He broke off his lecture to look around the lawn and well-stocked garden that flanked it on either side.
“How beautiful is the world, Mr. Jeff—I beg your pardon, Mr. Legge,” he said. “How lovely those flowers are! I confess that the sight of bluebells always brings a lump to my throat. I don’t suppose they are bluebells,” he added, “for it is rather late in the year. But that peculiar shade of blue. And those wonderful roses—I can smell them from here.”
He closed his eyes, raised his nose and sniffed loudly—a ludicrous figure; but Jeff Legge did not laugh.
“I know very little, but I understand that in Dartmoor Prison there are only a few potted flowers, and that those are never seen by the prisoners, except by one privileged man whose task it is to tend them. A lifer, generally. Life without flowers must be very drab, Mr. Legge.”
“I’m not especially fond of flowers,” said Jeffrey.
“What a pity!” said the other regretfully. “What a thousand pities! But there is no sea view from that establishment, no painted ships upon a painted ocean—which is a quotation from a well-known poem; no delightful sense of freedom; nothing really that makes life durable for a man under sentence, let us say, of fifteen or twenty years.”
Jeff did not reply.
“Do you love rabbits?” was the surprising question that was put to him.
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
Lila sat erect, motionless, all her senses trained to hear and understand.
Mr. Reeder sighed.
“I am very fond of rabbits. Whenever I see a rabbit in a cage or in a hutch, I buy it, take it to the nearest wood and release it. It may be a foolish kindness, because, born and reared in captivity, it may not have the necessary qualities to support itself amongst its wilder fellows. But I like letting rabbits loose; other people like putting rabbits in cages.” He shook his finger in Jeffrey’s face. “Never be a rabbit in a cage, Mr. Jeffrey—or is it Mr. Legge? Yes, Mr. Legge.”
“I am neither a rabbit, nor a chicken, nor a fox, nor a skylark,” said Jeffrey. “The cage hasn’t been built that could hold me.”
Again Mr. Reeder sighed.
“I remember another gentleman saying that some years ago. I forget in what prison he was hanged. Possibly it was Wandsworth—yes, I am sure it was Wandsworth. I saw his grave the other day. Just his initials. What a pity! What a sad end to a promising career! He is better off, I think, for twenty long years in a prison cell, that is a dreadful fate, Mr. Legge! And it is a fate that would never overtake a man who decided to reform. Suppose, let us say, he was forging Bank of England notes, and decided that he would burn his paper and his water-markers, dismiss all his agents… I don’t think we should worry very much about that type of person. We should meet him generously and liberally, especially if his notes were of such excellent quality that they were difficult for the uninitiated to detect.”
“What has happened to Golden?” asked Jeffrey boldly.
The eyes of the elderly man twinkled.
“Golden was my predecessor,” he said. “A very charming fellow, by some accounts——”
Again Jeffrey cut him short.
“He used to be the man who was looking after the ‘slush’ for the police. Is he dead?”
“He has gone abroad,” said Mr. Reeder gravely. “Yes, Mr. Golden could not stand this climate. He suffered terribly from asthma, or it may have been sciatica. I know there was an ‘a’ at the end of it. Did you ever meet him? Ah! You missed a very great opportunity,” said Mr. Reeder. “Golden was a nice fellow—not as smart, perhaps, as he might have been, or as he should have been, but a very nice fellow. He did not work, perhaps, so much in the open as I do; and there I think he was mistaken. It is always an error to shut yourself up in an office and envelop yourself in an atmosphere of mystery. I myself am prone to the same fault. Now, my dear Mr. Legge, I am sure you will take my parable kindly, and will give it every thought and consideration.”
“I would, if I were a printer of ‘slush,’ but, unfortunately, I’m not,” said Jeffrey Legge with a smile.
“You’re not, of course,” the other hastened to say. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting you were. But with your vast circle of acquaintances—and, I’m sure, admirers—you may perhaps be able to convey my simple little illustration. I don’t like to see rabbits in cages, or birds in cages, or anything else behind bars. And I think that Dartmoor is so—what shall I say?—unæsthetic. And it seems such a pity to spend all the years in Devonshire. In the spring, of course, it is delightful; in the summer it is hot; in the winter, unless you’re at Torquay, it is deplorable. Good morning, Mr. Legge.”
He bowed low to the girl, and, bowing, his spectacles fell off. Stooping, he picked them up with an apology and backed away, and they watched him in silence till he had disappeared from view.
CHAPTER XIX
“What do you think of him for a busy?” asked Jeffrey contemptuously.
She did not answer. Contact with the man had frightened her. It was not like Lila to shiver in the presence of detectives.
“I don’t know what he is,” she said a little breathlessly. “He’s something like a… good-natured snake. Didn’t you feel that, Jeffrey?”
“Good-natured nothing,” said the other with a curl of his lip. “He’s worse than Golden. These big corporations fall for that kind of man. They never give a chance to a real clever busy.”
“Who was Golden?” she asked.
“He was an old fellow too. They fired him.” He chuckled to himself. “And I was responsible for firing him. Then they brought in Mr. J.G. Reeder with a flourish of trumpets. He’s been on the game three years, and he’s just about as near to making a pull as he ever was.”
“Jeff, isn’t there danger?” Her voice was very serious.
“Isn’t there always danger? No more danger than usual,” he said. “They can’t touch me. Don’t worry! I’ve covered myself so that they can’t see me for overcoats! Once the stuff’s printed, they can never put it back on me.”
“Once it’s printed.” She nodded slowly. “Then you are the Big Printer, Jeff?”
“Talk about something else,” he said.
When Emanuel returned, as he did soon after, Lila met him at the gate and told him of Reeder’s visit. To her surprise, he took almost the same view as Jeff had taken.
“He’s a fool, but straight—up to five thousand, anyway. No man is straight when you reach his figure.”
“But why did he come to Jeff?” she asked.
“Doesn’t everybody in the business know that Jeff’s the Big Printer? Haven’t they been trying to put it on him for years? Of course he came. It was his last, despairing stroke. How’s the boy?” he asked.
“He’s all right, but a little touchy.”
“Of course he’s a little touchy,” said Emanuel indignantly. “You don’t suppose he’s going to get better in a day, do you? The club’s running again.”
“Has it been closed?”
“It hasn’t exactly been closed, but it has been unpopular,” he said, showing his teeth in that smile of his. “Listen.” He caught her arm on the edge of the lawn. “Get your mind off that shooting, will you? I’ll fix the man responsible for that.”
“Do you know?” she asked.
It was the first time he had ever discussed the matter calmly, for the very mention of the attack upon Jeff had hitherto been sufficient to drive him to an incoherent frenzy.
“Yes, I know,” he said gratingly. “It was Peter Kane, but you needn’t say anything about that—I’ll fix him, I tell you.”
