The climax was quickly reached. On a certain day Wraysbury received a note from her, asking if he would call that evening after eight o’clock. She could not ask him to dinner for reasons she would explain when she saw him. She was about to take a very important step, and, presuming on their old acquaintance, she would like to consult him as to the prudence of it. If he were engaged that evening, would he make it the next, or the next after that?
“Of course, now I come to think of it, there was something suspicious in that note,” said the young nobleman. “I ought to have told her to write to me what she wanted to consult me about, and I would preserve absolute silence and destroy the letter; but I’m foolishly unsuspicious, and I went, being disengaged that night.
“To my great surprise, the door was opened by Mrs. Edwards herself. She appeared in a state of great agitation; I thought at the time she had been crying.
“ ‘Oh, Lord Wraysbury, I am in the greatest trouble,’ she said in a distressed voice. ‘Come up to the drawing-room for just a few minutes, so that I can tell you about it. There is no danger. My husband is in the country and won’t be back for a week. I have sent the servants out to the theatre, so that we might be alone. That is why I couldn’t ask you to dinner.’ ”
Wraysbury did not quite like the look of things, the absence of both husband and servants, but he was still unsuspicious. The woman played her part so well that he attributed her rather foolish act to her acute distress of mind. He was quite sure it was connected with her husband, and that his suspicions of the unhappiness of their married life were going to be confirmed by her revelations.
He went up to the drawing-room with her, resolving to get out of the embarrassing situation as soon as he could, and she at once burst forth into an impassioned account of her wrongs and sufferings.
According to her account, Edwards, so genial and gentlemanly in public life, was a bully and a brute. On many occasions she had suffered personal violence at his hands. She rolled up her sleeve and showed a shapely arm on which appeared a big bruise which had been inflicted a couple of days ago. She had no positive evidence of infidelity, but she had grave suspicions of his relations with other women. On Wraysbury remarking that it was very early in their married life for such a thing to occur, she made a confession.
“I must tell you a little secret. We have been married for some time; it was kept quiet for certain reasons of his own. The truth is, Lord Wraysbury, he is tired of me. I feel I can stand it no longer. I have made up my mind to leave him. I’m sure you can’t blame me.”
This was evidently the subject on which she had wanted his advice, and still unsuspicious, the young man answered her question.
“But after all, Mrs. Edwards, I am not the person to whom you should come for advice,” he had told her. “You are not without friends, who would not feel the responsibility as I should. There is your mother, your uncle, this man Stormont, who has the same regard for you that he would have for his own niece. Have you spoken to them, or if you have not, would it not be wise to do so, before taking such a serious step?”
She had answered him with a profusion of tears that her mother was a woman of weak character, who would make any sacrifice for the sake of peace. She would advise her to bear her burden with as much fortitude as she could. Both Glenthorne and Stormont would oppose her. They were very worldly men; they would point out to her the folly of forfeiting the advantages which her position as the wife of a rich man gave her; they would remind her of the equivocal status of an unattached woman who was neither maid, wife nor widow.
Suddenly she burst into a fit of passionate weeping, drew her chair close to his and laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, please befriend me,” she wailed. “The others will give me advice that will suit themselves. Be my friend. Tell me what to do.”
And at this moment, the most compromising one in their interview, the door opened, and Edwards walked into the room. Not the smiling, genial man he had known up to the present, but another person altogether, his eyes glaring, his face contorted with fury. He thundered at the weeping woman to go to her room and leave him alone to deal with her lover.
He turned to the discomfited young nobleman and spoke with an angry snarl in his voice when she had obeyed his order.
“And what have you to say, my lord, in explanation of this vile outrage upon an unsuspecting man?”
Wraysbury made the best defence he could, a perfectly truthful one. He had come there in answer to a note from his wife, asking him to call upon her in reference to a subject on which she wanted advice.
Edwards listened in stony silence. His fury had died down, but his voice had an inflection of cutting sarcasm when he replied:
“Do you believe such a story would take in a child? You must think me a simpleton to credit it. I had not intended to return for another week, but the sudden illness of a friend caused me to change my plans,” he said. “I came home, as I imagined, to the society of a faithful wife. After I had put my key into the door, I noticed an unnatural stillness in the house. I go down into the lower regions; there is not a servant left in the place—they have been got out of the way by some cunning means. I go up the stairs to the drawing-room. As I ascend I hear the sound of voices—presently that of a woman sobbing. I open the door and see her with her hand upon your arm. What conclusion am I to draw from that? You have stolen her in my absence, and the servants have been got out of the way. You can show me twenty letters; they are a part of the game to try and avert suspicion in the remote event of discovery.”
Wraysbury was nonplussed. To any husband the situation might have borne the interpretation he put upon it.
Edwards spoke again in a peremptory voice. “Leave this house, Lord Wraysbury, at once; your presence has polluted it too long. But don’t think for a moment that, because you occupy a high position in the world, and I am in your eyes a mere nobody, that you are going to go scot-free. Neither shall this worthless woman whom you have dazzled with your fine manners and your great fortune. Before long you will hear from my solicitors.”
Wraysbury knew that argument was useless. He left Curzon Street feeling bitterly humiliated.
And as he walked along there dawned upon him the conviction that this was no unrehearsed scene to which he had been subjected, that there had been a cunning plot between husband and wife to entrap him. The woman’s tears were simulated; her story of ill-treatment was a myth. That bruise she showed him had been purposely made to lend colour to her story.
Two days later a letter arrived from a firm of solicitors, stating that they were instructed by their client Mr. Edwards to bring an action for divorce, and requesting the name of a firm who would act for him in the matter.
He made an appointment with Mr. Shelford, but before the time arrived for him to keep it, he had a visit from Glenthorne, whose usually grave face looked graver than ever when he met Wraysbury.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“A very terrible affair, Lord Wraysbury,” were his first remarks. “Very terrible for all parties concerned. Zillah has been to me; she is distracted. They had an awful scene after you went, and the same evening Edwards left the house. He raved that he would not spend another night under the same roof with her. Much as I deplore her conduct, I could not help pitying her.”
Mr. Glenthorne seemed to make no secret of his belief in the guilt of the parties. “Of course, she swore to me that her husband had no ground for his suspicions, that unfortunately appearances were against her, that she was perfectly innocent. Well, any woman in her position would naturally say the same thing.”
“Mrs. Edwards has simply told the truth,” answered Wraysbury, speaking with the warmth he felt. “She is innocent, and so am I.”
“Lord Wraysbury, you will understand that I should espouse my niece’s cause if I felt I had a leg to stand upon,” said the usually taciturn man. “In that case, I would go to her husband and force him to hear reason. But how can I, in the face of such strong circumstantial evidence? How would it appear to you, if I told you the same story of somebody else? Her husband away, as she was quite sure, the servants packed off to the theatre, she alone in the house! What would a jury say?”
