Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye.
The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview.
“Sit down—sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble, hey?”
Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as to a business proposition.
“I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but she’s not going to get anything from me—you can take my word! As to the Rumney—is that how you pronounce it?—well, as to that picture, don’t worry!”
“But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect your collection.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.”
“Where do you keep the Romney at night—still hanging?” asked Peter, and Mr. Tresser laughed.
“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room. The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of opening.”
Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and, anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely.
He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the Romney—a beautiful example of the master’s art.
Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door—that through which he had come—and the windows at both ends were not only barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day.
Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the Assistant Chief Commissioner.
“Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief Commissioner.
“Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted.
“What do you mean?” said Peter.
“I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter could only stare at him.
“When did this happen?”
“Half an hour ago—you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make inquiries on the spot.”
Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he discovered them, were simple.
At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”
He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the excellence of his quality as an art critic—which meant that he was the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way to the picture gallery.
“Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter.
“Yes, sir.”
“And nobody went in with him?”
“No, sir.”
Peter nodded.
“Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.”
“The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes; that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the floor.
“Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name ‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.”
“What was she like?” said Peter.
“Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.”
Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came out—he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby, and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money—he thanked them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking to himself all the time, and finally disappeared.
He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked: “Which is the Romney picture?”
“In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the door.”
“But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.”
The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had disappeared!
In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the place, was the sign of Four Square Jane.
The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station—the second went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab.
“And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.
“Oh, she just went away,” said the attendant; “she was here for some time, and then she went off. Her address was in the visitor’s book. There was no chance of her carrying the picture away—none whatever,” said the attendant emphatically. “She was wearing a short little skirt, and light summery things, and it was impossible to have concealed a big canvas like that.”
Peter went in to inspect the frame. The picture had been cut flush with the borders. He looked around, making a careful examination of the apartment, but discovered nothing, except, immediately in front of the picture, a long, white pin. It was the sort of pin that bankers use to fasten notes together. And there was no other clue.
Mr. Tresser took his loss very calmly until the newspapers came out with details of the theft. It was only then that he seemed impressed by its value, and offered a reward for its recovery.
The stolen Romney became the principal topic of conversation in clubs and in society circles. It filled columns of the newspapers, and exercised the imagination of some of the brightest young men in the amateur criminal investigation business. All the crime experts were gathered together at the scene of the happening and their theories, elaborate and ingenious, provided interesting subject matter for the speculative reader.
Peter Dawes, armed with the two addresses he had taken from the visitors’ book, the address of the old man and of the girl, went round that afternoon to make a personal investigation, only to discover that neither the learned Mr. Smith nor the innocent child were known at the addresses they had given.
Peter reported to headquarters with a very definite view as to how the crime was committed.
“The old man was a blind,” he said, “he was sent in to create suspicion and keep the eyes of the attendants upon himself. He purposely bored everybody with his long-winded discourse on art in order to be left alone. He went into the saloon knowing that his bulky appearance would induce the attendants to keep their eyes on him. Then he came out—the thing was timed beautifully—just as the child came in. That was the lovely plan.
“The money was dropped to direct all attention on the old man, and at that moment, probably, the picture was cut from its frame, and it was hidden. Where it was hidden, or how the girl got it out is a mystery. The attendants are most certain that she could not have had it concealed about her, and I have made experiments with a thick canvas cut to the size of the picture, and it certainly does seem that the picture would have so bulged that they could not have failed to have noticed it.”
“But who was the girl?”
“Four Square Jane!” said Peter promptly.
“Impossible!”
Peter smiled.
“It is the easiest thing in the world for a young girl to make herself look younger. Short frocks, and hair in plaits—and there you are! Four Square Jane is something more than clever.”
“One moment,” said the Chief, “could she have handed it through the window to somebody else?”
Peter shook his head.
“I have thought of that,” he said, “but the windows were closed and there was a wire-netting which made that method of disposal impossible. No, by some means or other she got the picture out under the noses of the attendants. Then she came out and announced innocently that she could not find the Romney picture—naturally there was a wild rush to the saloon. For three minutes no notice was being taken of the ‘child’.”
“Do you think one of the attendants was in collusion?”
“That is also possible,” said Peter, “but every man has a record of good, steady service. They’re all married men and none of them has the slightest thing against him.”
