“It’s inside the loop of the handle,” explained the salesman. “You will find a small number engraved there—No. 1 or No. 2. No. 1 was intended for his lordship, No. 2 for Mr. Remington. The numbers were put there at Lord Claythorpe’s suggestion in order to avoid confusion. It sometimes happens that both keys are in use together, and it is obviously desirable that they should not be mixed.”
Peter looked at the inside of the loop and saw the number, then placed the key in his pocket with a little smile.
“Thank you; I think you have told me all that I want to know,” he said. “You are sure that there are not three keys?”
“Perfectly certain,” said the man emphatically. “And what is more, it would have been impossible to have got these keys cut, except by our firm.”
Peter went back to Scotland Yard to find a telegram waiting for him. It was handed in at Falmouth by the chief of the local constabulary, and read:—
“Jamieson Steele is here. Shall I arrest? We have undoubted evidence that he spent last night in Falmouth with his wife.”
“His wife?” said the puzzled detective. “I didn’t know Steele was married. Well, that lets him out as far as the murder’s concerned. The question is shall we pinch him for the forgery?”
He consulted his friend the Inspector, and the advice he received with regard to the arrest on the lesser charge was emphatic.
“Leave him alone,” said the wise man. “It does us no good to arrest a man unless we are certain of conviction, and the only real offence that Jamieson Steele has committed was the fool offence of running away when he ought to have stood his ground. I interviewed the bank manager immediately after that crime, and the bank manager swore that the signature was not a forgery, but was Lord Claythorpe’s own; and with that evidence before the jury you’re not going to get a conviction, young fellow!”
Peter debated this point, and at last decided to wire to Steele asking him to come up and meet him.
The papers were filled with the stories of Four Square Jane’s latest exploit. This, indeed, was the culmination of a succession of sensational crimes. Her character, her eccentricities, the record of her several offences, appeared in every newspaper. There were witnesses who had seen a mysterious woman hurrying up St. James’ Street a quarter of an hour after the crime must have been committed; there were others who were certain they saw a veiled woman getting into a car at the bottom of St. James’ Street; in fact, the usual crop of rumours and evidence was forthcoming, none of which was of the slightest value to the police.
That afternoon the detective visited Lord Claythorpe. He found that gentleman in very close consultation with a grave Mr. Lewinstein. To the credit of that genial Hebrew financier it must be said that, however optimistic might be the prospectuses he framed from time to time, he was undoubtedly straight. And Mr. Lewinstein’s gravity of demeanour was due to a doubt which had arisen in his mind for the first time as to the trustworthy character of his lordly business associate. They greeted the detective—his lordship suspiciously and a little nervously, Lewinstein with evident relief.
“Well,” asked Claythorpe, “have you made any discovery?”
“Several,” said Peter. “We have been able to reconstruct the crime up to a point, and we have also proved that Mr. Steele was in Falmouth when the murder was committed.”
A little shade passed over the sallow face of Lord Claythorpe.
“How could you prove that when you don’t know where he is?” he asked.
“We found where he was, all right,” said Peter with satisfaction.
“And you have arrested him, of course?” demanded his lordship. “I mean for the forgery.”
The other smiled.
“Honestly, Lord Claythorpe, do you seriously wish us to arrest Jamieson Steele, in view of the overwhelming evidence in support of his contention that the cheque was given to him by you, and signed by you?”
“It’s a lie!” roared Lord Claythorpe, bringing his fist down on the table.
“It may be a lie,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “but it is a lie the jury will believe, and I can’t believe that the outcome of such a prosecution will be very profitable to your lordship.”
Claythorpe was silent. Presently he looked up and caught Lewinstein’s eye, and Lewinstein nodded.
“I quite agree,” said that gentleman seriously. “I never thought there was much of a case against young Steele. He was a good boy. Why he got rattled and ran away heaven only knows.”
Claythorpe changed the subject, which was wholly disagreeable to him.
“Have you found anything else?”
“Nothing except this,” said Peter, taking a key from his pocket and laying it on the table before Lord Claythorpe. “Will you be kind enough to show me your key?”
Claythorpe looked at the other for fully a minute.
“Certainly,” he said. He disappeared from the room and returned with a bunch of keys, on the end of which lay the facsimile of that which lay on the table.
Peter took the key and examined it. He looked at the inside of the loop, and as he did so an involuntary cry broke from Claythorpe’s lips.
“A jumping tooth,” he mumbled in apology. “Well, what have you found?”
“I’ve found that your keys have got slightly mixed,” said Peter. “You have Remington’s, and the key found in the office after the murder is yours!”
“Impossible!” said Lord Claythorpe.
“It is one of the impossible things that has happened,” said Peter.
“Well, there’s an explanation for that,” Claythorpe began, but Peter stopped him.
“Of course there is,” he said. “There are a hundred explanations, all of which are quite satisfactory. I suppose you had the keys out together on the table, and they got mixed at some time or other, and you did not notice. I’m not suggesting that you can’t explain. I merely point out this fact, which at present has no bearing, or very little, on any aspect of the case.”
Lewinstein and the detective went from the house together. His lordship, left alone, paced the study restlessly. Then he sat down at his desk and began to write. He produced two large canvas envelopes from the drawer of his desk, and into one of these he inserted a square certificate. He examined it casually before he put it into the cover. It was a debenture certificate issued by the North American Smelter Corporation for five hundred thousand dollars, and there was a particular reason why he should not have this valuable and important document in his house. He addressed the envelope containing the cover to himself in London. This he crossed with blue pencil, and from a drawer took out a small box containing a number of unused stamps. They were not British stamps, but Colonial, including Australian, African, Indian, and British Chinese. He fixed two Australian stamps, and placed the envelope within another, a little bigger. This he addressed to the manager of a Tasmanian bank, with whom he had done some business. To this gentleman he wrote a letter, saying that he expected to be in Australia by the time this letter reached it’s destination.
“But,” the letter went on, “if by any chance I am not able to get to Australia, and I do not call for this packet within a week after its arrival, or notify you by cable, asking you to keep it for me, will you please send it back to me by registered post.”
That was a job well done, he thought, as he sealed the envelope. This incriminating document would at any rate be out of the country for three months. Should he register it? He scratched his chin dubiously. Registration literally meant registration. If people inquired as to whether he had made any important transfer by mail, there would be no difficulty in discovering, not only the fact that he had posted such a letter, but the address to which it had been posted. No, on the whole he thought it would be better if he sent the letter by ordinary post. He put on his hat and coat, and took the letter himself to the nearest post office. On his return his butler announced a visitor.
