CHAPTER XXXI
LIONEL TO THE RESCUE
Without losing an instant Betty flew to the telephone.
"Hello! Hello!" she called impatiently, but there was no response. She worked the lever, shook the receiver, tapped her foot, and winked her long eyelashes rapidly, all to no avail. The instrument seemed dead, there was no familiar buzzing of the wires and it presently occurred to her that this was no ordinary delay of a heedless operator; there was something wrong with the telephone itself.
"Oh, dear!" she cried. "What shall I do?" And, hurrying to the conservatory window, she looked out despairingly among the palms and lilies. Then her face lighted as she saw Lionel coming slowly across the lawn. In one hand he carried his inevitable watering pot and in the other he held an open book that he seemed to be studying.
"Mr. Fitz-Brown! Come here—please—quick," she called.
"Right-o!" answered the amateur gardener and blissful lover, and leaving his watering pot, but clinging to his book, Lionel presently joined the young lady in the library.
"I say, I'm awfully pleased you called me," he beamed. "You know you're an awfully intelligent girl, Miss Thompson, and all that sort of thing and—do you happen to know anything about—er—bugs?"
"Bugs?" gasped Betty.
"Isn't that what you Americans call them? We call the little beggars beetles. This is an American book, 'Brown's Compendium of Familiar Bugs.' Rather good, that? They are familiar. Er, what?"
"Please, Mr. Fitz-Brown," she protested, but there was no stopping him.
"Potato bugs and spinach bugs and cauliflower bugs," he rattled on. "I say, do you know how to tell a spinach bug, Miss Thompson?"
"No, but——"
"Ah, I was sure you wouldn't," continued the delighted agriculturist. "Spinach bugs have red backs and green whiskers. Say it over to yourself—red backs and green whiskers."
"My dear Mr. Fitz-Brown, I really can't——"
"Oh, yes, you can," insisted Lionel. "It's perfectly easy except cauliflower bugs. Let me see! Cauliflower bugs," he paused to consult the book.
"You must put the book away and help me. I've got to send a cablegram. There isn't a minute to lose."
The gardener's face clouded with visions of charges at a shilling a word. "A cablegram! By Jove! I'll see, but——" he began to search through his pockets.
"It isn't that," said Betty. "I have the money. It's to get it there in time. The cable office is a mile away and we've only twenty minutes. I tried to telephone it, but the thing doesn't work. I'm afraid Anton has tampered with the wires."
"Oh, I say!"
"And, knowing what I do of Anton, I daren't send him with the car. Oh, it's maddening!"
"I can drive a car, Miss Thompson, if that's all you want."
"Really? Oh, splendid! Just a second while I write the cablegram."
She started for the desk, but stopped midway with a look of despair.
"It's no use! I had forgotten. Mr. Robert Baxter is out with the car; there's nothing to be done." She sank hopelessly into a chair.
Lionel Fitz-Brown stroked his mustache, adjusted his eyeglass and then, with a flutter of the ancestral spirit, rose to the situation.
"But, my dear Miss Thompson," he drawled, "if we have twenty minutes, I don't mind telling you that I can do my mile in ten."
Betty sprang to her feet. "You can?"
The gardener screwed up his eyeglass and nodded. "Sprinting is one of the things I do rather well."
"Then sprint—for your life," cried the girl excitedly. "If you get this message off before twelve o'clock—wait—where are those cable forms? Ah, here!"
And, snatching up one of the yellow blanks, she began to write with feverish haste. "Pontifex, New York. Can you read that?"
"Pontifex? I say, it sounds like a potato bug," chuckled Lionel, peering over her shoulder.
"That's the cable address. Now, the rest of it—no time to put it into the code."
Then she wrote rapidly: "Authorize you to sell for my account 50,000 shares Independent Copper. Act immediately. Gramercy."
"Gramercy?" questioned Fitz-Brown.
"That's Mr. Baxter's code signature. Here! And here's the money." She handed him the cablegram and some gold pieces, then anxiously looked at her watch. "Sixteen minutes. Can you make it?"
"Four to one I can make it, but, Miss Thompson, don't you think we ought to—er—I know you're a deucedly clever girl and all that sort of thing, but I really think——"
"Don't think! Run as you never ran before."
"Right-o! I'm going. Now watch me," and, dropping his precious book on bugs, Lionel Fitz-Brown darted out through the conservatory and a moment later this amiable descendant of the crusaders might have been seen, in gardener's costume, his eyeglass firmly in place, rushing madly along the dusty highway in a manner that would certainly have astonished his exquisite friends in Mayfair.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE STORM
Long after the luncheon gong had sounded Betty Thompson sat at her desk in the library, too agitated to think of eating, too anxious about the outcome of things to take her mind off the tense situation. Whichever way she turned perplexities confronted her. There in the conservatory was the stolen money, but she had promised not to touch it until this wretched detective had gone. When would he go? And there in her little chamber was this unfortunate girl, Hester Storm, whom she must save somehow, but how? And, wandering about the village of Ippingford—what could be keeping him?—was Lionel Fitz-Brown, bearer of that desperate cable message that might save Hiram Baxter or—or it might ruin him. Oh, dear, why didn't Lionel come back?
When Horatio entered presently with some food on a tray, a little cold meat and a salad, Betty shook her head sadly. She had no appetite, she really could not eat.
"You seem troubled, my dear," said Merle with kindly concern. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, thank you," she answered wearily.
The clergyman put down the tray, looked about him cautiously, and then, tiptoeing close to Betty, he whispered: "Miss Thompson—that man—the detective?"
"Yes?"
Horatio lifted his chin wisely, and, with a tragic thumb, pointed to the library door.
"He's still waiting. He seems to be everywhere at once. In the words of King Solomon, he lieth in wait at every corner. I wish he would go away."
"I wish he would," she sighed.
"He acts as if he thought we were sheltering a fugitive in this house."
Betty started. "Is that such a dreadful thing to—shelter a fugitive?"
"My dear," said the curate earnestly, "I am speaking of a fugitive from justice, a malefactor, and to shelter such a person is tantamount to becoming a partner in his crime. It is a grave offense in the eyes of the law; it means imprisonment; it means——"
"Mr. Merle," interrupted the girl indignantly, "do you mean to tell me that if a repentant sinner came to you for help and protection you, as a Christian, would refuse to shelter him?"
Horatio stroked his side whiskers and opened and closed his mouth several times with clerical deliberation.
"This is one of those delicate questions, Miss Thompson, one of those delicate questions that—that——"
But Betty would not be put aside with pompous generalities.