“And what will she do with the picture? She can’t dispose of it,” protested the Chief.
“She’s after the reward,” said Peter with a smile, “I tell you, Chief, this thing has put me on my mettle. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve got my hand on Jane yet, but I’m living on hopes.”
“After the reward,” repeated the Chief; “that’s pretty substantial. But surely you are going to fix her when she hands the picture over?”
“Not on your life,” replied Peter, and took out of his pocket a telegram and laid it on the table before the other. It read:
“The Romney will be returned on condition that Mr. Tresser undertakes to pay the sum of five thousand pounds to the Great Panton Street Hospital for Children. On his signing an agreement to pay this sum, the picture will be restored.
“Jane.”
“What did Tresser say about that?”
“Tresser agrees,” answered Peter, “and has sent a note to the secretary of the Great Panton Street Hospital to that effect. We are advertising the fact of his agreement very widely in the newspapers.”
At three o’clock that afternoon came another telegram, addressed this time to Peter Dawes—it annoyed him to know that the girl was so well informed that she was aware of the fact that he was in charge of the case.
“I will restore the picture at eight o’clock to-night. Be in the picture gallery, and please take all precautions. Don’t let me escape this time—The Four Square Jane.”
The telegram was handed in at the General Post Office.
Peter Dawes neglected no precaution. He had really not the faintest hope that he would make the capture, but it would not be his fault if Four Square Jane were not put under lock and key.
A small party assembled in the gloomy hall of Mr. Tresser’s own house.
Dawes and two detective officers, Mr. Tresser himself—he sucked at a big cigar and seemed the least concerned of those present—the three attendants, and a representative of the Great Panton Street Hospital were there.
“Do you think she’ll come in person?” asked Tresser. “I would rather like to see that Jane. She certainly put one over on me, but I bear her no ill-will.”
“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.”
“Anyway, the messenger——” began Tresser.
Peter shook his head.
“The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have taken precautions—all the district messenger offices have been warned to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel addressed here.”
Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door.
It was a telegraph boy.
Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message through carefully, and laughed—a hopeless, admiring laugh.
“She’s done it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Tresser.
“Come in here,” said Peter.
He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square Jane had stuck.
He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows.
“The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.”
He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly revolved.
There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.
* * * * *
“I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief. It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.
“She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that infernal thing down!”
“The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this—Who is Four Square Jane?”
“That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.”
IV
Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.
According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without mercy.
And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had from Joyce.
Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her, and Joyce did understand her mother.
They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very thoughtful.
“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try to keep your mind from wandering.”
“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.
“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”
“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You didn’t like her manner or something.”
“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.
The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present conversation.
“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing wrong with her.”
Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.
“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.
“Why do you say that, mother?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”
Joyce laughed.
“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.
“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours, or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has disappeared?”
Joyce nodded.
“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.
“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s dearest friend.”
“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him. In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be married off in this way.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And short-sightedness,” she added.
“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce, after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to marry Francis.”
She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of the young man under discussion.
“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.
Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.
“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”
“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce, that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best interests at heart.”
“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe, the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would choose his own idiot son!”
“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement. He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”
“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains. Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”
Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.
“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a penniless engineer and a forger!”
The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.
“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”
Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.
“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson was led astray——”
“I tell you he did not do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”
Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.
“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said, “let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.
“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”
Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.
“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”
The girl laughed.
“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.
“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor Francis.”
The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.
“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right. One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”
A maid came in at this moment.
“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs. Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.
The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and awkward arms—if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the morrow.
He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.
“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”
The girl looked at him thoughtfully.
“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of thing.”
She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.
“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”
“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his hand straying to his pocket.
This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination, and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.
“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked mysteriously.
She shook her head.
He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a heavily scented letter.
He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:—
“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again. You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in The Times, and I will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock to-morrow night.”
“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.
“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.
“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that, and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he is!”
“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with him, aren’t we?”
“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to him.”
He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl had to suppress a smile.
She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the papacy.
It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.
“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you can be sure of that.”
Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally uninteresting subject.
For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.
That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late, in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the meeting.
“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe disapprovingly.
“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk. I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”—with a fine air of unconcern—“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’ ”
“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of seclusion in one of our religious houses.”