“Miss Wilberforce!” said his lordship in surprise, “I thought she was in the country.”
“She arrived a few minutes after you left, m’lord.”
“Excellent!” said Claythorpe. It was the last person he had expected to see, and he fetched a sigh of relief. It might have been awkward if she had arrived earlier—at any rate, it was a remarkable coincidence that she had come at all that evening.
He found her standing by his table, and went towards her with outstretched hands.
“My dear Joyce,” he said, “whatever brings you here?”
“I had a telegram about the robbery,” she said; and then for the first time he realized that he had not troubled to notify the only person who was really affected by the burglary.
“Who wired you?”
“The police.”
Still he was puzzled.
“But you couldn’t have had the wire till eleven,” he said, “how on earth did you get here?”
She smiled rather quietly.
“I did rather an adventurous thing,” she replied. “There is an aeroplane service between Falmouth and London.”
He could only stare at her.
“That was very enterprising of you, Joyce.”
“Tell me,” she said, “did you also wire about this robbery?”
“I’ve been waiting till I got the fullest details before I notified you,” said Lord Claythorpe easily. “You see, my dear girl, I have no wish to worry or frighten you, and possibly there was some chance that this wretched woman would return the securities, or at any rate give me a chance of redeeming them.”
She nodded.
“I see,” she said. “Then I can do nothing?”
He shook his head.
“Absolutely nothing.”
She pursed her lips irresolutely.
“Can I write a letter?” she asked.
“Sit down, sit down, my dear child,” he fussed. “You’ll find paper and envelopes in this case.”
* * * * *
At eleven o’clock that night, South Western District Post Office No. 2 was a scene of animation. Postal vans, horse vans and motors were pulled up level with the big platform which led from the sorting room, and a dozen porters were engaged in handling mail bags for various destinations. The vans conveying local London mails had been despatched to the various district offices, the last to leave being a small one-horse van carrying the foreign mails to the G.P.O. It was driven by a middle-aged attendant named Carter, and pulled out of the yard at a quarter to twelve.
The weather was a repetition of that which had been experienced on the previous night. The south-wester was still blowing, the rain was coming down in gusty squalls, and the driver, muffled up to the chin, whipped up his horse to face the blast. His way led through the most deserted part of London’s West End—more deserted than usual on this stormy night. One of the main streets through which he had to pass was “up,” being in the hands of the road repairers, and he turned into a side street to make a detour which would bring him clear of the obstruction. He observed, as he again turned his horse into the narrow thoroughfare running parallel with the main road, that the street lamps were extinguished, and put this down to the storm. He was in the blackest patch of the road, when a red lamp flashed right ahead of him, and he pulled his horse back on its haunches.
“What’s the trouble?” he said leaning down and addressing the figure that held the lamp.
For answer, a blinding ray of light, directed by a powerful pocket lamp, struck him full in the face, and before he realised what had happened, someone had leapt on to the wheel and was by his side, clutching at the rails on top of the van. Something cold and hard was pressed against his neck.
“Utter a sound and you’re a dead man,” said a man’s voice.
A quarter of an hour later, all that stood for authority in London was searching for a dark low motor car, and Peter Dawes, sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, was eagerly questioning one of his junior officers over the ’phone.
“Robbed the mail? Impossible! How did it happen? Were they arrested? I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
He slipped into a suit, buttoned his mackintosh, and stepped out into the wild night. His flat was opposite a cab rank, and in less than ten minutes he was at Scotland Yard.
“… the man said the thing was over so quickly he hadn’t a chance of shouting, besides which, the fellow who stood by his side threatened to shoot him.”
“What have they taken?”
“Only one bag, so far as can be ascertained. They knew just what they were after, and when they had got it they disappeared. The constable at the other end of the street heard the man shout, and came running down just in time to see a motor car turn the corner.”
Later, Peter interviewed the driver, a badly scared man, in the stable-yard of the contractor who supplied the horses for the post office vans. The driver was a man who had been in the Government service for ten years, and had covered the route he was following that night—except that he had never previously taken the side street rendered necessary by the condition of the road—for the greater part of that time.
“Did you see anybody else except the man who sat by your side and threatened you?” asked Peter.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “I saw what I thought was a girl in a black oilskin; she passed round to the back of the van.”
“Where is the van? Is it here?” asked the detective, and they showed him a small, four-wheeled vehicle, covered in at the top and with two doors which were fastened behind by a steel bar and padlocked. The padlock had been wrenched open, and the doors now stood ajar.
“They had taken out the mail bags, sir, in order to sort them out to see what was gone.”
Peter flashed his lamp in the interior, examining the floor and sides carefully. There was no clue of any kind until he began his inspection of the inside of the doors, and there, on the very centre, was the familiar label.
“Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter, and whistled.
VII
“I deeply regret that I found it necessary to interfere with His Majesty’s mails. In a certain bag was a letter which was very compromising to me, and it was necessary that I should recover it. I beg to enclose the remainder of the letters which are, as you will see, intact and untampered with!”
This document, bearing the seal manual of Four Square Jane, was delivered to the Central Post Office accompanied by a large mail bag. The person who delivered it was a small boy of the District Messenger Service, who brought the package in a taxi-cab. He could give no information as to the person who had sent him except to say that it was a lady wearing a heavy veil, who had summoned him to a popular hotel, and had met him in the vestibule. They had taken a cab together, and at the corner of Clarges Street the cab had pulled up on the instructions of the lady; a man had appeared bearing a bundle that he had put into a cab which then drove on. A little later the lady had stopped the cab, given the boy a pound note, and herself descended. The boy could only say that in his opinion she was young, and undoubtedly in mourning.
Here was new fuel to the flames of excitement which the murder of Remington had aroused. A murder one day, accompanied by a robbery which, if rumour had any foundation, involved nearly a quarter of a million pounds, and this tragedy followed on the next day by the robbery of the King’s mail; and all at the hands of a mysterious woman whose name was already a household word—these happenings apart from the earlier crimes were sufficient to furnish not only London but the whole of Britain with a subject for discussion.