“Jeff thinks it was——”
“Never mind what Jeff thinks,” he said impatiently. “Do as I tell you.”
He sent her into the house to brew him a cup of tea—Emanuel was a great drinker of tea—and in her absence he had something to say to his son.
“Jeff, there’s a big call for your stuff,” he said. “I’ve had a letter from Harvey. He says there’s another man started in the north of England, and he’s turning out pretty good material. But they want yours—they can place half a million on the Continent right away. Jeff, what Harvey says is right. If there’s a slackening of supply while you’re ill, the busy fellows are going to tumble to you.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Jeffrey. “You can tell anybody who’s interested that there’ll be a printing next week.”
“Are you well enough to go up?” asked his father anxiously.
Jeffrey nodded, and shifted himself more erect, but winced in the process.
“Reeder’s been here: did she tell you?”
Emanuel nodded.
“I’m not worried much about Reeder. Down in Dartmoor he’s a bogey, but then, they bogey any man they don’t know. And they’ve got all sorts of stories about him. It’s very encouraging to get near to the real thing.”
They laughed together, and for the rest of the day discussed ways and means.
Jeffrey had said no more than was true when he had told the girl he was well covered. In various parts of the country he had twelve banking accounts, each in a different name, and at one of the safe deposits, an enormous sum in currency, ready for emergency.
“You’ve got to stop some time, I suppose,” said his father, “but it is mighty tempting to carry on with those profits. It’s a bigger graft than I ever attempted, Jeff.” And his son accepted this respectful tribute with a smirk.
The old man sat, his clasped hands between his knees, staring out over the sea.
“It has got to end some day, and that would be a fine end, but I can’t quite see how it could be done.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the other curiously.
“I’m thinking about Peter—the respectable Mr. Peter Kane. Not quite so respectable in that girl’s eyes as he used to be, but respectable enough to have busies to dinner, and that crook, Johnny Gray—Johnny will marry the girl, Jeff.”
Jeffrey Legge winced.
“She can marry the devil so far as I’m concerned,” he said.
“But she can’t marry without divorcing you. Do you realise that, my son? That’s the law. And she can’t divorce you without shopping you for bigamy. That’s the law too. And the question is, will she delay her action until Johnny’s made a bit, or will she start right in? If she gives me just the time I want, Jeff, you’ll have your girl and I’ll have Peter Kane. She’s your wife in the eyes of the law.”
There was a significance in his words that made the other man look at him quickly.
“What’s the great idea?” he asked.
“Suppose Peter was the Big Printer?” said Emanuel, speaking in a tone that was little above a whisper. “Suppose he was caught with the goods? It could be done. I don’t mean by planting the stuff in his house—nobody would accept that; but getting him right on the spot, so that his best friend at Scotland Yard couldn’t save him? How’s that for an idea?”
“It couldn’t be done,” said the other immediately.
“Oh, couldn’t it?” sneered Emanuel. “You can do any old thing you want, if you make up your mind to do it. Or if you’re game to do it.”
“That wouldn’t get me the girl.”
Emanuel turned his head slowly toward his heir.
“If they found the Big Printer, they’ll have to find the big printing,” he said deliberately. “That means we should all have to skip, and skip lively. We might have a few hours’ start, and in these days of aeroplanes, three hours is four hundred miles. Jeff, if we are caught, and they guess I’ve been in this printing all the time, I shall never see outside again. And you’ll go down for life. They can’t give you any worse than that—not if you took the girl away with you.”
“By force?” asked the other in surprise. The idea had not occurred to him.
The father nodded.
“If we have to skip, that’s the only thing for you to do, son. It’s no offence—remember that. She’s your wife.” He looked to left and right, to see if there was the faintest shadow of a chance that he would be overheard, and then: “Suppose we ask Peter and his girl and Johnny Gray to dinner? A nice little dinner party, eh?”
“Where?” asked the other suspiciously.
“In Room 13,” said Emanuel Legge. “In Room 13, Jeff, boy! A nice little dinner. What do you think? And then two whiffs of sleep stuff——”
“You’re mad,” said the other angrily. “What’s the good of talking that way? Do you think he’s going to come to dinner and bring his girl? Oh, you’re nutty to think it!”
“Trust me,” said Emanuel Legge.
CHAPTER XX
Walking down Regent Street one morning, Johnny Gray saw a familiar face—a man standing on the kerb selling penny trinkets. The face was oddly familiar, but he had gone on a dozen paces before he could recall where he had seen him before, and turned back. The man knew him; at any rate, his uncouth features twisted in a smile.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said. “What about a toy balloon for the baby?”
“Your name is Fenner, isn’t it?” said Johnny with a good-humoured gesture of refusal.
“That’s me, Captain. I didn’t think you’d recognised me. How’s business?”
“Quiet,” said Johnny conventionally. “What are you doing?”
The man shrugged his enormous shoulders.
“Selling these, and filling in the time with a little sluicing.”
Johnny shook his head reprovingly. “Sluicing” in the argot indicates a curious method of livelihood. In public wash-places, where men strip off their coats to wash their hands for luncheon, there are fine pickings to be had by a man with quick fingers and a knowledge of human nature.
“Did you ever get your towelling[*flogging]?”
“No,” said the other contemptuously and with a deep growl. “I knew they couldn’t, that’s why I coshed the screw. I was too near my time. If I ever see old man Legge, by God I’ll——”
Jimmy raised his finger. A policeman was strolling past, and was eyeing the two suspiciously. Apparently, if he regarded Fenner with disfavour, Johnny’s respectability redeemed the association.
“Poor old ‘flattie’!” said Fenner as the officer passed. “What a life!”
The man looked him up and down amusedly.
“You seem to have struck it, Gray,” he said, with no touch of envy. “What’s your graft?”
Johnny smiled faintly.
“It is one you’ll find difficult to understand, Fenner. I am being honest!”
“That’s certainly a new one on me,” said the other frankly. “Have you seen old Emanuel?” His voice was now quite calm. “Great fellow, Emanuel! And young Emanuel—Jeffrey—what a lad!”
There was a glint in his eyes as he scrutinised Johnny that told that young man he knew much more of recent happenings than he was prepared to state. And his next words supported that view.
“You keep away from the Legge lot, Captain,” he said earnestly. “They are no good to anybody, and least of all to a man who’s had an education like yours. I owe Legge one, and I’ll get him, but I’m not thinking about that so much as young Jeff. You’re the fellow he would go after, because you dress like a swell and you look like a swell—the very man to put ‘slush’ about without anybody tumbling.”
“The Big Printer, eh?” said Johnny, with that quizzical smile of his.
“The Big Printer,” repeated the other gravely. “And he is a big printer. You hear all sorts of lies down on the moor, but that’s true. Jeff’s got the biggest graft that’s ever been worked in this country. They’ll get him sooner or later, because there never was a crook game yet that hadn’t got a squeak about it somewhere. And the squeak has started, judging by what I can read in the papers. Who shot him?” he asked bluntly.