“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your wedding eve.”
Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he evolved a sermon from the incident—a sermon which could not fail to gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.
“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low voice.
“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister Agatha.”
This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was impossible that he should remember their names.
He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler, and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.
“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”
“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”
A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to bed.
The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature of Four Square Jane. The letter read:—
“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”
“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again, and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.
* * * * *
Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.
“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.
He opened it and gasped.
“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the neighbouring pews could hear.
Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.
As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.
And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed—“Marriage License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”
“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.
“This license,” began the clergyman.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license—there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.
“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet——”
“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?”
For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.
“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares.
“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”
Mr. Maggerley shook his head.
“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.
So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!
V
Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character.
The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them.
“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.”
“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated.
“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”
The detective nodded.
“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.
“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees——”
“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.
“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”
“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.”
“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.
“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another license.”
Lord Claythorpe sniffed.
“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her—or rather, to send her—to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.”
“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name——”
“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?”
His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the usual manner—which was to abuse the police.
Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who had been in charge of the forgery case.
“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele. But he was a quiet enough young fellow—a civil engineer, so far as my memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s companies.”
Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of respectability.
“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in the world of the idle rich?”
The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.
“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”
“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.
“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he said.
“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly. “Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”
The men’s eyes met.
“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective shrugged his shoulders.
“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his association with Four Square Jane.”
Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.
“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the impoverishment of Claythorpe?”
“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt, robbing the rich to keep the poor.”
The inspector smiled.
“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”
“There have been instances,” said Peter.
“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money—at any rate, when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”
“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.
“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”
* * * * *
Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St. James’ Street. The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.
After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs which led to the little suite—it was more like a flat than an office and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by the side door—in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.
The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:
“What did the detective want your lordship for?”
“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.
“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.
Claythorpe nodded.
“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.
Another silence, and then Remington asked:
“I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”
There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe looked up.
“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made arrangements about——”
Remington nodded.
“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay in the vaults at the bank don’t you think, especially in view of this girl’s activities?”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by questioning any act of mine?”
Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.
“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely suggesting that——”
“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”
“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the accountant are bringing it.”
“Good!” said Claythorpe, “to-morrow I will take it down to my country place.”
Remington was silent.
“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square Jane, too.”
“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”
“In a month,” said his lordship airily. “I suppose you’re thinking about your bonus.”
Remington licked his dry lips.
“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”
Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.
“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I promised you for your assistance?”
“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.
“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back that pearl necklace.”
“You mean the Venetian Armlet?” said the other quickly. “I didn’t know that you had the pearl necklace back?”
“Anyway, I advertised for it,” said his lordship evasively.
“Fixing no definite reward,” said Remington, “and for a very good reason.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lord Claythorpe quickly.
“The pearls were faked,” said the calm Remington. “Your fifty thousand pound necklace was worth little more than fifty pounds!”
“Hush! for heavens’ sake,” said Claythorpe. “Don’t talk so loud.” He mopped his brow. “You seem to know a devil of a lot,” he said suspiciously. “In fact, there are moments, Remington, when I think you know a damn sight too much for my comfort.”
Remington smiled for the first time—a thin hard smile that gave his face a sinister appearance.
“All the more reason why your lordship should get rid of me as soon as possible,” he said. “I have no ambition except to own a little cottage in Cornwall, where I can fish, ride a horse, and idle away my time.”
His lordship rose hurriedly and took off his coat, preparatory to washing his hands in a small wash-place leading from the office.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I had forgotten I have to lunch with somebody. Your ambition shall be gratified—be sure of that, Remington,” he said, passing into the smaller room.
“I hope so,” said Remington. His eyes were fixed on the floor. In throwing down his coat a letter had dropped from Claythorpe’s pocket, and Remington stooped to pick it up. He saw the postmark and the handwriting, and recognized it as that of Mrs. Wilberforce. He heard the splash of the water in the bowl and Lord Claythorpe’s voice humming a little tune. Without a moment’s hesitation he took it out and read it. The letter was short.
“My dear Lord Claythorpe,” it ran. “Joyce is adamant on the point of the marriage, and says she will not go through with it for another twelve months.”
He replaced the letter in the envelope, and put it back in the inside pocket of the coat.