"Mr. Merle," she asked earnestly, "suppose you had made a promise to shield some one, to save her from a terrible disgrace?"
"Some one who had done wrong?"
"Yes, she has done wrong, but—she is sorry for it—she has made amends."
"Then, my dear, your duty is plain. If she truly repents of her sin, and if you have given your promise——"
"But suppose keeping my promise to save this person—suppose it means—telling a lie?"
"Ah," replied the clergyman, solemnly lifting two scandalized palms, "it is my duty to forbid you, my child, under any circumstances to tell an untruth—even to save another from destruction."
As he uttered these words he blinked uneasily behind his powerful glasses, and immediately added with nervous haste: "I say that as a minister of the church, but—er—as a man——"
"Yes? As a man?" she questioned eagerly.
It is impossible to know how Horatio would have extricated himself from this dilemma, for, just as he was searching for some theological barrier against the girl's persistence, the telephone rang sharply.
Betty took up the receiver. "Yes?" she answered, while the curate wiped his brow and observed this fair American with wondering interest. What a country America must be, he reflected, if so charming and clever a young lady was a specimen of its secretaries! What must its leisure class be? Then he remembered that Hiram Baxter had once assured him that plumbers and gasfitters were the only leisure class in America. He had asked Harriet to make a note of the fact. Extraordinary, this American aristocracy of plumbers and gas-fitters!
The secretary, meantime, was listening, with brightening eyes and a flush of pleasure, to the telephone message.
"Don't you know who it is?" she smiled. "Miss Thompson. Yes, I was in Brighton, but I came up here this morning for—for some things."
Then there was a pause of listening, while the girl's face took on a startled expression. "The Bishop of Bunchester? Oh! I see. Very well, I'll tell Mr. Merle." And she hung up the instrument.
"It was Mr. Robert Baxter," she explained to Merle. "He is on his way here in the motor with a friend of yours."
"A friend of mine?"
"I suppose he's a friend of yours—the Bishop of Bunchester."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the curate. "The Bishop of Bunchester!" He took off his glasses and rubbed them nervously.
"They will be here shortly and Mr. Robert wanted me to ask you," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "I don't understand what you have to do with it, Mr. Merle, perhaps he meant Mrs. Merle, but he asked if you would please see about one of the guest rooms."
"Quite right, my child," answered the clergyman gravely. "I will take great pleasure in arranging everything for his lordship. You see, I am—I am one of the servants in the house."
With a sort of humble dignity Horatio took up the tray while Betty stared at him in puzzled interest.
"Oh, Mr. Merle!" she said. "If you don't mind leaving that tray, perhaps I might eat a little—later."
"Certainly. I'll leave it here. By the way, my dear," he paused at the door, "the difficult question—that was troubling you?"
"Yes?"
"Why don't you put it to the bishop?"
"Perhaps I will," said Betty, and, long after the curate had gone, she sat still at her desk, thinking. Nor could all her worries and perplexities silence the glad thought that very soon she would see the man whose voice had just thrilled her over the telephone, the man who, without knowing it, had made her suffer, and who now, without knowing it, had made her happy.
Following a sudden joyous impulse, Betty took a key from her bag and, opening the top drawer of her desk, drew out, with loving touch, a small book beautifully bound in dark green leather. It was a little volume of the thoughts of Marcus Aurelius. And her eyes fell upon one of her favorite marked passages:
"It is in thy power, whenever thou shalt choose, to retire into thyself. For nowhere, either with more quiet or freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that, by looking into them, he is immediately in perfect tranquillity; and I affirm that tranquillity is nothing else than the good ordering of the mind."
She pondered these comforting words, then, shyly, with a little gasp of pleasure, turned back to the flexible cover, where a flap of silk formed a thin pocket for some few sacred things, a picture of her mother, a faded and flat-pressed flower and four-leaf clover that once had been important, and, with these, the typewritten letter that Bob Baxter had dictated to her in this very room, the letter beginning "My dearest Betty" that she had shamefacedly saved from rumpled oblivion in the scrap basket, and ever since had treasured among her precious possessions.
Once again Betty read over this wonderful epistle, and she recalled all the nice loyal things Bob Baxter had said that day about his little pal of olden times. Did he mean them then? Had he forgotten them now? She sighed. He couldn't have meant them very much and be carrying on as he was with Kate Clendennin. Poor little pal of olden times!
And now a singular thing happened. As Betty looked fondly at the typewritten words she suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that some one had entered the room and was looking at her. There had been neither sound nor word, but she knew that a person was standing there. And, glancing up, she saw Hester Storm at the half-open door of the mezzanine chamber, her dark eyes fixed on her benefactress in silent supplication.
"Oh!" cried Betty, in quick self-reproach.
Hester touched a warning finger to her lips and disappeared into the chamber. Whereupon Miss Thompson, dreading some new development, moved swiftly toward the little stair. On the way she stopped, in an impulse of kindness, and took up the tray of food.
"Poor girl! She's had nothing to eat," she thought, and, a moment later, she joined Hester in the bedroom.
Thus it came about that when Robert Baxter, in brilliant color and fine spirit, burst into the library a few minutes later, eager to see Betty Thompson, he found the big room empty. But there on the davenport were signs of a recent feminine occupation, suede gloves, a smart traveling hat and veil, and a lizard skin bag with silver monogram. Betty was evidently somewhere about, and the young fellow settled himself down to wait. He must talk to Betty, he must explain that he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings the other day at Brighton. He was only having a joke with her—why, he wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world.
As the young man glanced about the library his eyes fell on the little volume of Marcus Aurelius, and, taking it up carelessly, he came upon the letter shut within its pages. He had no thought of prying, indeed, he had no idea to whom the book belonged, and, before he realized what he was doing, he had read his own letter.
"By the Lord Harry!" he muttered, and the hot blood rushed to his face as he understood what this meant. That dear girl! His Betty! To think that she had kept that letter! He remembered seeing her crumple it up and throw it in the waste basket. She must have stooped down and picked it out again—and smoothed it—and folded it—and kept it. His plucky little pal! His Betty!
Bob rose and strode unhappily about the room. What a fool he had been not to recognize Betty! Couldn't he have seen that she was no ordinary secretary? My God! A child would have understood. And the worst of it was he had liked her all the time, he had looked at her and wondered about her, and—and then he had gone and made a silly idiot of himself with Kate Clendennin. It was sickening.
Bob had just brought himself to this state of righteous penitence and self-abasement when the door from Betty's chamber opened, and Betty herself appeared. She was stronger and happier now from having cheered and strengthened a disheartened sister woman. She was resolved to give Hester Storm this one last chance that she begged for to make good. She would try to save the girl from prison. She would hide her for a few hours, until Grimes had gone. This much she had promised sacredly to the pleading penitent, and she would keep her word.