Johnny shook his head.
“That is what is known as a mystery,” he said, and, seeing the man’s eyes keenly searching his face, he laughed aloud. “It wasn’t me, Fenner. I’ll assure you on that point. And as to me being a friend of Jeff”—he made a wry little face—“that isn’t like me either. How are you off for money?”
“Rotten,” said the other laconically, and Johnny slipped a couple of Treasury notes on to the tray.
He was turning away when the man called him back.
“Keep out of boob,” he said significantly. “And don’t think I’m handing round good advice. I’m not thinking of Dartmoor. There are other boobs that are worse—I can tell you that, because I’ve seen most of them.”
He gathered up the money on the tray without so much as a word of thanks, and put it in his waistcoat pocket.
“Keytown Jail is the worst prison in England,” he said, not looking at his benefactor but staring straight ahead. “The very worst—don’t forget that, Gray. Keytown Prison is the worst boob in England; and if you ever find yourself there, do something to get out. So-long!”
The mentality of the criminal had been a subject for vicarious study during Johnny’s stay in Dartmoor, and he mused on the man’s words as he continued his walk along Regent Street. Here was a man offering advice which he himself had never taken. The moral detachment of old lags was no new phenomenon to Johnny. He had listened for hours to the wise admonitions and warnings of convicts, who would hardly be free from the fusty cell of the prison before they would be planning new villainies, new qualifications for their return.
He had never heard of Keytown Jail before, but it was not remarkable that Fenner should have some special grudge against a particular jail. The criminal classes have their likes and their dislikes; they loathed Wandsworth and preferred Pentonville, or vice versa, for no especial reason. There were those who swore by Parkhurst; others regarded Dartmoor as home, and bitterly resented any suggestion that they should be transferred to the island prison.
So musing, he bumped into Craig. The collision was not accidental, for Craig had put himself in the way of the abstracted young man.
“What are you planning, Johnny—a jewel robbery, or just ringing the changes on the Derby favourite?”
Johnny chuckled.
“Neither. I was at that moment wondering what there was particularly bad about Keytown Jail. Where is Keytown Jail, by the way?”
“Keytown? I don’t remember—oh, yes, I do. Just outside Oxford. Why?”
“Somebody was telling me it was the worst prison in England.”
“They are all the worst, Johnny,” said Craig. “And if you’re thinking out a summer holiday, I can’t recommend either. Keytown was pretty bad,” he admitted. “It is a little country jail, but it is no longer in the Prison Commissioners’ hands. They sold it after the war, when they closed down so many of these little prisons. The policy now is to enlarge the bigger places and cut out these expensive little boobs that cost money to staff. They closed Hereford Jail in the same way, and half a dozen others, I should think. So you needn’t bother about Keytown,” he smiled bleakly. “One of your criminal acquaintances has been warning you, I guess?”
“You’ve guessed right,” said Johnny, and advanced no information, knowing that, if Craig continued his walk, he would sooner or later see the toy pedlar.
“Mr. Jeffrey Legge is making a good recovery,” said the detective, changing the subject; “and there are great rejoicings at Scotland Yard. If there is one man we want to keep alive until he is hanged in a scientific and lawful manner, it is Mr. Jeffrey Legge. I know what you’re going to say—we’ve got nothing on him. That is true. Jeffrey has been too clever for us. He has got his father skinned to death in that respect. He makes no mistakes—a rare quality in a forger; he carries no ‘slush,’ keeps none in his lodgings. I can tell you that, because we’ve pulled him in twice on suspicion, and searched him from occiput to tendo achilles. Forgive the anatomical terms, but anatomy is my hobby. Hallo!”
He was looking across the street at a figure which was not unfamiliar to Johnny. Mr. Reeder wore a shabby frock-coat and a somewhat untidy silk hat on the back of his head. Beneath his arm he carried a partially furled umbrella. His hands, covered in grey cotton gloves (at a distance Johnny thought they were suède) were clasped behind him. His spectacles were, as usual, so far down his nose that they seemed in danger of slipping over.
“Do you know that gentleman?”
“Man named Reeder, isn’t it? He’s a ‘busy.’ ”
Craig’s lips twitched.
“He’s certainly a ‘busy’ of sorts,” he said dryly, “but not of our sort.”
“He is a bank-man, isn’t he?” asked Johnny, watching Mr. Reeder’s slow and awkward progress.
“He is in the employ of the bank,” said the detective, “and he’s not such a fool as he looks. I happen to know. He was down seeing young Legge yesterday. I was curious enough to put a man on to trail him. And he knows more about young Legge than I gave him credit for.”
When Johnny parted from the detective, Mr. Reeder had passed out of sight. Crossing Piccadilly Circus, however, he saw the elderly man waiting in a bus queue, and interestedly stood and watched him until the bus arrived and Mr. Reeder boarded the machine and disappeared into its interior. As the bus drew away, Johnny raised his eyes to the destination board and saw that it was Victoria.
“I wonder,” said Johnny, speaking his thought aloud.
For Victoria is the railway station for Horsham.
CHAPTER XXI
Mr. Reeder descended from the bus at Victoria Station, bought a third-class return ticket to Horsham, and, going on to the bookstall, purchased a copy of the Economist and the Poultry World, and, thus fortified for the journey, passed through the barrier, and, finding an empty carriage, ensconced himself in one corner. From thence onward, until the train drew into Horsham Station, he was apparently alternately absorbed in the eccentricities of Wyandottes and the fluctuations of the mark.
There were many cabs at the station, willing and anxious to convey him to his destination for a trifling sum; but apparently Mr. Reeder was deaf to all the urgent offers which were made to him, for he looked through the taxi-men, or over their heads, as though there were no such things as grimy mechanicians or drivers of emaciated horses; and, using his umbrella as a walking-stick, he set out to walk the distance intervening between the station and Peter Kane’s residence.
Peter was in his snuggery, smoking a meditative cigar, when Barney came in with the news.
“There’s an old guy wants to see you, Peter. I don’t know who he is, but he says his name’s Reeder.”
Peter’s brows met.
“Reeder?” he said sharply. “What sort of man is he?”
“An old fellow,” said Barney. “Too shaky for a ‘busy.’ He looks as if he’s trying to raise subscriptions for the old chapel organ.”
It was not an unfair description, as Peter knew.
“Bring him here, Barney, and keep your mouth shut. And bear in mind that this is the busiest ‘busy’ you are ever likely to meet.”
“A copper?” said Barney incredulously.
Peter nodded.
“Where’s Marney?” he asked quickly.
“Up in her boojar,” said Barney with relish. “She’s writing letters. She wrote one to Johnny. It started ‘Dear old boy.’ ”
“How do you know?” asked Peter sharply.
