The house of evil

By William Le Queux

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Title: The house of evil

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: March 31, 2025 [eBook #75760]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1927

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF EVIL ***





 THE
 HOUSE OF EVIL

 BY
 WILLIAM LE QUEUX




 WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
 LONDON AND MELBOURNE
 1927




 CONTENTS

 CHAPTER ONE
 CHAPTER TWO
 CHAPTER THREE
 CHAPTER FOUR
 CHAPTER FIVE
 CHAPTER SIX
 CHAPTER SEVEN
 CHAPTER EIGHT
 CHAPTER NINE
 CHAPTER TEN
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
 CHAPTER TWELVE
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
 CHAPTER TWENTY
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR




 THE HOUSE OF EVIL

 CHAPTER ONE

“Hugh, old man, you’re growing as close as an oyster. This is twice
this week you have dined out, leaving me solitary, and refused to tell
me what you are up to. I wonder what it is you have got up your
sleeve?”

Two young men were strolling down the lovely Promenade des Anglais at
Nice. The elder, the Honourable Hugh Craig, was twenty-seven; Leonard
Lydon, his companion, about six months younger.

They had been fast friends at Harrow, where Craig had risen to be the
Head of the School, and afterwards at Balliol, and the friendship had
continued after they left Oxford till the present time.

Craig, the youngest son of Viscount Clandon, was a member of an old
aristocratic family which, for generations, had been closely connected
with the government of the country. Several of the heads of it had sat
in the Cabinets of their day and generation; other members had filled
high civil and military posts in England and its Dependencies. Hugh
himself was in the diplomatic service, and was enjoying a brief
holiday with his friend on the lovely Côte d’Azur.

Leonard Lydon was of humbler stock than his aristocratic companion.
His father, a wealthy Liverpool merchant, had risen from small
beginnings. He had laid the foundations of his fortune very early in
his career, so that he was able to give his numerous family the
advantage of a liberal education. Each of his five sons was sent to a
public school, and subsequently either to Cambridge or Oxford.

The Liverpool merchant had died a couple of years ago, leaving behind
him a handsome fortune, half of which was left to his widow for life,
the other half divided between the five sons and four daughters.

The two elder sons inherited the business, as well as their share of
the private fortune. As there were nine persons to divide the half of
the total amount, nobody received a very huge sum, but enough to bring
in a comfortable income.

After taking his degree at Oxford, Leonard had become deeply
interested in wireless research, and had studied until he became a
full-blown radio engineer, a profession which he followed in the
Admiralty during the later years of the War. After peace he joined an
American Wireless Communication Company which had a branch in England.
At the time this story opens, he had been appointed this Company’s
chief engineer and designer. As he was in receipt of a handsome
salary, his financial position was a very comfortable one.

His friend, Hugh Craig, was not so well off as himself. His family,
though very ancient, was poor for its position. He was still in the
lower grades of the diplomatic service, and his private income was a
small one. But the Clandon influence would later on be sure to secure
for him a snug post. He was, however, better off than a good many
members of impoverished families, as he had been left a moderate
legacy of a few thousands by a near relative.

When his friend rallied him upon his secretive mien, Hugh gave one of
his disarming and diplomatic smiles.

“I expect you’ll learn all about it in good time, my dear fellow. You
know I was always rather a reticent sort of chap, fond of making a
mystery of small things.”

Lydon laughed. “That’s one of the truest things you have ever said,
Hugh, and nobody who didn’t know you thoroughly, like myself, would
ever guess it. On the surface, you give the impression of being one of
the frankest men living. That appearance of yours will be one of the
greatest assets to you in your career. How easily it will enable you
to hoodwink people when you want to!”

Hugh Craig smiled in his turn. “From all I can learn this peculiar
characteristic has run in the Clandon family for generations. I
suppose that is why so many of us have taken so readily to statecraft
and diplomacy.”

That evening, Leonard Lydon dined by himself at the Hôtel Royal, as
he had done a couple of nights ago. During the progress of his
solitary meal, he speculated a good deal upon the cause of his
friend’s absence. Of an ordinary man, the man whose type he had met in
scores, he would have said there was undoubtedly a woman at the bottom
of it.

But Hugh Craig, good-looking, self-possessed and _débonnaire_, with
that smiling, charming manner, was by no means an ordinary man. Even
as a boy he had been a complex character, and the transition to
manhood had deepened the complexity.

Intimately associated as they had been all these years, Lydon was
forced to confess that he knew very little of the inner personality of
his friend, the part which he hid so successfully from the world under
that smiling, _débonnaire_ mask.

Did he care greatly about women? Did he care at all about them? For
the life of him, Leonard could not give a definite answer to that
question. As was natural on the part of such young men, they had often
lightly discussed the other sex together. But out of these
conversations nothing of a hidden vein of romance had been revealed by
Craig. His comments might have been those of a rather cynical
philosopher of twice his age.

Only once had he made any remark bearing directly upon himself, which
might be taken to represent his well-considered opinions on the
subject, and on this occasion he had spoken with more gravity than was
his wont when the conversation touched upon the themes of love and
marriage.

“No man who intends to make a career for himself should ever commit
the folly of falling in love,” he had said. “Because the chances are
ten to one that he will fall in love with the wrong person. Marry for
sound, sensible reasons perhaps. Even then I think I should postpone
the step as long as possible, so far as I am individually concerned.”

Lydon, whose temperament was rather of the romantic kind, looked the
surprise he felt.

“But surely you will marry some day, Hugh? Not too early perhaps, but
when you have got a comfortable post?”

The answer came very deliberately. “It might be an absolute necessity
of the position. But putting that on one side, I feel no great
yearning for the married state. If I were the eldest son, it would be
necessary for me to provide an heir; but the Clandons are so prolific,
they are not likely to die out for want of representatives.”

On the whole, Lydon would have said, from these and other remarks
dropped by the calm, smiling young diplomatist, that Hugh Craig was
very little attracted by women, and the last man in the world to be
capable of a grand passion.

But he was not at all sure. During the long term of their friendship,
Hugh had so often surprised him by sudden revelations of a side of his
character totally unsurmised, that he could not reckon upon him with
any degree of certainty.

It was just on the cards that he had suddenly met a woman who had the
power to stir his languid pulses. And Lydon had always suspected that,
deep down under that placid exterior, there was something volcanic
slumbering which would one day burst into flame. If Hugh ever did
love, it was more than probable he would love with an unreasoning
ardour.

If there was a woman, who was she? Where had they met? The two young
men had been so much together during their stay at Nice, that
opportunity did not seem to have offered itself very abundantly. And
one thing was quite certain. If Hugh had a serious love affair, nobody
would be told about it till the very last moment. Secretiveness about
his personal concerns was the keynote of his character.

Having finished his dinner, Lydon went into the lounge. He had not
been there long when the Stormont family came in. It consisted of
Howard Stormont, a stout, rubicund, clean-shaven man of about fifty,
who bore his years gaily; his niece, Gloria, a pretty, blue-eyed,
fair-haired girl with a slender, graceful figure, and his widowed
sister, Mrs. Maud Barnard, a woman who dressed in a rather extravagant
style.

They had struck up a slight acquaintance with the two young men,
chiefly with Lydon, who was a very cosmopolitan fellow. Craig had not
taken greatly to the party, being a person of very fastidious taste.
When he talked them over with his friend, he admitted that Gloria was
a remarkably pretty girl, “would have been quite worth cultivating if
she had possessed different relatives.” The rubicund Howard Stormont
he declared to be an aggressive type of profiteer, and Mrs. Barnard he
evidently considered to be an unrefined, over-dressed woman.

Lydon did not take this severe view of the uncle and aunt. Mrs.
Barnard was a trifle flamboyant in dress perhaps, but she was also
exceedingly amiable and good-natured. Stormont’s manners were possibly
too hearty for perfect refinement, but he was a genial, cheery fellow,
and full of a shrewd wit.

As for Gloria, Leonard though he had never come across a more charming
girl. In the few chats they had enjoyed together when Craig happened
to be absent, she had told him a good deal about herself. Her parents
lived in China, where her father held a high position in one of the
European banks. As the climate did not suit her, she had made her home
with her uncle, the rubicund Howard Stormont and his widowed sister,
at Effington in Surrey.

He also learned that, like many modern young women, she was an
athletic girl, passionately fond of all outdoor games and sports. As
he was no mean athlete himself, he admired her the more for this fact,
which rather surprised him, as her appearance did not suggest any
particular robustness, but rather the reverse.

Presently Mr. Stormont went away to write some letters, and soon after
Mrs. Barnard followed him. The young people were left alone.

“What has become of your friend, Mr. Craig?” the girl asked him. “This
is the second time this week he has left you to dine in solitary
state. I feel quite sorry for you.”

She had a very sweet, musical voice. In fact Lydon thought everything
about her was dainty and refined, far above the average.

The young man smiled. “Yes, Craig has been very mysterious the last
few days. He goes off on his own, and he won’t tell me a word about
it. He parries all hints with his usual diplomatic ability and
sang-froid. You can’t ruffle him, you know.”

“I should say it would be quite impossible,” was Miss Stormont’s
answer. “You are very great friends, are you not? I have often
wondered why.”

“What is it that causes you to wonder?” asked Leonard.

Miss Stormont blushed a little at being called upon to explain her
rather unguarded remark.

“You seem such exact opposites. You are perfectly open, impulsive, not
to say impetuous. If asked for your opinion, you blurt it out at once,
sometimes without very deep thought, if you will forgive me for saying
so, as I have often known you to alter or modify it as you go along.
Mr. Craig is so different. Behind that smiling urbanity is an intense
reserve, a profound caution. Somehow, if you ask him a straightforward
question, his answer is so fenced about with subtleties that you don’t
feel satisfied.”

Lydon laughed heartily. The girl was very frank, even to the point of
indiscretion. But she had certainly judged his friend pretty shrewdly.
Even those who loved him and admired his very considerable gifts were
forced to admit that there was a good deal of the Jesuit about this
young descendant of diplomatic ancestors.

They had the longest talk they had ever enjoyed together that evening
in the almost empty lounge.

As she prattled gaily along, with that frankness which was natural to
her, he learned a good deal about the rubicund Howard Stormont
himself. He was engaged in business, a very busy man and possessed of
boundless energy. He was not fond of London life, and so far as was
compatible with his business interests, played with great gusto the
rôle of country gentleman. He had purchased a charming place some
five years ago, and was never happier than when strolling around
Effington village in his country tweeds, and chatting familiarly with
the inhabitants.

This estate had been acquired from an impoverished and hard-living
young sprig of the nobility, a grandson of the Earl of Sedgemere, who
had originally owned the fine seat known as Effington Hall. Under his
short tenure, the revenues which should have gone to the upkeep of the
property had been diverted to gambling and riotous living. The once
big estate had been disposed of bit by bit.

Stormont, the wealthy man of business, had soon altered this. The
mansion and estate had been vastly improved, and pretty Effington
village had been renovated out of all recognition. Upon the completion
of his purchase, he had given a donation of five hundred pounds
towards the restoration of the exquisite thirteenth-century church
with its grey square tower, such a well-known landmark in the Surrey
landscape. In the “county” he was highly respected for his generosity
and magisterial work, for very soon after his purchase of Effington he
had been put upon the roll of Justices of the Peace for the county of
Surrey.

So, somewhat to his surprise, Lydon learned that this homely, rather
commonplace-looking man, whom his friend Craig described as an
aggressive profiteer, was a person of importance in business circles,
and not altogether undistinguished in the more select sphere of county
life.

“I enjoy travelling very much,” she told the young man, after she had
furnished him with these details of her uncle’s biography. “But my
happiest time is at Effington with the dear dogs and horses. I know
everybody in the place, and the hours seem to go as if they were
minutes.”

“You seem to me rather a lucky girl,” remarked her companion, “and I
expect you are spoiled by both uncle and aunt.”

Miss Stormont admitted with a pretty smile that he was not very far
out in his guess. Howard Stormont was one of the most generous and
easy-going men alive, and nobody could be more indulgent towards youth
than Mrs. Barnard. She was very young in spirit herself, and preferred
the society of her juniors to more staid company. They indulged her in
every reasonable wish, and kept open house and practised an almost
lavish hospitality.

No wonder, thought Lydon, that the county had taken them to its bosom.
And although Craig had conceived a quite pronounced dislike for both
the man and his sister, Lydon, less fastidious and critical, thought
them very delightful people. Stormont was probably a self-made man,
but he detected in neither him nor his sister any offensive signs of
the newly-rich. He was not a snob, as affable to a waiter as he would
have been to a duke, and never bragged. Mrs. Barnard was perhaps a
trifle too flamboyant and juvenile in her attire for a woman of her
years, but this, after all, was a very venial weakness.

The tall, elegant girl he considered perfection; he could not see in
her anything that he would have wished altered. And so she was the
adopted daughter of a wealthy man! It was not much use allowing his
feelings to stray in that direction. Howard Stormont would certainly
have different views for her future. His friend Craig perhaps, with
that fine old family record behind him, might have been considered
favourably. But what had he, Leonard Lydon, a man of moderate income
and no particular position, to offer such a peerless girl? Better put
the idea out of his head with the least possible delay.

Still, it was very delightful sitting there and chatting to her. She
talked to him as if she had known him for years, and there was not the
faintest symptom of coquetry about her. She seemed a perfectly frank
and open girl and quite free from conceit, unconscious that her
undeniable personal charms were bound to work havoc on the opposite
sex. She was not one of those sophisticated modern maidens who are
always out for conquest and admiration.

They sat there for a long time, as neither Howard nor his sister
reappeared. Presently Craig returned from his mysterious visit and
came into the lounge in search of his friend. It struck Lydon, who
could read him more easily than most people, that, in spite of the
urbane mask which he so rarely removed, he was preoccupied and gloomy.

Craig was too well-bred a gentleman to be absolutely rude to anybody,
much less to an attractive young woman. He addressed a few polite
remarks to Miss Stormont, but it was not difficult to see his mind was
elsewhere while he was making them. His presence seemed to have a
rather chilling influence on both young people. Miss Stormont
evidently was affected by it, for, after a very brief interval, she
rose and bade them good night, saying that she must go and look after
her relatives.

The young men smoked together for about half an hour, and during this
time the conversation between them was desultory and fitful. Lydon was
more sure than ever that his friend had something on his mind, but in
spite of their close intimacy he did not venture to question him.
Craig had a chilling manner of repelling confidences which it required
a very callous man to put up with. If he did not think fit to unbosom
himself, wild horses would not drag anything from him. When he had
finished his cigar, he rose and rather abruptly intimated he was going
to bed. Lydon stayed a little longer, thinking of Gloria Stormont and
her exquisite charm, and then followed his example.

In the morning he came down rather late to breakfast, and was
surprised to see the Stormont family in the hall, in the act of
departure. The portly man addressed him in his usual breezy and genial
manner.

“Glad to have a chance of saying good-bye to you. Amongst my letters
this morning, I found one summoning me back to England on urgent
business that brooks no delay. Very pleased to have come across you.
The world is small, I expect we shall meet again some day. Come along,
Maud. Gloria, hurry up.”

There were hasty hand-shakes. Gloria smiled very sweetly and flushed
just a little as she bade him farewell. Lydon felt his spirits sinking
very low at her departure. He went into the dining-room and found
Craig half-way through his breakfast. He imparted the news to his
friend.

Craig made the very briefest comment. “I suppose you will miss her.
You seemed on very good terms when I came upon you last night. Well,
my dear chap, perhaps it is better. A very undesirable family,
although I admit the girl is vastly different from her uncle and that
overdressed aunt.”

Leonard did not make any reply to this unkind speech. He knew his
friend too well. He was not a man of violent likes or dislikes; but
when once he formed an unfavourable opinion of anybody, nothing would
ever alter or modify it. Howard Stormont and his widowed sister were
anathema to him, and anathema they would remain till the end of the
chapter.

They were staying on for the best part of another week, and during
that period the young men were together the greater part of the time.
But on several occasions Craig absented himself for short intervals,
giving no explanation of his movements.

And one day, by the merest chance, Leonard saw him in a side street,
engaged in conversation with a shabby, rather furtive-looking
foreigner. As they were too occupied to notice him, he soon removed
himself from their neighbourhood.

He had come across a few acquaintances at Nice, and Craig a great
many. But this shabby furtive-looking foreigner was not the sort of
companion suitable for the fastidious young diplomatist. Clearly there
was some mystery going on, which his friend was carefully hiding from
him. Probably it might be connected with his diplomatic business, but
Lydon had an uncanny idea that a woman was at the bottom of it,
whatever it was.

Never did he forget that early morning of the day which they had fixed
for their departure. In the evening, Craig had gone out to dinner for
the third time during their stay. Lydon went to the masked ball at the
Casino, and returned early in the morning. He concluded that Craig had
come home and gone to bed, knowing that his friend would not leave the
Casino till late.

He was about to undress when he was called to the telephone by the
police, who gave him alarming news. Would he go at once to the Villa
des Cyclamens at Mont Boron, as his friend Mr. Craig was dangerously
ill?

He had felt a little nettled the last few days by what he considered
Craig’s unfriendly reticence; but when he received this message, all
his old affection for the staunch comrade of so many years returned in
full force. As soon as possible he was at the Villa des Cyclamens of
which he now heard for the first time.




 CHAPTER TWO

Great was his astonishment at finding the pretty villa overlooking
the moonlit Mediterranean in possession of the police, amongst whom he
observed the shabby furtive-looking man whom he had seen talking to
Hugh in the side street of Nice.

The chief official approached him and addressed him in excellent
English. “We sent you a rather guarded message, Mr. Lydon, as we felt
we could break the news better to you when you came here. A very
terrible tragedy has occurred.”

Lydon held his breath. He knew now that the mystery about Hugh Craig’s
frequent disappearance which had so puzzled him was about to be solved
by this bland, courteous official.

“A terrible tragedy?” he faltered. “In Heaven’s name what has
happened?” The man proceeded to explain. “This house is tenanted by a
Madame Makris, a widow. Her husband was a Greek merchant, she is an
Englishwoman. She lived here with her daughter, Mademoiselle Elise
Makris, the only child of the marriage. Mademoiselle and your friend,
Mr. Hugh Craig, were very close friends; according to the mother’s
statement, they were more than friends, very devoted lovers. It seems
a few days ago they had a violent quarrel--I am still quoting Madame
Makris--the cause of which was not divulged. To-night Mr. Craig dined
here, and after dinner he and the young lady went and sat on the
veranda, according to their usual custom on the occasions when he
visited the house.”

Lydon interrupted with a question. “There are only three nights on
which he has dined away from the hotel where we were staying together.
I suppose he paid several day visits?”

“Madame Makris tells me hardly a day has passed that he did not come
here, staying for longer or shorter periods. The young people have
known each other for some five years. Well, the mother upon those
occasions did not intrude herself very much; she left the lovers alone
as much as possible. She followed her usual course this evening,
occupying herself in writing letters and attending to her household
accounts.

“Suddenly she was startled by the sound of shots proceeding from the
veranda where Mr. Craig and her daughter were seated. She rushed
hastily from the room in which she was sitting and was horrified at
the sight which presented itself. Mademoiselle was bleeding from a
wound in the neck. After shooting her, the young man turned the pistol
on himself and sent a bullet through his brain. The young woman was
still alive, Mr. Craig was dead when she reached him. The second shot
had done its work instantaneously.

“Madame Makris at once rang up the police. We came with a doctor and
Mademoiselle was taken to the hospital behind the railway station. For
the unfortunate young man nothing could be done. After Madame had made
her statement to us, we telephoned to you to come up.”

Dazed as he was by the tragic occurrence, Lydon could grasp the fact
that, although Hugh had never breathed to his friend a word of his
secret connection with the denizens of the Villa des Cyclamens, he had
been perfectly frank with them as to his relations with Lydon.
Otherwise, how did Madame Makris know that they were staying together
at the same hotel?

So the volcano which he had always suspected was slumbering under that
placid exterior had suddenly burst into flame with these awful
consequences to Elise Makris and the man himself.

“Can Madame suggest any explanation of this frenzied act?” was Lydon’s
next question.

The courteous official shook his head. “Madame says she knows nothing,
that the whole thing is inexplicable to her.”

“Mademoiselle Makris is in the hospital, you say. Do they give any
hope of her recovery? Is the wound a serious one?”

“Very serious, I am told,” was the reply. “They can pronounce no
definite opinion at the moment. From what I can gather she seems to be
hovering between life and death. Perhaps you would like to see the
body; we have laid it in one of the bedrooms?”

Leonard went to the chamber, and gazed upon the pallid features of the
friend whom he had last seen in full health and strength. As he stood
there, looking down on the rigid form, he felt overcome by the
memories of their long association. They had been intimate so many
years.

A little under the age of fifteen they had foregathered at Harrow,
drawn together by that strange attraction which sometimes unites
totally opposite temperaments. They had gone up form by form in
company. Hugh the mental superior, beating his friend at the last lap
of all, and attaining the proud position of Head of the School. In the
same year they had been put into the cricket eleven and had done
battle against Eton at Lord’s. At Balliol, whither they both
proceeded, the intimacy grew stronger, and here again history repeated
itself. They both represented their University in cricket against
Cambridge, as they had represented Harrow.

And now this life, so full of promise and opportunity, had been
blotted out by his own rash act. And, even more terrible, Hugh Craig
had gone to his last account with the sin of murder, or at least
attempted murder, on his soul. What terrible thing was it that had so
unhinged his mind?

The police had found the pistol clutched firmly in his dead hand. This
fearful deed, then, was not due to some sudden temptation of the
moment. It must have been premeditated or he would not have taken a
loaded weapon with him to this peaceful villa. When Hugh had bade his
friend good-bye, he must have had murder, and afterwards
self-destruction, in his mind.

When the young man had left the death-chamber, he inquired after
Madame Makris, and was informed that she was prostrated with grief, as
was quite natural. He exchanged a few words with the furtive-looking
man whom he had seen talking to Hugh in the side street a short time
ago.

“I saw you together the other day,” he said, “but you did not see me,
and I hastened as quickly as possible out of sight, as I did not wish
to appear to be spying upon my friend. Do you know anything that can
throw light upon this?”

The shabby individual lowered his eyes as he answered. “No, monsieur,
I am sorry to say, nothing. My acquaintance with Monsieur Craig was
very slight.”

If the man was not actually lying, it was obvious there was nothing to
be got out of him. Lydon impatiently asked him if he was one of the
regular police. To this question he replied that he was not, that he
followed the profession of private inquiry agent, as it would be
called in England. That he was naturally in the course of his business
frequently in communication with them, and that having heard of the
terrible tragedy at the Villa, he had begged permission to accompany
them there.

Later on, Lydon put himself into communication with the dead man’s
family, and Hugh’s elder brother came over to Nice at once to
superintend the arrangements. Geoffrey Craig, a rather severe-looking
man, who held a minor Governmental post, was as much bewildered by the
catastrophe as Lydon himself. He had never heard of the Makris family
in connection with his brother.

Hugh Craig was buried in the beautiful English cemetery out beyond the
Magnan, what time the girl whom he had tried to kill was lying between
life and death in the hospital.

Lydon was obliged to defer his departure for a few days in consequence
of these tragic happenings. Before he left he called upon Mrs. Makris,
who was now sufficiently recovered to receive him.

She was a stoutly-built, rather over-dressed woman, with a face which
still showed traces of good looks. He had been told by the police she
was an Englishwoman, and her thoroughly British accent confirmed the
fact. But he had a shrewd suspicion that Jewish blood ran in her
veins.

While he was waiting in the pretty _salon_ of the Villa des Cyclamens
for the unhappy mother, he noticed upon a writing table a gorgeous
carved sapphire made into a pendant, the stone worn upon the
breastplate of the High Priest of the Hebrews as the sign of Issachar.
He rather marvelled that such a valuable article was allowed to lie
there. In the distraction occasioned by the tragedy, it was of course
possible that neither Madame Makris nor any other member of the
household had heeded it.

The Jewish-looking woman bore upon her still good-looking face the
deep traces of her grief. When Lydon murmured a few words of sympathy,
the ready tears fell immediately.

“My darling Elise was all the world to me; we were devoted to each
other,” she said in a broken voice. “And this state of suspense is
awful. Two whole days have passed, and still they are not certain
whether she will live or die.”

Lydon again expressed his deep sympathy. “I have been very terribly
shocked too, although I cannot for a moment pretend to compare my
feelings with yours. Hugh Craig and I have been friends from boyhood,
and I should have judged him the last man in the world to have given
way to such an awful impulse. Have you no inkling of the cause which
led to such an unexpected catastrophe?”

Madame Makris shook her head, a head covered with thick dark hair in
which there was not a trace of grey, in spite of her years, which
might have been anything from forty-five to fifty.

“Not the slightest, Mr. Lydon. There had been some disagreement
between them a little time previously, for I discovered my poor girl
in tears after he had left. I pressed her to tell me the reason of her
agitation, but she parried all my efforts to extract the truth from
her. She assured me it was quite a trifling matter, and that she would
not have been affected by it, except for the fact that she was in low
spirits.”

“May I ask, madame, if they had known each other for long?”

“Some few years,” was the answer. “There was no regular engagement
between them, but it was understood that they would marry as soon as
they could. Elise was always rather reticent on the subject, but I
gathered that there was some difficulty in the way with regard to Mr.
Craig’s family. It was a very old and honourable one, and it was
expected of him that when he did marry he would choose somebody of his
own order. We are, of course, quite middle-class people, and by no
means wealthy. My husband was a merchant.”

Lydon pointed to the writing-table. “That is rather a valuable thing
to leave lying about, if I may say so, madam.”

The dark-haired woman looked at it with an air of indifference. “I had
forgotten it in the preoccupation of my great trouble. It belongs to
Elise. Her uncle, Monsieur Lianas, gave it to her on her twenty-first
birthday. She was wearing it when the tragedy occurred. I only brought
it back from the hospital this morning, and heedlessly laid it down
there. But you are quite right; it is too valuable to be left lying
about. I will lock it up directly. Heaven knows if my poor child will
ever wear it again,” she concluded with a burst of tears.

Leonard went back to England the next day, very sad at heart at the
loss of his lifelong friend. He pondered much over the meagre
information that Madame Makris had given him. The young people had
known each other for some years. There had been no formal engagement
between them, but it was an understood thing they were to be married
as soon as they were in a position to do so.

And during those years, although they had met so frequently, Craig had
never dropped a word about Elise or her mother to his friend. So
strange a silence passed beyond the bounds of ordinary reticence.
There must be some reason for it, most likely some mystery behind it.
He could quite understand that Hugh might find some difficulty in
reconciling his family to his marriage with a foreigner of no
particular position. But it was strange that a man should be in love
and never say anything about it to his closest friend.

As was natural under such painful circumstances, his thoughts of
Gloria Stormont had been temporarily pushed into the background; but
after a little, when the first violence of the shock had passed away,
her charming image again recurred to him.

What a beautiful girl she was, and how delightfully unaffected! Was it
likely he would ever come across her again? Her uncle had spoken of it
as a probability when he remarked that after all the world was a small
place.

And a fortnight later, Howard Stormont’s prophecy was fulfilled. Lydon
suddenly made up his mind to run down for a week-end to the
_Metropole_ at Brighton. As he ascended the steps of the well-known
hotel about an hour before dinner-time, the first person he
encountered in the vestibule was the genial Stormont, looking more
prosperous and rubicund than ever.

Nothing could have been more hearty than the greeting Lydon received.

“Well met, my dear fellow, glad to see you. I said it would not be
long before we ran across each other again. My sister and Gloria are
with me. Are you alone? Good, you must join our table. Well, as soon
as you have settled about your room, let us celebrate the occasion
with a cocktail. Good old _Metropole_, you can’t beat it. I’m not very
busy just now, so we’re here for a week. My sister is a bit run down,
and the sea breezes will set her up.”

What a good-hearted fellow he was, Lydon thought. Gloria had said of
him he was one of the kindest and most generous of men. Over their
cocktails the young man told him of the tragic happenings at the Villa
des Cyclamens. But Stormont had read it in the papers. Of course it
was impossible that anything could be kept quiet in the case of a man
of Hugh Craig’s position.

“A very mysterious affair, and I suppose nobody will ever know the
rights of it,” he remarked when Leonard had communicated all the
details he knew, which, as we know, were somewhat meagre. “Well, I
cannot say I ever took very kindly to your poor friend, for the reason
probably that he took very little pains to conceal his dislike of me.
But it is a terrible ending to a promising career. I suppose, in the
course of time, he would have ended up as an ambassador. The Clandon
family have a knack of falling into soft jobs. Now, you won’t see the
womenfolk before dinner, as they are in their rooms, and I shan’t
mention I have met you. When you walk up to our table it will be a
pleasant surprise for them. We all took a great fancy to you at Nice.”

The young man had no reason to complain of his welcome at the hands of
the two ladies when he met them at dinner. Mrs. Barnard told him it
was a most agreeable surprise, and although Gloria did not make
flattering speeches, she flushed prettily and her eyes looked very
bright when she shook hands with him.

They spent a very delightful evening together. Early the next morning
Stormont expressed his intention of taking his sister a long motor
drive, with a view of getting as much fresh air as possible; they
would be back to luncheon.

“You two young people can do what you like with yourselves,” he said
gaily. Certainly, he was a most complaisant person. Lydon was rather
surprised that he should throw them into each other’s society like
this. Surely he must have ambitious views for his niece’s future. And
he could not help wondering what it was his friend Hugh had seen in
the man which made him dislike him so intensely. Little vulgarisms in
speech and manner peeped out now and again, but surely those were not
enough to account for such a fierce aversion, more especially as
Craig, in spite of his aristocratic lineage, was rather a democratic
sort of fellow at heart, and a thorough cosmopolitan.

The two, thus dismissed to their own resources, went on to the West
Pier, where they sat for some little time, then they walked up and
down the Parade for a couple of hours, till it was time to return to
the hotel. During these happy and precious moments Leonard felt that
he was making great headway with the charming girl. She talked to him
with as much freedom as if they had been friends of old standing. She
told him all about her uncle’s place, Effington Hall, and of her mode
of life there. According to her account, it was a very beautiful
place, with lovely gardens, and the rather commonplace-looking Howard
Stormont appeared to dwell in great luxury, with a large retinue of
servants. As he listened, he wondered if he would ever be asked to
join the numerous company which the owner invited there.

Stormont did not seem to mind his enjoying the girl’s society on a
casual visit to the seaside, but would he draw the line at the
familiarity born of a long stay in a country house? Had he been in the
uncle’s place, he was inclined to think he would.

His visit did not terminate with the week-end. He stayed on another
couple of days, being pressed to do so by Stormont himself during this
extension of time. The brother and sister left the young couple very
much to themselves, and Lydon made splendid running with Gloria. So
much so that, before he left, she had promised to run up to town from
Effington soon after they returned there, and lunch with him in town.

Lydon had suggested it with rather a shamefaced air. “I don’t feel I
have the cheek to ask you in front of your uncle and aunt after such a
short acquaintance,” he explained. “I expect they would think it
confounded impertinence on my part.”

Gloria had blushed very becomingly when she answered him. “Well, one
cannot be quite sure. They are pretty modern, considering all things,
but perhaps not quite so modern as you and I. I often run up to shop;
it is really no distance from London. I will give you good notice when
I am coming, and I can tell them about it later when we have all got
to know each other better.”

Lydon went back to London very delighted that the girl liked him well
enough to take the bold course of meeting him secretly. In due course,
when he went in to breakfast in his comfortable chambers at Ryder
Street, he found the expected note from Miss Stormont appointing two
days later for their luncheon.

There was another letter from the well-known firm of Shelford &
Taylor, solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, asking him to give them a
call, as they wished to hand him a communication from one of their
clients.

He knew these people had attended to the affairs of most of the
members of the Clandon family, Hugh included. Greatly wondering, he
called on them that morning, and was received by the head of the firm,
who handed him a bulky letter.

“This was received from our client, and your friend, the Honourable
Hugh Craig, very shortly after the terrible tragedy, with instructions
to hand it to you after the lapse of a certain period which has now
expired. I am filled with curiosity to know if this letter, dispatched
to us on the morning of the day on which this awful thing occurred,
throws any light upon the affair.”

Leonard read slowly through the long communication, and, laying it
down, met the inquiring gaze of the solicitor.

“Yes,” he said, in a sad voice. “This reveals the motives which
impelled him to attempt the life of Elise Makris, and make an end of
his own. I will tell you.”




 CHAPTER THREE

“First, I will read you the opening sentences of the letter,” said
Leonard. And this is what he read:


 “To you, my very dear friend, whose friendship has been one of the
 most pleasurable things in my life, to the memories of which I look
 back with a feeling of great tenderness as I pen these lines, the last
 I shall ever write upon earth, I reveal the secret of the tragedy
 which will shortly take place. In Nice the affair will, naturally, be
 a nine days’ wonder. Nice, this fair and lovely city of aristocratic
 crookdom, where vice and virtue rub shoulders at every hour of the
 twenty-four, and where the cleverest criminals of the world congregate
 in the pursuit of their nefarious calling! Nice, where I first met the
 only woman who ever stirred my pulses, who made me realize the meaning
 of ardent, overmastering love! When you read these words, perhaps you
 will smile at the idea of the cautious diplomatist, the rather cynical
 young man of the world, confessing to being violently in love. But it
 is the truth. I had passed unscathed up to a few years ago,
 indifferent to the charms of the many beautiful women I had met in my
 own country and elsewhere, until I made the acquaintance of Elise
 Makris. Then suddenly I realized, poor fool as I was, that I had found
 my ideal. To me she stood for the perfection of womanhood.

 “To-night I am going to kill her, because she has betrayed my faith in
 her, because I have proved she is base and unworthy. And when I have
 accomplished this justifiable vengeance, there is nothing left for me
 but to end my own life. By the time you receive this letter the nine
 days’ wonder will have died out, and the memory of Hugh Craig will
 only linger in the hearts of one or two faithful friends like
 yourself. The details I am about to relate will not interest the
 world, but you are at perfect liberty to communicate them to anybody
 you think it may concern.”


“As you are such an old and confidential friend of the Clandon family,
Mr. Shelford,” said the young man when he had finished reading this
preliminary portion of the letter, “I feel quite justified in reading
to you what my poor, unfortunate friend has disclosed to me.”

From the astounding narrative to which Mr. Shelford listened, he
learned the following remarkable facts: Mrs. Makris, the mother of
Elise, a very beautiful young woman, had posed, ever since Craig knew
her, as the widow of a Greek merchant who had left her comfortably
off. Her late husband’s fortune was settled upon her for life, she
told him, and her daughter would inherit it at her death.

It was on Craig’s last visit to Nice, and then only towards the end of
it, that his suspicions concerning the truth of her story were
aroused. Elise had addressed to him by mistake a letter intended for
somebody else, a letter of a most suspicious character, betraying her
acquaintance with a very questionable set of people. When he asked her
for an explanation, her replies were evasive and unsatisfactory, so
much so that he at once came to the conclusion that both the girl and
her mother were quite different from what they seemed.

He did not at once break off with her, wishing to test the truth of
his suspicions. For this purpose he secured the services of a private
inquiry agent, without doubt the shabby furtive-looking man to whom
Leonard had seen him talking in that quiet side street.

This man soon discovered the horrible fact that both the woman and her
daughter were connected with a well-known gang of international
crooks. Elise, with her beauty and charm, was one of their most useful
decoys, and under another name had served a term of imprisonment a
short time before Craig had made her acquaintance. The woman Makris
had never been married, so he alleged; the girl was her illegitimate
daughter, the father having been a member of the same gang. To the
young man, whose affections she had captured, Elise had represented
herself as a model of simplicity and purity. As they did not see each
other very frequently, it was the more easy for her to maintain the
double rôle of sweetheart to him and the clever decoy of these
unscrupulous scoundrels. But for her own carelessness in putting the
wrong letter into the envelope directed to him, Craig had made up his
mind to marry her privately and tell his family afterwards.

“A most astounding story,” was the remark of the shrewd and
experienced lawyer when the narrative was finished. “Poor fellow, one
cannot but pity him in spite of the fact that he took the law into his
own hands. The discovery of her baseness must have overthrown his
reason. How deceptive are appearances. One would have judged him the
last man in the world to be swayed by violent passions. Clearly the
mind must have given way under the shock.”

“There are some rather obscure hints that he had been subjected to
blackmail, and that through this man he employed, he was able to trace
it to her agency. That of course would have a maddening effect upon
any man in a similar position.”

Mr. Sheldon knitted his brows. “I wish he had been a little more
explicit on that point. We do not know whether this girl is alive or
dead. When Hugh’s brother left Nice, she was hovering between life and
death in the hospital to which they had taken her. If she has
recovered, I should very much like to find the young woman, although
it doesn’t appear that it would serve any very useful purpose if I
did.”

Lydon also expressed his wish that, if she had escaped her lover’s
vengeance, Elise Makris, the decoy of blackmailers, should be found.
Mr. Shelford promised to instruct his agent in Nice to make inquiries
at once.

The tragedy had cast a deep shadow over Lydon. Even the prospect of
meeting again with Gloria Stormont could not restore him to his old
cheerfulness, nor blot out the memory of those sinister happenings at
the peaceful-looking Villa des Cyclamens.

Gloria looked very charming and radiant when she arrived at Waterloo
Station, where Leonard was awaiting her.

“It was a little indiscreet of us to arrange meeting here,” she said
with a blush as they shook hands. “Somebody who knew me might have
travelled in the same train; that would have been awkward. It was
silly of me to overlook that.”

“And equally silly on my part,” replied the young man. “Well, on a
future occasion, we must avoid a similar mistake. Well, now about
lunch. I was going to suggest the _Berkeley_ or the _Savoy_. But
perhaps we had better get off the beaten track?”

Miss Stormont agreed. Several people she knew frequented both these
popular places. They finally went to a excellent restaurant in the
Strand.

They had a very enjoyable time together. There was not a trace of
coquetry about her, but she seemed to envisage the situation with
perfect frankness. If Lydon had not been attracted by her, he would
not have asked her to lunch. If she had not been equally attracted by
him, she would not have accepted his invitation. They might therefore
take for granted the fact of their mutual attraction, and not pretend
an embarrassment they did not feel.

When they parted, and he pressed for another meeting, she consented
quite readily, adding, “I hope, however, we shall not have to keep up
this _sub-rosa_ business very long. Uncle was speaking last night of
you and saying how much he liked you. You can guess how difficult it
was to keep myself from blushing. I suggested that as he liked you so
much, why did he not ask you to pay a visit? He did not exactly adopt
the suggestion at once, but I’m sure the idea is germinating in his
mind and will presently blossom forth.”

Lydon looked the delight he felt. “So you think I may receive a formal
invitation to go down to Effington. That would be very pleasant. In
the meantime our engagement for next week holds good.”

“Most certainly,” was the girl’s unaffected answer. He put her in a
taxi and directed the driver to take her to Waterloo Station. It was
not safe for him to go with her, much as he would have liked to do so.
At this hour of the day some of the early birds might be returning
home, and at this stage of the proceedings it was not politic for Miss
Stormont to be seen by any of her neighbours in the company of a
good-looking young man.

The next week when he met her, almost the first words she said were,
“Have you heard from Uncle Howard?”

He answered that he had not, and she proceeded to explain: “Well, the
idea has blossomed. Two days ago at breakfast, he announced solemnly
to auntie and myself that he was going to write to you at the address
in Ryder Street you gave him, and ask you down for a week-end. To-day
is Wednesday; you ought to have had the letter by now. But perhaps he
didn’t intend to ask you for this week-end but the next. Uncle is very
impetuous in some things but slow-moving in others. And if it is for
the following week, naturally he wouldn’t be in a hurry.”

It was, however, this week-end that the genial Stormont had fixed in
his mind. When Lydon went home that night the precious letter was
awaiting him, having arrived by a midday post. If Mr. Lydon had no
previous engagement, would he spend next Saturday to Monday, or, if
possible, Tuesday, at Effington? If so, Stormont would meet him at
Waterloo by a certain train and they would go down together.

Of course, he sent an immediate reply. So, at last, he was made free
of Effington; he would see his beloved Gloria in her own home, and be
able to feast his eyes upon her for several hours. If Howard Stormont
was as unconventional as his appearance and manners proclaimed, there
would be an end of the _sub-rosa_ meetings. In these advanced days,
when the chaperone is nearly as extinct as the dodo, he would be able
to ask her openly to lunch with him when she came up to London to do
her shopping. It was a great step gained.

On the Friday before his visit, he had a summons from Shelford, the
solicitor, who had heard from his agent in Nice.

Elise Makris was alive, wonderful to relate. For some days the doctors
had entertained little or no hope. Then suddenly the tide had turned,
and she had made a remarkable rally. Three days before Shelford’s
letter of instructions reached Nice, she had been discharged from the
hospital, still somewhat weak, but in no danger of a relapse. She had
returned to the Villa des Cyclamens, which on the next day was
evacuated. Madame Makris had paid up all she owed, and she and her
daughter had gone away, nobody knew whither.

The agent had made some inquiries of the police, and had also found
out the man employed by Craig in his researches into the past of the
girl whom he had so passionately loved and found so unworthy. He
gathered that she and her mother were members of a big organization
belonging to the exclusive circles of what might be called
aristocratic crookdom. Many of the subordinates were known to the
guardians of the law under different aliases, Madame Makris, a very
old offender, and her daughter being amongst them. But the chiefs of
the gang, the daring spirits who engineered the great coups, remained
in seclusion, men not only of great ability, but possibly of
considerable wealth. They never came out into the open, and nobody
could lay hands on them.

So Elise Makris, after that lucky escape from her enraged lover’s
bullet, had disappeared where, in all human probability, no friend of
Hugh would ever be able to find her. She and her mother had no doubt
gone to another country, and would conceal their identity under other
names. That of Makris had been made too public by recent events.

The only description Lydon had of her was a somewhat indefinite one,
taken from the _Phare du Littoral_, the Nice daily newspaper. There
were, however, two clues still remaining, if ever he should chance to
be thrown into contact with her. She would carry to her grave the mark
of her dead lover’s bullet; no surgery could obliterate that. And she
would wear that remarkable carved sapphire pendant which her mother
declared she always carried about with her as a mascot. By those signs
he would recognize Elise Makris under whatever alias she chose to
masquerade.

“That seems to close the chapter,” remarked Mr. Shelford, when he had
imparted all that he had learned from his agent. “A terrible blow to
the Clandon family. I saw his brother yesterday; he tells me the old
people are prostrated with grief. That a man of the promise of Hugh
Craig, with a brilliant future stretching in front of him, should have
sought to imbrue his hands in the blood of such a shameless creature!
It passes comprehension.”

On the Saturday morning Lydon met Stormont at Waterloo Station, and
they travelled down to Guildford together by an early train. At
Guildford they were met by a splendid Rolls-Royce car driven by one of
the smartest of chauffeurs. Profiteer or not, as the case might be,
Howard Stormont knew how to do things properly.

They went through a few miles of the beautiful Surrey country, till
they came to some big open lodge gates. Passing through these, they
drove up a broad avenue, shadowed by some splendid trees which would
look magnificent later on in their summer raiment, and drew up before
the low picturesque house.

The coming of the car had been heard evidently, for the hall door
stood wide open to receive the owner and his guest. Behind the
decorous form of the stately white-haired butler, Duncan, appeared the
gaily-apparelled Mrs. Barnard, and the slim exquisite figure of the
smiling Gloria.

Stormont sprang out of the car and grasped Leonard’s hand in a hearty
grip. “Welcome, my dear boy, to Effington,” he said in his loud,
ringing voice.




 CHAPTER FOUR

There was a big dinner party in the evening, somewhat to Leonard’s
disappointment. He had hoped they would have spent the first night by
themselves, so that he would have an opportunity of appropriating more
or less the charming Gloria. Instead of this, she would be lost to him
amidst a crowd.

