CHAPTER VI
“Hallo, Johnny! Running for the compensation stakes?”
Johnny laughed.
“You mean the maid? She is rather pretty, isn’t she?”
“Very,” said the other.
Had he heard? That was a question and a fear in Johnny’s mind. The marble bench was less than six feet from the bush where Peter Kane stood. If he had been there any time——
“Been waiting long for me, Peter?” he asked.
“No; I just saw you take a farewell of Lila—very nice girl, that, Johnny—an extraordinarily nice girl. I don’t know when I’ve met a nicer. What did you find to talk about?”
“The weather, dicky-birds and the course of true love,” said Johnny, as Kane took his arm and led him across the lawn.
“Everything variable and flighty, eh?” said Peter with a little smile. “Come and eat, Johnny. These people are going away soon. Marney is changing now. What do you think of my new son-in-law, eh?”
His old jovial manner held. When they came into the big reception-room and Peter Kane’s arm went round his son-in-law’s shoulder, Johnny breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he did not know! He had sweated in his fear of what might follow a discovery.
Thirty-six people sat down in the dining-room, and, contrary to convention, Marney, who sat at the head of the table, was wearing her going-away dress. John shot a quick glance at her as he came in, but she averted her eyes. Her father sat on her left; next to him was the clergyman who had performed the ceremony. Next came a girl friend, and then a man, by whose side Johnny sat.
He recognised the leathery features instantly.
“Been away, Johnny?” Detective-Superintendent Craig asked the question in a voice so carefully pitched that it did not reach any farther than the man to whom he spoke.
The chatter and buzz of conversation, the little ripples of laughter that ran up and down the table, did something to make the privacy of their talk assured.
As old Barney bent over to serve a dish, Craig gave a sidelong glance at his companion.
“Peter’s got old Barney still—keeping honest, Barney?”
“I’m naturally that way,” said Barney sotto voce. “It’s not meeting policemen that keeps me straight.”
The hard features of the detective relaxed.
“There are lots of other people who could say that, Barney,” he said, and when the man had passed to the next guest: “He’s all right. Barney never was a bad man. I think he only did one stretch—he wouldn’t have done that if he’d had Peter’s imagination, Johnny.”
“Peter’s imagination?”
“I’m not referring to his present imagination, but the gift he had fourteen—fifteen years ago. Peter was the cleverest of them all. The brilliant way his attack was planned, the masterly line of retreat, the wonderful alibis, so beautifully dovetailed into one another that, if we had pinched him, he’d not only have been discharged, but he would have got something from the poor box! It used to be the life ambition of every young officer to catch him, to find some error of judgment, some flaw in his plan. But it was police-proof and fool-proof.”
“He’d blush to hear you,” said the other dryly.
“But it’s true, Johnny! The clever letters he used to write, all to fool us. He did a lot of work with letters—getting people together, luring ’em to the place he wanted ’em and where their presence served him best. I remember how he got my chief to be at Charing Cross under the clock at ten-past nine, and showed up himself and made him prove his alibi!” He laughed gently.
“I suppose,” said Gray, “people would think it remarkable that you and he are such good friends?”
“They wouldn’t say it was remarkable; they’d say it was damned suspicious!” growled the other. “Having a drink?” he said suddenly, and pulled a wine bottle across the table.
“No, thanks—I seldom drink. We have to keep a very clear head in our business. We can’t afford to dream.”
“We can’t afford anything else,” said Craig. “Why ‘our business,’ old man? You’re out of that?”
Johnny saw the girl look toward him. It was only a glance—but in that brief flash he saw all that he feared to see—the terror, the bewilderment, the helplessness. He set his teeth and turned abruptly to the detective.
“How is your business?” he asked.
“Quiet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said John Gray with mock concern. “But trade’s bad everywhere, isn’t it?”
“What sort of time did you have—in the country?” asked Craig, and his companion grinned.
“Wonderful! My bedroom wanted papering, but the service was quite good.”
Craig sighed.
“Ah well, we live and learn,” he said heavily. “I was sorry about it, Johnny, very sorry. It’s a misfortune, but there’s no use grieving about it. You were one of the unlucky ones. If all the people who deserved prison were in prison—why, there wouldn’t be any housing problems. I hear there were quite a lot of stars there,” Craig went on. “Harry Becker, and young Lew Storing—why, old Legge must have been there in your time. And another fellow—now, what’s his name? The slush man—ah, Carper, that’s it. Ever see him?”
“Yes; he and I were once harnessed to the same cart.”
“Ah!” said Craig encouragingly. “I’ll bet you heard a few things. He’d talk to you.”
“He did.”
Craig bent toward him, lowering his voice.
“Suppose I told you a certain party coppered you, and suppose I said I’ve reason to believe that your copper is the man I want. Now couldn’t we exchange confidences?” he asked.
“Yes, we might squeak together, and it would sound like one of those syncopated orchestras. But we won’t. Honestly, Craig, I can’t tell you about the Big Printer. Reeder ought to know all about him!”
“Reeder!” said the other scornfully. “An amateur! All this fal-de-lal about secret service men gets my goat! If they’d left the matter to the police, we’d have had the Big Printer—ever seen him, Johnny?”
“No,” said Johnny untruthfully.
“Reeder, eh?” said the thoughtful detective. “They used to have an office man named Golden once, an old fellow that thought he could catch slushers by sitting in an office and thinking hard. Reeder isn’t much better by all accounts. I saw him once, a soft fellow on the edge of senile decay!”
Craig sighed deeply, looked up and down the happy board with a bleak and grudging glance, and then:
“Just for a little heart-to-heart talk, I know where you could get an easy ‘monkey,’[*£500] Johnny,” he said softly.
Johnny did not smile.
“It would have to be a monkey on a stick, Craig——”
“We’re both men of the world,” interrupted the detective imploringly.
“Yes,” said Johnny Gray, “but not the same world, Craig.”
One last despairing effort the detective made, though he knew that, in angling for a squeak, he might as well have tried Peter himself.
“The Bank of England will pay a thousand pounds for the information I want.”
“And who can afford it better?” said Johnny heartily. “Now, shut up, Craig; somebody’s going to make a speech.”
It was a mild and beatific oration delivered by the officiating clergyman. When it came to its machine-made peroration Craig, who was intensely interested in the sonorous platitudes, looked round and saw that his companion had gone from his side—later he saw him leaning over Peter’s chair, and Peter was nodding vigorously. Then Johnny passed through the door.
