Dick Donovan

Tracked to Doom

The Story of a Mystery and Its Unravelling

Warsaw 2022

Contents

I. THE TRAGEDY AT ST. JOHN'S WOOD

II. IN WHICH CALVIN SUGG, THE DETECTIVE, IS INTRODUCED

III. THE PRIORY

IV. THE FALLING OF THE SHADOW

V. THE DARK WOMAN IN THE CONSERVATORY

VI. A MIDNIGHT MYSTERY

VII. DID HE ACCUSE HER UNJUSTLY?

VIII. THE CRY THAT WENT UP TO THE STARS

IX. THE HOUSE OF TEARS

X. THE STRANGE VISITOR

XI. A REVELATION

XII. CHANGED FORTUNES

XIII. A HUMAN PHENOMENON

XIV. A RIDDLE

XV. THE PUZZLE BECOMES MORE ABSTRUSE

XVI. THE LITTLE HUMPBACKED MAN

XVII. STRANGE INFORMATION

XVIII. THE UNBIDDEN GUEST

XIX. THROUGH DARKNESS AND TRIAL

XX. TO WHAT DEPTHS WILL HUMAN WICKEDNESS NOT GO?

XXI. THE STRANGE LETTER

XXII. A CHANGE OF FRONT

XXIII. SEEKING CLUES IN THE WHITE NORTH

XXIV. THE STRANGE PHOTOGRAPH

XXV. MARTHA AND HER YOUNG MAN

XXVI. DR. CAVIZETTE'S STRANGE EXPERIMENT

XXVII. DOOM!

XXVIII. "AFTER SORROW'S NIGHT COMES THE MORNING BRIGHT."

I. THE TRAGEDY AT ST. JOHN’S WOOD

IT was a fervid July night. The scene London, and the hour near twelve o’clock. The roar of the vehicular traffic was dying down, for the theatres had emptied some time before, but the restaurants and public-houses were still doing a roaring trade, while the streets were full of bustle and life, for the stagnant and heated atmosphere induced people to linger and chat and smoke in the open air rather than hurry to their homes.

In one of the by-streets off the Strand was the stage-door of a popular theatre. Up to half-an-hour before this the theatre had been packed from floor to ceiling with an enthusiastic audience, to witness the first production of a new burlesque. A young, good-looking, and popular actress had taken a leading part in it. She had been favourably known to London for about a year. Up to that time she had been playing in the provinces, and had come to London a stranger and unheralded, but made her mark immediately. Her professional name was Vesta Florence, and from every photographer’s shop-window portraits of “Miss Vesta Florence, the popular burlesque actress,” stared one in the face. She was a blonde, with wavy, golden hair and a remarkably pretty face. Her figure was faultless, and she had a sweet, musical voice. Although about twenty-four, she seemed little more than a girl, for she was petite and child-like in her manner.

In the by-street where the stage-door was, a man promenaded up and down with an air of impatience and irritability. He was in evening-dress, and wore a thin Inverness-cape over his frock- coat. He had been in the front of the house, but when the performance ended he went round to the stage-door and inquired of the porter how long Miss Florence would be before she was ready to leave, and was told perhaps half-an-hour or three-quarters. He was a dark man, of about medium height, with a full moustache and no whiskers, while his hair was cropped close. His face was tanned with sun and weather, as if he had travelled abroad a good deal, and his dark, restless eyes seemed to bespeak a passionate, vindictive, and fiery nature. Now and again he glanced nervously at the stage-door, looked at his watch, then resumed his walk, but never going many yards away from the door, and he eagerly scanned the face of every one who came out. Presently the door swung open again; a gleam of light shot athwart the pavement, and a clear, ringing voice exclaimed to some one inside–

“Good-night, dear, Good-night, all.”

Then there was the rustle of a silk dress, and a young woman came forth. It was Miss Vesta Florence, and she was about to get into a hansom-cab that waited at the edge of the pavement for her, when the man who had been promenading up and down strode up, seized her by the arm, and hissed into her ear–

“So, Mary, we meet again.”

The mere utterance of the name “Mary” and the sound of the man’s voice startled her, and as she turned round and looked at him she exclaimed, in low tones–

“My God! you here?”

She was very pale, and evidently greatly agitated.

“Yes,” he answered, with a cynical smile. “You didn’t expect to see me?”

“No,” she faltered. “But come away from this spot, for goodness’ sake.”

Telling the cabman to wait, she moved down the street, the man in the Inverness-cape by her side. Then she turned to him, and with evident emotion and distress, said–

“What has brought you back? What do you want?”

“To your first question, business has brought me back. To your second, I want you.”

“No, no!” she answered in a pleading voice. “You cannot have me; you must forget me. You must go away.”

He laughed a cynical laugh again–a laugh that was suggestive of a cold-blooded, sneering disposition, and he said–

“I must go away, must I? No, my sweet Mary; not this time.”

She glanced around her nervously, and said–

“Oh! don’t let us loiter about, or we shall attract attention.'’

“Very well,” he answered. “Not that I care, but I am hungry and want some supper. You will sup with me?”

“Anything,” she said; “but let us go from here.”

He led the way to the cab, handed her in, and telling the cabman to drive to a well-known hotel in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, took his seat beside her.

Arrived at the hotel he ordered a costly supper, including white wine, sherry, and champagne. He did full justice to it, though she ate but little. Her pretty face wore a look of woebegoneness, and now and again tears welled to her eyes, as though some great trouble was on her mind.

“Why don’t you eat?” he asked.

“I can’t,” she answered curtly.

“Why not?”

“Because you are here,” she remarked savagely.

He laughed again.

“You are still the pretty devil of old,” he said carelessly. “But perhaps I shall be able to take some of the devil out of you.” Then he called for the bill, and when it was brought he said to her–

“As I hear you are making a fortune with your acting, you can pay for this.”

Without replying, though her lip curled with scorn, she drew forth a well-filled purse and gave the waiter the money for the bill.

“What are you going to do now?” her companion demanded.

“I am going home,” she said.

“Where is your home?”

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