At the sight of Betty, Bob went toward her eagerly, holding out his hands.
"Betty! Betty!" was all he could say.
"There!" she said, smiling happily and giving him her hand. "It's all right, Bob; it's all right."
"No, no, it's all wrong," he insisted.
She loved his nice naughty child penitence. Nor did she object to his masterful way as he drew up chairs.
"I've a lot to tell you," he went on, "but——"
Her dimple deepened at his embarrassment, and she reflected that he certainly needed a woman to help him pick out his cravats.
"I'm listening," she said demurely.
"This is the first chance I've had to speak to you since that day at Brighton—when you—
"I'm sorry I—I lost my temper, Bob," she whispered.
"Sorry," he burst out. "Why should you be sorry? You did the right thing. You called me down, but—you didn't say enough—not half enough."
"I didn't?"
He caught the mischief of her eyes, and, suddenly, as they remembered Betty's slashing outburst, they both were seized with a wild desire to laugh.
"My little pal! Betty Thompson!" he exclaimed in the old cordial way. "Say, why didn't you tell me about this—secretary business?" He tried to take one of her hands in his, but she drew it away gently. "Why didn't you, Betty?"
"I—I didn't want to," she answered in a low tone.
"That's no answer. I don't see why you did it."
"You don't? Bob, you must see why I wanted to help Guardy when he's been so good to me, and—he had no secretary, and—I've been so extravagant. Think of all the money Guardy has given me, and I—I supposed it was mine, I thought it was money father left me, but—he really left nothing. He—he left nothing."
"Nothing? He left the finest, pluckiest girl in the world. And, anyway, I don't see why you had to hide your name. Why didn't you say you were Betty Thompson and not just any old Miss Thompson? I mean any young Miss Thompson," he added, laughing.
She hesitated before answering.
"Bob, you may not believe me, you think musicians are crazy people—yes, you do, you said so, but—I've worked hard at my singing, and—I have a voice, a fine voice. I've sung in concerts, and—I'm going to make a name for myself, not like Melba or Emma Eames, but—well, you'll hear of Elizabeth Thompson some day, and it won't be as a secretary pounding on a typewriter, either; it will be as a singer. So there!" She drew herself up with a flash of the eye and a lift of the chin that made Bob thrill as he watched her. "Now you see why I'm just plain Miss Thompson."
"Betty, you know you've been talking nonsense; you know you've not given me the right reason."
Betty dropped her eyes in confusion. "If there was another reason it was a—foolish reason, and——" suddenly she drew back, and, with a start of remembrance, changed the subject. "How stupid! We're forgetting the bishop."
"Hang the bishop! He's lying down. He says we're going to have a storm—says he aches all over—that's how he knows."
"How interesting! I believe we are going to have a storm. Look, Bob." She pointed to a line of heavy clouds advancing formidably in purple black masses.
He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about the storm, Betty, or about the bishop or about any other old thing. I want to talk about you. Tell me about that foolish reason. I love foolish reasons."
"Well, I—I thought it would be—amusing to—see if—you would know me." She doled the words out teasingly, then, with a laugh of half triumph, half reproach: "And you didn't, you didn't!"
"How do you know I didn't? I knew you all right the other day at Brighton."
"Yes, but your mother told you. Oh, you needn't look so innocent. I'm sure she did. Why, you didn't even remember the little keepsake you gave me."
"What keepsake?"
"Ah! I told you! And I've kept it all these years."
She opened her lizard skin bag and produced a silver pencil with a whistle at the end.
"There! I suppose you've even forgotten the whistle." She blew shrilly on the little plaything.
Bob looked at her out of straightforward loyal eyes. "I own up, Betty, I had forgotten. I didn't know you until Mother gave the thing away, but I'll say this, you made me think of Betty. I never knew how it was, but—now I know." He leaned toward her eagerly. "There's only one Betty in the world; there couldn't be two and——"
"It really is going to storm, Bob," she said, rising nervously. "Just hear that wind. And see how dark it's getting."
She felt caressing shivers running up and down her back as she caught the unsteadiness of his voice.
"Sit down, Bob. I'm going to sing for you. I'm going to sing my favorite song."
He tossed his big shoulders impatiently, and she flung him a pouting reproof.
"Oh, well, if you don't care to hear my favorite song."
"I do care, Betty. I'm crazy to hear it, but—hello!" He paused as a pompous cough and ponderous tread resounded through the hall.
"It's the bishop," said Betty, and the words were scarcely spoken when his lordship entered, his benignant smile relieving the formidable impressiveness of his ecclesiastical coat and buckled knee breeches.
"Ah, my young friends," was his sonorous greeting as he peered among the shadowed spaces of the great room. "Ah, here you are! Quite a charming twilight picture!" He took their hands in a hearty grasp, then, turning slyly to Bob, "I don't think I need apologize for keeping you waiting."
Young Baxter gave a little self-conscious laugh, but Betty immediately became dignified.
"We were talking about—about music."
"Yes," added Bob. "You know Betty has been studying singing in Paris—she has a splendid voice."
"I should very much enjoy hearing Miss Thompson sing." The bishop bowed gallantly.
"You're just in time. Miss Thompson has promised to sing her favorite song, and—er—I was saying it would be rather nice to have it in the dark with—er—the organ accompaniment."
Betty opened her eyes at the glibness of Bob's invention.
"To be sure," approved his lordship. "In the dark, by all means, with the storm raging outside. Bless my soul! Look at that rain!"
The water was coming down in sheets and torrents, lashing the library windows and seething over the glass roof of the conservatory.
"It sounds like a Belasco melodrama," laughed Bob.
"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the bishop, not understanding in the least this allusion. "And what is your favorite song, my dear?" he asked Betty.
"Oh, I would never have the courage to sing before you," she declared.
"Besides, it's so much more interesting to talk. We'll have some lights and some tea, and—you must tell us what brings you to this part of the world?"
"Why, don't you know? Didn't you tell her?" The churchman turned to Bob in surprise.
"I—er—I thought I did," stammered the latter, but Betty shook her head.
"It's quite a mystery, my dear," the prelate explained. "It's in connection with that unfortunate affair in the train—you remember?"
"The purse?"
"Exactly. I received a telegram this morning from Scotland Yard—the police headquarters."
"Yes?"
"Perhaps you don't know it, but they have sent a detective here, a man named Grimes."
Betty could feel her lips getting white, but she kept her self-possession.
"I know," she said quietly, "I saw him."