Somebody else was watching him. The bridegroom, twiddling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, saw him go, and was more than ordinarily interested. He was sufficiently curious, at any rate, to catch the eye of the pretty maid and look significantly at the door. At that signal Lila followed Johnny Gray. He was not in the hall, and she went out into the road, but here saw no sign of the man she sought. There was, however, somebody else, and she obeyed his call to her.
“Tell Jeff I want him before he starts on that honeymoon of his,” snarled Emanuel Legge, glaring at her through the glasses. “He’s been talking to that girl—I saw her face. What did he say?”
“How do I know?” she snapped back. “You and your Jeff! I wish to the Lord I’d never come into this job. What’s the graft, anyway? That flash crook knows all about it, Legge.”
“Who—Johnny Gray? Is he here? He did come, then?”
She nodded.
“What do you mean—‘he knows’?”
“He knows Jeff—recognised him first pop,” said the girl inelegantly, and Emanuel Legge whistled.
“Have you told Jeff that he has been recognised?”
The harsh features of Emanuel Legge were drawn and tense.
“What is the use of asking me? I haven’t had a word with him. He’s so taken up with this girl——”
“Forget it,” said Legge with a gesture. “Tell me what this Johnny Gray says.”
“I’ll tell you one thing that amused me,” said the girl grimly. “He said he’d throttle me if I squeaked! And he’s got a fascinating pair of hands. I shouldn’t like to play rough with that fellow—there’s no use in tut-tutting me, Emanuel. I’ve told you all he said. He knows Jeff; he must have seen him before he went ‘over the Alps.’ ”
The old man was thinking, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.
“It’s pretty bad if he guesses, because he’s sweet on the girl, and there’s going to be trouble. Get Jeff out quick!”
“If you stay here, Peter will see you,” she warned him. “Go down the lane and turn into the private path. I’ll send Jeff to you in the lower garden.”
Nodding, he hurried away. It took her some time to find an opportunity, but presently she signalled the man with her eyes, and he followed her to the lawn.
“The old man’s waiting down in the lower garden,” she said in a low voice. “Hurry.”
“What is wrong?” he asked quickly, sensing trouble.
“He’ll tell you.”
With a glance round Jeff hurried on to the terrace just as his father reached the rendezvous.
“Jeff, Gray knows.”
The man drew a quick breath.
“Me?” he said incredulously. “He didn’t so much as bat a lid when I met him.”
Emanuel nodded.
“That fellow’s hell cool—the most dangerous crook in the world. I was in the Awful Place with him, and I know his reputation. There’s nothing he’s afraid of. If he tells Peter… shoot first! Peter won’t be carrying a gun, but he’s sure to have one within travelling distance—and Peter is a quick mover. I’ll cover you; I’ve got two boys handy that ‘mind’ me, and Johnny… well, he’ll get what’s coming.”
“What am I to do?”
Jeff Legge was biting his nails thoughtfully.
“Get the girl away—you’re due to leave by car, ain’t you? Get her to the Charlton Hotel. You’re supposed to stay there a week—make it a day. Clear to Switzerland to-morrow and stop her writing. I’ll fix Peter. He’ll pay.”
“For what?”
“To get his girl back; forty thousand—maybe more.”
Jeff Legge whistled.
“I didn’t see that side of the graft before. It’s a new variety of ‘black.’ ”
“It’s what I choose to call it!” hissed his father. “You’re in fifty-fifty. You can have the lot so far as I care. You make that girl eat dirt, d’ye hear? Put her right down to earth, Jeff.… Peter will pay.”
“I promised Lila…” began the other, hesitant.
“Promise your Aunt Rebecca Jane!” Emanuel almost screamed. “Lila! That trash, and you the big man, too—what are ye running? A girls’ refuge society? Get!”
“What about Gray?”
“I’ll fix Gray!”
CHAPTER VII
The old man made his way back to the road and passed quickly along until he came to the main highway. Two men were seated in the shade of a bush, eating bread and cheese. They came quickly enough when he whistled them, tall, broad-shouldered men whose heavy jowls had not felt a lather-brush for days.
“Either of you boys know Johnny Gray?” he asked.
“I was on the ‘moor’ with him,” said one gruffly, “if he’s the fellow that went down for ‘ringing in’ horses?”
Emanuel nodded.
“He’s in the house, and it’s likely he’ll walk to the station, and likely enough take the short cut across the fields. That’ll be easy for you. He’s got to be coshed—you understand? Get him good, even if you have to do it in the open. If there’s anybody with him, get him in London. But get him.”
Emanuel came back to his observation post as the first of the cars went into the drive. Jeff was moving quickly—and there was need.
Presently the car came out. Emanuel caught a glimpse of Jeff and the frightened face of the girl, and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of satisfaction. Peter was standing in the middle of the road, watching the car. If he knew! The smile vanished from the old man’s face. Peter did not know; he had not been told. Why? Johnny would not let her go, knowing. Perhaps Lila was lying. You can never trust women of that kind; they love sensation. Johnny… dangerous. The two words left one impression. And there was Johnny, standing, one hand in pocket, the other waving at the car as it came into brief view on the Shoreham road, as unconcerned as though he were the least interested.
A second car went in and came out. Some guests were leaving. Now, if Johnny had sense, he would be driven to London with a party. But Johnny hadn’t sense. He was just a poor sucker, like all cheap crooks are. He came out alone, crossed the road and went down the narrow passage that led to the field path.
Emanuel looked backward. His bulldogs had seen and were moving parallel to the unconscious Gray.
From the road two paths led to the field, forming a Y where they met. Johnny had passed the fork when he heard the footsteps behind him. Glancing back, he saw a familiar face and did some shrewd guessing. He could run and easily outdistance these clumsy men. He preferred to face them, and turned, holding his malacca cane in both hands.
“ ’Lo, Gray,” said the bigger of the men. “Where’n thunder are you going in such a hurry? I want to talk with you, you dirty squeaker! You’re the fellow that told the deputy I was getting tobacco in through a screw!”
It was a crude invention, but good enough to justify the rough house that was booked to follow. They carried sticks in their hands, pliable canes, shotted at the end.
The blow missed Johnny as he stepped back, and then something long and bright glittered in the afternoon sun. The scabbard of the sword cane he held defensively before him, the sword, thin and deadly, was pointed to the nearer of his enemies. They stopped, Saxon-like, appalled by the sight of steel.
“Bad boy!” said Johnny reproachfully.
The razor-pointed rapier flickered from face to face, and the men stumbled back, getting into one another’s way. One of the men felt something wet on his cheek, and put up his hand. When it came down it was wet and red.
“Beast, you have my brand!” said Johnny with deadly pleasantry. “Come when I call you.”