Lord Claythorpe heard the news of the robbery with some uneasiness. Inquiries made at the local district office however, relieved him of his anxiety. The mail bag which had been taken, he was informed, was part of the Indian mail. The Australian mail had been delivered at the General Post Office earlier in the evening by the service which left the district office at nine o’clock. It was as well for his peace of mind that he did not know how erroneous was the information he had been given. He had asked Joyce to breakfast with him, and had kept her waiting whilst he pursued these inquiries; for he had read of the robbery in bed, and had hurried round to the district office without delay.
“This is the most amazing exploit of all,” he said to the girl, as he handed her the paper. “Take this,” he said. “I have read it.”
“Poor Jane Briglow!”
“Why Jane Briglow?”
The girl smiled.
“Mother insists that it is she who has committed all these acts. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that Jane is in good service in the North of England.”
Claythorpe looked at her in surprise.
“Is that so?” he said incredulously. “Do you know, I’d begun to form a theory about that girl.”
“Well, don’t,” said Joyce, helping herself to jam.
“I wonder whether they’ll get the bag back,” speculated his lordship. “There’s nothing about it in the papers.”
“It is very unlikely, I should think,” said Joyce. She rolled up her table-napkin. “You wanted to see me about something this morning,” she said.
He nodded.
“Yes, Joyce,” he said. “I’ve been thinking matters over. I’m afraid I was rather prejudiced against young Steele.” The girl made no reply. “I’m not even certain that he was guilty of the offence with which I charged him,” Claythorpe went on. “You see, I was very worried at the time, and it is possible that I may have signed a cheque and overlooked the fact. You were very fond of Steele?”
She nodded.
“Well,” said Lord Claythorpe heartily, “I will no longer stand in your way.”
She looked at him steadily.
“You mean you will consent to my marriage?”
He nodded.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not, indeed?” she said, a little bitterly. “I understand that my fortune no longer depends upon whether I marry according to your wishes or not—since I have no fortune.”
“It is very deplorable,” said his lordship gravely. “Really, I feel morally responsible. It is a most stupendous tragedy, but I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, Joyce. I am not a rich man by any means, but I have decided, if you still feel you cannot marry my son, and would prefer to marry Mr. Steele, to give you a wedding gift of twenty thousand pounds.”
“That is very good of you,” said the girl politely, “but, of course, I cannot take your verbal permission. You will not mind putting that into writing?”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Lord Claythorpe, getting up and walking to a writing-table, “really Joyce, you’re becoming quite shrewd in your old age,” he chuckled.
He drew a sheet of paper from a writing-case and poised a pen.
“What is the date?” he asked.
“It is the nineteenth,” said the girl. “But date it as from the first of the month.”
“Why?” he asked in surprise.
“Well, there are many reasons,” said the girl slowly. “I shouldn’t like people to think, for example, that your liking for Mr. Steele dated from the loss of my property.”
He looked at her sharply, but not a muscle of her face moved.
“That is very considerate of you,” he said with a shrug, “and it doesn’t really matter whether I make it the first or the twenty-first, does it?”
He wrote quickly, blotted the sheet, handed it to the girl, and she read it and folded the paper away in her handbag.
“Was that really the reason you asked me to date the permission back?” he asked curiously.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said coolly. “I was married to Jamieson last week.”
“Married!” he gasped. “Without my permission!”
“With your permission,” she said, tapping her little bag.
For a second he frowned, and then he burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well, well,” he said. “That’s rather rich. You’re a very naughty girl, Joyce. Does your mother know?”
“Mother knows nothing about it,” said the girl. “There is one more thing I want to speak to you about, Lord Claythorpe, and that is in connection with the robbery of the mail last night.”
It was at that moment that Peter Dawes was announced.
“It’s the detective,” said Lord Claythorpe with a little frown. “You don’t want to see him?”
“On the contrary, let him come in, because what I am going to say will interest him,” she said.
Claythorpe nodded to the butler, and a few seconds later Peter Dawes came into the room. He bowed to the girl and shook hands with Lord Claythorpe.
“This is my niece—well, not exactly my niece,” smiled Claythorpe, “but the niece of a very dear friend of mine, and, in fact, the lady who is the principal loser in that terrible tragedy of St. James’ Street.”
“Indeed?” said Peter with a smile. “I think I know the young lady by sight.”
“And she was going to make an interesting communication to me just as you came in,” said Claythorpe. “Perhaps, Joyce, dear, you will tell Mr. Dawes?”
“I was only going to say that this morning I received this.” She did not go to her bag, but produced a folded paper from the inside of her blouse. This she opened and spread on the table and Claythorpe’s face went white, for it was the five hundred thousand dollar bond which he had despatched the day before to Australia. “I seem to remember,” said the girl, “that this was part of my inheritance—you remember I was given a list of the securities you held for me?”
Lord Claythorpe licked his dry lips.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “That is part of your inheritance.”
“How did it come to you?” asked Peter Dawes.
“It was found in my letter-box this morning,” said the girl.
“Accompanied by a letter?”
“No, nothing,” said Joyce. “For some reason I connected it with the mail robbery, and thought that perhaps you had entrusted this certificate to the post—and that in your letter you mentioned the fact that it was mine.”
“That also is impossible,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “because, if your statement is correct, this document would have been amongst those which were stolen on the night that Remington was murdered. Isn’t that so, Lord Claythorpe?”
Claythorpe nodded.
“It is very providential for you, Joyce,” he said huskily. “I haven’t the slightest idea how it came to you. Probably the thief who murdered Remington knew it was yours and restored it.”
The girl nodded.
“The thief being Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter Dawes, eyeing his lordship narrowly.
“Naturally, who else?” said Claythorpe, meeting the other’s eyes steadily. “It was undoubtedly her work, her label was on the inside of the safe.”
“That is true,” agreed Peter. “But there was one remarkable fact about that label which seems to have been overlooked.”
“What was that?”
“It had been used before,” said Peter slowly. “It was an old label which had previously been attached to something or somewhere, for the marks of the old adhesion were still on it when I took it off. In fact, there were only a few places where the gum on the label remained useful.”
Neither the eyes of the girl or Lord Claythorpe left the other’s face.
“That is curious,” said Lord Claythorpe slowly. “What do you deduce from that?”
Dawes shrugged.
“Nothing, except that it is possible someone is using Four Square Jane’s name in vain,” he said, “someone who was in a position to get one of the old labels she had used on her previous felonies. May I sit down?” he asked, for he had not been invited to take a seat.
Claythorpe nodded curtly, and Dawes pulled a chair from the table and seated himself.
“I have been reconstructing that crime,” he said, “and there are one or two things that puzzle me. In the first place, I am perfectly certain that no woman was in your office on the night the murder was committed.”