Perhaps it was Howard Stormont’s way of impressing a new guest. Craig
had always said the man was a vulgarian at heart, and that the
vulgarity was always peeping through the thin veneer of a
lately-acquired refinement. Lydon was far from prepared to go this
length, but he did wish his host had avoided so much ostentation the
first time he sat at his table.

The house was run on very magnificent lines, and the rather
overpowering sense of wealth depressed him a little. In spite of her
frank and unaffected manners, it made Gloria seem very far away from
him. Even if she reciprocated his feelings, how could he dare to think
of taking her from such a splendid home as this to share his own very
moderate fortunes?

There were about a dozen people to dinner besides himself and the
Stormonts. The white-haired Duncan was assisted by four footmen. The
majority of the guests were neighbours, a few obviously with the stamp
of the county on them. Two married couples were London friends and had
come down to dine and stay the week-end like Lydon himself. The dinner
was a very lengthy affair, exquisitely cooked and served with the
utmost elegance. The wines and liqueurs were of unexceptionable
quality.

Lydon’s father, probably a man of greater wealth than Stormont, had
lived in much the same profuse style. But Leonard had not seen a great
deal of it; he had been away from home so much. His own tastes were
very simple, and he had no hankerings after luxury.

To judge by Howard Stormont’s beaming countenance, as he sat at his
end of the table, with a rather severe-looking “county” lady on his
right, he seemed to revel in it. Lydon did not think for a moment that
the man had been born to it; from many little signs he could deduce
the contrary. But possibly he was one of those ambitious souls to whom
magnificent surroundings seem a quite commonplace part of their
environment. What to Lydon seemed ostentation only appeared to the
other ordinary comfort.

And what about Gloria? Was all this wealth and luxury, these dainty,
never-ending dishes, this army of deftly-trained servants an absolute
necessity of her well-being, as it seemed to that of her uncle and the
richly-dressed Mrs. Barnard, who beamed as benignly on their guests as
her portly and rubicund brother?

Well, he did not know enough of her yet to decide. All he did know was
that she looked very beautiful in some soft shimmering fabric that
displayed to perfection the ivory white of her well-poised neck and
rounded arms. Now and then he caught a kindly glance, speaking of more
than ordinary acquaintance, from the soft, pretty blue eyes. Now and
again he caught her low, sweet laugh at some remark of her neighbour.

Lydon had for his partner one of the county people, a young married
woman, Mrs. Lycett, not very remarkable for good looks, but very
lively and voluble. He learned afterwards that she was a very
important person in her set, by reason of her various accomplishments.
She was a keen and prominent golfer, a daring and fearless rider to
hounds, an adept at every kind of sport.

As Lydon was no mean sportsman himself, he got on very well with this
voluble person, who chattered away to him about her prowess. But all
the same, Mrs. Lycett, with her vivid account of her feats in so many
departments of sport, could not make up to him for Gloria. She was an
athletic girl too, but she had not that slight touch of the masculine
which rather disfigured Mrs. Lycett, and, above all, Gloria did not
boast about her achievements. She was so distinctly feminine and
lovable. Long before the protracted meal was over, Leonard found
himself growing more than a little weary. He had not bargained for
being thrust so suddenly into a crowd of absolute strangers. He looked
back with pleasure on his two _sub-rosa_ meetings with the beautiful
girl, whose glance he only occasionally met across the big
dinner-table.

After dinner the men sat for a little time to smoke a cigarette and
then joined the ladies. Soon the large party split up into groups.
Some went to the billiard-room, most sat down to bridge. A few
clustered round the piano, where Gloria sang some very charming songs
in a well-trained voice. Lydon joined this particular group, not
because he was so keen on music, but from a desire to be as near to
Gloria as possible.

At a fairly early hour in the evening, carriages were announced, and
the neighbours departed, almost in a body. Only the house party was
left, and after a little while the ladies took their candles, and the
men adjourned to the smoking-room, a handsome apartment decorated in
the Moorish style, for a final chat. The two visitors from London were
elderly men, contemporaries of the host, and their conversation was
chiefly about general topics in which the three were interested.

The next day, Sunday, was, on the whole, quite enjoyable. Everybody
except one of the London men went to church in the morning. In the
afternoon, Leonard, to his great delight, got Gloria to himself, and
they went for a long walk from after lunch till close upon tea-time.
No other guests were present at dinner, for which the young man was
very grateful. The elderly people gravitated naturally to each other,
and left the young couple very much to themselves.

They carried on a low-toned conversation at the far end of the big
drawing-room. In the course of it, Leonard suggested they should soon
have another lunch in town, Gloria was quite willing. “I think you can
suggest it quite openly now,” she said. “As a matter of fact, you can
include auntie if you like, but she will be quite certain to refuse.
She has so many interests at Effington and she so loves the place,
that it is difficult to drag her up to London except when she wants
new clothes. And really you might pay Uncle Howard the compliment
also, and, ten to one, the result would be the same. He takes a good
many holidays, but when he does go to his business he works like a
horse, so at least he tells us, and has no time for frivolity.”

“Works hard and plays hard,” remarked Lydon. “So far as I can judge
from my short stay here, he seems to revel in the good things of
life.”

Miss Stormont smiled. “You have judged him quite accurately. My dear
old uncle is a perfect sybarite, a crumpled rose-leaf in his bed would
disturb him acutely. He likes the best of everything, ‘the best that
money can buy,’ as he puts it in his rather blunt fashion. The most
perfect food, the choicest cigars, the rarest wines. Of course he has
to dine out here a good deal, as he cannot affront his neighbours by
refusing. But the dear man really prefers entertaining to being
entertained.”

“When he entertains, he is sure of the quality, eh? He knows he won’t
be put off with the second best,” laughed Lydon. “Away from home he
might get an inferior vintage or an inferior cigar.”

“I am afraid he has that idea at the back of his mind,” admitted his
niece.

“Well, if he should accept my invitation to lunch, I will take him to
my best club and allow him to order the luncheon,” said Lydon,
speaking in the same light spirit. “Well, what about Mrs. Barnard? Is
she a sybarite like her brother?”

“Not in the least. Like me, her individual tastes are very simple, she
likes moderate comfort, but she has no hankering after luxury. She is
a frightfully energetic woman, busies herself in everything going on
in the neighbourhood, local charities and so forth, and writes letters
by the score. She would die of _ennui_ if her hands were not fully
occupied. And, of course, at her time of life, sport has no attraction
for her. She is rather devoted to bridge, but she never plays it till
the evening.”

Lydon was very pleased to hear that Gloria had simple tastes, that
luxury was not essential to her. Presently he said to her: “Do you
know, I have got a little whim that I should like to have just another
of those quiet little meetings before we take the others into our
confidence. I wonder if you would very much mind?”

Miss Stormont had one very delightful feminine trait, she was always
ready to admit the supremacy of the sterner sex, and give way to them
wherever it was consistent with her own dignity.

“If you very much wish it, I don’t mind in the least,” she answered
sweetly. “But I would like to know the reason of this whim.”

“I am afraid I cannot give a very lucid explanation,” said the young
man rather lamely. “Somehow, I seem to like you in a somewhat less
gorgeous setting than this. You are housed like a Princess.”

She looked at him with comprehending eyes. “Does it oppress you just a
little bit, this--this magnificence?” she asked.

“A tiny bit, I must confess,” he admitted, admiring her quickness.

She looked thoughtful. “I had rather the same feeling when I first
came to live with my uncle. My father has a good position in China,
but he is not of course a rich man, and our life out there was quite
simple compared to this. I am rather surprised though about you. From
what I am told, your father was quite a wealthy man, uncle says, much
richer than himself. You must have been used to it all your life.”

“Not quite. All the time we children were at school--and my dear
father gave us the best of educations, he thought that was the most
priceless asset a man could bestow upon his offspring--our home was
conducted upon a comfortable but perfectly modest scale. It was not
till after I left Oxford that he launched out into something like
this. And during those very fat years I was seldom at home. So I had
really no time to grow in love with luxury.”

“I don’t know that I am really in love with it. I mean it would cause
me no pain to descend to a much lower standard of living. But to uncle
all this is the breath of his nostrils; he is naturally one of the
most reckless and extravagant of men. He scatters money with an
absolutely lavish hand. I am sure that auntie, who, of course, knows
more about his affairs than I do, is often frightfully worried about
it. She has often tried to dissuade him from some contemplated
extravagance, but to no purpose.”

These remarks gave rise to a new train of thought in Lydon’s mind.
Were things quite satisfactory at Effington? Was this army of servants
of all descriptions, footmen, gardeners and chauffeurs, perfectly
justifiable? If Howard Stormont was living within his income, why
should his sister be worried? Was the man one of those you so often
meet with, who can make money but cannot hold it? Was he living up to
the hilt, and might some sudden turn of fortune’s wheel bring him
headlong to the ground? He would have liked to question Gloria a
little closely on the subject, but their acquaintance was too recent
for him to take such a liberty. No doubt he would learn more later on.

But if it was the fact that, in his selfish desire for luxury, he was
spending money as fast as he made it, and putting by nothing for a
rainy day, something that had puzzled Lydon became easily capable of
explanation. In this case, Gloria would not be an heiress, and her
uncle had not formed any grandiose plans for her future. He would be
content if she could marry a man who would keep her comfortably, and
not expect any fortune with her.

And, as a result of this hypothesis, Howard Stormont fell distinctly
in his estimation. He was simply living for his own gratification,
oblivious of those he left behind; in Lydon’s opinion, the most
contemptible conduct any man could be capable of.

On Monday morning the two elderly couples departed. The young man
would have gone also, but on the Sunday night Stormont took him on one
side and pressed him to stop another day, if his business engagements
would permit.

“I very rarely go up on a Monday myself, unless there is something
very urgent,” he had said. “And, at my age, I think I may be permitted
to allow myself a little latitude. I simply love pottering about this
dear old place; although I have had it for some time now, it is still
a new toy to me, after being pent up in cities nearly the whole of my
working life. Stop till Tuesday morning, and we will go up together.”

Lydon, nothing loath, agreed to the pleasing proposition. The Monday
was the happiest day of his visit. Soon after breakfast Stormont went
off on his own. Mrs. Barnard was fully occupied during the morning and
afternoon, and he had Gloria practically to himself until it was time
to dress for dinner.

That evening in the smoking-room Lydon told his host what Hugh had
disclosed in that letter which the solicitor, Shelford, had handed to
him. He fancied that Stormont did not take very much interest in the
matter. This, however, was hardly to be wondered at, as Hugh had
always treated the man with a certain _hauteur_ which he could not
have helped observing, had he been a much less intelligent person than
he was. When the story was finished, Lydon learned a piece of the
Clandon family history that was unknown to him.

“A very remarkable family, the Clandons; I know a little about them,”
he remarked.

It was by no means the first time the young man had noticed that
Stormont always seemed to know a good deal about everybody who was of
any importance in the world. According to what Gloria had let drop, he
knew that Lydon’s father had been a man of considerable wealth. He
rather wondered where this information was procured. Stormont of
course knew a great many people about Effington, but so much gossip of
the big world would hardly filter there. He had never heard him speak
of numerous acquaintances in London, and so far as Leonard knew, he
did not belong to any London club, a circumstance which in a man of
his apparent wealth seemed rather peculiar.

“A very remarkable family, the Clandons,” repeated the genial,
rubicund man. “Remarkable in this respect, that for some generations
they have transmitted to their descendants a very high order of
intelligence. They have never produced any first-class brains, it is
true. They have never boasted a Prime Minister, a great general, a
distinguished lawyer, but several of them have filled second and
third-rate posts with some distinction. This poor chap who killed
himself after trying to murder the girl, for example. I don’t suppose
he would have been a Stratford de Redcliffe, or a von Bieberstein, but
he would no doubt have developed into a quite respectable diplomatist
of the average order.”

It hurt Lydon to hear him speak of his old friend in such a slighting
manner. But Hugh had certainly taken no pains to conceal his dislike
of “the aggressive profiteer,” and Stormont was human. The next words
startled him greatly.

“Well, as I told you, I know some things about the Clandon family, one
a fact not at all generally known. By the light of that knowledge,
your friend’s act can be accounted for. There was insanity on both
sides, the mother’s and the father’s.”

“You astound me,” cried Lydon in genuine amazement. “I never had a
suspicion of this. But then how should I have? Even if Hugh was
acquainted with the fact, which it is more than likely he was, he
would scarcely reveal it even to his best friend.”

“Quite so,” assented Stormont. “Men don’t speak of these painful
things as a rule. But you can rest assured that what I have told you
is quite true. The uncle of the present holder of the title, Hugh
Craig’s father, a man of good fortune, endowed with all the blessings
of life, cut his throat in his bath one morning without any apparent
reason or motive; this man’s sister, Lord Clandon’s aunt, died a
raving lunatic. On the mother’s side, Lady Clandon has a younger
brother who has been in a private asylum for the last twenty-five
years. It is not generally known outside the family. My sources of
information happened to be rather exclusive. So you see the taint
suddenly developed in this poor chap as soon as he got an overpowering
shock.”

So the family history accounted for poor Hugh’s sudden aberration. The
mysterious malady of madness that sometimes passes a whole generation,
to break out with virulence in the next one!

On the Tuesday morning Leonard travelled up with his host. They parted
at Waterloo Station, as Stormont said his offices were in the City,
while those of Leonard were in Victoria Street. The young man was
warmly pressed to pay another visit to Effington at an early date.

Obviously this genial uncle was not going to put any obstacle in the
way of increased intimacy between the young people. The very
significant facts admitted by Gloria seemed to solve what might
otherwise have proved a puzzling problem. Mr. Howard Stormont had
apparently made up his mind to live for the day, and to say with the
French monarch, “Après moi le déluge.”

A few days later he met Gloria at the luncheon which she had agreed
should be a secret one. She was very sweet and amiable, but evidently
her conscience pricked her, for when they parted she told him firmly
it must be the last under such conditions.

“There is really no longer any necessity for it,” she said. “Uncle
likes you very much, and he has now made you free of Effington. If he
disapproved of our friendship, he would not ask you to his home.”

“You are quite right,” admitted Lydon. “It was a foolish sort of whim
of mine. I could not quite get it out of my mind that if I took such a
liberty with the niece of the owner of such a splendid place as
Effington Hall, he would send me to the right-about.”

Gloria laughed, told him that he seemed an exceedingly modest young
man, and hoped he would always remain so. It was evident that Stormont
desired his friendship, for on the following Friday he rang him up,
and inquired if he would go down with him to Effington the next day.

Of course, the young man was only too pleased to go. He had not
ventured to hope that he would see Gloria again so soon. Stormont was
at the station awaiting him, and with him was a tall, thin man of
about the same age as himself, whom he introduced as Mr. Whitehouse.
This gentleman was a quiet, reserved sort of person, and Lydon did not
feel particularly attracted to him. Stormont added an explanation that
they were very old friends, and did a good deal of business together.
As he said this, Leonard remembered that he had never heard the nature
of Stormont’s business either from himself or his niece.

This visit was quite a different one from the last. No big dinner
party at night with the army of well-trained servants in attendance;
just a cosy meal in a smaller apartment, half morning-room, half
dining-room. Mr. Whitehouse seemed well known to the household, but he
was not by any means a great talker. Probably he had come down to
discuss business matters with his host.

After dinner the two elder men retired to Stormont’s study. Lydon went
with the ladies into the drawing-room, Stormont excusing his absence
with the genial remark that they were treating him as one of the
family.

After Gloria had played and sung a little, she proposed that they
should adjourn for billiards, a game at which she was no mean
performer. The billiard-room was next to Stormont’s study, the door of
which was open, and as they went in Lydon heard these words uttered in
Whitehouse’s rather deep voice:

“Yes, it is most unfortunate that the thing should have happened at
the moment it did. She is absolutely essential to this particular
scheme. We can’t start it without her.”

These words made the young man wonder a good deal. What possible
business could it be, to the prosecution of which a certain woman was
essential?




 CHAPTER FIVE

He had always felt curious on the subject of Stormont’s business,
one which evidently brought him in a large income, for how otherwise
could he have maintained the upkeep of such an expensive place as
Effington. It was strange, too, that the man had never made any
allusion to it himself, more especially as he did not appear to be of
a reticent or secretive nature. With the majority of persons it is not
necessary to know them for very long before they let drop something
that proclaims their occupation.

He had told the Stormonts all about himself on the occasion of his
second meeting with them at Brighton, without any reserve. If he had
foregathered more intimately with them at Nice, he would have told
them then. Even with such a very reticent man as Craig, you could not
have been in his society for a few hours without learning that he was
a member of the diplomatic corps. It certainly was odd that Stormont
never dropped a remark that enabled you to fix his occupation. He
occasionally spoke of himself as a business man, and that was all.

To carry on any sort of business, he must have an office or offices
somewhere, and presumably they were in London. But Stormont had never
given him the address. Only once, when they had travelled together up
to London and parted at Waterloo, he had mentioned that he was bound
for the City, a sufficiently vague definition.

Those words he had overheard uttered by the man Whitehouse aggravated
the curiosity he had for long felt on the subject since he had become
so intimately acquainted with the family.

Very delicately he questioned Gloria as they proceeded with their game
in the billiard-room.

“I suppose business does not take up all your uncle’s time? He spends
a good deal of it in this delightful place,” he said.

There was not the slightest hesitation in the girl’s reply. He had
long ago made up his mind that everything about Gloria Stormont was
open and above-board. How frank she had been about herself, and her
youthful days in China with her father and mother.

“I shouldn’t say he went up to London more than three days a week on
an average; his heart has been wrapt up in Effington ever since he
bought it from young Sedgemere a few years ago. When we lived in
London itself, he used to work much harder.”

“Oh, you lived in London before you came here,” said Leonard, who
learned this fact for the first time. Certainly Stormont was a very
reticent fellow about strictly personal matters. He had never made any
allusion to a previous home which, from his intense fondness for rural
life, the young man fancied might have been in the country.

“Yes, we had a dear old eighteenth-century house in Curzon Street. It
was very comfortable and convenient, but my aunt and I welcomed the
change as much as he did. I should hate to go back to town life again
after this sweet Effington.”

“I suppose you had a very large circle of acquaintances in town?”
asked Lydon, still pursuing his questioning.

“Not large at all, considering the fact that my uncle seemed so well
off,” was the frank answer. “He honestly owns that he is not very fond
of general society. He has a few friends who come down here now and
again. There were some of them with us on your first visit. Of course
we know a lot of people round about here, in fact a great many more
than in London.”

“You travel a great deal, don’t you? Mr. Stormont seems well
acquainted with all the principal places in Europe.” This was one of
the subjects on which her uncle had not been reticent. His knowledge
of the Continent, of the customs and habits of the different foreign
nations, was extensive and exhaustive, and he always seemed pleased to
air it.

“Oh, uncle is a tremendous traveller; he has been everywhere and seen
everything; but he has not travelled so much since we have been here,
a matter of some five years. Before that he used to be away the
greater part of the year. Sometimes my aunt and I went with him, but
usually he went alone. His business took him a good deal abroad, you
know.”

Here was the opportunity he had been waiting for, and he hastened to
seize it. “It seems rather funny, one learns these things so soon, as
a rule. But I have never heard what your uncle’s business is.”

Gloria’s reply was perfectly free from embarrassment. “It is connected
with finance; I suppose he is what you call a financier.”

So the secret was out: the owner of Effington Hall was a financier.
Well, there were a good many people belonging to that profession, some
of them quite reputable, controlling vast interests, some of them
quite the reverse, addicted to very shady doings. No doubt the
rubicund Stormont was one of the respectable ones, but why the deuce
had he been so reticent about it? The proper pursuit of finance was
quite a respectable calling. When a man does not openly mention his
occupation, his silence rather gives you the idea he is secretly
ashamed of it.

It was quite within the bounds of possibility that Stormont was not
amongst the high spirits of the financial world, that his activities
inclined a little to the shady side of the profession. But if that
were so, would he have had the hardihood to buy Effington, and run the
gauntlet of the respectable people of the neighbourhood?

On the Sunday morning Stormont absented himself from church, contrary
to his usual custom. Mr. Whitehouse remained at home to keep him
company. All the others went as they had done on the previous
occasion. Lydon had a shrewd suspicion that the two men wanted to be
alone to discuss business affairs. Evidently matters were settled
during the morning, for the two men did not shut themselves up again
during the rest of the day.

Whitehouse might possibly be an excellent man of business, but he was
not a lively or inspiring person. Grave and taciturn to a degree, he
spoke very little, and only when addressed directly by his host or
some other member of the party. He did not volunteer conversation.
From a few hints dropped by Gloria, Leonard gathered that the women
rather disliked him, and looked upon him as a wet blanket.

In reply to further questioning, Miss Stormont said that he used to be
a frequent visitor to Curzon Street; but since they had taken up their
residence at Effington, he came somewhat infrequently, not more than
three or four times in the year, and then only for a stay of a day or
two. She understood that he and her uncle had been connected in
business for many years and that they had a very great regard for each
other.

Whitehouse left directly after breakfast on the Monday morning, and
Lydon hailed his departure with pleasure. There was something rather
repellent about the man, with his taciturnity, his unsmiling gravity,
his deep-set eyes and sombre gaze. For himself, he accepted Stormont’s
cordial invitation to stay another day, during which he enjoyed the
society of the charming Gloria to the full.

He had expected that his host would accompany him to town on the
Tuesday morning, but Stormont announced that, as the weather was so
fine, he had made up his mind to take a week’s holiday. Lydon thought
it must be a very accommodating business that allowed him so much
leisure, more especially in view of the fact, inadvertently dropped by
Gloria, that he was in a certain sense living from hand to mouth, at
any rate spending money as fast as he made it.

Mrs. Barnard said good-bye to him in the dining-room after breakfast.
Stormont and his niece went with him into the hall. When he had shaken
hands with them, rather a lingering process in the case of Gloria,
Stormont detained him with a gesture, and went out to tell the
chauffeur to drive down to the lodge gates and await them there. “Just
a word with you, my boy, before you go,” he said, linking his arm in
that of the young man and conducting him slowly down the avenue,
leaving a rather surprised Gloria behind.

When they were well out of earshot, he spoke. “Look here, my dear
Leonard, I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your Christian name,
but I think we are now intimate enough to excuse the liberty.”

“Not in the least,” answered Lydon, who wondered what was coming.

“Thanks. I want to tell you that I’m not blind, neither is my sister.
You are in love with Gloria, aren’t you?”

Leonard was rather taken aback by the direct question. In his
confusion he could not make any coherent reply. “I am,” he stammered,
“But, of course, I--I--I----” He could not finish the sentence.

“I quite understand, my dear fellow,” said Stormont, his broad
rubicund face relaxing into a smile. “You admit you love Gloria. I
wanted you to be quite frank and open with me in the matter. I don’t
wonder at it, for she is a sweet girl, one out of a thousand,
charming, honest, open as the day. Well, I will let you into a little
secret. If my observations are correct, I believe she returns your
affection. My sister thinks so too, and women can read each other
pretty well as a rule.”

He spoke in his hearty, breezy way. In spite of Craig’s caustic
criticism of him, there was something engaging about the personality
of the homely-looking man. Lydon could not help flushing. “It makes me
inexpressibly happy, sir, to hear you say that. I take it, from your
telling me so much, that you do not disapprove. Have I your permission
to speak to Miss Stormont?”

“When and as soon as you please,” was the hearty response, “I had half
made up my mind to tell you yesterday. I wish I had; I dare say by now
I should have been congratulating you and my niece. Personally I am
very pleased that you have fixed your affections on Gloria. So is Mrs.
Barnard, who is a shrewd judge of character. In common with myself,
she likes you very much and thinks you would make an excellent
husband. Well, I can’t say more, can I? Run down here again next week,
and fix it up. Come as often as you like. My sister and I love young
people about the house.”

Lydon thanked him in warm terms for having made his wooing so easy.
True, Gloria had not yet revealed her feelings, but in his heart he
had not much doubt as to what they were.

But Stormont had not yet said all he wanted. As they drew near to the
lodge gates, where the car was waiting, he motioned the young man to a
halt.

“Just a little something more, to make everything plain and clear.
Very possibly you have thought that Gloria is the niece of a rich man
and will come into a tidy sum when I die?”

The young man interrupted him hastily. “I assure you, on my word of
honour, Mr. Stormont, I never speculated on such a contingency. If I
gave it a thought, I was rather depressed by the circumstance than
otherwise. I felt a natural reluctance to ask a girl brought up so
luxuriously to share a very modest fortune.”

“You’re not the sort of which fortune-hunters are made. I could see
that at a glance, or I should not have been so open with you,” was the
generous reply. He sank his voice very low when he continued: “Well, I
must let you into a little secret which I think nobody suspects. I am
not in the true sense of the term a rich man. I make plenty of money
and I believe I shall continue to do, if my luck holds, as long as I
live. But I am an incurable spendthrift; I fritter as fast as I make.
Of course, you are a totally different temperament from me. At such an
admission you will shrug your shoulders and think I am an insensate
fool.”

Lydon preserved an embarrassed silence. Had he expressed in words what
he really felt, they would have been far from palatable to the hearer.

After a short pause, Stormont spoke in a tone of considerable emotion,
as if he were voicing his real remorse. “You cannot blame me any more
than I blame myself. But this love of spending for spending’s sake,
when it once gets hold of a man, is as deadly as any other form of
vice, as drink or gambling. Dozens of times I have tried to check
myself, to act prudently, but to no purpose.”

Again there was a pause, and again Lydon could find nothing to say,
since if he had spoken he would have been compelled to condemn, in no
measured terms, the man’s contemptible and selfish weakness.

And Stormont went on in that half-apologetic, wholly shamed voice. “So
when I do die, I shall have lived my life to the full, but I shall
leave next to nothing behind. Mrs. Barnard is provided for; she will
always be able to live in comfort, and luxury makes little appeal to
her. It is on Gloria’s account that I feel remorse, the selfishness of
my conduct.”

And then at last the young man found something to say: “There is one
thing I should like to tell you, Mr. Stormont, without attempting to
criticize you in any way, a thing I have no right to do. So far as
Gloria is concerned, I am glad she is not likely to be an heiress. I
love her for herself. I want no dowry with her.”

“It is just what I should have expected from you,” replied the
rubicund financier with a rather melancholy smile. “Well, things may
not turn out so badly for Gloria after all. My brother, her father, is
the exact opposite of myself, a prudent, evenly-balanced man who
counts the cost of everything, looks long before he leaps, and I
should say out of every pound he earns, saves ten shillings. He has a
splendid position, and only another child, a son. He is one of the
justest men I know, and whatever he leaves--I’ll wager it will be no
mean sum--will be divided equitably between his family. So my dear
Gloria may be an heiress in a small way, in the end. Now I have kept
you talking too long, you have got your train to catch. Good-bye for
the present. We shall expect you next week.”

The two men shook hands and Lydon drove to the station, thinking very
much over Stormont’s somewhat humiliating confession. How deceitful
are appearances! In the eyes of the local circle round Effington, the
man with his lavish expenditure must have passed as a person of
considerable wealth. And yet the real truth was that he was living, in
a sense, from hand to mouth, and that any day might see him stripped
of his fair possessions.

Well, the way was perfectly clear to him now. He would run down again
next week and ask Gloria to marry him. He would make a lucid statement
of his position to her uncle, if he were not already aware of it.
Stormont was a weak man, a foolish man in most important respects, but
he was certainly not simple-minded, and he seemed to possess an
amazing amount of information about other people. He had probably seen
a report of the elder Lydon’s will in the papers soon after his death,
and knew the exact extent of Leonard’s fortune.

The next week, availing himself of Stormont’s general invitation, he
went down on the Friday, having written his host to that effect. The
car met him as usual at the station, and to his great delight Gloria
was on the platform to meet him. This was, of course, the first time
she had ever done such a thing, as on the previous occasions he had
travelled down with her uncle.

When they reached the lodge gates, Lydon halted the car and suggested
to the girl that they should walk up the avenue. She agreed, not
without blushing slightly. He had been unusually quiet during the
journey, as if he were pondering very deeply. No doubt with womanly
intuition she guessed what was in his mind.

Having resolved upon the step he was taking, he lost no time; as soon
as the chauffeur was out of earshot, he spoke:

“I was delighted to see you on the platform; somehow it seemed so
intimate. The last time I was at Effington, your uncle brought me
along here, and we had a very serious talk together. Perhaps he has
told you something of this?”

With a deep blush, the girl admitted that he was correct in his
surmise, and this answer encouraged him to proceed.

“I love you very much, Gloria. I wonder if you can care for me a
little.”

Her bosom heaved, there was a tender light in the deep blue eyes, her
lips trembled slightly as she gave him her answer: “I think I can care
for you more than a little.”

The car by now had reached the stables: a bend in the avenue hid the
lodge gates: there was nobody in sight. He did what any lover worthy
of the name would do under such circumstances. He bent down and
pressed his first kiss upon the sweet lips that made a tremulous
response to his. He and this charming girl, whom he knew he had fallen
in love with at first sight, were now betrothed lovers.

They walked up to the entrance to the picturesque Tudor house, both
perhaps a little shy from their new-found happiness, the great event
that had happened in their young lives. The door was wide open.
Stormont and his sister stood in the hall to greet them; there was no
white-haired butler, no inconvenient servants to extend a silent
welcoming. Lydon shook hands with his host and hostess, and then
turned with a radiant face to his fiancée.

“Gloria has made me very happy,” he said simply, by way of announcing
the tremendous fact.

Mrs. Barnard first kissed her niece, and then bestowed an affectionate
salute upon Leonard. Stormont literally hugged Gloria and wrung the
young man’s hand heartily. “We must celebrate this at once,” he cried
in his loud, ringing voice. “Come along. There is only one wine worthy
of the occasion. I have still left in the cellar a few bottles of a
matchless Krug. We will open one.”

And, as they went along to the dining-room, Stormont and his sister
leading the way, the young couple following them, Gloria laid her
slender hand on her lover’s arm and whispered, “You have made me very
happy too, dear.”




 CHAPTER SIX

The week-end was a very quiet one, Lydon being the only guest. The
young man thought this might be due to Stormont’s delicacy, that he
felt it was only kind to allow the lovers to pursue their courtship in
comparative seclusion. But in the following week the phenomenon was
repeated. Nobody came down from London; none of the neighbours were
asked to luncheon or dinner.

Stormont occupied his time in pottering about the grounds and taking
long walks. But there was a certain restlessness about him, an air of
boredom which showed that this somewhat unusual isolation was not
agreeing with him. Leonard commented on it to his sweetheart.

Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He’s always like that when he leads a
quiet life; he is never really happy unless he is surrounded by plenty
of people. He loves crowds.”

“Perhaps he is sacrificing himself for our sakes,” suggested Leonard.

The girl’s smile was good-humoured but sceptical. “Uncle Howard has a
heap of good qualities, but I don’t think self-sacrifice is
conspicuous amongst them. To tell you the truth, I think he is going a
bit slow because he is compelled to.”

They were walking in the beautifully-kept gardens which required a
small army of gardeners to keep in order, and must have cost a pretty
penny to maintain in such perfection.

Only one interpretation could be put upon her words. “You mean to
infer that he is a bit hard up,” said Lydon bluntly.

She nodded her pretty head. “Yes, from what auntie told me, he has
been spending a lot more than he ought, and has got to pull up for a
time. These sorts of crises occur now and again. We have had about a
dozen of them at least since we came here, and at such times
entertaining has to be cut down with a ruthless hand. In Curzon Street
I don’t suppose the outgoings were a quarter what they are here.
Auntie says he ought never to have bought the place, considering the
expense it entails. He gets a lot of enjoyment out of it, of course,
but he also gets a lot of worry.”

“And yet I suppose he is a shrewd business man?”

“He must be, or he could not make the money he does. But you see he
has got the spendthrift temperament. If he takes a fancy to a thing,
he will have it, whether he can afford it or not. And the fatal thing
about him, and it is that which worries my aunt more, he has no
hesitation about going into debt, if he hasn’t got ready money to pay
for his whims.”

“Your aunt does not share his extravagant ideas, then?”

“Oh, dear no. She has a nice little income of her own which she lives
up to, but I am sure she never exceeds it. And she has a most
wholesome horror of debt. I know she is awfully worried now because
some of the tradespeople’s accounts are overdue; they are getting a
bit pressing.”

Delightful as Effington was, and perfectly satisfying to the lover of
natural beauty, Lydon thought residence there was dearly purchased by
these crises to which she had alluded. So Mr. Stormont was behindhand
with the local tradespeople! What a horrible situation! They would
begin to gossip presently, and then the bubble would be burst amongst
the neighbours.

“There was a perfect orgy of spending for a couple of months just
before you paid us your first visit,” said Gloria after a short pause
during which her lover was ruminating on the hollowness of the
position at this splendid country residence. “A big dinner party
nearly every day in the week, on the usual lavish scale, and all this
time he was giving liberally, not to say ostentatiously, to all the
local charities. I suppose it was then he overran the constable. You
came in at the fag end of it. Since then the motto seems to have been
retrenchment all round, with a disastrous effect on my uncle’s
spirits.”

“These crises worry you a good bit, don’t they?” queried her lover.

“To tell the truth, they do. Much as I love the place--and nobody
could live at Effington without loving it--I often wish that we could
have a place that entailed smaller outgoings. And, of course, one is
always haunted by the fear that one day he will get himself into a
terrible mess from which he cannot extricate himself.”

Lydon thought this very possible. It was very likely the spendthrift
himself had some premonition of such a catastrophe, and that was the
reason he had almost thrown his niece at the young man’s head. In
spite of her fondness for Effington, perhaps Gloria herself would not
be sorry to exchange all this for a position of less magnificence and
greater security.

Had he not been convinced of her frank, open nature he might have
thought that the girl had been in league with her uncle to secure him.
But he was sure of her good faith and honesty of purpose. He
remembered her agitation when he had proposed to her in the avenue,
the love-light that had shone in her beautiful eyes. No woman, not
even the most practised coquette, can summon that light at will.

He did not see his sweetheart at all the following week. The stern
exigencies of his profession called him abroad. At Ryder Street, on
his return, he found a letter from Stormont awaiting him, asking him
to lunch the following day at the _Piccadilly_, as he wished to
consult him on a matter of some urgency.

Very curious as to what this matter of some urgency could be, Lydon
presented himself at the _Piccadilly_ at the hour appointed. He
noticed a decided change in Stormont in the short time he had parted
from him at his splendid country house. The man’s manner was restless
and jerky, and he looked anxious and worried.

He ordered a very sumptuous lunch, the most expensive food and wine on
the list. Lydon found it far too sumptuous; he was not accustomed to a
heavy meal in the middle of the day, in fact, was not very keen on the
pleasures of the table at any time. Stormont drank by far the greater
portion of the champagne, and finished up with a couple of liqueurs of
the finest brandy. During the progress of the meal he talked fitfully,
and it was easy to see he had something weighing on his mind; but he
made no allusion to the subject on which he wanted the young man’s
advice. It rather looked as if he were justifying himself before he
could approach it.

When they had finished, he led the way into the smoking-room, where he
selected a quiet corner suitable for private conversation, and ordered
refreshment. Lydon would take nothing but a cup of coffee. For himself
he ordered a large whisky and soda. When he had taken a deep draught,
he unburdened himself, not without a considerable tinge of
embarrassment in his manner.

“I am afraid you will think I am taking an infernal liberty, Leonard,
so early in our acquaintance. But the fact is, at the moment I am in a
bit of a hole, and hardly know where to turn.”

Lydon had an idea of what was coming, by the man’s fidgetiness and
embarrassment, which had been patent from the moment they met. He
murmured some conventional words of condolence, and waited for further
details.

“I’m expecting a sum of five thousand pounds in a week at the latest,
in fact I may receive it any day between now and then. In the meantime
there are some pressing things I ought to pay. Would it be possible
for you to lend me a thousand pounds for a week, at a fair interest,
of course?”

It was rather a cool request, even to a man who was about to enter his
family. Leonard was by no means a parsimonious man, but he rather
resented it. Why the deuce did he not manage his finances properly,
curb his extravagance, instead of sponging upon somebody apparently
much poorer than himself?

He spoke rather coldly; he thought that if he made it too easy, Mr.
Stormont would be encouraged to fall back upon him at any time he
thought fit. “It’s a bit inconvenient, but if you can’t get it
anywhere else, I must do it. Won’t your bank do it?”

Stormont shook his head. “The manager is a very cross-grained chap,
puts every obstacle in the way of doing you a favour. And, to tell you
the truth, I am just a trifle overdrawn. It is not the most propitious
time to ask for even a short loan.”

This admission revealed a terrible state of things, thought Lydon.
Just a trifle overdrawn! He had probably drawn his last cheque to pay
for the unnecessarily expensive lunch, unless he had borrowed the
money from his sister. The solid fact emerged that Howard Stormont,
who had driven up to the _Piccadilly_ in his Rolls-Royce, the supposed
man of wealth, the owner of that lordly pleasure-house, Effington
Hall, was at the present moment as hard up as anybody could be. And he
appeared to have no credit, no husbanded resources. He was awaiting
that five thousand which was to come not later than a week, which
might come earlier, which, for all the young man knew, might never
come at all. That request for a thousand pounds might be the last
throw of a desperate gambler.

Still, if he was going to run the risk, he might as well do the thing
gracefully. “Can you deposit anything in the way of security, in case
of unforeseen accidents?” he inquired casually. He was fairly certain
of what the answer would be, but he wanted to make quite sure as to
whether or not Stormont had any resources.

Again the financier shook his head. “Nothing that you could call
absolute security,” he replied, his rubicund face growing a shade
redder as he made the damaging admission. “I could, of course, show
you papers proving there is a lot of money coming to me. But as the
accommodation is for so short a time, I should suggest my note of hand
for the amount, plus interest.”

“I don’t want any interest,” said the young man hastily. “I am not a
money-lender. I am doing this in a friendly way. Well, I’ve a busy
afternoon before me, so, if you don’t mind, we’ll settle this affair
as soon as possible. Drive me round to my rooms in Ryder Street and I
will give you my cheque; I have as much lying at the bank which I was
intending to invest. We can get a bill at the nearest post-office as
we go along.”

But there was no necessity for this; Stormont had a bill of the
required amount in his case. He explained that he always carried bill
stamps with him, as they were so frequently used in his business
dealings. Lydon did not quite believe this. He thought the man had
taken his acquiescence for granted, and had come prepared.

They drove to Ryder Street, and in five minutes the transaction was
completed. The rubicund Stormont put the cheque in his pocket, it
being too late in the afternoon to pay it in, and drove back to
Effington in his opulent-looking car, leaving Lydon wondering whether
he should ever see his money back, whether that five thousand pounds
was a myth invented for the occasion.

It was on the Tuesday that this affair took place, and it was
understood that Lydon would go down to Effington on the following
Friday. His confidence in Stormont was now so rudely shaken that he
was prepared for anything unexpected to happen in the meantime. He
would not have been surprised to receive a frantic letter from him to
the effect that he was flying the country, that Mrs. Barnard and
Gloria were seeking refuge in some suburb round London, and that
Effington Hall was up for sale.

Lydon rather wondered what was his position with regard to this
splendid mansion. Originally he must have been able to put his hands
on a considerable sum of money for its purchase. In all probability it
was now mortgaged up to the hilt.

Happily, nothing of such a disturbing nature happened. On his arrival
at Guildford Station, Gloria met him in the car. She was, of course,
delighted to see him again after his brief absence; but her lover
fancied there was just a shade of embarrassment in her manner, the
reason of which he presently learned as they drove along.

“There is a renewal of festivities which are such an abiding joy to my
uncle’s soul,” she said, speaking in a hard voice. “To-night we’ve a
dinner-party of a dozen people, all neighbours; nobody is staying in
the house but you.”

So the rubicund Stormont had resumed his extravagant habits the moment
he found himself in possession of a bit of money. He had no doubt paid
off some pressing old debts, and was feverishly incurring new ones.
The young man had no desire to face a lot of strangers, but perhaps
this dinner-party was, in a way, a healthy sign. Even Stormont would
not have been so rash as to fritter away his last shilling if he were
not sure that salvation was close at hand. Lydon was relieved to think
that this five thousand pounds was not a myth, but a solid fact.

Gloria went on in low and embarrassed tones: “I cannot say how ashamed
and humiliated I am that he should have come to you. I only heard it
this morning from my aunt, who thought I ought to be told. When he
mentioned to her that he was going to apply to you, she did all in her
power to dissuade him from making such a request, but all to no
purpose. The fact of it is, he is not a man who feels any shame in
borrowing.”

He could see plainly that she was very much distressed, and he
hastened to console her. “My darling, there is really nothing for you
to worry about. I am sorry your uncle was put about, but he made it
clear to me it was quite a temporary embarrassment, and I was very
pleased to be of service to him. Such a thing might happen to
anybody--might have happened to myself.”

The girl spoke with some heat. “It is very sweet of you to try and
restore my self-respect, but it would never have happened to you. You
are the last man in the world to spend your money on riotous living
and then go with a pitiful tale to a friend. Why did he not go to one
of his business friends, if he was forced to borrow, or, better still,
sell some of the valuable things he has got at Effington?”

She was evidently stung to the quick that her happy-go-lucky uncle had
exploited the young man’s affection for herself in order to replenish
his exhausted exchequer. Lydon himself could not help thinking it was
a mean thing to do, in spite of his making light of it to her.

The dinner-party was a great success. Stormont beamed on his guests as
genially as ever, and was in the highest spirits. As he sat at the
table he gave the impression of a man who had not a care in the world.
Lydon could hardly understand such a swift alteration of mood, of the
change from the haggard, harassed man of a few days ago to this jovial
creature who laughed and joked with the greatest ease. But then he did
not comprehend the mercurial temperament of the incurable spendthrift.

The Saturday was to be a comparatively quiet day, Gloria told him,
there being only two guests expected. The taciturn Mr. Whitehouse was
bringing down his niece, Zillah Mayhew, to lunch. But their visit
would not be a very long one. They were returning to London by an
afternoon train.

The words that he had overheard that night when he had passed the door
of Stormont’s study recurred to him at the mention of Miss Mayhew’s
name. Was this the woman whose co-operation was essential to some
business there was on hand? “What sort of a girl is she?” asked the
young man. “Not as gloomy as her uncle, I trust?”

Gloria smiled. “She is the exact opposite, most bright and vivacious,
really quite charming. I haven’t seen her more than half a dozen times
in my life, but I took a great fancy to her.”

“Does she live with the solemn Whitehouse?”

“Not permanently. Uncle has never told me much about her history, but
I know that her parents are dead, that she has a little income of her
own, and lives now with one relative, now with another. She passes a
great deal of her time abroad, where she has several friends and
connections.”

Lydon began to feel rather interested in the young woman. When the
time came for them to be met at the station, he noticed a rather
peculiar thing. Stormont dispensed with the services of the chauffeur
and drove the car to Guildford himself, a most unusual proceeding on
his part. The young man was convinced by this circumstance that his
suspicions were correct. Stormont wanted to be alone to have a quiet
chat with Whitehouse and his niece.

The lovers went for a walk, and on their return a few minutes before
luncheon the visitors had arrived. Lydon shook hands with Whitehouse,
and was introduced to Miss Mayhew, a tall, dark, handsome girl, with
splendid eyes, and the complexion of the brunette. She spoke English
without the faintest trace of accent, but there was a foreign air
about her.

He looked at her very attentively, and his scrutiny revealed two very
strange things. On the back of her neck was a blemish partially
concealed by powder, and she wore as a pendant a magnificent sapphire
carved in the shape of a closed lotus flower.

His memory flew back to that day when he had stood in the drawing-room
of the Villa des Cyclamens, and called the attention of Madame Makris
to a similar jewel which was lying unheeded on the table.




 CHAPTER SEVEN

Like a man in a dream, he heard the pleasant, contralto voice of
Miss Mayhew asking him if he did not think Mr. Stormont looked
wonderfully well, and then, without awaiting his answer, go on to
remark that country life evidently agreed with him.