He clicked the sword back in its wooden sheath and strode away. His indifference, his immense superiority, was almost as tremendously impressive as his cold toleration.
“He’s ice, that fellow,” said the man with the cut cheek. A sob of rage softened the rasp of his voice. “By… I’ll kill him for that!”
But he made no attempt to follow, and his companion was glad.
John Gray increased his pace, and after a while emerged into the outskirts of the town. Here he found a Ford cab and reached the station in time to see the train pull out. He had made a mistake; the time-table had been changed that day, but in half an hour there was a fast train from Brighton that stopped only at Horsham.
He crossed the station yard to an hotel and was in the telephone booth for a quarter of an hour before he emerged, his collar limp, perspiration streaming down his face.
There was no sign of a familiar face when he came back to the platform. He expected to see Emanuel eventually, and here he was not disappointed, for Emanuel arrived a few minutes before the Brighton train came in.
Officially, it was their first meeting since they had been members of the same farm gang at Dartmoor, and Legge’s expression of surprise was therefore appropriate.
“Why, if it isn’t Gray! Well, fancy meeting you, old man! Well, this is a surprise! When did you come out?”
“Cease your friendly badinage,” said Johnny shortly. “If we can get an empty compartment, I’ve got a few words to say to you, Emanuel.”
“Been down to the wedding?” asked the old man slyly. “Nice girl, eh? Done well for herself? They tell me he’s a Canadian millionaire. Ain’t that Peter’s luck! That fellow would fall off rock and drop in feathers, he’s that lucky.”
Johnny made no answer. When the train stopped and he found himself opposite a first-class carriage, he opened the door and Emanuel hopped in.
“If you’re short of money——” began Legge.
“I’m not,” said the other curtly. “I’m short of nothing except bad company. Now listen, Emanuel”—the train was puffing slowly from the station when he spoke again—“I’m going to give you a chance.”
The wide-eyed astonishment of Emanuel Legge was very convincing, but Johnny was not open to conviction at the moment.
“I don’t get you, Johnny,” he said. “What’s all this talk about giving me a chance? Have you been drinking?”
Johnny had seated himself opposite the man, and now he leant forward and placed his hand upon the other’s knee.
“Emanuel,” he said gently, “call off that boy, and there’ll be no squeak. Take that wounded fawn look from your face, because I haven’t any time for fooling. You call off Jeff and send the girl back home to-night, or I squeak. Do you understand that?”
“I understand your words, Johnny Gray, but what they mean is a mystery to me.” Emanuel Legge shook his head. “What boy are you talking about? I’ve only got one boy, and he’s at college——”
“You’re a paltry old liar. I’m talking about Jeff Legge, who married Peter’s daughter to-day. I’ve tumbled to your scheme, Emanuel. You’re getting even with Peter. Well, get even with him, but try some other way.”
“She’s married him of her own free will,” began the man. “There’s no law against that, is there, Johnny? Fell in love with him right on the spot! That’s what I like to see, Johnny—young people in love.”
If he hoped to rattle his companion he was disappointed.
“Now he can unmarry of his own free will,” said Johnny calmly. “Listen to me, Emanuel Legge. When you arrive in London, you’ll go straight away to the Charlton Hotel and talk very plainly to your son. He, being a sensible man, will carry out your instructions——”
“Your instructions,” corrected Emanuel, his mouth twisted in a permanent smile. “And what happens if I don’t, Johnny?”
“I squeak,” said Johnny, and the smile broadened.
“They are married, old man. You can’t divorce ’em. You can turn a brown horse into a black ’un, but you can’t turn Mrs. Jeffrey Legge into Miss Marney Kane, clever as you are.”
Johnny leant forward.
“I can turn Mr. Jeffrey Legge into Dartmoor Jail,” he said unpleasantly, “and that’s what I propose to do.”
“On what charge?” Emanuel raised his eyebrows. “Give us a little rehearsal of this squeal of yours, Gray.”
“He’s the Big Printer,” said Johnny, and the smile slowly dissolved. “The Government has spent thousands to catch him; they’ve employed the best secret service men in the world to pull him down, and I can give them just the information they want. I know where his stuff is planted. I know where it is printed; I know at least four of his agents. You think Jeff’s secret is his own and yours, but you’re mistaken, Emanuel. Craig knows he’s the Big Printer; he told me so at lunch. All he wants is evidence, and the evidence I can give him. Old Reeder knows—you think he’s a fool, but he knows. I could give him a squeak that would make him the cleverest lad in the world.”
Emanuel Legge licked his dry lips.
“Going in for the ‘con.’ business, Johnny?” he asked banteringly. There was no amusement in his voice. “What a confidence man you’d make! You look like a gentleman, and talk like one. Why, they’d fall for you and never think twice! But that confidence stuff doesn’t mean anything to me, Johnny. I’m too old and too wide to be bluffed——”
“There’s no bluff here,” interrupted Johnny. “I have got your boy like that!” He held out his hand and slowly clenched it.
For fully five minutes Emanuel Legge sat huddled in a corner of the compartment, staring out upon the flying scenery.
“You’ve got him like that, have you, Johnny boy?” he said gently. “Well, there’s no use deceiving you, I can see. Slush is funny stuff—they call it ‘phoney’ in America. Did you know that? I guess you would, because you’re well educated. But it’s good slush, Johnny. Look at this. Here’s a note. Is it good or bad?”
His fingers had gone into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a thin pad of paper an inch square. Fold by fold he opened it out and showed a five-pound note. He caressed the paper with finger and thumb. The eyes behind the powerful glasses gleamed; the thin-lined face softened with pride.
“Is it good or bad, Johnny?”
Though the day was bright and hot, and not a cloud was in the sky, the four electric lamps in the carriage lit up suddenly. In the powerful light of day they seemed pale ghosts of flame, queerly dim. As the sunshine fell upon them their shadows were cast upon the white cornice of the carriage.
“There’s a tunnel coming,” said Emanuel. “It will give you a chance of seeing them at their best—feel ’em, Johnny! The real paper; bankers have fallen for ’em.…”
With a roar the train plunged into the blackness of the tunnel. Emanuel stood with his back to the carriage door, the note held taut between his hands.
“There’s only one flaw—the watermark. I’m giving away secrets, eh? Look!”
He stretched his arms up until he held the note against one of the bracket lamps. To see, John Gray had to come behind him and peer over his shoulder. The thunder of the train in the narrow tunnel was almost deafening.