Lord Claythorpe raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed!” he said. “And yet the constable who was first in the room told me that he distinctly smelt a very powerful scent—the sort a woman would use. I also noticed it when I went into the room.”
“So did I,” said Peter, “and that quite decided me that Four Square Jane had nothing to do with the business. A cool, calculating woman like Four Square Jane is certain to be a lady of more than ordinary intelligence and regular habits. She is not the kind who would suddenly take up a powerful scent, because it is possible to trace a woman criminal by this means, and it is certain that in no other case which is associated with her name was there the slightest trace or hint of perfume. That makes me more certain that the crime was committed by a man and that he sprinkled the scent on the floor in order to leave the impression that Four Square Jane had been the operator.”
“What do you think happened?” asked Lord Claythorpe after a pause.
“I think that Remington went to the office with the intention of examining the contents of the safe,” said Peter deliberately. “I believe he had the whole of the envelopes on the table, and had opened several, when he was surprised by somebody who came into the office. There was an argument, in the course of which he was shot dead.”
“You suggest that the intruder was a burglar?” said Lord Claythorpe with a set face, but Peter shook his head.
“No,” he said. “This man admitted himself to the office by means of a key. The door was not forced, and there was no sign of a skeleton key having been used. Moreover, the newcomer must have been well acquainted with the office, because, after the murder was committed he switched out the light and pulled up the blinds which Remington had lowered, so that the light should not attract attention from the street. We know they were lowered, because the constable on beat duty on the other side of the street saw no sign of a light. The blinds were heavy and practically light-proof. Now, the man who committed the murder knew his way about the office well enough to turn out the light, move in the dark, and manipulate the three blinds which covered the windows. I’ve been experimenting with those blinds, and I’ve found that they’re fairly complicated in their mechanism.”
Again there was a pause.
“A very fantastic theory, if you will allow me to say so,” said Lord Claythorpe, “and not at all like the sensible, commonsense point of view that I should have expected from Scotland Yard.”
“That may be so,” said Peter quietly. “But we get romantic theories even at Scotland Yard.”
He looked down at the bond, still spread out on the table.
“I suppose your lordship will put this in the bank after your unhappy experience?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said Lord Claythorpe briefly, and Peter turned to the girl.
“I congratulate you upon recovering a part of your property,” he said. “I understand this is held in trust for you until you’re married.”
Lord Claythorpe started violently.
“Until you’re married!” he said. “Why, why!” He caught the girl’s smiling eyes. “That means now, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Until your marriage is approved by me,” said Lord Claythorpe.
“I think it is approved by you,” said Joyce, and dived her hand into her bag.
“It will be delivered to you formally to-morrow,” said his lordship stiffly.
Peter Dawes and the girl went out of the house together and walked in silence a little way.
“I’d give a lot to know what you’re thinking,” said the girl.
“And I’d give a lot to know what you know,” smiled Peter, and at that cryptic exchange they parted.
That night Mr. Lewinstein was giving a big dinner party at the Ritz Carlton. Joyce had been invited months before, but had no thought of accepting the invitation until she returned to the hotel where she was staying.
A good-looking man rose as she entered the vestibule, and came towards her with a smile. He took her arm, and slowly they paced the long corridor leading to the elevator.
“So that’s Mr. Jamieson Steele, eh?” said Peter Dawes, who had followed her to the hotel, and he looked very thoughtfully in the direction the two had taken.
He went from the hotel and called on Mr. Lewinstein by appointment, and that great financier welcomed him with a large cigar.
“I heard you were engaged upon the Four Square Jane case, Mr. Dawes,” he said, “and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I invited you to dinner to-night.”
“Is this a professional or a friendly engagement?” smiled Peter.
“It’s both,” said Mr. Lewinstein frankly. “The fact is, Mr. Dawes, and I’m not going to make any bones about the truth, it is necessary in my business that I should keep in touch with the best people in London. From time to time I give a dinner-party, and I bring together all that is bright and beautiful and brainy. Usually these dinners are given in my own house, but I’ve had a rather painful experience,” he said grimly, and Peter, who knew the history of Four Square Jane’s robbery, nodded in sympathy.
“Now, I want to say a few words about Miss Four Square Jane,” said Lewinstein. “Do you mind seeing if the door is closed?”
Peter looked outside, and closed the door carefully.
“I’d hate what I’m saying to be repeated in certain quarters,” Lewinstein went on. “But in that robbery there were several remarkable coincidences. Do you know that Four Square Jane stole nothing, in most cases, except the presents that had been given by Claythorpe? Claythorpe is rather a gay old bird and has gone the pace. He has been spending money like water for years. Of course, he may have a big income, or he may not. I know just what he gets out of the City. On the night of the burglary at my house this girl went through every room and took articles which in many cases had been given to the various people by Claythorpe. For example, something he had presented to my wife disappeared; some shirt-studs, which he gave to me, were also gone. That’s rather funny, don’t you think?”
“It fits in with my theory,” said Peter nodding, “that Four Square Jane has only one enemy in the world, and that is Lord Claythorpe.”
“That’s my opinion, too,” said Lewinstein. “Now to-night I am giving a big dinner-party, as I told you, and there will be a lot of women there, and the women are scared of my parties since the last one. There will be jewels to burn, but what makes me specially nervous is that Claythorpe has insisted on Lola Lane being invited.”
“The dancer?” asked Peter in surprise, and the other nodded.
“She’s a great friend of Claythorpe’s—I suppose you know that? He put up the money for her last production, and, not to put too fine a point upon it, the old man is infatuated by the girl.”
Mr. Lewinstein sucked contemplatively at one of his large cigars.
“I am not a prude, you understand, Mr. Dawes,” he said, “and the way men amuse themselves does not concern me. Claythorpe is much too big a man for me to refuse any request he makes. In the present state of society, people like Lola are accepted, and it is not for me to reform the Smart Set. The only thing I’m scared about is that she will be covered from head to foot in jewels.”
He pulled again at his cigar, and looked at it before he went on:
“Which Lord Claythorpe has given her.”
“This is news to me,” said Peter.
“It would be news to a lot of people,” said Lewinstein, “for Claythorpe is supposed to be one of the big moral forces in the City.” He chuckled, as though at a good joke. “Now, there’s another point I want to make to you. This girl Lola has been telling her friends—at least, she told a friend of mine—that she was going to the Argentine to live in about six months’ time. My friend asked her if Lord Claythorpe agreed to that arrangement. You know, these theatrical people are very frank, and she said ‘Yes.’ ” He looked at the detective.