It was on the tip of the young man’s tongue to answer that he was convinced that it was an elaborate plot, engineered by one or both and carried out with scrupulous regard to detail. But he could not say this very well to the woman’s uncle, at any rate till he had received capable advice. He took refuge in silence, till suddenly what he considered a bright idea struck him. It was his general rule to destroy all correspondence that he considered of little importance, and at the time he had certainly classed Mrs. Edwards’ letter under that category. But by the merest accident he had preserved it, and he showed it to his visitor with the observation, “If that doesn’t prove to you my visit was an innocent one, nothing will.”
The grave-faced man read it with the closest attention, and in due course handed it back. “This cuts both ways, my lord. You probably are not possessed of what we call the legal mind. I am, being in the profession of the law myself, I am a solicitor. If I were acting as your counsel, I should urge this as an almost convincing proof of your innocence. But how would the counsel on the other side argue? He would say that letter was written with a purpose, as the result of an agreement between both parties, the purpose being to avert suspicion if, by an unforeseen accident, you were discovered together. He would also say that if the visit were a perfectly innocent one, there would be no necessity to get the servants out of the way. Mind you, I am endeavouring to show you what would present itself to the legal mind. It would give me the greatest pleasure to prove Edwards in the wrong, but I fear that letter won’t help me.”
It might be a mere coincidence, but he was using just the same argument that the husband had employed. Having once allowed the suspicious side of his nature to develop itself, Wraysbury suspected this grave-faced man.
“What is the object of this visit, Mr. Glenthorne?” he asked sharply.
“My deep concern for my niece’s welfare,” was the reply. “It is an awful thing to contemplate a beautiful young woman’s career being blasted almost before it has begun, as it must be if this affair comes into court.”
“Had you not better show that letter to Edwards, and point out to him the consequences of the step he is taking?”
Mr. Glenthorne spoke, Wraysbury thought, in a less assured tone.
“Unfortunately Edwards is a very obstinate man, a very vindictive one. The only thing one could appeal to, perhaps, would be his cupidity. He is very fond of money for its own sake, not because he hasn’t plenty of his own.”
Wraysbury repressed a smile. Sharpened by his experience of recent events, he divined that this solemn-faced, not very prepossessing person had come as an emissary. Realizing the delicacy of his mission, he experienced some embarrassment in coming to the point. He was now evidently on the road to it.
“Will you speak a little more plainly, sir? I am not a very subtle person myself. Will you tell me what is in your mind?”
And Glenthorne told him. “If this matter comes into court, Lord Wraysbury, it will not only ruin my niece for life, it will be a very serious thing for you, it will damage you greatly, and cause terrible grief to your most worthy parents. I think it is worth a considerable sacrifice, even from your own point of view, to prevent it reaching that stage.”
The man was showing his hand very plainly now. Wraysbury, with a face as grave as his own, led him on. “In plain English, you suggest this injured husband, as he pretends to be, can be bought off?”
Glenthorne lowered his voice. “Between ourselves, my lord, I believe it might be possible. As I have told you, he is a very greedy man; I believe greed to be the predominant feature in his character. He will, of course, go for heavy damages, and, with your well-known wealth, he is likely to obtain them. I think it possible that, if you anticipated those damages, as it were, made him a firm offer, he might withdraw from the action. Of course, I cannot speak positively, but I think it would be worth trying.”
“I could say nothing on that point until I had consulted with my own solicitors, Shelford & Taylor. You will understand that.”
“Quite,” agreed Glenthorne. “Shelford & Taylor, a most respectable firm, their reputation is second to none. But, although I have the highest respect for my profession, may I suggest that, in certain cases, lawyers are not always the best judges? I think in the present instance the advice of a man of the world would be more helpful to you. Of course, for all I know to the contrary, this firm may be men of the world as well as solicitors. In that case I have very little doubt as to how they would advise you.”
“You think they would advise me to pay hush-money to this person. And do you happen to know at what price he values his fancied wrongs?” asked Wraysbury in a sarcastic tone. The reply confirmed his conviction that Glenthorne was in the plot as well, and had come for the purpose of sounding him.
“I can give you some indication, I think. When my niece told me the painful story, I felt it incumbent on me to do something, to use my best endeavours to avert the impending catastrophe. Edwards is staying at the Cecil, that was the address he sent to me the day after he had left Curzon Street. I did not call upon him at once; I thought it wiser to give him time for his anger to cool down. I used all the arguments I could think of to dissuade him from the drastic course he had resolved upon. I met with a very stubborn resistance, as I expected. But my impression when I left was that he would abandon the idea of a divorce, if a sufficient sum were offered him. In that case he would never live with his wife again, but settle upon her a quite decent income.”
“And what is his idea of a sufficient sum?” queried Wraysbury.
“I am sorry to say a very high one. For my own part, I thought an amount round about fifty thousand would meet the case. He laughed at me, and said he wouldn’t move for twice that. If two hundred thousand were offered, he would probably consider it, nothing less.”
At this point in the interview, Wraysbury rose, controlling his indignation with a great effort. “In an hour I am going to see Shelford, and shall tell him what has passed between us.”
Mr. Glenthorne took the hint and prepared to depart. “If the suit goes on, I shall act for my niece, and all communications as regards Edwards and yourself will be conducted by your own firms. But if you entertain the idea of the course I have suggested, it might be as well to deal through me. Edwards is a touchy fellow, and requires a good deal of handling. Here is my card.”
Wraysbury afterwards saw Shelford. When the whole details were explained to him, including the tentative suggestion of Glenthorne, whose name as a practising solicitor was unknown to him, he at once agreed that it was a put-up job, out of which this shady practitioner was to have his bit. They talked for a long time, and then the idea of Grewgus occurred to Shelford. These people most probably belonged to the underworld of which the detective had a considerable knowledge. He advised him to see Grewgus at once, and fixed up the appointment.
“So now you have the whole story,” said the unfortunate young nobleman when he came to the end of it. “Two alternatives face me, and only two; either I must pay this big sum to this infamous set of swindlers, or suffer my name to be dragged through the mire.”
“Which course does Shelford advise?” asked the detective.
“He is almost as undecided as myself. I don’t pretend that the two hundred thousand would break me; they know that as well as I do. But it is unspeakably humiliating to pay such a big sum for what was not even an act of folly, rather an absence of discretion. On the other hand, if the action goes on——”
The young man paused a moment to conquer his emotion. “You see, Mr. Grewgus, I have a very vulnerable place and these thieves know it. I am the only child of my parents, God-fearing, devout souls who have lived lives unspotted from the world. If I alone were concerned, conscious of my innocence, I would brave the shame and scandal of it. But it would break their hearts. They would believe me, because they know my good points as well as my bad ones, but they would know half our world wouldn’t share their belief, and they would never hold up their heads again.”
And then Grewgus spoke. He had great sympathy with this manly young fellow; he had heard his voice tremble when he spoke of his mother and father. Thoughtless and careless perhaps, like many young men of his age, but a loyal and affectionate son.
“I don’t want to send you away from this office in a too optimistic frame of mind; I cannot absolutely promise to get you out of the clutch of these cunning blackmailers, but I’m going to have a devilish good try. It is a most fortunate thing that Shelford has sent you to me, instead of to one of my confrères, for it happens that through my investigations on behalf of another client I know a great deal about all these people which they would be very sorry to have come to light. I think—mind you, I cannot be sure—that what I know will be sufficient to deter them from going any further. Leave it to me. I will arrange with Shelford to allow me to act upon your behalf. When I have got that formal permission, I will see this man Edwards, and throw my bombshell into his camp.”
