CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was not long before the quarry came to a halt at a public-house in a side street off Piccadilly. When he reached this hostelry, his intense indignation had exercised a remarkably sobering effect upon him, his gait was quite steady, and when he asked the barmaid for refreshment his voice had recovered its normal tones.
Grewgus had followed him in. After a little while, Newcombe went and sat down in front of one of the tables. After a decent interval the detective followed him and opened up conversation by some remark about the weather. Mr. Newcombe made a somewhat gloomy response; it was evident his mind was still full of the epithet which Stormont had hurled at him as he hurried into the car.
As Grewgus saw that he was not disposed for general conversation, he thought he would try him on something that would interest him. He judged him not to be too well blessed with the world’s goods, in spite of his loud but evidently cheap apparel; he thought, therefore, he would start on a democratic note.
“Awful lot of money these nobs do waste on themselves. When you walk down these parts, the luxury that meets you on every hand makes you fairly sick, it does. Many a poor bloke has got to keep his wife and family for a week on what they spend on one meal.”
He was a very good actor, and he put on a ripe Cockney accent for the benefit of his companion. He did not want to be taken for a man of too superior class, or else he might easily excite suspicion.
Mr. Newcombe grunted assent to these propositions, and drained his tumbler. Grewgus put on a genial smile and did the same.
“They give you precious little stuff for the money in these days,” he remarked in the same dissatisfied tone. “I feel a bit fed up to-day with thinking of all these things; I always feel that way when I see much of this quarter of the town. I’m going to have another; I should be rather glad if you’d have one with me.”
Mr. Newcombe hesitated for a second, then accepted. Grewgus had judged his condition pretty accurately. He had had too much when he stood outside the house in Curzon Street; the abuse hurled at him by Stormont, and the indignation it created, had momentarily sobered him. But another glass or two would stir up the old drink and reduce him to his previous condition. When he got back to that he would be disposed to talk. The second tumbler accomplished the desired result. The detective saw he could now get to work.
“I’ve just strolled down from Curzon Street, and it was the sight of a big party going on at one of the houses that set me thinking. Motor-cars galore waiting for the beautiful ladies with frocks that cost a small fortune, men coming out with their expensive suits. It gave me the hump, it did, so I cut it and dropped into the first public I could come across.”
Newcombe looked at him with a perfectly unsuspicious eye. “Was you there too? So was I. Did you happen to see me?”
“No,” answered the detective unblushingly, feeling that he was lying in a good cause. “Rather rum that when you come to think of it, isn’t it? That we should be looking at the same thing, and then meeting a few minutes after in this place, I suppose for the same reason, that we both felt a trifle dry. I say, we’d better have another. I always feel reckless when I’m a bit fed up.”
The Colonial accepted the hospitality for the second time. Grewgus went to the counter to get the drinks; he did not wish the Colonial to entertain any doubts of his own sobriety, which was fast tottering under the last glass.
When he returned, Mr. Newcombe began to give vent to some of the thoughts that were harrowing his indignant soul.
“It isn’t often I come in these parts—I live King’s Cross way. But it being a fine day, I thought I’d just take a stroll up here, and have a look at the nobs. Well, I wandered about a lot, then I sat down in the Park, and afterwards I got into that street where you were. I forget what you said the name of it was.”
Grewgus supplied the necessary information, and the Colonial rambled on, in a voice that grew thicker as he proceeded.
“Well, presently I come to that house where the show was. I stood looking at the motor-cars and the dainty ladies stepping into them. Suddenly I see come out a man I have known for years, with his sister and niece. He was a pal of mine in Australia when we were both young men. Many a good turn I done him, once I nursed him back to life through a bad fever. Well, remembering the good old days, I go up to him in a cheery sort of way. And what do you think I get in return?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea,” replied the mendacious Grewgus.
“He called me a drunken dog, a drunken dog, and dared me to speak to him in the street or anywhere else. What do you say to that?”
Grewgus shrugged his shoulders and spoke in a withering voice: “A rich man, of course, got on in the world. Well, I should say it was just what he would do, like the snob he is. I suppose he wouldn’t chuck you a shilling if you were starving.”
It was evident, in spite of his resentment, that Newcombe could not tell an absolute lie. “I won’t say he hasn’t given me a bit, but there’s a reason for it, a reason for it.”
“A reason for it,” repeated the detective. “I expect a pretty good one too?” Was he going to get something out of this sot?
Mr. Newcombe went on muttering to himself: “I could make him smart, if I chose to, the ungrateful dog. He to lord it with his flunkeys and his fine motor-car while I live on a pittance.”
“You know something about this fine gentleman who calls you a drunken dog?” insinuated the detective, repeating the offensive epithet with the view of keeping the man’s resentment at white heat.
Perhaps Grewgus had overdone it. Something seemed to stir in the drink-soddened brain, and told him he had gone too far. The Colonial seemed to pull himself together.
“That’s neither here nor there,” he said in a surly tone. Then he harked back in his maudlin state to his original grievance. “A drunken dog indeed, from him who for years never drew a sober breath! Tell me, mister, did I look drunk? But I forget, you said you didn’t see me. Am I drunk now?”
Grewgus knew that the moment had gone. He would get nothing out of this creature now. There was no need for him to dissemble any longer. “If you ask my candid opinion, I think you have had too much. The last glass has knocked you over. I am not sure you can stand properly. Have a try.”
Mr. Newcombe did as he was told, but the effort was not successful. He got up for an instant, but relapsed promptly into his seat. Grewgus found himself confronted with an awkward situation. He did not for a moment regret his hastily conceived pursuit of Newcombe; he had come within an ace of accomplishing his object. It was by the merest bad luck, at the last moment, some sudden flickering of intelligence had caused the inebriated man to exercise discretion.
All the same, he found himself saddled with a companion, drunk to the point of incapacity, and unable to look after himself.
Grewgus made up his mind at once; it was necessary to do so, since Newcombe showed signs of sinking into slumber.
“Look here,” he whispered into the man’s ear as loud as he dared. “If you don’t want to be locked up for the night, I shall have to get you home. Tell me quickly where you live.”
In a thick voice, the incapacitated Colonial muttered the name of a mean street in the King’s Cross district. Grewgus knew the place well, and, as was his custom, drew a rapid inference. Either Stormont was allowing him a very small pittance, or else Newcombe was averse to heavy standing charges as they would curtail his opportunities of purchasing his beloved alcohol.
A very decent young man had come into the bar, whom the detective judged, by his appearance, to be of the Good Samaritan sort, disposed to help in a case of trouble. Propping the almost comatose man well against the table, he went up to this individual and besought his assistance.
“My friend has been overcome, been taking too much before I met him, I expect,” was his explanation. “I want to get him away without fuss, if I can. If you would kindly call a taxi, and come back here and lend a helping hand, I am sure I can manage it. I doubt if he can walk very well, but between us we can manage to shove him along and get him in the taxi.”
The decent-looking young man responded nobly to the appeal. In a very short time, Mr. Newcombe, still half asleep and almost deprived of the powers of motion, was being borne in the direction of King’s Cross.