Having broken the ice with Lydon in the easy manner that showed she
was endowed with plenty of self-confidence, she turned to the rubicund
gentleman himself, whom she addressed familiarly as Uncle Howard. “I’m
afraid since you took possession of this lovely place, you don’t work
half as hard as you used to do.”

Whatever her relations with the other two members of the family, she
was apparently on very close terms with the head of it, as was
apparent from the way she addressed him. Gloria had said that they had
seen very little of each other, Stormont then must have had additional
opportunities of intimacy. Unless she knew him very well, she would
not have called him uncle in the presence of his real niece.

He wondered whether Gloria quite relished the familiarity. In spite of
her obvious recognition of Stormont’s failings, and her resentment of
what had just taken place between himself and her fiancé, he was sure
that she had a very soft spot in her heart for her uncle, whom she
always declared to be one of the kindest and most generous of men.

But Gloria did not seem piqued in any way, and she had told him that
Miss Mayhew was not only very bright and vivacious, but especially
charming also. One of his sweetheart’s best traits was that she was
not a jealous or an envious girl.

Whitehouse was always taciturn; he ate heartily and drank a fair
amount, but neither of these processes ever seemed to exhilarate him.
Mrs. Barnard was naturally a quiet woman, of a disposition rather
reserved than otherwise. The conversation at lunch was carried on
mainly between the host and the dark, handsome girl. Miss Mayhew
appeared to have travelled a great deal abroad, for she was constantly
making references to places where apparently she and “Uncle Howard”
had been in each other’s company. It was no doubt owing to these
meetings that they seemed so intimate with each other.

The visitors did not stay very long after lunch, although Stormont, in
his hospitable way, pressed them to reconsider their decision, and
postpone their departure till at least the following day. But
Whitehouse shook his head and replied briefly it was impossible, as he
and his niece had an engagement on Sunday.

Stormont drove them alone from the house, as he had driven them alone
to it. There must be some reason, for Lydon knew he was not fond of
acting as chauffeur. Probably he wanted a few last words with the girl
who was necessary to the prosecution of some business scheme hatched
between the two men.

After they had left, Mrs. Barnard retired to her usual task of writing
letters, and the engaged couple went into the billiard-room.

“Well, what do you think of the handsome Zillah?” asked Gloria as they
chose their cues. “Uncle says she breaks hearts wherever she goes. Did
you find her very fascinating?”

Lydon had certainly been greatly fascinated by her, but not for the
reasons Gloria had in her mind when she put the question. What had
fascinated him was that brilliant sapphire pendant and the blemish on
her neck, only partially concealed by the liberal use of powder.

He answered her question lightly: “I expect most men would find her
more than ordinarily attractive. But you know, darling, I have never
had any great admiration for dark women.”

Gloria no doubt was quite satisfied with the answer, for she did not
pursue the subject. She had been rather eclipsed at lunch by the
vivacious and brilliant Miss Mayhew, but now she was alone with her
lover she chatted away merrily enough as they played their game.

And, as she talked, Lydon found himself speculating on the recent
visitor and the strange position of affairs at Effington. There was
plenty of unreality about the whole thing. Was there also perhaps more
than a mere suspicion of mystery? Why did Stormont maintain that
persistent reticence about his business, a man usually of a most
garrulous disposition? Even now Lydon did not know precisely where his
offices were situated. On the bill of exchange it was necessary for
him to put an address, but he had simply described himself as of
Effington Hall, Surrey.

Whitehouse, seemingly his most intimate friend, seemed more than a
little mysterious too. He always gave Leonard the impression of a man
who was constantly keeping close watch upon himself lest he should
drop something that he did not wish known.

And who was this independent, self-assured young woman, Zillah Mayhew,
with the blemish on her neck and that striking pendant, who seemed to
spend her life in rushing hither and thither, and was on such intimate
terms with Uncle Howard?

He led the conversation presently round to the same subject, for all
the time he was making his strokes the dark, handsome Zillah, with her
foreign look, was in his thoughts.

“What a lovely sapphire that is she wears! You noticed it, of course?”

“One could not very well avoid noticing it,” was the reply. “As I have
told you, I haven’t seen her many times, but on every occasion she has
had it on. Uncle says it is her mascot.”

“And did you also notice that peculiar blemish on her neck which,
cleverly as she tries to hide it, peeps through the powder?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Gloria, “for the first time to-day. I am
certain it was not there the last time I saw her.”

“And how long ago might that be?” was her lover’s next question.

The girl considered. “Let me see. I am not very good at remembering
dates. But I do recollect this much. She came over here a few weeks
before we went on that visit to Nice where we met you and your friend,
Mr. Craig.”

Lydon was thinking rapidly: “You didn’t happen to meet her at Nice?”

Gloria looked at him in surprise at the question. “No, I am sure I did
not. What makes you suggest it?”

The young man laughed a little awkwardly. It was too early to tell his
sweetheart the strange suspicions which had formed in his mind. “Oh,
no particular reason. But from what she said at luncheon, she seems to
be always on the travel. It just struck me she might have been there
at that particular time.”

He left on the Monday morning this time, having on a great pressure of
work. He would not be able to ask Gloria to lunch in town during the
week, as he was so uncertain of his engagements, but he would be sure
to be down on the following Friday.

He went back to his business, very much obsessed with his thoughts of
the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew. Was it only a queer
fancy of his that had led him to connect her with the woman who had
been the cause of his friend’s death?

When he got back to his rooms in Ryder Street, he hunted up the
portrait in the illustrated paper which he had brought with him from
Nice. It was a blurred and wretched thing. One moment he fancied he
could detect a resemblance between Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew, the
next he was bound to confess he could see not the slightest
resemblance.

It happened that he did see his sweetheart during the week. On the
Wednesday morning he had to carry out some tests of wireless telephony
at one of his Company’s experimental stations at Esher. He was testing
a newly-invented thermionic valve, and during the morning he got into
communication with Aberdeen and Rotterdam and was gratified to learn
they reported his speech and gramophone music as strong and clear.

He lunched at the _Bear Hotel_, and a happy thought struck him. He
would pay a surprise visit to Effington. So he drove away down the
Portsmouth Road, passing through Guildford and over the Hog’s Back,
and early in the afternoon swung into the big lodge gates of
Effington.

His unexpected visit was a most delightful surprise to Gloria. He
would remain to tea, of course; and Mrs. Barnard, who was as
hospitable as her brother, insisted upon his stopping to dinner. She
regretted that Stormont would be absent, as he had motored to London
to a directors’ meeting, and would not be back till late.

Mrs. Barnard served them tea from the old silver pot in the great
oak-panelled hall where high stained-glass windows bore the
_rose-en-soleil_ badge of the dead and gone Sedgemeres.

Duncan, the white-haired, grave-faced butler who never permitted
himself the luxury of a smile, except when some guest bestowed upon
him a more than usually generous tip, officiated with his customary
dignity, handing round the cake-basket of pierced Georgian silver.
Duncan had served the greater part of his life in noble families.
Stormont, on the look-out for a dignified major-domo, had tempted him
from his last place by the offer of a salary about double what he was
getting.

Duncan, in a way, had fallen from his high estate in accepting service
under a man about whom nobody seemed to know very much. But, like the
mercenaries of old, he was content to enlist under any banner where
the pay was good.

In the waning light, the big, high-pitched hall looked ghostly and
cavernous, with its floor of polished oak over which high-born dames
of the days of Charles the Second had danced merrily. There was the
great stone fireplace with the wrought-iron fire-back, bearing upon it
the date of 1621. There were the Caroline day-bed with spindle legs
and fragile canework, the high carved arm-chairs upholstered in faded
crimson, and the big oak gate table, loaded with game books, and
visitors’ books mixed with modern novels.

Around, upon the dark panelled walls, hung several portraits of women
and men in wigs, one being a portrait by Kneller of Hugh, sixth Earl
of Sedgemere, and another by Reynolds of Anne, wife of the great Lord
Sedgemere who had fought in the Peninsular War.

While they gossiped and sipped their tea, the sun slanted across the
oak flooring, tinted by the antique escutcheons in the long coloured
glass windows of the lofty hall.

At dinner Lydon casually referred to Miss Mayhew. Had they heard
anything of her since he had met her at luncheon?

Mrs. Barnard answered the question: “No, nothing. Isn’t she a splendid
girl? I wish we saw more of her. She is so amusing and vivacious. No
wonder men are always attracted by her!”

“Does she live in London?” Lydon asked.

“When she is in England, she stays with her uncle, Mr. Whitehouse. But
I believe she is a great deal with her brother in Paris.”

So this cosmopolitan young lady had a brother in Paris. Lydon would
very much have liked to ask something about the brother, and also in
what part of London Whitehouse resided, but his delicacy kept him
back. Somehow, personal details never seemed forthcoming in the
Stormont family, with perhaps the exception of Gloria, who was
frankness itself. You always had to dig for them.

After dinner they went as usual into the billiard-room. Mrs. Barnard,
contrary to her usual habit, accompanied them and took upon herself
the office of marker.

After the game was over she very considerately left them to themselves
for a few moments. No doubt, she had a recollection of her own
courting days. A little while before the young man was preparing to
take his leave, she came in with a bundle of letters in her hand.

“Leonard, I found these on my brother’s table just now. He had
intended to take them along with him, and forgot them in the hurry of
leaving. Will you please post them at Guildford or somewhere as you
drive along?”

Lydon promised that he would. He said good-bye to the amiable Mrs.
Barnard. Gloria accompanied him to his car, and here the farewell was
a somewhat protracted one, as is usual with newly-engaged couples.

He drove away over the Hog’s Back, and stopped before the Guildford
Post Office. For the first time he looked at the letters as he dropped
them into the box. He came to the last, and read the superscription in
Stormont’s bold handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Mayhew, 18
Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square.

A little time ago he had been longing to ask at dinner where Mr.
Whitehouse lived, and had refrained from feelings of delicacy. By the
merest accident, the forgetfulness of Stormont, he had found out what
he wanted. This was a piece of luck.

His first natural impulse was to scribble the address upon his
shirt-cuff and send the letter into the box with the others. He never
quite knew why he changed his mind. Probably his strong conviction
that there was a great element of mystery about Stormont himself, and,
secondly, his equally strong obsession that Elise Makris and Zillah
Mayhew were one and the same person.

Second thoughts gained the day. Instead of posting the letter, as he
knew he ought to have done, he put it back in his wallet, jumped back
into the car, and drove along the London Road through Ripley, Cobham,
Esher and Kingston to the garage close to Ryder Street.

He was determined to pluck at the heart of the mystery. Two hours
after it had been given to him by Mrs. Barnard, he stood in his rooms
in Ryder Street, and the letter from Howard Stormont to Zillah Mayhew
was lying open in his hand. This is what he read:


 “My very clever Zillah.--I have seen Edwards and arranged everything.
 You will leave for Paris to-morrow and wait at the _Hôtel Terminus_
 for further instructions. Edwards will bring or write them. Show this
 to Whitehouse and then destroy.--Uncle.”


He read it through a dozen times, and then he carefully resealed the
flap, for the gum was still wet from the steam he had applied. When it
had dried under the weight of some heavy body, he went out and posted
it in the nearest pillar-box. In all probability, Miss Mayhew would
not glance at the postmark.

What did it all mean? Zillah Mayhew was intimately connected with
Stormont’s business, whatever it might be. Of what nature was this
peculiar business that required a female partner?

On the face of it, that brief epistle might refer to a perfectly
legitimate transaction. A woman’s subtle influence might be necessary
to secure some special concession, some particular contract.

But the more he thought it over, the more he rejected this
explanation. The predominant thought in his mind about Howard
Stormont, the country gentleman who played his rôle with such
absolute enjoyment of it, was that he was a very different person from
what he appeared to his neighbours at Effington.

And this suspicion would become a certainty if he could prove that
Elise Makris, the decoy of swindlers and blackmailers, was none other
than Zillah Mayhew, the niece, or pretended niece, of the taciturn
Whitehouse.

But would it become a certainty without further corroborative
evidence? Going into the question a little more deeply, he was bound
to admit it would not. After all, he had nothing but undefined
suspicions with regard to Stormont. He would be bound to give him the
benefit of the doubt.

If the girl were found to be Elise Makris, it did not follow that
Stormont was aware of her criminal activities. It was not an absolute
certainty that even Whitehouse, if he were her uncle, knew of them.
She was obviously a very clever, resourceful young woman; she would
not go about proclaiming her nefarious profession from the housetops.

Stormont might have originally made her acquaintance in a quite simple
and ordinary way, and found her talents useful to him in a peculiar
line of business that entailed the exercise of a considerable amount
of diplomacy.

In fair-mindedness he felt bound to reason on these lines. But, all
the same, his instincts loudly confuted his reasoning. And those
instincts told him that the rubicund financier was very different from
what he appeared to be.




 CHAPTER EIGHT

Lydon might not be able to lay claim to any remarkable brilliance of
intellect. At Harrow and Oxford his progress had been steady and
respectable, but he had not distinguished himself like his friend
Craig, for instance, to whom the acquisition of knowledge was an easy
task, whose mental alertness was the delight of his masters and
tutors.

But he was a shrewd young fellow, and endowed with a considerable fund
of common-sense. He also possessed a dogged spirit of determination.
When he once took a thing up he persevered with it, and was not easily
daunted by obstacles. There were, at the present moment, two things he
was resolved to find out by some means or other--the precise nature of
Stormont’s business and the life history of the dark, handsome girl
known as Zillah Mayhew.

He thought the best thing he would do as a start was to go and consult
Shelford, the solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn. As he was pretty well master
of his own time, he paid him an early morning visit before he went to
his business in Victoria Street. That genial gentleman was disengaged
and saw him at once.

To him the young man related his accidental meeting with Miss Mayhew
at the house of a mutual friend, and the two remarkable facts that she
had a blemish on the neck, and was wearing a rather original piece of
jewellery, similar in design to one he had seen in the drawing-room of
the Villa des Cyclamens when he had called there to condole with
Madame Makris on the tragedy.

Mr. Shelford was very much impressed, as Lydon was sure he would be:
“One or other of the facts, taken singly, would not lead one very
far,” he observed. “There are no doubt heaps of girls who may have a
mark of this kind, and I suppose there is no piece of jewellery which
is absolutely unique, which has not several replicas. But taken in
conjunction, the evidence is very remarkable. Well, I suppose you want
to go further into it. What you have learned about this young lady in
the ordinary course does not satisfy you?”

Lydon answered that it certainly did not, that he wanted to have his
suspicions disproved or confirmed. What did Shelford advise?

The solicitor was quite ready with an answer. “If you or I were to
undertake the task of tracing the history of Miss Mayhew, I expect we
should find out next to nothing. Such a business is not the least in
our line. But there is, fortunately, a class of men who are experts in
this kind of thing, and perform wonders if you give them something to
go on. You have heard of course of private inquiry agents, perhaps may
have employed one in your time?”

“I have heard of them, naturally. Some of them advertise their skill
in tracking faithless wives and erring husbands. But I have never had
occasion to avail myself of their services.”

“Then, if you want to get at the bottom of this, you had better go to
one at once, while the scent is hot,” advised Mr. Shelford, speaking
in a brisk tone. “Like every other profession, there are all sorts in
it, some very smart, some the reverse. I can recommend you to a
particularly good man, as keen as mustard. Whenever we have any of
this sort of work, we give it to him, and he has always served us
well. His name is Grewgus, and his office is in Craven Street, Strand.
I will give you a note of introduction to him, and as he is a busy
man, you had better ring him up for an appointment. Stay, as it is
pretty early, he’ll be at his office. I’ll ring him up now and make an
appointment for you.”

In a few minutes the affair was settled. Mr. Grewgus would be engaged
practically the whole of the day, but he could see Mr. Lydon at six
o’clock that evening, if convenient. If not, at ten o’clock the
following morning. As the young man was anxious to get on with the
matter as quickly as possible, he chose the evening.

“By the way, I have a little bit of news for you,” said Shelford as
they shook hands at parting. “Poor Hugh Craig’s private fortune is
sadly depleted. As far as we are able to make out, he has either
parted voluntarily or been forced to part with something like twelve
thousand pounds in the last eighteen months. You remember, of course,
there were some vague allusions to blackmail in that letter he sent to
you from Nice, under cover to us?”

“Yes, there was certainly reference to blackmail. But how could he
have laid himself open to it? I knew Hugh the best part of my life--he
was the soul of honour and probity. He could never have done anything
that he would have been ashamed to come to light.”

The experienced man of the world shook his head. “The lives of a great
many of us are a sealed book, Mr. Lydon. The poor fellow was no doubt
distraught when he wrote that letter, and may have used the word
without strict regard to its meaning. This harpy may have inveigled it
out of him on some plausible pretext or another. All the cheques were
drawn to himself, and paid in cash, so we have no means of knowing to
whom the money actually went. But, as you can see, he was bled to a
pretty good amount.”

Later on, about twelve o’clock, Lydon was rung up in his business room
where he was hard at work. Stormont’s well-known voice came through
the instrument. He was speaking from the _Cecil_, he said. Would
Leonard lunch with him at one?

He wanted to settle up that little matter with him.

But for the concluding words, the young man might have declined the
invitation, making some polite excuse. At the present moment he was
too much disturbed in his mind about Mr. Stormont to hold any
unnecessary intercourse with him. Repayment of the thousand pounds
loan was evidently meant. The expected remittance was not a myth, as
he had fancied more than once, but had actually arrived.

He, therefore, accepted. He did not consider Stormont was a safe
enough man to have money left in his possession for too long. If he
waited, he might only get a part of the debt, some more pressing
creditor might be beforehand with him.

Besides, after all, he need not be so squeamish about meeting him. He
had no intention of breaking with Gloria just because he had some
strong suspicions of her uncle. He would be going to Effington on
Friday for his usual weekly visit, and must perforce be the rubicund
financier’s guest as before.

Stormont seemed more hearty and genial than ever when they met in the
entrance hall. As on the previous occasion, he ordered a most lavish
lunch and the most expensive wine. Before going into the restaurant,
he slipped into his guest’s hand a rather bulky envelope. “I have
brought it in cash,” he whispered, “ten one hundred notes. I should
have liked to add something substantial for the accommodation, but you
were so emphatic on that point that I didn’t dare.”

Well, Stormont, so far, had kept faith with him; that should certainly
be accounted to him for righteousness. But Lydon could not help
thinking how strangely the financier managed his affairs for a man of
business. Why did he not give him a cheque instead of these bulky
notes which he might not have time to pay in to-day? He hated carrying
big money about with him.

Then his suspicions, which had become chronic since he had read that
letter, leading him to put an unfavourable construction upon every
action, recurred to him. Perhaps he owed his bank, not a trifling sum
as he had pretended, but a very considerable amount, and had only
partially settled with them. Hence his reason for not drawing a
cheque.

Lydon was not in a very talkative mood; he was thinking of his
forthcoming interview with the private inquiry agent. The host,
however, was in the best possible spirits and conversed enough for the
pair.

Towards the close of the meal, the young man roused himself from his
reveries, and inquired casually whether he was likely to meet Miss
Mayhew on his next visit to Effington.

Stormont answered in the negative, adding: “I understood she was going
away almost directly on a visit to her brother in Paris.”

After a pause he added: “Splendid girl that, so clever, so
accomplished. She’s a first-class linguist too. Gloria often says she
wishes she could speak foreign languages like her. A capital woman of
business too. She has been of some use to me and her uncle in that way
on more than one occasion.”

“She has helped you in your business,” cried Lydon, rather surprised
at such a frank admission from a man so reserved on the subject.

Mr. Stormont winked knowingly. In addition to the greater portion of
the champagne, he had imbibed two glasses of very fine liqueur brandy.
They had perhaps made him unusually communicative.

“In my line of business we often have to deal with persons in high
places, some of whom are very susceptible, not to say inflammable.
When you come across a person of this description--and there are
plenty of them abroad--it is astonishing what influence a pretty and
clever woman can wield. And her worst enemy must admit that Zillah is
both.”

It seemed quite a straightforward sort of statement. Lydon, in spite
of his suspicions, was bound to admit as much. He tried to lead the
financier to talk further on the topic, but obviously he did not wish
to pursue it. Perhaps he felt he had said enough.

At half-past two they separated. There was just time enough to walk
briskly to Coutts, and pay in the thousand pounds. Leonard was busy at
the office till it was time for him to keep his appointment in Craven
Street with Mr. Grewgus.

He reached the offices of the private inquiry agent a few minutes past
the hour. Mr. Grewgus himself was standing in the outer room
apparently used by his staff. But there was nobody there except
himself, a fact which he explained to his new client.

“I am alone, Mr. Lydon; I never keep my staff after the stroke of six.
Of course I don’t restrict myself to the time-table. I am at the
disposal of a client at almost any hour.”

Lydon rather liked the look of him. He was a tall, thin-faced man with
rather hatchet features, clean-shaven. His manners were suave and
courteous, his eyes keen, his expression was indicative of alert
mentality.

He led the way into his own apartment, and, after placing a chair for
the young man, invited him to state his business. Leonard told him the
story as the reader already knows it. Grewgus listened without making
any comment or interruption, but it was easy to see his trained
intelligence grasped every detail. When Lydon was finished, he spoke:

“I understand that you wish me to find out all I can about this man,
Howard Stormont, the nature of his business, etcetera, etcetera.
Secondly, you want me to do the same thing with regard to the young
woman, Zillah Mayhew, and this will necessarily involve her uncle,
John Whitehouse, whom you say lives at 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane
Square.”

Leonard intimated that the detective had accurately comprehended his
requirements.

“You do not know the address of Stormont’s offices, only that they are
somewhere in London. You have looked him up in the directory, as a
matter of course? You have, and can’t locate him. Trading no doubt
under another name. Nothing actually suspicious in that by itself, of
course, but it is a little peculiar he should be so exceedingly
reticent on the subject.”

He paused a minute or two to digest things before resuming: “Well, Mr.
Lydon, I can leave Stormont to one of my lieutenants; I have no doubt
he can soon be run to earth. The young lady will, I am sure, prove the
more difficult job of the two. You say she is starting or has started
for Paris?”

“The letter was written yesterday; I posted it last night. Therefore,
if she obeys the instructions, she will leave to-day.”

“Quite so,” assented Mr. Grewgus. “I will, as I said, leave Stormont
and the man Whitehouse to a deputy; we shall learn something about
them in a very short time. I shall take Miss Mayhew in hand myself,
and I ought to follow her to-morrow at the latest. But there is a
little difficulty. I don’t know her by sight, although I dare say you
can give me a pretty accurate description of her. Still, if she
registers at the _Hôtel Terminus_ under another name, which is quite
likely, time may be lost. Would it be possible for you to accompany
me?”

“But wouldn’t our objects be defeated if I did? Remember, we have met
at Effington Hall, and if she is the woman I believe her to be, she
would be naturally interested in me as the friend of Hugh Craig. She
would recognize me the moment she saw me.”

Mr. Grewgus smiled genially. “Quite right, Mr. Lydon, but I shouldn’t
manage things as clumsily as that. If you will come round to the
office an hour before we start, I will disguise you so effectually
that your nearest and dearest will never suspect your real identity.
You will enter it Leonard Lydon, you will leave it anything you decide
upon. We are used to make-up here, I can assure you.”

There was something that appealed to him in the suggestion; it would
be a decidedly novel experience to spy upon Miss Mayhew under an
impenetrable disguise. He could easily spare a few days; there was
some business in Paris he could attend to at the same time.

The weekly visit to Gloria was the only drawback. But for the moment
the prospect of tracking Miss Mayhew outweighed the disappointment of
not seeing his sweetheart. He would write her to-night, explaining
that he had suddenly been summoned to Glasgow on important business
which could not be delayed.

It was arranged, therefore, that Lydon should be round at the office
early the next morning, and after he had assumed his disguise, the two
men should proceed at once to Paris.

But Mr. Grewgus, who certainly did not spare himself in the interests
of his clients, had something more to propose. A bright idea had
suddenly occurred to him. He asked his client if he had any important
engagements for that evening, and on receiving an answer in the
negative, unfolded his plan.

“Well, as you can spare the time, I suggest that we take a peep at
Ashstead Mansions and see if we can get anything useful out of the
porter at the flats. Most of these fellows will talk if they can see
money is about.”

“But, the same objection,” began the young man, and Mr. Grewgus
interrupted him with uplifted hand and a quizzical smile.

“Of course, I foresee that. You might meet the Mayhew girl or
Whitehouse, or both coming down the staircase, and they would at once
smell a rat. What about having a rehearsal of that excellent disguise
which you are going to assume to-morrow? I can rig you out comfortably
in a quarter of an hour.”

Lydon agreed. There was an element of sport in the whole thing which
the hatchet-faced detective seemed to enjoy as much as his client.
Disguised in a heavy beard and moustache, the young man walked out of
the detective’s office. They took a taxi and dismounted within a few
yards of Ashstead Mansions.

The porter, a young military-looking man, was standing outside the
particular block they entered. Grewgus whispered in his companion’s
ear. “I’ve reckoned him up in a single glance. I know the type. He
will talk till doomsday after the first ten-shilling note is slipped
in his hand. Of course, you won’t mind a bit of expense over the job?”

Lydon whispered back that, under the circumstances, expense was no
object. He was prepared to spend a considerable amount of money to
confirm or disprove his suspicions of Zillah Mayhew.

They went into the hall, and scrutinized the board containing the
names of the particular block in which Number 18 was situated. The
name of Whitehouse did not figure on it.

The detective rubbed his thin face. “This is 18 Ashstead Mansions,
right enough, but nobody of the name of Whitehouse resides here. You
are quite sure of the number?”

The young man smiled. Detectives perhaps resembled solicitors; they
did not credit the average person with ordinary intelligence.

“Impossible for me to make a mistake,” he answered. “I was far too
interested not to make sure. I only learned it last night.”

Seeing they were obviously perplexed, the porter strolled up to them.
“Are you looking for somebody, sir?” he asked, addressing Grewgus,
whom he evidently regarded as the more dominant personality of the
two. “Perhaps I can assist you.”

Grewgus spoke in his rather precise, formal way. “Am I correct in
saying that a Mr. Whitehouse occupies one of these flats?”

The military-looking man shook his head. “Nobody of that name in this
block, sir, or any of the others.”

Grewgus turned to his companion with a finely simulated air of
surprise. “Either we have been misinformed as to the precise locality
or the name itself,” he said.

Lydon, not used to the subtle processes of the detective mind, thought
it best to say as little as possible. He just muttered the safe words,
“It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?” playing up to the lead given
him by the astute Grewgus.

That gentleman extracted with a great air of deliberation a
ten-shilling note from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into the
receptive hand of the porter.

“I may as well tell you we are here to make a few inquiries about a
certain party,” he said. “You say there is no Mr. Whitehouse here.
Does a young lady named Mayhew reside in this or any of the other
blocks?”

The porter, stimulated by the _douceur_ so promptly and adroitly
administered, became voluble at once, thus justifying the detective’s
hasty diagnosis of his temperament.

“Miss Mayhew, sir, lives with her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs.
Glenthorne, in this block, Number 18. I believe she is their niece; I
have heard her call him uncle.”

Grewgus turned to the disguised young man and addressed him with the
utmost coolness and suavity. “Of course, we were given the wrong name.
I suspected it after I searched that board.”

He turned to the porter, who, by the knowing smile that showed itself
upon his good-looking face, appeared to be awaiting developments of an
interesting character.

“Now can you tell us something about this Mr. Glenthorne? Do you know
his profession, his business, his occupation?”

The smile on the porter’s face deepened, as he saw Grewgus’ hand steal
ostentatiously to his pocket, and withdraw another note. It had
evidently dawned on his mind by now that they were detectives, and
were prepared to pay liberally for information.

“I could tell you about almost anybody in this block, sir, but not Mr.
Glenthorne. When he is in London, he seems to go out every day, and
returns at all sorts of hours, sometimes to lunch, sometimes to
dinner, sometimes not till close upon midnight.”

“A gentleman apparently of quite irregular habits?” interjected the
detective.

“Quite so, sir. Whatever his business is, it takes him away a good
deal. He spends more than half the year abroad.”

“And what about Miss Mayhew? Is she as erratic?”

“Never stays here very long, sir. She was off to-day. From something I
heard, I think she was bound for Paris.”

A second note found its way into the porter’s ready palm, and Grewgus
was prepared to admit that he had earned it.

The two men were turning away, when the porter said in a low voice:
“Here is Mr. Glenthorne, sir. Do you know him?”

Grewgus motioned him to silence. A well-remembered figure entered the
hall and ascended the staircase. He cast a sharp glance at the two
men, but it was evident he did not penetrate Lydon’s disguise.

When he was safely out of earshot, Leonard whispered to his companion:
“It is the man whom I know as John Whitehouse.”

They went out into the street, and then the detective spoke.
“Glenthorne in Ashstead Mansions, and Whitehouse when he visits his
friends at Effington. The beginning of a very pretty mystery, Mr.
Lydon. Perhaps our trip to Paris will help us to solve it.”




 CHAPTER NINE

When they had left Ashstead Mansions safely behind, the detective
turned down a side street, and, leading the young man under a
convenient archway, dexterously whipped off the disguising beard and
moustache and put them in a small bag he had brought with him.

“Now Richard is himself again, and can face the world in his own
proper person,” he observed in a jocular tone. “I suppose we will
separate here. I am going on to Hammersmith to see one of my smartest
men and put him at once on the job of finding out what he can about
Stormont and the man whom you originally knew as Whitehouse. Better be
at my office about eight o’clock to-morrow. As soon as I have made you
up, we will start.”

As they parted, Grewgus observed that he had better pay out all the
outgoings, and Lydon could give him a cheque from time to time. “I
expect it will run you into a pretty penny,” he said, “but from what
you have said, I gather you don’t mind that. The thing certainly seems
worth investigating. The fact of this fellow having two names is very
suspicious. And whatever is going on, I have little doubt we shall be
able to connect Stormont with it. It is impossible he can be ignorant
of the fact that Whitehouse calls himself Glenthorne when he is away
from Effington.”

Lydon went back to his rooms, and in the evening dined at the
_Berkeley_ with a friend. The more he thought over the matter the more
he congratulated himself on having gone to the solicitor, and through
him to Grewgus, who impressed him as a man of remarkable capacity.
What they had learned at Ashstead Mansions was enough to prove that
there was some deep mystery about the occupants of Number 18, a
mystery in which the owner of Effington Hall was obviously involved.

Whatever that mystery was, did Gloria and Mrs. Barnard know anything
about it, or were they as ignorant as he was when he had first set
foot in the fine old Tudor mansion where the rubicund profiteer posed
as a man of business who had lately taken up the rôle of country
gentleman?

Of Mrs. Barnard, he could not, of course, be sure. She was a
singularly quiet, self-contained woman, not much given to general
conversation. Considering the hours he had spent down at Effington, he
had really seen very little of her. She seemed to play a very
subordinate part in the life led there, her brother taking the lead in
everything, impressing himself upon his guests, in his bluff, genial
way, while she remained in the background.

She seemed, so far as he could judge, to be interested in two
things--clothes and the local charities. And no doubt Stormont had put
her on to the latter, in order to make a good impression in the
neighbourhood, and disarm the critical attitude which is so often
assumed against a new-comer.

Gloria he was convinced knew nothing and suspected nothing. He loved
the girl with his whole heart and soul, with every pulse of his being,
but even his great love would not have blinded him if he had observed
anything suspicious or evasive about her. In all their intercourse
together, she had been so perfectly frank, even with regard to the
uncle whose kindness she so greatly appreciated. When she told him
that Stormont was a financier, it was evident she was telling what she
believed to be the truth. And about her early life with her parents in
China she had been as open as a book. Whatever mystery there might be
about Stormont himself, there was none about the brother who held a
high position in one of the biggest banks in that far-off country.

She had shown him more than one letter from her parents, who kept up a
constant correspondence with her, and he could see from what he read
there was nothing suspicious about them. In the last one he read,
there was an intimation that at any moment they might make up their
minds to come to England for a brief holiday. Yes, there was no doubt
everything was open and above-board with Jasper Stormont, her father.

The young man found himself wishing that visit would be paid soon. He
could question a man more closely than he could a woman.

He was at Grewgus’ office at the appointed hour next morning. As
before, there was nobody there but the detective himself. The staff
did not put in an appearance till nine. In a very few minutes the
disguise was effected, with a few additional touches which made it
more complete.

When he had finished, Grewgus drew back and surveyed his handiwork
with an air of pardonable pride. “If Miss Mayhew meets you face to
face, she will never suspect you are the young man she met at
Effington Hall. There was no recognition in Whitehouse’s glance last
night, although I have no doubt he was suspicious of what we were
doing there. I bet you he will have asked the porter a question or two
by now. But that chap is no fool; he will know how to put him off.”

When Leonard looked in the glass which Grewgus handed him, he was
bound to confess that a complete metamorphosis had been effected.
There was no resemblance between this heavy-bearded creature and the
good-looking lover of Gloria Stormont.

“Now I think we will be off,” observed Grewgus. “I have written a
letter to my head clerk telling him I’m off to Paris, and giving him
the address of the hotel we shall stay at. Of course it will not be
the _Terminus_, that would hamper us too much. I shall only take you
there for the purpose of identifying her; I shall watch her from
elsewhere. To stay there would be fatal to our plans. If she is the
person you believe her to be, she is naturally as sharp as a needle,
and she would soon tumble to the fact that we were taking a suspicious
interest in her.”

A short time later they had left London behind them and were on their
way to Paris and Zillah Mayhew. It was a fairly empty train and they
had a first-class compartment to themselves.

Grewgus proved himself a most entertaining companion, and told Lydon
many interesting things in connection with himself and his profession,
in the pursuit of which he took the keenest delight.

He was about fifty-five, he told the young man, who was surprised at
the statement, for, with his clean-shaven face and keen, alert
expression, he looked a good ten years younger. He had been fifteen
years at Scotland Yard, and ten years on his own.

While at the Yard he had acquired a considerable experience of the
underworld. He told him some wonderful stories of the wide
ramifications of crookdom of all classes from the lowest to the most
aristocratic, of high-class gangs directed by men who presented a most
respectable appearance to the outside world, mixing in decent society,
and adopting some well-known business or profession as a blind. He
regaled him with some thrilling tales of how diamond had cut diamond,
of the marvellous ingenuity with which certain professional detectives
had got the better of their natural enemies, the criminals.

Since he had been in private practice, his experiences had been less
thrilling. He did a good deal in divorce business, and he was applied
to in many cases of blackmail.

“If this young woman turns out to be Elise Makris, as you suspect, we
are likely to be up against a blackmailing gang here,” he observed.
“And I should gather they pursue their activities chiefly abroad. You
will remember the porter dropped the fact that Glenthorne was
frequently out of England.”

They snatched a light meal at Boulogne and they got out at Amiens for
a very welcome whisky and soda. The Paris train was pretty full, and
there was no opportunity for further disclosures of a confidential
nature. Just before they rolled into the station, Grewgus whispered in
his companion’s ear:

“As you said I was to spare no expense, I sent a wire to an old ally
of mine to meet the train. We have worked together very often, and he
is a most useful fellow, being a splendid linguist. He can speak
French like a native, even to its slang. It may be I shall have to
watch more than one person, and he will come in handy for the other.”

Evidently Mr. Grewgus was going to do the thing thoroughly, and the
young man was pleased that he had got hold of such a painstaking
fellow. The man with whom he had made the appointment was waiting on
the platform, a clean-shaven, smart-looking individual rather like
Grewgus himself. He was introduced to Lydon by the name of Simmons.

“I think you and I, Mr. Lydon, will stay at the _Palace Hotel_; it is
pretty handy to the other one. We will go there first and book our
rooms, and then proceed to the _Terminus_. If we wait a bit in the
great hall there, we shall be pretty certain to spot our quarry. We’ll
take Simmons with us, as he will want to know her as well, in case he
has to be put on the job later.”

They secured their rooms and then went on to the _Terminus_. The hall
was very full, but they found room in a corner, an admirable situation
where they could survey everybody at their leisure without attracting
too much attention themselves.

They sat there a long time, and Lydon was beginning to fear that Miss
Mayhew had changed her plans, gone to some other hotel than the one
given in Stormont’s letter of instructions. But presently a familiar
figure, dressed in the height of fashion, passed through the hall, and
when near the exit, lingered as if she was waiting for some one. Lydon
spoke to the detective in a low voice: “That is she, waiting at the
end.”

The two men took stock of her. “Singularly handsome young woman,”
commented Grewgus in the same cautious tones. “I suppose she is
waiting for the man Edwards.”

But she was not. To Lydon’s surprise and relief, another familiar
figure crossed the hall, joined her, and the two went out together. It
was that of the woman he had known as Madame Makris, the tenant of the
Villa des Cyclamens.

There was no mistaking her. He remembered too well that stout form,
the still handsome face with its traces of youthful good looks, the
Jewish cast of countenance. He imparted the information to Grewgus.

A satisfied smile stole over the detective’s countenance. “Well, this
is a bit of the most splendid luck at the very start,” he said. “The
mother, the blemish which I could not see from here, the pendant which
I could see, I think we have found one of the most important things we
wanted, at once. There can be no doubt, in face of those three things,
that she is Elise Makris, or at any rate that that is one of possibly
numerous aliases. Anyway, she is the woman who drove your friend to
frenzy. I expect mother and daughter are devoted to each other, and
hunt in couples wherever they can. The next thing is to find out what
game they are after here.”

He whispered a few words to his colleague, Simmons, who rose and left
the hall. “I have sent him to make an inquiry,” Grewgus explained. “He
knows a few of the servants here, and, as I told you, he speaks French
like a Frenchman.”

Simmons returned presently and related the result of his visit. “They
give out they are Englishwomen, and are known as Mrs. and Miss
Glenthorne. No man of the name of Edwards is staying here.”

“Ah, I thought she wouldn’t register as Miss Mayhew,” was the
detective’s comment. “I suppose a different name for each job. Well,
gentlemen, we’ve got as much here as we can for the present. I don’t
think we’ll stay any longer. I propose we adjourn to a café, have a
drink and discuss our future plan of action.”

They agreed with his suggestion. In their walk to a café close at
hand, Grewgus did not speak much. His mind was no doubt busily working
on the situation, and the best way of tackling it.

When they were half-way through their drinks, he spoke. “We can’t hope
to do very much this evening. Now what I propose is this, Mr. Lydon.
I know Paris rather thoroughly, although I daresay my friend Simmons
knows it better. This isn’t exactly a pleasure trip you’ve come on,
and you won’t want to spend more money than is absolutely necessary.
We must have something to eat, for that light meal at Boulogne wasn’t
very satisfactory.”

Lydon laughed. “I am in hearty agreement with you. The long journey
has made me feel frightfully hungry.”

“Well, if we go to one of the swagger places, you’ll be charged
through the nose. This is the city _par excellence_ of good cooking,
and I can take you to a capital little restaurant close by where
everything is excellent, and you’ll pay about a third of the price.
Their wines are good and reasonable too.”

“I’m in your hands,” said the young man. “I should like you to take me
along as soon as possible.” He noticed that Simmons did not appear to
be included in the suggestion. The reason was explained when Grewgus
turned to his colleague.

“It’s not likely we shall be fortunate enough to do much to-night, as
I said just now. We have had one big bit of luck to start with which
has saved us a lot of time and trouble. All the same we won’t let our
vigilance sleep. I want you to start on the watch at once, Simmons, if
this woman and her mother come back. We shall be at the _Restaurant
Grice_ for at least a couple of hours. If in the meantime there is
anything to report, come to us there. If we have gone, come to the
hotel.”

The obedient Simmons finished his drink, rose up and went forth at
once to obey his leader’s commands. After a final _apéritif_, Grewgus
led his companion to the _Restaurant Grice_.

Here they had a most excellent meal, consisting of a good soup, a sole
worthy of the _Café Royal_, followed by some tender veal. They drank
with it a white wine recommended by Grewgus.

While they were eating, the detective dwelt regretfully on the vast
difference between now and before the war. “If you knew the ropes, it
was one of the cheapest places in the world to live in, and whatever
you paid, you got splendid value for your money. Of course, very few
of the English who came here _did_ know the ropes. I shouldn’t have
known them but for a young fellow I met, a student in the Latin
Quarter. Gad! What he didn’t know about Paris wasn’t worth knowing.”

After their dinner was over, they sat and smoked to the accompaniment
of another bottle of white wine. Grewgus was not keen on spirits. They
had promised to wait a couple of hours there in case Simmons had
anything to report, and they were as comfortable here as they would
have been in their hotel, more so perhaps.

During this period of waiting, Grewgus entertained his host with some
more thrilling stories of crooks and crookdom. Lydon found himself
much interested. Before he met this reminiscent person he had no idea
that there was so much rascality in the world. According to Grewgus,
every big city was teeming with it. On the whole, for what he called
aristocratic crookdom he was inclined to give the palm to Nice, “where
our friend Miss Mayhew appears to hail from,” he observed with a
sardonic chuckle.

“She’s a member of some foreign gang, I suppose?” suggested Lydon.
“She has a foreign look about her, although I heard her mother was an
Englishwoman, apparently an English Jewess.”

Grewgus shook his head. “I should rather fancy an international one.
Whitehouse is mixed up with her; we can’t assume him to be ignorant of
his niece’s activities, if she is really his niece. Then there is the
man Edwards, and of course Stormont, upon whose business she is here,
according to that letter. Three Englishmen, you see. Decidedly an
international gang by that.”

“What is your reading of it so far, Mr. Grewgus?”

“Well, we can’t say positively till I’ve found out what her game is
here. But I should say she is one of the working members of the gang,
and Edwards is another. Whitehouse and his friend are probably the
controlling spirits who plan and engineer but never come into the
open, never execute the dirty work.”

A few minutes before the two hours had expired, Simmons bustled in
with an air of importance that told he had something of interest to
communicate.

It was briefly this. Mother and daughter had returned to the hotel
alone, an hour after they left it. The mother had gone upstairs; Miss
Glenthorne had sat in the hall, evidently waiting for somebody. That
somebody presently turned up in the shape of an opulent-looking
Frenchman, thickly bearded and of middle age. The couple left together
and drove to one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris.

Simmons followed them into the expensive restaurant, and had his
dinner there, conceiving it to be his duty to spend money in order to
watch them. From the waiter who attended on him, he learned that the
Frenchman was an old customer, and a wealthy man. He was a partner in
the big firm of jewellers, Dubost Frères, located in Marseilles.
Every three months he made a trip to Paris to have dealings with firms
in the same line of business. On these occasions, the waiter had been
told, he brought with him several samples worth thousands of pounds.
His name was Monsieur Léon Calliard.

With regard to the young woman, the waiter knew nothing about her. He
fancied he recognized her as having been in the restaurant before
during his period of service, but he could not say with whom. This was
certainly the first time he had seen Monsieur Calliard in her company.

From the restaurant, where they quickly got through their dinner,
Simmons followed them to a music-hall, where he had left them when he
came to make his report.

“Nobody joined them in the music-hall, no Englishman who might be the
man Edwards?” queried Grewgus when his colleague had finished his
recital.

“No, so far, Edwards has not appeared upon the scene,” was the answer.

The detective looked at his client. “Looks like a case of blackmail,
or perhaps robbery and blackmail,” was his comment. “Anyway the old
game.”

“I didn’t know whether you would like to go and have a look at them
yourself?” hazarded Simmons.

But Grewgus thought not. He would wait till to-morrow to get on the
track of the man Edwards, that is, if he were taking an active part in
the affair and still in Paris.




 CHAPTER TEN

After breakfast the next morning, Grewgus inquired if Lydon had any
intention of making a long stay in Paris.

The young man replied in the negative. His business claimed him, his
sweetheart claimed him, although he did not communicate the latter
item to the detective. He had, up to the present, said nothing about
her, or her relationship to Stormont. Naturally, he shrank from doing
so.