Lord Wraysbury was delighted with the turn of events. “But this is simply wonderful,” he cried. “Do you know something of every one of them?”
Grewgus was delighted too, to such an extent that he relaxed his habitual reticence. “Not so much about Edwards, except one very damaging thing, but a good deal about Stormont, Mrs. Edwards, even the smooth-tongued Glenthorne, who, of course, paid you that visit in the interests of his pals. Well, good day, Lord Wraysbury. I shall lose no time, I assure you. I expect to fire my bombshell to-morrow, and after the interview I shall at once let you know what I expect the result will be.”
The young nobleman departed in much better spirits than he had entered. Being a very generous fellow, he resolved that if Grewgus did extricate him from his unpleasant position, he should receive a fee that would astonish him.
Having conferred with Mr. Shelford over the ’phone, the detective sent a note to the Hotel Cecil addressed to Edwards, in which he told that person he was acting on behalf of Lord Wraysbury in a certain matter and begged the favour of an appointment.
The boy who took the letter was to wait for an answer, if Edwards was in. He returned with it.
“Dear Sir,” wrote the débonnaire person who belonged to so many respectable clubs,—“In reply to yours, I beg to say that I shall be at your disposal any time between eleven and twelve to-morrow. Yours faithfully, Bertram Edwards.”
The detective smiled grimly as he wondered if this elegant crook had any idea of what was in store for him. Hardly. He probably conjectured that the detective was paying him a visit for the purpose of beating him down.
Before he went to the Cecil, he paid a flying visit to Lydon at his office and told him what had passed between himself and Wraysbury on the previous day. He had no hesitation in doing this, as it had been agreed that he should watch what was going on at Curzon Street on Lydon’s behalf.
It was, of course, what they had expected from the day when the young nobleman had attended Mrs. Edwards’ reception.
“I’m glad we have got confirmation,” remarked the detective. “But I do wish we could have directly implicated Stormont in it, that he had, for instance, taken the rôle in it played by Glenthorne, alias Whitehouse.”
“We can guess he was at the back of it anyhow,” continued Grewgus. “Rather amusing his being at that first dinner. I expect he couldn’t resist the pleasure of hobnobbing with such a distinguished person as Wraysbury. But I think we have got enough against Stormont now, with the help of our venal friend Newcombe. He has kept himself pretty well in the background in this affair, but we have sufficient proof that he is the friend of blackmailers. And a man is known by the company he keeps.”
“Quite true. Well, now that I know this, I shall tell Jasper Stormont at the earliest opportunity. I am staying with him at Brighton. I haven’t told you before, but I may as well tell you now, I am engaged to Jasper’s daughter. He is a bank official in China and she has been living with her uncle since she was a child. She is now with her parents at Brighton, and she must never return to the criminal atmosphere of Effington.”
Grewgus had learned the fact of the engagement from Newcombe, but he affected to hear it for the first time. He fully concurred in the young man’s determination that she should not return to Effington.
Later on, he was shown into a private sitting-room where he found Mr. Bertram Edwards, looking as smart and gentlemanly as ever. He could not help thinking that this elegant young crook, with his charming manners, must be a great asset to the gang. If he did not move in the most select circles like Wraysbury, it was evident, from what Lydon had told him of the Curzon Street party, that he had a foothold in quite respectable society.
“You have come about this wretched Wraysbury matter, I understand?” he said in his pleasant, urbane tones.
The detective intimated that this was the object of his visit.
“And have you anything to propose, Mr. Grewgus?”
“My client, Lord Wraysbury, has received a sort of unofficial intimation from a man named Glenthorne, who claims to be the lady’s uncle, that if the sum of two hundred thousand pounds is paid to you, you will abandon proceedings. I beg to tell you, Mr. Edwards, I shall advise his lordship not to pay you a single farthing.”
Edwards tried to assume an expression of indifference, but it was easy to see he was taken aback by this blunt declaration.
“In that case, sir, the action will proceed, and I shall go for heavy damages. I am not going to permit a young sprig of the nobility to violate the sanctity of my home, without making him smart for it in the only place where he can feel it—in his pocket.”
Grewgus bent upon the dandified man his very penetrating and expressive glance. “This is a business interview, Mr. Edwards, and there is no necessity for heroics. You know as well as I do that Lord Wraysbury is quite innocent of any desire to violate the sanctity of your home, or, for the matter of that, the home of anybody. He’s not that sort of man. Let me warn you that if you do proceed with this action, it is at your own peril and that of the lady who bears your name.”
“My own peril! What the devil do you mean?” blustered Edwards. But, in spite of his assumed bravado, Grewgus saw an unhealthy pallor creeping over his usually high-coloured cheek.
Again that penetrating gaze, that distinct and deliberate utterance: “I don’t know very much about you at present, Mr. Edwards; I have no doubt I shall add something more to my knowledge shortly. One little thing I do know, that you were in Paris a short time before the discovery of the dead body of Léon Calliard in the river Meuse. And that every day you were meeting the woman who is now Mrs. Edwards in the outskirts of the city.”
He paused, expecting a bold-faced disclaimer. But it did not come. For the moment, the man was stricken dumb.
“Of the woman now calling herself your wife, I know a great deal more, under her different names of Elise Makris, Zillah Mayhew, Miss Glenthorne. I also know a fair amount about your friend Stormont. And the same applies to another friend of yours, Glenthorne, otherwise John Whitehouse. Have I said enough?”
Still there was no reply; the man could not find speech, and he had aged in those few seconds.
“Please understand me once and for all. If, in a reckless moment, you persist in this baseless charge against my client and your wife, who is your accomplice in the matter, I go to Scotland Yard and give my information, which, as I have told you, is rather extensive.”
Edwards rose to his feet and pointed with a shaking hand to the door.
“Leave the room, you wretched spy. Tell your client the action will proceed,” he shouted with a last attempt at bravado.
Grewgus laughed derisively, and flung at him a Parthian shot as he left.
“Don’t forget when you reckon up the pros and cons that the Paris police are still investigating the case of Léon Calliard, the murdered jeweller.”
As he walked along the Strand, Grewgus felt very satisfied with himself. In spite of Edwards’ bluff, he felt sure that he had won the day.
And presently a man brushed past him as he was within a few yards of Charing Cross Station, walking at a rapid pace; it was the man he had just left.
As he hastily crossed the road at Villiers Street, Grewgus had a sudden idea that he was going to the telegraph office to dispatch a wire. He could have sent it from the Cecil, of course, but no doubt he had good reasons for not doing so.
Grewgus was a past-master in the art of shadowing. Behind the hurrying man came the tall, thin form of the detective. And over his shoulder, as he wrote the message, Grewgus read the words: “Stormont, Effington, Surrey. It must be dropped. See me to-morrow without fail—Edwards.”
