The Piccadilly Puzzle: A Mysterious Story

At two o'clock in the morning during the month of August sounds of music could be heard proceeding from a brilliantly lighted house in Park Lane, where a ball was being given by the Countess of Kerstoke. True, the season was long since over, and though the greater part of London Society had migrated swallow-like to the South of Europe in search of warm weather, still there were enough people in town to justify the ball being given, and a number of celebrities were present. Outside it was dull and chill with a thick yellow fog pervading the atmosphere, but within the great ball-room it was like fairy-land with the brilliant light of the lamps, the profusion of bright flowers, and the gay dresses worn by the ladies. The orchestra hidden behind a gorgeous screen of tropical plants was playing the latest waltz, "A Friend of Mine," and the sigh and sob of the melody as it stole softly through the room seemed to inspire the dancers with a voluptuous languor as they glided over the polished floor. The soft frou-frou of women's dresses mingled with the light laughter of young girls and the whispered confidences of their partners, while over all dominated the haunting melody with its weird modulations and suggestions of sensuous passion. Near the door of the ball-room a young man of about thirty years of age was leaning against the wall in a lazy attitude, idly watching the dancers swinging past him; but judging from the preoccupied expression of his face his thoughts were evidently far away. He was tall, dark-haired, with a short cut well-trimmed beard, piercing dark eyes, a firmly compressed mouth, and judging from his swarthy complexion together with a certain crisp curl in his hair he evidently had some negro blood in his veins. Suddenly he was roused from his meditations by a touch on his shoulder, and on glancing up saw before him a stout elderly gentleman with white hair, a ruddy face, and rather a Silenus cast of countenance. The one was Spenser Ellersby, only son of a wealthy West Indian planter, and the other Horace Marton a well-known society man generally called The Town-crier, from the fact that he knew all the current scandals and retailed them with elaborate embellishments to his numerous circle of friends. "Hey! Ellersby, my boy," said The Town-crier, on the alert to acquire fresh information "have you come back once more to England, home and beauty--hey? been all over the world I suppose, hey?--going to publish a book of travels--hey?" "Not me," replied Ellersby in the slow, languid manner habitual to him, "everyone who goes half-a-dozen miles now-a-days publishes a book of travels under some fantastic title. I prefer to be renowned for not having done so."