About half-way on the journey, he made one of those remarkable recoveries which are frequently to be observed in the devotees of alcohol. He was still far from sober, but his partial slumber, and the rather keen fresh air blowing through the open taxi-windows on his inflamed face, had cleared his faculties to a certain extent. He was able to appreciate and thank the detective for what he had done.
“The act of a pal, that’s what it is,” he hiccoughed. “If ever your turn comes and I’m there, I’ll do the same with you. If you had sneaked out and left me, I should have been run in as safe as eggs.” His mind suddenly reverted to the events of a short time ago. “By gosh, if it had been that fellow with the flunkeys and the fine car, he’d have left me in the lurch. I say, mister, I don’t know your name, perhaps I was a bit gone; he bawled at me that I was a drunken dog.”
There was something very comical in his almost abject aspect as he put this question. Grewgus could hardly keep from laughing.
“I should say more than likely, my friend. You strike me as one of those chaps who can get drunk and sober again three or four times in a day. We shall be there in a very few minutes. I expect you will find yourself able to walk without assistance when we get out.”
And so it proved. When the taxi drew up before the shabby-looking house in one of the meanest streets in the locality, Mr. Newcombe was able to comport himself with a certain amount of steadiness. He apologized for not being able to ask his companion up, as he occupied one apartment at the top of the house, and there was, alas! no refreshment to offer a guest when he got there.
“I’ve sense enough not to keep it in the house,” he said with a cunning smile. “Having to go out for it does put a bit of a stopper on me. You see, I know my weakness. But I tell you what—I want to prove to you that I look upon you as a pal, one of the right sort. If you’ll make an appointment to meet me to-morrow, not perhaps at the same place, we’ll have a return match.”
Grewgus thanked him and hastily explained that he would not be in London on the morrow, nor for some little time after. Then, having seen his companion put his key in the door, and enter the unprepossessing premises, he went on his way. With his usual methodical habit, he posted in his note-book Mr. Newcombe’s address, in case he should require it in the future.
Early the next morning he rang up Lydon while the young man was at breakfast.
“A thousand apologies for running away from you yesterday. But after that little scene with Stormont, I thought I ought not to let the chance slip. Got nothing out of it though, will tell you all when I see you. I want very much to know what you have to report to me. Shall I come to you, or vice versa?”
“I’d rather come to you,” was Lydon’s answer. “We shall be less liable to interruption in your place.”
The young man went round to him after lunch. Grewgus related how he had nearly brought the Colonial to the blabbing point, and how the man had suddenly shrunk back into his shell. On his side Lydon gave a full account of the reception in Curzon Street, omitting no detail.
“There is no doubt what the game is,” said the detective when his companion had finished. “They have evidently got this young chap into their clutches, and they mean to bleed him to the utmost.”
“Do you think these elaborate preparations, the taking of the house in Curzon Street, this purchase of expensive furniture, etcetera, are a part of the plot?”
“Undoubtedly. I have heard a good deal of this young Wraysbury from one source and another. I should say he’s rather a silly sort of chap, intoxicated with his good fortune, and an easy pigeon to be plucked. I am told he has a lot of hangers-on who are thriving on his bounty, regular parasites and leeches. On the quiet, he goes in for the theatrical business, has put money in one or two shows, and I need hardly say lost what he put in.”
“Edwards, who seems immensely proud of the acquaintance, spoke in very warm terms of him, says he is a delightful fellow in himself, very generous, but by no means a fool.”
Grewgus laughed derisively. “Of course, that is just what a man of that stamp would say of somebody he had designs on, make him out cleverer than himself. No, I think my version is the true one. I don’t say that the young man is vicious or anything of that sort, but he is pleasure-loving, gambles pretty heavily, and of course goes racing.”
“He is evidently very thick with the woman. He was sitting in her pocket all the afternoon.”
“Ah! I understand he has a great penchant for female society, and that he is far from discriminating in his choice of fair companions. I believe his parents live in terror that he will one fine day make some actress or dancer Lady Wraysbury. Probably you don’t know anything about the Felthams; in my line I get a lot of information about people. They are a very pious, straight-living couple. The old man is a pillar of the Established Church, his wife is equally devout. At their London house in Eaton Place she is surrounded with parsons. His youthful lordship has certainly not taken after his parents.”
“And I suppose they would be shocked beyond expression if they knew he was hanging about a married woman?”
“Go off their heads, I should think,” was the detective’s reply. “But they are not likely to hear of it. They live in a very narrow set, to whom such doings don’t penetrate. They won’t know unless some scandal arises suddenly out of it.”
Presently Lydon suggested that, in view of what they knew about Mrs. Edwards, otherwise Elise Makris, Wraysbury ought to be warned. How could it be done?
Grewgus looked doubtful. “You see, the difficulty is that we have no evidence of her having previously blackmailed anybody. Your friend, Mr. Craig, was very vague on the point, you say. Of course, I don’t suppose they would dare to take any action if we did such a thing, wouldn’t court having their past ripped up. But if this young ass is infatuated—and it looks very like it—he wouldn’t believe much stronger evidence than it is in our power to produce.”
“But you have no doubt of the character of all these people yourself?” asked Lydon, who did not perhaps quite realize the habitual caution of a man who followed Grewgus’ profession.
“In my own mind, certainly not. But what we do know is of such a purely circumstantial kind that we should have great difficulty in getting the average person to agree with us. One can feel a thing without being able to prove it.”
“It seems to me that we have come to a deadlock,” said Lydon in a tone of disappointment.
Grewgus reluctantly admitted that it looked like it. He added more cheerfully that something might turn up at any moment. The French police were still pursuing their inquiries into the mystery of Calliard’s death, and they might still be able to connect Edwards, if not Zillah Mayhew, with that tragedy. Then there would be something to go on of a tangible nature.
It was some few days after that Grewgus sought another meeting with his client. Perhaps in their last interview he had sensed a certain dissatisfaction on Lydon’s part at the slow progress of affairs.
“I have been thinking a good deal over that fellow Newcombe,” he said. “I have not the slightest doubt he could tell us something about Stormont that would make a certainty of what now is not more than a very strong conjecture. I wonder whether you would care to bribe him. There is no doubt that at the moment he is very incensed with Stormont; those bitter words, although he has half a notion they were deserved, will rankle for a long time. Also I doubt if Stormont pays him much to hold his tongue. Now would be the time to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. Of course, the drawback is that you will have to put down more money, in addition to the expenses you have already incurred, as it were, for no practical result.”
Lydon thought a little. “I would give a great deal to have the thing settled,” he said presently. “To find out something which would definitely justify our suspicions, our almost positive suspicions, of Stormont. As you have pointed out, we cannot prove that Calliard was done to death at his instigation, but we have little doubt of it in our own minds. We cannot actually prove that this Curzon Street couple are out to fleece this simple young Wraysbury, but we are sure of it; and Stormont, perhaps also Whitehouse, is at the bottom of that. What sort of a sum do you think would be required?”
“I should say five hundred at once would be a big temptation to a fellow of that sort.”