“Because I read it,” said Barney without shame. “I’m a pretty good reader: I can read things upside down, owing to me having been in the printing business when I was a kid.”
“Bring in Mr. Reeder,” interrupted Peter ominously. “And remember, Barney, that if ever I catch you reading anything of mine upside down, you will be upside down! And don’t argue.”
Barney left the room, uttering a mechanical defiance which such threats invariably provoked.
Mr. Reeder came in, his shabby hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, and a look of profound unhappiness on his face.
“Good morning, Mr. Kane,” he said, laying down his impedimenta. “What a beautiful morning it is for a walk! It is a sin and a shame to be indoors on a day like this. Give me a garden, with roses, if I may express a preference, and just a faint whiff of heliotrope…”
“You’d like to see me in the garden, eh?” said Peter. “Perhaps you’re wise.”
Barney, his inquisitive ears glued to the keyhole, cursed softly.
“I was in a garden yesterday,” murmured Mr. Reeder, as they walked across the lawn toward the sunken terraces. “Such a lovely garden! One bed was filled with blue flowers. There is something about a blue flower that brings a lump into my throat. Rhododendrons infuriate me: I have never understood why. There is that about a clump of rhododendrons which rouses all that is evil in my nature. Daffodils, on the other hand, and especially daffodils intermingled with hyacinths, have a most soothing effect upon me. The garden to which I refer had the added attraction of being on the edge of the sea—a veritable Garden of Eden, Mr. Kane, although”—he wagged his head from side to side disparagingly—“there were more snakes than is customary. There was a snake in a chair, and a snake who was posting letters in the village, and another official snake who was hiding behind a clump of bushes and had followed me all the way from London—sent, I think, by that misguided gentleman, Mr. Craig.”
“Where were you, Mr. Reeder?”
“At a seaside villa, a beautiful spot. A truly earthly paradise,” sighed Mr. Reeder. “The very place an intelligent man would go to if he were convalescent, and the gentleman on the chair was certainly convalescent.”
“You saw Jeff Legge, eh? Sit down.”
He pointed to the marble bench where Johnny had sat and brooded unhappily on a certain wedding day.
“I think not,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head as he stared at the marble seat. “I suffer from rheumatism, with occasional twinges of sciatica. I think I would rather walk with you, Mr. Kane.” He glanced at the hedge. “I do not like people who listen. Sometimes one listens and hears too much. I heard the other day of a very charming man who happened to be standing behind a bush, and heard the direful character of his son-in-law revealed. It was not good for him to hear so much.”
Peter knew that the man was speaking about him, but gave no sign.
“I owe you something, Mr. Reeder, for the splendid way you treated my daughter——”
Mr. Reeder stopped him with a gesture.
“A very charming girl. A very lovely girl,” he said with mild enthusiasm. “And so interested in chickens! One so seldom meets with women who take a purely sincere interest in chickens.”
They had reached a place where it was impossible they could be overheard. Peter, who realised that the visitor would not have called unless he had something important to say, waited for the next move. Mr. Reeder returned to the subject of eavesdropping.
“My friend—if I may call him my friend—who learnt by accident that his son-in-law was an infernal rascal—if you will excuse that violent expression—might have got himself into serious trouble, very serious trouble.” He shook his head solemnly. “For you see,” he went on, “my friend—I do hope he will allow me to call him my friend?—has something of a criminal past, and all his success has been achieved by clever strategy. Now, was it clever strategy”—he did not look at Peter, and his faded eyes surveyed the landscape gloomily—“was it clever of my friend to convey to Mr. Emanuel Legge the astounding information that at a certain hour, in a certain room—I think its number was thirteen, but I am not sure—Mr. John Gray was meeting Mr. J.G. Reeder to convey information which would result in Emanuel Legge’s son going to prison for a long period of penal servitude? Was it wise to forge the handwriting of one of Emanuel Legge’s disreputable associates, and induce the aforesaid Emanuel to mount the fire-escape at the Highlow Club and shoot, as he thought, Mr. John Gray, who wasn’t Mr. Gray at all, but his own son? I ask you, was it wise?”
Peter did not answer.
“Was it discreet, when my friend went to the hotel where his daughter was staying, and found her gone, to leave a scribbled note on the floor, which conveyed to Mr. Jeffrey Legge the erroneous information that the young lady was meeting Johnny Gray in Room 13 at nine-thirty? I admit,” said Mr. Reeder handsomely, “that by these clever manœuvres, my friend succeeded in getting Jeffrey Legge just where he wanted him at the proper time; for Jeffrey naturally went to the Highlow Club in order to confront and intimidate his wife. You’re a man of the world, Mr. Kane, and I am sure you will see how terribly indiscreet my friend was. For Jeffrey might have been killed.” He sighed heavily. “His precious life might have been lost; and if the letters were produced at the trial, my friend himself might have been tried for murder.”
He dusted the arm of his frock-coat tenderly.
“The event had the elements of tragedy,” he said, “and it was only by accident that Jeff’s face was turned away from the door; and it was only by accident that Emanuel was not seen going out. And it was only by the sheerest and cleverest perjury that Johnny Gray was not arrested.”
“Johnny was not there,” said Peter sharply.
“On the contrary, Johnny was there—please admit that he was there?” pleaded Mr. Reeder. “Otherwise, all my theories are valueless. And a gentleman in my profession hates to see his theories suffer extinction.”
“I’ll not admit anything of the sort,” said Peter sharply. “Johnny spent that evening with a police officer. It must have been his double.”
“His treble perhaps,” murmured the other. “Who knows? Humanity resembles, to a very great extent, the domestic fowl, gallus domesticus. One man resembles another—it is largely a matter of plumage.”
He looked up to the sky as though he were seeking inspiration from heaven itself.
“Mr. Jeffrey Legge has not served you very well, Mr. Kane,” he said. “In fact, I think he has served you very badly. He is obviously a person without principle or honour, and deserves anything that may come to him.”
Peter waited, and suddenly the man brought his eyes to the level of his.
“You must have heard, in the course of your travels, a great deal about Mr. Legge?” he suggested. “Possibly more has come to you since this unfortunate—indeed, dastardly—happening, of which I cannot remind you without inflicting unnecessary pain. Now, Mr. Kane, don’t you think that you would be rendering a service to human society if——”
“If I squeaked,” said Peter Kane quietly. “I’ll put your mind at rest on that subject immediately. I know nothing of Jeffrey Legge except that he’s a blackguard. But if I did, if I had the key to his printing works, if I had evidence in my pocket of his guilt——” he paused.
“And if you had all these?” asked Mr. Reeder gently.
“I should not squeak,” said Peter with emphasis, “because that is not the way. A squeak is a squeak, whether you do it in cold blood or in the heat of temper.”
Again Mr. Reeder sighed heavily, took off his glasses, breathed on them and polished them with gentle vigour, and did not speak until he had replaced them.