“I take it, if I stayed, I could be of little use to you in your
proceedings, Mr. Grewgus?” he queried.

The reply was polite, but quite emphatic. “Well, Mr. Lydon, I think
not. If I detailed you off on the watching business, you might find it
a very difficult job. Shadowing people is an art--of course Simmons
and I are quite used to it.”

“I am sure I understand. If I attempted to follow Miss Mayhew about,
she would soon spot it. You do it in some mysterious way, so that
while observing, you contrive to escape observation.”

Grewgus was pleased to find his client took such a sensible view of
the situation. He bestowed on him a cordial smile.

“Everybody to his job, Mr. Lydon. I may say to you that, speaking from
a professional point of view, this promises to be an exceedingly
interesting case, more especially when we succeed in getting on to the
track of the man Edwards who is no doubt about. I don’t fancy the
young woman is doing it all off her own bat.”

There was a certain air of satisfaction about Grewgus as he spoke
which convinced his client he was engaged in a business after his own
heart. There had been aroused in him those sleuth-like instincts,
lacking which no man makes a good hunter of criminals.

Grewgus was away all the morning, and Lydon took advantage of his
absence to stroll about and renew his rather slight acquaintance with
the beautiful city. They met for _déjeuner_ at the same place where
they had dined the previous evening.

There was news of some importance to communicate. Simmons had seen
Miss Mayhew with a tall, elegant-looking young man in the Bois de
Boulogne. They had separated very soon, and, surmising the man to be
Edwards, he had followed him to his quarters in an hotel in a
different part of the city, close to the Gare du Nord. Discreet
inquiries elicited that the young man was registered under his proper
name; he had not thought it necessary to change it like Miss Mayhew.

“It looks as he if were in charge of the job, and that the girl is
playing her usual rôle of decoy,” remarked Grewgus, when he had
imparted this information. “The two meet while this silly old Calliard
is doing his business in Paris. No doubt Miss Mayhew and her elderly
admirer will spend this evening and other evenings together till it is
time to pluck him. The waiter told Simmons he is a married man. If he
were not, we might give the young woman the benefit of the doubt, and
credit her with the intention of pulling off an advantageous
marriage.”

“In that case, the man Edwards wouldn’t be wanted,” observed Lydon,
who was quite shrewd in his way. “He will probably appear upon the
scene presently as the injured husband, or outraged brother, or
something equally terrifying to this poor enamoured old man.”

Later on, Grewgus saw his client off at the station and wished him
_bon voyage_. “I instructed my man in London to send a report of his
discoveries with regard to Stormont and Whitehouse, not only to me
here, but to you at your private address, as it will save time. I
shall keep you posted at this end. Of course, for a day or two I may
have nothing to communicate, as so far we have found out a good bit in
the short time. We have located Edwards, we have proved beyond the
smallest possibility of doubt that Zillah Mayhew and Elise Makris are
one, by the presence of the mother. And, of course, our friend at
Effington Hall stands revealed by his letter as the prime mover in the
affair.”

Lydon arrived in London the same night, and early on the following
morning sent a wire to Gloria asking her to meet him at the _Savoy_
for luncheon. On his breakfast table had lain an envelope addressed in
an unfamiliar handwriting. It contained a long memorandum
headed--“Copy of a report forwarded to Mr. Grewgus in Paris.”
Obviously the detective’s agent had lost no time, he must have worked
at top speed, as he could only have devoted two days to the inquiries.


 The report read as follows: “I could not start as soon as I should
 have liked, as I had no personal knowledge of Stormont and had to
 travel down to Effington and hang about there till I had spotted the
 man, and learned something of his habits. On the next morning I
 shadowed him at Waterloo, and followed him to Hornby Square in the
 City. He went into a small suite of offices, on the entrance door of
 which were marked the names of Robinson & Company, financiers. Further
 inquiries elicited that his firm kept no staff, that only two men were
 there, sometimes together, sometimes alone, Stormont and a taciturn,
 rather unpleasant-looking man whom the porter knew by the name of
 Whitehouse.

 “I shadowed Whitehouse when he left in the afternoon about four
 o’clock and found he occupies a flat Number 18 in Ashstead Mansions,
 off Sloane Square. The family consists of himself, his wife and a
 niece, Miss Mayhew. Both uncle and niece frequently take journeys
 abroad. He is known there as Glenthorne.”


Leonard smiled as he read this part. It was evident that the
hall-porter at Ashstead Mansions had again been a source of
information.

“There seems little or no business doing at Hornby Square, so far as I
could gather. There are a very few occasional callers, and a fair
amount of correspondence. Taking the aspect of things in a general
conjunction, and remembering the suspicious circumstance that the man
Whitehouse calls himself Glenthorne in private life, I should say the
office in Hornby Square is used as a blind, and that no legitimate
business is carried on there.”

There was a letter to Lydon accompanying the report signed John Ross,
in which the writer stated that he was forwarding it in compliance
with the instructions of his principal, Mr. Grewgus.

Lydon laid the report down, thinking that it fully confirmed his
suspicions, and marvelling what an immense amount had come to light in
consequence of his sudden determination to open the letter to Zillah
Mayhew. If Stormont only knew, how he would curse his sister’s
officiousness in getting those letters posted.

As he expected might be the case, he found Gloria very hurt that her
sweetheart had not written to her during his brief absence. It was
very unkind, she told him: if the positions had been reversed, she
would have sent him a long letter every day.

He hated lying to the charming girl, she was always so frank and open
herself. But what was he to do under the circumstances? He could not
admit that the journey to Glasgow was a myth, that he had really gone
to Paris to get evidence against her uncle.

The day might come when he would have to open her eyes as to
Stormont’s real character, but it had not arrived yet. He must have
stronger evidence than he possessed at the moment.

“My darling, you can’t imagine how busy I was,” he pleaded in excuse
of his neglect. “I was rushing about from place to place; when I had a
spare second I was ’phoning somebody or writing telegrams.”

Being a very sweet-tempered girl, she was soon placated, and made no
further allusion to the distasteful subject. Nothing of any moment had
happened at Effington; there had been one dinner party during his
absence, and there was to be another one on his next weekly visit, on
the Saturday.

“I think uncle is drawing in his horns a bit,” she observed. “He seems
to be cutting it down to one dinner party a week instead of two or
three. He has been up to London a good deal more lately; he says he
has a great deal of business on. So that I daresay consoles him for
the comparative lack of gaiety. But, of course, he’s never really
happy unless he is entertaining.”

“And I suppose he doesn’t really care twopence for the people on whom
he lavishes so much of his money?” queried Lydon.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” was the answer. “It’s just a form of
excitement. That’s the pity of it. I am fond enough of company in a
reasonable sort of way, but then I would choose people I really liked
for themselves, for their qualities, not because they lived in a big
house and were important people in the neighbourhood.”

He rather looked forward with distaste to his next visit to Effington.
It would be so difficult to avoid showing a change of manner to
Stormont. He knew that a dozen times in the day an almost irresistible
impulse would overtake him, prompting him to tell the rubicund
hypocrite that he knew him for what he was, the friend and abettor of
Elise Makris, the decoy of a gang of blackmailers. The day would come
when he must tell him, but for the present he must practise patience.

He must wait till his case was strengthened, so as to leave Stormont
no loophole for plausible explanation. If confronted now, how easy for
him to say that he knew nothing of the girl’s criminal activities,
that he could not be supposed to be aware she was leading a double
life. He could hear him rolling out in an unctuous voice some such
words as these:

“My dear Leonard, do be reasonable. I made her acquaintance through
Whitehouse, a most respectable man with whom I have been associated in
business for years. I found she had great aptitude. She is useful to
me, with her charm of manner, in many delicate and difficult financial
negotiations with important people. The man Edwards is one of my
trusted agents. I often send him when I cannot go myself, confident
that he will look after my interests faithfully. Your suspicions are
the merest moonshine.”

He might even be able to wriggle his way out, with regard to the man
John Whitehouse. He would say that he carried on two businesses under
two different names for the sake of distinguishing them. That at
Hornby Court he was Whitehouse, at his other offices Glenthorne.

No, he must not yet show in his manner that he was on his track. But
he would avoid him as much as possible, see as little of him as he
could, take long walks and drives with Gloria. To do him justice, the
so-called financier did leave the lovers pretty much to themselves; so
did Mrs. Barnard, who might or might not be in the secret of her
brother’s double life.

Still, he would have to sit through a good many meals with his host,
and he would find it trying. He was not very fond of those lavish
dinner parties which gave Stormont such keen pleasure, but he felt
rather grateful for this particular one which would keep them very
much apart for that evening.

On that same Saturday afternoon, a very strange thing occurred. Mrs.
Barnard had gone out to luncheon that day, and the three sat chatting
together for some little time after the meal was concluded, Lydon
being the most silent member of the party.

Presently they went out into the hall together, the young man having
suggested to his sweetheart that they should take a stroll in the
grounds. A peculiar spectacle met their view.

A bronzed-looking, elderly man, with a shaggy beard and moustache,
rather shabbily dressed, was standing inside close by the door. A
smart-looking young footman stood near to him, with rather the air of
mounting guard. Duncan, the butler, was advancing in the direction of
the dining-room, but halted when he saw the party approaching.

He spoke in his grave, respectful voice, in which there seemed just a
tinge of surprise. “A--a--person wishes to see you, sir. He declines
to give his name, says he wants to surprise you.”

Stormont started for a second, then advanced towards the new-comer
whom he could not see very distinctly, as he was afflicted with
short-sight. Then, when he got close to him, his face went pale under
its tan, and the words dropped from his lips slowly, as if they were
forced from him. “Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful.”

The shabby-looking man burst into a loud laugh and extended a hand.
Lydon noticed it was not over-clean, and the other took it with
evident embarrassment.

“Tom Newcombe it is, your old pal. Glad to see you again, Howard, and
to find things are so well with you. That gentleman is quite right, I
wouldn’t give my name, I wanted to give you a surprise.” He glanced at
the footman. “I think this young fellow has got an idea I’m a burglar
or something of the sort; he’s been looking at me suspiciously ever
since I came in.”

There was an awkward pause. Stormont’s agitated countenance showed
that he was very much upset by this unexpected arrival of his “old
pal.” The footman disappeared rapidly. Duncan retreated with his slow,
majestic step, his grave face looking graver than ever. Before he came
to Effington, he had lived all his life in refined and aristocratic
families. Never had he known, in his respectable experience, such an
occurrence as this--a shabby-looking stranger entering the house and
greeting the owner as “your old pal.” There is no doubt the dignified
butler was thoroughly shaken.

Lydon was very generous-hearted, and in spite of the altered feelings
with which he now regarded Stormont, he could not but feel a wave of
pity for the man, subjected to such a rude shock in the very midst of
his splendour, before the eyes of his astonished servants. Thinking
the most tactful course was to withdraw, he touched Gloria lightly on
the arm.

“Let us go for our stroll,” he said, and she, understanding his
object, nodded her head. They went out and left the agitated Stormont
to deal with Mr. Tom Newcombe.

When they were in the grounds, she turned to him, a look of surprise,
Lydon fancied a faint hint of trouble, in her clear, candid blue eyes.
“What can it mean, Leonard? Such a common fellow too, his way of
talking! Not a broken-down gentleman. You heard him speak of uncle as
his ‘old pal.’ Where in the name of wonder could he have known him?”

“Do you know anything of your uncle’s past, of his life as a young
man?” As her sweetheart put the question, his thought was that she
probably knew as little of the past as she did of the present.

The girl answered him with her usual frankness. “Nothing. From some
little things father dropped, I gathered that he was rather wild in
his youth. I don’t fancy they had ever been very good friends as young
men. I am sure you have noticed how little Uncle Howard ever talks
about himself, about his business or his past. I know nothing about
these things. Auntie may know more about them than I do, but I don’t
fancy very much. He is so strangely reticent. He certainly told her he
was going to borrow money from you, but I expect he did so because he
thought you might let it out to one of us. If he had been sure of your
silence, she would never have heard a word about it, I am convinced.”

After a short pause, she resumed the subject. “I cannot understand it,
the man is obviously of such a common class. The Stormonts come from
very homely stock, I know, but they are miles above this. I don’t
think I have ever told you much about the family history, which I
learned from my father, not my uncle. I don’t think I have ever heard
him allude to his family. He is as reticent about them as he is about
himself.”

She proceeded to tell him about the past Stormonts. Her grandfather
was a small tradesman in a Midland town, his family consisted of two
sons, Howard and Jasper. Although not ambitious for himself, he was
for his children, and he stinted and screwed to give them a good
education to enable them to do better in the world than their father.

That education had stood them in good stead and developed their native
brains. Jasper, the elder of the two, was a very clever fellow,
although he had made nothing like the money his brother had done.
This, in Gloria’s opinion, was simply due to lack of opportunity, to
that absence of luck which plays such a large part in human affairs.
And what money Jasper did make he took good care of.

“But although he has never tried to make any show, father’s career has
been one of steady success,” she concluded with an air of pardonable
pride. “And he is one of the most upright men, with high ideals of
duty. He has not got Uncle Howard’s robust geniality, but he has most
lovable qualities. I should be so pleased for you to meet him.”

They strolled about for a long time before they returned to the house.
Before they went in, Gloria had confided to her lover her perplexity
as to what Stormont would do with his unwelcome guest. Mr. Newcombe
certainly could not join the ultra-respectable dinner party that would
assemble in the evening.

This problem was presently solved by Stormont himself, who later on
came into the billiard-room to find them.

He had recovered a good deal from the shock, but it was easy to see by
his nervous, jerky manner, that he was still very ill at ease over
this disconcerting experience, and the necessity of furnishing some
explanation of it.

He tried to carry it off in his usual hearty bluff way, but Lydon knew
that he would have given a big sum of money for it not to have
happened.

“Strange after all these years, very strange! Poor old Tom Newcombe to
have come down so; he was fairly prosperous at one time. A rough
diamond, but one of the best, one of the very best.” It was obvious to
both there was no real heartiness in his voice as he pronounced these
warm eulogies on the shabby-looking man.

He went on in the same jerky, unconvincing manner, addressing himself
rather more directly to his niece. “I suppose you are wondering how I
came to know him?”

“I think we are,” said Gloria, speaking with her usual directness. “He
spoke as if you had been on very intimate terms.”

“So we were, so we were,” was the reply. “I must reveal a little bit
of my life that I have said nothing to you about before. Even your
aunt and father know very little of it. When I was quite a youngster,
I was a bit inclined to kick over the traces. And, in one of my wild
moods, I went out to Australia in the hope of making my fortune
quickly. It was there I met Tom Newcombe, who had been lucky and made
quite a respectable pile. In that land of democratic equality we
chummed up together. After a few years I left, having made no headway.
But during that trying time Newcombe was a splendid pal to me, let me
share with him when I was wanting a meal. I have never set eyes on him
since. And now poor old Tom has turned up, broke to the world. One of
the saddest things I know.”

Lydon was firmly convinced the man was lying, that he had invented
this explanation of his acquaintance with the rough-looking stranger.
Even Gloria looked somewhat doubtful.

“What are you going to do with him, uncle? Will he stay here?” she
asked quickly.

“Of course. Could I turn out a man who befriended me as he did?”
answered Stormont with a fine show of virtuous rectitude. “A pity we
have got that party on to-night. I should have been proud to have such
a fine fellow at my table, in spite of the fact that he is not quite
of our--er--class. But he is a sensible chap and sees things clearly.
He has no evening clothes, and none of mine would fit him. He will
have his dinner in my study, and I shall instruct the servants to show
him the greatest respect. There will be nobody here to-morrow, and he
can then join us.”

He was carrying it out very bravely, as well as anybody could, turning
the rough Tom Newcombe into almost a hero. But Lydon disbelieved every
word he said, as he naturally would, and Gloria did not seem very
convinced.

“You are going to help him, of course?” she said in the same quiet
tone.

A generous glow seemed to animate Stormont’s whole manner as he
replied to her. And Lydon was more than ever convinced that the man
was acting for all he was worth.

“I should think so. I have heaps of faults, but want of humanity,
thank Heaven, is not one of them. I shall help poor old Tom as long as
he wants help, as he helped me when I was in need.”

With the utterance of these noble sentiments, the conversation ended.
Stormont went away to shut up with his guest till dinner-time. The
respectable people of the neighbourhood came to the banquet and did
full justice to it, in ignorance that not far from them, in the host’s
study, a shabby-looking man, waited upon by a rather supercilious
footman, was partaking in solitude of the same rich viands and choice
wines.

When the last carriage had rolled away, Mrs. Barnard went to bed,
explaining that she was tired with her long day. Was it because she
wished to avoid any conversation with her niece about the unexpected
guest?

Stormont went to look after Newcombe. He promised to join them shortly
in the billiard-room, as the night was still young.

He came in looking rather relieved, and proposed a three-handed game.
“I’ve set the poor chap in front of a bottle of whisky; it will do him
good after his privations,” he said genially. “I hope, though, he
won’t take too much; he has a little weakness in that direction.”

They had not played more than half an hour when the door opened, and
the shabby figure of Mr. Newcombe appeared. His face was very flushed,
there was no doubt about his condition. His gait was uncertain, and
his voice was decidedly thick.

Advancing towards the billiard-table, he looked at his host with a
very unfriendly expression, in which Lydon saw, or perhaps fancied he
saw, a hint of menace.

“Look here, Stormont, my boy. Old pal as you may have been, I’m not
going to stand much more of this sort of thing. I’m being treated in a
way I don’t like. It’s devilish unhandsome, to say the least of it.”

The more than half-drunken man was meditating a scene in revenge for
some real or fancied grievance. Gloria paled and reddened by turns and
looked apprehensively at her uncle.

Lydon waited developments. Would this fellow in his cups, and without
the least control over his faculties, blurt out something that would
give the lie to Stormont’s hastily concocted story?




 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Stormont himself seemed quite taken aback by this almost savage
onslaught, almost as deprived of self-control as Newcombe himself.
“What are you complaining of?” he asked, in a voice that was scarcely
audible.

The man whom his accent declared to be a Colonial, answered in his
thick utterance: “I don’t say anything about not being asked to dine
with your swell friends, they’re not my kidney, and I’d rather have
their room than their company. But after they’d all gone, you might
have introduced me to your family.”

He pointed a shaking forefinger at the shrinking Gloria, who was
immensely afraid of a drunken man. Stormont was pretty liberal in his
potations, but he never got into anything approaching this condition.

“This pretty girl, I take it, is your niece. And this, I suppose, is
her young man you told me about. Looks a bit stuck-up, I fancy, like
the young feller who brought me my dinner. But I daresay I shall find
him a good sort when we’re better acquainted.”

He walked with his unsteady gait towards the table on which the
ever-thoughtful butler had placed refreshments.

The action seemed to rouse Stormont from his trance. “Stop it,” he
shouted in a voice of thunder. “Stop it. You’ve had more than you can
carry already.”

But he was too late, Newcombe had already filled a tumbler half-full
of raw whisky and tossed it down his throat as if it had been water.
Having done this, his manner seemed to change. From a mood very nearly
approaching ferocity, he lapsed into one of maudlin sentimentality. A
weak smile overspread his bearded countenance.

“Well, my boy, we mustn’t quarrel, we’ve been too dear old pals for
that.” He laughed with the disconcerting hilarity of a drunken man.
“Lord, what fine games we’ve had in our day, Howard, haven’t we? Do
you remember that glorious day we followed up old Billy Stiles----?”

Again Stormont’s voice rang out, and there was a note of almost agony
in it. “Stop, Newcombe, for Heaven’s sake stop. You forget there is a
woman present.”

The appeal seemed momentarily to sober the wretched man. He turned his
bleary eyes in the direction of Gloria. “Sorry, miss, I’m sure; I
forgot you were here. No offence meant, Howard, my dear old pal. I
haven’t said anything; you’ve noticed that.”

It was time to end the disgusting scene. Stormont turned to the young
man. “Very sorry, but you’d better take Gloria away. I’ll deal with
this drunken creature and get him to bed.”

As he spoke, he turned a very malevolent glance on the huddled-up
Newcombe, who had closed his eyes after his last speech, and appeared
to be falling asleep. There was positive hatred in that glance, Lydon
felt assured. And yet a few hours ago he had spoken of the man as a
splendid fellow, as one of the very best. The young man doubted if
there was much love lost on either side, in spite of Newcombe’s
reference to his friend as a dear old pal.

The lovers went into the drawing-room. Gloria still looked pale, and
not a little indignant. “What a perfect brute!” she cried. “Why has
uncle put up with him for five minutes? You could see the sort he was
at the first glance, a rough savage. Why did he not give him some
money, and make him go?”

Almost before he was aware of it, the words slipped out of her
sweetheart’s mouth, words that voiced his inmost thoughts.

“Depend upon it, dear, Mr. Stormont has some good reasons for not
wishing to offend this uncouth fellow.”

The girl looked up with a startled glance, one which had fear in it as
well as surprise. “Leonard, what is in your mind? Do you suggest”--her
voice faltered for a second--“that he knows anything to Uncle Howard’s
discredit?”

Lydon felt he had gone a bit too far at the present juncture. He
shrugged his shoulders and spoke in indifferent tones.

“I don’t suppose young men who go out to Australia and mix with a
rough crowd lead very saintly lives. I daresay Newcombe is acquainted
with a few episodes that would be better suppressed in your uncle’s
family circle. Don’t worry, darling.”

“But I can’t help it,” replied the ever-frank Gloria. “The whole thing
is so mysterious, and somehow uncle’s explanation seemed to me lame
and halting. Did it strike you in the same way?”

Leonard hesitated for a moment. It would be easy to say that he had
accepted that statement in perfect good faith, in short, to tell an
absolute lie. But he thought it better on the whole that Gloria should
be allowed to nurse her suspicions. The blow would fall lighter on her
when it had to come. He told her, therefore, that the same impression
had been made on him.

“I wonder what he was going to say when he was stopped!” she remarked,
after a brief pause. “When he was going to tell something about a man
they had followed up. Uncle seemed in an agony of apprehension. I
almost wish it had come out; I shall only be speculating what it was.
I do hope he is not making an indefinite stay here.”

But on this point Lydon thought he could see his way to give her some
comfort. Stormont was much too clever a man to allow Newcombe to
exhibit himself to his neighbours; he had been disturbed quite enough
by the fact that he had been seen by the family and servants.

“Your uncle is a resourceful man, Gloria, I am sure he will soon see a
way of getting rid of him without hurting his feelings. And when the
fellow gets sober again I daresay he will have the sense to perceive
that Effington Hall is hardly a fit _milieu_ for him.”

The next morning the Colonial did not come down to breakfast; probably
it was too severe a task after the potations of the previous evening.
He appeared in Stormont’s study about twelve o’clock, Lydon and the
ladies having gone to church. What passed between the pair, they had
no means of knowing. Newcombe lunched with them, and his demeanour was
very chastened. He ate heartily, but drank very sparingly. Perhaps his
host had given him a lecture on the fatal effects of intemperance. And
during the meal he scarcely opened his lips.

Gloria and her sweetheart went out for their afternoon walk. When they
came back to tea, neither Stormont nor Newcombe was visible. Mrs.
Barnard said that her brother had driven the visitor up to London,
where he intended to find a lodging.

Lydon drew a breath of relief: had the Colonial stayed, there might
have been another disagreeable scene. Gloria openly expressed her
satisfaction. “Loathsome creature, I hope he has gone for good,” she
ejaculated fervently. “Have you ever seen him before, aunt?”

“Never, my dear, nor do I want to see him again. It must have amazed
your uncle very greatly. Of course in a wild place such as he went to
as a young man, you cannot pick and choose the people you are forced
to associate with. But it is distinctly unpleasant when they turn up
in after life and remind you of the old acquaintance.”

Had Stormont told her the same tale he had told to them, or did she
know more about that sinister visitor than they did? Nothing in her
demeanour enabled Lydon to determine the point.

Stormont returned in time for dinner, having deposited his visitor
somewhere. No further allusion was made to him by any member of the
party, but his advent had created an uncomfortable feeling which was
not wholly allayed by his departure.

Leonard guessed that Mr. Newcombe had taken away with him either a
good sum in cash or a substantial cheque. He had no doubt in his own
mind that the Colonial knew something damaging about Stormont, and
that his visit had been made for the purpose of extorting hush-money.
If so, there was a grim irony in the situation. The man who, according
to all the present evidence, was a blackmailer, was being blackmailed
himself, and maintaining his position as the opulent owner of
Effington by the grace of this rough and down-at-heel Colonial.

After dinner Stormont shut himself up in his study. During dinner he
had been very quiet, quite unlike his usual genial, rather boisterous
self; it was evident that Newcombe had left a disturbing influence
behind him. Mrs. Barnard went to her own particular sanctum, and the
young people had the drawing-room to themselves.

“It may have been my fancy,” remarked Gloria, “but I thought I
detected a subtle difference in Duncan’s manner to-day. I saw his face
drop in the hall when that creature spoke of himself as being an old
pal of uncle’s. I shouldn’t wonder if he has made up his mind that it
is no longer a respectable establishment to remain in and intends to
give notice.”

She had diagnosed the state of the dignified butler’s feelings
correctly, for the next day Duncan intimated his wish to leave. When
pressed for a reason, he murmured something evasive about his desire
for a change. It was a decided shock to his employer, as it showed him
what an unfavourable impression had been created by the unwelcome
visit of this rough stranger.

Lydon did not know this when he left. Duncan had not delivered his
bombshell till later in the morning. There had been considerable
excitement at the breakfast-table. Something had happened which
temporarily drove Mr. Newcombe out of the minds of every member of the
family. Stormont had received a letter from his brother Jasper, dated
from the _Hotel Cecil_.

Gloria’s father and mother were staying there, having arrived in
London early on the Sunday. They had given no previous intimation of
their intended visit, as they wanted it to come as a complete surprise
to their relatives. Would they come and see them on the Monday if they
had no previous engagement which it was impossible to put off? Of
course they would dine with them, and in this invitation Leonard was
included. Gloria must stay with them at least a week if not longer.

The unpleasant atmosphere created by the late happenings seemed very
much cleared by this pleasant news. Stormont and his sister seemed
quite pleased, in spite of the fact that the brothers had not been
very great friends in their youth. He remarked with a touch of his
former geniality that it would be very pleasant to see good old Jasper
again, a sentiment fully endorsed by Mrs. Barnard. Gloria clapped her
hands together in her frank delight.

“How lovely!” she cried. “It was on the tip of my tongue to say I wish
they had let us know beforehand. But I think I am rather glad they
have taken us by surprise. It is such a sensation.”

She turned impetuously towards her sweetheart. “I am sure you will
like my father very much, Leonard. He is one of the dearest men, and
very fond of young people, who all take to him. He is awfully liked
out there by everybody, and he has the highest reputation for
integrity and highmindedness.”

Did Howard Stormont look just a little glum as he listened to this
sincere praise of his elder brother, or was it Lydon’s fancy? Had the
man’s conscience, deadened as it must be, suddenly awakened to fresh
life and pricked at him as he thought of the difference between
Gloria’s father and himself?

Lydon was pleasurably excited at the prospect of meeting with Jasper
Stormont, of whom his daughter had always spoken with love and the
greatest respect. She had often told him how attached to him she had
been as a child, and what grief she had suffered at parting from her
parents. And time and the generous treatment of her aunt and uncle had
never weakened that early affection.

When the young man met them in the hall of the _Cecil_, a few minutes
before the time fixed for dinner, he was very favourably impressed by
the appearance of both mother and father. Mrs. Stormont was a very
handsome woman, and her slim elegant figure made her look remarkably
young. She had preserved herself wonderfully, and might have passed
for her daughter’s elder sister. It was easy to see the husband was
very proud of his youthful-looking wife.

In appearance, Jasper Stormont was quite unlike his younger brother,
his junior by two years. He was tall and spare, with an aristocratic
bearing. His face, if not exactly handsome, was pleasant to look upon
and his features were refined. His manner was quietly genial, without
that bluff boisterousness which distinguished the so-called financier.
It exhaled an air of old-world courtesy which stood out in marked
contrast to some modern manners.

He welcomed the young man with a cordiality that was perfect under the
circumstances, not too effusive or overdone. Lydon was prepared to
think that everything about the man was genuine; he seemed a perfect
type of the commercial aristocracy.

“Delighted to see you, Mr. Lydon; later on I shall come to the more
familiar Christian name. But to such a long exile--we have been over
only once before since I left England--everything seems strange, and
in some cases I must confess, of course not in the present one, a
little out of tune. I am glad to see my little girlie looking so well;
certainly her uncle and aunt have taken great care of her and made her
very happy. She is staying here with us for a week, and at the end of
that my brother Howard insists that we must shift our quarters to
Effington.”

There was something a little formal in his words, in his diction, that
Lydon rather liked. There was also about the man an ease, an
unconscious air of authority that pleased him. Beside him his brother,
Howard Stormont, with his supposed great wealth, appeared plebeian.

He learned afterwards from Gloria that the elder brother was much the
superior in mentality. He might not have the money-making instinct so
strongly developed, but he had taken far greater advantage of the good
education their father had bestowed upon them. He was a very
cultivated man, passionately fond of art and music and an omnivorous
reader. Howard was essentially a man of the world and nothing more;
the arts did not interest him, and the daily newspapers were almost
his sole literature.

It was a very pleasant dinner. Jasper Stormont was an exceedingly good
talker, but he led the conversation without any attempt to monopolize
it, giving everybody a chance to contribute to the common fund of
entertainment.

Howard Stormont and his sister were staying the night at the hotel,
returning to Effington on the morrow. Leonard left early, good taste
suggesting that he should not intrude himself too long on what was a
family conclave. There must be many things they would wish to discuss
alone.

The liking between the two men seemed mutual. Jasper Stormont shook
Leonard’s hand very warmly when they parted. “As I told you, Gloria is
going to give herself to us for a week, and I should like you to come
very often. To dinner every night if you can.”

He gave him a very charming smile when the young men protested that
this was taking undue advantage of his position. “Not at all, my dear
young friend. I am afraid my motive is a rather selfish one. I want to
become well acquainted with my future son-in-law.”

Gloria saw him off; the others with commendable tact did not intrude
upon the tender farewell of the lovers.

“You like my dear old dad, don’t you, Leonard? He has a heart of
gold,” asked Gloria as they said good night.

And Leonard was able to say honestly that he had taken a great liking
to Jasper Stormont. He was quite convinced, even on this short
acquaintance, he was a white man through and through.

It followed that, being so pressed, the young man did dine at the
_Cecil_ every evening of that week. The Stormonts had a small private
sitting-room, but Jasper often took Lydon down into the smoking-room
for a private chat. He had openly avowed his wish to become better
acquainted with his future son-in-law, and these informal intimate
conversations would help him quickly to that knowledge.

He told Leonard first of his future plans. He expected to retire in
about five years from now and would come back to spend his declining
years in England. He was nothing like so rich a man as his brother
Howard, so he said, but he would be able to live comfortably on the
interest of what he had saved.

He went on to speak of Gloria’s childhood, and the unhappy time when
they had to part with her.

“It was one of the greatest griefs of our life,” he said in his
simple, straightforward way. “But there was no help for it. We had the
best medical advice, and the verdict was unanimous, she could not live
in the East. My other child, a son, has thrived there--difference of
constitution, of course.”

He paused a moment, before resuming this portion of his daughter’s
history, a good deal of which the young man had gathered from his
sweetheart.

“Just to go back a moment. Howard and I had not been very attached
brothers in our youth, I should hesitate to say with whom the fault
lay. Enough that with regard to most things we did not see eye to
eye.”

Jasper Stormont did not say what those things were. And Lydon, dearly
as he would have liked to know, did not think it seemly to ask him.

“But we kept up a rather desultory, if brief correspondence. When this
trouble came upon us, I wrote to him in an agony of spirit as it were,
telling him that we had to part with one of our beloved children. In
writing that letter, I had no ulterior motive in my mind. From what I
knew of my brother’s character, I should have considered him the last
man in the world to consider anything but his own comfort, to disturb
the mode of life which he had mapped out for himself.”

Lydon gathered this much from those words: namely, that Howard
Stormont was judged to be, in reality, a selfish creature, who lived
for himself, who only studied himself.

“To my intense surprise, I received an answer which caused me to take
a totally different view of him. He wrote me that having remained a
bachelor so long, there was practically no chance of his exchanging
his estate. He had prospered greatly in the world; he lived with our
widowed sister, Maud Barnard, who had a small income of her own. The
house was at times a bit dull; he thought it would be brightened by
the presence of a child, in whom they could take an interest and find
an object of affection. He offered to adopt Gloria, and make her
welfare his solemn charge. Anyway, let the experiment be tried, for
say a couple of years. If, at the end of that time, Gloria found she
was not happy, her father could make other arrangements.”

Jasper Stormont paused a little time before he resumed. “But,
fortunately, that did not happen. They spoiled the girl from the day
she went into her new home, and the spoiling has gone on, but I think
I can say my dear girl is none the worse for it. And now, my dear
Leonard, I come to a somewhat delicate topic.”

“I think I can guess the nature of it,” interjected Lydon.

“Ah, of course Gloria has told you. I gathered as much from her.
Naturally, grateful as she is to her uncle for his care of her, his
kindness and generosity, she would conceal nothing from us. She has
told me of that loan of a thousand pounds, which of course throws a
very clear light upon my brother’s financial position. We are both men
of business; it tells the same story to both. I know nothing of the
nature of Howard’s business, but it must be a very precarious one,
since he is up to-day and down to-morrow. I don’t suppose he will
leave anything behind him.”

“I feel quite certain he will not,” Lydon agreed. “But when I asked
Gloria to be my wife, I never took any expectations of that sort into
account.”

“I quite believe you; you loved my dear daughter for herself. Well,
Leonard, I should like to tell you this. When I and her mother die,
whatever I may have to leave will be divided equally between my
children. Gloria will not be an heiress, but neither will she be a
pauper.”

Leonard bowed his head in acknowledgment of this intimation, conveyed
with such delicacy and courtesy.

Howard Stormont might be a scoundrel, a mover in crooked ways, as his
connection with Elise Makris proved, but his brother was certainly an
honest man.




 CHAPTER TWELVE

At the end of the week, the Jasper Stormonts moved to the fine old
Tudor house at Effington. And, shortly before they did so, there came
for Lydon an invitation from his future uncle-in-law which the young
man fancied had been instigated by the banker. If it did not interfere
with his business arrangements, would Leonard make the Hall his
headquarters for the next week, going up to London in the morning and
returning when the duties of the day were done? Jasper Stormont’s
holiday was to be only a brief one, and shortly he would return to
China for another long period of exile. Perhaps in this brief time he
wished to see as much as possible of the man who was to marry his
daughter, in order to prove if further acquaintance would increase or
diminish his first favourable impressions of him.

For Gloria had told him that her father had formed an exceedingly good
opinion of him, and expressed his satisfaction that she had made such
a wise choice.

“And dear dad’s opinion is worth having,” said the girl proudly. She
was fond of her uncle, very grateful to him for all he had done for
her, for the happiness he had brought into her life. But it was easy
to see that for her father she had a great respect almost amounting to
reverence, in addition to her filial love. No doubt, so far as
character was concerned, she put the two men on totally different
planes. And Lydon knew that her instinct was right. Even if he had
never opened that letter to Zillah Mayhew, and still believed Howard
Stormont to be what he had originally thought him--a shrewd, blunt,
genial fellow--he would have soon discovered that Jasper was made of
the sounder metal.

The young man laughingly told his sweetheart that he thought her
father had been at the bottom of this unusual invitation, and she
admitted it.

“He’s a very keen judge of character,” she said. “In his responsible
position he is bound to be. And he says you never thoroughly know a
man till you have stayed in the same house with him. No doubt that is
why he wanted you here daily for a time.”

“Till he had completed his investigations, eh?” observed Lydon, with
an amused smile, although at the same time he had every sympathy with
regard to Jasper’s anxiety on behalf of his child. “Well, dear, I
shall have to mind my P’s and Q’s, shan’t I? I must take care not to
come down grumpy in the morning, or show any of the latent villainy
that is hidden somewhere in my disposition.”

The girl laughed happily. She had inherited her father’s capacity for
reading character, and she had not much fear of this open, honest,
even-tempered young fellow, whose moods hardly ever seemed to vary.

It occurred to Lydon that, on this visit, Stormont was devoting
himself much more closely to his business, whatever it might be, than
was usual with him. He went up pretty early to London every day, and
on two occasions he missed dinner, and did not return till late in the
evening. Evidently something of importance was going on.

There were, strange to relate, no dinner parties during that week.
Lydon could hardly believe there was so much affection between the two
men that Howard wanted to enjoy his brother’s company without
interruption. He thought it was rather a matter of policy.

Howard knew that, if questioned, Gloria would not be able to conceal
the fact of his extravagance. She might even let out that there were
periods when he was obviously short of money, and in view of these
possible confidences he did not wish to give Jasper the elder
brother’s privilege of lecturing him. In the eyes of such a financial
purist as the banker, his happy-go-lucky methods would savour of
nothing short of criminal folly.

Lydon listened to his sentiments one night when the two men were
together in the smoking-room, on the second occasion on which Howard
had not returned to dinner. The banker’s face was very grim as he
delivered his criticism on what he knew and had observed.

“I have known next to nothing of my brother’s affairs since he left
England. I knew he went to Australia for a while and that things did
not prosper greatly with him there. When his letter arrived, offering
to adopt Gloria, and stating that he was firmly on his feet, I
accepted what he said in good faith. Her letters showed they were all
leading a very luxurious life, and that money seemed to be spent like
water. Of course, I was terribly disillusioned when, such a short time
ago, I learned the actual truth. Without mincing words, I can tell you
I was not only surprised but intensely disgusted, especially when I
heard of that thousand pounds borrowed from you. It hit Gloria very
hard, that transaction. She is a girl of extremely delicate feeling,
and under the peculiar circumstances it was in the very worst taste.
Drowning men, we know, catch at straws; it showed how very near to
drowning he must have been. He is no fool; he must know how ugly it
would look to a third party.”

Lydon made no comment. Had things not been as they were, he might have
put up some defence for Howard Stormont, out of his natural kindness
of heart. But he could not do so now. The man was unscrupulous to the
core.

“When my brother was a young man, he was always very headstrong, also
fearfully extravagant, if only in a small way,” went on Jasper in the
same severe tone. “He never seemed able to curb his desires, to
restrain any momentary impulse. If he wanted a thing and hadn’t the
money to pay for it, he would go into debt to get it, trusting that
luck would enable him to avoid the disagreeable consequences. I know
this fatal weakness was a great anxiety to our parents, honest and
God-fearing people, and made them tremble for his future.

“This big house, with its staff of indoor and outdoor servants eating
him up, is a piece of the most colossal folly I have ever come across,
and in my business we meet with very many specimens of the
spendthrift. Everybody in the banking world does. I have no hesitation
in discussing it with you; as Gloria’s future husband you have a right
to know how matters stand. And further, in the distress which he
brought on himself, he showed his hand plainly to you.”

As Jasper Stormont elected to be so confidential with him, he thought
he might continue the conversation on the same lines.

“It seems to me that his business is evidently a very precarious one.
It is rather a strange thing that I have never known what that
business really is; it is not a thing on which you can put a quite
straight question to a man, but it usually leaks out pretty soon. You
know that I am a consulting engineer; I know that you hold a high post
in the banking world. I have never even heard from your brother where
his offices are. Gloria does not seem to know much about it. She
thought he was what you call a financier. Well, we must admit that is
rather a vague term.”

“And I can assure you, Leonard, I know almost as little as you do; my
sister appears equally ignorant. When I have talked about the subject,
about which there should be no mystery, there is an obvious attempt to
sheer off it. So far as I can gather from random statements, he might
be described as a financier. He gets concessions from foreign
countries; he negotiates big loans for all sorts of things, does a bit
of company promoting, etc. But he avoids details and gives no names.
Of course, some men are very reticent about their private affairs, but
reticence so pronounced savours greatly of mystery.”

There was a long pause and then the banker waved his hand round the
room, decorated and furnished in such a costly fashion, with a gesture
that was contemptuous.

“But one thing I am certain of, I have often been told that I possess
second sight in matters like these. This cannot go on for long, in the
light that has been thrown upon it by his borrowing from you what was,
after all, a trifling sum for a man in a good way of business to find.
A year or two of bad trade will bring him to the ground. Perhaps
another year’s reprieve in which he will be struggling to tide over.
You and I will then, I expect, be invited to put money into the
sinking ship. If so, take my advice and sternly refuse. With a man of
my brother’s headstrong nature and extravagant proclivities, you might
as well throw it in the sea.”

Lydon thanked his future father-in-law for his advice, thinking, as he
did so, that Howard Stormont would never get another loan out of him.
Did this honourable, straightforward man of business only know what he
knew, he would be overwhelmed with grief and shame at possessing such
a brother.

“You can see it is a subject on which I have necessarily to hold my
tongue,” exclaimed Jasper Stormont. “For all I ought to know to the
contrary, he may be conducting his affairs with the greatest prudence,
is making enough to enable him to run this place and accumulate a fair
fortune besides. What I know about the true state of affairs comes
from Gloria, from whom I have drawn it with the greatest reluctance.
My lips are sealed; she would hate him to find that she has been
telling tales out of school; for whatever faults he may have, he has
taken the place of a second father to her, and she cannot but
appreciate him for that.”

Yes, scoundrel as he might be, Howard Stormont no doubt had his good
points, and his kindness to his niece was not the least amongst them.

“I forgot to tell you one thing, not that I am very greatly impressed
by it,” said the banker as they parted for the evening. “The other
day, in a fit of confidence, he imparted to me that he was on a very
big thing which he expected to mature shortly, something out of which
he would make enough to secure a handsome competence for life. If this
came off, he said he would retire from business, and lead this life of
a country gentleman which appears to have such great fascinations for
him.”

Leonard pricked up his ears at this information. If Howard Stormont
was on some big enterprise, it would be of a nefarious kind.

“He didn’t disclose the nature of this great _coup_, of course?” he
asked.

The banker shook his head. “He didn’t give me the slightest hint. But,
as I said, I attach very little importance to it. All these
speculators are sanguine creatures, and follow wills-o’-the-wisp with
a blind devotion worthy of a better cause. They have always got some
grand scheme on which is to make them rich beyond the dreams of
avarice.”

Lydon was much impressed by that conversation with Jasper Stormont.
Like himself, at an earlier stage, he had sensed a certain mystery
surrounding his brother. He wondered whether bankruptcy and poverty
would be the only doom that might fall upon the owner of Effington
Hall? He thought he might escape that, in spite of the banker’s gloomy
predictions. After all, he had kept up opulent state for a great many
years. According to Gloria’s statement, he had been wealthy ever since
she had taken up her residence with them. He was a cunning and
resourceful man; although he lacked the solid qualities of his
brother, probably he would never come quite down to the ground. But
the young man was not sure a darker doom might not descend upon him in
spite of his cleverness.

He wondered if his sweetheart had told her father of the visit of that
shabby Colonial, and the scene in the billiard-room when the drunken
creature had been on the point of blurting out something, and had been
stopped by his host, who was in a perfect agony of apprehension. He
asked her the next day, and she assured him she had kept silence.

“I have really let out more about Uncle Howard than I ought,” she
explained, in a contrite voice. “But dad has a very persuasive way
with him; he would have made a splendid cross-examiner. I expect his
business has developed his faculties in that direction; he says that
people wanting favours come to him with all sorts of ingenious lies.
He leads you on in a quiet, suave sort of way to all kinds of
admissions. And you know I haven’t the gift of reticence, I am far too
outspoken. I could see that uncle was terribly upset by that visit. I
have noticed a great change in him since. He gives me the impression
of a man who has received a great shock, and can’t recover from it.”