Twelve months! Claythorpe had lied when he said a month, and was obviously lying with a purpose.
When his lordship emerged, wiping his hands on a towel, and still humming a little tune, Remington was gazing out of the window upon the chimney tops of Jermyn Street.
“I shall be back at half-past two,” said Lord Claythorpe, perfunctorily examining a small heap of letters which lay on his desk. “The bank people will be here by then?”
Remington nodded.
“I am worried about this transfer of Miss Joyce’s securities,” he said. “They are safe enough in the bank. I do not think they will be safe with you.”
“Rubbish,” said his lordship. “I think I know how to deal with Four Square Jane. And besides, I am going to ensure the safety of the securities. Four Square Jane isn’t the kind of person who would steal paper security. It wouldn’t be any good to her, anyway.”
“But suppose these documents disappear?” persisted Remington. “Though it might not assist Four Square Jane, it would considerably embarrass you and Miss Joyce. It would not be a gain, perhaps, to the burglar, but it would be a distinct loss to the young lady.”
“Don’t worry,” said Claythorpe, “neither Four Square Jane nor her confederate, Mr. Jamieson Steele—”
“Jamieson Steele?” repeated Remington. “What has he to do with it?”
Lord Claythorpe chuckled.
“It is my theory—and it is a theory, I think, which is also held by the police—that Jamieson Steele is the gentleman who assists Miss Four Square Jane in her robberies.”
“I’ll never believe it,” said Remington.
Lord Claythorpe had his hand on the door, preparatory to departing, and he turned at these words.
“Perhaps you do not believe that he forged my name to a cheque in this very office?” he said.
“I certainly do not believe that,” said Remington. “In fact I know that that story is a lie.”
Claythorpe’s face went red.
“That is an ugly word to use to me, Remington,” he said, “I think the sooner you go the better.”
“I quite agree with your lordship,” said Remington, and smiled as the door slammed behind his irate master.
When Claythorpe returned he was in a more amicable frame of mind, and greeted the two bank officials with geniality. On the big table was a black japanned box, heavily sealed. The business of transferring the sealed packages which constituted the contents of the box was not a long process. Lord Claythorpe checked them with a list he took from his case, and signed a receipt.
“I suppose your lordship would not like to break the seals of these envelopes?” said the assistant bank manager. “Of course, we are not responsible for their contents, but it would be more satisfactory to us, as I am sure it would be to your lordship, if you were able to verify the contents.”
“It is not necessary,” said Claythorpe, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just reseal the box and put it in my safe.”
This he did in the presence of the manager, locking away the box in an old-fashioned steel safe—a proceeding which the bankers witnessed without enthusiasm.
“That doesn’t seem very secure,” said one, “I wish your lordship——”
“I wish you would mind your own business,” said Lord Claythorpe, and the bankers left, “blessing” the truculent man under their breath.
At six o’clock that afternoon Claythorpe finished the work on which he had been engaged, closed and locked his desk, tried the safe, and put on his hat. He glanced through the front window and saw that his car was waiting, and that it was pelting with rain.
“Which way are you going, Remington?” he asked. “I can give you a lift as far as Park Lane.”
“No, thank you, my lord,” said Remington, struggling into his mackintosh. “I am going by tube, and I have not far to walk.”
They went out of the office together, double-locking the stout door. Before leaving, Remington attached a burglar alarm which communicated with a large bell outside the building, and he repeated this process before the door was actually closed and double-locked.
“I want you to be here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said Claythorpe to his subordinate. “Good-night.”
The inclemency of the weather increased as the evening advanced. A howling south-west gale swept over London, clearing the streets of idlers and limiting to some extent the activities of the police patrols. The police officer who was on duty within a few yards of the building, and who was relieved at eleven o’clock that night, stated that he saw or heard nothing of a suspicious character. In the course of his tour of duty, he tried the door which led to Lord Claythorpe’s office but found it fastened. His relief, a man named Tomms, made an examination of the door at a quarter past eleven—it was his business to examine every door in the street to see that they were securely fastened—and, in addition, acting upon instructions received from Scotland Yard, “pegged” the door. That is to say, he inserted two small wedges of the size of match sticks, one in each door-post, and tied a piece of black cotton from one to the other.