After reading it, Grewgus crept stealthily away, and was in the street again, while Edwards, unconscious that he had been watched, was presenting the telegram at the counter.
Circumstantial evidence, it is true, but of the very strongest character. What did that wire mean? One thing, and one thing only. Edwards had been so thoroughly frightened that he was afraid to go on with the Wraysbury affair, had advised his friend Stormont of the necessity of dropping it, and urged him to see him to-morrow to tell him what had happened. It was convincing proof that Stormont was in the plot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was a couple of days before Lydon found an opportunity of breaking to Jasper Stormont the painful news about his brother. In the meantime he had received from Grewgus an account of the interview at the Cecil, and the dispatch of the telegram to Effington.
On his return to Brighton in the late afternoon, he was fortunate enough to find his future father-in-law sitting alone in the lounge; Gloria and her mother were out shopping.
There was a somewhat worried expression on the banker’s face. “Had a letter from Howard by the last post in,” he explained. “It looks to me as if he were within measurable distance of the end we have foreseen and predicted. He writes that the big coup on which he was engaged has unexpectedly fallen through, and this places him in a most awkward predicament for the immediate future. He has made up his mind that he must give up Effington, reluctant as he is to part from a place to which he has become so attached. He adds, what I suppose we both suspected, that it is heavily mortgaged, and that when a sale is effected, there will be very little left for him. He has already apprised my sister of the alteration in his fortunes, and begs me to break it gently to Gloria. Somewhat to my surprise, he has made no request for money. I suppose he finds the future so dark, that any little help I could give him would be useless, and that he must make a drastic change in his mode of life. I must own candidly, my sympathy would be keener if his own insensate folly were not the cause of the disaster.”
Here was a splendid opportunity, thought Lydon. The big coup on which Stormont was engaged, which was to repair his tottering fortunes, had failed to come off. It was easy to guess what the coup was—the extraction of that immense sum of money from young Wraysbury. The abandonment of the prospect which had been nipped in the bud by the visit of Grewgus to the Hotel Cecil had brought him to the ground.
“There is something I have to say to you about your brother, Mr. Stormont, something which I am sure will give you the greatest pain, but which it is right you should hear. But this is too public a place, and the ladies may return at any minute. Do you mind coming up to my room?”
Wondering and uneasy, the banker went with him upstairs. When they were seated, the young man told him all the details with which the reader is acquainted. Jasper Stormont listened with a set and rigid face, as Lydon explained to him how his suspicions had first taken definite shape on the arrival on the scene of Zillah Mayhew, whom he had at once associated, from the two facts of the scar and the sapphire pendant, with Elise Makris; of his engagement of Grewgus to follow up the clues and the various discoveries of that zealous detective, down to the latest episode in connection with Wraysbury, and the despatch of the wire from Edwards to Howard Stormont, which clearly involved the owner of Effington Hall in the dastardly plot.
“If I have not explained it as lucidly as I might have done,” were the concluding words of the long recital, “I can take you to Grewgus, if you wish it, and he will, I am sure, give you a much more coherent account than I have been able to do.”
Jasper Stormont lifted his haggard face: “There is no necessity, Leonard. You would not say these things if they were not true, and I can quite understand how, even before the advent of this woman, Howard’s unnatural reticence about his business affairs had created in you a feeling of uneasiness. I had that same feeling myself.”
Lydon drew a deep breath: “Ah, the same thing struck you, then?”
“Yes, I was suspicious, but very far from guessing the ghastly truth. I came to the conclusion that my brother had spoken truly when he said he was a financier, but he was not engaged in the highest walks of his profession. I guessed he was concerned with enterprises which men of strict integrity would describe as shady, but that in pursuing them he kept well within the compass of the law. That he bore to a financier of high repute much the same sort of relation that a blood-sucking moneylender bears to a reputable banker.”
There was a long pause before Jasper Stormont spoke again. “And now I must tell you something that would never have passed my lips but for what you have told me, and which proves that moral turpitude was engrained in the man from his early years. You know that he went to Australia? Do you know why he went?”
Yes, Lydon did. He had refrained from telling Jasper a certain portion of the revelations made by the Colonial, Tom Newcombe, from a feeling of delicacy. His reply was that he knew he had got into some trouble about money, but was not aware of the precise nature of it.
“Well, I will tell you. My father, who, although poorly blessed with the world’s goods, was a man of the strictest rectitude, and highly respected by all who knew him, procured him a post in a most respectable firm where, unfortunately, he had the handling of money. You can guess the sequel. To gratify his always extravagant tastes, of which Effington Hall is an illustration, he diverted several sums to his own use, displaying in their appropriation a remarkable ingenuity and cunning. When his defalcations came to light, the firm sent for my father. But for the respect in which they held him they would have prosecuted his son. My father and I between us—I had not very much money then—paid back the sum abstracted. We saved him from prosecution, on the condition that he should go out to Australia.”
“Did Mrs. Barnard know of this?” asked Lydon. He had never yet been able to make up his mind whether this self-contained, rather silent woman knew anything of her brother’s actual pursuits. Jasper Stormont’s next words solved the problem.
“Not a word. She had been recently married, and lived with her husband at a considerable distance. It was easy to keep the affair from her. I may say, in passing, that she is as honest as Howard is the reverse.
“He went to Australia, keeping up a fairly regular correspondence with his father, in which he made out that he had seen the wickedness of his ways, and was in honest employment. Of course, at that distance, we had no means of testing his assertions. He and I had never been particularly good friends, and his proved dishonesty had snapped the frail bond between us. We never wrote to each other for years.
“And then one day the long silence was broken. I married and went out to China, where I had secured a good post. Our parents had died before he returned to England. The little money my father had accumulated out of a continuous struggle with fortune was left to my sister, as being most in need of it. One day I received a long letter from Howard in which he told me that, having made a little money in Australia, he had determined to come back to the old country, and see what he could do with the small capital he had saved. He had gone in for finance, of course in a very modest way, and he had no reason to complain of his success.
“It is perhaps not greatly to my credit when I tell you that I am very hard against evil-doers, offenders against the moral law. I had not forgiven that early transgression, and I would have preferred not to renew relations with my brother. But I reflected that such sentiments were unchristian, and if the man was now walking in the straight path, it was not for me to withhold the hand of fellowship. I answered the letter, and from that day we corresponded more or less regularly.
“As that correspondence proceeded, it was apparent that he was prospering greatly. I was not surprised at that, for he had plenty of brains, and if he chose to employ them in a right direction, I saw no reason why he should not succeed. Mrs. Barnard’s husband had died, leaving her a small annuity which, joined to what my father had bequeathed her, formed a modest competence. Howard had pressed her to make her home with him, as he was a bachelor. He would not accept a penny from her towards the housekeeping; her own small income she was to look upon as pin-money.”
At this point in the history of his renewed relations with his brother, Jasper Stormont confessed that Howard’s generous treatment of his sister had strongly impressed him in his favour. It was more than probable that that early lesson had sunk into his soul, and he had really undergone a process of complete moral regeneration.