Lydon had himself noticed a certain change in the man. He was less
bluff and genial than he used to be, and at times he caught a brooding
expression, an air of abstraction, as if he were thinking deeply over
something. At first he imagined Howard was nerving himself to make a
confession to his brother, similar to the one he had made to himself,
that he was living up to his income and that Gloria could expect very
little from him when he died. But on thinking more over it he came to
the conclusion that his sweetheart was right, that the change in his
demeanour was due to the visit of Tom Newcombe, his “old pal.”

In the meantime Lydon had received reports from Grewgus, the first
arriving a few days after he had left Paris. From these he learned
that the detective and his colleague were keeping a close watch upon
the man Edwards and Miss Glenthorne, to call her by her latest alias.
They watched them from about eleven o’clock in the morning--the woman
did not stir out till then--till late at night.

The programme was much the same every day. In the morning Zillah met
the man Edwards, and they walked about together in the outskirts of
Paris. They steered clear of the well-known portions, as no doubt
Calliard was pursuing his business there, and they might run across
him at any moment. In the afternoon they usually took a car and drove
out to Versailles or some other suburb.

In the evening Zillah invariably met the opulent jeweller, Calliard,
and they dined together at one of the numerous expensive restaurants
that abound in the gay city. Monsieur Calliard was evidently a rich
man and begrudged nothing in the pursuit of his pleasures.

Then one day came a brief telegram from Grewgus: “The birds have
flown, slipped away. All news when we meet. Leaving to-day. Be at my
office to-morrow morning as early as you like.”

On the face of it, it looked as if the detective had failed in his
mission, that the two schemers had outwitted him, and stolen a march
on him.




 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lydon thought that Grewgus looked somewhat crestfallen when they met
the following morning in the offices in Craven Street.

He opened the conversation in a rather apologetic tone. “Well, Mr.
Lydon, the primary object for which we went to Paris was the
establishment of the fact that Zillah Mayhew was the same person as
Elise Makris. But that fact we established on the first day we arrived
there. I stayed on in order to find something more than that. I am
sorry to tell you I have found nothing, except one little thing that
makes the affair more mysterious.”

“You say they contrived to give you the slip. How was that done when
you were keeping such a close watch on them?” asked the young man in a
tone that plainly showed his disappointment.

Grewgus hastened to explain. “I am afraid I must plead guilty to a
little want of foresight. After watching very carefully for three
days, we became pretty sure that neither the woman nor her friend
Edwards were what you would call early birds. They did not stir out
before a fairly late hour in the morning.”

Having, as they thought, established this fact, the two men did not
begin their watch till a certain hour themselves. Had they not been so
confident, it would have been easy to take it in turns to watch one of
them, since, if one of them went out, it was for the purpose of
ultimately meeting the other. As a fact, to carry out the thing
thoroughly, a third, perhaps a fourth, man was wanted.

“That of course would have entailed a great deal more expense than I
felt myself justified in putting you to,” said Grewgus in exculpating
himself. “The last time I saw Zillah Mayhew, she was dining as usual
with her elderly cavalier. Edwards, according to custom, was spending
his evenings at one of the music-halls. My colleague Simmons never
observed him with anybody, and he never met Miss Mayhew at night. And
it is pretty certain that he never came into contact with Calliard.
Whatever business was to be carried on with the Frenchman seemed to be
left entirely in her hands. No doubt she talked things over with
Edwards in their daily meetings.”

“You have not even proved conclusively that her object was what we all
thought it to be, blackmail?” interjected Lydon.

“If you don’t mind, I will just leave that question unanswered for a
moment or two while I relate how they gave us the slip. On that
particular morning, no Zillah Mayhew issued forth from the hotel. I
waited about for a very long time till Simmons joined me. His news was
startling. Edwards, who, as I told you, had put up in another part of
the town, did not turn out either. After a decent interval, Simmons,
who knows somebody in pretty nearly every hotel in Paris, went in and
made inquiries.

“He learned that Edwards had left some two hours before, carrying his
luggage, a very light portmanteau, with him. He had told them he was
returning to England. Of course I smelt a rat at once, and instructed
Simmons to go into the _Terminus_ and inquire if Mrs. and Miss
Glenthorne were still there. The answer was in the negative. They had
also made an early departure, and had driven to the Gare du Nord;
presumably they were returning to England too.”

“It seems pretty clear they found out they were being watched, and
judged it prudent to leave,” was Lydon’s natural comment.

“It looks very like it,” admitted Grewgus. “Now comes the surprising
part of the story. I should have come away at once, but that I had a
fancy to interview Calliard to ascertain if our suspicions were
correct--our suspicions, I mean, as to the object of her acquaintance
with a man so much her senior.”

Grewgus then proceeded to narrate how, on the following evening, he
had run the jeweller to earth, while dining at one of his favourite
restaurants. He was alone at a rather big table, and the detective
seated himself at it, after a polite apology to the Frenchman for
disturbing him, which was accepted with the habitual courtesy of his
country. Presently they got into general conversation, and when he
judged the time was ripe, Grewgus produced his card and handed it to
him.

When Monsieur Calliard, who, by the way, spoke English very passably,
ascertained from the card the occupation of the man who had seated
himself at the table, he turned pale and showed considerable signs of
embarrassment. Grewgus easily guessed the reasons for his disturbance.
This opulent jeweller was no doubt a good bit of a philanderer, and
easily attracted by women. His first thought was that his wife
suspected him and had put a private inquiry agent on his track.

Of course, this notion had to be quickly dispelled. Grewgus explained
that he was not at all concerned with the way in which Monsieur
Calliard chose to spend his leisure hours, but he was greatly
interested in the lady with whom he had dined so frequently.

At this reassuring statement, Monsieur Calliard recovered his
composure and insisted upon helping his companion to a glass of the
very excellent champagne he was drinking with his dinner. It was easy
to diagnose him as a free liver, a man of considerable _bonhomie_, and
by no means inclined to take a puritan view of life. He answered the
questions put to him in the frankest manner. How had he made the
acquaintance of the lady, and had he always known her by the name of
Glenthorne, as she went sometimes by others?

The genial jeweller raised his eyebrows at the second of the two
questions. He was evidently going to learn something.

“Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I suppose it goes without
saying you know who I am?” began Monsieur Calliard.

“Certainly,” replied Grewgus, with an amiable smile, “you are a
partner in the well-known firm of Dubost Frères of Marseilles.”

“Of course it would be easy for you to find out. I suppose I am known
to a large circle of waiters in the hotels and restaurants of Paris. I
met this young lady first at Trouville last year, where we formed a
slight acquaintance. I met her later on in Rome, the acquaintance
progressed a little further, and I have only known her under the name
of Glenthorne. At both these places she was in the company of her
mother, a rather good-looking Jewess.”

“She was not formally introduced to you by anybody, I suppose?”

Monsieur Calliard shrugged his shoulders with the wealth of gesture
typical of his countrymen. “Ah, no. At Trouville I stayed in the same
hotel, at Rome I met her casually in the street, and she and her
mother dined two or three times with me. She struck me as a very chic
and charming young person who had every wish to make herself friendly.
But I could not quite place her, and her mother was perhaps just a
little in the way at Rome, so that I could not get to know very much
about her. She was exceedingly quiet and ladylike, well educated, and
the mother seemed a most respectable person.”

“At Rome, I take it, you began to get a bit more fascinated, Monsieur
Calliard?” suggested the detective.

Again that shrug of the shoulders. “At Marseilles, where one is so
well known and, to a certain extent, looked up to, Monsieur Grewgus,
one has to lead a very staid life. I will confess frankly I am not
quite as good a boy as I should be. I travel about a great deal in the
course of my business, and when I find myself in a place where I have
no intimate friends, I admit to a little flutter now and then. I am
too old to be a gay Lothario, but I am naturally fond of women’s
society,” he added with a roguish smile, “especially the society of
pretty and attractive women.”

He paused to pour out a second glass of champagne for the interested
Grewgus. Certainly there was no sullen reserve about the genial and
opulent-looking jeweller. He alluded in the frankest fashion to his
little weaknesses, even his peccadilloes.

“This happened last year,” he resumed. “Charming and chic as she is,
she had almost faded from my mind. Behold, walking down the Boulevard
des Italiens, I come upon her alone. I was very pleased to see her,
for I was getting a bit bored with my own society, and she appeared
pleased to see me. She told me she and her mother were staying at the
_Hôtel Terminus_. Ah, that excellent mother, she had spoiled the Rome
visit. I did not require any more of the good mother. I plucked up my
courage, and asked her point-blank if she could see her way to dine
with me without a chaperone. I should not have been surprised if she
had declined, but she accepted, explaining that things were very much
altered in her own English country since the war, and that for herself
she had always paid little heed to convention.”

With another expressive gesture, Monsieur Calliard lifted his hands.
“Since then she has dined with me every evening up till last night.”

“Do you know she has left Paris this morning?” queried Grewgus.

“She informed me of her intention as we sat at dinner. I was a little
amazed because, having a slack time to-day, we had half made an
appointment to go to Versailles. She excused herself on the plea that
her mother had to return to London on urgent business. I suggested she
should follow Madame Glenthorne later on, but she smiled when I did
so. ‘I am pretty unconventional, Monsieur Calliard,’ she said, ‘but
not quite bold enough for that.’ I think, my friend, that is all I
have to tell you, and now, perhaps, as you seem to know a good deal
about this young lady, you will tell me something that interests me.”

“With the greatest pleasure, Monsieur Calliard. I will presently tell
you all I do know. But first I should like to put another question.
What sort of an account did the young lady give of herself to you?”

The jeweller considered: “I cannot remember that she was very
communicative. I gathered that her mother had private means, that they
travelled about a good deal, and were very familiar with the
Continent. She also told me her father was dead, and that they had
hardly any relatives.”

“Did she tell you where she lived when in England?”

“They did not stay very much in England, according to her account.
When they did they stopped with an uncle--ah--what is the name of the
place, where your King has a fine Castle?”

“Windsor,” suggested Grewgus.

“That is it, Windsor. I did notice one thing about her, that she was
very reserved about her own affairs.”

“She had every reason to be,” said the detective grimly. “Well,
Monsieur Calliard, you have been very obliging. It is now my turn to
give you some information. I have every reason to believe that this
agreeable-mannered young woman is one of the decoys of a firm of
blackmailers; that she gets hold of men with the ultimate object of
fleecing them.”

The Frenchman looked intensely astonished. “The decoy of a
blackmailing gang,” he remarked. “A handsome, brilliant young woman
like that! She ought to have made a good marriage. I cannot help
feeling for her more pity than disgust. And that respectable-looking
old Jewess, the mother. Is she a criminal also?”

Grewgus looked at him sharply. “You had no suspicion, then, of this, I
take it? Now, Monsieur Calliard, whatever you say to me on this
subject will pass out of my mind; I promise you I will not make use of
it. Can you assure me that she has not attempted to blackmail you?”

It occurred to Grewgus that she had made the attempt, and that her
sudden flight was due to the fact that she had been foiled, that the
Frenchman had taken a bold attitude and defied her. The next words
undeceived him.

“Upon my word of honour, Monsieur Grewgus, no.”

Grewgus was fairly convinced that the jeweller was speaking the truth,
that he was not actuated by a feeling of shame which led him to deny
he had been the victim of an artful adventuress.

“Upon my word of honour, no,” he repeated emphatically. “The opinion I
formed of her was that she was an unconventional girl, leading a
roving sort of existence with a careless and not very interesting
mother, that she was pleased to come across anybody who would take her
about and give her a good time. In spite of her gaiety and enjoyment
of life, I judged her to be of a rather cold temperament. She never
seemed to crave for admiration, although, like all women, she liked a
compliment when you paid it to her.”

“But surely you made her handsome presents from time to time,”
persisted Grewgus. Monsieur Calliard was a genial old fellow enough,
but not likely to attract a handsome young woman by his personal
gifts.

But the Frenchman shook his head very decidedly. “Monsieur Grewgus, I
come of thrifty forbears. I like my little flutter now and again, as I
have admitted to you, but I never care to pay too dear for my
weaknesses. What did I give Miss Glenthorne during this visit? Bah! it
is not worth thinking of. A few flowers sent to the hotel, some boxes
of chocolates, once I think half a dozen pairs of gloves. It was not
that which made her dine with me whenever I asked her. It is a bit of
a riddle, I confess. Do you think there is any possibility of your
being mistaken, of your having received wrong information about her? I
am a man of the world, and I could detect no sign of the greedy
adventuress.”

Grewgus replied that his evidence was too strong to admit of such a
supposition. But still what Calliard had told him imparted a fresh air
of mystery to the affair.

“If blackmail was not her game, she must have had some other object in
view,” said the detective to Lydon when he had finished the story. “I
cannot think those meetings in Rome and Paris were the result of
accident. I should say that by some means she or her friends had
obtained information of Calliard’s movements, and she had followed him
for the purpose of insinuating herself into his good graces. She, no
doubt, read him at a glance, a weak, susceptible man, a bit thrifty
perhaps, and garrulous to a fault.”

“You did not, of course, mention anything of Stormont or Whitehouse to
the Frenchman?” asked Lydon, who had been thinking very deeply as he
listened to the story.

“I gave him no indication that there was anybody else concerned in my
investigations,” was Grewgus’ reply.

“Is it possible that we have suspected Stormont wrongly, after all?”
said the young man presently, who was profoundly astonished that there
had been no blackmail. “Is it possible that he sent her and the man
Edwards on some peculiar and special business errand, and that he, and
perhaps Whitehouse, knew nothing of the double life she is leading,
this combination of business woman and adventuress?”

But the experienced detective shook his head. “They have both been
closely watched, Mr. Lydon, except in those few particular hours when
they made off. If they were engaged on legitimate business in Paris,
with whom were they doing it? They would have called on people; people
would have called on them. She was never with anybody but Calliard and
Edwards. Edwards had not got even a second string to his bow; he was
never seen with anybody but her.”

“What is your reading of it, then?”

“I incline to the idea they found out they were watched, and gave up
the game in the middle, before the woman could formulate her plans for
fleecing Calliard.”

“Have you any other theory?”

“Only that a further mystery is developing, which we may or may not
discover. By the way, there is something I forgot to tell you. They
left, as you have learned, a day before me. I wired at once to one of
my men in London in code to find out if Zillah Mayhew had returned to
Ashstead Mansions.”

“And the reply?”

“She had, and also the mother. They left Paris as Mrs. and Miss
Glenthorne. They have returned to London as Mrs. and Miss Mayhew.”

It was all very puzzling, very baffling. Lydon owned frankly he could
not see his way through the maze.

After a pause, the detective spoke. “Now the question is, Mr. Lydon,
do you feel disposed to spend any more money?”

“What is your advice?” asked the young man.

“To go on,” answered the detective in a decided voice. “I am convinced
that we are only at the beginning of the mystery.”

“So be it, then. What are the next steps?”

“Simmons only awaits a message from me to take them. In the course of
conversation, Calliard told me he was only staying three days longer
in Paris. He is going on to Brussels, where he does a big business.
Now you have decided, I shall instruct him to follow Calliard. If
there is a further mystery, as I strongly suspect, it is round him
that it will centre. Here in London I shall keep observation upon Miss
Mayhew, and if I can possibly come across him, upon Edwards.”

With that the interview ended. At the end of another week, Jasper
Stormont and his wife came back to the _Cecil_, bringing Gloria with
them. Lydon had a shrewd suspicion that the banker, who, according to
his daughter’s account, was a man of simple tastes and habits, was not
a little oppressed by the opulence and splendour of Effington.




 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was not long before Grewgus’ prophecy that they were only at the
beginning of the mystery came true. What is now about to be narrated
is gleaned from the letters sent to his chief from Brussels by
Simmons. Later on he came to England, and amplified the various
details of the whole affair.

Monsieur Calliard went to Brussels in due course from Paris and took
up his quarters at one of the well-known hotels in that delightful
city. Simmons, obeying his chief’s telegraphed instructions, followed
him, and was always at his heels.

On this visit the gay old Frenchman was apparently devoting himself
whole-heartedly to his business, and not indulging in any little
flutters. His habits were exceedingly regular. He devoted his
mornings, and frequently his afternoons, to visits to his various
customers. The rest of his time he spent at the hotel. No ladies,
young or middle-aged, relieved the monotony of his leisure moments.

Needless to say that Simmons kept open a wary eye for the reappearance
of Zillah Mayhew and the man Edwards. To his surprise neither turned
up. In the meantime Grewgus was keeping a watch on the women at
Ashstead Mansions, and convinced himself, with the aid of the friendly
hall-porter, that she was in London during the whole of the time that
Léon Calliard was in Brussels. Therefore, a certain theory of his was
shattered, when he found she was staying on from day to day.

His idea was that, having discovered she was being shadowed in Paris,
her plans had been suddenly nipped in the bud by that fact, and she
had headed for the shelter of the flat. This did not mean that she had
given up her original designs against the wealthy jeweller, only
postponed them. After a brief interval, during which she judged the
scent would have become cold, she would follow him to Brussels, and
there add him to her no doubt very numerous list of victims. It
followed from this, then, that blackmail had not been her ultimate
object.

But it was obvious that she had some object in sticking so closely to
the Frenchman. And so far as it was possible to reason, the
instructions given by Stormont to Edwards were concerned with the
wealthy jeweller, as neither the man nor the woman had associated with
anybody else during their stay in Paris. Edwards had been seen about
with nobody except the girl who called herself Miss Glenthorne.

For three days Simmons kept a pretty close watch on Calliard. On the
fourth he relaxed his vigilance a little, having made up his mind by
now that nothing more was to be feared from the pair of confederates.
And on this day something unusual happened. Calliard did not return to
the hotel for lunch, and he did not return for dinner. Simmons did not
attach very great importance to this; he might have gone somewhere
else for the day on business. To-morrow he would see him pursuing his
ordinary routine, without a doubt. But when the morrow came, and no
Calliard appeared in his usual haunts, Simmons became alarmed.

That evening he went to the director of the _Palace Hotel_, with whom
he had a slight acquaintance, and who knew the nature of his
occupation, and inquired for news. He explained that, unknown to
Calliard himself, he was watching his movements in connection with a
certain couple who might have evil designs upon him.

The director, a most voluble person, was quite ready to talk to a man
whom he knew he could trust.

“I have known Monsieur Calliard for years, ever since I have been
connected with the _Palace Hotel_; his connection with us is a long
one and dates before the time I came here. I suppose you know that he
is a man of considerable wealth, a partner in a very flourishing firm
in Marseilles. He came here about every few months to do business with
the leading jewellers in Brussels, and he carried in that brown bag
his samples, worth some hundreds of thousands of francs. When he had
finished his rounds for the day, it was his invariable custom to
deposit that very valuable bag in our safe.”

Simmons noticed that the director had been speaking all along in the
past tense. He had a very sure premonition of what was coming.

“He went out as usual after breakfast to make his customary morning
calls, taking his bag with him. As I take it, you have been watching
him, probably you know that as well as I do?”

Simmons had to admit that on this particular morning his vigilance had
been relaxed. Having made up his mind that neither of the pair he
suspected was in the vicinity, he was prepared to take it easy till
Monsieur Calliard left Brussels, when he would follow him to his next
stopping place.

The director shrugged his shoulders: “That is most unfortunate, for
then we might know more than we do. He said especially that he would
return to luncheon--as a matter of fact he has lunched and dined here
every day during his visit--but he happened to make particular mention
of it. Luncheon time arrived, and he did not turn up. We didn’t attach
very great importance to the fact. He might have been detained, or
been invited by one of his customers. When dinner-time came and he was
again absent, I began to feel a bit uneasy. Remember he was carrying
in that bag a small fortune.”

“Monsieur Calliard is just a little bit--what shall we say--frisky for
a man of his age, is he not?” queried Simmons.

The director smiled: “A wee bit, perhaps. I fancy he is rather
susceptible where the other sex is concerned. On previous occasions he
has sometimes brought here to lunch and dinner some fascinating
members of it. But this time nothing of the sort happened. Not a soul
has been to see him since he first set foot in the hotel.”

Simmons thought there might be a good reason for this. No doubt the
volatile Frenchman had received a rude shock when Grewgus told him the
real character of the young woman to whom he was so hospitable in
Paris. He had resolved to walk more warily for a little time.

“When I came down this morning and found he was still absent, I came
to the conclusion it was time to act. I notified the police at once. I
despatched a long wire to his firm in Marseilles, acquainting them
with the suspicious circumstances. I have had one in reply.”

“And they are, of course, very alarmed?” said Simmons.

“Not so much as you would imagine. It is a very long wire, and in it
they suggest he may have gone to Ostend to see a certain client, and
will return in due course. But I am very doubtful of this. Monsieur
Calliard was a very methodical man, not likely to do anything on the
spur of the moment. If he had intended to pay this visit to Ostend, he
would have had it in his mind for some little time, and notified us of
his intention. Well, the affair is now in the hands of the police.”

It was not till five days later that the dénouement came. It was
evening, and Simmons sat on the terrace of the _Café Metropole_,
sipping his _apéritif_. While doing so, he opened the _Petit Bleu_
and read a long account of the recovery of the body of an elderly,
well-dressed man from the river Meuse, at a bend about a mile behind
the little village of Godime. The doctors declared that it had been in
the river since about the date corresponding with the disappearance of
the wealthy jeweller.

Upon him was found a sum of about three thousand francs, and papers
which conclusively proved that he was a Monsieur Léon Calliard,
member of a well-known firm, and residing in the Rue Lenon at
Marseilles. In his pocket was found a half-obliterated letter written
in indelible pencil, stating his intention of committing suicide in
consequence of an unfortunate love affair.

Simmons hastened round to his friend the director of the hotel, whom
he found acquainted with the news. This gentleman threw scorn upon the
suggestion of suicide.

“Bah, my friend,” he cried excitedly, “Calliard was not that sort of
man; he was a most devout Catholic. A love affair that would drive him
off his head at his age. The idea is preposterous. He was fond of the
society of attractive women, granted, but his was not the sort of
nature capable of a great passion. I should like to see that letter,
Monsieur Simmons. I will wager it is a forgery, put there by the
assassin who killed him in order to get hold of that bag with its
valuable contents.”

And so, later on, it was proved to be the case. When the letter was
shown to some of his intimate friends they unanimously declared it was
a clumsy imitation of Calliard’s handwriting.

“So all along it was robbery and murder, not simply blackmail that was
intended,” said Grewgus, as he and his client sat discussing the whole
facts of the case. “Simmons, of course, committed a blunder in not
following Calliard that particular morning. He might have averted a
tragedy. On the other hand, he might not. This is the work of a very
cunning gang, and so long as Calliard had that bag in his possession,
they were determined to have it. They would not have been satisfied
with a first rebuff or a second. They would have followed him till
they got it. Depend upon it, they had their plans laid with devilish
precision. I don’t suppose we shall ever know how they got him into
their clutches.”

“It is strange that Edwards and the woman should have so suddenly
effaced themselves,” commented Lydon. “If they had a hand in it, you
would think they would have been in at the closing act. Is it
possible, do you think, that this tragedy is simply a coincidence?
That he was done to death by people who had no connection with them?”

Grewgus shook his head. “There is no evidence against them, certainly.
Miss Mayhew has been at Ashstead Mansions every day since she came
back from Paris, that I have ascertained. In her case she has a
perfect alibi. Of Edwards I can speak with no positiveness. Simmons
took a snapshot of him in Paris, and I have had two men scouring
London for him with no success, as we are unacquainted with his
haunts. Of course, for all we know to the contrary, he might have been
lurking in the neighbourhood of that little village of Godime. But,
all the same, I believe Miss Mayhew played a big part in this affair.”

Lydon looked at the detective inquiringly. “I should like to know in
what way you connect her with the case,” he said. “Of course, in a
thing of this sort, I feel myself utterly helpless, so far as my
reasoning faculties are concerned.”

Grewgus smiled. “One would hardly expect otherwise, Mr. Lydon. Up to
the present, you can have had no experience of criminal methods, which
I can assure you are very subtle. Robbery was intended from the
beginning, supplemented by murder, if that was absolutely necessary.
In this case I assume the existence of a cleverly organized gang of
international crooks, with spies everywhere. They find out that the
unfortunate Calliard, member of a wealthy firm, is accustomed to make
periodical visits to the various important capitals, carrying with him
in that small bag an immense amount of valuable property.

“They already know a good deal, but they want to know more, be better
versed in details. They set Miss Mayhew on him, one of their cleverest
decoys. No doubt, the beginnings of the plot were hatched at
Trouville, where he first made her acquaintance and, unfortunately for
himself, was attracted by her. Their meeting was not accidental. They
knew he would be there and dispatched her to the same hotel, to find
out all she could, to make herself acquainted with his movements, to
insinuate herself into his confidence.

“She found him very easy to deal with. Calliard no doubt was a good
business man in many ways, or he would not have been entrusted with
such important missions, but for one of his age he struck me as
singularly simple. And he was garrulous and communicative in the
extreme. He blurted out a lot of things to me which he would have
shown wisdom in keeping to himself. He took me on trust, as it were,
on my production of a card stating my name and profession. That card
might easily have been prepared for the purpose. I give this as an
illustration of his simplicity, of his tendency to take things at
their face value. A clever woman would twist him round her little
finger, easily get out of him what she wanted to know. Neither in Rome
nor Trouville did they find things fall out quite in accordance with
their plans. It was not till they got him to Paris that they were able
to set to work in grim earnest, with the result we know.”

“None of the jewellery has been traced, I suppose?”

“Not that I have heard of,” was the detective’s answer. “They had
their plans cut and dried, you may depend. A few hours after they had
got hold of the stuff you can be sure the valuable stones were out of
their settings and on the way to a safe market.”

After a little while, Lydon spoke. “You have reconstructed the whole
thing very cleverly, and in my own mind I feel you are right. But we
have really no tangible evidence against Stormont, have we?”

Grewgus shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing that would convince a jury, I
fear. It is all intensely circumstantial. Still, that letter of his to
Zillah which you intercepted is a very important link. Would you like
me to go to Scotland Yard and put them in possession of all we know,
so that they could join forces with the Paris police?”

But Leonard could not bring himself to consent to this step. The
thought of his beloved Gloria, of her father, a man of the highest
probity and honour, forbade it. Much as he would have rejoiced, for
his dead friend’s sake, that Elise Makris should be punished, he
shrank from bringing disgrace upon Howard Stormont’s innocent
relatives.

It was finally arranged between the two men that Grewgus should still
keep a watch upon the flat in Ashstead Mansions, and note the further
movements of Whitehouse and his supposed niece. It was evident that
this taciturn individual had taken no active part in the Calliard
affair, was not even so much implicated in it as Stormont appeared to
be by that letter to his “clever Zillah.” But Grewgus had a very
strong suspicion that the couple worked very closely together.

They did find something out about Whitehouse a little later on which
added to the general mystery. Hornby Court did not absorb the whole of
his activities. He had a small set of offices near Bedford Row, where
he attended three days a week. His staff consisted of a senior and
junior clerk, and he practised as a solicitor under the name of
Glenthorne. So far they had not been able to discover what sort of a
business it was, or what class of clients patronized him. It certainly
had not the air of a particularly flourishing concern.

From the _Cecil Hotel_, the Jasper Stormonts, accompanied by Gloria,
soon moved further afield. It had been cordially acquiesced in by
Howard Stormont that during their stay in England they should have
their daughter to themselves. For his own part, Jasper would have
liked to make a tour in Scotland, but he was a very unselfish man, and
he could not bear the idea of parting the two young people. He felt
that he had come too little into the girl’s life to permit him to
think only of himself. He therefore chose Brighton; it was so easy for
Lydon to run down and return by a fast train.

Although a man rather inclined to frugality than extravagance, Leonard
was surprised to find that he had elected to stay at one of the most
expensive hotels in the place. And not content with the public
apartments, he had taken a private sitting-room. He explained matters
to his future son-in-law with his usual kindly smile.

“You must not think, my dear boy, I am trying to rival my spendthrift
brother. The simple truth is this. At home I conduct my affairs in a
very steady and prudent manner. But when I take a holiday, I like to
do things well and have every comfort. A thoroughly economical holiday
is worse than none.”

They intended to stay at Brighton till it was time to return to China,
and Lydon was very pleased with the arrangement. All that he had
learned recently had made Effington exceedingly distasteful to him. As
for Howard Stormont, he could hardly bear to shake hands with him, in
view of his grave suspicions.

It was about three weeks after the interview between himself and
Grewgus that he received an important message from the detective to
come round to his office at the earliest moment, as he had the most
surprising news to communicate. He did not want to blurt them out over
the telephone.

Lydon was round as soon as possible, and found the detective looking
quite excited for a man of his usually calm temperament.

“You will be as surprised as I was, I expect,” he said as soon as his
client was seated. “Our friend Miss Makris, alias Mayhew, alias
Glenthorne, has left Ashstead Mansions. She has taken one of the
smaller houses in Curzon Street, has furnished it splendidly in a few
days, and is living there under the name of Mrs. Edwards with her
husband, the good-looking fellow who was over in Paris when she was
playing her game with poor old Calliard. The mother is not with them.
I should say they are after something very big this time.”

And as Grewgus spoke, there flashed across the young man’s mind what
Jasper Stormont had told him a little while ago. His brother was
looking forward to a great _coup_ which might enable him to give up
business altogether. Was the owner of Effington at the back of this
sudden metamorphosis of the “clever Zillah” into Mrs. Edwards, the
tenant of the house in Curzon Street?




 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

About a fortnight later, Lydon had the news confirmed from another
quarter. Gloria received a letter from her uncle, in which was the
following paragraph: “I have got some news for you. Zillah Mayhew is
married to a very charming young man, named Edwards. She has been a
very sly little puss about it all. It appears from a somewhat belated
confession to her uncle, my dear old friend John Whitehouse, they have
known each other for some four or five years. They met again during
her recent visit to Paris and were married there. Edwards is a man
possessed of considerable means and moves in good society. They kept
the marriage secret for a little time on account of family reasons
connected with the husband. I am very glad that Zillah has done so
well.”

The letter then proceeded to state other things, some of which Lydon,
to whom his sweetheart read the epistle, had already heard from
Grewgus. The married couple had taken and furnished a house in Curzon
Street, where Zillah proposed to entertain. Zillah had led a retired
life when in England, did not know many people. But her husband had
heaps of friends and acquaintances, and would soon fill the house.
They proposed to give a big reception shortly. Stormont and his sister
would attend it. And Zillah insisted that Gloria, her father and
mother, and her fiancé should be her guests on such a special
occasion.

Innocent Gloria read out all this to her fiancé, and the young man
made certain inward comments as she went along. It was very unlikely
the couple had been married on Zillah’s last visit to Paris. Grewgus
had been watching the woman, Simmons the man till the eve of their
disappearance. If there had been any marriage ceremony, they would
have known of it. If they were husband and wife, they had been married
long ere now, and had lived apart, the better to pursue their
nefarious ends.

Gloria, woman-like, was interested in what appeared to be a real
romance. “I am so glad,” she said enthusiastically. “Zillah is such a
delightful, charming girl, she deserves a good husband. I am surprised
that she has not been married long before this. Uncle Howard speaks
well of him, doesn’t he? And I think he is a very shrewd judge of
character. We must certainly go to that party to see for ourselves.
You agree, I am sure.”

Yes, Lydon certainly agreed. Of course, he could not as yet give a
hint to the unsuspecting girl of his reasons. He would dearly like to
observe the adventuress and Edwards at close quarters.

In London the next day, he found time to run round to Grewgus and
inform him of what Howard Stormont had written.

“Well, you will keep your eyes open when you are there,” said the
detective. “I wish you could take me with you, but that, I suppose, is
impossible. I’m a master of disguise, you know; I could go as
something quite different from Grewgus. I might spot something that
would escape you. I am very curious as to the game they have got on;
it must be something big, or else they wouldn’t go to this
considerable expense. Of course, that account of the recent marriage
in Paris is all bunkum.”

Lydon would dearly have liked to take the detective with him as an old
friend, to obtain a card for him through Stormont. But he saw it was
too risky. Stormont was a man of diabolical ingenuity and cunning. He
would smell a rat at once. Later on, he might be able to work him into
the Curzon Street ménage.

“By the way, I have never shown you the snapshot of Edwards that
Simmons took in Paris, have I?” asked the detective presently.

He opened a drawer in his writing-table, extracted a photograph and
handed it to his client. Lydon gave a cry of astonishment as he looked
at it. “Well, of all the strange things that have ever happened! This
man is a member of my own club, the Excelsior.”

“What do you know about him?” asked Grewgus in an excited voice.

“Well, almost next to nothing. The Excelsior is a big club, as you
know, and there are dozens of different sets. He mixes rather amongst
the fast lot. I have heard that he is a man of good family, a public
school and Cambridge man, and has considerable private means.”

“Do you know him to speak to?” asked Grewgus eagerly.

“I may have exchanged a dozen words with him since I have belonged to
the club. We both joined it about the same time, three years ago. I
should rather say I knew him to nod to.”

“I think we might classify him as a typical specimen of the
aristocratic crook,” remarked Grewgus. “Well-born, well-educated,
gifted with brains of the wrong sort, who has taken to evil courses
either from natural inclination, or because he dislikes honest work.
Well, Mr. Lydon, this is very interesting and I may say very
fortunate. To think we have been scouring London for him, and not hit
upon the Excelsior Club. You must certainly go to that party, take
diligent notes, and report to me what you have observed.”

In due course, formal cards arrived for the big reception, an
afternoon one from four to seven, to the Jasper Stormonts, Gloria and
Lydon. The banker and his wife sent their excuses. They were a
stay-at-home couple and had no desire to rub shoulders with a lot of
strangers who knew nothing about them and about whom they knew
nothing.

“Except Gloria and yourself, and my brother and sister, there would
not be a soul we knew,” said Gloria’s father. “The hostess is a most
delightful young woman, my daughter tells me; but she will be much too
busy to pay any attention to a couple of old fogies like ourselves. Of
course, Howard will be in his element amongst a crowd; in a lesser
degree, it is possible my sister will also be happy. I and my wife
will remain here while you young people are disporting yourselves in
society.”

Howard Stormont had written to say that Gloria had better spend the
rest of the day with them, driving down to Effington after the
reception was over. If Lydon wished, he could drive down with them,
have dinner and stay the night. But the young man got out of this. He
would meet Gloria in London and take her back to Brighton the day
after instead. He wished to be in Howard Stormont’s company as little
as possible.

The day after he had received the card, he strolled into the club of
which both he and Edwards were members. It was a big establishment,
situated in Piccadilly, and had a large clientèle--stockbrokers,
barristers, a few actors, artists and authors, and several wealthy
business men. Almost the first person he saw was an elderly barrister
named Joyce, a member of the committee, who had recently retired from
practice. This gentleman was a very gregarious person, a great gossip,
and supposed to know more about the private history of his
fellow-members than anybody else in the club. To Mr. Joyce he at once
addressed himself:

“I’ve had a card for a big reception from Mrs. Edwards, the wife of
our member. Although a common name, he is the only Edwards in the
club. I don’t think I owe it to him, for we are hardly on more than
nodding terms, but his wife is a great friend of a man I know,
Stormont, to whose niece I am engaged. Of course, they were bound to
ask my fiancée, and they have very kindly included me.”

The elderly barrister rose to the bait at once. He was quite ready to
talk about Edwards; he was always ready to talk about anybody with
whom he was acquainted. “I have had a card too; going to be a rather
big thing, I am told. About half a dozen of us here have been asked.
Edwards doesn’t mix very freely with the members, rather keeps himself
to himself. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t come here very often,
travels abroad a lot.”

“No, I haven’t often met him,” said Lydon in a careless tone. “Who is
he, and what is he? I suppose you know?”

Mr. Joyce smiled; he was very proud of his general knowledge, which he
acquired by his assiduous attendance at the club.

“I know as much as anybody else, I think, but there doesn’t seem very
much to know about him. He talks very little about himself. He is a
Cambridge man, comes, I believe, of a good old Sussex family, follows
no profession or occupation, has private means.”

The information was decidedly meagre; but it was certain that if this
was all Mr. Joyce knew, nobody knew any more.

“Rather a surprise this marriage, isn’t it?” asked Lydon after a
pause. “I learn from Stormont that they were married a very short time
ago abroad, I think he said in Paris.”

“Quite right,” confirmed the barrister. “We knew nothing about it here
till quite lately. But you see that is not to be wondered at. Nobody
of the half-dozen who have received invitations is more than just a
club acquaintance. I suppose they really want to fill the rooms. He
rushed in here about a week ago, told me what you know, that he was
recently married, had taken a house in Curzon Street, and they were
going to hold a reception, sort of house warming. He was going to send
cards to a few of the members. Would I pass on to them what he had
told me, as he might not be in the club again before the party came
off?”

After lunch, Lydon took a taxi down to Craven Street, and imparted to
Grewgus the result of his interview with Joyce, both men agreeing that
what he had learned from that gentleman was practically no more than
what they knew already.

The party was a week hence. Grewgus was still very bent upon going,
but he recognized the impossibility of getting there.

“If I could get a chance, I would go as a waiter,” he said. “Well,
it’s no use thinking about it. You say that you will be leaving about
seven. I’ll be hanging about outside from half-past six--there’s sure
to be the usual staring crowds outside. If you’ve nothing better to
do, look out for me and follow me. When we are well out of view, we
can go into some place and you can tell me anything that you think may
be useful to us.”

On the day appointed, Leonard went to Curzon Street. His afternoon had
been a pretty busy one, and he did not arrive there till close upon
six. The rooms were quite full and it was a little time before he met
his hostess, who had abandoned her position at the door some time ago.
She greeted him cordially, and after a few words with her he passed
on.

Presently he found the Stormont party. The portly Howard was looking
very happy and radiant. “A thorough success,” he whispered to the
young man. “Zillah’s a born hostess and seems immensely admired. Most
of the people here are the husband’s friends; she has been so seldom
in London that she doesn’t know many people yet. But it won’t be long
before she does. I’m delighted it is going off so well. I’m very fond
of Zillah; she’s such a sweet girl.”

Lydon thought grimly that the unfortunate Calliard had said the same
thing. He inquired if Mr. Whitehouse was there.

“No,” was the answer. “He was awfully disappointed he could not be
here to witness her triumph. But he was prevented by important
business. I believe he is dining with them after the show.”

The mother was not there. Well, her parents were supposed to be dead
and the uncle was absent. No doubt, Mrs. Edwards had her own good
reasons for not having her own family round her. Casually he said to
Stormont: “I’ve just caught a glimpse of Edwards; he hasn’t seen me
yet. Do you know he’s a member of my club, the Excelsior?”

Was it fancy, or did he detect a rather shifty look in Stormont’s eyes
as he replied to him? “Yes, he told me when I first mentioned your
name. What a small place the world is, eh?”

“It came as a surprise to you all, Gloria told me. Did you or her
uncle know anything of Edwards before she married him?”

“Never set eyes on him,” came the prompt answer. “Zillah has been a
very sly little puss over it; they seem to have met abroad first. But
he’s a delightful fellow with lots of money. There’s no doubt she has
done wonderfully well for herself. And he knows heaps of good people.
As you know, I don’t go about in London, but this seems to me
decidedly a smart party.”

Lydon was intensely disgusted with the hypocrisy of the man, his
effrontery in denying any previous knowledge of the man whom he had
sent to Paris with his instructions to his “clever Zillah.” But he
quite agreed with his last remarks, it certainly was a smart
gathering, with so many beautifully gowned women and immaculately
dressed men. The Excelsior Club, he noticed, had sent up its
contingent to a man. Mr. Joyce was ubiquitous, and seemed to know a
great many of the guests. Leonard was sure that the host had a footing
in one world. He seemed to have an equally sure position in a more
reputable one.

“He knows people in every walk of life--artists, authors,
fashionables,” went on the garrulous Stormont, who seemed in the very
highest of spirits. “He belongs to half a dozen clubs, from the quite
exclusive to the frankly Bohemian.”

Gloria had been annexed by a very dandified young man. Mrs. Barnard
was engaged with an elderly person of the well-preserved type. There
came a sudden hush, a well-known professional was going to sing. Lydon
left his companion and made a tour of the rooms.

When he stopped, he found himself standing next to Edwards, who gave
him a cordial nod and a whispered: “Will speak to you presently.”

The song was finished and his host turned to Lydon. “Very pleased to
see you here. I little thought when we used to meet occasionally at
the club that we should become so closely connected, as it were.
Stormont has known Zillah from a child; he is a sort of adopted uncle.
Delightful fellow, Stormont, so genial, so unaffected.”

“Quite,” said Lydon, in a tone the reverse of enthusiastic. Not
greatly relishing the prospect of a prolonged conversation with
Edwards, he was about to move when his host stopped him.

“Do you see that young man talking to my wife, over there by the door?
You know who he is, don’t you?”

Lydon looked in the direction indicated. Zillah Edwards was conversing
with a handsome, elegant young fellow of about twenty-five. There was
something distinguished and aristocratic about his appearance, and
Leonard fancied that the face was familiar to him, but he could not
recall where or under what circumstances he had seen it.

“That is Lord Wraysbury, the eldest son of the Earl of Feltham, one of
the oldest families in England,” whispered Edwards in an impressive
voice; and guided by this information, the young man knew why the face
was familiar to him. He had seen the portrait of the young fellow in
some of the society papers.

“He often comes here,” went on the host. “You know all about his
history, I suppose?”

“Very little,” was the cold answer. “My acquaintance with the great
world is negligible, I am sorry to say.”

“It is quite a romance,” continued the other, who did not seem to have
noticed the coldness of his companion’s manner. “His father, as I
said, can boast of representing one of the oldest families in England,
but he is not rich. The estates are in Suffolk, and I am told don’t
produce much more than twenty thousand a year; that is not much for a
nobleman in his position, you know, and he has a large family.”

“I suppose not,” assented Lydon, who was not particularly interested
in this good-looking young aristocrat.

“Well, thanks to an extraordinary bit of luck, Wraysbury is very rich,
one of the richest young men in London. He owes it to his aunt, a very
beautiful woman. She married twice. The first match was a fairly good
one, but nothing out of the common. She was left a widow when she was
just nearing thirty. Her second husband was an enormously rich
American who had settled in England, a multi-millionaire. He died soon
too, five years after their marriage. The bulk of his fortune was left
to his children by a first wife; but his widow, Wraysbury’s aunt, got
a comfortable two million left to her to dispose of as she liked.

“She was devoted to Wraysbury. Never having had a child by either of
her husbands, she looked upon him as a son. She died two years ago and
left him every penny, with the exception of a few insignificant
legacies.”

“A very fortunate young man,” commented Lydon, interested in spite of
himself by the romantic story. “And what sort of a chap is he? Is he
taking care of his money, or making ducks and drakes of it?”

“He is a most delightful fellow in himself. With regard to your
question, he spends a lot, of course. He has the handling of a very
big income, but I should say he has a fairly good head upon his
shoulders and knows how to manage his affairs.”

“Is he your friend, or your wife’s?” asked Lydon bluntly, hastening to
add, “I mean of course in the first instance.”

“Oh, Zillah’s,” was the answer. “They knew each other abroad before he
came into his aunt’s money. The acquaintance dropped till quite
lately. We were dining one night at the _Ritz_ and met him in the
lounge as we were going in. She introduced me and of course gave him
an invitation to Curzon Street. He has dined with us twice and called
several times. I like him immensely; he is a dear chap.”

Lydon stayed for another half-hour and noticed that Lord Wraysbury was
never for long away from the side of his hostess. He did not appear to
know more than a couple of people in the room and Leonard had a
suspicion that they had been introduced by Zillah. It was a smart
party certainly; but although he knew little of fashionable or
semi-fashionable society, he did not think it was quite up to the
standard of a young man of such aristocratic lineage.

He managed to obtain a few words with Gloria. “Are you enjoying
yourself, my sweetheart?” he whispered.

“Oh, in a way, it is rather novel,” she replied. “But I don’t think I
should care for too much of this sort of thing. Zillah has been quite
kind, introduced me and aunt to a lot of people. Uncle Howard is
enjoying himself immensely. I have not seen him look more beaming at
one of his own dinner-parties. But I’m afraid I haven’t his
temperament. I’m not fond of strange crowds.”