"I had a few words with him myself just now. He seems like a straightforward fellow—says he has a clew, but—he isn't quite ready to make his report."
"How can he have a clew in this house?" objected Bob. "The servants have all left, and—I guess it's a false alarm."
"I'm afraid so," sighed the prelate. "We have had so many false alarms. You remember those German musicians, Miss Thompson?"
"I remember."
"They were innocent, it appears, quite innocent. Ah, well, I suppose we must be patient," the prelate continued in a tone of resignation, "and, for the moment, my dear, nothing could be more delightful than the song you were speaking of—in the dark, please."
Betty looked out into the park, where the swaying pines, tortured in the strength of the tempest, were hurling their branches to and fro like huge black hands. She listened to the shrieking of the gale as it rose and fell, then, without speaking, she went to the old organ, and, seating herself at its yellow keyboard, in the paneled recess, began to play softly a tender prelude of minor chords. As her courage grew she swelled into a braver ascending movement with danger notes sounding here and there, and, finally, improvising through a rapid procession of major chords, she swung into a triumphant crashing finale with the full strength of the organ, a storm within and a storm without that stirred old Bunchester to the depths of his tired soul and gave Betty Thompson new courage for the task that was before her.
Suddenly she stopped. There was a moment of tense silence, then her sweet voice lifted in an inspired melody, and, with all the tenderness of her nature, she sang "Annie Laurie."
"Wonderful! Admirable!" exclaimed the bishop when the last note of the haunting words had died away. "You have an exquisite voice, my dear. Really, I—I don't know when I have been more genuinely touched."
Betty herself was so deeply moved that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
"Bob," she called softly, "will you get my handkerchief? It's there by you—in my desk—the top drawer."
She spoke as if she thought Bob was sitting near her desk, but he rose from the opposite corner of the room.
"Certainly," he said, crossing over. "Wait, I'll turn up the lights," and he did so, touching a button in the wall.
As the electrics flashed out Betty looked about her in surprise.
"Why, how strange!" she cried.
"What?" asked the bishop.
"Surely you—you haven't been sitting there all the time—while I was singing?"
"My dear young lady, I haven't moved from this chair," declared his lordship.
"But you must have moved. Some one moved across this room," she insisted. Then she turned earnestly to Baxter.
"Bob, was it you? Did you move? I couldn't see in the dark, but—I thought it was you."
Her voice was almost pleading now.
"Nobody moved," Bob assured her. "We were too much taken up with your singing. Say, Betty, it was great. I never heard anything like it, never. I knew you could sing, but—by George, I didn't know you were an artist."
The girl's eyes were still troubled.
"You'll think me silly," she said with a strange impressiveness, "but—I know some one passed through this room while I was singing."
CHAPTER XXXIII
"HER PROMISE TRUE"
Half an hour before this, in the little mezzanine chamber, Hester Storm, with a sigh of relief, had sat down to the tray of food that Betty had left for her. At any rate, the worst was over. She had confessed her sin and had renounced all interest in the stolen money except to give it back. Miss Thompson would intercede for her with the bishop, and he, having the funds once more, would see that the police investigation was dropped. So she need not worry about Grimes. He would be taken off the case within twenty-four hours and—— What was that?
Above the tumult of the storm she had heard distinctly the click of a latch and, glancing up from her place, Hester fixed her eyes on the green door at the other end of the room and, presently she saw this open slowly and noiselessly, as she had seen it open once before. A moment later Anton entered, his eyes cruel, his face set with wicked determination.
The chauffeur closed the door behind him and locked it. Then, without a word, he went to the other door that opened on the library stairs and, putting this an inch or two ajar, he stood listening. Hester listened also and could hear Bob Baxter speaking tenderly to Betty.
"Spooning!" nodded the intruder. "Good business! He'll keep her for a while, but——" he turned the key in the lock, "I'll make sure just the same."
Hester started to her feet.
"Why do you lock that door?" Her bent shoulders and staring eyes betrayed her sudden terror.
"You'll find out," he whispered hoarsely.
She cowered away as the man strode toward her.
"Worked your little game all right this morning, eh, kid?" he sneered. "Got the cablegram out of my pocket?"
She half shut her eyes, watching him keenly.
"Yes, I got it."
"What'd'ye do with it?" he demanded.
She tossed her head with a flash of impudence.
"That's my business. See here, you keep your hands off me or——"
"Or what?"
With a scowl of anger he caught her in his powerful arms, and held her helpless. "Little fool! I had you this morning—in the library and I—let you go." His voice was thick with passion. "But if you get away now—— Good Lord, hear that!"
He turned to the window as the shrieking tempest made the whole house tremble.
Like a desperate hunted thing Hester drew back stealthily. It was in her mind to make a dash for one of the doors and escape before Anton could seize her again. He had left the keys in the locks and—the room was almost dark, but——
The chauffeur turned as if anticipating her thoughts. "Come here," he ordered and slowly she obeyed. "Why should I keep my hands off you?"
She stood white-faced before him, searching vainly; for some way of escape.
"You're a crook—wanted by the police. There's a man in this house from Scotland Yard. Did you know that?"
"Yes, I know it."
Anton caught her by the wrist and drew her to him roughly.
"You're hurting me," she cried.
"He'll hurt you more than that, if he gets you—he'll hurt you with irons."
The chauffeur leaned closer, leering horribly and it seemed to Hester that all the strength was going out of her body.
"Let me go!" she panted.
"Ha! Let you go!"
Again he caught her in his arms and pressed her fiercely against him. She felt his hot breath. She saw the veins swelling in his red neck. She struggled and turned her head from side to side, but he buried his face in her neck, in her hair, with little snorts and cries like an animal; then he kissed her furiously on the cheeks, on the forehead and at last full and long on the mouth!
"Ha! Let you go!" he breathed with smothered violence. "I'll let you go when—stop that!" he cried. "You will! You'll bite me?"
With a twinge of pain he drew back for a second, but instantly rushed after her as she sprang away.
And now, in her extreme and imminent peril, Hester took the last chance that remained. Before the madman could get his hands on her again, she screamed with all the power of her lungs—then screamed again.
Anton stood still, his eyes filled with sudden fear, his nostrils dilated. That wild cry had stirred the coward within the beast. And, while he waited, stunned and stupid, Hester's quick wits took control of the situation.
"Listen! I hear a step," she warned him, but, in her sinking heart, she knew that there was no step. No one had heard her. The shrieking of the storm had covered everything. She was as helpless as before.