Lydon rose. “Then set about it at once. I will go to that. If necessary, a bit more. Anything to get rid of this state of suspense.”
It was five days since Grewgus had escorted Newcombe home to his mean little lodging. He had received Lydon’s permission to embark on his new scheme shortly after the luncheon hour, their usual time for meeting. Directly after his client had left, he went up to King’s Cross.
The door was opened by a slatternly woman of middle age, whose appearance was in keeping with the house. She was the landlady.
To his inquiry as to whether Mr. Newcombe was in, she replied in the voluble and indirect manner of her class.
“You’re the gent as brought him home in a taxi a few days ago, ain’t you, when he’d had a drop too much? I saw you through the door when he let himself in, and I never forgets a face. Yes, he’s in right enough, but nobody can see him. He’s that bad, we don’t know whether he’ll pull through yet. The doctor ain’t sure.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“The doctor says the symptoms are those of a man who has been poisoned, whether by bad food he can’t say.”
“When did the attack commence?”
“Two days after you brought him home. On the next day somebody called for him, dressed like a toff, a very genial, red-faced man. Said he was an old friend and he went upstairs. They were in Newcombe’s room for over an hour, and then they went out together.”
“Do you know where they went to?”
“I’m coming to that in a minute, mister. I didn’t see him again that day; he came back about ten o’clock and went up to his room. The next morning he had his breakfast in my kitchen as usual; he always told me he was poor now, but had seen better days. Said he had been to dine last evening with an old friend of his who had known him in his prosperous times, and had been given the best dinner he had ever had in his life. He didn’t come to tea, and I went upstairs to tell him it was ready; he was a nice, pleasant feller, very free with his money, when he had it, and always grateful for any little kindness or attention. He was sitting huddled up in his chair, and couldn’t speak. I sent for the doctor at once, for I was sure he had some money. We put him to bed, and there he’s been ever since. He’s still unconscious. I and my daughter look after him.”
Grewgus pulled out his ever-ready note book. “I should like the address of that doctor, please, in case I want to see him. Your lodger was once a friend of mine, and I’ve only lately learned he is down on his luck. I called to-day to propose something for his benefit; I will come again to-morrow or next day. Many thanks, sorry to have taken up your time; you must be a busy woman.”
He slipped a pound note into her hand, and went straight to Lydon’s office in Victoria Street. But he just missed him; Leonard had left to catch an early train to Brighton.
He called on him early the next morning, and told him what had happened. The two men looked at each other. There was an inquiry in Leonard’s glance which Grewgus answered at once.
“Yes, I surmise what you surmise. The genial, red-faced man was Stormont, and there is no doubt he is at times an active member of his organization. You may depend upon it, he is devilish clever, and this last thing may still remain a matter of conjecture incapable of actual proof.”
He paused a moment, then added: “But if this poor devil lives, he is clever enough for the same idea to occur to him. And if it does he will speak out what he knows about Stormont.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a long time before Newcombe struggled back to convalescence; during that period Grewgus had several interviews with the doctor who was attending him, a young, harassed-looking man who had a large but not particularly remunerative practice in a poor neighbourhood. The detective came to the conclusion at their first meeting that he was not a very brilliant member of his profession. He said there were symptoms of poisoning, certainly, probably ptomaine poisoning. The landlady had said the patient told her he was dining at some restaurant the previous evening. Possibly some cheap one where there was little care exercised in the selection or cooking of food. Undoubtedly he had partaken of some dish which had produced this disastrous result.
Then came the day when Grewgus was permitted to go up to the ill-furnished room where the Colonial lay, a shadow of his former robust self. He stretched out a wasted hand. “Very good of you to come and see me, mate. My landlady told me a gent had been inquiring after me. For the life of me I couldn’t guess who it was. I’ve no friends in this infernal country. And what made you look me up?”
Grewgus played a waiting game, till he could see his way more clearly. “Well, just blind chance, as it were. I was in this district, on a bit of business one day, and remembering where you lived, I thought I’d look you up, to see if you had recovered from the effects of that rather warm evening we spent together. I was shocked to hear you were so bad.”
“I’ve had a close shave, mister; the doctor told me he thought my number was up. But he says now, if I keep quiet for a few days, I shall pull through.”
He paused and added grimly, “If I do, I guess it will be a disappointment to somebody.”
So the same suspicion had crept into his mind. Grewgus proceeded in the same quiet way: “You dined out with a friend, your landlady told me. No doubt you partook of some food that poisoned you?”
The man’s calm manner left him. His eyes blazed out in sudden fury. “And a dog-goned idiot I was, knowing the character of the man I went with. At my time of life I ought to have had more sense.”
For a little time he kept silence, but his eyes were blazing, his face was working all the time. When he spoke again, it seemed as if he had, for the moment, forgotten the other man’s presence, as if he were muttering his thoughts aloud.
“The dirty dog, the dirty dog to try and do me in for the sake of saving a few paltry quid! Me that stood by him when he hadn’t got a pal in the world, me that nursed him when he was sick to death as well as his own mother would have done. The treacherous swine.”
Suddenly he seemed to realize the presence of Grewgus, and his mood underwent a sudden change. The fury in his glance died down, the voice lost its tone of hatred.
“Don’t take any notice of me, mate. I’m weak after this infernal bout and perhaps a little bit light-headed. I was just rambling, that was all.”
Grewgus leaned forward and looked the Colonial straight in the face. “You are not light-headed, and you are not rambling,” he said in a firm voice. “You did not partake of any bad food. You have in your mind the same suspicion which I have, and that is that you were deliberately poisoned, by some subtle means, by the man, your pretended friend, who took you out to dinner.”
The man’s jaw dropped. He looked at the detective in a dazed kind of way. “How did you guess that?” he cried.
It was evident to the keen-witted Grewgus that Newcombe’s feelings were making deadly war on each other. On the one hand he wanted to speak, to give full vent to the terrible ideas that were surging in his mind. On the other hand, he feared the consequence of a too frank revelation.
He resolved to put his cards on the table. “Now, look here, my friend, you don’t know me from Adam. I will tell you frankly I am here for a purpose. I’m not a detective in the usual meaning of the term, although I was for some years at Scotland Yard. I am no longer a recognized officer of the law, I am on my own, as a private inquiry agent. Here is my card. My office is in Craven Street, and my name is Grewgus.”
The man’s mind took in the situation swiftly. “Ah, I see it now. You followed me that night from the street where the party was—I forget the name of it now—you followed me into the pub. You took me home, not because you were a particularly good sort of a chap as I thought, but because you wanted to find out where I lived.”
“You’re a smart fellow, Newcombe, I can see that quite plainly,” said the detective, thinking a little flattery might be judicious. “I think you and I shall get on quite well together presently, when we know each other better. Now, first of all, I want you to get this thoroughly into your head, that I am not acting on behalf of the law. Unless you recognize that, it is not likely we shall go very far. Do you believe me?”
Mr. Newcombe hesitated a little before he replied to this straight question. “Suppose I say I do, just to make things more comfortable between us,” he said presently. “You are here on behalf of somebody.”