At one o’clock he tried the door again, and flashed his lamp upon the black thread, and found that it had been broken. This could only mean that someone had passed into the office between eleven and one. He summoned assistance, and roused the caretaker, who lived in adjoining premises, and together they went into the darkened building, and mounted the stairs.
Lord Claythorpe’s office door was apparently closed. It led, as the caretaker explained, directly into the main office. There was no sign of jemmy work, and the officers might have given up their investigations and found a simple explanation for the broken thread in the wildness of the night, when, flashing his lamp on the floor, one of the policemen saw a thin trickle of red coming from beneath. It was blood!
The police did not hesitate, but smashed open the door, and entered with some difficulty, for immediately behind the door was lying the body of a man. Tomms switched on the light and knelt down by the side of the body.
“He’s dead,” he said. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes, sir,” said the white-faced caretaker, “that’s Mr. Remington.”
The police made a perfunctory examination.
“You’d better get the divisional surgeon, Jim,” he said to his comrade. “But I’m afraid it’s no use. This poor fellow has been shot through the heart.”
He looked round the apartment. The safe door was wide open and empty.
Half-an-hour later Peter Dawes arrived on the scene of the murder and made a brief examination. He looked at the body.
“Was he like this?” he asked, “when you found him?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer.
“He has a knife in his hand.”
Peter bent down and looked at the thin-bladed weapon, tightly clenched in the dead man’s hand.
“What’s that, sir?” said Tomms, pointing to the other hand. “It looks like a paper there.”
The card in Remington’s half-clenched fist was loosely held, and the detective gently withdrew it. It was a visiting-card, and the name inscribed thereon was, “Mr. Jamieson Steele, Civil Engineer.” Peter Dawes whistled, and then walked across to the safe.
“That’s queer,” he said, and swung the door of the safe closed in the hope of finding something behind it.
He found something, but not what he had expected. In the centre of the green steel door was a small label. It was a label bearing the mark of Four Square Jane.
VI
Four Square Jane had committed a murder! It was incredible. All Peter Dawes’ fine theories went by the board in that discovery. This was not the work of a society crook; it was not the work of a criminal philanthropist; there was evidence here of the most cold-blooded murder that it had been his business to investigate.
Summoned from his bed at three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe came to his office a greatly distressed man. He was shivering from sheer terror when he told the story of the securities which had been in the safe when he had left the office.
“And I was warned. I was warned!” he cried. “Poor Remington himself begged me not to do it. What a fool I am!”
“What was Remington doing here?” asked Peter.
The body of the murdered man had long since been removed to the mortuary, and only the dark stain on the floor spoke eloquently of tragedy.
“I haven’t any idea,” said his lordship. “I simply dare not let myself think. Poor fellow! It is a tragedy, an appalling tragedy!”
“I know all about that,” said Peter drily. “Murders usually are. But what was Remington doing in this office between eleven at night and one o’clock in the morning?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“I can only offer you my theory,” he said, “for what it is worth. Poor Remington was greatly worried about the securities being in this office at all, and he begged me to get a caretaker, a commissionaire or somebody, to sit in the office during the night. Very foolishly I rejected this excellent suggestion. I can only surmise that, worried by the knowledge that so many valuable securities were in this inadequate safe, Remington came in the middle of the night, intending to remain on guard himself.”
Peter nodded. It was a theory which had the appearance of being a feasible one.
“Then you think that he was surprised by the burglar?”
“Or burglars,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Yes, I do.”
Peter sat at his lordship’s desk, tapping at the blotting-pad with his fingers.
“There is a lot to support your theory,” he said. “From the appearance of the body and the weapon in his hand, it is a likely suggestion that he was defending himself. On the other hand, look at this.”
He took a crumpled envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. It was stained with blood and the flap was heavily sealed.
“We found this under his body,” said the detective. “You will note that the envelope has been slit open by some sharp instrument—in fact, such an instrument as was found in Remington’s hand when the body was discovered.”
His lordship pondered this.
“Possibly he surprised them in the act of opening the envelope, and snatched it away,” he said, and again the detective nodded.
“I agree with you that that is also a plausible theory,” he said. “Had he a key of the safe?”
Lord Claythorpe hesitated.
“Not that I know,” he said. “Why, yes, of course, he had! I did not realize it. Yes, Remington had a key.”