And while Anton listened in alarm, not yet realizing his advantage, the Storm girl's mind leaped forward to study the next move in the desperate game she was playing. In a moment he would see that there was no danger—no one was coming, no one would come. And then, in gloating reaction, he would come back to his infernal purpose and—God! she must turn him from that before the beast was roused again.
"Anton," she said with swift decision, "I—I did take the money out of the purse."
He stared at her doubtfully.
"You did?"
"Yes—I—I hid it."
"Where?"
"In the conservatory. Don't look at me like that. I'm not lying. You've played me to a standstill and—I quit."
"You mean you'll give me my share of the money?"
"Yes."
"Five thousand pounds? I get half of it?"
"Yes."
Anton moistened his red lips with the tip of his tongue. He ran his fingers back through his thick hair. This was a new problem.
"You little devil!" he said almost admiringly. Then with suspicion, "You say you hid this money in the conservatory. Where in the conservatory? Where? And no more funny business—— I won't stand for it," he threatened, as he saw her hesitate.
"If I tell you where it is will you let me get it?" she asked.
"Let you get it? And then get away with it? I should say not. I'll get it myself."
She shook her head stubbornly.
"No. We'll get it together. You can stand over me, you can watch every move I make, but——I take the bills out and divide 'em. Don't make any mistake about that."
He frowned at this ultimatum, but she saw the spirit of greed shining in his eyes. Thank God, the other danger was past.
"You can divide the bills. Come on."
Anton went to the green door and turned the key.
"You go first. And remember, kid, if you try any crafty work, I'm right at your back and—if I don't get that money, the police get you."
She nodded indifferently and led the way along a dark passage, then down a narrow servants' staircase that ended in a door opening into the conservatory. As they moved on cautiously Anton kept his hand firmly on the girl's shoulder and, somehow, Hester was glad of this, for the half-darkness and the violence of the storm frightened her. She had no thought any longer of escaping. She had done her best and failed. She had played her last card and lost.
This man had forced her to choose between being a thief and a wanton and—well, she had been a thief before. To save her body from prison and—a worse fate, she was ready to give Anton half of this stolen money, she must give it to him, she had no choice, and the other half, her half, she would return this to the bishop. That was all she could do.
Hester opened the door at the foot of the stairs and stepped forward into the fragrant atmosphere of the plants and blooms. Anton was close behind her. She could feel his clutching hand. It was very dark within the conservatory and outside the storm was raging fearfully.
Suddenly the organ in the library began to play softly. Hester Storm stood still, listening at first in fear, and then, as the music wove its spell about her, with a kind of strange pleasure. Who could be playing so beautifully and tenderly there in the dark while she was here in such trouble?
A menacing pressure from the hand on her shoulder urged the girl to action. Stepping forward, Hester came to the rose bush in its gilded basket. A quick movement with one hand lifted the cylinder from its pot, then a search with the other brought her fingers in contact with the banknotes. There! She had them! Fifty hundred-pound notes! She had only to count off twenty-five and give them to Anton. That would silence him, but—would he take her word, in the darkness, that the count was straight?
She turned toward the chauffeur and, at this moment, became conscious that there was no longer any pressure on her shoulder. Anton had taken away his hand. She peered through the shadows, but could discern nothing save the vague outlines of a giant palm. She stretched forth her hand, but could feel nothing. The man had gone. At the moment of grasping a fortune he had gone. Why? What had happened?
In her concentration on the rose bush Hester had not seen the dull glow of a cigar burning in sinister watchfulness, there, in the far corner of the conservatory; but Anton had seen it and had drawn back stealthily, his heart pounding. It was Grimes lurking in the darkness, Grimes waiting for his prey.
And now, as Hester wondered at this strange disappearance of her persecutor, the organ stopped and a beautiful voice sounded from the library in a song that none can resist.
Gave me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot shall he,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie,
I'd lay down and dee.
"Her promise true!" These words went straight to the soul of this poor transgressor. It was like a voice speaking to her, a voice singing to her, a wonderful voice through the shadows of fear carrying its message of steadfastness and hope.
"Her promise true!" What had she promised? To be honest, to be kind. That meant giving back the money—and letting Anton hand her over to Grimes. Anton would do it, too, the cur. Then Grimes would send her up and—she'd never see Rosalie again and—she'd never be able to do anything for Rosalie.
Strange how this thought of Rosalie gave Hester strength to do the thing that would surely separate her from Rosalie, to do the thing that was right, whatever the cost! As she listened, breathless and motionless, reveling in that enthralling melody, it seemed as if she saw her sister's loving eyes, gazing at her tenderly.
It was Rosalie, the pure soul of Rosalie, speaking to her, pleading with her in golden song, bidding her be brave and—keep her promise and—give the money back—not half of it, but all of it.
Inspired with this simple faith, the girl moved swiftly toward the wide glass door that led into the library. In her hand she held the banknotes. She was going to give them back. Anton and Grimes might do what they pleased. If punishment and shame must come, then let them come. She was going to return the money she had stolen and—do what her dear sister Rosalie would wish and—keep "her promise true."
With her hand on the door Hester paused. She remembered that Miss Thompson's desk stood at this side of the room, not more than ten feet distant. It was possible that, under cover of darkness and the music, she could reach this desk without attracting attention. If she could, then—then she might slip the money into one of the drawers and—and make her getaway through the park before Anton could be sure that she had thrown him down. He wouldn't tell Grimes until he was absolutely sure. She might have time to stop at the lodge for her things and—she could square old Mrs. Pottle somehow. There was just a chance, in this storm, that she could be off on a train to London before Anton would even tumble that she had started. He was a good deal of a fool, Anton, and a coward besides.
Well, she would take the chance. It meant liberty, everything and—this was playing fair. She had promised to give the money back, but—that didn't mean walking meekly into jail. To be honest, to be kind—there was nothing else to it. She had a perfect right to keep out of jail, if she could.
Lightly and swiftly Hester entered the library and glided across the room toward Miss Thompson's desk. Betty was still singing, but the Storm girl listened no longer. All her faculties were centered on the last desperate adventure. If she could only get away with this! If the kind God—Merle's God—Rosalie's God—would only let her get away with this!
Groping before her in the obscurity of the room, her hand touched the desk and, running her fingers over it, she came upon a partly open drawer. There was something white in it. A handkerchief! It was the top drawer on the left-hand side. She would remember that and wire Betty to-night—no, write her. The top drawer on the left-hand side, under the handkerchief. There! She crowded the banknotes back into the drawer with a farewell tap and cautiously pressed the drawer shut. The spring-lock clicked. She had kept her promise. She had returned the Bishop of Bunchester's five thousand pounds, while the bishop himself, all unconscious of this, sat, lost in pleasant reverie, not three yards away.