“It is all very honourable,” he said sadly. “This—er—faith and—er—integrity.… Again the poultry parallel comes to my mind. Certain breeds of chickens hold together and have nothing whatever to do with other breeds, and, though they may quarrel amongst themselves, will fight to the death for one another. Your daughter is well, I trust?”
“She is very well,” said Peter emphatically, “surprisingly so. I thought she would have a bad time—here she is.” He turned at that moment and waved his hand to the girl, who was coming down the steps of the terrace. “You know Mr. Reeder?” said Peter as the girl came smiling toward the chicken expert with outstretched hand.
“Why, of course I know him,” she said warmly. “Almost you have persuaded me to run a poultry farm!”
“You might do worse,” said Mr. Reeder gravely. “There are very few women who take an intelligent interest in such matters. Men are ever so much more interested in chickens.”
Peter looked at him sharply. There was something in his tone, a glint of unsuspected humour in his eyes, that lit and died in a second, and Peter Kane was nearer to understanding the man at that moment than he had ever been before.
And here Peter took a bold step.
“Mr. Reeder is a detective,” he said, “employed by the banks to try and track down the people who have been putting so many forged notes on the market.”
“A detective!”
Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and Mr. Reeder hastened to disclaim the appellation.
“Not a detective. I beg of you not to misunderstand, Miss Kane. I am merely an investigator, an inquiry agent, not a detective. ‘Detective’ is a term which is wholly repugnant to me. I have never arrested a man in my life, nor have I authority to do so.”
“At any rate, you do not look like a detective, Mr. Reeder,” smiled the girl.
“I thank you,” said Mr. Reeder gratefully. “I should not wish to be mistaken for a detective. It is a profession which I admire, but do not envy.”
He took from his pocket a large note-case and opened it. Inside, fastened by a rubber band in the centre, was a thick wad of bank-notes. Seeing them, Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re a bold man to carry all that money about with you, Mr. Reeder,” he said.
“Not bold,” disclaimed the investigator. “I am indeed a very timid man.”
He slipped a note from under the elastic band and handed it to his wondering host. Peter took it.
“A fiver,” he said.
Mr. Reeder took another. Peter saw it was a hundred before he held it in his hand.
“Would you cash that for me?”
Peter Kane frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you cash it for me?” asked Mr. Reeder. “Or perhaps you have no change? People do not keep such large sums in their houses.”
“I’ll change it for you with pleasure,” said Peter, and was taking out his own note-case when Mr. Reeder stopped him with a gesture.
“Forged,” he said briefly.
Peter looked at the note in his hand.
“Forged? Impossible! That’s a good note.”
He rustled it scientifically and held it up to the light. The watermark was perfect. The secret marks on the face of the note which he knew very well were there. He moistened the corner of the note with his thumb.
“You needn’t trouble,” said Reeder. “It answers all the tests.”
“Do you mean to tell me this is ‘slush’—I mean a forgery?”
The other nodded, and Peter examined the note again with a new interest. He who had seen so much bad money had to admit that it was the most perfect forgery he had ever handled.
“I shouldn’t have hesitated to change that for you. Is all the other money the same?”
Again the man nodded.
“But is that really bad money?” asked Marney, taking the note from her father. “How is it made?”
Before the evasive answer came she guessed. In a flash she pieced together the hints, the vague scraps of gossip she had heard about the Big Printer.
“Jeffrey Legge!” she gasped, going white. “Oh!”
“Mr. Jeffrey Legge,” nodded Reeder. “Of course we can prove nothing. Now perhaps we can sit down.”
It was he who suggested that they should go back to the garden seat. Not until, in his furtive way, he had circumnavigated the clump of bushes that hid the lawn from view did he open his heart.
“I am going to tell you a lot, Mr. Kane,” he said, “because I feel you may be able to help me, in spite of your principles. There are two men who could have engraved this note, one man who could manufacture the paper. Anybody could print it—anybody, that is to say, with a knowledge of printing. The two men are Lacey and Burns. They have both been in prison for forgery; they were both released ten years ago, and since then have not been seen. The third man is a paper maker, who was engaged in the bank-note works at Wellington. He went to penal servitude for seven years for stealing bank-note paper. He also has been released a very considerable time, and he also has vanished.”
“Lacey and Burns? I have heard of them. What is the other man’s name?” asked Peter.
Mr. Reeder told him.
“Jennings? I never heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t, because he is the most difficult type of criminal to track. In other words, he is not a criminal in the ordinary sense of the word. I am satisfied that he is on the Continent because, to be making paper, it is necessary that one should have the most up-to-date machinery. The printing is done here.”
“Where?” asked the girl innocently, and for the first time she saw Mr. Reeder smile.
“I want this man very badly, and it is a matter of interest for you, young lady, because I could get him to-morrow—for bigamy.” He saw the girl flush. “Which I shall not do. I want Jeff the Big Printer, not Jeff the bigamist. And oh, I want him badly!”
A sound of loud coughing came from the lawn, and Barney appeared at the head of the steps.
“Anybody want to see Emanuel Legge?”
They looked at one another.
“I don’t want to see him,” said Mr. Reeder decidedly. He nodded at the girl. “And you don’t want to see him. I fear that leaves only you, Mr. Kane.”
CHAPTER XXII
Peter was as cool as ice when he came into the drawing-room and found Emanuel examining the pictures on the wall with the air of a connoisseur. He turned, and beamed a benevolent smile upon the man he hated.
“I didn’t think you’d come here again, Legge,” said Peter with dangerous calm.
“Didn’t you, now?” Emanuel seemed surprised. “Well, why not? And me wanting to fix things up, too! I’m surprised at you, Peter.”
“You’ll put nothing right,” said the other. “The sooner you recognise that fact and clear, the better it will be for everybody.”
“If I’d known,” Emanuel went on, unabashed, “if I’d only dreamt that the young woman Jeffrey had taken up with was your daughter, I would have stopped it at once, Peter. The boy had been brought up straight and never had met you. It is funny the number of straight people that never met Peter Kane. Of course, if he’d been on the crook, he’d have known at once. Do you think my boy would have married the daughter of a man who twisted his father? Is it likely, Peter? However, it’s done now, and what’s done can’t be undone. The girl’s fond of him, and he’s fond of the girl——”
“When you’ve finished being comic, you can go,” said Peter. “I never laugh before lunch.”
“Don’t you, Peter? And not after? I’ve come at a very bad time, it seems to me. Now listen, Peter. Let’s talk business.”
“I’ve no business with you.” Peter opened the door.
“Haste was always your weakness, Peter,” said Emanuel, not budging from where he stood. “Never lose your temper. I lost my temper once and shot a copper, and did fifteen years for it. Fifteen years, whilst you were sitting here in luxury, entertaining the lords and ladies of the neighbourhood, and kidding ’em you were straight. I’m going to ask you a favour, Peter.”