“Quite true,” answered Grewgus promptly. “On behalf of private parties.”
A cunning smile overspread the Colonial’s features. “What is it you want to find out?” he asked bluntly.
“I want to find out as much as I can about that man you had the altercation with the other day, Mr. Howard Stormont, the owner of Effington Hall, and apparently well off. At any rate, he seems to spend a pretty good amount of money.”
Mr. Newcombe thought things well over before he spoke again, in a disjointed sort of way as if he were giving utterance to his own thoughts. “Private parties you said. Well, I’d wager a bit I can guess who the private party is—that nice-looking young fellow I met down at Effington who’s going to marry the pretty niece. He thinks there’s a bit of mystery about, and he wants to get to the bottom of it.”
It was evidently not much use fencing with this shrewd, hard-headed Colonial. “I won’t say you’re right, and I won’t say you’re wrong, Newcombe. Think what you like. Of course, you’ll understand that in my delicate position I can’t afford to be too frank.”
“Neither can I, in my position,” said the Colonial with a grin.
“Granted. Well, now let me put things as they appear to me. You can tell me presently whether I am right or wrong. It is evident you know something about this fellow who appears prosperous enough now. You had fallen upon bad times, that we know from his own admission.”
“Oh, he has told that, has he?” cried Newcombe, with something of a snarl in his voice. “He didn’t mind giving me away, did he?”
“In a sense he was forced to; he had to explain your sudden arrival at Effington. Well, to continue, you had fallen upon bad times. You went to see your old friend, and no doubt represented to him that it would be highly inconvenient for him in his present position if you made certain disclosures about his past. Not being a fool, he saw that.”
Mr. Newcombe listened to this reconstruction of what had taken place between himself and the owner of Effington Hall without interruption. Not wishing his countenance to betray him, he kept his gaze steadily averted.
Grewgus looked round the ill-furnished room in a disparaging fashion. “He recognized the fact that he could not allow you to talk, and he agreed to make you some sort of allowance. Judging by the condition of this apartment, not a very handsome one.”
The Colonial indulged in a derisive grunt at this allusion to his surroundings, but he did not break his obstinate silence.
“Small as that allowance is, he begrudges it. Or perhaps it is not the money he minds so much; what weighs upon his mind is that you are a standing menace to his safety, the fear that one day, when you’ve had a drop or two too much, you’ll blurt out the very thing he wants to hide. He feels he’ll have no real security till you are safely out of the way. Hence that apparently hospitable action the other day.”
Grewgus had the satisfaction of seeing a vindictive scowl steal over the man’s face at this reference. He hoped to appeal not only to the Colonial’s cupidity but in an equal degree to his thirst for revenge.
“If you ask me, I don’t think your position is a very safe one, my friend. From what I do know of Stormont, I have reason to believe him to be possessed of diabolical cunning, and unscrupulous to a degree. If he has made up his mind to get you out of the way, it is long odds that, in the end, he will accomplish his designs, either on his own initiative or with the help of his numerous friends.”
And then Mr. Newcombe spoke: “He’s a cunning devil enough, you’re right about that. Well, mister private inquiry agent, let’s come to the point. What is it you want to propose to me? You’ve been a long time leading up to it. Let’s have it without any more beating about the bush.”
“If you’ll tell me the secret of Stormont’s past which he is paying you some paltry pittance to hush up, I’ll pay you down in hard cash the sum of five hundred pounds.”
“And supposing you got that information—mind you, I haven’t said that I can give it you—what use are you going to make of it?”
Grewgus was a bit puzzled what to answer to this plain and very natural question. Would Lydon take any steps against Stormont if he found himself in a position to do so? The young man had carefully kept Gloria’s name out of the matter, but the shrewd detective had originally guessed there was a woman in the case. Newcombe’s statement that Lydon was engaged to Stormont’s niece confirmed that suspicion absolutely.
No, he felt sure that his client would never lift his hand against the uncle of the girl he loved, however great his guilt might be. He was quite safe in making the Colonial’s mind easy on that score. Strange perversity of human nature that this man, presumably a crook himself, shrank from giving another crook away, even although he had been treated so vilely. Or was Newcombe’s hesitation due to a sense of self-preservation? In giving his old pal away, would he be forced to implicate himself?
“I understand what is in your mind, but I think you may be quite sure nothing of the kind will happen. Certain suspicions having arisen, it is necessary to confirm or remove them.”
The Colonial was evidently thinking very deeply, looking at the matter from every point of view. “And supposing, mind you, I only say supposing, that the suspicions were confirmed, I presume the young fellow would chuck this pretty girl.”
“I am sure of the contrary,” answered the detective, speaking quite warmly; he had taken a great fancy to Lydon and was convinced he would never act shabbily to a woman. “It is not pleasant to have a criminal for an uncle, of course, but I understand her father is a man of the highest probity.”
Again the Colonial put on his thinking cap. “That settles that, then.” And now he began to relinquish, to some extent, his rather futile attempts at caution. “And now let’s consider the position as it affects me. If I give Stormont away, I shall have to make a clean bolt of it; there’ll be no further help from that quarter. Besides, I shouldn’t be safe, if he happened to find it out, and it’s a chance one must reckon with. He wants to get me out of the way as it is.”
“You’re quite right, Newcombe. If he ever got a hint, he would be doubly, trebly anxious to remove you. If we do come to an arrangement, you’ll have to quit in double-quick time. Now, let us discuss terms. If you can tell me something definite about this man, as I have said, there is five hundred pounds waiting for you. You are a man of brains and resource; with that sum you can start life again. And, in my candid opinion, the sooner you get out of Stormont’s reach, the better for your own peace of mind.”
“Not enough,” cried the Colonial promptly. “One can’t do much in making a fresh start with five hundred. Besides, it’s worth a thousand.”
But if Newcombe was hard at a bargain, Grewgus was by no means a bad man of business. He joined issue at once, and for a long time they fought each other strenuously. A compromise was finally reached at seven hundred. Grewgus was sure his client would go to this extent, from what he had said.
But the victory was not quite won yet. Newcombe wanted further time for reflection. “It’s a very serious step you are asking me to take. I’ve got to look at it all round. Don’t think I have any consideration for that dirty dog, Stormont; you wouldn’t expect it, would you? If we were out in some parts I could name, I’d plug him without the slightest compunction; he’d deserve it. But I’ve got to think of myself, to be sure I’m not making a false step.”
From that position he would not budge. He must have a clear day to think it over. If Grewgus would call at the same time to-morrow, he would give him his decision.
Grewgus saw his client later in the day, and got an open cheque from him for the seven hundred pounds which he would cash on the following morning. It was no use going to the Colonial without the money in his pocket. His knowledge of human nature told him that Mr. Newcombe, if he had made up his mind to betray his old pal, would stipulate that the money should be handed over before he opened his mouth.
“My own impression is that he will bite,” remarked the detective. “It is perfectly obvious that he knows something damaging, or he would not have gone so far in the preliminary negotiations. We are buying a pig in a poke, and what he has to tell may not be worth so much money. Still, if Stormont suffers himself to be blackmailed to the extent of three or four pounds a week, it must be something rather bad, if not so bad as we think.”