And then had come the request to adopt Gloria, and make her welfare one of the principal objects of his life. That further established him in the good graces of a brother who was disposed to be critical. Criminal as he had been, there were some good instincts in him, and these he had displayed to the full in the case of these two members of his family.
“It will be a terrible shock to Gloria when she is told, as told she must be,” said the banker. “She is a shrewd girl and you can see she has a sort of pitying contempt for some of his weaknesses, his extravagance, his vulgar love of ostentation. But she realizes he has shown unexampled kindness to her; if she could be spoiled, he has done his best to spoil her. I wish I could spare her sensitive nature the shock, but that cannot be. She must never go back to that man’s roof. So far as my influence goes, she must hold no further communication with him. The money he has spent on her during these several years I shall refund to him. As I doubt if he will be in a position to dictate terms, I may make it a condition that he shall cut away from his evil associates. Heaven knows if he would keep such a promise. I fear the spirit of evil is too strong in his crooked nature.”
For some little time the banker sat in agitated meditation. Then he suddenly roused himself from his painful thoughts and spoke again. “I feel as if my own small world had tumbled about my ears, Leonard; you will understand that. There is one thing we have got to face first and foremost as a consequence of this hideous discovery. Gloria cannot become your wife.”
The young man looked at him in astonishment. “But, my dear Mr. Stormont, in the name of justice, why? Do you think me such a cur as to visit the crimes of her relative upon a pure and innocent girl? Gloria has promised herself to me. Depend upon it I shall exact that promise.”
But Jasper Stormont could be a very obstinate man when he chose, and he held very rigid views of what was right and what was wrong. “No child of mine shall carry her tainted name into an honourable family,” he said firmly. “And you cannot get away from it that he has communicated a taint to the whole of his kindred. Besides, how do we know what is going to be the end of it? How can we be sure that, long as he has succeeded in evading justice, it will not overtake him one of these fine days. Even if I could succeed in persuading him to lead an honest life for the future, how can we guarantee the past? You say the Paris police have not yet given up their researches into the mystery of the jeweller’s death. At any moment something may come to light in that direction. No, my dear boy, I appreciate your nobility of choice, but Gloria must give you your freedom. If she is her father’s daughter, I think she will take the same view as I do.”
Lydon was not so sure. In his own mind, he thought that love would prevail. For a long time they wrangled over the point, the decision being finally reached that Gloria should act exactly as her feelings prompted her. Her father would state his views, but he would not use his influence over her to adopt them.
It was natural they should still talk further over the subject, painful as the discussion was to both.
“That coup he pretended to be the outcome of some financial speculation was clearly the mulcting of this young simpleton of that tremendous sum,” remarked the banker presently. “The fact that it had fallen through as soon as he received that telegram from his accomplice proves that. And yet I do not see, if it had come off, that it would have made his position as sure as he told me. I do not know in what proportion these miscreants divide their villainous gains. There were certainly four of them in it, Howard, his friend Whitehouse, and the husband and wife, to say nothing of the gang who I suppose have an over-riding percentage on everything. Even if Howard got a quarter of the amount, the interest on that would not keep a place like Effington Hall going.”
Lydon smiled ironically. “Would a man of your brother’s temperament bother about such things as investments and interest? If he received that sum, he would simply draw on it as long as it lasted, trusting to further luck to replenish his waning store.”
“Horrible idea,” said the banker with a shudder. “But I think you have seen more clearly than I did, Leonard. To me, the idea of a man living on his capital is unthinkable. Well, I shall make these awful disclosures to Gloria after dinner; she shall have a little more peace, poor child. And, later on, you and she shall have a heart-to-heart talk.”
That talk took place later on in the evening, when the young couple went for a stroll. At first Gloria, tearful and agitated, took her father’s view. It was impossible she could intrude herself into his life, with such a ghastly secret in the background, a secret that in all probability could not be kept indefinitely in the background. It would break her heart to part with him, but, for his own sake, she must insist upon giving him back his freedom. If he was angry with her now, he would be grateful in the future. So she pleaded amidst her plentiful tears.
But by degrees he wore down her resolution, dictated by the judgment, not the heart. If Howard Stormont’s past should ever be revealed to an astonished world, he would help her with all his might to live the hateful thing down. When they returned to the hotel, he had proved the victor, and announced the result to Jasper, who, loyal to his promise, acquiesced, if he found it impossible to approve.
“I shall come up to London in the morning with you,” he said to the young man, “and ascertain on the ’phone what are Howard’s movements. I should say that, as his coup has failed, he will be bewailing his ill-fortune at Effington. He will hardly have the heart to resume his usual habits for a few days.”
And so it proved. Mrs. Barnard, who answered the ’phone call, explained that her brother was rather out of sorts, and Jasper would find him at Effington at almost any hour of the day. If he went out, it would only be for a stroll in the grounds or to the village.
Jasper Stormont went down after luncheon; he had not committed himself to any particular time. To one thing he had firmly made up his mind; he would not take another meal at Effington Hall, in the society of the man he had the misfortune to call brother. He took a taxi at the station and drove in due course through the big gates of the stately mansion, which he devoutly hoped he was entering for the last time.
The owner was out, the new butler informed him, but was expected back shortly. Mrs. Barnard was in.
She was pleased to see her brother. “But why couldn’t you come to luncheon?” she asked him. “Surely you are going to dine and stop the night?”
She had received him in her own little boudoir, in which she wrote so many letters. “This may be the last time I shall see you here,” she remarked, not without symptoms of emotion. “Howard told me he had written to you about his misfortunes. For a long time I have feared this would be the end of his reckless extravagance. Well, it has come, and the only thing to do is to face it as well as one can. Thank Heaven, it won’t affect dear Gloria very much personally, but I am sure she is terribly grieved for us.”
Jasper Stormont was a lovable enough man in many ways, but the sight of Effington, with its pretence of wealth, had made him feel very hard. Still, he could not show hardness to this poor woman who had lived for so long in a fool’s paradise.
“She feels intense pity for you,” he said, laying a strong emphasis on the pronoun.
Mrs. Barnard looked wonderingly at him, and a flush dyed her face. “What does that mean? Has she no pity for poor Howard, who gratified her every whim, and spoiled her from the day she entered the house? I will not believe it of her. He has been weak, but not criminal, Jasper.”
And then Jasper raised his voice in righteous wrath. “My poor sister, you little knew, I have only known for the last few hours, that this brother of ours has been leading a double life. He is one of the biggest criminals that ever walked the face of the earth.”
Mrs. Barnard’s face froze into a look of horror. If any other man had spoken those awful words, she would have told him he lied. But she knew Jasper’s character too well. He would not have made such a charge if it were not true.
As briefly as possible he told her what he knew, through that chance opening of the letter to Zillah Mayhew by Lydon. The unhappy woman burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
“Jasper, you must take me away with you when you leave,” she said when she had recovered herself a little. “I could not stay another night under the roof after what you have told me. The associate of thieves, blackmailers, a potential murderer himself. It is like some hideous nightmare.”
And at that moment Howard Stormont walked into the room, with a smile of welcome on his harassed countenance. Perhaps he thought his brother had come to help him in his financial difficulties.