“It is granted before you ask,” said the other sardonically.
“I’m going to ask you and Johnny boy to come and have a bit of dinner with me and Jeffrey, and let us fix this thing up. You’re not going to have this girl brought into the divorce court, are you? And you’ve got to get divorced, whether he’s married or whether he isn’t. As a matter of fact, he isn’t married at all. I never dreamt you’d be such a mug as to fall for the story that Lila was properly married to Jeff. All these girls tell you the same thing. It’s vanity, Peter, a human weakness, if I may so describe it.”
“Perhaps it was the vanity of the registrar who signed their marriage certificate, and the vanity of the people who witnessed the marriage,” said Peter. “Your son was married to this girl at the Greenwich Registry Office; I’ve got a copy of the certificate—you can see it if you like.”
Still the smile on Emanuel’s face did not fade.
“Ain’t you smart?” he said admiringly. “Ain’t you the quickest grafter that ever grafted? Married or not, Peter, the girl’s got to go into the court for the marriage to be—what do you call it?—annulled, that’s the word. And she can’t marry till she does. And they’ll never annul the marriage until you get my boy caught for bigamy, and that you won’t do, Peter, because you don’t want to advertise what a damned fool you are. Take my advice, come and talk it over. Bring Johnny with you——”
“Why should I bring Johnny? I can look after myself.”
“Johnny’s an interested party,” said the other. “He’s interested in anything to do with Marney, eh?” He chuckled, and for a second Peter Kane had all his work to maintain his calm.
“I’m not going to discuss Marney with you. I’ll meet you and the Printer, and I don’t suppose Johnny will mind either. Though what you can do that the law can’t do, I don’t know.”
“I can give you evidence that you can’t get any other way,” said the other. “The fact is, Peter, my poor boy has realised he’s made a mistake. He married a girl who was the daughter of a respectable gentleman, and when I broke it to him, Peter, that he’d married into a crook family, he was upset! He said I ought to have told him.”
“I don’t know what funny business you’re going to try,” said Peter Kane, “but I’m not going to run away from it. You want me to meet you and your son—where?”
“What about the old Highlow?” suggested Emanuel. “What about Room 13, where a sad accident nearly occurred?”
“Where you shot your son?” asked Peter coolly, and only for a second did the man’s self-possession leave him. His face turned a dusky red and then a pale yellow.
“I shot my son there, did I? Peter, you’re getting old and dopy! You’ve been dreaming again, Peter. Shot my son!”
“I’ll come to this fool dinner of yours.”
“And Marney?” suggested the other.
“Marney doesn’t put her foot inside the doors of the Highlow,” said Peter calmly. “You’re mad to imagine I would allow that. I can’t answer for Johnny, but I’ll be there.”
“What about Thursday?” suggested the old man.
“Any day will suit me,” said Peter impatiently. “What time do you want us?”
“Half-past eight. Just a snack and a talk. We may as well have a bit of food to make it cheerful, eh, Peter? Remember that dinner we had a few days before we smashed the Southern Bank? That must be twenty years ago. You split fair on that, didn’t you? I’ll bet you did—I had the money! No taking a million dollars and calling it a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, eh, Peter?”
This time Peter stood by the door, and the jerk of his head told Emanuel Legge that the moment for persiflage had passed.
“I want to settle this matter.” The earnestness of his manner did not deceive Peter. “You see, Peter, I’m getting old, and I want to go abroad and take the boy with me. And I want to give him a chance too—a good-looking lad like that ought to have a chance. For I’ll tell you the truth—he’s a single man.”
Peter smiled.
“You can laugh! He married Lila—you’ve got a record of that, but have you taken a screw at the divorce list? That takes the grin off your face. They were divorced a year after they were married. Lila got tired of the other man and came back to Jeff. You’re a looker-up; go and look up that! Ask old Reeder——”
“Ask him yourself,” said Peter. “He’s in the garden.”
He had no sooner said the words than he regretted them. Emanuel was silent for a while.
“So Reeder’s here, in the garden, is he? He’s come for a squeak. But you can’t, because you’ve nothing to squeak about. What does he want?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“That fellow spends his life wandering about other people’s gardens,” grumbled Emanuel.
A disinterested observer might have imagined that Mr. Reeder’s passion for horticulture was the only grievance against him.
“He was round my garden yesterday. I dare say he told you? Came worrying poor Jeff to death. But you always were fond of busies, weren’t you, Peter? How’s your old friend Craig? I can’t stand them myself, but then I am a crook. Thursday will suit you, Peter? That gives you six days.”
“Thursday will suit me,” said Peter. “I hope it will suit you.”
As he came back on to the lawn Reeder and the girl were coming into view up the steps, and without preliminary he told them what had passed.
“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head sadly, “that Emanuel is not as truthful a man as he might be. There was no divorce. I was sufficiently interested in the case to look up the divorce court records.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think your dinner party at the Highlow—is that the name?—will be an interesting one,” he said. “Are you sure he did not invite me?” And again Peter saw that glint of humour in his eyes.
CHAPTER XXIII
Mr. Emanuel Legge had a great deal of business to do in London. The closing of the club had sadly interfered with the amenities of the Highlow, for many of its patrons and members were, not unnaturally, reluctant to be found on premises subject, at any moment, to the visitation of inquisitive police officers. Stevens, the porter, had been reinstated, though his conduct, in Emanuel’s opinion, had been open to the gravest suspicion. In other ways he was a reliable man, and one whose services were not lightly to be dispensed with. To his surprise, when he had come to admonish the porter, that individual had taken the wind out of his sails by announcing his intention of retiring unless the staff was changed. And he had his way, the staff in question being the elevator boy Benny.
“Benny squeaked on me,” said Stevens briefly, “and I’m not going to have a squeaker round.”
“He squeaked to me, my friend,” said Emanuel, showing his teeth unpleasantly. “He told me you tried to shield Johnny Gray.”
“He’s a member, ain’t he?” asked the porter truculently. “How do I know what members you want put away, and what members you want hidden? Of course, I helped the Captain—or thought I was trying to help him. That’s my job.”
There was a great deal of logic in this. Benny, the elevator boy, was replaced.
Stepping out of the lift, Emanuel saw the prints of muddy boots in the hall, and they were wet.
“Who is here?” he asked.
“Nobody in particular.”
Legge pointed to the footprints.
“Somebody has been here recently,” he said.
“They’re mine,” said Stevens without hesitation. “I went out to get a cab for Monty Ford.”
“Are there any mats?” snapped Emanuel.
Stevens did not answer.
There was a great deal of work for Emanuel to do. For example, there was the matter of a certain house in Berkeley Square to be cleared off. Though he was no longer in active work, he did a lot of crooked financing, and the house had been taken with his money. It was hired furnished for a year, and it was the intention of his associates to run an exclusive gambling club. Unfortunately, the owner, who had a very valuable collection of paintings and old jewellery, discovered the character of the new tenant (a dummy of Legge’s) and had promptly cancelled the agreement. Roughly, the venture had cost Emanuel a thousand, and he hated losing good money.