Lydon agreed. Anyway, if Newcombe took the seven hundred pounds, the suspense would be ended, they would know something definite.
“The thing I want to assure him positively of is that nothing he tells me will be used against himself or Stormont. I gave him this assurance off my own bat, as it were,” said the detective as he took his leave. “I take it that, whatever we find out, you personally have no intention of setting the police upon Stormont. In other words, this is strictly a private inquiry, with which the official police will have nothing to do?”
Lydon assured him that this was so. He could not yet quite bring himself to disclose his relations to Gloria. He simply said that the man belonged to a highly-respectable family which he was determined to spare so far as it lay in his power.
The French police were still probing the mystery of the death of Calliard, the jeweller. If they were successful, it was more than probable that Stormont might be implicated. That contingency could not be averted.
“Of course, I shall mention nothing of that affair to Newcombe,” was the detective’s reply.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grewgus did not pay his visit the next day as arranged. In the morning he received a wire from Newcombe, asking him for a respite of another twenty-four hours. It was evident the Colonial wanted to think the matter well over, in other words to consider which course would be the most beneficial to his own interests.
On the second day the detective presented himself with the seven hundred pounds in his pocket, the money which he devoutly hoped would soon pass from his keeping.
Newcombe was much better, had recovered marvellously in that couple of days. His lean face had filled out; there were no longer about him the signs of a deadly and wasting illness. He greeted his visitor with a rough good-humour. Grewgus, a shrewd judge of men, put him down as a good-tempered fellow in the main, inclined to be quarrelsome and vindictive when the drink overtook him, rather a man of moods and apt to act on impulse.
“Come along, mister, glad to see you. The doctor says I have made a marvellous rally. I’m a different man from what I was when you last saw me. A lot of fight yet left in old Tom Newcombe.”
Grewgus paid him handsome compliments on his changed appearance and laid on a little flattery. “Even now you look as if you could knock spots off some of the young ones. I should say you would be as fit as a fiddle in another week or ten days.”
The Colonial laughed his loud, hoarse laugh. “I guess a certain person will be bitterly disappointed to find his old pal is so tough. Ha ha! he’s wondering what has become of me. His money has come right enough, but I haven’t acknowledged it yet. I don’t quite know what I’m going to do about that. It depends.”
Grewgus did not answer. He was fairly confident he had won the day, but he did not wish to spoil matters by hurrying them unduly. He smiled agreeably and waited for Newcombe to speak again. “Well, mister, I’ve decided to accept your offer. Have you brought the ‘boodle’? If you haven’t we can adjourn this meeting till to-morrow. Another day will make no difference to me.”
Grewgus drew out a bulky pocket-book and flourished it invitingly in front of his companion. “I’m a man of my word, Newcombe. I wasn’t, of course, absolutely sure of what your decision might be, but I brought the money on the off-chance. You would like me to hand it over to you at once, eh?”
The man’s eyes had an avaricious gleam at this invitation. The detective thought it was a long time since he had handled such a sum. “What do you think?” he said with a chuckle. “The money first, the information after. You would do the same in my place now, wouldn’t you, if you had the brains of a mouse?”
Grewgus could be as frank as anybody, when there was no necessity to beat about the bush. “I trust you more than you trust me, Newcombe. Here is the money. Count it over before you start.”
Newcombe began to count over the money. Suddenly he looked up at his companion with a rather aggrieved air. “I say, you didn’t answer that question. Wouldn’t you do the same in my place? It’s a matter of business, ain’t it, pure and simple?”
“Of course, my good fellow, I am not complaining. If I were you I would certainly have the money before I opened my mouth.”
Mollified by this rejoinder, the Colonial stuffed the notes in his pocket, and again burst into his loud laugh.
“Now, you’re a clever man, mister—a darned sight cleverer than I am, I expect—and I suppose you haven’t overlooked the fact that I might take the money and give you practically nothing for it.”
Grewgus intimated in his suavest manner that such a contingency had not escaped his intelligence. In some cases he would have taken greater precautions. He ended with a handsome compliment. “I don’t know much of you, Newcombe, but I’m pretty sure you’re not one of that sort.”
The Colonial looked pleased. “You’re right, Mr. Grewgus, I don’t pretend to be much, but if people play fair and square with me, I play fair and square with them. I’ve never rounded on a pal yet; I shouldn’t round on this swine if he hadn’t played the dirty on me. Why, a week or two ago I would have been cut into little bits before I would have given Howard Stormont away. That was when I believed him to be a pal, not a too generous one perhaps, but still a pal. Have you got me?”
“Perfectly,” answered Grewgus smoothly. “You would be a bit of a soft, I think, if you showed Stormont any quarter.”
The man’s eyes flashed with sudden fury, it was evident his hatred of his old friend was very intense, and that once having made up his mind, he rejoiced in getting even with him.
“Yes, that was a bad evening’s work for him, cleverly as he thought he had managed it. He was always very keen on the poisoning business, although mind you, I can’t honestly say that I ever knew of any case in which he had given it. But he was always fond of reading books on the subject. He used to laugh when he told me how people in the old days used to polish off their enemies with a poisoned glove or flower. He dropped a little drop of something into my drink that night, you bet—something that this fool of a doctor could not detect anyway.”
“And if you don’t get yourself out of this neighbourhood he’ll try it again. I shouldn’t say he is the sort of man to be baffled by a first failure,” commented Grewgus, whose object it was to keep the Colonial’s indignation at white heat. “And now, Newcombe, let’s get to business. You’ve counted the money and found it right. It’s for you to carry out your part of the bargain.”
There was just a touch of shamefacedness in the man’s expression, hardened character as he was, as he began his story.
“I’m not going to say more about myself than I can help, Mr. Grewgus. You won’t blame me for that, I’m sure.”
“Not in the least. To be quite frank, I’m not interested in your career, Newcombe. Stormont’s is the only one that concerns me.”
“Right-o! And if anything comes of it, you’re not going to drag me in. You promised that at the beginning, didn’t you?”
“Practically I did, and I repeat that promise now,” confirmed Grewgus.
“Well, mister, I’ll start with the days when I first came across Howard Stormont, when we both were young men. No need to tell you I wasn’t a model youth. If I had been, I shouldn’t have picked up with him, or rather he with me. Upon my word of honour, Mr. Grewgus, I never had much of a chance. My mother, I know, was a good woman, she died when I was a kid, I should say of a broken heart. My father was a ne’er-do-well, drunken, callous, dishonest. Unfortunately I took after him, but never in my life have I had decent luck. If I went straight for a bit, misfortune dogged me, and on the crook I didn’t fare much better.”
Proceeding with his narrative, the Colonial explained that at this period he was associated with a set of men who were not particular as to how they got their living, although they could not boast of being scientific or high-class criminals. The one thing to which they had definitely made up their minds was that they would not work, except under the direst compulsion. They preferred to beg, borrow, or, when necessary, cheat and steal.