“Look at the ‘F’,” shouted Emanuel. “See… that ‘F’ in ‘Five’—it’s printed too shallow.…”
As Johnny bent forward the old man thrust at him with his shoulder, and behind that lurch of his was all the weight and strength of his body. Taken by surprise, John Gray was thrown from his balance. He staggered back against the carriage door, felt it give, and tried to recover his equilibrium. But the thrust was too well timed. The door flew open, and he dropped into the black void, clutching as he did so the window ledge. For a second he swayed with the in and out swinging of the door. Then Legge’s clenched fist hammered down on his fingers, and he dropped.…
CHAPTER VIII
He struck a layer of thick sand and turned a complete somersault. The wall of the tunnel caught and almost dislocated his arm, and he rebounded toward the whirling wheels. One wheel flicked him back against the wall, and he slid, his arms covering his face, the flint ballast of the road ripping his sleeves to ribbons.…
He was alive. The train had passed. He saw the red tail-lights closing to one another. Gingerly he moved first one leg and then the other; then he rolled over toward the wall and lay on his back without further movement. His heart was pounding furiously; he felt a soreness working through the numb overlay of shock. Shock… shock sometimes killed men. His heart was going faster yet; he experienced a horrible nausea, and he found himself trembling violently.
The proper thing to do was to inject a solution of gum-acacia into his veins (his thoughts were curiously well ordered). Doctors did that; he remembered the doctor telling him at Dartmoor.
But there was no gum-acacia to be had.… Ten minutes later he lifted his body on his elbow and struggled to a sitting position. His head swam, but it did not ache; his arms… he felt them carefully. They were very sore, but no bones were broken.
A roadman at the exit of the tunnel nearly dropped with amazement as a grimy young man whose clothes were in rags emerged, limping.
“I fell out,” said Johnny. “Can you tell me if there is anywhere I can hire a car?”
The roadman was going off duty and was willing to act as guide. Johnny hobbled up the steep slopes of the railway cutting, and with the assistance of the interested workman, traversed a wide field to the road. And then came a blessed sportsman on his way back from Gatwick Races, and he was alone in his car.
At first he looked suspicious at the bruised and ragged figure that had held him up. In the end he flung open the door by his side.
“Step up,” he said.
To the railway worker Johnny had a few words to say.
“Here’s five,” he said. “Two for your help and three to stop your talking. I don’t want this business to be reported, you understand? The truth is, I had been looking on the wine when it was red and gaveth its colour aright.”
Johnny had evidently touched a sympathetic chord.
“You mean you was boozed?” said the man. “You can trust me.”
The angel who drove him to London was not a talkative angel. Beyond expressing the wish that something drastic had happened to him before he went racing, and the advancement of his view that all racing was crooked and all jockeys thieves, he contributed little to the entertainment of his passenger, and the passenger was glad.
At the first cab-rank they struck—it was in Sutton—Johnny insisting upon alighting.
“I’ll take you home if you like,” said his gloomy benefactor.
Gently the other declined.
“My name is Lawford,” said the motorist in a sudden outburst of confidence. “I’ve got an idea I know your face. Haven’t I seen you on the track?”
“Not for some time,” said Johnny.
“Rather like a fellow I once met… well, introduced to… fellow named Gay or Gray… regular rascal. He got time.”
“Thanks,” said Johnny, “that was I!” and the hitherto reticent Mr. Lawford became almost conversational in his apologies.
The young man finished the journey in a Sutton taxi and reached Queen’s Gate late in the afternoon.
Parker, who opened the door to him, asked no questions.
“I have laid out another suit for you, sir,” he returned to the study to say—the only oblique reference he made to his employer’s disorder.
As he lay in a hot bath, soaking the stiffness out of his limbs, Johnny examined his injuries. They were more or less superficial, but he had had a terribly narrow escape from death, and he was not wholly recovered from the violence of it. Emanuel had intended his destruction. The attempt did not surprise him. Men of Legge’s type worked that way. He met them in Dartmoor. They would go to a killing without fire of rage or frenzy of despair. Once he had seen a convict select with deliberation and care a large jagged stone and drop it upon the head of a man working in the quarry below. Fortunately, a warder had seen the act, and his shout saved the intended victim from mutilation. The assailant had only one excuse. The man he had attacked had slighted him in some way.
In the hearts of these men lived a cold beast. Johnny often pictured it, an obscene shape with pale, lidless eyes and a straight slit of a mouth. He had seen the beast staring at him from a hundred distorted faces, had heard its voice, had seen its hatefulness expressed in actions that he shivered to recall. Something of the beast had saturated into his own soul.
When he came from his bath, the masseur whom Parker had summoned was waiting, and for half an hour he groaned under the kneading hands.
The evening newspaper that Parker procured contained no news of the “accident”—Emanuel was hardly likely to report the matter, even for his own protection. There were explanations he could offer—Johnny thought of several.
Free from the hands of the masseur, he rested in his dressing-gown.
“Has anybody called?” he asked.
“A Mr. Reeder, sir.”
Johnny frowned.
“Mr. Reeder?” he repeated. “What did he want?”
“I don’t know, sir. He merely asked for you. A middle-aged man, with rather a sad face,” said Parker. “I told him you were not at home, and that I would take any message for you, but he gave none.”
His employer made no reply. For some reason, the call of the mysterious Mr. Reeder worried him more than the memory of the tragic happening of that afternoon, more, for the moment, than the marriage of Marney Kane.
CHAPTER IX
Marney made her journey to London that afternoon in almost complete silence. She sat in a corner of the limousine, and felt herself separated from the man she had married by a distance which was becoming immeasurable. Once or twice she stole a timid glance at him, but he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he did not even notice. They were not pleasant thoughts, to judge by his unchanging scowl. All the way up he nibbled at his nails; a wrinkle between his eyes.
It was not until the big car was bowling across one of the river bridges that the strain was relieved, and he turned his head, regarding her coldly.
“We’re going abroad to-morrow,” he said, and her heart sank.
“I thought you were staying in town for a week, Jeff,” she asked, trouble in her eyes. “I told father——”
“Does it matter?” he said roughly, and then she found courage to ask him a question that had been in her mind during that dreary ride.
“Jeff, what did you mean this morning, on the way back from the church… ? You frightened me.”
Jeff Legge chuckled softly.
“I frightened you, did I?” he sneered. “Well, if that’s all that’s going to happen to you, you’re a lucky girl!”
“But you’re so changed…” she was bewildered. “I—I didn’t want to marry you… I thought you wanted… and father was so very anxious…”
“Your father was very anxious that you should marry a man in good society with plenty of money,” he said, emphasising every word. “Well, you’ve married him, haven’t you? When I told you this morning that I’d got your father like that”—he put out his thumb suggestively—“I meant it. I suppose you know your father’s a crook?”