It was late that night when he left the club. He was sleeping in town, intending to travel down to his convalescent son by an early train in the morning. It had been raining heavily, and the street was empty when he went out of the club, pulling the collar of his macintosh about his neck.
He had taken two strides when a man stepped out of the shadow of a doorway and planted himself squarely in his path. Emanuel’s hand dropped to his pocket, for he was that rarest variety of criminal, an English gunman.
“Keep your artillery out of action, Legge,” said a voice that was strangely familiar.
He peered forward, but in the shadow he could not distinguish the stranger’s face.
“Who are you?”
“An old friend of yours,” was the reply. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all your pals! Why, you’ll be passing a screw in the street one of these days without touching your hat to him.”
And then it dawned upon Emanuel.
“Oh… you’re Fenner, aren’t you?”
“I’m Fenner,” admitted the man. “Who else could I be? I’ve been waiting to see you, Mr. Emanuel Legge. I wondered if you would remember a fellow you sent to the triangle… fifteen lashes I had. You’ve never had a ‘bashing,’ have you, Legge? It’s not so nice as you’d think. When they’d took me back to my cell and put that big bit of lint on my shoulder, I laid on my face for a week. Naturally, that interfered with my sleeping, though it helped me a whole lot to think. And what I thought was this, Emanuel, that a thousand a stroke wouldn’t be too much to ask from the man who got it for me.”
Legge’s lip twisted in a sneer.
“Oh, it’s ‘the black’ you’re after, is it? Fifteen thousand pounds—is that your price?”
“I could do a lot with fifteen thousand, Legge. I can go abroad and have a good time—maybe, take a house in the country.”
“What’s the matter with Dartmoor?” snarled Emanuel. “You’ll get no fifteen thousand from me—not fifteen thousand cents, not fifteen thousand grains of sand. Get out of my way!”
He lurched forward, and the man slipped aside. He had seen what was in the old man’s hand.
Legge turned as he passed, facing him and walking sideways, alert to meet any attempt which was launched.
“That’s a pretty gun of yours, Legge,” drawled the convict. “Maybe I shall meet you one of these days when you won’t be in a position to pull it.”
A thought struck Emanuel Legge, and he walked slowly back to the man, and his tone was mild, even conciliatory.
“What’s the good of making a fuss, Fenner? I didn’t give you away. Half a dozen people saw you cosh that screw.”
“But half a dozen didn’t come forward, did they?” asked Fenner wrathfully. “You were the only prisoner; there was not a screw in sight.”
“That’s a long time ago,” said Emanuel after a pause. “You’re not going to make any trouble now, are you? Fifteen thousand pounds is out of the question. It is ridiculous to ask me for that. But if a couple of hundred will do you any good, why, I’ll send it to you.”
“I’ll have it now,” said Fenner.
“You won’t have it now, because I haven’t got it,” replied Emanuel. “Tell me where you’re to be found, and I’ll send a boy along with it in the morning.”
Fenner hesitated. He was surprised even to touch for a couple of hundred.
“I’m staying at Rowton House, Wimborne Street, Pimlico.”
“In your own name?”
“In the name of Fenner,” the other evaded, “and that’s good enough for you.”
Emanuel memorised the address.
“It will be there at ten o’clock,” he said. “You’re a mug to quarrel with me. I could put you on to a job where you could have made not fifteen, but twenty thousand.”
All the anger had died out of the burglar’s tone when he asked:
“Where?”
“There’s a house in Berkeley Square,” said Emanuel quickly, and gave the number.
It was providential that he had remembered that white elephant of his. And he knew, too, that at that moment the house was empty but for a caretaker.
“Just wait here,” he said, and went back into the club and to his little office on the third floor.
Opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a small bunch of keys, the duplicates that had been made during the brief period that the original keys had been in his possession. He found Fenner waiting where he had left him.
“Here are the keys. The house is empty. One of our people borrowed the keys and got cold feet at the last minute. There’s about eight thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in a safe—you can’t miss it. It is in the principal drawing-room—in show cases—go and take a look at it. And there’s plate worth a fortune.”
The man jingled the keys in his hand.
“Why haven’t you gone after it, Emanuel?”
“Because it’s not my graft,” said Emanuel. “I’m running straight now. But I want my cut, Fenner. Don’t run away with any idea that you’re getting this for nothing. You’ve got a couple of nights to do the job; after that, you haven’t the ghost of a chance, because the family will be coming back.”
“But why do you give it to me?” asked Fenner, still suspicious.
“Because there’s nobody else,” was the almost convincing reply. “It may be that the jewellery is not there at all,” went on Emanuel frankly. “It may have been taken away. But there is plenty of plate. I wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d got the right man—I doubt whether I’m going to get my cut from you.”
“You’ll get your cut,” said the other roughly. “I’m a fool to go after this, knowing what a squeaker you are, but I’ll take the risk. If you put a point on me over this, Emanuel, I’ll kill you. And I mean it.”
“I’m sick of getting news about my murder,” said Emanuel calmly. “If you don’t want to do it, leave it. I’ll send you up a couple of hundred in the morning, and that’s all I’ll do for you. Give me back those keys.”
“I’ll think about it,” said the man, and turned away without another word.
It was one o’clock, and Emanuel went back to the club, working the automatic lift himself to the second floor.
“Everybody gone, Stevens?” he asked.
The porter stifled a yawn and shook his head.
“There’s a lady and a gentleman”—he emphasised the word—“in No. 8. They’ve been quarrelling since nine o’clock. They ought to be finished by now.”
“Put my office through to the exchange,” said Emanuel.
Behind the porter’s desk was a small switchboard, and he thrust in the two plugs. Presently the disc showed him that Emanuel was through.
Mr. Legge had many friends amongst the minor members of the Criminal Investigation Department. They were not inexpensive acquaintances, but they could on occasion be extremely useful. That night, in some respects, Emanuel’s luck was in, when he found Sergeant Shilto in his office. There had been a jewel theft at one of the theatres, which had kept the sergeant busy.
“Is that you, Shilto?” asked Legge in a low voice. “It’s Manileg.” He gave his telegraphic address, which also served as a nom de plume when such delicate negotiations as these were going through.
“Yes, Mr. Manileg?” said the officer, alert, for Emanuel did not call up police head-quarters unless there was something unusual afoot.
“Do you want a cop—a real one?” asked Legge in a voice little above a whisper. “There’s a man named Fenner——”
“The old lag?” asked Shilto. “Yes, I saw him to-day. What’s he doing?”
“He’s knocking off a little silver, from 973, Berkeley Square. Be at the front door: you’ll probably see him go in. You want to be careful, because he’s got a gun. If you hurry, you’ll get there in front of him. Good night.”