But as he took in the scene, the still weeping woman, Jasper standing beside her with a hard and inflexible look upon his face, he knew that the visit portended nothing of the kind.
He looked from one to the other and his own face grew paler as he noted his sister’s averted countenance.
“What the devil does all this mean? And you, Jasper, why do you refuse to take my hand?” he cried in a harsh voice that showed traces of fear.
At a sign from her brother, Mrs. Barnard withdrew, and the two men were left alone—Jasper stern, rigid; Howard with terrible forebodings in his guilty soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Howard was the first to break the strained silence; he spoke in a toneless voice. “I Suppose you will presently tell me what all this means, the reason of this extraordinary attitude. I suppose you have been talking over the state of affairs with Maud, and are angry with me for having made such a muddle of things. You will stay to dinner, of course?”
Swiftly came the reply: “If I would not take your hand, is it likely I would accept your hospitality? I hope never to see you, nor set foot in this house of evil, again. Howard Stormont, I know you for what you are; I know the double life you have been leading since you left England and since you returned to it. I know you to be the associate of criminals, yourself not the least criminal amongst them.”
The face of the detected crook went livid: “We can’t talk here,” he said hoarsely. “Come down to my room and let us have it out.”
They went into the handsomely furnished study. As soon as they got there, he opened the door of a small sideboard, from which he extracted a bottle of uncorked brandy. He filled a tumbler half full of the raw spirit and gulped it down. For the moment, the potent draught steadied his nerves, and he sank into a chair, and looked with a certain amount of hardihood at his brother.
“Now let me hear what you do know, or think you know.” He had made no attempt to repel Jasper’s charge. He knew the man’s cautious character too well to think he would speak as he had done, except on evidence that was satisfactory and convincing.
“I know of your association with the woman known at present as Mrs. Edwards, who has gone under the different names of Elise Makris, Zillah Mayhew, Zillah Glenthorne, the woman who was connected with the tragedy at Nice in which poor Hugh Craig figured, the woman you dispatched to Paris along with the man Edwards to carry out your designs against the rich jeweller Calliard, who was robbed and murdered.”
Howard Stormont interrupted in a choking voice. He knew it was useless to protest innocence. “Murder was never intended. The fool who carried out the job exceeded his instructions.”
“Do you think I should believe a word you said?” was Jasper’s scornful comment. “Lying, even perjury, would be a venial offence in the eyes of one so steeped in crime. But even if the murder of Calliard cannot be laid directly at your door, what have you to say to your own attempt on the life of your old Australian associate, Newcombe, the man whom you feared for his knowledge of your past?”
“I made no attempt upon his life,” was the dogged reply. “I only wanted to give the drunken fool a fright.”
“A miserable lie,” said Jasper sternly. “You miscalculated the dose of your devilish poison, or the man would be dead now. For some days he hung between life and death. And I also know that you were concerned in this last dastardly attempt to extort money from young Wraysbury, with the help of the two confederates who had carried out your schemes in Paris.”
Stormont rose and helped himself to another dose of brandy. “And how did you find all this out?” he asked presently.
“That is my business,” was the curt answer.
It was some time before the wretched man spoke again. “I think I can guess how the information came. That young Lydon had his suspicions from the day he met Zillah here, and put a detective on our track. My sister told me she had given him some letters to post which I had forgotten to take with me; one of them was to her. He opened it and what he read gave him the clue, and he set this fellow Grewgus to work. But what beats me is how he suspected Zillah; he had never seen her. When he and Craig were at Nice, she took good care to keep out of his way.”
Jasper did not enlighten his brother on this point, and presently Howard put to him, point-blank, the question: “And now that you know all this, what are you and this precious young Lydon going to do? Do you intend to play the part of virtuous citizens and denounce me to the police?”
“We ought to do it, if we performed our duty,” said Jasper coldly. “But I have a proposition to make to you. Your letter shows me that you are broke to the world. Your interview with your confederate Edwards, after Grewgus had foiled his plot against Wraysbury, must have convinced you that a continuance of this criminal life is fraught with peril; that at any moment Nemesis may overtake you.”
Stormont looked up sharply, “How did you know that I had an interview with Edwards?” he asked, in evident surprise.
But Jasper declined to enlighten him. “Again I repeat, that is my business. This precious young Lydon, as you call him, has behaved like the honourable Englishman he is. I told him emphatically that he must give up Gloria, that he must not connect himself with a family that had this black stain upon its records. Gloria took the same view, and insisted upon releasing him, although she told me that to do so would break her heart.”
For the first time in their interview, the hardened criminal showed an overwhelming sense of shame. “Poor Gloria!” he muttered in a broken voice. “Poor Gloria! It is indeed hard upon her. And Lydon would not accept his dismissal. Well, I will admit he is a noble fellow.”
“I am glad you do him that justice. Well, my proposition is this. It is horrible to me to think that my innocent and unsuspecting child has lived all these years upon the proceeds of infamy. The money you have expended upon her for something like fourteen years I will restore to you on the condition that you abandon this life, and break away for ever from your criminal associates. Even then, there is not absolute safety. At any moment the past may yield up its secrets, and all the world may know you for what you are.”
Howard Stormont kept silence. His active brain was no doubt weighing the advantages and disadvantages of his brother’s suggestion.
“As I shall be very liberal in my estimate of what she cost you,” continued Jasper; “you could exist upon the interest of the capital sum I should hand over to you. But you are not without brains, and you might use that money to embark in some honest business.”
“It is a very generous offer,” Howard said at length. “And I am very disposed to accept It without further reflection. Still, I would like to go into matters a little closer first. I admit your visit here to-day has taken the courage out of me. You will laugh at me, I suppose, and consider it a further proof of my hypocrisy when I say that I would prefer not to live upon your bounty. But I should like to reckon up what I am likely to get out of the sale of Effington, when the mortgages have been paid off.”
“It is not a question of bounty; it is an act of reparation to my own conscience,” said Jasper hastily. “I would prefer to return the money to its rightful owners, if I could find them. But that is impossible. If you refuse to accept this sum, I shall devote it to charity, so as to make some sort of amends.”
“Give me till to-morrow, and I will let you know definitely. I presume you have told Maud?”
“Certainly,” answered Jasper. “She is as much horrified as I was when I learned the horrible truth. She is coming back with me.”
A ghastly smile spread over Stormont’s white face. “It is what one might expect. Rats always leave the sinking ship, don’t they?”
Jasper made no reply to this cynical remark, which showed the naturally hard and callous nature of the man. He moved towards the door with a few last words. “I must have your decision not later than the time you have stated.”
He went out into the hall and summoned a servant to find Mrs. Barnard and ask her to come to him in her boudoir. He had kept the taxi waiting. As soon as she was ready, they could quit this house of evil where the owner of it had plotted and thought out his criminal schemes.
She came to him ready dressed for her journey. She was taking with her a couple of small trunks; the rest of her belongings, which had all been bought with her own money, could be sent after her. Jasper explained that he was taking her down to Brighton, where she could make a long stay till she had made her plans for the future. Together they went down into the hall.