Stormont, then quite a young man, a little while before was introduced to this promising association, and in spite of his youth soon evinced qualities that marked him out for leadership. It was whispered about presently that he had got into some trouble at home and that his relatives had insisted on his going abroad.
“I never knew precisely what the trouble was,” Newcombe explained, “but from all I could gather from a few things dropped by him when he had a little—for he was a heavy drinker in those days—it was about money. His people—he always used to boast that he came of a highly respectable family—paid his passage out and gave him a few pounds over. I understood he was not to go back to England till he could return with a clean bill of health.
“Him and me took a great fancy to each other. I don’t quite know what he saw in me, for I was rather a dull, plodding sort of chap compared with most of the men I associated with, who told me I wasn’t quite clever enough for the game. What I admired in him was his high spirits, and first and foremost his wonderful cunning and cleverness: he was always alert and up to every move on the board. He was also very generous, spent money like water when he had it, and most popular with his mates. They thought a wonderful lot of his abilities and prophesied that he would one day become a crook of the first water.”
“I take it, these associates of yours were not in the front rank of their profession?” interjected Grewgus.
The Colonial shook his head. “Certainly not; with the exception of Stormont they had neither the nerves nor the brains. A great deal of card-sharping, plucking raw young pigeons who had just come out, a little bit of easy swindling here and there, that was as far as they could go. Stormont was altogether on a higher plane. He had the brain to invent and elaborate big things.”
“And of course, he joined you in these agreeable pursuits, the card-sharping, the plucking of young pigeons, even although they did not give full scope for the exercise of his superior talents.”
“That is so, mister, and in a minute I’m coming to what you want to know. I take it, you’ve been making a lot of inquiries, but up to the present you haven’t been able to prove definitely he is the criminal you believe him to be. That goes without saying. If you could have got that information yourself, you wouldn’t chuck away seven hundred pounds on me.”
The Colonial, when he could keep off the drink, was evidently a clear thinker. With great modesty he had spoken of himself as a dull and plodding fellow, but Grewgus did not consider him as dull as he pretended to be. Probably intemperance had stood in his way: prevented him from being a successful crook and reduced him to his present position of subsisting on Stormont’s bounty.
“Well, the game wasn’t fast enough for him; the profits out of this petty kind of roguery were too small for a man of his ambitious nature and expensive tastes. Three or four times he launched out on things of his own—things that the others were too timid or too slow-witted to join in. And the last one brought him to grief.”
Grewgus leaned forward in an attitude of expectation. At last he was going to get something definite about the apparently prosperous owner of Effington Hall.
“It was rather a neat little bit of forgery. He had laid his plans well too, thought it all out very carefully, almost succeeded in fixing the guilt upon another chap, a perfectly honest man.”
“As big a scandal as that, eh?” was the detective’s surprised comment.
Newcombe indulged in a sardonic laugh. “Stormont wasn’t the sort of man to think of anybody but himself. As long as he could swim he didn’t care who sank. An innocent man sacrificed didn’t weigh heavily on his conscience. But clever as he was, the police just went one better. The other fellow’s innocence was proved and the guilt clearly fastened on the right person. I forgot to tell you that when he began to launch out on these dangerous coups he changed his name from Stormont to Manvers. Under the name of Manvers he was convicted and sentenced to a pretty tidy term of imprisonment. Now, I’ve kept all the papers describing the trial and evidence. I shan’t give them up, of course; but if you give me your solemn word of honour to return them to me, I’ll lend them to you to make copies of.”
“Thanks very much; I’ll take them away with me when I leave. Does the name of Stormont occur in them?”
“Yes, they discovered he had been passing under the two, but they inclined to the belief that Manvers was the real one, and as Manvers he was convicted. Of course his old pals knew better.”
“And what became of him after he came out of prison?”
“He went back to England; I expect that sharp dose of imprisonment sickened him of Australia. He had been clever enough to put away the swag somewhere; it was quite a nice little sum. I’ve a notion he had a confederate, although I’m sure it was not one of the old lot, somebody much cleverer than we could turn out. He came to say good-bye to me and one or two others who had been his particular pals. He bluffed us that when he got back to his own country he was going to lead an honest life. For my part, I never believed it. Howard Stormont was a crook by instinct and he’d never do a bit of honest work if he could get money by any other means.”
“What do you know of his career between the time he left England and when you paid him that surprise visit at Effington Hall?”
“Practically nothing,” was the answer. “In the rough and ready life out there, one soon forgets things, anyway you don’t think continually of them. I had a lot of bad luck and after many years I worked my way back to the old country. As I was looking about for any kind of job that would keep my head above water, I began to think a good deal about him and wondered what he was doing, if he had struck oil or not.
“By the merest accident I got on his track, saw him coming out of some city offices unseen by him. A telegraph boy was passing at the time, and I asked him if he knew anything of the gentleman, slipping into his hand a shilling which I could ill afford. He seemed to know a good deal about him. He was a Mr. Howard Stormont—that of course I was sure of as, with the exception of growing stouter, he had not altered since the Australian days—that he was engaged in business, and lived in a fine house in Surrey at a place called Effington. I smartened myself up as well as I could, for I had very nearly come to the end of my tether, and went down there. Lord, he was struck all of a heap when he saw me, so was the flunkey who opened the door.
“He was always a quick-witted fellow, so as soon as he had recovered from the shock, he made the best of it, and took me into his study, where we had a long jaw. He told me he had gone in for finance—perfectly straight business, he swore—but it was terribly hazardous, and he owned he was living up to the hilt. Knowing his extravagance of old, I thought it very likely, but he might be pretending this in order to choke me off, as he could be pretty certain I hadn’t called upon him merely to inquire after the state of his health. He was devilish civil all through, of course; he knew I was acquainted with that nasty little episode, and he didn’t dare to ride the high horse.”
“And in the end you came to some little financial arrangement?”
“Why, naturally. But he made a hard bargain. When he had money, he was generous in a spasmodic sort of way; he would stand you any amount of food and drink, but he was never fond of parting with actual cash. The sort of man that would give you a dinner costing five pounds, and button up his pockets when you asked him for the loan of a quid. He said he’d try and find me a good job, and in the meantime he would allow me four pounds a week.”
“I should say you found it a tight fit,” remarked Grewgus, thinking of his companion’s fondness for liquid refreshment.
“You never spoke a truer word. But I couldn’t get him higher. He pretended that he was frightfully hard up, and that any moment he might have to give up his fine house. Of course, he knew I wasn’t in a position to bargain.”
A smile of reminiscence stole over the Colonial’s face as he continued: “I’m afraid I didn’t behave very well on that visit. He had on a swell dinner-party that night, which of course I didn’t expect to be present at, I wasn’t dressed for the part. I had a fine dinner by myself, and after his guests had gone, he came in and chatted with me for a few minutes, and set a bottle of whisky in front of me before he left.
“I’d been going very much on the teetotal lately, through lack of the ready, and when I saw that tempting bottle before me, I went at it with a vengeance. When I take a drop too much, I get quarrelsome, the stuff brings the worst of me to the surface. I began to think he wasn’t treating me too courteously, and I followed him into the billiard-room to have it out with him.