Swiftly and silently, as before, Hester left the room. Thus far fortune and the darkness and the music had favored her. It only remained to cross the conservatory, to open the outside door and then venture forth into the storm. Where was Anton? Where was Grimes?
With a supreme effort the girl conquered her fears and crossed the few feet that separated her from the tumult inside. And, close behind her in a dull red line, came the watchful cigar—and Grimes.
The Storm girl grasped the latch of the outside door and, at the same moment, a heavy hand descended on her shoulder.
"Anton!" she started.
"Guess again, little one," answered a voice that made her knees sink under her. "We've got you with the goods this time. Eh, Jenny Regan?"
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE FIVE-BAR GATE
"It may interest you young people to know," the bishop was saying in the library, "that Annie Laurie—you know she was the daughter of Sir Robert Laurie of Maxwellton, and—er—she married an ancestor of mine."
"Really! Tell us about her," exclaimed Betty, leaning forward eagerly.
"I'm afraid there isn't much to tell except that she did not marry the poor young man—what was his name?—who wrote those tender verses about her?"
"She didn't?" frowned Bob, while Miss Thompson watched him with a roguish smile.
"No. She married my ancestor. I have always had the deepest sympathy for that unappreciated poet."
Young Baxter nodded wisely.
"Perhaps he'd have been more appreciated if he hadn't been so much of a poet. While he was making rhymes to Annie your ancestor got busy with the girl, and the first thing Mr. Poet knew the other fellow had landed her."
"Ha, ha, ha!" chuckled the prelate. "That sounds like one of your father's remarks."
"Speaking of Father," Bob glanced at his watch, "I'm expecting him up from town on this next train. I hope nothing detains him."
"I hope not," said the churchman earnestly. "I have been looking forward to seeing my dear old friend and—er—I wanted him to be present in case this detective reports anything that seems—er—important."
"Exactly," agreed the young man.
At this moment Merle entered, looking pale and anxious, and, bowing respectfully to the bishop, he went close to Baxter and said something in a low tone.
"Oh! All right. I'll see him," nodded Bob. Then to Betty and his lordship: "If you'll excuse me, I—er—there's a little matter I must attend to." And he hurried off, followed by Horatio.
"Oh, Mr. Merle! May I speak to you a moment?" called the bishop.
Horatio turned and a faint flush spread over the ashen gray of his thin face.
"Yes, your lordship."
Bunchester's eyes rested on the curate in kindly solicitude, then with a ruddy smile he turned to Betty.
"I must tell you, Miss Thompson, that Horatio Merle and I are friends of long standing, and naturally, when he came to my bedroom this afternoon with a tray of tea and toast—exquisitely served, I must say—I was somewhat surprised and—er—after a little talk, I became acquainted with the unusual and—er—interesting position that Mr. Merle has chosen to occupy in this household."
As the prelate went on his manner became more and more serious until now, turning to the astonished and abashed Horatio, he addressed him with all the impressiveness of his sonorous voice and his full episcopal dignity.
"Mr. Merle, you probably do not realize how deeply I was affected by what you told me this afternoon. I wish to shake hands with you, sir, and say, both as your bishop and as a fellow man, that I respect you and honor you for the fine simplicity and manliness you have shown here at Ipping House in accepting, I may say in seeking, a rather—er—humiliating position. I doubt, sir, if there is another clergyman in my diocese who would be capable of such an act of Christian self-effacement."
"I—I thank your lordship," murmured Horatio, retreating awkwardly toward the door.
"Wait! I haven't finished. Mr. Merle, you have builded better than you knew. It happens that my old friend, Dr. Dibble, the rector of St. Timothy's in Ippingford, has become so infirm that we are about to retire him on a pension. The living is in my hands and it is my intention, sir, in fact, it is my absolute decision, to offer it to you."
Horatio was so overcome by this extraordinary good news that for some moments he could not speak a word. Was it possible? He, a poor curate, who had made a failure of everything, suddenly lifted to this splendid height? He, the rector of St. Timothy's? He, Horatio Merle?
"Oh, your lordship!" he stammered.
"There is a fine old rectory with five or six acres of land and the prettiest rose garden in Kent. I am sure you and your wife will be happy there."
"Your lordship, I—I thank your lordship. I—I would add——"
Horatio stood quite still, holding a few strands of his side whiskers between an agitated thumb and forefinger. He opened and closed his mouth several times and then, in a tumult of suppressed feeling, he hurried from the room.
Just as he was closing the door Betty flew after him.
"Oh, Mr. Merle, I am so happy! I congratulate you with all my heart."
She clasped his hand impulsively with such sweetness and genuineness that the good man's confusion was made more complete, if that were possible.
"Thank you, Miss Thompson—thank you. Please don't say any more. I—I must go. I—must tell my wife."
Horatio hastened away, his eyes shining with tears of joy.
And now there came a bad quarter of an hour for Elizabeth Thompson. It was evidently her duty to tell the bishop immediately, without losing a moment, about the stolen money. This was her opportunity to tell him; she was alone with him and—she must tell him. And yet she could not speak. She had promised Hester Storm to say nothing until after Grimes had gone. She had promised faithfully, and—for the moment her lips were sealed.
"Bishop," she began, and in her eyes there was the shadow of impending trouble.
"Yes, my dear. Sit down." He made room for her beside him on the davenport.
"There's something I've wanted to speak to you about—that is——"
"I understand, my dear," he anticipated. "You have reference to that unfortunate affair on the train? You know I came here to-day for the express purpose of—er—that is to say, I shall be glad to obtain, in fact, the detective urged me to get from you, any information you can give regarding that painful occurrence."
"But—I wanted to ask you——"
She paused, biting her lips, and the prelate went on serenely.
"I have been told of your very great kindness to the suspected young woman who was in the carriage with us. I feel sure you acted in a sweet, pitying spirit, but you can hardly realize, my child, as one in my position does, the unwisdom of accepting too readily the unconfirmed statements of—er—shall I say plausible strangers. By the way do you happen to know what has become of this Jenny Regan?"
"Why—she told me—she spoke of living in New York, and—I think she was—going back there."
Betty's distress of mind was so evident that the bishop must surely have noticed it had it not been for the sudden entrance of Bob Baxter, whose pale face and disturbed manner showed that something serious had happened.
"I've been talking to the detective," he explained, "and—I want to apologize to both of you in advance, and especially to you, Betty, for what the man is going to say. He insists on coming in here, and—if I had my way I'd chuck him out of the house, but—he comes as an officer of the law, and I suppose I have no choice but to let him do what he considers his duty."