The beautiful face flushed and went pale again.
“How dare you say that?” she asked, her voice trembling with anger. “You know it isn’t true. You know!”
Jeffrey Legge closed his eyes wearily.
“There’s a whole lot of revelations coming to you, my good girl,” he said, “but I guess we’d better wait till we reach the hotel.”
Silence followed, until the car drew up before the awning of the Charlton, and then Jeff became his smiling, courteous self, and so remained until the door of their sitting-room closed upon them.
“Now, you’ve got to know something, and you can’t know it too soon,” he said, throwing his hat upon a settee. “My name isn’t Floyd at all. I’m Jeffrey Legge. My father was a convict until six months ago. He was put in prison by Peter Kane.”
She listened, open-mouthed, stricken dumb with amazement and fear.
“Peter Kane is a bank robber—or he was till fifteen years ago, when he did a job with my father, got away with a million dollars, and squeaked on his pal.”
“Squeaked?” she said, bewildered.
“Your father betrayed him,” said Jeffrey patiently. “I’m surprised that Peter hasn’t made you acquainted with the technical terms of the business. He squeaked on his pal, and my father went down for twenty years.”
“It is not true,” she said indignantly. “You are inventing this story. My father was a broker. He never did a dishonest thing in his life. And if he had, he would never have betrayed his friend!”
The answer seemed to amuse Legge.
“Broker, was he? I suppose that means he’s a man who’s broken into strong-rooms? That’s the best joke I’ve heard for a long time! Your father’s crook! Johnny knows he’s crook. Craig knows he’s crook. Why in hell do you think a broker should be a pal of a ‘busy.’ And take that look off your face—a ‘busy’ is a detective. Peter has certainly neglected your education!”
“Johnny knows?” she said, horror-stricken. “Johnny knows father is—I don’t believe it! All you have told me is lies. If it were so, why should you want to marry me?”
Suddenly she realised the truth, and stood, frozen with horror, staring back at the smiling man.
“You’ve guessed, eh? We’ve been waiting to get under Peter’s skin for years. And I guess we’ve got there. And now, if you like, you can tell him. There’s a telephone; call him up. Tell him I’m Jeff Legge, and that all the wonderful dreams he has had of seeing you happy and comfortable are gone! Phone him! Tell him you never wanted to marry me, and it was only to make him happy that you did—you’ve got to break his heart, anyway. You might as well start now.”
“He’d kill you,” she breathed.
“Maybe he would. And that’d be a fine idea too. We’d have Peter on the trap. It would be worth dying for. But I guess he wouldn’t kill me. At the sight of a gun in his hands, I’d shoot him like a dog. But don’t let that stop you telling him, Marney darling.”
He stretched out his hand, but she recoiled from him in horror and loathing.
“You planned it all… this was your revenge?”
He nodded.
“But Johnny… Johnny doesn’t know.”
She saw the change in the man’s face, that suave assurance of his vanish.
“He does know.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “He knows!”
“He knows, but he let you go, honey,” said Jeff. “He’s one of us, and we never squeak. One of us!” he repeated the words mechanically.
She sat down and covered her face with her hands, and Jeffrey, watching her, thought at first that she was crying. When she raised her face, her eyes were dry. And, more extraordinary to him the fear that he had seen was no longer there.
“Johnny will kill you,” she said simply. “He wouldn’t let me go… like that… if he knew. It isn’t reasonable to suppose that he would, is it?”
It was Jeff Legge’s turn to be uncomfortable. Not at the menace of Johnny’s vengeance, but at her utter calmness. She might have been discussing the matter impartially with a third person. For a moment he lost his grip of the situation. All that she said was so obviously, so patently logical, and instinctively he looked round as though he expected to find Johnny Gray at his elbow. The absurdity of the situation struck him, and he chuckled nervously.
“Johnny!” he sneered. “What do you expect Johnny to do, eh? He’s just out of ‘bird’—that’s jail; it is sometimes called ‘boob’—I see there’s a whole lot of stuff you’ve got to learn before you get right into the family ways.”
He lounged toward her and dropped his hands on her shoulders.
“Now, old girl,” he said, “there are two things you can do. You can call up Peter and put him wise, or you can make the best of a bad job.”
“I’ll call father,” she said, springing up. Before she could reach the telephone, his arm was round her, and he had swung her back.
“You’ll call nothing,” he said. “There’s no alternative, my little girl. You’re Mrs. Legge, and I lowered myself to marry the daughter of such a squealing old hound! Marney, give me a kiss. You’ve not been very free with your tokens of affection, and I haven’t pressed you, for fear of scaring you off. Always the considerate gentleman—that’s Jeff Legge.”
Suddenly she was in his arms, struggling desperately. He tried to reach her lips, but she buried her face in his coat, until, with a savage jerk that almost dislocated her shoulder, he had flung her at arm’s distance. She looked up at the inflamed face and shuddered.
“I’ve got you, Marney.” His voice was hoarse with triumph. “I’ve got you properly… legally. You’re my wife! You realise that? No man can come between you and me.”
He pulled her toward him, caught her pale face between his hands, and turned it up to his. With all the strength of utter horror and loathing, she tore herself free, fled to the door, flung it open, and stood back, wide-eyed with amazement.
In the doorway stood a tall, broad woman, with vividly red hair and a broad, good-humoured face. From her costume she was evidently one of the chambermaids of the hotel. From her voice she was most obviously Welsh.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jeff. “Get out, damn you!”
“Why do you talk so at me now, look you? I will not have this bad language. The maid of this suite I am!”
Marney saw her chance of escaping, and, running into the room, slammed the door and locked it.
CHAPTER X
For a moment Jeff Legge stood, helpless with rage. Then he flung all his weight against the door, but it did not yield. He took up the telephone, but changed his mind. He did not want a scandal. Least of all did he wish to be advertised as Jeffrey Legge. Compromise was a blessed word—he knocked at the door.
“Marney, come out and be sensible,” he said. “I was only joking. The whole thing was just to try you——”
She offered no reply. There was probably a telephone in the bedroom, he thought. Would she dare call her father? He heard another door unlocked. The bedroom gave on to the corridor, and he went out, to see the big chambermaid emerging. She was alone, and no sooner was she outside the door than it was locked upon her.
“I’ll report you to the management,” he said furiously. He could have murdered her without compunction. But his rage made no impression upon the phlegmatic Welsh woman.
“A good character I have, look you, from all my employers. To be in the bedroom, it was my business. You shall not use bad language to me, look you, or I will have the law on you!”