“He smoothed me down after a bit, and I had some more drink—there was plenty of it about—and I got from the quarrelsome into the stupid stage. I made a silly reference to a little prank of ours when we followed up a young greenhorn with a view to relieving him of some of his money. Luckily, he stopped me in time; his niece and her young man were there, but of course it was a silly thing to do. I think he was afraid of me from that moment, was never sure of what I might let out when I was in the same condition.”
Grewgus interrupted the flow of reminiscences relating to that embarrassing visit to Effington Hall. “Now tell me, please, all that took place on that day when Stormont took you to the restaurant.”
The Colonial’s face darkened at the allusion. “The scoundrel showed his usual cunning. You know of that little scene that occurred outside the house in that street, the name of which I never can remember. Ah, yes, Curzon Street. You remember how upset I was about it, how very near I was to giving him away on the evening you came across me. Well, I suppose Stormont had been thinking it over too, and came to the conclusion he had gone too far, offended me beyond forgiveness. Well, the next day, while I was brooding over it, he walks into my room, with his hand outstretched, and smiling all over his red face.
“ ‘Tom, old man, we’ve been too good friends in the past to quarrel now,’ he says. ‘Let us forget and forgive, and shake hands on it. I was so riled when you came up to me in that state, before all the crowd too, that I lost my head. I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly, but you must allow it was a bit rough on me. Let us both bury the hatchet.’
“I don’t think I’m a very vindictive man, except when somebody plays the real dirty on me,” urged Newcombe in his own defence. “And I was forced to admit to myself it was a trifle rough on him, as he said. Well, after a bit, we made it up and agreed to be friends again. He seemed awfully relieved, and proposed I should go out to dinner with him, not to one of the swagger places, which he knew I shouldn’t care for, but to a quiet little restaurant in Soho.
“We went there, and I had a splendid dinner, and as much drink as I cared to take. He drank plenty too, but his head was always harder than mine, and he would be sitting up in his chair when I was under the table. When I got home, I felt a bit muddled, and when I woke in the morning I knew I had had a warm night. But it wasn’t till the middle of the day that I began to feel really queer. I heard the doctor whispering to the landlady, and I caught the word ‘poisoned.’ When I was able to think things over, I began to tumble to what had happened. I understood why he had been so devilish civil. I had given him away in a sense twice. He was afraid of me, and thought there would be no peace for him till I was out of the way. The dirty dog! The dirty dog! I must try and not think of it more than I can help. It makes me see red when I do.”
There was a long silence after this rather furious outburst. Grewgus broke it with the question: “And have you any ideas as to what he has been doing all these years in England?”
Newcombe indulged in a rather cunning smile. “That’s not quite in the contract, is it, mister? I ought to ask a bit more for that, but still you have played fair and square with me, I don’t mind answering you. Mark you, I have never been able to get a word out of Stormont; he swears through thick and thin he’s on the square. But I’ve done a little spying on my own account, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s after the same old game, but much bigger game. There’s no legitimate business done in that tinpot office in the city. There’s nobody there but himself and a man named Whitehouse, a solemn-looking sort of cove who puts in an appearance about three or four times a week. Have you come across Whitehouse?”
The detective nodded. “Yes, I know a little about him, not very much. A very old friend of Stormont’s, according to Stormont’s account.”
He did not tell him that the man carried on a solicitor’s business also, under the name of Glenthorne. It was a fixed policy with him to obtain confidences, not to make them.
“And I am pretty sure he is a very old friend,” observed the Colonial. “The first time I spotted him coming out of that office in the City—I had placed myself where he wasn’t likely to see me—his face seemed familiar. There was a young chap, not one of ours, whom I’ve seen several times with Stormont in the old Australian days. He wasn’t known to any of our lot, and Stormont never said much about him, never mentioned his name, but I always had a notion they were in some jobs together. When Stormont went to quod under the name of Manvers, this chap disappeared altogether. Now, I’m not prepared to swear to it, but I’ve got more than a notion that this fellow—he was a young man then—and Whitehouse are one and the same person.”
Grewgus left presently, very satisfied with his day’s work, taking with him the papers which contained a full account of the trial and conviction of Manvers, otherwise Stormont. The next day he had a long interview with Lydon.
“Well, I don’t begrudge the money,” said the young man, after listening to what had passed between the two men. “We have now proved absolutely that the man is a criminal, and a pretty desperate one at that.”
The thing that was worrying him was this—had things now come to such a pass that he ought to pass on the information he had acquired to Jasper Stormont? Was it right that Gloria should ever return to her uncle’s custody?
Without mentioning his exact relations with the girl, relations which Grewgus already knew of from Newcombe, he put this question.
“Let’s wait a bit, something else of a confirmatory nature may turn up,” answered the detective. “You still want me to watch the little game going on at Curzon Street. Something may come to light there.”
And so it was left. Lydon would not approach Jasper Stormont just yet. There was still some time before he would return to China, and until then Gloria was safe from further association with her criminal uncle.
A week later there came to Grewgus a telephone call from the offices of Messrs. Shelford and Taylor, the solicitors.
“Is that you, Grewgus? Good morning.” It was Mr. Shelford speaking. “I am sending a client of mine, Lord Wraysbury, round to confer with you. A very serious business, I fear. He will explain it all to you. Divorce proceedings are threatened, but I think blackmail is the real object. You might know something or find out something about the people. Will twelve o’clock suit you?”
At the mention of Wraysbury’s name, Grewgus had a premonition of what was in the air.
“Perfectly, Mr. Shelford, I will be in,” he said. “What are the names of the parties?”
The reply was what he expected. “A young married couple of the name of Edwards. They live in Curzon Street.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There was a decided feeling of elation in Grewgus as he waited the advent of Lord Wraysbury. The loose strands were being gathered together by this unexpected visit.
He formed a rapid impression of the handsome young man as they exchanged a few conventional words of greeting. Rather impulsive, generous, easy-going, not burdened with any great excess of mentality, likely to be easily exploited by designing persons, trusting and unsuspicious.
The young nobleman was perfectly straightforward as to the object of his visit, and made no attempt to beat about the bush.
“The plain truth, Mr. Grewgus, is that I have made a fool of myself,” he told him. “Shelford, whose firm has acted for us for years, since my grandfather’s time, says there is no doubt it is a blackmailing case, and advised me to come here and tell you the whole story from the beginning to the very unpleasant end.”
“That will certainly be the best plan, Lord Wraysbury; Mr. Shelford told me as much over the ’phone. When I have learned all the details, it will be possible for me to tell you if I can help you.”
The young nobleman, in his pleasant, well-bred voice, proceeded to unfold the history of the relations with Mrs. Edwards—perfectly innocent relations he urged with a warmth that was undoubtedly genuine, which had led to the present trouble.
A couple of years ago he had met at Monte Carlo a Mrs. and Miss Glenthorne, mother and daughter. Miss Glenthorne was a very charming and attractive girl; the mother seemed somewhat of a nonentity and kept herself in the background, giving pride of place to her clever and particularly fascinating offspring.