"Quite right," nodded the bishop. "We must respect the law."
Betty stared, white faced, before her while young Baxter went to the door and showed in the detective. Grimes had left his cigar outside.
"All right. Go ahead," said Bob with a contemptuous glance at the newcomer. "Only, please make it as short as possible."
"I'm not in the habit of wasting words, Mr. Baxter," answered Grimes curtly.
"You mustn't mind, Betty," continued the young fellow, "if he asks you some rather impertinent questions. It's only a formality, and it's part of his business. Now, sir!"
Quietly ignoring this high-handed manner, the detective seated himself, and, facing the troubled secretary, went straight at the business in hand.
"You remember Jenny Regan, the girl who was in the railway carriage when the Bishop of Bunchester discovered that his purse had been stolen?"
"Yes, I remember her," answered Betty.
"You took a great interest in this young woman, did you not? You offered her money, gave her your card, although she was a stranger. How was that?"
"I was sorry for her. She had had a hard struggle, and I wanted to help her."
"Fine!" exclaimed Bob, and Grimes flashed him a sharp glance from under his thick eyebrows.
"You had no idea she was a professional pickpocket?"
"No."
"No idea that she stole the bishop's purse?"
"Certainly not."
"You believed her to be an innocent and deserving person?"
"I did."
"Miss Thompson, are you still of that opinion?"
"I am sure she is a deserving person," was the firm reply.
"Who is?" asked Grimes quickly.
"Why, Hest—Jenny Regan," stammered Betty, and the detective smiled, but he paid no attention to this slip.
"You say deserving, but not innocent. Do you still think Jenny Regan innocent of stealing the bishop's purse?"
The crisis had come. Should Betty speak or keep silent? To speak would bring inevitable ruin upon this unfortunate girl, who had trusted her. Yet how could she not speak?
While she hesitated Bob spoke for her. "How can Miss Thompson possibly know whether Jenny Regan stole the bishop's purse or not?" he demanded.
"Miss Thompson has the best reason in the world for knowing that," Grimes answered, and there was a note of cold menace in his voice.
"See here," retorted the young fellow. "I won't stand for this. Either you make good your words or——"
"Keep still, my friend. I'll make my words good." Then, turning to the bishop, "I beg your lordship to believe that I am not speaking lightly." He drew from his pocket a brown leather purse clasped by an elastic band. "Does your lordship recognize this?"
"Bless my soul! My purse!" exclaimed the bishop. "Where did you find it?"
"With your lordship's permission I'll explain that—a little later."
Old Bunchester coughed impressively. "And the money?" he asked. "The five thousand pounds? Is it—in the purse?"
The detective shook his head. "Not a penny of it. The purse is empty. There!" He handed the lean wallet to its owner.
"Quite true," sighed the bishop. "It is empty."
"Do I understand that you found this purse somewhere about here—I mean about this house?" demanded Bob.
"Yes," said the detective.
"And you have no idea where the money is?" inquired Bunchester anxiously.
"I have a very distinct idea where the money is," answered Grimes slowly, "and this young lady——" he faced Betty accusingly, "she also has a very distinct idea where the money is."
At this Baxter's eyes blazed fiercely. "You dare to——"
"Wait, Bob!" The girl laid a restraining hand upon his arm. Then, lifting her head proudly, she challenged Grimes. "You mean to insinuate that I took the money from this purse?"
"Impossible!" murmured the bishop.
A hard smile played about the detective's mouth.
"You mean to deny that you know where the money is?"
She hesitated. "Why—er——"
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"I—I can't tell you."
"You refuse to answer?"
"I—must refuse." She thought of her promise to Hester.
"My dear child," interposed Bunchester kindly. "I'm sure you are actuated by the most honorable motives, but this is a case where the whole truth must be told."
"Go ahead, Betty; tell what you know," urged Bob.
"I—I——" she began weakly, but rallied with a flash of anger. "I'll not be questioned like this." Her pride and fighting spirit were stirred now. The idea that she was actually accused of stealing this money or of being an accomplice in the theft—it was outrageous, preposterous. Very well, if they thought her guilty they could keep on thinking so.
"I have made a serious charge here," Grimes proceeded quietly, "and I propose to prove it." He turned sharply to the girl. "Whose desk is that?"
"My desk," she answered.
The detective examined the drawers carefully. They were all unlocked except the top one on the left-hand side.
"You keep this drawer locked?"
"Usually."
"You have the key?"
"Yes. It's in my bag." She opened her bag and produced a flat key. "Here it is."
"Has anyone else a key to this drawer?"
"No."
Grimes looked at the key critically. "H'm! A spring lock. Do you mind opening this drawer?"
"Why should I open it? It's my private drawer." Betty thought of her Marcus Aurelius and Bob's precious letter. Why should these sacred things be dragged out by this vulgar detective?
"Oh, it's your private drawer, is it? Just the same, I must ask you to open it, Miss Thompson."
"Very well," yielded the girl. "There!" She put the key in the lock and turned it while Grimes watched her keenly.
"Now if your lordship will look in this drawer?" he said.
"Certainly," bowed the prelate, and he pulled out the drawer to its full length, then started back with a cry of amazement. "Good heavens!" He drew forth a bundle of folded banknotes. "It's the stolen money," he declared. "The exact amount! The identical notes! Five thousand pounds!"
Betty started in bewilderment. "But—I don't understand," she said.
Old Bunchester turned to the girl in deep concern. "My dear Miss Thompson, this is exceedingly painful, exceedingly compromising. I beg you most earnestly, in the interest of everyone, in your own interest, to tell us how it comes that this money is found in your desk. You must explain this mystery, indeed you must."
"Hold on!" cried Bob, springing forward, his whole face transfigured, and here it was, in the words of Hiram Baxter, that the boy showed himself a thoroughbred and took the five-bar gate in one clean leap. "Don't say a word, Betty. Don't explain anything. You're the finest, pluckiest girl I ever knew, and right now, without any explanation, I ask you to be my wife."
"Bob!" she cried, and her whole soul was in her eyes.
"It's all right, dear." He stood close beside her and drew her to him protectingly. "There are two of us now." Then, turning to Grimes: "Go ahead with your silly little game."
"All very pretty," sniffed the detective, while the bishop looked on in purple amazement, "but, before we get through with our silly little game you may not find it as silly as you think."
He strode across the library to the foot of the little stair and pointed to the mezzanine door. "If Miss Thompson was so confident that Jenny Regan was a deserving person why did she hide her in that room this morning?"
"What?" cried Bob.