“And is this the key?” Peter Dawes handed his lordship a long steel key which he had taken from his pocket, and Lord Claythorpe examined it intently.
“Yes,” he said, “that is undoubtedly one of the keys of the safe. Where did you find it?”
“Under the table,” said the detective.
“Are there any other clues?” asked his lordship after a pause, and this time Peter did not immediately answer.
“Yes, there is one,” he said. “We found in the dead man’s hand a small visiting-card.”
“What was the name?” asked the other quickly.
“The name was Mr. Jamieson Steele, who, I believe, was a former employee of yours.”
“Steele! By heaven! That fits in with what I have been saying all along!” cried Claythorpe. “So Steele was in it!”
“It doesn’t follow because this card was found in Remington’s hand that the card belonged to the burglar,” said Peter quietly. “It is not customary in criminal circles for murderers to leave their cards upon their victims, as I daresay your lordship knows.”
Claythorpe looked at him sharply.
“This does not seem to me to be a moment when you can exercise your sarcasm at my expense,” he growled. “I tell you Steele is a blackguard, and is the kind of man who would assist this notorious woman in her undertakings. Of course, if you’re going to shield him——”
“I shield nobody,” said Peter coldly. “I would not even shield your lordship if I had the slightest evidence against you. Of that you may be sure.”
Lord Claythorpe winced.
“This is a heavy loss for you,” said Peter, who was ignorant of the contents of the safe. Then, noticing the other’s silence, he asked quickly: “You will, of course, give me the fullest information as to what the safe contained. And you can’t do better than tell me now. Was it ready money?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“Nothing but securities,” he said, “and those not of a negotiable character.”
“Your securities?” asked Peter. “What was their value?”
“About a quarter of a million,” said his lordship, and Peter gasped.
“Your money?” he asked again.
“No,” hesitated Lord Claythorpe. “Not my money, but a trust fund——”
Peter sprang up from the table.
“You don’t mean to say that this was the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce about which we were talking this morning?”
His lordship nodded.
“It is,” he said briefly. “It is a great tragedy, and I don’t know how I shall excuse myself to the poor girl.”
“You, of course, know what the securities were?” said Peter in a dry, matter-of-fact voice, as he sat down once more at the table.
In that moment he betrayed no more emotion than if he had been investigating the most commonplace of shop robberies.
“I have a list,” said Claythorpe, and for nearly an hour he was detailing particulars of the bonds which had been stolen.
Peter finished his inquiry at four in the morning, and went to his office to send out an all-Britain message.
It was not like Jane, this latest crime. It was certainly not like Jane or her assistant—if she had an assistant—to leave an incriminating visiting-card in poor Remington’s hand.
Peter Dawes was wise in the ways of criminals, both habitual and involuntary. He had seen a great deal of the grim side of his profession, and had made a careful study of anatomy, particularly in relation to murdered people. He was satisfied in his own mind that the card that was held in the lightly clenched fist of the dead man had been placed there after he had been shot.
He expressed himself frankly to his chief.
“The card is evidently a plant to lead us off the track; and if it was put there by Four Square Jane it was designed with the object of switching suspicion from her on to the unfortunate Steele.”
“Do you think you’ll catch Steele?” asked the chief.
Peter nodded.
“Yes, sir, I can catch him just when I want him, I think,” he said. “It was only because we didn’t want to take this man that we have let him go loose so long. He was a fool to run away, because the evidence against him was pretty paltry.”
Dawes had a large number of calls to make the following morning, and the first of these was on a firm of safemakers in Queen Victoria Avenue. He had the good fortune to find that the sales manager had been in control of the store for the past twenty years, and that he remembered distinctly selling the safe to Lord Claythorpe.
“That’s a relief,” smiled the detective. “I was afraid I should have to go all over London to find the seller. How many keys did you supply?”
“Two,” said the man. “One for his lordship, and one for Mr. Remington.”
“Was there any difference in the two keys?”
“None except the marking. Have you one of the keys here?”
The detective produced it from his pocket, but when the salesman put out his hand for it he shook his head, with a smile.
“No, I’ll keep it in my own hand, if you don’t mind. I have a special reason,” he said. “Perhaps you will describe the marking.”