At this point Grewgus interrupted his client.
“One moment, please. Is this Mrs. Glenthorne a stoutish woman, with a Jewish type of countenance?”
“Yes, I should certainly say there was more than a touch of the chosen race about her,” was the reply. “You know her, then?”
“I can hardly say as much as that, Lord Wraysbury. I have seen her once or twice, but I have never spoken to her. The point of importance so far as you are concerned is that I know something of her, also something of the daughter. Tell me, does not the young lady wear on every possible occasion a pendant of a very peculiar design, a big sapphire set in an unusual manner?”
Again the answer was in the affirmative. The young man was naturally greatly surprised at the detective’s display of knowledge.
“It seems I’ve come to the right place,” he remarked with an almost boyish glee. “I infer from your manner that what you know about them is not anything to their credit.”
Grewgus smiled with his somewhat enigmatic smile. “I think I would rather wait till the end of your story before I say anything, if you don’t mind. I shall interrupt you as little as possible, and when I do it will only be for the purpose of clearing up some point that suddenly suggests itself.”
The young nobleman proceeded with his story. The two women were staying at one of the less expensive hotels in the place; he gathered that the mother was a widow, and had been left an income that was comfortable, but not large, that enabled her and her daughter to enjoy life in a moderate and modest way. He first made their acquaintance at the tables, where the young woman occasionally risked a few francs. The mother never played.
Wraysbury made no secret of the fact that the girl interested him very considerably; she was clever, bright, amusing, and also beautiful. He was never at any moment seriously in love with her. The fact that she was a mere casual acquaintance, of whose antecedents he knew nothing, forbade any such happening. But in the free and easy atmosphere of Monte Carlo the acquaintance ripened considerably. Possibly onlookers might have considered it an obvious flirtation on both sides. All the time he was perfectly heart-whole, and he felt pretty certain that the young woman was in the same condition.
He took her to dinner on a few occasions, and every time the mother was present. He bought Miss Glenthorne flowers and chocolates, nothing of a more expensive nature, and no letters, not even the briefest note, had ever passed between them. There had never been the slightest attempt on his part at love-making.
His reasons for this attitude were perfectly honourable ones, as he explained to the detective. Everybody knew that he had come into possession of a considerable fortune, and that he was a more than usually eligible person from a matrimonial point of view. He was too modest to flatter himself that he had any special attractions for women, but his money was bound to have. Miss Glenthorne appeared to him then to be a well-conducted, modest girl, but no doubt, like the majority of women, she was anxious to settle herself well in life. Under such circumstances, it would have been conduct little short of dastardly if he had led her to entertain false hopes of becoming Lady Wraysbury.
“It was just a most agreeable acquaintance, nothing more,” concluded the young man as he finished this portion of his story.
In due course Wraysbury left Monte Carlo, and said good-bye to the two women. There was nothing of a sentimental nature in their parting, no reference to further meetings in the future. He learned that they did not visit Monte Carlo frequently, and they very seldom came to England. He thought it extremely improbable that he would ever come across the couple again. In due course the memory of the dark, handsome girl faded away from his active recollections.
Then one day, as Grewgus already had learned from Lydon, he met the young woman at the Ritz, after this considerable period. She was accompanied by a smart-looking man, whom she introduced as her husband by the fairly common name of Edwards. She pressed him warmly to call at their house in Curzon Street, an invitation which was heartily seconded by the husband.
“You knew nothing, of course, of this man Edwards?” queried Grewgus.
“Nothing at all. We had a rather long chat, in which he did a good deal of the talking, and he seemed to know his way about. He spoke of attending Ascot and Goodwood and Henley; said he had seen me at all these places. I had certainly not seen him, should not have known him if I had,” was Wraysbury’s answer.
“I take it, he was not at all in your world?”
“Most certainly not, but my impression of him was that he was a very pleasant and gentlemanly fellow. Well, when we parted, I certainly said that I would call; I could not very well hurt their feelings by a positive refusal. But really I had no intention of going. As a single girl, Miss Glenthorne was a most pleasant casual acquaintance, but I did not particularly wish to mix myself up with the Curzon Street ménage.”
“And, later on, I suppose you changed your mind?”
A slight wave of colour swept over the young man’s face at the question. “Unfortunately, as it turned out, I did. I’m afraid I’m rather a vacillating sort of chap, making good resolutions one minute and breaking them the next. I don’t quite know what led me to break them in this case. I think principally a silly sort of curiosity to know how she would comport herself in her new rôle of married woman. I was, to a certain extent, interested in her, but by no means unduly fascinated. And perhaps, Mr. Grewgus, you may not believe me when I say it, but I am not a libertine, and have no desire to run after other men’s wives.”
Certainly, Lord Wraysbury gave the detective the impression of being a quite honourable and clean-living young fellow. But possibly the seductive Zillah had exercised over him a fascination which he would not admit to himself.
So he made his first call in Curzon Street. Edwards happened to be at home, and laid himself out to be especially agreeable to the visitor. The wife was charming, too, but she seemed a little pensive and distraite, as if she had something on her mind. Lord Wraysbury noted that the married couple did not seem to address much of the conversation to each other. He left the house with a distinct impression that the pair had had a recent quarrel, or that there was just a little rift within the lute in their married life.
He left in due course, but not before he had accepted an invitation to dine informally with them a couple of days later. He had done his best to get out of it, but Edwards, to whom he had rather taken a fancy, had been so insistent that his resistance was overborne. And here again curiosity played a large part in his decision. He could easily have thrown them over, but he wanted to test his suspicions, to see if all was right between this very charming woman and her equally charming husband.
But he had not so far the least idea of the game that was being played. Everything seemed square and above-board. There was evidently plenty of money about; the house was run on a liberal scale. Edwards himself was a most companionable and gentlemanly fellow. He was not quite sure there might not be some ulterior motive in this extreme friendliness, this insistent hospitality. But he fancied it might be a social one. Probably they were ambitious, and wanted to climb in the world. If they made a friend of him he might be disposed to help them in their designs.
He went to dinner. “Quite an informal affair,” he explained to Grewgus. “There was only one other guest, a very breezy, red-faced man, just a trifle vulgar. His name was Stormont, and Mrs. Edwards addressed him as uncle. I gathered he had known her from a child and was excessively fond of her, but he was no actual relation. My original suspicions were rather confirmed; there seemed a certain coldness between husband and wife, veiled under the appearance of great politeness. I couldn’t understand it. Mrs. Edwards’ conduct as a young wife seemed to me to be quite perfect. I could not help thinking it must be his fault.”
He went again very shortly to a second dinner. As on the previous occasion, there was only one other guest. This time it was her real uncle, a man named Glenthorne, a rather gloomy, taciturn fellow, whom he judged to be altogether of a superior class to Stormont. But of the two he preferred the adopted uncle.
He went to Curzon Street three or four times after that, once to the big party which the pair had given as a sort of house-warming. All the time, from various signs and symptoms, his conviction grew that Mrs. Edwards’ life was not a happy one, in spite of her efforts to mask the fact under an assumption of cheerfulness and high spirits.