Jeffrey thought quickly. He waited in the corridor until the woman had disappeared, then he beckoned from the far end a man who was evidently the floor waiter.
“Go down to the office and ask the manager, with my compliments, if I can have a second set of keys to my rooms,” he said suavely. “My wife wishes to have her own.”
He slipped a bill into the man’s hand, of such magnitude that the waiter was overwhelmed.
“Certainly, sir. I think I can arrange,” he said.
“And perhaps you would lend me your pass key,” said Jeff carelessly.
“I haven’t a pass key, sir. Only the management have that,” replied the man; “but I believe I can get you what you want.”
He came back in a few minutes to the sitting-room with many apologies. There were no duplicate sets of keys.
Jeff closed the sitting-room door on the man and locked it. Then he went over to the bedroom door.
“Marney!” he called, and this time she answered him. “Are you going to be sensible?”
“I think I’m being very sensible,” was her reply.
“Come out and talk to me.”
“Thank you, I would rather remain here.”
There was a pause.
“If you go to your father, I will follow and kill him. I’ve got to shoot first, you know, Marney, after what you’ve told me.”
There was a silence, and he knew that his words had impressed her.
“Think it over,” he suggested. “Take your time about it.”
“Will you promise to leave me alone?” she asked.
“Why, sure, I’ll promise anything,” he said, and meant it. “Come out, Marney,” he wheedled. “You can’t stay there all day. You’ve got to eat.”
“The woman will bring me my dinner,” was the instant reply, and Jeffrey cursed her softly.
“All right, have it your own way,” he said. “But I tell you this, that if you don’t come out to-night, there will be trouble in your happy family.”
He was satisfied, even though she did not answer him, that Marney would make no attempt to communicate with her father—that night, at least. After that night, nothing mattered.
He got on to the telephone, but the man he sought had not arrived. A quarter of an hour later, as he was opening his second bottle of champagne, the telephone bell tinkled and Emanuel Legge’s voice answered him.
“She’s giving me trouble,” he said in a low voice, relating what had happened.
He heard his father’s click of annoyance and hastened to excuse his own precipitancy.
“She had to know sooner or later.”
“You’re a fool,” snarled the old man. “Why couldn’t you leave it?”
“You’ve got to cover me here,” said Jeff urgently. “If she phones to Peter, there is going to be trouble. And Johnny——”
“Don’t worry about Johnny,” said Emanuel Legge unpleasantly. “There will be no kick coming from him.”
He did not offer any explanation, and Jeff was too relieved by the assurance in his father’s voice to question him on the subject.
“Take a look at the keyhole,” said Emanuel, “and tell me if the key’s in the lock. Anyway, I’ll send you a couple of tools, and you’ll open that door in two jiffs—but you’ve got to wait until the middle of the night, when she’s asleep.”
Half an hour later a small package arrived by district messenger, and Jeffrey, cutting the sealed cord, opened the little box and picked out two curiously wrought instruments. For an hour he practised on the door of the second bedroom leading from the saloon, and succeeded in turning the key from the reverse side. Toward dinner-time he heard voices in Marney’s bedroom, and, creeping to the door, listened. It was the Welsh woman, and there came to his ears the clatter of plates and cutlery, and he smiled.
He had hardly got back to his chair and his newspaper when the telephone bell rang. It was the reception clerk.
“There’s a lady to see you. She asked if you’d come down. She says it is very important.”
“Who is it?” asked Jeffrey, frowning.
“Miss Lila.”
“Lila!” He hesitated. “Send her up, please,” he said, and drew a heavy velvet curtain across the door of Marney’s room.
At the first sight of Peter Kane’s maid he knew that she had left Horsham in a hurry. Under the light coat she wore he saw the white collar of her uniform.
“What’s the trouble with you, Lila?” he asked.
“Where is Marney?” she asked.
He nodded to the curtained room.
“Have you locked her in?”
“To be exact, she locked herself in,” said Jeff with a twisted smile.
The eyes of the woman narrowed.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” she asked harshly. “You haven’t lost much time, Jeff.”
“Don’t get silly ideas in your nut,” he said coolly. “I told her who I was, and there was a row—that’s all there is to it. Now, what’s the trouble?”
“Peter Kane’s left Horsham with a gun in his pocket—that’s all,” she said, and Jeffrey paled.
“Sit down and tell me just what you mean.”
“After you’d gone I went up to my room because I was feeling mighty bad,” she said. “I’ve got my feelings, and there isn’t a woman breathing that can see a man go away with another girl——”
“Cut out all the sentiment and let’s get right down to the facts,” commanded Jeff.
“I’ll tell it in my own way if you don’t mind, Jeffrey Legge,” said Lila.
“Well, get on with it,” he said impatiently.
“I wasn’t there long before I heard Peter in his room—it is underneath mine—and he was talking to himself. I guess curiosity got the better of my worry, and I went down and listened. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, and so I opened the door of his room a little bit. He had just changed. The moment I went in he was slipping the magazine in the butt of a Browning—I saw him put it in his coat pocket, and then I went downstairs. After a while he came down too, and, Jeff, I didn’t like the look of his face. It was all grey and pinched, and if ever I saw a devil in a man’s eyes I saw it in Peter Kane’s. I heard him order the car, and then I went down into the kitchen, thinking he was going at once. But he didn’t leave for about half an hour.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was in his own room, writing. I don’t know what he was writing, because he always uses a black blotting-pad. He must have written a lot, because I know there were half a dozen sheets of stationery in the rack, and when I went in after he’d left they had all gone. There was nothing torn up in the waste-paper basket, and he’d burnt nothing, so he must have taken all the stuff with him. I tried to get you on the phone, but you hadn’t arrived, and I decided to come up.”
“How did you come up—by train or car?”
“By taxi. There wasn’t a train for nearly two hours.”
“You didn’t overtake Peter by any chance?”
She shook her head.
“I wouldn’t. He was driving himself; his machine is a Spanz, and it moves!”
Jeff bit his nails.
“That gun of Peter’s worries me a little,” he said after a while, “because he isn’t a gunman. Wait.”
He took up the telephone and again called his father, and in a few words conveyed the story which Lila had brought.
“You’ll have to cover me now,” he said anxiously. “Peter knows.”
A long pause.
“Johnny must have told him. I didn’t dream he would,” said Emanuel. “Keep to the hotel, and don’t go out. I’ll have a couple of boys watching both entrances, and if Peter shows his nose in Pall Mall he’s going to be hurt.”
Jeff hung up the receiver slowly and turned to the girl.