Grimes fixed his hard gaze on Betty. "Do you deny that you hid Hester Storm, otherwise known as Jenny Regan, in that room?"
The girl eyed him steadily. "It's true," she said; "but—I can explain it."
Young Baxter started to his feet. "It isn't possible this Storm girl who's been working here is—Jenny Regan?"
Grimes nodded. "Jenny Regan is one of her aliases. It's a matter of police record. You knew this, didn't you?" He turned to Betty, whose cheeks were aflame with anger.
"Yes, I knew it," she flung back, "and what is more——"
"You knew she was a thief and a pickpocket?" he added.
With an effort the girl checked herself and stood panting.
"If your lordship will give me a few moments," she said in a low tone, "I can make everything clear. You don't mind, Bob? Just a few moments?"
Baxter bowed to her wish. "Of course I don't mind. Come on," he said to Grimes.
"Not I," refused the latter. "Miss Thompson says she can make things clear to his lordship. So can I. His lordship's purse was stolen by Hester Storm, alias Jenny Regan, but this young woman," he swept Betty with a cruel look, "was an accessory after the fact."
"You miserable hound!" roared Bob.
And the bishop said solemnly: "My dear sir, you are making an incredible accusation. Miss Thompson is a lady—a friend of mine. I knew her estimable father."
"I can only lay the facts before your lordship," shrugged the detective. He went to the library door, and, motioning quickly, returned followed by Hester Storm, who looked neither to the right nor the left, but held her eyes straight down before her, as if studying the yellowish pattern in the carpet. Betty watched her in surprise.
"There," Grimes pointed to Hester, "is my answer to your lordship's doubts. What is this woman doing here? She is a notorious thief and a pickpocket. Why did she come to Ipping House? Why did your lordship's friend, Miss Thompson, shelter her in that bedroom and try to prevent me from arresting her? The answer is easy. It was because Miss Thompson proposed to share the money this Storm girl had stolen from your lordship."
"That's a lie!" rang out Betty's swift denial. "Tell them it's a lie. You must tell them," she appealed frantically to Hester.
But the Storm girl never moved; she never spoke; she never lifted her eyes from the carpet.
And Grimes went on relentlessly: "If Miss Thompson was innocent of this crime why did she not tell the whole truth about it when she was alone with your lordship not half an hour ago?"
"I wanted to tell the truth," insisted Betty, "but I had promised this poor girl that I would do nothing until—until the detective had gone." Again she appealed to Hester. "You know that is true. Tell them it's true."
But the Storm girl stood there like a frozen image, her lips closed, her eyes cast down. And a sickening terror filled Betty's breast.
"Your lordship must see that there is a strong case against this young woman." Grimes moved toward Betty with a grim tightening of the lips. "You'll have to come with me." He laid a hand on her arm.
Instantly Bob Baxter stepped forward, his face as white as Betty's.
"Take your hands off that lady."
"Oh, I don't know," retorted Grimes. "I'm an officer of the law and——"
"My dear Mr. Baxter," reasoned the bishop, interposing his portly and venerable presence between the excited adversaries, "believe me, we must respect the majesty of the law."
"Majesty nothing," stormed Bob. "I tell you——"
"I tell you to step back," ordered the detective. "And you——" he faced Miss Thompson, "consider yourself under arrest. If you have anything to get ready you'd better do it. We start in——" he glanced at his watch, "in ten minutes."
"Start?" cried Baxter, aghast.
The seriousness of the situation was now clear to everyone.
"See here," the young man appealed to Grimes after a moment's thought, "there's some horrible mistake. Miss Thompson had nothing to do with stealing that money. She couldn't steal. Look at her, man! You know she couldn't. I'll be responsible anyway, or my father will, for the money and everything else. You can't drag her off like this and disgrace her. By God, I won't let you."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I've no choice. A crime has been committed, and—there's evidence enough to hold her on if she was a cousin of the queen."
"Under arrest!" murmured Betty twining her fingers together piteously and fixing her eyes on Hester.
At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard outside. Bob went quickly to the window.
"It's Father," he said with a movement of relief. "Cheer up, Betty. Dad will think of something."
A moment later Hiram Baxter entered the room. His face was ashen gray. He looked broken and ill, but a flicker of the old bright smile spread over his rugged face as he glanced about the room.
"Hello, everybody! Why, hello, Bish!" He tapped Bunchester playfully on the shoulder. "I'm awful glad to see you, Bish." Then, as he noticed the universal gloom, "Say, it strikes me you folks are a little frappay. What's wrong? What are you doing here?" he asked Grimes.
The detective started to explain, but Bob cut in eagerly.
"One moment! Father, did you leave twenty-five thousand dollars in the drawer of that desk?"
"Twenty-five thousand dollars! Say, boy, is this a joke? If it is, I tell ye straight I don't like it."
"No, Father, it's not a joke; it's very far from a joke. Did you leave it there?"
"Twenty-five thousand dollars in that desk? Say, if you knew what I've been through to-day! I've been scratchin' around down where the avenues are paved with red-hot bricks, lookin' for twenty-five thousand dollars. And I didn't find it, either. No, sir, I left no money in that desk. It ain't my desk, anyway; it's Betty's desk."
"Ah!" smiled Grimes.
"Say, who are you, anyway?"
"I'm Grimes from Scotland Yard."
"Let me explain," put in Betty. "I—I'm in great trouble, Guardy."
"I'll tell him, dear," said Bob. "Father, I—I've asked Betty to be my wife."
"Well, it ain't that that's makin' ye look like a funeral, is it?" drawled Hiram. "Go on, now; let me have it."
Betty and Bob spoke at the same time, both pointing scornful fingers at Grimes.
"He says that I——"
"He dares to say that Betty——"
"Easy now! Not all at once. Say, Bish, you'd better tell it."
Bunchester coughed impressively. "My dear friend, it seems incredible, but the fact is Mr. Grimes thinks that Miss Thompson was concerned in the—er—misappropriation of that five thousand pounds."
"That was stolen from you? Betty Thompson? No, no, no!" thundered the old man.
"That is how we all feel, but, with the utmost regret I am forced to bear witness that this exact sum and, I believe, the identical banknotes were found in Miss Thompson's desk—there."
"Five thousand pounds? What does this mean, Betty? How did that money get in your desk?"
"I—I don't know," the unhappy girl answered. Grimes looked at his watch again. "No use of any more talk," he said gruffly. "It's time to start and——" motioning to Betty, "you'll have to come with me."
"You don't mean——" Hiram's eyes burned savagely.
"I mean that these two women are under arrest, sir, charged with grand larceny, and I'm going to take 'em to London by the next train."