passed out of the Temple of Mercury and were making our way along the time-worn pavement toward the building of which he spoke. The sun was sinking in the west, and already long shadows were drawing across the silent streets, intensifying the ghostliness of the long-deserted city. Reaching the Temple, we entered and looked about us.

"See how its grandeur has departed from it," said Pharos, with a note of sadness in his voice that made me turn and gaze at him in surprise. "Time was when this was the most beautiful temple in the city, when every day her courts were thronged with worshippers, when her oracles boasted a reputation that reached even to mighty Rome. On this spot stood the statue of the goddess herself. There that of her son, the god Horus. Here was the purgatorium, and there the bronze figure of the bull god Apis. Can you not picture the crowd of eager faces beyond the rails, the white-robed priests, and the sacrifice being offered up on yonder altar amid the perfumes of frankincense and myrrh? Where, Mr. Forrester, are these priests now? The crowd of worshippers, the statues? Gone--gone--dust and ashes, these nineteen hundred years. Come, we have lingered here long enough, let us go further."

Leaving the Temple we made our way into the Stabian Street, passed the Temple of AEsculapius, and did not stop until we had reached the house of Tullus Agrippa. Into this Pharos led me.

"O Tullus Agrippa!" he cried, as if apostrophizing the dead man, "across the sea of time, I, Pharos the Egyptian, salute thee! Great was thy wealth and endless thy resources. Greedy of honour and praise wast thou, and this house was the apex of thy vanity. Here is that same triclinium where thy guests were wont to assemble when thou didst invite them to thy banquets. Here the room in which thou didst condemn thine only son to perpetual banishment. In those days, when the sun was warm and the table was laden with the banquet, and friends crowded about thee and praised the beauty of thy frescoes, the excellence of thy wine, the cunning of thy cook, and the service of thy slaves, little didst thou dream that nineteen centuries later would find thy house roofless, dug up from the bowels of the earth, and thy cherished rooms a show to be gaped at by all who cared to pay a miserable fee. Least of all didst thou think then that Pharos the Egyptian would be standing in the room where once thou didst rule so absolute, telling thy faults and follies to a man of a race that in thy day was well-nigh unknown."

He stopped for a moment, and then, turning to me again, recommenced with fresh energy:

"The owner of this house, Tullus Agrippa, was avaricious, cruel, vain, and sensual. He gave of his wealth only when he was assured of a large return.