“Which means that Claythorpe is going, too,” said Peter, and Lewinstein nodded.
“That is also news,” said Peter Dawes. “Thank you, I will accept your invitation to dinner to-night.”
“Good!” said Lewinstein, brightening. “You don’t mind, but I may have to put you next to Lola.”
That evening when Peter strolled into the big reception hall which Mr. Lewinstein had engaged with his private dining-room, his eyes wandered in search of the lady. He knew her by sight—had seen her picture in the illustrated newspapers. He had no difficulty in distinguishing her rather bold features; and, even if he had not, he would have known, from the daring dress she wore, that this was the redoubtable lady whose name had been hinted in connection with one or two unpleasant scandals.
But chiefly his eyes were for the great collar of emeralds about her shapely throat. They were big green stones which scintillated in the shaded lights, and were by far the most remarkable jewels in the room. Evidently Lewinstein had explained to Lord Claythorpe the reason of the invitation, because his lordship received him quite graciously and made no demur at a common detective occupying the place by the side of the lady who had so completely enthralled him.
It was after the introduction that Peter had a surprise, for he saw Joyce Wilberforce.
“I didn’t expect to see you again to-day, Miss Wilberforce,” he said.
“I did not expect to come myself,” replied the girl, “but my husband—you knew I was married?”
Mr. Dawes nodded.
“That is one of the things I did know,” he laughed.
“My husband had an engagement, and he suggested that I should amuse myself by coming here. What do you think of the emeralds?” she asked mischievously. “I suppose you’re here to keep a friendly eye on them?”
Peter smiled.
“They are rather gorgeous, aren’t they? Though I cannot say I admire their wearer.”
Peter was discreetly silent. He took the dancer in to dinner, and found her a singularly dull person, except on the question of dress and the weakness of her sister artistes. The dinner was in full swing when Joyce Wilberforce, who was sitting almost opposite the detective, screamed and hunched herself up in the chair.
“Look, look!” she cried, pointing to the floor. “A rat!”
Peter, leaning over the table, saw a small brown shape run along the wainscot. The woman at his side shrieked and drew her feet up to the rail of her chair. This was the last thing he saw, for at that second all the lights in the room went out. He heard a scream from the dancer.
“My necklace, my necklace!”
There was a babble of voices, a discordant shouting of instructions and advice. Then Peter struck a match. The only thing he saw in the flickering light was the figure of Lola, with her hands clasped round her neck.
The collar of emeralds had disappeared!
It was five minutes before somebody fixed the fuse and brought the lights on again.
“Let nobody leave the room!” shouted Peter authoritatively. “Everybody here must be searched. And——”
Then his eyes fell upon a little card which had been placed on the table before him, and which had not been there when the lights went out. There was no need to turn it. He knew what to expect on the other side. The four squares and the little J looked up at him mockingly.
VIII
Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, had to do some mighty quick thinking and, by an effort of will, concentrate his mind upon all the events which had immediately preceded the robbery of the dancer’s necklace. First there was Joyce Wilberforce, who had undoubtedly seen a rat running along by the wainscot, and had drawn up her feet in a characteristically feminine fashion. Then he had seen the dancer draw up her feet, and put down her hands to pull her skirts tight—also a characteristically feminine action.
What else had he seen? He had seen a hand, the hand of a waiter, between himself and the woman on his left. He remembered now that there was something peculiar about that hand which had attracted his attention, and that he had been on the point of turning his head in order to see it better when Joyce’s scream had distracted his attention.
What was there about that hand? He concentrated all his mind upon this trivial matter, realising instinctively that behind that momentary omen was a possible solution of the mystery. He remembered that it was a well-manicured hand. That in itself was remarkable in a waiter. There had been no jewels or rings upon it, which was not remarkable. This he had observed idly. Then, in a flash, the detail which had interested him came back to his mind. The little finger was remarkably short. He puzzled his head to connect this malformation with something he had heard before. Leaving the room in the charge of the police who had been summoned, he took a taxi and drove straight to the hotel where Joyce Steele was staying with her husband.
“Mrs. Steele is out, but Mr. Steele has just come in,” said the hotel clerk. “Shall I send your name up?”
“It is unnecessary,” said the detective, showing his card. “I will go up to his room. What is the number?”
He was told, and a page piloted him to the door. Without troubling to knock, he turned the handle and walked in. Jamieson Steele was sitting before a little fire, smoking a cigarette, and looked up at the intruder.
“Hullo, Mr. Dawes,” he said calmly.
“You know me, eh?” said Peter. “May I have a few words with you?”
“You can have as many as you like,” said Steele. “Take a chair, won’t you? This is not a bad little sitting-room, but it is rather draughty. To what am I indebted for this visit? Is our wicked uncle pressing his charge of forgery?”
Peter Dawes smiled.
“I don’t think that is likely,” he said. “I have made a call upon you for the purpose of seeing your hands.”
“My hands?” said the other in a tone of surprise. “Are you going in for a manicure?”
“Hardly,” said Peter drily, as the other spread out his hands before him. “What is the matter with your little finger?” he asked, after a scrutiny.
Jamieson Steele examined the finger and laughed.
“He is not very big, is he?” he laughed. “Arrested development, I suppose. It is the one blemish on an otherwise perfect body.”
“Where have you been to-night?” asked Peter quietly.
“I have been to various places, including Scotland Yard?” was the staggering reply.
“To Scotland Yard?” asked Peter incredulously, and Jamieson Steele nodded.
“The fact is, I wanted to see you about the curious charge which Lord Claythorpe brings forward from time to time; and also I felt that some explanation was due to you as you are in charge of a case which nearly affects my wife, as to the reason I did a bolt when Claythorpe brought this charge of forgery against me.”
“What time did you leave the Yard?”
“About half an hour ago,” said Steele.
Peter looked at him closely. He was wearing an ordinary lounge suit, and a soft shirt. The hand which had come upon the table had undoubtedly been encased in a stiff cuff and a black sleeve.
“Why, what is the matter?” asked Steele.
“There has been a robbery at the Ritz Carlton to-night,” Peter explained. “A man dressed as a waiter has stolen an emerald necklace.”
“And naturally you suspect me,” he said ironically. “Well, you’re at liberty to search this apartment.”
