The Mystery of the Four Fingers | Page 2

was softened
by a pair of frank and pleasant grey eyes. Gerald Venner was tanned to
a fine, healthy bronze by many years of wandering all over the world;
in fact, he was one of those restless Englishmen who cannot for long be
satisfied without risking his life in some adventure or other.
The two friends sat there quietly over their dinner, criticising from time
to time those about them.
"After all," Gurdon said presently, "you must admit that there is
something in our civilization. Now, isn't this better than starving under
a thin blanket, with a chance of being murdered before morning?"
Venner shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"I don't know," he said. "There is something in danger that stimulates
me; in fact, it is the only thing that makes life worth living, I dare say
you have wondered why it is that I have never settled down and
become respectable like the rest of you. If you heard my story, you
would not be surprised at my eccentric mode of living; at any rate, it
enables me to forget."
Venner uttered the last words slowly and sadly, as if he were talking to
himself, and had forgotten the presence of his companion. There was a
speculative look in his eyes, much as if London had vanished and he

could see the orchids on the table before him growing in their native
forests.
"I suppose I don't look much like a man with a past," he went on; "like
a man who is the victim of a great sorrow. I'll tell you the story
presently, but not here; I really could not do it in surroundings like
these. I've tried everything, even to money-making, but that is the worst
and most unsatisfactory process of the lot. There is nothing so sordid as
that."
"Oh, I don't know," Gurdon laughed. "It is better to be a
multi-millionaire than a king today. Take the case of this man Fenwick,
for instance; the papers are making more fuss of him than if he were the
President of the United States or royalty travelling incognito."
Venner smiled more or less contemptuously. He turned to take a casual
glance at a noisy party who had just come into the dining room, for the
frivolous note jarred upon him. Almost immediately the little party sat
down, and the decorous air of the room seemed to subdue them.
Immediately behind them followed a man who came dragging his limbs
behind him, supported on either side by a servant. He was quite a
young man, with a wonderfully handsome, clean-shaven face. Indeed,
so handsome was he, that Venner could think of no more fitting simile
for his beauty than the trite old comparison of the Greek god. The
man's features were perfectly chiselled, slightly melancholy and
romantic, and strongly suggestive of the early portraits of Lord Byron.
Yet, all the same, the almost perfect face was from time to time twisted
and distorted with pain, and from time to time there came into the dark,
melancholy eyes a look of almost malignant fury. It was evident that
the newcomer suffered from racking pain, for his lips were twitching,
and Venner could see that his even, white teeth were clenched together.
On the whole, it was a striking figure to intrude upon the smooth gaiety
of the dining-room, for it seemed to Venner that death and the stranger
were more than casual acquaintances. He had an idea that it was only a
strong will which kept the invalid on this side of the grave.
The sufferer sank at length with a sigh of relief into a large armchair,
which had been specially placed for him. He waved the servants aside

as if he had no further use for them, and commenced to study his menu,
as if he had no thought for anything else. Venner did not fail to note
that the man had the full use of his arms, and his eye dwelt with critical
approval on the strong, muscular hands and wrists.
"I wonder who that fellow is?" he said. "What a magnificent frame his
must have been before he got so terribly broken up."
"He is certainly a fascinating personality," Gurdon admitted.
"Somehow, he strikes me not so much as the victim of an accident as
an unfortunate being who is suffering from the result of some terrible
form of vengeance. What a character he would make for a story! I am
ready to bet anything in reason that if we could get to the bottom of his
history it would be a most dramatic one. It regularly appeals to the
imagination. I can quite believe our friend yonder has dragged himself
out of bed by sheer force of will to keep some appointment whereby he
can wreak