“Thank you, Lila. That’s all you can do for me.”
“It is not all you can do for me,” said Lila. “Jeff, what is going to happen now? I’ve tried to pin you down, but you’re a little too shifty for me. You told me that this was going to be one of those high-class platonic marriages which figure in the divorce courts, and, Jeff, I’m beginning to doubt.”
“Then you’re a wise woman,” said Jeffrey calmly.
For a moment she did not understand the significance of the words.
“I’m a wise woman?” she repeated. “Jeff, you don’t mean——”
“I’m entitled to my adventures,” said Jeffrey, settling himself comfortably in the big arm-chair and crossing his legs. “I have a dear little wife, and for the moment, Lila, our little romance is finished.”
“You don’t mean that?” she asked unsteadily. “Jeff, you’re kidding. You told me that all you wanted was to get a share of Peter’s money, and Emanuel told me the same. He said he was going to put the ‘black’ on Peter and get away with forty thousand.”
“In the meantime I’ve got away with the girl,” said Jeffrey comfortably, “and there’s no sense in kicking up a fuss, Lila. We’ve had a good time, and change is everything in life.”
She was on her feet now, glaring down at him.
“And have I been six months doing slavey work, nosing for you, Jeffrey Legge, to be told that our little romance is finished?” she asked shrilly. “You’ve double-crossed me, you dirty thief! And if I don’t fix you, my name’s not Lila.”
“It isn’t,” said Jeffrey. He reached for a cigar and lit it. “And never was. Your name’s Jane—that is, if you haven’t been telling me lies. Now, Lila, be an intelligent human being. I’ve put aside five hundred for you——”
“Real money, I hope,” she sneered. “No, you’re not going to get away with it so easy, Mr. Jeffrey Legge. You’ve fooled me from beginning to end, and you either carry out your promise or I’ll——”
“Don’t say you’ll squeak,” said Jeffrey, closing his eyes in mock resignation. “You’re all squeakers. I’m tired of you! You don’t think I’d give you anything to squeak about, do you? That I’d trust you farther than I could fling you? No, my girl, I’m four kinds of a fool, but not that kind. You know just as much about me as the police know, or as Johnny Gray knows. You can’t tell my new wife, because she knows too. And Peter knows—in fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody didn’t write a story about it in the newspapers to-morrow!”
He took out his pocket-case, opened it, and from a thick wad of notes peeled five, which he flung on to the table.
“There’s your ‘monkey,’ and au revoir, beauteous maiden,” he said.
She took up the notes slowly, folded them, and slipped them into her bag. Her eyes were burning fires, her face colourless.
If she had flown at him in a fury he would have understood, and was, in fact, prepared. But she said nothing until she stood, the knob of the door in her hand.
“There are three men after you, Jeffrey Legge,” she said, “and one will get you. Reeder, or Johnny, or Peter—and if they fail, you look out for me!”
And on this threat she took her departure, slamming the door behind her, and Jeffrey settled down again to his newspaper, with the feeling of satisfaction which comes to a man who has got through a very unpleasant task.
CHAPTER XI
In a long, sedate road in suburban Brockley lived a man who had apparently no fixed occupation. He was tall, thin, somewhat cadaverous, and he was known locally as a furtive night-bird. Few had seen him in the day-time, and the inquisitive who, by skilful cross-examination, endeavoured to discover his business from a reticent housekeeper learnt comparatively little, and that little inaccurate. Policemen on night duty, morning wayfarers had seen him walking up Brockley Road in the early hours, coming apparently from the direction of London. He was known as Mr. J.G. Reeder. Letters in that name came addressed to him—large blue letters, officially stamped and sealed and in consequence it was understood in postal circles that he held a Government position.
The local police force never troubled him. He was one of the subjects which it was not permissible to discuss. Until the advent of Emanuel Legge that afternoon, nobody ever remembered Mr. Reeder having a caller.
Emanuel had come from prison to the affairs of the everyday world with a clearer perception of values than his son. He was too old a criminal to be under any illusions. Sooner or later, the net of the law would close upon Jeffrey, and the immunity which he at present enjoyed would be at an end. To every graft came its inevitable lagging. Emanuel, wise in his generation, had decided upon taking the boldest step of his career. And that he did so was not flattering to the administration of justice; nor could it be regarded as a tribute to the integrity of the police.
Emanuel had “straightened” many a young detective, and not a few advanced in years. He knew the art of “dropping” to perfection. In all his life he had only met three or four men who were superior to the well-camouflaged bribe. A hundred here and there makes things easier for the big crook; a thousand will keep him out of the limelight; but, once the light is on him, not a million can disturb the inevitable march of justice. Emanuel was working in the pre-limelight stage, and hoped for success.
If his many inquiries were truthfully answered, the police had not greatly changed since his young days. Secret service men were new to him. He had thought, in spite of the enormous sums allocated to that purpose in every year’s budget, that secret service was an invention of the sensational novelist; and even now, he imagined Mr. Reeder to be one who was subsidised from the comparatively private resources of the banks rather than from the Treasury.
It was Emanuel’s action to grasp the nettle firmly. “In-fighting is not much worse than hugging,” was a favourite saying of his, and once he had located Mr. J.G. Reeder, the night-hawk—and that had been the labour of months—the rest was easy. Always providing that Mr. Reeder was amenable to argument.
The middle-aged woman who opened the door to him gave him an unpromising reception.
“Mr. Reeder is engaged,” she said, “and he doesn’t want to see any visitors.”
“Will you kindly tell him,” said Emanuel with his most winning smile and a beam of benevolence behind his thick glasses, “that Mr. Legge from Devonshire would like to see him on a very particular matter of business?”
She closed the door in his face, and kept him so long waiting that he decided that even the magic of his name and its familiar association (he guessed) had not procured him an entry. But here he was mistaken. The door was opened for him, closed and bolted behind him, and he was led up a flight of stairs to the first floor.
The house was, to all appearance, well and comfortably furnished. The room into which he was ushered, if somewhat bare and official-looking, had an austerity of its own. Sitting behind a large writing-table, his back to the fire-place, was a man whom he judged to be between fifty and sixty. His face was thin, his expression sad. Almost on the end of his nose was clipped a pair of large, circular pince-nez. His hair was of that peculiar tint, red turning to grey, and his ears were large and prominent, seeming to go away from his head at right angles. All this Emanuel noted in a glance.
“Good morning, or good afternoon, Mr. Legge,” said the man at the desk. He half rose and offered a cold and lifeless hand. “Sit down, will you?” he said wearily. “I don’t as a rule receive visitors, but I seem to remember your name. Now where have I heard it?”