“May I see your dress clothes?” said Peter.
For answer, the other led him to his bedroom, and his dress suit was discovered at the bottom of a trunk, carefully folded and brushed.
“Now,” said Peter, “if you don’t mind, I’ll conduct the search you suggest. You understand that I have no authority to do so, and I can only make the search with your permission.”
“You have my permission,” said the other. “I realise that I am a suspected person, so go ahead, and don’t mind hurting my feelings.”
Peter’s search was thorough, but revealed nothing of importance.
“This is my wife’s room,” said Steele. “Perhaps you would like to search that?”
“I should,” said Peter Dawes, without hesitation, but again his investigations drew blank.
He opened all the windows of the room, feeling along the window-sills for a tape, cord or thread, from which an emerald necklace might be suspended. It was an old trick to fasten a stolen article to a black thread, and the black thread to some stout gummed paper fastened to the window-sill; but here again he discovered nothing.
“Now,” said the cheerful young man, “you had better search me.”
“I might as well do the job thoroughly,” agreed Peter, and ran his hands scientifically over the other’s body.
“Not guilty, eh?” said Steele, when he had finished. “Now perhaps you’ll sit down, and I’ll tell you something about Lord Claythorpe that will interest you. You know, of course, that Claythorpe has been living on the verge of bankruptcy. Won’t you sit down?” he said again, and Peter obeyed. “Here is a cigar which will steady your nerves.”
“I can’t stay very long,” said Peter, “but I should like your end of the serial very much indeed.”
He took the proffered cigar, and bit off the end.
“As I was saying,” Steele went on, “Claythorpe has been living for years on the verge of bankruptcy. He is a man who, from his youth up, has been dependent on his wits. His early life was passed in what the good books called dissolute living. I believe there was a time when he was so broke he slept on the Embankment.”
Peter nodded. He also had heard something to this effect.
“This, of course, was before he came into the title. He is a clever and unscrupulous man with a good address. And knowing that he was up against it, he set himself to gain powerful friends. One of these friends was my wife’s uncle—a good-natured innocent kind of man, who had amassed a considerable fortune in South Africa. I believe Claythorpe bled him pretty considerably, and might have bled him to death, only the old fellow died naturally, leaving a handsome legacy to his friends and the residue of his property to my wife. Claythorpe was made the executor, and given pretty wide powers. Amongst the property which my wife inherited—or rather, would inherit on her wedding day, was a small coal-mine in the North of England, which at the time of the old man’s death was being managed by a very brilliant young engineer, whose name modesty alone prevents my revealing.”
“Go on,” said Peter, with a smile.
“Claythorpe, finding himself in control of such unlimited wealth, set himself out to improve the property. And the first thing he did was to project the flotation of my coal mine—I call it mine, and I always regarded it as such in a spiritual sense—for about six times its value.”
Peter nodded.
“In order to bring in the public, it was necessary that a statement should be made with regard to the quantity of coal in the mine, the extent of the seams, etc., and it was my duty to prepare a most glowing statement, which would loosen the purse-strings of the investing public. Claythorpe put the scheme up to me, and I said, ‘No.’ I also told him,” the young man went on, choosing his words carefully, “that, if he floated this company, I should have something to say in the columns of the financial Press. So the thing was dropped, but Claythorpe never forgave me. There was a certain work which I had done for him outside my ordinary duties and, summoning me to his St. James’ Street office, he gave me a cheque. I noticed at the time that the cheque was for a much larger amount than I had expected, and thought his lordship was trying to get into my good books. I also noticed that the amount inscribed on the cheque had the appearance of being altered, and that even his lordship’s signature looked rather unusual. I took the cheque and presented it to my bank a few days later, and was summoned to the office, where I was denounced as a forger,” said the young man, puffing a ring of smoke into the air reflectively, “but it gives you a very funny feeling in the pit of the stomach. The heroic and proper and sensible thing to do was to stand on my ground, go up to the Old Bailey, make a great speech which would call forth the applause and approbation of judge and jury, and stalk out of the court in triumph. Under these circumstances, however, one seldom does the proper thing. Remington it was—the man who is now dead—who suggested that I should bolt; and, like a fool, I bolted. The only person who knew where I was was Joyce. I won’t tell you anything about my wife, because you probably know everything that is worth knowing. I’ll only say that I’ve loved her for years, and that my affection has been returned. It was she who urged me to come back to London and stand my trial, but I put this down to her child-like innocence—a man is always inclined to think that he’s the cleverer of the two when he’s exchanging advice with women. That’s the whole of the story.”
Peter waited.
“Now, Mr. Steele,” he said, “perhaps you will explain why you were at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel to-night disguised as a waiter.”
Steele looked at him with a quizzical smile.
“I think I could explain it if I’d been there,” he said. “Do you want me to invent an explanation as well as to invent my presence?”
“I am as confident that you were there,” said Peter, “as I am that you are sitting here. I am also certain that it will be next to impossible to prove that you were in the room.” He rose from his seat. “I am going back to the hotel,” he said, “though I do not expect that any of our bloodhounds have discovered the necklace.”
“Have another cigar,” said Steele, offering the open box.
Peter shook his head.
“No thank you,” he said.
“They won’t hurt you, take a handful.”
Peter laughingly refused.
“I think I am nearly through with this Four Square Jane business,” he said, “and I am pretty certain that it is not going to bring kudos or promotion to me.”
“I have a feeling that it will not, either,” said Steele. “It’s a rum case.”
Peter shook his head.
“Rum, because I’ve solved the mystery of Four Square Jane. I know who she is, and why she has robbed Claythorpe and his friends.”
“You know her, do you?” said Steele thoughtfully, and the other nodded.
Jamieson Steele waited till the door closed upon the detective, and then waited another five minutes before he rose and shot the bolt. He then locked the two doors leading from the sitting-room, took up the box of cigars and placed it on the table. He dipped into the box, and pulled out handful after handful of cigars, and then he took out something which glittered and scintillated in the light—a great collar of big emeralds—and laid it on the table. He looked at it thoughtfully, then wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket, replacing the cigars in the box. He passed into his bedroom, and came out wearing a soft felt hat, and a long dark-blue trench coat.
He hesitated before he unbolted the door, unbuttoned the coat, and took out the handkerchief containing the emerald collar, and put it into his overcoat pocket. If he had turned his head at that moment, and looked at the half-opened door of his bedroom, he might have caught a glimpse of a figure that was watching his every movement. Peter Dawes had not come alone, and there were three entrances to the private suite which Mr. and Mrs. Steele occupied.