And suddenly, in a burst of womanly feeling, she whispered to her brother, “Vile as he is, I cannot leave him without a word.”
She turned, and walking swiftly to the study, opened the door and entered. Howard was sitting huddled up in his chair, looking a ghastly object of misery and despair. She laid her hand lightly on his arm for an instant. “God forgive you, Howard, and turn your heart before it is too late.”
His dry lips muttered a faint “Good-bye,” and she turned from him and rejoined Jasper.
They got back to Brighton in the evening, and in the private sitting-room the banker explained to Lydon and his family what had passed between the two men in that final visit to Effington. Leonard was rejoiced that Mrs. Barnard had come back with her brother. He had never quite been able to make up his mind about her, whether or not she was in Howard’s confidence; but her action showed that, like her niece, she had never guessed his guilty secret.
The next morning, Jasper Stormont, according to his usual custom, went for a stroll before breakfast, and on his return to the hotel found a telegram awaiting him. It was from the butler at Effington Hall and informed him that his brother had committed suicide early that morning. He had thought he would never set foot in Effington again, but in the face of such news he must go there at once.
When he reached the house, the butler gave him the details. On entering the study, one of the housemaids discovered her master lying dead in his easy-chair, a bottle of brandy standing beside his elbow, an empty pistol lying on the floor to which it had dropped after he had shot himself. He had been dead some few hours, the doctor said, when she had found him. At the time of his suicide, for the perpetration of which he had fortified himself with large doses of alcohol, the household was fast asleep, and nobody had heard the shot. Jasper could only conclude that the wretched man had come to the conclusion life was played out for him, and had nerved himself to make his exit from the world on which he had preyed for so long.
He had been careful to preserve appearances. He had written an open letter lying on the table in which he stated that utter financial ruin had come upon him, and that at his age he lacked the courage to begin the battle of life over again. He gave the address of his brother at Brighton, and requested that he should be communicated with at once.
There was a good deal of sympathy in the neighbourhood, where his benefactions and lavish hospitality had made him popular. The inquest was held in due course, and the usual compassionate verdict recorded. When Howard Stormont was laid to rest nobody guessed that the body of an arch-criminal was being committed to the earth. Jasper Stormont’s visit was explained on the grounds that he had come to take his sister for a long stay at Brighton.
So the future was secure. A sum was offered for Effington Hall which, after payment of the various charges and debts, left over a balance of about a couple of thousand pounds. Stormont had left no will, and his property therefore devolved upon his next of kin. But as none of them would touch a farthing, Jasper made a donation of the money to a necessitous hospital.
It was a great relief to Jasper and his sister that he had solved the problem of the future in the way he had, before the old instincts came to life again and led him to the commission of further crime. But tender-hearted Gloria sometimes shed tears when she remembered the numerous acts of kindness to her, proving that even the basest of men can possess some good qualities.
Lord Wraysbury heard nothing further from Edwards’ solicitors. Grewgus had settled that little matter, and for doing so he received a very handsome cheque from the grateful young nobleman. The house and furniture in Curzon Street were up for sale. Neither Edwards nor his wife was any longer in residence there. Grewgus chuckled as he thought this frustrated scheme must have cost the gang a pretty sum.
Glenthorne had also suddenly left Ashstead Mansions, and abandoned his solicitor’s practice. That interview of Grewgus with Edwards and the suicide of Stormont seemed to have produced far-reaching consequences. Edwards had disappeared and was not heard of at any of his usual haunts, and the dark, handsome Zillah had vanished as suddenly as her uncle. It looked like a wholesale dispersal of that portion of the gang.
Lydon and Grewgus settled up accounts. The detective informed his client that the Paris police had given up the case of Léon Calliard, after following several delusive clues. There was now practically no chance that the details of the unfortunate man’s murder would ever be known, unless he communicated the information he had acquired about Edwards and Zillah. Even then, it would be almost impossible to connect them with the affair.
But of course Lydon strongly discountenanced such a step. One could not take it without bringing Howard Stormont into the matter; it would also involve Jasper, who would have to testify that his brother had practically admitted his participation in it.
“Best to let sleeping dogs lie, for the sake of the family,” said the young man. “If one did discover the actual murderer, it would not bring the unfortunate Calliard to life, and it would inflict the greatest pain upon innocent people.”
Grewgus agreed, rather reluctantly. He had the true instincts of the sleuth-hound; he loved to hunt his quarry down. He would dearly have liked to go to Scotland Yard, but he was bound to respect his client’s wishes on the subject. All the same, he felt it was a tame sort of inquiry which had not resulted in a triumphant finish. As a consequence of it, Stormont had been driven to suicide, and the other persons concerned had found it expedient to lie low for a while. But for him, there was no public kudos in it.
On the same day on which he squared up accounts with Lydon he came face to face in the Strand with his old friend Tom Newcombe. The gentleman’s appearance had altered very much. He had discarded his beard and moustache, and a less keen eye than the detective’s might have failed to recognize him. But Grewgus had a wonderful memory for faces, and it required a very clever disguise to baffle him. They exchanged greetings.
“Hardly knew me, did you?” inquired the Colonial. “You see, I clean-shaved myself directly after we had settled matters. I got out of that house as soon as I could, but I was mortally afraid I might run across Stormont, and he might get me into his clutches again. Well, it’s all right now, he has passed in his checks. I can tell you it was a relief when I saw it in the papers. I thought, as I read it, that you might have had something to do with it.”
“Perhaps I had, in a very indirect fashion,” was the cautious answer.
“Well, he’s gone to where he wanted to send me. Gad, that man did make me see red when I thought of his attempt to put me out of the way. Many a time I’ve half made up my mind to sneak down to Effington and plug him if I got the chance. But a bit of prudence stepped in, fortunately. It wasn’t worth swinging for a fellow like that. And so he came to a bad end, after all. It makes one think a bit, mister, it does.”
“It makes you think a bit, eh?” repeated the detective. “And what turn do your thoughts take? The wages of sin is death, or something of that sort?”
“You’ve hit it,” said the Colonial, speaking with great seriousness. “I told you my mother was a good woman; she did her best to bring me up religious, but my father always scoffed at her for her pains. How many times have I heard her use that very phrase; it has always stuck in my memory. I thought of her a goodish bit when I was struggling back to life. I began to feel quite sick of the past, and all the evil I had done. But you know, mister, when you’ve once got into the crooked life, it’s precious hard to get out of it. But now I’ve got that bit of money, I’ve made up my mind to go straight.”
“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” said Grewgus heartily.
“Most crooks come to a bad end. Stormont, who was clever and cunning as the devil, took his life at the finish, and most of ’em overreach themselves and get into quod. So I’m making a fresh start. Till I read that in the papers, I was going out to Canada, for fear of Stormont. But now he’s out of the way, I shall stick in the old country. I shall buy a snug little business, a tobacconist’s by preference. Gosh, it will be pleasant to pass a policeman without fearing he’s going to lay his hand on you.”
They chatted for a little time longer, and at parting Grewgus offered Newcombe his hand, which the Colonial shook heartily. Since he had now resolved to lead an honest life, the detective felt he was justified in showing him this mark of esteem.