He hung up the receiver and smiled. The simplicity of the average criminal always amused Emanuel Legge.
CHAPTER XXIV
Peter wrote to tell of the invitation which Legge had extended to him. Johnny Gray had the letter by the first post. He sat in his big arm-chair, his silk dressing-gown wrapped around him, his chin on his fists; and seeing him thus, the discreet Parker did not obtrude upon his thoughts until Johnny, reading the letter again, tore it in pieces and threw it into the wastepaper-basket.
He had a whimsical practice of submitting most of his problems, either in parable form or more directly, to his imperturbable manservant.
“Parker, if you were asked to take dinner in a lion’s den, what dress would you wear?”
Parker looked down at him thoughtfully, biting his lip.
“It would largely depend, sir, on whether there were ladies to be present,” he said. “Under those extraordinary circumstances, one should wear full dress and a white tie.”
Johnny groaned.
“There have been such dinners, sir,” Parker hastened to assure him in all seriousness. “I recall that, when I was a boy, a visiting menagerie came to our town, and one of the novelties was a dinner which was served in a den of ferocious lions; and I distinctly remember that the lion-tamer wore a white dress bow and a long tail coat. He also wore top boots,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “which, of course, no gentleman could possibly wear in evening dress. But then, he was an actor.”
“But supposing the lion-tamer had a working arrangement with the lions? Wouldn’t you suggest a suit of armour?” asked Johnny without smiling.
Parker considered the problem for a moment.
“That would rather turn it into a fancy-dress affair, sir,” he said, “where, of course, any costume is permissible. Personally,” he added, “I should never dream of dining in a den of lions under any circumstances.”
“That’s the answer I’ve been waiting for; it is the most intelligent thing you’ve said this morning,” said Johnny. “Nevertheless, I shall not follow your excellent advice. I will be dining at the Highlow Club on Thursday. Get me the morning newspaper: I haven’t seen it.”
He turned the pages apathetically, for the events which were at the moment agitating political London meant nothing in his life. On an inner page he found a brief paragraph which, however, did interest him. It was in the latest news column, and related to the arrest of a burglar, who had been caught red-handed breaking into a house in Berkeley Square. The man had given his name as Fenner. Johnny shook his head sadly. He had no doubt as to the identity of the thief, for burglary was Fenner’s graft. Since the news had come in the early hours of the morning, there were no details, and he put the paper aside and fell into a train of thought.
Poor Fenner! He must go back to that hell, which was only better than Keytown Jail. He would be spared the ordeal of Keytown, at any rate, if what Craig had said was true. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was nearly eleven and jumped up. He was taking Marney to lunch and a matinée that day. Peter was bringing her up, and he was to meet them at Victoria.
Since his release from Dartmoor, Johnny had had no opportunity of a quiet talk with the girl, and this promised to be a red-letter day in his life. He had to wait some time, for the train was late; and as he stood in the broad hall, watching with abstracted interest the never-ceasing rush and movement and life about him, he observed, out of the corner of his eye, a man sidling toward him.
Johnny had that sixth sense which is alike the property of the scientist, the detective and the thief. He was immediately sensitive to what he called the approaching spirit, and long before the shabby stranger had spoken to him, he knew that he was the objective. Nearer at hand, he recognised the stranger as a man he had seen in Dartmoor, and remembered that he had come to prison at the same time as Fenner and for the same offence, though he had been released soon after Johnny had passed through that grim gateway.
“I followed you down here, Mr. Gray, but I didn’t like to talk to you in the street,” said the stranger, apparently immersed in an evening newspaper, and talking, as such men talk, without moving his lips.
Johnny waited, wondering what was the communication, and not doubting that it had to do with Fenner.
“Old Fenner’s been ‘shopped’ by Legge,” said the man. “He went to ‘knock off’ some silver from a house in Berkeley Square, and Shilto was waiting in the hall for him.”
“How do you know Legge ‘shopped’ him?” asked Johnny, interested.
“It was a ‘shop’ all right,” said the other without troubling to explain. “If you can put in a good word for Fenner, he’d be much obliged.”
“But, my dear fellow,” said John with a little smile, “to whom can I put in a good word? In the present circumstances I couldn’t put a word in for my own maiden aunt. I’ll see what I can do.”
There was no need to tell the furtive man to go. With all a thief’s keen perceptions he had seen the eyes of Johnny Gray light up, and with a sidelong glance assured himself as to the cause. Johnny went toward the girl with long strides, and, oblivious to curious spectators and Peter Kane alike, took both her hands in his. Her loveliness always came to him in the nature of a glorious surprise. The grace and poise of her were indefinite quantities that he could not keep exactly in his mind, and inevitably she surpassed his impressions of her.
After he had handed the girl into a taxi, the older man beckoned him aside.
“I’m not any too sure about this Highlow dinner,” he said. “Love feasts are not Emanuel’s specialities, and there’s a kick coming somewhere, Johnny. I hope you’re prepared for it?”
Johnny nodded.
“Emanuel isn’t usually so obvious,” he said. “In fact, the whole thing is so patent and so crude that I can’t suspect anything more than an attempt to straighten matters as far as Marney is concerned.”
Peter’s face clouded.
“There will be no straightening there,” he said shortly. “If he has committed bigamy, he goes down for it. Understand that, Johnny. It will be very unpleasant because of Marney’s name being dragged into the light, but I’m going through with it.”
He turned away with a wave of his hand, and Johnny returned to the girl.
“What is the matter with father?” she asked as the taxi drew out of the station. “He is so quiet and thoughtful these days. I suppose the poor dear’s worrying about me, though he needn’t, for I never felt happier.”
“Why?” asked Johnny, indiscreetly.
“Because—oh, well, because,” she said, her face flushing the faintest shade of pink. “Because I’m unmarried, for one thing. I hated the idea, Johnny. You don’t know how I hated it. I understand now poor daddy’s anxiety to get me married into respectable society.” Her sense of humour, always irrepressible, overcame her anxiety. “I wonder if you understand my immoral sense of importance at the discovery that poor father has done so many illegal things! I suppose it is the kink that he has transmitted to me.”
“Was it a great shock to you, Marney?” interrupted the young man quietly.
She nodded.
“Yes, but shocks are like blows—they hurt and they fade. It isn’t pleasant to be twisted violently to another angle of view. It pains horribly, Johnny. But I think when I found——” She hesitated.
“When you found that I was a thief.”
“When I found that you were—oh, Johnny, why did you? You had so many advantages; you were a University man, a gentleman—Johnny, it wasn’t big of you. There’s an excuse for daddy; he told me about his youth and his struggles and the fearful hardness of living. But you had opportunities that he never had. Easy money isn’t good money, is it, Johnny?”
He was silent, and then, with a quick, breath-catching sigh, she smiled again.