Soon the party began to break up; only a few determined stayers were
left behind. Stormont collected his women-folk and they bade adieu to
their host and hostess. Lydon took his departure with them. As he
shook hands with Zillah, he observed that the good-looking Wraysbury
was still in close attendance.

Stormont’s car was waiting. As they went out, Lydon saw Grewgus
standing amidst the small crowd that had gathered to watch the
departing guests, and made a hasty signal to which the detective
answered with a slight movement of his head.

What was the young man’s astonishment to see amongst the waiting crowd
the weather-beaten face of Tom Newcombe, and a hasty glance at him
revealed the fact that, if not actually drunk, he was certainly not
strictly sober. As soon as he caught sight of his “old pal” he rushed
forward and shouted out what he intended to be a welcome, in a husky
voice.

Howard Stormont’s face went white when he saw him. “Get out of the
way, you drunken dog,” he said in a low voice, full of fury. “Never
dare to accost me again when you are in this state.”

The Colonial, no longer shabby-looking, but dressed in very loud
attire which he doubtless considered to be the height of fashion,
slunk away, his face working, and muttering, “Drunken dog! Drunken
dog!”

Stormont pushed the women into the car and it drove off, the occupants
waving a farewell to Leonard as he stood on the kerb.

When he turned round to look for Grewgus, that gentleman had gone. He
saw him a few yards off, stealthily tracking the Colonial.

He knew by this action that the ever-vigilant man had overheard what
had passed and was on a fresh scent. It was no use waiting for him.




 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was not long before the quarry came to a halt at a public-house
in a side street off Piccadilly. When he reached this hostelry, his
intense indignation had exercised a remarkably sobering effect upon
him, his gait was quite steady, and when he asked the barmaid for
refreshment his voice had recovered its normal tones.

Grewgus had followed him in. After a little while, Newcombe went and
sat down in front of one of the tables. After a decent interval the
detective followed him and opened up conversation by some remark about
the weather. Mr. Newcombe made a somewhat gloomy response; it was
evident his mind was still full of the epithet which Stormont had
hurled at him as he hurried into the car.

As Grewgus saw that he was not disposed for general conversation, he
thought he would try him on something that would interest him. He
judged him not to be too well blessed with the world’s goods, in spite
of his loud but evidently cheap apparel; he thought, therefore, he
would start on a democratic note.

“Awful lot of money these nobs do waste on themselves. When you walk
down these parts, the luxury that meets you on every hand makes you
fairly sick, it does. Many a poor bloke has got to keep his wife and
family for a week on what they spend on one meal.”

He was a very good actor, and he put on a ripe Cockney accent for the
benefit of his companion. He did not want to be taken for a man of too
superior class, or else he might easily excite suspicion.

Mr. Newcombe grunted assent to these propositions, and drained his
tumbler. Grewgus put on a genial smile and did the same.

“They give you precious little stuff for the money in these days,” he
remarked in the same dissatisfied tone. “I feel a bit fed up to-day
with thinking of all these things; I always feel that way when I see
much of this quarter of the town. I’m going to have another; I should
be rather glad if you’d have one with me.”

Mr. Newcombe hesitated for a second, then accepted. Grewgus had judged
his condition pretty accurately. He had had too much when he stood
outside the house in Curzon Street; the abuse hurled at him by
Stormont, and the indignation it created, had momentarily sobered him.
But another glass or two would stir up the old drink and reduce him to
his previous condition. When he got back to that he would be disposed
to talk. The second tumbler accomplished the desired result. The
detective saw he could now get to work.

“I’ve just strolled down from Curzon Street, and it was the sight of a
big party going on at one of the houses that set me thinking.
Motor-cars galore waiting for the beautiful ladies with frocks that
cost a small fortune, men coming out with their expensive suits. It
gave me the hump, it did, so I cut it and dropped into the first
public I could come across.”

Newcombe looked at him with a perfectly unsuspicious eye. “Was you
there too? So was I. Did you happen to see me?”

“No,” answered the detective unblushingly, feeling that he was lying
in a good cause. “Rather rum that when you come to think of it, isn’t
it? That we should be looking at the same thing, and then meeting a
few minutes after in this place, I suppose for the same reason, that
we both felt a trifle dry. I say, we’d better have another. I always
feel reckless when I’m a bit fed up.”

The Colonial accepted the hospitality for the second time. Grewgus
went to the counter to get the drinks; he did not wish the Colonial to
entertain any doubts of his own sobriety, which was fast tottering
under the last glass.

When he returned, Mr. Newcombe began to give vent to some of the
thoughts that were harrowing his indignant soul.

“It isn’t often I come in these parts--I live King’s Cross way. But it
being a fine day, I thought I’d just take a stroll up here, and have a
look at the nobs. Well, I wandered about a lot, then I sat down in the
Park, and afterwards I got into that street where you were. I forget
what you said the name of it was.”

Grewgus supplied the necessary information, and the Colonial rambled
on, in a voice that grew thicker as he proceeded.

“Well, presently I come to that house where the show was. I stood
looking at the motor-cars and the dainty ladies stepping into them.
Suddenly I see come out a man I have known for years, with his sister
and niece. He was a pal of mine in Australia when we were both young
men. Many a good turn I done him, once I nursed him back to life
through a bad fever. Well, remembering the good old days, I go up to
him in a cheery sort of way. And what do you think I get in return?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” replied the mendacious Grewgus.

“He called me a drunken dog, a drunken dog, and dared me to speak to
him in the street or anywhere else. What do you say to that?”

Grewgus shrugged his shoulders and spoke in a withering voice: “A rich
man, of course, got on in the world. Well, I should say it was just
what he would do, like the snob he is. I suppose he wouldn’t chuck you
a shilling if you were starving.”

It was evident, in spite of his resentment, that Newcombe could not
tell an absolute lie. “I won’t say he hasn’t given me a bit, but
there’s a reason for it, a reason for it.”

“A reason for it,” repeated the detective. “I expect a pretty good one
too?” Was he going to get something out of this sot?

Mr. Newcombe went on muttering to himself: “I could make him smart, if
I chose to, the ungrateful dog. He to lord it with his flunkeys and
his fine motor-car while I live on a pittance.”

“You know something about this fine gentleman who calls you a drunken
dog?” insinuated the detective, repeating the offensive epithet with
the view of keeping the man’s resentment at white heat.

Perhaps Grewgus had overdone it. Something seemed to stir in the
drink-soddened brain, and told him he had gone too far. The Colonial
seemed to pull himself together.

“That’s neither here nor there,” he said in a surly tone. Then he
harked back in his maudlin state to his original grievance. “A drunken
dog indeed, from him who for years never drew a sober breath! Tell me,
mister, did I look drunk? But I forget, you said you didn’t see me. Am
I drunk now?”

Grewgus knew that the moment had gone. He would get nothing out of
this creature now. There was no need for him to dissemble any longer.
“If you ask my candid opinion, I think you have had too much. The last
glass has knocked you over. I am not sure you can stand properly. Have
a try.”

Mr. Newcombe did as he was told, but the effort was not successful. He
got up for an instant, but relapsed promptly into his seat. Grewgus
found himself confronted with an awkward situation. He did not for a
moment regret his hastily conceived pursuit of Newcombe; he had come
within an ace of accomplishing his object. It was by the merest bad
luck, at the last moment, some sudden flickering of intelligence had
caused the inebriated man to exercise discretion.

All the same, he found himself saddled with a companion, drunk to the
point of incapacity, and unable to look after himself.

Grewgus made up his mind at once; it was necessary to do so, since
Newcombe showed signs of sinking into slumber.

“Look here,” he whispered into the man’s ear as loud as he dared. “If
you don’t want to be locked up for the night, I shall have to get you
home. Tell me quickly where you live.”

In a thick voice, the incapacitated Colonial muttered the name of a
mean street in the King’s Cross district. Grewgus knew the place well,
and, as was his custom, drew a rapid inference. Either Stormont was
allowing him a very small pittance, or else Newcombe was averse to
heavy standing charges as they would curtail his opportunities of
purchasing his beloved alcohol.

A very decent young man had come into the bar, whom the detective
judged, by his appearance, to be of the Good Samaritan sort, disposed
to help in a case of trouble. Propping the almost comatose man well
against the table, he went up to this individual and besought his
assistance.

“My friend has been overcome, been taking too much before I met him, I
expect,” was his explanation. “I want to get him away without fuss, if
I can. If you would kindly call a taxi, and come back here and lend a
helping hand, I am sure I can manage it. I doubt if he can walk very
well, but between us we can manage to shove him along and get him in
the taxi.”

The decent-looking young man responded nobly to the appeal. In a very
short time, Mr. Newcombe, still half asleep and almost deprived of the
powers of motion, was being borne in the direction of King’s Cross.

About half-way on the journey, he made one of those remarkable
recoveries which are frequently to be observed in the devotees of
alcohol. He was still far from sober, but his partial slumber, and the
rather keen fresh air blowing through the open taxi-windows on his
inflamed face, had cleared his faculties to a certain extent. He was
able to appreciate and thank the detective for what he had done.

“The act of a pal, that’s what it is,” he hiccoughed. “If ever your
turn comes and I’m there, I’ll do the same with you. If you had
sneaked out and left me, I should have been run in as safe as eggs.”
His mind suddenly reverted to the events of a short time ago. “By
gosh, if it had been that fellow with the flunkeys and the fine car,
he’d have left me in the lurch. I say, mister, I don’t know your name,
perhaps I was a bit gone; he bawled at me that I was a drunken dog.”

There was something very comical in his almost abject aspect as he put
this question. Grewgus could hardly keep from laughing.

“I should say more than likely, my friend. You strike me as one of
those chaps who can get drunk and sober again three or four times in a
day. We shall be there in a very few minutes. I expect you will find
yourself able to walk without assistance when we get out.”

And so it proved. When the taxi drew up before the shabby-looking
house in one of the meanest streets in the locality, Mr. Newcombe was
able to comport himself with a certain amount of steadiness. He
apologized for not being able to ask his companion up, as he occupied
one apartment at the top of the house, and there was, alas! no
refreshment to offer a guest when he got there.

“I’ve sense enough not to keep it in the house,” he said with a
cunning smile. “Having to go out for it does put a bit of a stopper on
me. You see, I know my weakness. But I tell you what--I want to prove
to you that I look upon you as a pal, one of the right sort. If you’ll
make an appointment to meet me to-morrow, not perhaps at the same
place, we’ll have a return match.”

Grewgus thanked him and hastily explained that he would not be in
London on the morrow, nor for some little time after. Then, having
seen his companion put his key in the door, and enter the
unprepossessing premises, he went on his way. With his usual
methodical habit, he posted in his note-book Mr. Newcombe’s address,
in case he should require it in the future.

Early the next morning he rang up Lydon while the young man was at
breakfast.

“A thousand apologies for running away from you yesterday. But after
that little scene with Stormont, I thought I ought not to let the
chance slip. Got nothing out of it though, will tell you all when I
see you. I want very much to know what you have to report to me. Shall
I come to you, or vice versa?”

“I’d rather come to you,” was Lydon’s answer. “We shall be less liable
to interruption in your place.”

The young man went round to him after lunch. Grewgus related how he
had nearly brought the Colonial to the blabbing point, and how the man
had suddenly shrunk back into his shell. On his side Lydon gave a full
account of the reception in Curzon Street, omitting no detail.

“There is no doubt what the game is,” said the detective when his
companion had finished. “They have evidently got this young chap into
their clutches, and they mean to bleed him to the utmost.”

“Do you think these elaborate preparations, the taking of the house in
Curzon Street, this purchase of expensive furniture, etcetera, are a
part of the plot?”

“Undoubtedly. I have heard a good deal of this young Wraysbury from
one source and another. I should say he’s rather a silly sort of chap,
intoxicated with his good fortune, and an easy pigeon to be plucked. I
am told he has a lot of hangers-on who are thriving on his bounty,
regular parasites and leeches. On the quiet, he goes in for the
theatrical business, has put money in one or two shows, and I need
hardly say lost what he put in.”

“Edwards, who seems immensely proud of the acquaintance, spoke in very
warm terms of him, says he is a delightful fellow in himself, very
generous, but by no means a fool.”

Grewgus laughed derisively. “Of course, that is just what a man of
that stamp would say of somebody he had designs on, make him out
cleverer than himself. No, I think my version is the true one. I don’t
say that the young man is vicious or anything of that sort, but he is
pleasure-loving, gambles pretty heavily, and of course goes racing.”

“He is evidently very thick with the woman. He was sitting in her
pocket all the afternoon.”

“Ah! I understand he has a great _penchant_ for female society, and
that he is far from discriminating in his choice of fair companions. I
believe his parents live in terror that he will one fine day make some
actress or dancer Lady Wraysbury. Probably you don’t know anything
about the Felthams; in my line I get a lot of information about
people. They are a very pious, straight-living couple. The old man is
a pillar of the Established Church, his wife is equally devout. At
their London house in Eaton Place she is surrounded with parsons. His
youthful lordship has certainly not taken after his parents.”

“And I suppose they would be shocked beyond expression if they knew he
was hanging about a married woman?”

“Go off their heads, I should think,” was the detective’s reply. “But
they are not likely to hear of it. They live in a very narrow set, to
whom such doings don’t penetrate. They won’t know unless some scandal
arises suddenly out of it.”

Presently Lydon suggested that, in view of what they knew about Mrs.
Edwards, otherwise Elise Makris, Wraysbury ought to be warned. How
could it be done?

Grewgus looked doubtful. “You see, the difficulty is that we have no
evidence of her having previously blackmailed anybody. Your friend,
Mr. Craig, was very vague on the point, you say. Of course, I don’t
suppose they would dare to take any action if we did such a thing,
wouldn’t court having their past ripped up. But if this young ass is
infatuated--and it looks very like it--he wouldn’t believe much
stronger evidence than it is in our power to produce.”

“But you have no doubt of the character of all these people yourself?”
asked Lydon, who did not perhaps quite realize the habitual caution of
a man who followed Grewgus’ profession.

“In my own mind, certainly not. But what we do know is of such a
purely circumstantial kind that we should have great difficulty in
getting the average person to agree with us. One can feel a thing
without being able to prove it.”

“It seems to me that we have come to a deadlock,” said Lydon in a tone
of disappointment.

Grewgus reluctantly admitted that it looked like it. He added more
cheerfully that something might turn up at any moment. The French
police were still pursuing their inquiries into the mystery of
Calliard’s death, and they might still be able to connect Edwards, if
not Zillah Mayhew, with that tragedy. Then there would be something to
go on of a tangible nature.

It was some few days after that Grewgus sought another meeting with
his client. Perhaps in their last interview he had sensed a certain
dissatisfaction on Lydon’s part at the slow progress of affairs.

“I have been thinking a good deal over that fellow Newcombe,” he said.
“I have not the slightest doubt he could tell us something about
Stormont that would make a certainty of what now is not more than a
very strong conjecture. I wonder whether you would care to bribe him.
There is no doubt that at the moment he is very incensed with
Stormont; those bitter words, although he has half a notion they were
deserved, will rankle for a long time. Also I doubt if Stormont pays
him much to hold his tongue. Now would be the time to strike while the
iron is hot, so to speak. Of course, the drawback is that you will
have to put down more money, in addition to the expenses you have
already incurred, as it were, for no practical result.”

Lydon thought a little. “I would give a great deal to have the thing
settled,” he said presently. “To find out something which would
definitely justify our suspicions, our almost positive suspicions, of
Stormont. As you have pointed out, we cannot prove that Calliard was
done to death at his instigation, but we have little doubt of it in
our own minds. We cannot actually prove that this Curzon Street couple
are out to fleece this simple young Wraysbury, but we are sure of it;
and Stormont, perhaps also Whitehouse, is at the bottom of that. What
sort of a sum do you think would be required?”

“I should say five hundred at once would be a big temptation to a
fellow of that sort.”

Lydon rose. “Then set about it at once. I will go to that. If
necessary, a bit more. Anything to get rid of this state of suspense.”

It was five days since Grewgus had escorted Newcombe home to his mean
little lodging. He had received Lydon’s permission to embark on his
new scheme shortly after the luncheon hour, their usual time for
meeting. Directly after his client had left, he went up to King’s
Cross.

The door was opened by a slatternly woman of middle age, whose
appearance was in keeping with the house. She was the landlady.

To his inquiry as to whether Mr. Newcombe was in, she replied in the
voluble and indirect manner of her class.

“You’re the gent as brought him home in a taxi a few days ago, ain’t
you, when he’d had a drop too much? I saw you through the door when he
let himself in, and I never forgets a face. Yes, he’s in right enough,
but nobody can see him. He’s that bad, we don’t know whether he’ll
pull through yet. The doctor ain’t sure.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“The doctor says the symptoms are those of a man who has been
poisoned, whether by bad food he can’t say.”

“When did the attack commence?”

“Two days after you brought him home. On the next day somebody called
for him, dressed like a toff, a very genial, red-faced man. Said he
was an old friend and he went upstairs. They were in Newcombe’s room
for over an hour, and then they went out together.”

“Do you know where they went to?”

“I’m coming to that in a minute, mister. I didn’t see him again that
day; he came back about ten o’clock and went up to his room. The next
morning he had his breakfast in my kitchen as usual; he always told me
he was poor now, but had seen better days. Said he had been to dine
last evening with an old friend of his who had known him in his
prosperous times, and had been given the best dinner he had ever had
in his life. He didn’t come to tea, and I went upstairs to tell him it
was ready; he was a nice, pleasant feller, very free with his money,
when he had it, and always grateful for any little kindness or
attention. He was sitting huddled up in his chair, and couldn’t speak.
I sent for the doctor at once, for I was sure he had some money. We
put him to bed, and there he’s been ever since. He’s still
unconscious. I and my daughter look after him.”

Grewgus pulled out his ever-ready note book. “I should like the
address of that doctor, please, in case I want to see him. Your lodger
was once a friend of mine, and I’ve only lately learned he is down on
his luck. I called to-day to propose something for his benefit; I will
come again to-morrow or next day. Many thanks, sorry to have taken up
your time; you must be a busy woman.”

He slipped a pound note into her hand, and went straight to Lydon’s
office in Victoria Street. But he just missed him; Leonard had left to
catch an early train to Brighton.

He called on him early the next morning, and told him what had
happened. The two men looked at each other. There was an inquiry in
Leonard’s glance which Grewgus answered at once.

“Yes, I surmise what you surmise. The genial, red-faced man was
Stormont, and there is no doubt he is at times an active member of his
organization. You may depend upon it, he is devilish clever, and this
last thing may still remain a matter of conjecture incapable of actual
proof.”

He paused a moment, then added: “But if this poor devil lives, he is
clever enough for the same idea to occur to him. And if it does he
will speak out what he knows about Stormont.”




 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was a long time before Newcombe struggled back to convalescence;
during that period Grewgus had several interviews with the doctor who
was attending him, a young, harassed-looking man who had a large but
not particularly remunerative practice in a poor neighbourhood. The
detective came to the conclusion at their first meeting that he was
not a very brilliant member of his profession. He said there were
symptoms of poisoning, certainly, probably ptomaine poisoning. The
landlady had said the patient told her he was dining at some
restaurant the previous evening. Possibly some cheap one where there
was little care exercised in the selection or cooking of food.
Undoubtedly he had partaken of some dish which had produced this
disastrous result.

Then came the day when Grewgus was permitted to go up to the
ill-furnished room where the Colonial lay, a shadow of his former
robust self. He stretched out a wasted hand. “Very good of you to come
and see me, mate. My landlady told me a gent had been inquiring after
me. For the life of me I couldn’t guess who it was. I’ve no friends in
this infernal country. And what made you look me up?”

Grewgus played a waiting game, till he could see his way more clearly.
“Well, just blind chance, as it were. I was in this district, on a bit
of business one day, and remembering where you lived, I thought I’d
look you up, to see if you had recovered from the effects of that
rather warm evening we spent together. I was shocked to hear you were
so bad.”

“I’ve had a close shave, mister; the doctor told me he thought my
number was up. But he says now, if I keep quiet for a few days, I
shall pull through.”

He paused and added grimly, “If I do, I guess it will be a
disappointment to somebody.”

So the same suspicion had crept into his mind. Grewgus proceeded in
the same quiet way: “You dined out with a friend, your landlady told
me. No doubt you partook of some food that poisoned you?”

The man’s calm manner left him. His eyes blazed out in sudden fury.
“And a dog-goned idiot I was, knowing the character of the man I went
with. At my time of life I ought to have had more sense.”

For a little time he kept silence, but his eyes were blazing, his face
was working all the time. When he spoke again, it seemed as if he had,
for the moment, forgotten the other man’s presence, as if he were
muttering his thoughts aloud.

“The dirty dog, the dirty dog to try and do me in for the sake of
saving a few paltry quid! Me that stood by him when he hadn’t got a
pal in the world, me that nursed him when he was sick to death as well
as his own mother would have done. The treacherous swine.”

Suddenly he seemed to realize the presence of Grewgus, and his mood
underwent a sudden change. The fury in his glance died down, the voice
lost its tone of hatred.

“Don’t take any notice of me, mate. I’m weak after this infernal bout
and perhaps a little bit light-headed. I was just rambling, that was
all.”

Grewgus leaned forward and looked the Colonial straight in the face.
“You are not light-headed, and you are not rambling,” he said in a
firm voice. “You did not partake of any bad food. You have in your
mind the same suspicion which I have, and that is that you were
deliberately poisoned, by some subtle means, by the man, your
pretended friend, who took you out to dinner.”

The man’s jaw dropped. He looked at the detective in a dazed kind of
way. “How did you guess that?” he cried.

It was evident to the keen-witted Grewgus that Newcombe’s feelings
were making deadly war on each other. On the one hand he wanted to
speak, to give full vent to the terrible ideas that were surging in
his mind. On the other hand, he feared the consequence of a too frank
revelation.

He resolved to put his cards on the table. “Now, look here, my friend,
you don’t know me from Adam. I will tell you frankly I am here for a
purpose. I’m not a detective in the usual meaning of the term,
although I was for some years at Scotland Yard. I am no longer a
recognized officer of the law, I am on my own, as a private inquiry
agent. Here is my card. My office is in Craven Street, and my name is
Grewgus.”

The man’s mind took in the situation swiftly. “Ah, I see it now. You
followed me that night from the street where the party was--I forget
the name of it now--you followed me into the pub. You took me home,
not because you were a particularly good sort of a chap as I thought,
but because you wanted to find out where I lived.”

“You’re a smart fellow, Newcombe, I can see that quite plainly,” said
the detective, thinking a little flattery might be judicious. “I think
you and I shall get on quite well together presently, when we know
each other better. Now, first of all, I want you to get this
thoroughly into your head, that I am not acting on behalf of the law.
Unless you recognize that, it is not likely we shall go very far. Do
you believe me?”

Mr. Newcombe hesitated a little before he replied to this straight
question. “Suppose I say I do, just to make things more comfortable
between us,” he said presently. “You are here on behalf of somebody.”

“Quite true,” answered Grewgus promptly. “On behalf of private
parties.”

A cunning smile overspread the Colonial’s features. “What is it you
want to find out?” he asked bluntly.

“I want to find out as much as I can about that man you had the
altercation with the other day, Mr. Howard Stormont, the owner of
Effington Hall, and apparently well off. At any rate, he seems to
spend a pretty good amount of money.”

Mr. Newcombe thought things well over before he spoke again, in a
disjointed sort of way as if he were giving utterance to his own
thoughts. “Private parties you said. Well, I’d wager a bit I can guess
who the private party is--that nice-looking young fellow I met down at
Effington who’s going to marry the pretty niece. He thinks there’s a
bit of mystery about, and he wants to get to the bottom of it.”

It was evidently not much use fencing with this shrewd, hard-headed
Colonial. “I won’t say you’re right, and I won’t say you’re wrong,
Newcombe. Think what you like. Of course, you’ll understand that in my
delicate position I can’t afford to be too frank.”

“Neither can I, in my position,” said the Colonial with a grin.

“Granted. Well, now let me put things as they appear to me. You can
tell me presently whether I am right or wrong. It is evident you know
something about this fellow who appears prosperous enough now. You had
fallen upon bad times, that we know from his own admission.”

“Oh, he has told that, has he?” cried Newcombe, with something of a
snarl in his voice. “He didn’t mind giving me away, did he?”

“In a sense he was forced to; he had to explain your sudden arrival at
Effington. Well, to continue, you had fallen upon bad times. You went
to see your old friend, and no doubt represented to him that it would
be highly inconvenient for him in his present position if you made
certain disclosures about his past. Not being a fool, he saw that.”

Mr. Newcombe listened to this reconstruction of what had taken place
between himself and the owner of Effington Hall without interruption.
Not wishing his countenance to betray him, he kept his gaze steadily
averted.

Grewgus looked round the ill-furnished room in a disparaging fashion.
“He recognized the fact that he could not allow you to talk, and he
agreed to make you some sort of allowance. Judging by the condition of
this apartment, not a very handsome one.”

The Colonial indulged in a derisive grunt at this allusion to his
surroundings, but he did not break his obstinate silence.

“Small as that allowance is, he begrudges it. Or perhaps it is not the
money he minds so much; what weighs upon his mind is that you are a
standing menace to his safety, the fear that one day, when you’ve had
a drop or two too much, you’ll blurt out the very thing he wants to
hide. He feels he’ll have no real security till you are safely out of
the way. Hence that apparently hospitable action the other day.”

Grewgus had the satisfaction of seeing a vindictive scowl steal over
the man’s face at this reference. He hoped to appeal not only to the
Colonial’s cupidity but in an equal degree to his thirst for revenge.

“If you ask me, I don’t think your position is a very safe one, my
friend. From what I do know of Stormont, I have reason to believe him
to be possessed of diabolical cunning, and unscrupulous to a degree.
If he has made up his mind to get you out of the way, it is long odds
that, in the end, he will accomplish his designs, either on his own
initiative or with the help of his numerous friends.”

And then Mr. Newcombe spoke: “He’s a cunning devil enough, you’re
right about that. Well, mister private inquiry agent, let’s come to
the point. What is it you want to propose to me? You’ve been a long
time leading up to it. Let’s have it without any more beating about
the bush.”

“If you’ll tell me the secret of Stormont’s past which he is paying
you some paltry pittance to hush up, I’ll pay you down in hard cash
the sum of five hundred pounds.”

“And supposing you got that information--mind you, I haven’t said that
I can give it you--what use are you going to make of it?”

Grewgus was a bit puzzled what to answer to this plain and very
natural question. Would Lydon take any steps against Stormont if he
found himself in a position to do so? The young man had carefully kept
Gloria’s name out of the matter, but the shrewd detective had
originally guessed there was a woman in the case. Newcombe’s statement
that Lydon was engaged to Stormont’s niece confirmed that suspicion
absolutely.

No, he felt sure that his client would never lift his hand against the
uncle of the girl he loved, however great his guilt might be. He was
quite safe in making the Colonial’s mind easy on that score. Strange
perversity of human nature that this man, presumably a crook himself,
shrank from giving another crook away, even although he had been
treated so vilely. Or was Newcombe’s hesitation due to a sense of
self-preservation? In giving his old pal away, would he be forced to
implicate himself?

“I understand what is in your mind, but I think you may be quite sure
nothing of the kind will happen. Certain suspicions having arisen, it
is necessary to confirm or remove them.”

The Colonial was evidently thinking very deeply, looking at the matter
from every point of view. “And supposing, mind you, I only say
supposing, that the suspicions were confirmed, I presume the young
fellow would chuck this pretty girl.”

“I am sure of the contrary,” answered the detective, speaking quite
warmly; he had taken a great fancy to Lydon and was convinced he would
never act shabbily to a woman. “It is not pleasant to have a criminal
for an uncle, of course, but I understand her father is a man of the
highest probity.”

Again the Colonial put on his thinking cap. “That settles that, then.”
And now he began to relinquish, to some extent, his rather futile
attempts at caution. “And now let’s consider the position as it
affects me. If I give Stormont away, I shall have to make a clean bolt
of it; there’ll be no further help from that quarter. Besides, I
shouldn’t be safe, if he happened to find it out, and it’s a chance
one must reckon with. He wants to get me out of the way as it is.”

“You’re quite right, Newcombe. If he ever got a hint, he would be
doubly, trebly anxious to remove you. If we do come to an arrangement,
you’ll have to quit in double-quick time. Now, let us discuss terms.
If you can tell me something definite about this man, as I have said,
there is five hundred pounds waiting for you. You are a man of brains
and resource; with that sum you can start life again. And, in my
candid opinion, the sooner you get out of Stormont’s reach, the better
for your own peace of mind.”

“Not enough,” cried the Colonial promptly. “One can’t do much in
making a fresh start with five hundred. Besides, it’s worth a
thousand.”

But if Newcombe was hard at a bargain, Grewgus was by no means a bad
man of business. He joined issue at once, and for a long time they
fought each other strenuously. A compromise was finally reached at
seven hundred. Grewgus was sure his client would go to this extent,
from what he had said.

But the victory was not quite won yet. Newcombe wanted further time
for reflection. “It’s a very serious step you are asking me to take.
I’ve got to look at it all round. Don’t think I have any consideration
for that dirty dog, Stormont; you wouldn’t expect it, would you? If we
were out in some parts I could name, I’d plug him without the
slightest compunction; he’d deserve it. But I’ve got to think of
myself, to be sure I’m not making a false step.”

From that position he would not budge. He must have a clear day to
think it over. If Grewgus would call at the same time to-morrow, he
would give him his decision.

Grewgus saw his client later in the day, and got an open cheque from
him for the seven hundred pounds which he would cash on the following
morning. It was no use going to the Colonial without the money in his
pocket. His knowledge of human nature told him that Mr. Newcombe, if
he had made up his mind to betray his old pal, would stipulate that
the money should be handed over before he opened his mouth.

“My own impression is that he will bite,” remarked the detective. “It
is perfectly obvious that he knows something damaging, or he would not
have gone so far in the preliminary negotiations. We are buying a pig
in a poke, and what he has to tell may not be worth so much money.
Still, if Stormont suffers himself to be blackmailed to the extent of
three or four pounds a week, it must be something rather bad, if not
so bad as we think.”

Lydon agreed. Anyway, if Newcombe took the seven hundred pounds, the
suspense would be ended, they would know something definite.

“The thing I want to assure him positively of is that nothing he tells
me will be used against himself or Stormont. I gave him this assurance
off my own bat, as it were,” said the detective as he took his leave.
“I take it that, whatever we find out, you personally have no
intention of setting the police upon Stormont. In other words, this is
strictly a private inquiry, with which the official police will have
nothing to do?”

Lydon assured him that this was so. He could not yet quite bring
himself to disclose his relations to Gloria. He simply said that the
man belonged to a highly-respectable family which he was determined to
spare so far as it lay in his power.

The French police were still probing the mystery of the death of
Calliard, the jeweller. If they were successful, it was more than
probable that Stormont might be implicated. That contingency could not
be averted.

“Of course, I shall mention nothing of that affair to Newcombe,” was
the detective’s reply.




 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Grewgus did not pay his visit the next day as arranged. In the
morning he received a wire from Newcombe, asking him for a respite of
another twenty-four hours. It was evident the Colonial wanted to think
the matter well over, in other words to consider which course would be
the most beneficial to his own interests.

On the second day the detective presented himself with the seven
hundred pounds in his pocket, the money which he devoutly hoped would
soon pass from his keeping.

Newcombe was much better, had recovered marvellously in that couple of
days. His lean face had filled out; there were no longer about him the
signs of a deadly and wasting illness. He greeted his visitor with a
rough good-humour. Grewgus, a shrewd judge of men, put him down as a
good-tempered fellow in the main, inclined to be quarrelsome and
vindictive when the drink overtook him, rather a man of moods and apt
to act on impulse.

“Come along, mister, glad to see you. The doctor says I have made a
marvellous rally. I’m a different man from what I was when you last
saw me. A lot of fight yet left in old Tom Newcombe.”

Grewgus paid him handsome compliments on his changed appearance and
laid on a little flattery. “Even now you look as if you could knock
spots off some of the young ones. I should say you would be as fit as
a fiddle in another week or ten days.”

The Colonial laughed his loud, hoarse laugh. “I guess a certain person
will be bitterly disappointed to find his old pal is so tough. Ha ha!
he’s wondering what has become of me. His money has come right enough,
but I haven’t acknowledged it yet. I don’t quite know what I’m going
to do about that. It depends.”

Grewgus did not answer. He was fairly confident he had won the day,
but he did not wish to spoil matters by hurrying them unduly. He
smiled agreeably and waited for Newcombe to speak again. “Well,
mister, I’ve decided to accept your offer. Have you brought the
‘boodle’? If you haven’t we can adjourn this meeting till to-morrow.
Another day will make no difference to me.”

Grewgus drew out a bulky pocket-book and flourished it invitingly in
front of his companion. “I’m a man of my word, Newcombe. I wasn’t, of
course, absolutely sure of what your decision might be, but I brought
the money on the off-chance. You would like me to hand it over to you
at once, eh?”

The man’s eyes had an avaricious gleam at this invitation. The
detective thought it was a long time since he had handled such a sum.
“What do _you_ think?” he said with a chuckle. “The money first, the
information after. You would do the same in my place now, wouldn’t
you, if you had the brains of a mouse?”

Grewgus could be as frank as anybody, when there was no necessity to
beat about the bush. “I trust you more than you trust me, Newcombe.
Here is the money. Count it over before you start.”

Newcombe began to count over the money. Suddenly he looked up at his
companion with a rather aggrieved air. “I say, you didn’t answer that
question. Wouldn’t you do the same in my place? It’s a matter of
business, ain’t it, pure and simple?”

“Of course, my good fellow, I am not complaining. If I were you I
would certainly have the money before I opened my mouth.”

Mollified by this rejoinder, the Colonial stuffed the notes in his
pocket, and again burst into his loud laugh.

“Now, you’re a clever man, mister--a darned sight cleverer than I am,
I expect--and I suppose you haven’t overlooked the fact that I might
take the money and give you practically nothing for it.”

Grewgus intimated in his suavest manner that such a contingency had
not escaped his intelligence. In some cases he would have taken
greater precautions. He ended with a handsome compliment. “I don’t
know much of you, Newcombe, but I’m pretty sure you’re not one of that
sort.”

The Colonial looked pleased. “You’re right, Mr. Grewgus, I don’t
pretend to be much, but if people play fair and square with me, I play
fair and square with them. I’ve never rounded on a pal yet; I
shouldn’t round on this swine if he hadn’t played the dirty on me.
Why, a week or two ago I would have been cut into little bits before I
would have given Howard Stormont away. That was when I believed him to
be a pal, not a too generous one perhaps, but still a pal. Have you
got me?”

“Perfectly,” answered Grewgus smoothly. “You would be a bit of a soft,
I think, if you showed Stormont any quarter.”

The man’s eyes flashed with sudden fury, it was evident his hatred of
his old friend was very intense, and that once having made up his
mind, he rejoiced in getting even with him.

“Yes, that was a bad evening’s work for him, cleverly as he thought he
had managed it. He was always very keen on the poisoning business,
although mind you, I can’t honestly say that I ever knew of any case
in which he had given it. But he was always fond of reading books on
the subject. He used to laugh when he told me how people in the old
days used to polish off their enemies with a poisoned glove or flower.
He dropped a little drop of something into my drink that night, you
bet--something that this fool of a doctor could not detect anyway.”

“And if you don’t get yourself out of this neighbourhood he’ll try it
again. I shouldn’t say he is the sort of man to be baffled by a first
failure,” commented Grewgus, whose object it was to keep the
Colonial’s indignation at white heat. “And now, Newcombe, let’s get to
business. You’ve counted the money and found it right. It’s for you to
carry out your part of the bargain.”

There was just a touch of shamefacedness in the man’s expression,
hardened character as he was, as he began his story.

“I’m not going to say more about myself than I can help, Mr. Grewgus.
You won’t blame me for that, I’m sure.”

“Not in the least. To be quite frank, I’m not interested in your
career, Newcombe. Stormont’s is the only one that concerns me.”

“Right-o! And if anything comes of it, you’re not going to drag me in.
You promised that at the beginning, didn’t you?”

“Practically I did, and I repeat that promise now,” confirmed Grewgus.

“Well, mister, I’ll start with the days when I first came across
Howard Stormont, when we both were young men. No need to tell you I
wasn’t a model youth. If I had been, I shouldn’t have picked up with
him, or rather he with me. Upon my word of honour, Mr. Grewgus, I
never had much of a chance. My mother, I know, was a good woman, she
died when I was a kid, I should say of a broken heart. My father was a
ne’er-do-well, drunken, callous, dishonest. Unfortunately I took after
him, but never in my life have I had decent luck. If I went straight
for a bit, misfortune dogged me, and on the crook I didn’t fare much
better.”

Proceeding with his narrative, the Colonial explained that at this
period he was associated with a set of men who were not particular as
to how they got their living, although they could not boast of being
scientific or high-class criminals. The one thing to which they had
definitely made up their minds was that they would not work, except
under the direst compulsion. They preferred to beg, borrow, or, when
necessary, cheat and steal.

Stormont, then quite a young man, a little while before was introduced
to this promising association, and in spite of his youth soon evinced
qualities that marked him out for leadership. It was whispered about
presently that he had got into some trouble at home and that his
relatives had insisted on his going abroad.

“I never knew precisely what the trouble was,” Newcombe explained,
“but from all I could gather from a few things dropped by him when he
had a little--for he was a heavy drinker in those days--it was about
money. His people--he always used to boast that he came of a highly
respectable family--paid his passage out and gave him a few pounds
over. I understood he was not to go back to England till he could
return with a clean bill of health.

“Him and me took a great fancy to each other. I don’t quite know what
he saw in me, for I was rather a dull, plodding sort of chap compared
with most of the men I associated with, who told me I wasn’t quite
clever enough for the game. What I admired in him was his high
spirits, and first and foremost his wonderful cunning and cleverness:
he was always alert and up to every move on the board. He was also
very generous, spent money like water when he had it, and most popular
with his mates. They thought a wonderful lot of his abilities and
prophesied that he would one day become a crook of the first water.”

“I take it, these associates of yours were not in the front rank of
their profession?” interjected Grewgus.

The Colonial shook his head. “Certainly not; with the exception of
Stormont they had neither the nerves nor the brains. A great deal of
card-sharping, plucking raw young pigeons who had just come out, a
little bit of easy swindling here and there, that was as far as they
could go. Stormont was altogether on a higher plane. He had the brain
to invent and elaborate big things.”

“And of course, he joined you in these agreeable pursuits, the
card-sharping, the plucking of young pigeons, even although they did
not give full scope for the exercise of his superior talents.”

“That is so, mister, and in a minute I’m coming to what you want to
know. I take it, you’ve been making a lot of inquiries, but up to the
present you haven’t been able to prove definitely he is the criminal
you believe him to be. That goes without saying. If you could have got
that information yourself, you wouldn’t chuck away seven hundred
pounds on me.”

The Colonial, when he could keep off the drink, was evidently a clear
thinker. With great modesty he had spoken of himself as a dull and
plodding fellow, but Grewgus did not consider him as dull as he
pretended to be. Probably intemperance had stood in his way: prevented
him from being a successful crook and reduced him to his present
position of subsisting on Stormont’s bounty.

“Well, the game wasn’t fast enough for him; the profits out of this
petty kind of roguery were too small for a man of his ambitious nature
and expensive tastes. Three or four times he launched out on things of
his own--things that the others were too timid or too slow-witted to
join in. And the last one brought him to grief.”

Grewgus leaned forward in an attitude of expectation. At last he was
going to get something definite about the apparently prosperous owner
of Effington Hall.

“It was rather a neat little bit of forgery. He had laid his plans
well too, thought it all out very carefully, almost succeeded in
fixing the guilt upon another chap, a perfectly honest man.”

“As big a scandal as that, eh?” was the detective’s surprised comment.

Newcombe indulged in a sardonic laugh. “Stormont wasn’t the sort of
man to think of anybody but himself. As long as he could swim he
didn’t care who sank. An innocent man sacrificed didn’t weigh heavily
on his conscience. But clever as he was, the police just went one
better. The other fellow’s innocence was proved and the guilt clearly
fastened on the right person. I forgot to tell you that when he began
to launch out on these dangerous _coups_ he changed his name from
Stormont to Manvers. Under the name of Manvers he was convicted and
sentenced to a pretty tidy term of imprisonment. Now, I’ve kept all
the papers describing the trial and evidence. I shan’t give them up,
of course; but if you give me your solemn word of honour to return
them to me, I’ll lend them to you to make copies of.”

“Thanks very much; I’ll take them away with me when I leave. Does the
name of Stormont occur in them?”

“Yes, they discovered he had been passing under the two, but they
inclined to the belief that Manvers was the real one, and as Manvers
he was convicted. Of course his old pals knew better.”

“And what became of him after he came out of prison?”

“He went back to England; I expect that sharp dose of imprisonment
sickened him of Australia. He had been clever enough to put away the
swag somewhere; it was quite a nice little sum. I’ve a notion he had a
confederate, although I’m sure it was not one of the old lot, somebody
much cleverer than we could turn out. He came to say good-bye to me
and one or two others who had been his particular pals. He bluffed us
that when he got back to his own country he was going to lead an
honest life. For my part, I never believed it. Howard Stormont was a
crook by instinct and he’d never do a bit of honest work if he could
get money by any other means.”

“What do you know of his career between the time he left England and
when you paid him that surprise visit at Effington Hall?”

“Practically nothing,” was the answer. “In the rough and ready life
out there, one soon forgets things, anyway you don’t think continually
of them. I had a lot of bad luck and after many years I worked my way
back to the old country. As I was looking about for any kind of job
that would keep my head above water, I began to think a good deal
about him and wondered what he was doing, if he had struck oil or not.

“By the merest accident I got on his track, saw him coming out of some
city offices unseen by him. A telegraph boy was passing at the time,
and I asked him if he knew anything of the gentleman, slipping into
his hand a shilling which I could ill afford. He seemed to know a good
deal about him. He was a Mr. Howard Stormont--that of course I was
sure of as, with the exception of growing stouter, he had not altered
since the Australian days--that he was engaged in business, and lived
in a fine house in Surrey at a place called Effington. I smartened
myself up as well as I could, for I had very nearly come to the end of
my tether, and went down there. Lord, he was struck all of a heap when
he saw me, so was the flunkey who opened the door.

“He was always a quick-witted fellow, so as soon as he had recovered
from the shock, he made the best of it, and took me into his study,
where we had a long jaw. He told me he had gone in for
finance--perfectly straight business, he swore--but it was terribly
hazardous, and he owned he was living up to the hilt. Knowing his
extravagance of old, I thought it very likely, but he might be
pretending this in order to choke me off, as he could be pretty
certain I hadn’t called upon him merely to inquire after the state of
his health. He was devilish civil all through, of course; he knew I
was acquainted with that nasty little episode, and he didn’t dare to
ride the high horse.”

“And in the end you came to some little financial arrangement?”

“Why, naturally. But he made a hard bargain. When he had money, he was
generous in a spasmodic sort of way; he would stand you any amount of
food and drink, but he was never fond of parting with actual cash. The
sort of man that would give you a dinner costing five pounds, and
button up his pockets when you asked him for the loan of a quid. He
said he’d try and find me a good job, and in the meantime he would
allow me four pounds a week.”

“I should say you found it a tight fit,” remarked Grewgus, thinking of
his companion’s fondness for liquid refreshment.

“You never spoke a truer word. But I couldn’t get him higher. He
pretended that he was frightfully hard up, and that any moment he
might have to give up his fine house. Of course, he knew I wasn’t in a
position to bargain.”