He got back to his office about four o’clock and busied himself with his correspondence. In the midst of it, a clerk entered and said that a lady wished to speak with him for a few minutes, but would not give her name.
Rather impatiently, for he was very occupied with his letters, he ordered the visitor to be shown in.
What was his astonishment when the mysterious lady entered, and he recognized in the dark, handsome young woman who had refused to give her name, Elise Makris, otherwise Mrs. Edwards.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The handsome young woman addressed the detective with the charm of manner that had no doubt beguiled so many men, notably Hugh Craig and the susceptible Léon Calliard.
“I take it from what you told my husband, Bertram Edwards, that you are acquainted with me—at any rate, my appearance. I suppose, Mr. Grewgus, you must have been in Paris at the same time I was there.”
“That is quite true,” was the answer. Grewgus had certainly formed the opinion at one time that the young woman’s sudden departure had been occasioned by her discovery of the fact that she was being watched. But her next words settled this point once and for all.
“And I suppose you followed me about from place to place. It is rather strange that I did not spot you; as I flatter myself that I am rather a keen observer. From what you know of my career, you may be sure I have had to cultivate the quality of alertness. You must be very clever at your business. I should have said it would be impossible for anybody to shadow me continuously for even a day without my being aware of it.”
Grewgus smiled. “I think I may say, without undue vanity, I am rather clever at it. In your case, I took somewhat elaborate precautions, as I felt I was dealing with a very resourceful woman. I shadowed you under perhaps a dozen different disguises. Well, Mrs. Edwards, I need hardly say I am very astonished to see you in my office. I suppose you will tell me in good time the object of your visit.”
A very hard look came over the handsome face. “I need not keep you waiting a moment longer. My object is revenge.”
“Against your former associates in general, or some particular person?” suggested the detective quietly.
“Against my former associates, with one exception, I have no rancour. They did their best to make my life pleasant, so far as such a life can be made pleasant. I was one of those unfortunate creatures whose mode of existence is determined for them at a very early age by others, from whose domination it is impossible to escape. My father was a crook; my mother, so long as she retained her good looks, followed the same calling. And I was trained to follow in her footsteps. You can say it was easy to break away, to separate from these evil counsellors, and earn my living in some honest way. Mr. Grewgus, it was not easy. More than once I have tried and I had to go back.”
Grewgus looked at her curiously. She had spoken very calmly up to the last few sentences, and then her manner had suddenly changed. Her voice had in it a vibrating ring; her attempt to break away, and the futility of it, had aroused in her very bitter memories.
“They would not allow me to sever my bonds,” she continued, speaking in the same intense tones. “Once I thought I had succeeded, and hidden myself away from them, I had taken a situation as a shop assistant. Somehow, they tracked me down. One of the gang went to the proprietor, and representing himself as a police official, warned him that he had a thief in his service, a girl who had lately come out of gaol. It was a lie. I have deserved prison many times, but luck has kept me out of it; but it was a lie that served its purpose. I was dismissed there and then, turned out into the street with the few miserable francs I had saved out of my poor wages. My mother was waiting near by to take me back. I think in a way she pitied me, but she told me it was useless struggling against them; they would never let me go. I was too useful to them.”
“Your natural advantages proved, no doubt, a great asset to them,” remarked the detective. “Your appearance made you an ideal decoy.”
“Yes, good looks are not invariably a blessing,” said the beautiful young woman with a melancholy smile. “Had I been an ordinary-looking girl, they would have allowed me to remain in that humble shop, and troubled their heads no further about me. They were the cause of my being devoted to a life of evil by which I enriched others more than myself. But the greatest curse of all which they brought upon me was my association with the man you lately called upon, my husband, Bertram Edwards.”
Her voice, as she spoke the name, was full of passion and hatred. Grewgus guessed now why she had called upon him.
“You know something about him, a great deal too much for his comfort, but you cannot know the utter callousness of his brutal nature. Stormont was hard and ruthless in a way, where he encountered opposition, but he had his good points, he was genial, he was generous. If you knew how to handle him, you could get on well with him. The same might be said of John Whitehouse, who for a long time has passed as my uncle, although there is not the most remote relationship between us. But after the first few months of glamour were over, I could never find a single redeeming quality in Edwards. I think the man had all the vices it was possible to amalgamate in a single temperament.”
“You were in love with this man, then, when you married him?”
“Passionately,” was the reply. “Nobody could have been more successful than he in masking a vile nature under a prepossessing exterior. But even in the early days of our honeymoon he showed the cloven hoof. During the whole of our married existence my life has been one long experience of infamy, insult, brutality and outrage. And the love I bore him has turned to a hatred so intense that I would risk anything to procure him the punishment he deserves.”
So, when she had shown Wraysbury the bruise on her arm, and told him her husband was a brute and a bully, she had been speaking the truth, thought Grewgus.
“Have you come to me with the idea of getting him punished?” asked the detective. He would have dearly loved to aid her in such a laudable object but for the express wishes of Lydon to let sleeping dogs lie.
“That is my sole reason. I can give you so much evidence about him and put you in the way of corroborating it without having to appear myself. But, of course, a wife is not allowed to give evidence against her husband in a criminal charge.”
“That is the worst of it,” said the artful detective, who wanted to get all he could out of her, to turn her hatred to his own advantage. “But let me know some of the details, and I will see if anything can be done. Let us start with the murder of Calliard. Was Edwards the murderer?”
Reluctantly, as it seemed, she had to admit he was not. In the course of her confessions on the subject, she confirmed what Stormont had insisted on to his brother, that murder had never been intended. Edwards had not been on in the final act of the tragedy. As at first resolved upon, it had been a case of simple robbery. She had not even sought the jeweller’s society with the object of blackmailing him, but solely to ascertain his movements.
After she had left Paris, two members of the gang had been dispatched to Brussels to wait for the unfortunate man and entrap him. In rendering him senseless, one of the miscreants had given him too strong a dose of chloroform, and it proved fatal. To cover up their crime, they had thrown his body in the river. She had learned these details afterwards from Whitehouse, but she did not know the names of either of the men. Stormont, who was the leading spirit of the gang, and had originally marked down Calliard for a victim, was alone acquainted with their identity. It was always his policy to keep the subordinate members of the association as far apart as possible. They worked in little coteries, and, in the majority of cases, one coterie knew nothing of the other.
But dearly as she would have loved to implicate Edwards in the tragedy, she had to confess she could not do so. As a matter of fact he was in Spain on other business when it happened.
“Our married life would have been intolerable, but for the fact that we did not spend a great deal of it together; when we did, I suffered physically and mentally,” she explained at this point. “His vile temper vented itself upon me on the slightest provocation, in spite of the fact that both Stormont and Whitehouse frequently intervened on my behalf, and remonstrated with him. When the plot against Wraysbury was hatched, it was a necessary part of it that we should live together. That was a time of terrible torture to me. When it failed, thanks to your intervention, he wreaked his disappointment on me. On the day he left England, frightened by your knowledge, he beat me almost into a state of insensibility.”