Then Jamieson Steele stepped out so quickly that by the time the watcher was in the corridor, he had disappeared down the lift, which happened to be going down at that moment. The man raced down the stairs three at a time. The last landing was a broad marble balcony which overlooked the hall, and, glancing down, he saw Peter waiting. He waved his hand significantly, and at that moment the elevator reached the ground floor, and Jamieson Steele stepped out of it.
He was half way across the vestibule when Peter confronted him.
“Wait a moment, Mr. Steele. I want you,” said Peter.
It was at that second that the swing doors turned and Joyce Steele came in.
“Want me?” said Steele. “Why?”
“I am going to take you into custody on the charge of being concerned in the robbery to-night,” said the detective.
“You’re mad,” said Steele, with an immovable face.
“Arrest him? Oh no, no!” It was the gasping voice of the girl. In a second she had flung herself upon the man, her two arms about him. “It isn’t true, it isn’t true!” she sobbed.
Very gently Steele pushed her back.
“Go away, my dear. This is no place for you,” he said. “Mr. Dawes has made a great mistake, as he will discover.”
The watcher had joined the group now.
“He’s got the goods, sir,” he said triumphantly. “I watched him. The necklace was in a cigar box. He has got it in his pocket.”
“Hold out your hands,” said Peter, and in a second Jamieson Steele was handcuffed.
“May I come?” said the girl.
“It is better you did not,” said Peter. “Perhaps your husband will be able to prove his innocence. Anyway, you can do nothing.”
They left her, a disconsolate figure, standing in the hall, and carried their prisoner to Cannon Row.
“Now we’ll search you, if you don’t mind?” asked Peter.
“Not at all,” said the other coolly.
“Where did you say he put it?”
“In his pocket, sir,” said the spy.
Peter searched the overcoat pockets.
“There’s nothing here,” he said.
“Nothing there?” gasped the man in astonishment. “But I saw him put it there. He took it out of his hip pocket and——”
“Well, let’s try his hip pocket. Take off your coat, Steele.”
The young man obeyed, and again Peter’s deft fingers went over him, but with no better result. The two detectives looked at one another in consternation.
“A slight mistake on your part, my friend,” said Peter, “I’m sorry we’ve given you all this trouble.”
“Look in the bottom of the cab,” the second detective pleaded, and Peter laughed.
“I don’t see what he could do. He had the bracelets on his hands, and I never took my eyes off them once. You can search the cab if you like—it’s waiting at the door.”
But the search of the cab produced no better result.
And then an inspiration dawned upon Peter, and he laughed, softly and long.
“I’m going to give up this business,” he said. “I really am, Steele. I’m too childishly trustful.”
Their eyes met, and both eyes were creased with laughter.
“All right,” said Peter. “Let him go.”
“Let him go?” said the other detective in dismay.
“Yes. We’ve no evidence against this gentleman, and we’re very unlikely to secure it.”
For in that short space of time, Peter had realized exactly the kind he was up against; saw as clearly as daylight what had happened to the emeralds, and knew that any attempt to find them now would merely lead to another disappointment.
“If you don’t mind, Steele, I think I’ll go back with you to your hotel. I hope you’re not bearing malice.”
“Not at all,” replied Steele. “It’s your job to catch me, and my job to——” he paused.
“Yes?” said Peter curiously.
“My job to get caught, obviously,” said Steele with a laugh.
They did not speak again until they were in the cab on the way back to the hotel.
“I’m afraid my poor wife is very much upset.”
“I’m not worrying about that,” said Peter drily. “Steele, I think you are a wise man; and, being wise, you will not be averse to receiving advice from one who knows this game from A to Z.”
Steele did not reply.
“My advice to you is, get out of the country just as soon as you can, and take your wife with you,” said Peter. “There is an old adage that the pitcher goes often to the well—I need not remind you of that.”
“Suppose I tell you I do not understand you,” said Steele.
“You, will do nothing so banal,” replied Peter. “I tell you I know your game, and the thing that is going to stand against you is the robbery of the mail. That is your only bad offence in my eyes, and it is the one for which I would work night and day to bring you to justice.”
Again a silence.
“Nothing was stolen from the mail, that I know,” said Peter. “It was all returned. Your principal offence is that you scared a respectable servant of his Majesty into fits. Anyway, it is a felony of a most serious kind, and would get you twenty years if we could secure evidence against you. You held up his Majesty’s mail with a loaded revolver——”
“Even that you couldn’t prove,” laughed Steele. “It might not have been any more than a piece of gaspipe. After all, a hardened criminal, such as you believe I am, possessed of a brain which you must know by this time I have, would have sufficient knowledge of the law to prevent his carrying lethal weapons.”
“We are talking here without witnesses,” said Peter.
“I’m not so sure,” said Steele quickly. “I thought I was talking to you in my little sitting-room without witnesses.”
“Anyway, you can be sure there are no witnesses here,” smiled Peter, as the cab turned into the street where the hotel was situated. “And I am asking you confidentially, and man to man, if you can give me any information at all regarding the murder in St. James’ Street.”
Steele thought awhile.
“I can’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was in Falmouth at the time, as you know. Obviously, it was not the work of the lady who calls herself Four Square Jane, because my impression of that charming creature is that she would be scared to death at the sight of a revolver. The card which was found in the dead man’s hand——”
“How did you know that?” asked Peter quickly.
“These things get about,” replied the other unabashed. “Has it occurred to you that it was a moist night, that the murderer may have been hot, and that on the card may be his fingerprints?”
“That did occur to me,” said Peter. “In fact, it was the first thing I thought about. And, if it is any interest to you, I will tell you that there was a finger print upon that card, which I have been trying for the past few days to——” He stopped. “Here we are at your hotel,” he said. “There’s a good detective lost in you, Steele.”
“Not lost, but gone before,” said the other flippantly. “Good-night. You won’t come up and have a cigar?”
“No thanks,” said a grim Peter.
He went back to Scotland Yard. It was curious, amazingly curious, that Steele should have mentioned the card that night. It was not into an empty office that he went, despite the lateness of the hour. There was an important police conference, and all the heads of departments were crowded into the room, the air of which was blue with tobacco smoke. A stout, genial man nodded to Peter as he came in.
“We’ve had a devil of a job getting it, Peter, but we’ve succeeded.”