A smile of reminiscence stole over the Colonial’s face as he
continued: “I’m afraid I didn’t behave very well on that visit. He had
on a swell dinner-party that night, which of course I didn’t expect to
be present at, I wasn’t dressed for the part. I had a fine dinner by
myself, and after his guests had gone, he came in and chatted with me
for a few minutes, and set a bottle of whisky in front of me before he
left.

“I’d been going very much on the teetotal lately, through lack of the
ready, and when I saw that tempting bottle before me, I went at it
with a vengeance. When I take a drop too much, I get quarrelsome, the
stuff brings the worst of me to the surface. I began to think he
wasn’t treating me too courteously, and I followed him into the
billiard-room to have it out with him.

“He smoothed me down after a bit, and I had some more drink--there was
plenty of it about--and I got from the quarrelsome into the stupid
stage. I made a silly reference to a little prank of ours when we
followed up a young greenhorn with a view to relieving him of some of
his money. Luckily, he stopped me in time; his niece and her young man
were there, but of course it was a silly thing to do. I think he was
afraid of me from that moment, was never sure of what I might let out
when I was in the same condition.”

Grewgus interrupted the flow of reminiscences relating to that
embarrassing visit to Effington Hall. “Now tell me, please, all that
took place on that day when Stormont took you to the restaurant.”

The Colonial’s face darkened at the allusion. “The scoundrel showed
his usual cunning. You know of that little scene that occurred outside
the house in that street, the name of which I never can remember. Ah,
yes, Curzon Street. You remember how upset I was about it, how very
near I was to giving him away on the evening you came across me. Well,
I suppose Stormont had been thinking it over too, and came to the
conclusion he had gone too far, offended me beyond forgiveness. Well,
the next day, while I was brooding over it, he walks into my room,
with his hand outstretched, and smiling all over his red face.

“‘Tom, old man, we’ve been too good friends in the past to quarrel
now,’ he says. ‘Let us forget and forgive, and shake hands on it. I
was so riled when you came up to me in that state, before all the
crowd too, that I lost my head. I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly, but
you must allow it was a bit rough on me. Let us both bury the
hatchet.’

“I don’t think I’m a very vindictive man, except when somebody plays
the real dirty on me,” urged Newcombe in his own defence. “And I was
forced to admit to myself it was a trifle rough on him, as he said.
Well, after a bit, we made it up and agreed to be friends again. He
seemed awfully relieved, and proposed I should go out to dinner with
him, not to one of the swagger places, which he knew I shouldn’t care
for, but to a quiet little restaurant in Soho.

“We went there, and I had a splendid dinner, and as much drink as I
cared to take. He drank plenty too, but his head was always harder
than mine, and he would be sitting up in his chair when I was under
the table. When I got home, I felt a bit muddled, and when I woke in
the morning I knew I had had a warm night. But it wasn’t till the
middle of the day that I began to feel really queer. I heard the
doctor whispering to the landlady, and I caught the word ‘poisoned.’
When I was able to think things over, I began to tumble to what had
happened. I understood why he had been so devilish civil. I had given
him away in a sense twice. He was afraid of me, and thought there
would be no peace for him till I was out of the way. The dirty dog!
The dirty dog! I must try and not think of it more than I can help. It
makes me see red when I do.”

There was a long silence after this rather furious outburst. Grewgus
broke it with the question: “And have you any ideas as to what he has
been doing all these years in England?”

Newcombe indulged in a rather cunning smile. “That’s not quite in the
contract, is it, mister? I ought to ask a bit more for that, but still
you have played fair and square with me, I don’t mind answering you.
Mark you, I have never been able to get a word out of Stormont; he
swears through thick and thin he’s on the square. But I’ve done a
little spying on my own account, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s
after the same old game, but much bigger game. There’s no legitimate
business done in that tinpot office in the city. There’s nobody there
but himself and a man named Whitehouse, a solemn-looking sort of cove
who puts in an appearance about three or four times a week. Have you
come across Whitehouse?”

The detective nodded. “Yes, I know a little about him, not very much.
A very old friend of Stormont’s, according to Stormont’s account.”

He did not tell him that the man carried on a solicitor’s business
also, under the name of Glenthorne. It was a fixed policy with him to
obtain confidences, not to make them.

“And I am pretty sure he _is_ a very old friend,” observed the
Colonial. “The first time I spotted him coming out of that office in
the City--I had placed myself where he wasn’t likely to see me--his
face seemed familiar. There was a young chap, not one of ours, whom
I’ve seen several times with Stormont in the old Australian days. He
wasn’t known to any of our lot, and Stormont never said much about
him, never mentioned his name, but I always had a notion they were in
some jobs together. When Stormont went to quod under the name of
Manvers, this chap disappeared altogether. Now, I’m not prepared to
swear to it, but I’ve got more than a notion that this fellow--he was
a young man then--and Whitehouse are one and the same person.”

Grewgus left presently, very satisfied with his day’s work, taking
with him the papers which contained a full account of the trial and
conviction of Manvers, otherwise Stormont. The next day he had a long
interview with Lydon.

“Well, I don’t begrudge the money,” said the young man, after
listening to what had passed between the two men. “We have now proved
absolutely that the man is a criminal, and a pretty desperate one at
that.”

The thing that was worrying him was this--had things now come to such
a pass that he ought to pass on the information he had acquired to
Jasper Stormont? Was it right that Gloria should ever return to her
uncle’s custody?

Without mentioning his exact relations with the girl, relations which
Grewgus already knew of from Newcombe, he put this question.

“Let’s wait a bit, something else of a confirmatory nature may turn
up,” answered the detective. “You still want me to watch the little
game going on at Curzon Street. Something may come to light there.”

And so it was left. Lydon would not approach Jasper Stormont just yet.
There was still some time before he would return to China, and until
then Gloria was safe from further association with her criminal uncle.

A week later there came to Grewgus a telephone call from the offices
of Messrs. Shelford and Taylor, the solicitors.

“Is that you, Grewgus? Good morning.” It was Mr. Shelford speaking. “I
am sending a client of mine, Lord Wraysbury, round to confer with you.
A very serious business, I fear. He will explain it all to you.
Divorce proceedings are threatened, but I think blackmail is the real
object. You might know something or find out something about the
people. Will twelve o’clock suit you?”

At the mention of Wraysbury’s name, Grewgus had a premonition of what
was in the air.

“Perfectly, Mr. Shelford, I will be in,” he said. “What are the names
of the parties?”

The reply was what he expected. “A young married couple of the name of
Edwards. They live in Curzon Street.”




 CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was a decided feeling of elation in Grewgus as he waited the
advent of Lord Wraysbury. The loose strands were being gathered
together by this unexpected visit.

He formed a rapid impression of the handsome young man as they
exchanged a few conventional words of greeting. Rather impulsive,
generous, easy-going, not burdened with any great excess of mentality,
likely to be easily exploited by designing persons, trusting and
unsuspicious.

The young nobleman was perfectly straightforward as to the object of
his visit, and made no attempt to beat about the bush.

“The plain truth, Mr. Grewgus, is that I have made a fool of myself,”
he told him. “Shelford, whose firm has acted for us for years, since
my grandfather’s time, says there is no doubt it is a blackmailing
case, and advised me to come here and tell you the whole story from
the beginning to the very unpleasant end.”

“That will certainly be the best plan, Lord Wraysbury; Mr. Shelford
told me as much over the ’phone. When I have learned all the details,
it will be possible for me to tell you if I can help you.”

The young nobleman, in his pleasant, well-bred voice, proceeded to
unfold the history of the relations with Mrs. Edwards--perfectly
innocent relations he urged with a warmth that was undoubtedly
genuine, which had led to the present trouble.

A couple of years ago he had met at Monte Carlo a Mrs. and Miss
Glenthorne, mother and daughter. Miss Glenthorne was a very charming
and attractive girl; the mother seemed somewhat of a nonentity and
kept herself in the background, giving pride of place to her clever
and particularly fascinating offspring.

At this point Grewgus interrupted his client.

“One moment, please. Is this Mrs. Glenthorne a stoutish woman, with a
Jewish type of countenance?”

“Yes, I should certainly say there was more than a touch of the chosen
race about her,” was the reply. “You know her, then?”

“I can hardly say as much as that, Lord Wraysbury. I have seen her
once or twice, but I have never spoken to her. The point of importance
so far as you are concerned is that I know something of her, also
something of the daughter. Tell me, does not the young lady wear on
every possible occasion a pendant of a very peculiar design, a big
sapphire set in an unusual manner?”

Again the answer was in the affirmative. The young man was naturally
greatly surprised at the detective’s display of knowledge.

“It seems I’ve come to the right place,” he remarked with an almost
boyish glee. “I infer from your manner that what you know about them
is not anything to their credit.”

Grewgus smiled with his somewhat enigmatic smile. “I think I would
rather wait till the end of your story before I say anything, if you
don’t mind. I shall interrupt you as little as possible, and when I do
it will only be for the purpose of clearing up some point that
suddenly suggests itself.”

The young nobleman proceeded with his story. The two women were
staying at one of the less expensive hotels in the place; he gathered
that the mother was a widow, and had been left an income that was
comfortable, but not large, that enabled her and her daughter to enjoy
life in a moderate and modest way. He first made their acquaintance at
the tables, where the young woman occasionally risked a few francs.
The mother never played.

Wraysbury made no secret of the fact that the girl interested him very
considerably; she was clever, bright, amusing, and also beautiful. He
was never at any moment seriously in love with her. The fact that she
was a mere casual acquaintance, of whose antecedents he knew nothing,
forbade any such happening. But in the free and easy atmosphere of
Monte Carlo the acquaintance ripened considerably. Possibly onlookers
might have considered it an obvious flirtation on both sides. All the
time he was perfectly heart-whole, and he felt pretty certain that the
young woman was in the same condition.

He took her to dinner on a few occasions, and every time the mother
was present. He bought Miss Glenthorne flowers and chocolates, nothing
of a more expensive nature, and no letters, not even the briefest
note, had ever passed between them. There had never been the slightest
attempt on his part at love-making.

His reasons for this attitude were perfectly honourable ones, as he
explained to the detective. Everybody knew that he had come into
possession of a considerable fortune, and that he was a more than
usually eligible person from a matrimonial point of view. He was too
modest to flatter himself that he had any special attractions for
women, but his money was bound to have. Miss Glenthorne appeared to
him then to be a well-conducted, modest girl, but no doubt, like the
majority of women, she was anxious to settle herself well in life.
Under such circumstances, it would have been conduct little short of
dastardly if he had led her to entertain false hopes of becoming Lady
Wraysbury.

“It was just a most agreeable acquaintance, nothing more,” concluded
the young man as he finished this portion of his story.

In due course Wraysbury left Monte Carlo, and said good-bye to the two
women. There was nothing of a sentimental nature in their parting, no
reference to further meetings in the future. He learned that they did
not visit Monte Carlo frequently, and they very seldom came to
England. He thought it extremely improbable that he would ever come
across the couple again. In due course the memory of the dark,
handsome girl faded away from his active recollections.

Then one day, as Grewgus already had learned from Lydon, he met the
young woman at the _Ritz_, after this considerable period. She was
accompanied by a smart-looking man, whom she introduced as her husband
by the fairly common name of Edwards. She pressed him warmly to call
at their house in Curzon Street, an invitation which was heartily
seconded by the husband.

“You knew nothing, of course, of this man Edwards?” queried Grewgus.

“Nothing at all. We had a rather long chat, in which he did a good
deal of the talking, and he seemed to know his way about. He spoke of
attending Ascot and Goodwood and Henley; said he had seen me at all
these places. I had certainly not seen him, should not have known him
if I had,” was Wraysbury’s answer.

“I take it, he was not at all in your world?”

“Most certainly not, but my impression of him was that he was a very
pleasant and gentlemanly fellow. Well, when we parted, I certainly
said that I would call; I could not very well hurt their feelings by a
positive refusal. But really I had no intention of going. As a single
girl, Miss Glenthorne was a most pleasant casual acquaintance, but I
did not particularly wish to mix myself up with the Curzon Street
ménage.”

“And, later on, I suppose you changed your mind?”

A slight wave of colour swept over the young man’s face at the
question. “Unfortunately, as it turned out, I did. I’m afraid I’m
rather a vacillating sort of chap, making good resolutions one minute
and breaking them the next. I don’t quite know what led me to break
them in this case. I think principally a silly sort of curiosity to
know how she would comport herself in her new rôle of married woman.
I was, to a certain extent, interested in her, but by no means unduly
fascinated. And perhaps, Mr. Grewgus, you may not believe me when I
say it, but I am not a libertine, and have no desire to run after
other men’s wives.”

Certainly, Lord Wraysbury gave the detective the impression of being a
quite honourable and clean-living young fellow. But possibly the
seductive Zillah had exercised over him a fascination which he would
not admit to himself.

So he made his first call in Curzon Street. Edwards happened to be at
home, and laid himself out to be especially agreeable to the visitor.
The wife was charming, too, but she seemed a little pensive and
_distraite_, as if she had something on her mind. Lord Wraysbury noted
that the married couple did not seem to address much of the
conversation to each other. He left the house with a distinct
impression that the pair had had a recent quarrel, or that there was
just a little rift within the lute in their married life.

He left in due course, but not before he had accepted an invitation to
dine informally with them a couple of days later. He had done his best
to get out of it, but Edwards, to whom he had rather taken a fancy,
had been so insistent that his resistance was overborne. And here
again curiosity played a large part in his decision. He could easily
have thrown them over, but he wanted to test his suspicions, to see if
all was right between this very charming woman and her equally
charming husband.

But he had not so far the least idea of the game that was being
played. Everything seemed square and above-board. There was evidently
plenty of money about; the house was run on a liberal scale. Edwards
himself was a most companionable and gentlemanly fellow. He was not
quite sure there might not be some ulterior motive in this extreme
friendliness, this insistent hospitality. But he fancied it might be a
social one. Probably they were ambitious, and wanted to climb in the
world. If they made a friend of him he might be disposed to help them
in their designs.

He went to dinner. “Quite an informal affair,” he explained to
Grewgus. “There was only one other guest, a very breezy, red-faced
man, just a trifle vulgar. His name was Stormont, and Mrs. Edwards
addressed him as uncle. I gathered he had known her from a child and
was excessively fond of her, but he was no actual relation. My
original suspicions were rather confirmed; there seemed a certain
coldness between husband and wife, veiled under the appearance of
great politeness. I couldn’t understand it. Mrs. Edwards’ conduct as a
young wife seemed to me to be quite perfect. I could not help thinking
it must be his fault.”

He went again very shortly to a second dinner. As on the previous
occasion, there was only one other guest. This time it was her real
uncle, a man named Glenthorne, a rather gloomy, taciturn fellow, whom
he judged to be altogether of a superior class to Stormont. But of the
two he preferred the adopted uncle.

He went to Curzon Street three or four times after that, once to the
big party which the pair had given as a sort of house-warming. All the
time, from various signs and symptoms, his conviction grew that Mrs.
Edwards’ life was not a happy one, in spite of her efforts to mask the
fact under an assumption of cheerfulness and high spirits.

The climax was quickly reached. On a certain day Wraysbury received a
note from her, asking if he would call that evening after eight
o’clock. She could not ask him to dinner for reasons she would explain
when she saw him. She was about to take a very important step, and,
presuming on their old acquaintance, she would like to consult him as
to the prudence of it. If he were engaged that evening, would he make
it the next, or the next after that?

“Of course, now I come to think of it, there was something suspicious
in that note,” said the young nobleman. “I ought to have told her to
write to me what she wanted to consult me about, and I would preserve
absolute silence and destroy the letter; but I’m foolishly
unsuspicious, and I went, being disengaged that night.

“To my great surprise, the door was opened by Mrs. Edwards herself.
She appeared in a state of great agitation; I thought at the time she
had been crying.

“‘Oh, Lord Wraysbury, I am in the greatest trouble,’ she said in a
distressed voice. ‘Come up to the drawing-room for just a few minutes,
so that I can tell you about it. There is no danger. My husband is in
the country and won’t be back for a week. I have sent the servants out
to the theatre, so that we might be alone. That is why I couldn’t ask
you to dinner.’”

Wraysbury did not quite like the look of things, the absence of both
husband and servants, but he was still unsuspicious. The woman played
her part so well that he attributed her rather foolish act to her
acute distress of mind. He was quite sure it was connected with her
husband, and that his suspicions of the unhappiness of their married
life were going to be confirmed by her revelations.

He went up to the drawing-room with her, resolving to get out of the
embarrassing situation as soon as he could, and she at once burst
forth into an impassioned account of her wrongs and sufferings.

According to her account, Edwards, so genial and gentlemanly in public
life, was a bully and a brute. On many occasions she had suffered
personal violence at his hands. She rolled up her sleeve and showed a
shapely arm on which appeared a big bruise which had been inflicted a
couple of days ago. She had no positive evidence of infidelity, but
she had grave suspicions of his relations with other women. On
Wraysbury remarking that it was very early in their married life for
such a thing to occur, she made a confession.

“I must tell you a little secret. We have been married for some time;
it was kept quiet for certain reasons of his own. The truth is, Lord
Wraysbury, he is tired of me. I feel I can stand it no longer. I have
made up my mind to leave him. I’m sure you can’t blame me.”

This was evidently the subject on which she had wanted his advice, and
still unsuspicious, the young man answered her question.

“But after all, Mrs. Edwards, I am not the person to whom you should
come for advice,” he had told her. “You are not without friends, who
would not feel the responsibility as I should. There is your mother,
your uncle, this man Stormont, who has the same regard for you that he
would have for his own niece. Have you spoken to them, or if you have
not, would it not be wise to do so, before taking such a serious
step?”

She had answered him with a profusion of tears that her mother was a
woman of weak character, who would make any sacrifice for the sake of
peace. She would advise her to bear her burden with as much fortitude
as she could. Both Glenthorne and Stormont would oppose her. They were
very worldly men; they would point out to her the folly of forfeiting
the advantages which her position as the wife of a rich man gave her;
they would remind her of the equivocal status of an unattached woman
who was neither maid, wife nor widow.

Suddenly she burst into a fit of passionate weeping, drew her chair
close to his and laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, please befriend me,”
she wailed. “The others will give me advice that will suit themselves.
Be my friend. Tell me what to do.”

And at this moment, the most compromising one in their interview, the
door opened, and Edwards walked into the room. Not the smiling, genial
man he had known up to the present, but another person altogether, his
eyes glaring, his face contorted with fury. He thundered at the
weeping woman to go to her room and leave him alone to deal with her
lover.

He turned to the discomfited young nobleman and spoke with an angry
snarl in his voice when she had obeyed his order.

“And what have you to say, my lord, in explanation of this vile
outrage upon an unsuspecting man?”

Wraysbury made the best defence he could, a perfectly truthful one. He
had come there in answer to a note from his wife, asking him to call
upon her in reference to a subject on which she wanted advice.

Edwards listened in stony silence. His fury had died down, but his
voice had an inflection of cutting sarcasm when he replied:

“Do you believe such a story would take in a child? You must think me
a simpleton to credit it. I had not intended to return for another
week, but the sudden illness of a friend caused me to change my
plans,” he said. “I came home, as I imagined, to the society of a
faithful wife. After I had put my key into the door, I noticed an
unnatural stillness in the house. I go down into the lower regions;
there is not a servant left in the place--they have been got out of
the way by some cunning means. I go up the stairs to the drawing-room.
As I ascend I hear the sound of voices--presently that of a woman
sobbing. I open the door and see her with her hand upon your arm. What
conclusion am I to draw from that? You have stolen her in my absence,
and the servants have been got out of the way. You can show me twenty
letters; they are a part of the game to try and avert suspicion in the
remote event of discovery.”

Wraysbury was nonplussed. To any husband the situation might have
borne the interpretation he put upon it.

Edwards spoke again in a peremptory voice. “Leave this house, Lord
Wraysbury, at once; your presence has polluted it too long. But don’t
think for a moment that, because you occupy a high position in the
world, and I am in your eyes a mere nobody, that you are going to go
scot-free. Neither shall this worthless woman whom you have dazzled
with your fine manners and your great fortune. Before long you will
hear from my solicitors.”

Wraysbury knew that argument was useless. He left Curzon Street
feeling bitterly humiliated.

And as he walked along there dawned upon him the conviction that this
was no unrehearsed scene to which he had been subjected, that there
had been a cunning plot between husband and wife to entrap him. The
woman’s tears were simulated; her story of ill-treatment was a myth.
That bruise she showed him had been purposely made to lend colour to
her story.

Two days later a letter arrived from a firm of solicitors, stating
that they were instructed by their client Mr. Edwards to bring an
action for divorce, and requesting the name of a firm who would act
for him in the matter.

He made an appointment with Mr. Shelford, but before the time arrived
for him to keep it, he had a visit from Glenthorne, whose usually
grave face looked graver than ever when he met Wraysbury.




 CHAPTER TWENTY

“A very terrible affair, Lord Wraysbury,” were his first remarks.
“Very terrible for all parties concerned. Zillah has been to me; she
is distracted. They had an awful scene after you went, and the same
evening Edwards left the house. He raved that he would not spend
another night under the same roof with her. Much as I deplore her
conduct, I could not help pitying her.”

Mr. Glenthorne seemed to make no secret of his belief in the guilt of
the parties. “Of course, she swore to me that her husband had no
ground for his suspicions, that unfortunately appearances were against
her, that she was perfectly innocent. Well, any woman in her position
would naturally say the same thing.”

“Mrs. Edwards has simply told the truth,” answered Wraysbury, speaking
with the warmth he felt. “She is innocent, and so am I.”

“Lord Wraysbury, you will understand that I should espouse my niece’s
cause if I felt I had a leg to stand upon,” said the usually taciturn
man. “In that case, I would go to her husband and force him to hear
reason. But how can I, in the face of such strong circumstantial
evidence? How would it appear to you, if I told you the same story of
somebody else? Her husband away, as she was quite sure, the servants
packed off to the theatre, she alone in the house! What would a jury
say?”

It was on the tip of the young man’s tongue to answer that he was
convinced that it was an elaborate plot, engineered by one or both and
carried out with scrupulous regard to detail. But he could not say
this very well to the woman’s uncle, at any rate till he had received
capable advice. He took refuge in silence, till suddenly what he
considered a bright idea struck him. It was his general rule to
destroy all correspondence that he considered of little importance,
and at the time he had certainly classed Mrs. Edwards’ letter under
that category. But by the merest accident he had preserved it, and he
showed it to his visitor with the observation, “If that doesn’t prove
to you my visit was an innocent one, nothing will.”

The grave-faced man read it with the closest attention, and in due
course handed it back. “This cuts both ways, my lord. You probably are
not possessed of what we call the legal mind. I am, being in the
profession of the law myself, I am a solicitor. If I were acting as
your counsel, I should urge this as an almost convincing proof of your
innocence. But how would the counsel on the other side argue? He would
say that letter was written with a purpose, as the result of an
agreement between both parties, the purpose being to avert suspicion
if, by an unforeseen accident, you were discovered together. He would
also say that if the visit were a perfectly innocent one, there would
be no necessity to get the servants out of the way. Mind you, I am
endeavouring to show you what would present itself to the legal mind.
It would give me the greatest pleasure to prove Edwards in the wrong,
but I fear that letter won’t help me.”

It might be a mere coincidence, but he was using just the same
argument that the husband had employed. Having once allowed the
suspicious side of his nature to develop itself, Wraysbury suspected
this grave-faced man.

“What is the object of this visit, Mr. Glenthorne?” he asked sharply.

“My deep concern for my niece’s welfare,” was the reply. “It is an
awful thing to contemplate a beautiful young woman’s career being
blasted almost before it has begun, as it must be if this affair comes
into court.”

“Had you not better show that letter to Edwards, and point out to him
the consequences of the step he is taking?”

Mr. Glenthorne spoke, Wraysbury thought, in a less assured tone.

“Unfortunately Edwards is a very obstinate man, a very vindictive one.
The only thing one could appeal to, perhaps, would be his cupidity. He
is very fond of money for its own sake, not because he hasn’t plenty
of his own.”

Wraysbury repressed a smile. Sharpened by his experience of recent
events, he divined that this solemn-faced, not very prepossessing
person had come as an emissary. Realizing the delicacy of his mission,
he experienced some embarrassment in coming to the point. He was now
evidently on the road to it.

“Will you speak a little more plainly, sir? I am not a very subtle
person myself. Will you tell me what is in your mind?”

And Glenthorne told him. “If this matter comes into court, Lord
Wraysbury, it will not only ruin my niece for life, it will be a very
serious thing for you, it will damage you greatly, and cause terrible
grief to your most worthy parents. I think it is worth a considerable
sacrifice, even from your own point of view, to prevent it reaching
that stage.”

The man was showing his hand very plainly now. Wraysbury, with a face
as grave as his own, led him on. “In plain English, you suggest this
injured husband, as he pretends to be, can be bought off?”

Glenthorne lowered his voice. “Between ourselves, my lord, I believe
it might be possible. As I have told you, he is a very greedy man; I
believe greed to be the predominant feature in his character. He will,
of course, go for heavy damages, and, with your well-known wealth, he
is likely to obtain them. I think it possible that, if you anticipated
those damages, as it were, made him a firm offer, he might withdraw
from the action. Of course, I cannot speak positively, but I think it
would be worth trying.”

“I could say nothing on that point until I had consulted with my own
solicitors, Shelford & Taylor. You will understand that.”

“Quite,” agreed Glenthorne. “Shelford & Taylor, a most respectable
firm, their reputation is second to none. But, although I have the
highest respect for my profession, may I suggest that, in certain
cases, lawyers are not always the best judges? I think in the present
instance the advice of a man of the world would be more helpful to
you. Of course, for all I know to the contrary, this firm may be men
of the world as well as solicitors. In that case I have very little
doubt as to how they would advise you.”

“You think they would advise me to pay hush-money to this person. And
do you happen to know at what price he values his fancied wrongs?”
asked Wraysbury in a sarcastic tone. The reply confirmed his
conviction that Glenthorne was in the plot as well, and had come for
the purpose of sounding him.

“I can give you some indication, I think. When my niece told me the
painful story, I felt it incumbent on me to do something, to use my
best endeavours to avert the impending catastrophe. Edwards is staying
at the _Cecil_, that was the address he sent to me the day after he
had left Curzon Street. I did not call upon him at once; I thought it
wiser to give him time for his anger to cool down. I used all the
arguments I could think of to dissuade him from the drastic course he
had resolved upon. I met with a very stubborn resistance, as I
expected. But my impression when I left was that he would abandon the
idea of a divorce, if a sufficient sum were offered him. In that case
he would never live with his wife again, but settle upon her a quite
decent income.”

“And what is his idea of a sufficient sum?” queried Wraysbury.

“I am sorry to say a very high one. For my own part, I thought an
amount round about fifty thousand would meet the case. He laughed at
me, and said he wouldn’t move for twice that. If two hundred thousand
were offered, he would probably consider it, nothing less.”

At this point in the interview, Wraysbury rose, controlling his
indignation with a great effort. “In an hour I am going to see
Shelford, and shall tell him what has passed between us.”

Mr. Glenthorne took the hint and prepared to depart. “If the suit goes
on, I shall act for my niece, and all communications as regards
Edwards and yourself will be conducted by your own firms. But if you
entertain the idea of the course I have suggested, it might be as well
to deal through me. Edwards is a touchy fellow, and requires a good
deal of handling. Here is my card.”

Wraysbury afterwards saw Shelford. When the whole details were
explained to him, including the tentative suggestion of Glenthorne,
whose name as a practising solicitor was unknown to him, he at once
agreed that it was a put-up job, out of which this shady practitioner
was to have his bit. They talked for a long time, and then the idea of
Grewgus occurred to Shelford. These people most probably belonged to
the underworld of which the detective had a considerable knowledge. He
advised him to see Grewgus at once, and fixed up the appointment.

“So now you have the whole story,” said the unfortunate young nobleman
when he came to the end of it. “Two alternatives face me, and only
two; either I must pay this big sum to this infamous set of swindlers,
or suffer my name to be dragged through the mire.”

“Which course does Shelford advise?” asked the detective.

“He is almost as undecided as myself. I don’t pretend that the two
hundred thousand would break me; they know that as well as I do. But
it is unspeakably humiliating to pay such a big sum for what was not
even an act of folly, rather an absence of discretion. On the other
hand, if the action goes on----”

The young man paused a moment to conquer his emotion. “You see, Mr.
Grewgus, I have a very vulnerable place and these thieves know it. I
am the only child of my parents, God-fearing, devout souls who have
lived lives unspotted from the world. If I alone were concerned,
conscious of my innocence, I would brave the shame and scandal of it.
But it would break their hearts. They would believe me, because they
know my good points as well as my bad ones, but they would know half
our world wouldn’t share their belief, and they would never hold up
their heads again.”

And then Grewgus spoke. He had great sympathy with this manly young
fellow; he had heard his voice tremble when he spoke of his mother and
father. Thoughtless and careless perhaps, like many young men of his
age, but a loyal and affectionate son.

“I don’t want to send you away from this office in a too optimistic
frame of mind; I cannot absolutely promise to get you out of the
clutch of these cunning blackmailers, but I’m going to have a devilish
good try. It is a most fortunate thing that Shelford has sent you to
me, instead of to one of my confrères, for it happens that through my
investigations on behalf of another client I know a great deal about
all these people which they would be very sorry to have come to light.
I think--mind you, I cannot be sure--that what I know will be
sufficient to deter them from going any further. Leave it to me. I
will arrange with Shelford to allow me to act upon your behalf. When I
have got that formal permission, I will see this man Edwards, and
throw my bombshell into his camp.”

Lord Wraysbury was delighted with the turn of events. “But this is
simply wonderful,” he cried. “Do you know something of every one of
them?”

Grewgus was delighted too, to such an extent that he relaxed his
habitual reticence. “Not so much about Edwards, except one very
damaging thing, but a good deal about Stormont, Mrs. Edwards, even the
smooth-tongued Glenthorne, who, of course, paid you that visit in the
interests of his pals. Well, good day, Lord Wraysbury. I shall lose no
time, I assure you. I expect to fire my bombshell to-morrow, and after
the interview I shall at once let you know what I expect the result
will be.”

The young nobleman departed in much better spirits than he had
entered. Being a very generous fellow, he resolved that if Grewgus did
extricate him from his unpleasant position, he should receive a fee
that would astonish him.

Having conferred with Mr. Shelford over the ’phone, the detective sent
a note to the _Hotel Cecil_ addressed to Edwards, in which he told
that person he was acting on behalf of Lord Wraysbury in a certain
matter and begged the favour of an appointment.

The boy who took the letter was to wait for an answer, if Edwards was
in. He returned with it.


 “Dear Sir,” wrote the _débonnaire_ person who belonged to so many
 respectable clubs,--“In reply to yours, I beg to say that I shall be
 at your disposal any time between eleven and twelve to-morrow. Yours
 faithfully, Bertram Edwards.”


The detective smiled grimly as he wondered if this elegant crook had
any idea of what was in store for him. Hardly. He probably conjectured
that the detective was paying him a visit for the purpose of beating
him down.

Before he went to the _Cecil_, he paid a flying visit to Lydon at his
office and told him what had passed between himself and Wraysbury on
the previous day. He had no hesitation in doing this, as it had been
agreed that he should watch what was going on at Curzon Street on
Lydon’s behalf.

It was, of course, what they had expected from the day when the young
nobleman had attended Mrs. Edwards’ reception.

“I’m glad we have got confirmation,” remarked the detective. “But I do
wish we could have directly implicated Stormont in it, that he had,
for instance, taken the rôle in it played by Glenthorne, alias
Whitehouse.”

“We can guess he was at the back of it anyhow,” continued Grewgus.
“Rather amusing his being at that first dinner. I expect he couldn’t
resist the pleasure of hobnobbing with such a distinguished person as
Wraysbury. But I think we have got enough against Stormont now, with
the help of our venal friend Newcombe. He has kept himself pretty well
in the background in this affair, but we have sufficient proof that he
is the friend of blackmailers. And a man is known by the company he
keeps.”

“Quite true. Well, now that I know this, I shall tell Jasper Stormont
at the earliest opportunity. I am staying with him at Brighton. I
haven’t told you before, but I may as well tell you now, I am engaged
to Jasper’s daughter. He is a bank official in China and she has been
living with her uncle since she was a child. She is now with her
parents at Brighton, and she must never return to the criminal
atmosphere of Effington.”

Grewgus had learned the fact of the engagement from Newcombe, but he
affected to hear it for the first time. He fully concurred in the
young man’s determination that she should not return to Effington.

Later on, he was shown into a private sitting-room where he found Mr.
Bertram Edwards, looking as smart and gentlemanly as ever. He could
not help thinking that this elegant young crook, with his charming
manners, must be a great asset to the gang. If he did not move in the
most select circles like Wraysbury, it was evident, from what Lydon
had told him of the Curzon Street party, that he had a foothold in
quite respectable society.

“You have come about this wretched Wraysbury matter, I understand?” he
said in his pleasant, urbane tones.

The detective intimated that this was the object of his visit.

“And have you anything to propose, Mr. Grewgus?”

“My client, Lord Wraysbury, has received a sort of unofficial
intimation from a man named Glenthorne, who claims to be the lady’s
uncle, that if the sum of two hundred thousand pounds is paid to you,
you will abandon proceedings. I beg to tell you, Mr. Edwards, I shall
advise his lordship not to pay you a single farthing.”

Edwards tried to assume an expression of indifference, but it was easy
to see he was taken aback by this blunt declaration.

“In that case, sir, the action will proceed, and I shall go for heavy
damages. I am not going to permit a young sprig of the nobility to
violate the sanctity of my home, without making him smart for it in
the only place where he can feel it--in his pocket.”

Grewgus bent upon the dandified man his very penetrating and
expressive glance. “This is a business interview, Mr. Edwards, and
there is no necessity for heroics. You know as well as I do that Lord
Wraysbury is quite innocent of any desire to violate the sanctity of
your home, or, for the matter of that, the home of anybody. He’s not
that sort of man. Let me warn you that if you do proceed with this
action, it is at your own peril and that of the lady who bears your
name.”

“My own peril! What the devil do you mean?” blustered Edwards. But, in
spite of his assumed bravado, Grewgus saw an unhealthy pallor creeping
over his usually high-coloured cheek.

Again that penetrating gaze, that distinct and deliberate utterance:
“I don’t know very much about you at present, Mr. Edwards; I have no
doubt I shall add something more to my knowledge shortly. One little
thing I do know, that you were in Paris a short time before the
discovery of the dead body of Léon Calliard in the river Meuse. And
that every day you were meeting the woman who is now Mrs. Edwards in
the outskirts of the city.”

He paused, expecting a bold-faced disclaimer. But it did not come. For
the moment, the man was stricken dumb.

“Of the woman now calling herself your wife, I know a great deal more,
under her different names of Elise Makris, Zillah Mayhew, Miss
Glenthorne. I also know a fair amount about your friend Stormont. And
the same applies to another friend of yours, Glenthorne, otherwise
John Whitehouse. Have I said enough?”

Still there was no reply; the man could not find speech, and he had
aged in those few seconds.

“Please understand me once and for all. If, in a reckless moment, you
persist in this baseless charge against my client and your wife, who
is your accomplice in the matter, I go to Scotland Yard and give my
information, which, as I have told you, is rather extensive.”

Edwards rose to his feet and pointed with a shaking hand to the door.

“Leave the room, you wretched spy. Tell your client the action will
proceed,” he shouted with a last attempt at bravado.

Grewgus laughed derisively, and flung at him a Parthian shot as he
left.

“Don’t forget when you reckon up the pros and cons that the Paris
police are still investigating the case of Léon Calliard, the
murdered jeweller.”

As he walked along the Strand, Grewgus felt very satisfied with
himself. In spite of Edwards’ bluff, he felt sure that he had won the
day.

And presently a man brushed past him as he was within a few yards of
Charing Cross Station, walking at a rapid pace; it was the man he had
just left.

As he hastily crossed the road at Villiers Street, Grewgus had a
sudden idea that he was going to the telegraph office to dispatch a
wire. He could have sent it from the _Cecil_, of course, but no doubt
he had good reasons for not doing so.

Grewgus was a past-master in the art of shadowing. Behind the hurrying
man came the tall, thin form of the detective. And over his shoulder,
as he wrote the message, Grewgus read the words: “Stormont, Effington,
Surrey. It must be dropped. See me to-morrow without fail--Edwards.”

After reading it, Grewgus crept stealthily away, and was in the street
again, while Edwards, unconscious that he had been watched, was
presenting the telegram at the counter.

Circumstantial evidence, it is true, but of the very strongest
character. What did that wire mean? One thing, and one thing only.
Edwards had been so thoroughly frightened that he was afraid to go on
with the Wraysbury affair, had advised his friend Stormont of the
necessity of dropping it, and urged him to see him to-morrow to tell
him what had happened. It was convincing proof that Stormont was in
the plot.




 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was a couple of days before Lydon found an opportunity of
breaking to Jasper Stormont the painful news about his brother. In the
meantime he had received from Grewgus an account of the interview at
the _Cecil_, and the dispatch of the telegram to Effington.

On his return to Brighton in the late afternoon, he was fortunate
enough to find his future father-in-law sitting alone in the lounge;
Gloria and her mother were out shopping.

There was a somewhat worried expression on the banker’s face. “Had a
letter from Howard by the last post in,” he explained. “It looks to me
as if he were within measurable distance of the end we have foreseen
and predicted. He writes that the big _coup_ on which he was engaged
has unexpectedly fallen through, and this places him in a most awkward
predicament for the immediate future. He has made up his mind that he
must give up Effington, reluctant as he is to part from a place to
which he has become so attached. He adds, what I suppose we both
suspected, that it is heavily mortgaged, and that when a sale is
effected, there will be very little left for him. He has already
apprised my sister of the alteration in his fortunes, and begs me to
break it gently to Gloria. Somewhat to my surprise, he has made no
request for money. I suppose he finds the future so dark, that any
little help I could give him would be useless, and that he must make a
drastic change in his mode of life. I must own candidly, my sympathy
would be keener if his own insensate folly were not the cause of the
disaster.”

Here was a splendid opportunity, thought Lydon. The big _coup_ on
which Stormont was engaged, which was to repair his tottering
fortunes, had failed to come off. It was easy to guess what the _coup_
was--the extraction of that immense sum of money from young Wraysbury.
The abandonment of the prospect which had been nipped in the bud by
the visit of Grewgus to the _Hotel Cecil_ had brought him to the
ground.

“There is something I have to say to you about your brother, Mr.
Stormont, something which I am sure will give you the greatest pain,
but which it is right you should hear. But this is too public a place,
and the ladies may return at any minute. Do you mind coming up to my
room?”

Wondering and uneasy, the banker went with him upstairs. When they
were seated, the young man told him all the details with which the
reader is acquainted. Jasper Stormont listened with a set and rigid
face, as Lydon explained to him how his suspicions had first taken
definite shape on the arrival on the scene of Zillah Mayhew, whom he
had at once associated, from the two facts of the scar and the
sapphire pendant, with Elise Makris; of his engagement of Grewgus to
follow up the clues and the various discoveries of that zealous
detective, down to the latest episode in connection with Wraysbury,
and the despatch of the wire from Edwards to Howard Stormont, which
clearly involved the owner of Effington Hall in the dastardly plot.

“If I have not explained it as lucidly as I might have done,” were the
concluding words of the long recital, “I can take you to Grewgus, if
you wish it, and he will, I am sure, give you a much more coherent
account than I have been able to do.”

Jasper Stormont lifted his haggard face: “There is no necessity,
Leonard. You would not say these things if they were not true, and I
can quite understand how, even before the advent of this woman,
Howard’s unnatural reticence about his business affairs had created in
you a feeling of uneasiness. I had that same feeling myself.”

Lydon drew a deep breath: “Ah, the same thing struck you, then?”

“Yes, I was suspicious, but very far from guessing the ghastly truth.
I came to the conclusion that my brother had spoken truly when he said
he was a financier, but he was not engaged in the highest walks of his
profession. I guessed he was concerned with enterprises which men of
strict integrity would describe as shady, but that in pursuing them he
kept well within the compass of the law. That he bore to a financier
of high repute much the same sort of relation that a blood-sucking
moneylender bears to a reputable banker.”

There was a long pause before Jasper Stormont spoke again. “And now I
must tell you something that would never have passed my lips but for
what you have told me, and which proves that moral turpitude was
engrained in the man from his early years. You know that he went to
Australia? Do you know why he went?”

Yes, Lydon did. He had refrained from telling Jasper a certain portion
of the revelations made by the Colonial, Tom Newcombe, from a feeling
of delicacy. His reply was that he knew he had got into some trouble
about money, but was not aware of the precise nature of it.

“Well, I will tell you. My father, who, although poorly blessed with
the world’s goods, was a man of the strictest rectitude, and highly
respected by all who knew him, procured him a post in a most
respectable firm where, unfortunately, he had the handling of money.
You can guess the sequel. To gratify his always extravagant tastes, of
which Effington Hall is an illustration, he diverted several sums to
his own use, displaying in their appropriation a remarkable ingenuity
and cunning. When his defalcations came to light, the firm sent for my
father. But for the respect in which they held him they would have
prosecuted his son. My father and I between us--I had not very much
money then--paid back the sum abstracted. We saved him from
prosecution, on the condition that he should go out to Australia.”

“Did Mrs. Barnard know of this?” asked Lydon. He had never yet been
able to make up his mind whether this self-contained, rather silent
woman knew anything of her brother’s actual pursuits. Jasper
Stormont’s next words solved the problem.

“Not a word. She had been recently married, and lived with her husband
at a considerable distance. It was easy to keep the affair from her. I
may say, in passing, that she is as honest as Howard is the reverse.

“He went to Australia, keeping up a fairly regular correspondence with
his father, in which he made out that he had seen the wickedness of
his ways, and was in honest employment. Of course, at that distance,
we had no means of testing his assertions. He and I had never been
particularly good friends, and his proved dishonesty had snapped the
frail bond between us. We never wrote to each other for years.

“And then one day the long silence was broken. I married and went out
to China, where I had secured a good post. Our parents had died before
he returned to England. The little money my father had accumulated out
of a continuous struggle with fortune was left to my sister, as being
most in need of it. One day I received a long letter from Howard in
which he told me that, having made a little money in Australia, he had
determined to come back to the old country, and see what he could do
with the small capital he had saved. He had gone in for finance, of
course in a very modest way, and he had no reason to complain of his
success.

“It is perhaps not greatly to my credit when I tell you that I am very
hard against evil-doers, offenders against the moral law. I had not
forgiven that early transgression, and I would have preferred not to
renew relations with my brother. But I reflected that such sentiments
were unchristian, and if the man was now walking in the straight path,
it was not for me to withhold the hand of fellowship. I answered the
letter, and from that day we corresponded more or less regularly.

“As that correspondence proceeded, it was apparent that he was
prospering greatly. I was not surprised at that, for he had plenty of
brains, and if he chose to employ them in a right direction, I saw no
reason why he should not succeed. Mrs. Barnard’s husband had died,
leaving her a small annuity which, joined to what my father had
bequeathed her, formed a modest competence. Howard had pressed her to
make her home with him, as he was a bachelor. He would not accept a
penny from her towards the housekeeping; her own small income she was
to look upon as pin-money.”

At this point in the history of his renewed relations with his
brother, Jasper Stormont confessed that Howard’s generous treatment of
his sister had strongly impressed him in his favour. It was more than
probable that that early lesson had sunk into his soul, and he had
really undergone a process of complete moral regeneration.

And then had come the request to adopt Gloria, and make her welfare
one of the principal objects of his life. That further established him
in the good graces of a brother who was disposed to be critical.
Criminal as he had been, there were some good instincts in him, and
these he had displayed to the full in the case of these two members of
his family.

