Suddenly even in my bemuddled brain a remembrance came of those words
of his when he had said that the taste of blood would turn the cat into
a fiend. My blood had done it, but he was to pay the price. "Get away!" he screamed. "Get away, you devil! Baldwin! Baldwin! Oh,
my God!" And then I heard him fall, and rise, and fall again, with a sound like
the ripping of sacking. His screams grew fainter until they were lost
in the worrying snarl. And then, after I thought that he was dead, I
saw, as in a nightmare, a blinded, tattered, blood-soaked figure
running wildly round the room--and that was the last glimpse which I
had of him before I fainted once again. I was many months in my recovery--in fact, I cannot say that I have
ever recovered, for to the end of my days I shall carry a stick as a
sign of my night with the Brazilian cat. Baldwin, the groom, and the
other servants could not tell what had occurred, when, drawn by the
death-cries of their master, they found me behind the bars, and his
remains--or what they afterwards discovered to be his remains--in the
clutch of the creature which he had reared. They stalled him off with
hot irons, and afterwards shot him through the loophole of the door
before they could finally extricate me. I was carried to my bedroom,
and there, under the roof of my would-be murderer, I remained between
life and death for several weeks. They had sent for a surgeon from
Clipton and a nurse from London, and in a month I was able to be
carried to the station, and so conveyed back once more to Grosvenor
Mansions. I have one remembrance of that illness, which might have been part of
the ever-changing panorama conjured up by a delirious brain were it not
so definitely fixed in my memory. One night, when the nurse was
absent, the door of my chamber opened, and a tall woman in blackest
mourning slipped into the room. She came across to me, and as she bent
her sallow face I saw by the faint gleam of the night-light that it was
the Brazilian woman whom my cousin had married. She stared intently
into my face, and her expression was more kindly than I had ever seen
it. "Are you conscious?" she asked. I feebly nodded--for I was still very weak. "Well; then, I only wished to say to you that you have yourself to
blame. Did I not do all I could for you? From the beginning I tried
to drive you from the house. By every means, short of betraying my
husband, I tried to save you from him. I knew that he had a reason for
bringing you here. I knew that he would never let you get away again. No one knew him as I knew him, who had suffered from him so often. I
did not dare to tell you all this. He would have killed me. But I did
my best for you. As things have turned out, you have been the best
friend that I have ever had. You have set me free, and I fancied that
nothing but death would do that. I am sorry if you are hurt, but I
cannot reproach myself. I told you that you were a fool--and a fool
you have been." She crept out of the room, the bitter, singular woman,
and I was never destined to see her again. With what remained from her
husband's property she went back to her native land, and I have heard
that she afterwards took the veil at Pernambuco. It was not until I had been back in London for some time that the
doctors pronounced me to be well enough to do business. It was not a
very welcome permission to me, for I feared that it would be the signal
for an inrush of creditors; but it was Summers, my lawyer, who first
took advantage of it. "I am very glad to see that your lordship is so much better," said he. "I have been waiting a long time to offer my congratulations." "What do you mean, Summers? This is no time for joking." "I mean what I say," he answered. "You have been Lord Southerton for
the last six weeks, but we feared that it would retard your recovery if
you were to learn it." Lord Southerton! One of the richest peers in England! I could not
believe my ears. And then suddenly I thought of the time which had
elapsed, and how it coincided with my injuries. "Then Lord Southerton must have died about the same time that I was
hurt?" "His death occurred upon that very day." Summers looked hard at me as
I spoke, and I am convinced--for he was a very shrewd fellow--that he
had guessed the true state of the case. He paused for a moment as if
awaiting a confidence from me, but I could not see what was to be
gained by exposing such a family scandal. "Yes, a very curious coincidence," he continued, with the same knowing
look. "Of course, you are aware that your cousin Everard King was the
next heir to the estates. Now, if it had been you instead of him who
had been torn to pieces by this tiger, or whatever it was, then of
course he would have been Lord Southerton at the present moment." "No doubt," said I. "And he took such an interest in it," said Summers. "I happen to know
that the late Lord Southerton's valet was in his pay, and that he used
to have telegrams from him every few hours to tell him how he was
getting on. That would be about the time when you were down there. Was it not strange that he should wish to be so well informed, since he
knew that he was not the direct heir?" "Very strange," said I. "And now, Summers, if you will bring me my
bills and a new cheque-book, we will begin to get things into order." Tales of Mystery



The Lost Special

The confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death
at Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable
crimes of the century--an incident which is, I believe, absolutely
unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country: Although there is
a reluctance to discuss the matter in official circles, and little
information has been given to the Press, there are still indications
that the statement of this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts,
and that we have at last found a solution for a most astounding
business. As the matter is eight years old, and as its importance was
somewhat obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public
attention at the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as
we have been able to ascertain them. They are collated from the
Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at the inquest upon
John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the records of the London and
West Coast Railway Company, which have been courteously put at my
disposal. Briefly, they are as follows:

On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur
Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the
superintendent of the London and West Coast Central Station in
Liverpool. He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop
which was so marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. He
was accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose
deferential manner and constant attention showed that his position was
one of dependence.