Before him was a small visiting-card, bearing the name of Jamieson Steele. In the very centre was a violet finger print. The finger print had not been visible to the naked eye until it had been treated with chemicals, and its present appearance was the result of the patient work of three of Scotland Yard’s greatest scientists.
“Did you get the other?” said Peter.
“There it is,” said the stout man, and pointed to a strip of cardboard bearing two black finger prints.
Peter compared the two impressions.
“Well,” he said, “at any rate, one of the mysteries is cleared up. How did you get this?” he asked pointing to the strip of cardboard bearing the two prints.
“I called on him, and shook hands with him,” said the stout man with a smile. “He was horribly surprised and offended that I should take such a liberty. Then I handed him the strip of card. It was a little while later, when he put his hand on the blotting pad, that he discovered that his palm and finger-tips were black, and I think that he was the most astonished man I ever saw.”
Peter smiled.
“He didn’t guess that your hand would be carefully covered with lamp-black, I gather?”
“Hardly,” said the fat man.
Again Peter compared the two impressions.
“There is no doubt at all about it,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve. Not a bad time, either. I’ll take Wilkins and Browne,” he said, “and get the thing over. It’s going to be a lot of trouble. Have you got the warrant?”
The stout man opened the drawer of his desk and passed a sheet of paper across. Peter examined it.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Lord Claythorpe was in his study taking a stiff whisky and soda when the detective was announced.
“Well?” he said. “Have you found the person who stole the emerald necklace?”
“No, my lord,” said Peter. “But I have found the man who shot Remington.”
Lord Claythorpe’s face went ashen.
“What do you mean?” he said hoarsely “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Peter, “that I am going to take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say will be used in evidence against you.”
IX
At three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe, an inmate of a cell at Cannon Row, sent for Peter Dawes. Peter was ushered into the cell, and found that Claythorpe had recovered from the crushed and hopeless man he had left: he was now calm and normal.
“I want to see you, Dawes,” he said, “to clear up a few matters which are on my conscience.”
“Of course, you know,” said Peter, “that any statement you make——”
“I know, I know,” said the other impatiently. “But I have this to say.” He paced the short cell, his hands gripped behind him. Presently he sat down at Peter’s side. “In the first place,” he said, “let me tell you that I killed Donald Remington. There’s a long story leading up to that killing, but I swear I had no intention of hurting him.”
Peter had taken a notebook from one pocket and a pencil from another, and was jotting down in his queer shorthand the story the other told. Usually such a proceeding had the effect of silencing the man whose words were being inscribed, but Claythorpe did not seem to notice.
“When Joyce Wilberforce’s uncle left me executor of his estate, I had every intention of going straight,” he went on. “But I made bad losses in the Kaffir market, and gradually I began to nibble at her fortune. The securities, which were kept in sealed envelopes at the bank, were taken out one by one, and disposed of; blank sheets of paper were placed in the envelopes, which were resealed. And when the burglary occurred, there was only one hundred-thousand pound bond left. That bond you will find in a secret drawer of my desk. I think Remington, who was in my confidence except for this matter, suspected it all along. When I took the securities from the bank, it was with the intention of raiding my own office that night and leaving the sign of Four Square Jane to throw suspicion elsewhere. I came back to the office at eleven o’clock that night, but found Remington was before me. He had opened the safe with his key, and was satisfying his curiosity as to the contents of the envelopes. He threatened to expose me, for he had already discovered that the envelopes contained nothing of importance.
“I was a desperate man. I have taken a revolver with me in case I was detected, intending to end my life then and there. Remington made certain demands on me, to which I refused to agree. He rose and walked to the door, telling me he intended to call the police; it was then that I shot him.”
Peter Dawes looked up from his notes.
“What about Steele’s card?” he said.
Lord Claythorpe nodded.
“I had taken that with me to throw suspicion upon Steele, because I believed, and still believe, that he is associated with Four Square Jane.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Peter. “Do you know or suspect Four Square Jane?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“I’ve always suspected that she was Joyce Wilberforce herself,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to confirm that suspicion. In the old days, when the Wilberforces were living in Manchester Square, I used to see the girl, and suspected she was carrying notes to young Steele, who had a top-floor office at the corner of Cavendish Square.”
“Where were you living at the time?” asked Peter quickly.
“I had a flat in Grosvenor Square,” said Lord Claythorpe.
Peter jumped up.
“Was the girl’s uncle alive at this time?”
Lord Claythorpe nodded.
“He was still alive,” he said.
“Where was he living?”
“In Berkeley——”
“I’ve got it!” said Peter excitedly. “This was when all the trouble was occurring, when you were planning to rob the girl, and using your influence against her. Don’t you see? ‘Four Square Jane.’ She has named the four squares where the four characters in your story lived.”
Lord Claythorpe frowned.
“That solution never occurred to me,” he said.
He did not seem greatly interested in a matter which excited Peter Dawes to an unusual extent. He had little else to say, and when Peter Dawes left him, he lay wearily down on the plank bed.
Peter was talking for some time with the inspector in charge of the station, when the gaoler called him.
“I don’t know what was the matter with that prisoner, sir,” he said, “but, looking through the peephole about two minutes ago, I saw him pulling the buttons off his coat.”
Peter frowned.
“You’d better change that coat of his,” he said, “and place him under observation.”
They all went back to the cell together. Lord Claythorpe was lying in the attitude in which Peter had left him, and they entered the cell together. Peter bent down and touched the face, then, with a cry, turned the figure over on its back.
“He’s dead!” he cried.
He looked at the coat. One of the buttons had been wrenched off. Then he bent down and smelt the dead man’s lips, and began a search of the floor. Presently he found what he was looking for—a section of a button. He picked it up, smelt it, and handed it to the inspector.
“So that’s how he did it,” he said gravely. “Claythorpe was prepared for this.”
“What is it?” asked the inspector.
“The second button of his coat has evidently been made specially for him. It is a compressed tablet of cyanide of potassium, coloured to match the other buttons, and he had only to tear it off to end his life.”
So passed Lord Claythorpe, a great scoundrel, leaving his title to a weakling of a son, and very few happy memories to that obscure and hysterical woman who bore his name. Peter’s work was done, save for the mystery of Four Square Jane, and even that mystery was exposed. The task he had set himself now was a difficult one, and one in which he had very little heart. He obtained a fresh set of warrants, and accompanied by a small army of detectives who watched every exit, made his call at the hotel at which Steele and his wife were staying.