“It will be a terrible shock to Gloria when she is told, as told she
must be,” said the banker. “She is a shrewd girl and you can see she
has a sort of pitying contempt for some of his weaknesses, his
extravagance, his vulgar love of ostentation. But she realizes he has
shown unexampled kindness to her; if she could be spoiled, he has done
his best to spoil her. I wish I could spare her sensitive nature the
shock, but that cannot be. She must never go back to that man’s roof.
So far as my influence goes, she must hold no further communication
with him. The money he has spent on her during these several years I
shall refund to him. As I doubt if he will be in a position to dictate
terms, I may make it a condition that he shall cut away from his evil
associates. Heaven knows if he would keep such a promise. I fear the
spirit of evil is too strong in his crooked nature.”

For some little time the banker sat in agitated meditation. Then he
suddenly roused himself from his painful thoughts and spoke again. “I
feel as if my own small world had tumbled about my ears, Leonard; you
will understand that. There is one thing we have got to face first and
foremost as a consequence of this hideous discovery. Gloria cannot
become your wife.”

The young man looked at him in astonishment. “But, my dear Mr.
Stormont, in the name of justice, why? Do you think me such a cur as
to visit the crimes of her relative upon a pure and innocent girl?
Gloria has promised herself to me. Depend upon it I shall exact that
promise.”

But Jasper Stormont could be a very obstinate man when he chose, and
he held very rigid views of what was right and what was wrong. “No
child of mine shall carry her tainted name into an honourable family,”
he said firmly. “And you cannot get away from it that he has
communicated a taint to the whole of his kindred. Besides, how do we
know what is going to be the end of it? How can we be sure that, long
as he has succeeded in evading justice, it will not overtake him one
of these fine days. Even if I could succeed in persuading him to lead
an honest life for the future, how can we guarantee the past? You say
the Paris police have not yet given up their researches into the
mystery of the jeweller’s death. At any moment something may come to
light in that direction. No, my dear boy, I appreciate your nobility
of choice, but Gloria must give you your freedom. If she is her
father’s daughter, I think she will take the same view as I do.”

Lydon was not so sure. In his own mind, he thought that love would
prevail. For a long time they wrangled over the point, the decision
being finally reached that Gloria should act exactly as her feelings
prompted her. Her father would state his views, but he would not use
his influence over her to adopt them.

It was natural they should still talk further over the subject,
painful as the discussion was to both.

“That _coup_ he pretended to be the outcome of some financial
speculation was clearly the mulcting of this young simpleton of that
tremendous sum,” remarked the banker presently. “The fact that it had
fallen through as soon as he received that telegram from his
accomplice proves that. And yet I do not see, if it had come off, that
it would have made his position as sure as he told me. I do not know
in what proportion these miscreants divide their villainous gains.
There were certainly four of them in it, Howard, his friend
Whitehouse, and the husband and wife, to say nothing of the gang who
I suppose have an over-riding percentage on everything. Even if Howard
got a quarter of the amount, the interest on that would not keep a
place like Effington Hall going.”

Lydon smiled ironically. “Would a man of your brother’s temperament
bother about such things as investments and interest? If he received
that sum, he would simply draw on it as long as it lasted, trusting to
further luck to replenish his waning store.”

“Horrible idea,” said the banker with a shudder. “But I think you have
seen more clearly than I did, Leonard. To me, the idea of a man living
on his capital is unthinkable. Well, I shall make these awful
disclosures to Gloria after dinner; she shall have a little more
peace, poor child. And, later on, you and she shall have a
heart-to-heart talk.”

That talk took place later on in the evening, when the young couple
went for a stroll. At first Gloria, tearful and agitated, took her
father’s view. It was impossible she could intrude herself into his
life, with such a ghastly secret in the background, a secret that in
all probability could not be kept indefinitely in the background. It
would break her heart to part with him, but, for his own sake, she
must insist upon giving him back his freedom. If he was angry with her
now, he would be grateful in the future. So she pleaded amidst her
plentiful tears.

But by degrees he wore down her resolution, dictated by the judgment,
not the heart. If Howard Stormont’s past should ever be revealed to an
astonished world, he would help her with all his might to live the
hateful thing down. When they returned to the hotel, he had proved the
victor, and announced the result to Jasper, who, loyal to his promise,
acquiesced, if he found it impossible to approve.

“I shall come up to London in the morning with you,” he said to the
young man, “and ascertain on the ’phone what are Howard’s movements. I
should say that, as his _coup_ has failed, he will be bewailing his
ill-fortune at Effington. He will hardly have the heart to resume his
usual habits for a few days.”

And so it proved. Mrs. Barnard, who answered the ’phone call,
explained that her brother was rather out of sorts, and Jasper would
find him at Effington at almost any hour of the day. If he went out,
it would only be for a stroll in the grounds or to the village.

Jasper Stormont went down after luncheon; he had not committed himself
to any particular time. To one thing he had firmly made up his mind;
he would not take another meal at Effington Hall, in the society of
the man he had the misfortune to call brother. He took a taxi at the
station and drove in due course through the big gates of the stately
mansion, which he devoutly hoped he was entering for the last time.

The owner was out, the new butler informed him, but was expected back
shortly. Mrs. Barnard was in.

She was pleased to see her brother. “But why couldn’t you come to
luncheon?” she asked him. “Surely you are going to dine and stop the
night?”

She had received him in her own little boudoir, in which she wrote so
many letters. “This may be the last time I shall see you here,” she
remarked, not without symptoms of emotion. “Howard told me he had
written to you about his misfortunes. For a long time I have feared
this would be the end of his reckless extravagance. Well, it has come,
and the only thing to do is to face it as well as one can. Thank
Heaven, it won’t affect dear Gloria very much personally, but I am
sure she is terribly grieved for us.”

Jasper Stormont was a lovable enough man in many ways, but the sight
of Effington, with its pretence of wealth, had made him feel very
hard. Still, he could not show hardness to this poor woman who had
lived for so long in a fool’s paradise.

“She feels intense pity for _you_,” he said, laying a strong emphasis
on the pronoun.

Mrs. Barnard looked wonderingly at him, and a flush dyed her face.
“What does that mean? Has she no pity for poor Howard, who gratified
her every whim, and spoiled her from the day she entered the house? I
will not believe it of her. He has been weak, but not criminal,
Jasper.”

And then Jasper raised his voice in righteous wrath. “My poor sister,
you little knew, I have only known for the last few hours, that this
brother of ours has been leading a double life. He is one of the
biggest criminals that ever walked the face of the earth.”

Mrs. Barnard’s face froze into a look of horror. If any other man had
spoken those awful words, she would have told him he lied. But she
knew Jasper’s character too well. He would not have made such a charge
if it were not true.

As briefly as possible he told her what he knew, through that chance
opening of the letter to Zillah Mayhew by Lydon. The unhappy woman
burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

“Jasper, you must take me away with you when you leave,” she said when
she had recovered herself a little. “I could not stay another night
under the roof after what you have told me. The associate of thieves,
blackmailers, a potential murderer himself. It is like some hideous
nightmare.”

And at that moment Howard Stormont walked into the room, with a smile
of welcome on his harassed countenance. Perhaps he thought his brother
had come to help him in his financial difficulties.

But as he took in the scene, the still weeping woman, Jasper standing
beside her with a hard and inflexible look upon his face, he knew that
the visit portended nothing of the kind.

He looked from one to the other and his own face grew paler as he
noted his sister’s averted countenance.

“What the devil does all this mean? And you, Jasper, why do you refuse
to take my hand?” he cried in a harsh voice that showed traces of
fear.

At a sign from her brother, Mrs. Barnard withdrew, and the two men
were left alone--Jasper stern, rigid; Howard with terrible forebodings
in his guilty soul.




 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Howard was the first to break the strained silence; he spoke in a
toneless voice. “I Suppose you will presently tell me what all this
means, the reason of this extraordinary attitude. I suppose you have
been talking over the state of affairs with Maud, and are angry with
me for having made such a muddle of things. You will stay to dinner,
of course?”

Swiftly came the reply: “If I would not take your hand, is it likely I
would accept your hospitality? I hope never to see you, nor set foot
in this house of evil, again. Howard Stormont, I know you for what you
are; I know the double life you have been leading since you left
England and since you returned to it. I know you to be the associate
of criminals, yourself not the least criminal amongst them.”

The face of the detected crook went livid: “We can’t talk here,” he
said hoarsely. “Come down to my room and let us have it out.”

They went into the handsomely furnished study. As soon as they got
there, he opened the door of a small sideboard, from which he
extracted a bottle of uncorked brandy. He filled a tumbler half full
of the raw spirit and gulped it down. For the moment, the potent
draught steadied his nerves, and he sank into a chair, and looked with
a certain amount of hardihood at his brother.

“Now let me hear what you do know, or think you know.” He had made no
attempt to repel Jasper’s charge. He knew the man’s cautious character
too well to think he would speak as he had done, except on evidence
that was satisfactory and convincing.

“I know of your association with the woman known at present as Mrs.
Edwards, who has gone under the different names of Elise Makris,
Zillah Mayhew, Zillah Glenthorne, the woman who was connected with the
tragedy at Nice in which poor Hugh Craig figured, the woman you
dispatched to Paris along with the man Edwards to carry out your
designs against the rich jeweller Calliard, who was robbed and
murdered.”

Howard Stormont interrupted in a choking voice. He knew it was useless
to protest innocence. “Murder was never intended. The fool who carried
out the job exceeded his instructions.”

“Do you think I should believe a word you said?” was Jasper’s scornful
comment. “Lying, even perjury, would be a venial offence in the eyes
of one so steeped in crime. But even if the murder of Calliard cannot
be laid directly at your door, what have you to say to your own
attempt on the life of your old Australian associate, Newcombe, the
man whom you feared for his knowledge of your past?”

“I made no attempt upon his life,” was the dogged reply. “I only
wanted to give the drunken fool a fright.”

“A miserable lie,” said Jasper sternly. “You miscalculated the dose of
your devilish poison, or the man would be dead now. For some days he
hung between life and death. And I also know that you were concerned
in this last dastardly attempt to extort money from young Wraysbury,
with the help of the two confederates who had carried out your schemes
in Paris.”

Stormont rose and helped himself to another dose of brandy. “And how
did you find all this out?” he asked presently.

“That is my business,” was the curt answer.

It was some time before the wretched man spoke again. “I think I can
guess how the information came. That young Lydon had his suspicions
from the day he met Zillah here, and put a detective on our track. My
sister told me she had given him some letters to post which I had
forgotten to take with me; one of them was to her. He opened it and
what he read gave him the clue, and he set this fellow Grewgus to
work. But what beats me is how he suspected Zillah; he had never seen
her. When he and Craig were at Nice, she took good care to keep out of
his way.”

Jasper did not enlighten his brother on this point, and presently
Howard put to him, point-blank, the question: “And now that you know
all this, what are you and this precious young Lydon going to do? Do
you intend to play the part of virtuous citizens and denounce me to
the police?”

“We ought to do it, if we performed our duty,” said Jasper coldly.
“But I have a proposition to make to you. Your letter shows me that
you are broke to the world. Your interview with your confederate
Edwards, after Grewgus had foiled his plot against Wraysbury, must
have convinced you that a continuance of this criminal life is fraught
with peril; that at any moment Nemesis may overtake you.”

Stormont looked up sharply, “How did you know that I had an interview
with Edwards?” he asked, in evident surprise.

But Jasper declined to enlighten him. “Again I repeat, that is my
business. This precious young Lydon, as you call him, has behaved like
the honourable Englishman he is. I told him emphatically that he must
give up Gloria, that he must not connect himself with a family that
had this black stain upon its records. Gloria took the same view, and
insisted upon releasing him, although she told me that to do so would
break her heart.”

For the first time in their interview, the hardened criminal showed an
overwhelming sense of shame. “Poor Gloria!” he muttered in a broken
voice. “Poor Gloria! It is indeed hard upon her. And Lydon would not
accept his dismissal. Well, I will admit he is a noble fellow.”

“I am glad you do him that justice. Well, my proposition is this. It
is horrible to me to think that my innocent and unsuspecting child has
lived all these years upon the proceeds of infamy. The money you have
expended upon her for something like fourteen years I will restore to
you on the condition that you abandon this life, and break away for
ever from your criminal associates. Even then, there is not absolute
safety. At any moment the past may yield up its secrets, and all the
world may know you for what you are.”

Howard Stormont kept silence. His active brain was no doubt weighing
the advantages and disadvantages of his brother’s suggestion.

“As I shall be very liberal in my estimate of what she cost you,”
continued Jasper; “you could exist upon the interest of the capital
sum I should hand over to you. But you are not without brains, and you
might use that money to embark in some honest business.”

“It is a very generous offer,” Howard said at length. “And I am very
disposed to accept It without further reflection. Still, I would like
to go into matters a little closer first. I admit your visit here
to-day has taken the courage out of me. You will laugh at me, I
suppose, and consider it a further proof of my hypocrisy when I say
that I would prefer not to live upon your bounty. But I should like to
reckon up what I am likely to get out of the sale of Effington, when
the mortgages have been paid off.”

“It is not a question of bounty; it is an act of reparation to my own
conscience,” said Jasper hastily. “I would prefer to return the money
to its rightful owners, if I could find them. But that is impossible.
If you refuse to accept this sum, I shall devote it to charity, so as
to make some sort of amends.”

“Give me till to-morrow, and I will let you know definitely. I presume
you have told Maud?”

“Certainly,” answered Jasper. “She is as much horrified as I was when
I learned the horrible truth. She is coming back with me.”

A ghastly smile spread over Stormont’s white face. “It is what one
might expect. Rats always leave the sinking ship, don’t they?”

Jasper made no reply to this cynical remark, which showed the
naturally hard and callous nature of the man. He moved towards the
door with a few last words. “I must have your decision not later than
the time you have stated.”

He went out into the hall and summoned a servant to find Mrs. Barnard
and ask her to come to him in her boudoir. He had kept the taxi
waiting. As soon as she was ready, they could quit this house of evil
where the owner of it had plotted and thought out his criminal
schemes.

She came to him ready dressed for her journey. She was taking with her
a couple of small trunks; the rest of her belongings, which had all
been bought with her own money, could be sent after her. Jasper
explained that he was taking her down to Brighton, where she could
make a long stay till she had made her plans for the future. Together
they went down into the hall.

And suddenly, in a burst of womanly feeling, she whispered to her
brother, “Vile as he is, I cannot leave him without a word.”

She turned, and walking swiftly to the study, opened the door and
entered. Howard was sitting huddled up in his chair, looking a ghastly
object of misery and despair. She laid her hand lightly on his arm for
an instant. “God forgive you, Howard, and turn your heart before it is
too late.”

His dry lips muttered a faint “Good-bye,” and she turned from him and
rejoined Jasper.

They got back to Brighton in the evening, and in the private
sitting-room the banker explained to Lydon and his family what had
passed between the two men in that final visit to Effington. Leonard
was rejoiced that Mrs. Barnard had come back with her brother. He had
never quite been able to make up his mind about her, whether or not
she was in Howard’s confidence; but her action showed that, like her
niece, she had never guessed his guilty secret.

The next morning, Jasper Stormont, according to his usual custom, went
for a stroll before breakfast, and on his return to the hotel found a
telegram awaiting him. It was from the butler at Effington Hall and
informed him that his brother had committed suicide early that
morning. He had thought he would never set foot in Effington again,
but in the face of such news he must go there at once.

When he reached the house, the butler gave him the details. On
entering the study, one of the housemaids discovered her master lying
dead in his easy-chair, a bottle of brandy standing beside his elbow,
an empty pistol lying on the floor to which it had dropped after he
had shot himself. He had been dead some few hours, the doctor said,
when she had found him. At the time of his suicide, for the
perpetration of which he had fortified himself with large doses of
alcohol, the household was fast asleep, and nobody had heard the shot.
Jasper could only conclude that the wretched man had come to the
conclusion life was played out for him, and had nerved himself to make
his exit from the world on which he had preyed for so long.

He had been careful to preserve appearances. He had written an open
letter lying on the table in which he stated that utter financial ruin
had come upon him, and that at his age he lacked the courage to begin
the battle of life over again. He gave the address of his brother at
Brighton, and requested that he should be communicated with at once.

There was a good deal of sympathy in the neighbourhood, where his
benefactions and lavish hospitality had made him popular. The inquest
was held in due course, and the usual compassionate verdict recorded.
When Howard Stormont was laid to rest nobody guessed that the body of
an arch-criminal was being committed to the earth. Jasper Stormont’s
visit was explained on the grounds that he had come to take his sister
for a long stay at Brighton.

So the future was secure. A sum was offered for Effington Hall which,
after payment of the various charges and debts, left over a balance of
about a couple of thousand pounds. Stormont had left no will, and his
property therefore devolved upon his next of kin. But as none of them
would touch a farthing, Jasper made a donation of the money to a
necessitous hospital.

It was a great relief to Jasper and his sister that he had solved the
problem of the future in the way he had, before the old instincts came
to life again and led him to the commission of further crime. But
tender-hearted Gloria sometimes shed tears when she remembered the
numerous acts of kindness to her, proving that even the basest of men
can possess some good qualities.

Lord Wraysbury heard nothing further from Edwards’ solicitors. Grewgus
had settled that little matter, and for doing so he received a very
handsome cheque from the grateful young nobleman. The house and
furniture in Curzon Street were up for sale. Neither Edwards nor his
wife was any longer in residence there. Grewgus chuckled as he thought
this frustrated scheme must have cost the gang a pretty sum.

Glenthorne had also suddenly left Ashstead Mansions, and abandoned his
solicitor’s practice. That interview of Grewgus with Edwards and the
suicide of Stormont seemed to have produced far-reaching consequences.
Edwards had disappeared and was not heard of at any of his usual
haunts, and the dark, handsome Zillah had vanished as suddenly as her
uncle. It looked like a wholesale dispersal of that portion of the
gang.

Lydon and Grewgus settled up accounts. The detective informed his
client that the Paris police had given up the case of Léon Calliard,
after following several delusive clues. There was now practically no
chance that the details of the unfortunate man’s murder would ever be
known, unless he communicated the information he had acquired about
Edwards and Zillah. Even then, it would be almost impossible to
connect them with the affair.

But of course Lydon strongly discountenanced such a step. One could
not take it without bringing Howard Stormont into the matter; it would
also involve Jasper, who would have to testify that his brother had
practically admitted his participation in it.

“Best to let sleeping dogs lie, for the sake of the family,” said the
young man. “If one did discover the actual murderer, it would not
bring the unfortunate Calliard to life, and it would inflict the
greatest pain upon innocent people.”

Grewgus agreed, rather reluctantly. He had the true instincts of the
sleuth-hound; he loved to hunt his quarry down. He would dearly have
liked to go to Scotland Yard, but he was bound to respect his client’s
wishes on the subject. All the same, he felt it was a tame sort of
inquiry which had not resulted in a triumphant finish. As a
consequence of it, Stormont had been driven to suicide, and the other
persons concerned had found it expedient to lie low for a while. But
for him, there was no public kudos in it.

On the same day on which he squared up accounts with Lydon he came
face to face in the Strand with his old friend Tom Newcombe. The
gentleman’s appearance had altered very much. He had discarded his
beard and moustache, and a less keen eye than the detective’s might
have failed to recognize him. But Grewgus had a wonderful memory for
faces, and it required a very clever disguise to baffle him. They
exchanged greetings.

“Hardly knew me, did you?” inquired the Colonial. “You see, I
clean-shaved myself directly after we had settled matters. I got out
of that house as soon as I could, but I was mortally afraid I might
run across Stormont, and he might get me into his clutches again.
Well, it’s all right now, he has passed in his checks. I can tell you
it was a relief when I saw it in the papers. I thought, as I read it,
that you might have had something to do with it.”

“Perhaps I had, in a very indirect fashion,” was the cautious answer.

“Well, he’s gone to where he wanted to send me. Gad, that man did make
me see red when I thought of his attempt to put me out of the way.
Many a time I’ve half made up my mind to sneak down to Effington and
plug him if I got the chance. But a bit of prudence stepped in,
fortunately. It wasn’t worth swinging for a fellow like that. And so
he came to a bad end, after all. It makes one think a bit, mister, it
does.”

“It makes you think a bit, eh?” repeated the detective. “And what turn
do your thoughts take? The wages of sin is death, or something of that
sort?”

“You’ve hit it,” said the Colonial, speaking with great seriousness.
“I told you my mother was a good woman; she did her best to bring me
up religious, but my father always scoffed at her for her pains. How
many times have I heard her use that very phrase; it has always stuck
in my memory. I thought of her a goodish bit when I was struggling
back to life. I began to feel quite sick of the past, and all the evil
I had done. But you know, mister, when you’ve once got into the
crooked life, it’s precious hard to get out of it. But now I’ve got
that bit of money, I’ve made up my mind to go straight.”

“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” said Grewgus heartily.

“Most crooks come to a bad end. Stormont, who was clever and cunning
as the devil, took his life at the finish, and most of ’em overreach
themselves and get into quod. So I’m making a fresh start. Till I read
that in the papers, I was going out to Canada, for fear of Stormont.
But now he’s out of the way, I shall stick in the old country. I shall
buy a snug little business, a tobacconist’s by preference. Gosh, it
will be pleasant to pass a policeman without fearing he’s going to lay
his hand on you.”

They chatted for a little time longer, and at parting Grewgus offered
Newcombe his hand, which the Colonial shook heartily. Since he had now
resolved to lead an honest life, the detective felt he was justified
in showing him this mark of esteem.

He got back to his office about four o’clock and busied himself with
his correspondence. In the midst of it, a clerk entered and said that
a lady wished to speak with him for a few minutes, but would not give
her name.

Rather impatiently, for he was very occupied with his letters, he
ordered the visitor to be shown in.

What was his astonishment when the mysterious lady entered, and he
recognized in the dark, handsome young woman who had refused to give
her name, Elise Makris, otherwise Mrs. Edwards.




 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The handsome young woman addressed the detective with the charm of
manner that had no doubt beguiled so many men, notably Hugh Craig and
the susceptible Léon Calliard.

“I take it from what you told my husband, Bertram Edwards, that you
are acquainted with me--at any rate, my appearance. I suppose, Mr.
Grewgus, you must have been in Paris at the same time I was there.”

“That is quite true,” was the answer. Grewgus had certainly formed the
opinion at one time that the young woman’s sudden departure had been
occasioned by her discovery of the fact that she was being watched.
But her next words settled this point once and for all.

“And I suppose you followed me about from place to place. It is rather
strange that I did not spot you; as I flatter myself that I am rather
a keen observer. From what you know of my career, you may be sure I
have had to cultivate the quality of alertness. You must be very
clever at your business. I should have said it would be impossible for
anybody to shadow me continuously for even a day without my being
aware of it.”

Grewgus smiled. “I think I may say, without undue vanity, I am rather
clever at it. In your case, I took somewhat elaborate precautions, as
I felt I was dealing with a very resourceful woman. I shadowed you
under perhaps a dozen different disguises. Well, Mrs. Edwards, I need
hardly say I am very astonished to see you in my office. I suppose you
will tell me in good time the object of your visit.”

A very hard look came over the handsome face. “I need not keep you
waiting a moment longer. My object is revenge.”

“Against your former associates in general, or some particular
person?” suggested the detective quietly.

“Against my former associates, with one exception, I have no rancour.
They did their best to make my life pleasant, so far as such a life
can be made pleasant. I was one of those unfortunate creatures whose
mode of existence is determined for them at a very early age by
others, from whose domination it is impossible to escape. My father
was a crook; my mother, so long as she retained her good looks,
followed the same calling. And I was trained to follow in her
footsteps. You can say it was easy to break away, to separate from
these evil counsellors, and earn my living in some honest way. Mr.
Grewgus, it was not easy. More than once I have tried and I had to go
back.”

Grewgus looked at her curiously. She had spoken very calmly up to the
last few sentences, and then her manner had suddenly changed. Her
voice had in it a vibrating ring; her attempt to break away, and the
futility of it, had aroused in her very bitter memories.

“They would not allow me to sever my bonds,” she continued, speaking
in the same intense tones. “Once I thought I had succeeded, and hidden
myself away from them, I had taken a situation as a shop assistant.
Somehow, they tracked me down. One of the gang went to the proprietor,
and representing himself as a police official, warned him that he had
a thief in his service, a girl who had lately come out of gaol. It was
a lie. I have deserved prison many times, but luck has kept me out of
it; but it was a lie that served its purpose. I was dismissed there
and then, turned out into the street with the few miserable francs I
had saved out of my poor wages. My mother was waiting near by to take
me back. I think in a way she pitied me, but she told me it was
useless struggling against them; they would never let me go. I was too
useful to them.”

“Your natural advantages proved, no doubt, a great asset to them,”
remarked the detective. “Your appearance made you an ideal decoy.”

“Yes, good looks are not invariably a blessing,” said the beautiful
young woman with a melancholy smile. “Had I been an ordinary-looking
girl, they would have allowed me to remain in that humble shop, and
troubled their heads no further about me. They were the cause of my
being devoted to a life of evil by which I enriched others more than
myself. But the greatest curse of all which they brought upon me was
my association with the man you lately called upon, my husband,
Bertram Edwards.”

Her voice, as she spoke the name, was full of passion and hatred.
Grewgus guessed now why she had called upon him.

“You know something about him, a great deal too much for his comfort,
but you cannot know the utter callousness of his brutal nature.
Stormont was hard and ruthless in a way, where he encountered
opposition, but he had his good points, he was genial, he was
generous. If you knew how to handle him, you could get on well with
him. The same might be said of John Whitehouse, who for a long time
has passed as my uncle, although there is not the most remote
relationship between us. But after the first few months of glamour
were over, I could never find a single redeeming quality in Edwards. I
think the man had all the vices it was possible to amalgamate in a
single temperament.”

“You were in love with this man, then, when you married him?”

“Passionately,” was the reply. “Nobody could have been more successful
than he in masking a vile nature under a prepossessing exterior. But
even in the early days of our honeymoon he showed the cloven hoof.
During the whole of our married existence my life has been one long
experience of infamy, insult, brutality and outrage. And the love I
bore him has turned to a hatred so intense that I would risk anything
to procure him the punishment he deserves.”

So, when she had shown Wraysbury the bruise on her arm, and told him
her husband was a brute and a bully, she had been speaking the truth,
thought Grewgus.

“Have you come to me with the idea of getting him punished?” asked the
detective. He would have dearly loved to aid her in such a laudable
object but for the express wishes of Lydon to let sleeping dogs lie.

“That is my sole reason. I can give you so much evidence about him and
put you in the way of corroborating it without having to appear
myself. But, of course, a wife is not allowed to give evidence against
her husband in a criminal charge.”

“That is the worst of it,” said the artful detective, who wanted to
get all he could out of her, to turn her hatred to his own advantage.
“But let me know some of the details, and I will see if anything can
be done. Let us start with the murder of Calliard. Was Edwards the
murderer?”

Reluctantly, as it seemed, she had to admit he was not. In the course
of her confessions on the subject, she confirmed what Stormont had
insisted on to his brother, that murder had never been intended.
Edwards had not been on in the final act of the tragedy. As at first
resolved upon, it had been a case of simple robbery. She had not even
sought the jeweller’s society with the object of blackmailing him, but
solely to ascertain his movements.

After she had left Paris, two members of the gang had been dispatched
to Brussels to wait for the unfortunate man and entrap him. In
rendering him senseless, one of the miscreants had given him too
strong a dose of chloroform, and it proved fatal. To cover up their
crime, they had thrown his body in the river. She had learned these
details afterwards from Whitehouse, but she did not know the names of
either of the men. Stormont, who was the leading spirit of the gang,
and had originally marked down Calliard for a victim, was alone
acquainted with their identity. It was always his policy to keep the
subordinate members of the association as far apart as possible. They
worked in little coteries, and, in the majority of cases, one coterie
knew nothing of the other.

But dearly as she would have loved to implicate Edwards in the
tragedy, she had to confess she could not do so. As a matter of fact
he was in Spain on other business when it happened.

“Our married life would have been intolerable, but for the fact that
we did not spend a great deal of it together; when we did, I suffered
physically and mentally,” she explained at this point. “His vile
temper vented itself upon me on the slightest provocation, in spite of
the fact that both Stormont and Whitehouse frequently intervened on my
behalf, and remonstrated with him. When the plot against Wraysbury was
hatched, it was a necessary part of it that we should live together.
That was a time of terrible torture to me. When it failed, thanks to
your intervention, he wreaked his disappointment on me. On the day he
left England, frightened by your knowledge, he beat me almost into a
state of insensibility.”

Was she exaggerating, or was Edwards such a monster as she made out?
But Grewgus, a shrewd judge of demeanour, guessed by her emotion, her
fervent accents, that she was telling the truth, that this man had
terrorized and ill-treated her, that but for his devilish power over
her she would have broken away. She remarked incidentally that she and
her mother had a fair amount of money put by, their share of the
proceeds from the various schemes in which they had taken part under
the leadership of Stormont and Whitehouse.

She gave him a great deal of information about Edwards. This rascal
had specialized chiefly in blackmail, using her in most cases as a
decoy, and his activities in this direction had almost exclusively
been practised abroad. The affair with Lord Wraysbury was the only
serious _coup_ he had attempted in his own country. This unscrupulous
scoundrel was intensely proud of his birth and social connections, and
that perhaps was the reason he did so little in England.

“But, from what he said to Whitehouse, on the day after you had so
thoroughly frightened him, I don’t think he will ever return. You see,
he is not sure how much you know. He guesses your inquiries were made
on behalf of a private person, but he also remembers you threatened
him with Scotland Yard,” said the young woman when she had concluded
this portion of her story.

Grewgus explained to her that he could not very clearly see his way to
assist her in her schemes of vengeance on her brutal husband, as he
had appeared to confine himself almost exclusively to acts of
blackmail abroad. “In all these cases,” he told her, “there is no
chance of securing the co-operation of the victims. If we could have
connected him with the kidnapping of Calliard, which resulted in
unintentional murder, you yourself could assist the Belgian police,
who have abandoned the case. But you emphatically say he was somewhere
else at the time. All he did, I suppose, when in Paris was to convey
the instructions set out by Stormont, and meet you from day to day to
learn what progress you were making. When you both left that city, I
presume others were engaged in the affair.”

Mrs. Edwards admitted that this was so. In spite of the prejudice
engendered against her by his knowledge of her evil past, Grewgus had
to admit that the woman had extraordinary powers of fascination. They
influenced him so far that he found himself pitying her profoundly for
being tied to such a brutal husband, so much so that he voluntarily
offered his services to her if Edwards should again seek to intrude
himself into her life.

She thanked him very sweetly. “I have a notion I shall never see him
again,” she said. “But one never knows. He has made a good deal of
money, but he is a very greedy man. He is very frightened just now,
but his fear may pass away, and he will want to further enrich himself
by the same old means. In that case, he would seek me out with the
object of compelling me to help him. In that case, I should be glad to
come to you in the hope that you could terrify him again.”

“What are your intentions as regards the future?” asked the detective
presently. “It would hardly be safe for you to go abroad, would it?
You would be pretty certain to run across him some day.”

“Yes, I would prefer living on the Continent, but I dare not run the
risk of falling in with him again. After the design upon Lord
Wraysbury miscarried, thanks to your intervention, and both Whitehouse
and Edwards judged it prudent to clear out, I telegraphed to my mother
to come over from Rouen, where she was living quietly. We talked over
matters very thoroughly, and we made up our minds that we would hide
ourselves in some corner of England under an assumed name.”

Grewgus could not help smiling at this last remark. This fascinating
young woman had gone under so many different names, that the adoption
of another alias would come very naturally to her.

“I understand, then, that you propose for the future to go straight.”

“Most certainly,” was the reply given in a tone that showed absolute
sincerity. “Through you, the particular coterie to which I belonged
has been practically dispersed. Howard Stormont, for whom I had
something like a feeling of affection for his kindness to me, took his
own way out of it; he was a thriftless, improvident man and he saw
ruin staring him in the face. Whitehouse was altogether different. He
was careful, not to say parsimonious. By now he must have saved a
great deal of money, and I know it was his intention to give up the
life as soon as he had amassed enough to live on. I think he was only
waiting for the Wraysbury _coup_ to come off to execute that
intention. Its failure has made him forestall it.”

“You know where he is at the present moment, of course?” asked
Grewgus.

“No, I do not,” was the emphatic answer, and the detective believed
that it was a truthful one. “When we talked the matter over, we both
agreed that it was best we should know nothing of each other’s
movements. I suppose we had both lived in such an atmosphere of
suspicion and secrecy, that he did not care to trust me; I was equally
disinclined to trust him.”

“Why did he carry on that solicitor’s business? He had no genuine
business, had he?”

Mrs. Edwards smiled. “Although I did not particularly like the man, I
had no grudge against him, and we always got on comfortably together,
and I should not care to do him a bad turn. But I think now I can
answer that question without doing him any harm. He had practically no
legal business, but he acted for the organization in cases where they
wanted advice. He was actually a money-lender, and having got his
articles when a young man, before he took to a life of crime, set up
as a solicitor in order to present a more respectable appearance. I
believe he made a great deal of money that way.”

“And I suppose you know how he and Stormont became first acquainted?”

Mrs. Edwards was perfectly frank about the matter. “Whitehouse and he
met originally in Australia. Whitehouse had been affiliated to a
rather high-class gang for some time, and I suppose he recognized in
Stormont a very promising recruit. They engaged in some enterprises
there, and Stormont got into trouble. When he came out of prison he
returned to England and hunted up his old friend. In due course,
Stormont became a leading member of the organization. I was one of his
assistants, and I am sure he had several others. But he was a very
cautious man, in spite of his bluff and genial manners, and he never
allowed us to know much of each other. He and Whitehouse directed
affairs in their own particular branch.”

Grewgus was feeling very well satisfied with the result of the
interview. The candour of the fascinating young woman had led her
actually to confirm his different discoveries and suspicions. There
was one other matter, however, on which he wished to obtain further
enlightenment.

“The affair with Hugh Craig at Nice, was Stormont at the back of
that?”

Mrs. Edwards did not appear to answer quite as readily as before.

“Yes, it was he who first set me upon it. He knew that Craig, although
not a wealthy man, had some money.”

“And you were married to Edwards at the time, of course?” was the
detective’s next question.

“Not at the time I first met Craig. Our marriage came later. But, as I
told you, we lived only occasionally together. The exigencies of our
calling rendered it necessary for us to be apart the best part of our
married life.”

“And I know that you relieved poor Craig of a good deal of his money.”

“I had to obey orders in this case as in the others,” was the young
woman’s answer; and Grewgus could perceive that she was speaking with
considerable emotion. “It was the most painful episode in my career,
for the poor young fellow was desperately in love with me. When a
foolish blunder on my part roused his suspicions, I think his mind
became unhinged. He would never have tried to kill me if he had been
in full possession of his senses. I can guess you know all the details
of the ghastly story from his great friend, Lydon.”

Grewgus nodded, and Mrs. Edwards, conquering her emotion, went on in a
calmer voice:

“I always felt a premonition that Stormont made the greatest mistake
of his life when he cultivated Lydon’s acquaintance with the view of
providing a good match for his niece. He should have steered clear of
anybody who had a knowledge at first hand of that tragedy. I told him
so when I first heard of it. I told him again when I met Lydon that
day at Effington. He laughed at my fears, said that we had never met,
and that if I kept my mother out of the way, all would be well. Dozens
of girls had a similar blemish. How was he likely to connect me with
Elise Makris? Lydon, I must say, acted very well. I did not suspect
for a moment that he recognized me. I cannot guess to this day how he
did.”

“I think I can enlighten you on that point,” said Grewgus, who felt,
after her attitude to him, that he could afford to show a little
candour. He touched the sapphire pendant which she was wearing, and
told her what Lydon had learned about it on the day he saw it lying on
the table in a room of the Villa des Cyclamens.

“If it had been the blemish only, Mrs. Edwards, he might not have
identified you,” Grewgus concluded. “But it was _that_ which gave him
the clue--your mascot which your mother said you always wore, and
which she had taken from you that day in the hospital.”

“Ah, now I understand. The incident must have passed completely from
my mother’s mind, for although we have often talked together of young
Lydon, and the necessity of keeping her out of his way, she never
spoke of it. Strange, very strange,” she added in a musing voice,
“that this little mascot in which I so firmly believed should be the
cause of all that has happened, should have set you, through Lydon, on
the track of myself, Stormont and the others.”

Grewgus presently brought the conversation round again to Hugh Craig
directly, and artfully cross-examined her as to the manner in which
she had blackmailed him. But to his questions he did not get very
distinct replies. He gathered that, in his infatuation for the
beautiful girl, the young man had parted with large sums, ostensibly
to defray debts incurred by herself and her mother, sums which were
divided in certain proportions between the confederates in the
schemes. But he failed to get any precise details. She sheltered her
reticence under the plea that it gave her inexpressible pain to dwell
upon those miserable days.

She left him shortly, with renewed thanks for his promise to help her
in case Edwards should return and endeavour to force his society upon
her. And after she had left, he sat for a long time meditating on
herself, her strange charm, and all she had told him.

Had she been only playing a part in order to excite his sympathy, or
had she always hated the life which had been thrust upon her by her
environment, and was only too thankful to embrace this opportunity of
quitting it?




 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Leonard and Gloria were married a month before Jasper Stormont and
his wife left England for China. That last month they spent in London.
It was a very quiet wedding; a cousin of the bridegroom officiated as
one of the bridesmaids, the two others were girl friends of the bride,
and had been her bosom friends at Effington, where the memory of
Howard Stormont was still held in kindly remembrance by those who
would have been horrified if they had known the truth about him. Mr.
Grewgus was present at the ceremony, and presented dainty gifts to
both bride and bridegroom.

Leonard had bought a charming house in the neighbourhood of Godalming
with some four acres of pretty grounds. It could not compare with the
magnificence of Effington Hall, where Howard Stormont had played the
rôle of country gentleman what time he was hatching his evil schemes
in conjunction with his taciturn fellow-criminal, John Whitehouse. But
to Gloria it was a haven of peace and delight, with her flowers and
dogs and the sweet sounds and scents of country life. She and her
young husband are devoted to each other, and although they have the
most friendly relations with their neighbours, are full of happiness
when they are alone.

Twelve months had passed, and the villainy of Stormont and his
associates had become almost a faint memory to the young wedded
couple. Grewgus was always engaged in fresh investigations, and the
case to which he had given so much time and attention had almost been
jostled out of his mind by fresh problems.

Then one morning in the newspaper he read something that greatly
startled him and sent his thoughts travelling back to the strenuous
time when he had made that journey to Paris in pursuit of the woman
suspected to be Elise Makris.

His eye caught sight of the headline. “Murder and suicide in a small
Devonshire village.” Two very clear portraits of the victim, a woman,
and the murderer who had shot himself after killing her, stared at him
from the pages of the newspapers. The woman was Elise Makris, to call
her by the first name under which he had known of her in these pages;
the man was Bertram Edwards.

The report stated that a Mrs. Mayhew and her daughter Mrs. Baradine
had come to this village about a year ago, where they had purchased a
house of moderate size. They led a quiet and secluded life, only
mixing infrequently with the few neighbours of a respectable class
around them. Both women gave themselves out as widows. They attended
church regularly and visited at the Vicar’s house. Although little was
known about them, they had made a very favourable impression on
everybody with whom they had come in contact. The daughter was quite a
young woman and of remarkable beauty.

No visitors except those in the immediate neighbourhood had ever been
known to enter their doors. But one day their comparative isolation
had been disturbed. According to the account of one of the two maids,
a handsome man about thirty with very urbane and courteous manners had
called and requested that his name should be taken in to the ladies.
The name he gave was Edwards.

The mention of this name, when the maid took it in to the drawing-room
where the two women were seated, seemed to arouse consternation in
both mother and daughter. After a whispered conversation between the
two, Mrs. Baradine went into the hall and took the strange visitor to
her mother. The door of the room was closed, and the three sat
together for over an hour. At the end of that time, Mrs. Baradine went
out with the man Edwards and they did not return till it wanted a few
minutes to dinner.

The visitor stayed the night, sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms at
the back of the house. He stopped on the next day. From a remark
dropped by Mrs. Mayhew to the maid after breakfast, she gathered that
Edwards was taking his departure on the following morning. During the
whole of his visit, the demeanour of both mother and daughter
exhibited symptoms of great depression and anxiety.

They all dined together on the evening of the second day. After dinner
Mrs. Mayhew went out for a stroll, leaving Edwards and Mrs. Baradine
in the dining-room by themselves. The housemaid also went out, and the
rest of the story was finished by the other servant, the cook.

This woman, very curious as to this strange visitor, admitted that
twice she went into the hall and listened at the dining-room door. The
second time she heard voices high in altercation, but could not gather
what was being said. Suddenly, as she sat in the kitchen, speculating
on what was taking place between her young mistress and the man
Edwards, a shot rang out, followed in a fraction of time by a second
one. Sensing that a tragedy had happened, she rushed into the room and
was confronted with a ghastly spectacle. Mrs. Baradine was lying on
the floor dead, and beside her Edwards with a bullet through his
brain. Screaming, she fled into the village in search of the local
constable, whom she brought back to the house. Five minutes after they
came back, Mrs. Mayhew returned from her walk and fainted at the awful
sight.

Later on, the mother told her story. Mrs. Baradine was not a widow;
her real name was Edwards and she was the wife of the man who had
killed her, and who, realizing the impossibility of escape, destroyed
himself. Hers had been a most unhappy marriage, and, to escape from
her husband’s brutality, she had left him and hid herself, as she
fondly hoped, in this quiet Devonshire village under an assumed name.

By some means he had tracked her down, and had visited her with the
view of obtaining her forgiveness of the past, and inducing her to
resume their married life. To his request she had returned an
obstinate refusal, in which he seemed to have acquiesced, as he
announced his intention of returning to London on the following day.
On the evening of the fatal day, Mrs. Mayhew had left them alone after
dinner, apparently on fairly amicable terms. She could only conjecture
that, during her absence, he had sought to alter her daughter’s
resolution, that high words had ensued, and that in the violence of
his passion he had first taken her life and then his own.

Mrs. Mayhew, otherwise Madame Makris, was a clever woman and had told
her story well; she had kept out of it anything that would arouse
suspicions of the past. But Grewgus, with his knowledge, was able to
read between the lines.

Edwards had felt his old criminal instincts rising within him. So long
a time had elapsed without any action being taken that he had
concluded the past was done with. To the successful accomplishment of
any future schemes, his wife was necessary. He had tracked her down to
this lonely Devonshire village, and used all his arts of persuasion to
induce her to return to him. A man of brutal and violent passions, he
had been maddened by her refusal, and in a fit of frenzy bordering on
delirium had killed her.

After he had mastered the facts, Grewgus went round to Lydon’s office.
The young man knew what he had come for. He and Gloria had read the
same news at breakfast.

“I wonder if she was wearing her mascot when he killed her?” said
Lydon in a musing tone. “It saved her from the consequences of her
lover’s bullet, but not from her husband’s.”

“And so that is the end of three out of the four,” observed Grewgus in
the same thoughtful voice. “I wonder if Nemesis has yet overtaken that
gloomy miscreant, John Whitehouse, or if he is living somewhere a life
of smug respectability on his ill-gotten gains?”

But that question has not been answered yet. For all that is known to
the contrary, John Whitehouse, as great a criminal as the others, may
be leading the life suggested by the detective.

 THE END.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ moneylender/money-lender,
note-book/note book, womenfolk/women-folk, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Abandon the use of drop-caps.

Add ToC.

Punctuation: a few missing/invisible periods.

[Chapter Two]

Change “a gorgeous carved sapphire _make_ into a pendant” to _made_.

“very shortly after the _terribly_ tragedy, with instructions” to
_terrible_.

[Chapter Six]

“on a considerable _snm_ of money for its purchase” to _sum_.

[Chapter Eleven]

“The _Storments_ had a small private sitting-room” to _Stormonts_.

[Chapter Seventeen]

“with something of a snarl in his _voiec_” to _voice_.

 [End of text]








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