He dropped his chin to his breast and looked over his spectacles dolefully. Emanuel’s expansive smile struck against the polished surface of his indifference and rebounded. He felt for the first time the waste of expansiveness.
“I had a little piece of information I thought I’d bring to you, Mr. Reeder,” he said. “I suppose you know that I’m one of those unfortunate people who, through the treachery of others, have suffered imprisonment?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mr. Reeder in his weak voice, his chin still bent, his pale blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other. “Of course, I remember. You were the man who robbed the strong-room. Of course you were. Legge, Legge? I seem to remember the name too. Haven’t you a son?”
“I have a son, the best boy in the world,” said Emanuel fervently.
There was a telephone receiver at Mr. Reeder’s right hand, and throughout the interview he was polishing the black stem with the cuff of his alpaca coat, a nervous little trick which first amused and then irritated the caller.
“He has never been in trouble, Mr. Legge? Ah, that’s a blessing,” he sighed. “So many young people get into trouble nowadays.”
If there was one person whom Legge did not want to discuss it was his son. He got off the subject as well as he could.
“I understand, Mr. Reeder, that you’re doing special work for the Government—in the police department?”
“Not in the police department,” murmured the other. “No, no, certainly not—not in the police department. I scarcely know a policeman. I see them often in the streets, and very picturesque figures they are. Mostly young men in the vigour and prime of youth. What a wonderful thing is youth, Mr. Legge! I suppose you’re very proud of your son?”
“He’s a good boy,” said Emanuel shortly, and Mr. Reeder sighed again.
“Children are a great expense,” he said. “I often wonder whether I ought to be glad that I never married. What is your son by occupation, Mr. Legge?”
“An export agent,” said Emanuel promptly.
“Dear, dear!” said the other, and shook his head.
Emanuel did not know whether he was impressed or only sympathising.
“Being in Dartmoor, naturally I met a number of bad characters,” said the virtuous Emanuel; “men who did not appeal to me, since I was perfectly innocent and only got my stretch—lagging—imprisonment through a conspiracy on the part of a man I’ve done many a good turn to——”
“Ingratitude,” interrupted Mr. Reeder, drawing in his breath. “What a terrible thing is ingratitude! How grateful your son must be that he has a father who looks after him, who has properly educated him and brought him up in the straight way, in spite of his own deplorable lapses!”
“Now, look here, Mr. Reeder.” Emanuel thought it was time to get more definitely to business. “I’m a very plain man, and I’m going to speak plainly to you. It has come to my knowledge that the gentlemen you are acting for are under the impression that my boy’s got to do with the printing of ‘slush’—counterfeit notes. I was never more hurt in my life than when I heard this rumour. I said to myself: ‘I’ll go straight away to Mr. Reeder and discuss the matter with him. I know he’s a man of the world, and he will understand my feelings as a father.’ Some people, Mr. Reeder”—his elbows were on the table and he leant over and adopted a more confidential tone—“Some people get wrong impressions. Only the other day somebody was saying to me: ‘That Mr. Reeder is broke. He’s got three county court summonses for money owed——’ ”
“A temporary embarrassment,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “One has those periods of financial—er—depression.”
He was polishing the stem of the telephone more vigorously.
“I don’t suppose you’re very well paid? I’m taking a liberty in making that personal statement, but as a man of the world you’ll understand. I know what it is to be poor. I’ve had some of the best society people in my office”—Emanuel invented the office on the spur of the moment—“the highest people in the land, and if they’ve said: ‘Mr. Legge, can you oblige me with a thousand or a couple of thousand?’ why, I’ve pulled it out, as it were, like this.”
He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it, holding a large roll of money fastened with a rubber band.
For a second Mr. J.G. Reeder allowed his attention to be distracted, and surveyed the pile of wealth with the same detached interest which he had given to Emanuel. Then, reaching out his hand cautiously, he took the note from the top, felt it, fingered it, rustled it, and looked quickly at the watermark.
“Genuine money,” he said in a hushed voice, and handed the note back with apparent reluctance.
“If a man is broke,” said Legge emphatically, “I don’t care who he is or what he is, I say: ‘Is a thousand or two thousand any good to you?’——”
“And is it?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Is what?” said Emanuel, taken off his guard.
“Is it any good to him?”
“Well, of course it is,” said Legge. “My point is this: a gentleman may be very hard pressed, and yet be the most solvent person in the world. If he can only get a couple of thousand just when he wants it—why, there’s no scandal, no appearance in court which might injure him in his job——”
“How very true! How very, very true!” Mr. Reeder seemed profoundly touched. “I hope you pass on these wise and original statements to your dear son, Mr. Legge?” he said. “What a splendid thing it is that he has such a father!”
Emanuel cursed him under his breath.
“Two thousand pounds,” mused Mr. Reeder. “Now, if you had said five thousand pounds——”
“I do say five thousand,” said Emanuel eagerly. “I’m not going to spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.”
“If you had said five thousand pounds,” Mr. Reeder went on, “I should have known that three thousand was ‘slush,’ or shall we say ‘phoney’—because you only drew two thousand from the City and Birmingham Bank this morning, all in hundred pound notes, series GI.19721 to 19740. Correct me if I’m wrong. Of course, you might have some other genuine money stowed away in your little hotel, Mr. Legge; or your dear boy may have given you another three thousand as a sort of wedding present—I forgot, though, a bridegroom doesn’t give wedding presents, does he? He receives them. How foolish of me! Put away your money, Mr. Legge. This room is very draughty, and it might catch cold. Do you ever go to the Hilly Fields? It is a delightful spot. You must come to tea with me one Sunday, and we will go up and hear the band. It is a very inexpensive but satisfactory method of spending two hours. As to those judgment summonses”—he coughed, and rubbed his nose with his long forefinger—“those summonses were arranged in order to bring you here. I did so want to meet you, and I knew the bait of my impecuniosity would be almost irresistible.”
Emanuel Legge sat, dumbfounded.
“Do you know a man named ‘Golden’? Ah, he would be before your time. Have you ever heard of him? He was my predecessor. I don’t think you met him. He had a great saying—set a ‘brief’ to catch a thief. We called a note a ‘brief’ in those days. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge. You will find your way down.”
Legge rose, and with that the sad-faced man dropped his eyes and resumed the work he had been at when the visitor had interrupted him.
“I only want to say this, Mr. Reeder——” began Legge.
“Tell my housekeeper,” pleaded Reeder weakly, and he did not look up. “She’s frightfully interested in fairy stories—I think she must be getting towards her second childhood. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge.”