That evening in the smoking-room Lydon told his host what Hugh had disclosed in that letter which the solicitor, Shelford, had handed to him. He fancied that Stormont did not take very much interest in the matter. This, however, was hardly to be wondered at, as Hugh had always treated the man with a certain hauteur which he could not have helped observing, had he been a much less intelligent person than he was. When the story was finished, Lydon learned a piece of the Clandon family history that was unknown to him.
“A very remarkable family, the Clandons; I know a little about them,” he remarked.
It was by no means the first time the young man had noticed that Stormont always seemed to know a good deal about everybody who was of any importance in the world. According to what Gloria had let drop, he knew that Lydon’s father had been a man of considerable wealth. He rather wondered where this information was procured. Stormont of course knew a great many people about Effington, but so much gossip of the big world would hardly filter there. He had never heard him speak of numerous acquaintances in London, and so far as Leonard knew, he did not belong to any London club, a circumstance which in a man of his apparent wealth seemed rather peculiar.
“A very remarkable family, the Clandons,” repeated the genial, rubicund man. “Remarkable in this respect, that for some generations they have transmitted to their descendants a very high order of intelligence. They have never produced any first-class brains, it is true. They have never boasted a Prime Minister, a great general, a distinguished lawyer, but several of them have filled second and third-rate posts with some distinction. This poor chap who killed himself after trying to murder the girl, for example. I don’t suppose he would have been a Stratford de Redcliffe, or a von Bieberstein, but he would no doubt have developed into a quite respectable diplomatist of the average order.”
It hurt Lydon to hear him speak of his old friend in such a slighting manner. But Hugh had certainly taken no pains to conceal his dislike of “the aggressive profiteer,” and Stormont was human. The next words startled him greatly.
“Well, as I told you, I know some things about the Clandon family, one a fact not at all generally known. By the light of that knowledge, your friend’s act can be accounted for. There was insanity on both sides, the mother’s and the father’s.”
“You astound me,” cried Lydon in genuine amazement. “I never had a suspicion of this. But then how should I have? Even if Hugh was acquainted with the fact, which it is more than likely he was, he would scarcely reveal it even to his best friend.”
“Quite so,” assented Stormont. “Men don’t speak of these painful things as a rule. But you can rest assured that what I have told you is quite true. The uncle of the present holder of the title, Hugh Craig’s father, a man of good fortune, endowed with all the blessings of life, cut his throat in his bath one morning without any apparent reason or motive; this man’s sister, Lord Clandon’s aunt, died a raving lunatic. On the mother’s side, Lady Clandon has a younger brother who has been in a private asylum for the last twenty-five years. It is not generally known outside the family. My sources of information happened to be rather exclusive. So you see the taint suddenly developed in this poor chap as soon as he got an overpowering shock.”
So the family history accounted for poor Hugh’s sudden aberration. The mysterious malady of madness that sometimes passes a whole generation, to break out with virulence in the next one!
On the Tuesday morning Leonard travelled up with his host. They parted at Waterloo Station, as Stormont said his offices were in the City, while those of Leonard were in Victoria Street. The young man was warmly pressed to pay another visit to Effington at an early date.
Obviously this genial uncle was not going to put any obstacle in the way of increased intimacy between the young people. The very significant facts admitted by Gloria seemed to solve what might otherwise have proved a puzzling problem. Mr. Howard Stormont had apparently made up his mind to live for the day, and to say with the French monarch, “Après moi le déluge.”
A few days later he met Gloria at the luncheon which she had agreed should be a secret one. She was very sweet and amiable, but evidently her conscience pricked her, for when they parted she told him firmly it must be the last under such conditions.
“There is really no longer any necessity for it,” she said. “Uncle likes you very much, and he has now made you free of Effington. If he disapproved of our friendship, he would not ask you to his home.”
“You are quite right,” admitted Lydon. “It was a foolish sort of whim of mine. I could not quite get it out of my mind that if I took such a liberty with the niece of the owner of such a splendid place as Effington Hall, he would send me to the right-about.”
Gloria laughed, told him that he seemed an exceedingly modest young man, and hoped he would always remain so. It was evident that Stormont desired his friendship, for on the following Friday he rang him up, and inquired if he would go down with him to Effington the next day.
Of course, the young man was only too pleased to go. He had not ventured to hope that he would see Gloria again so soon. Stormont was at the station awaiting him, and with him was a tall, thin man of about the same age as himself, whom he introduced as Mr. Whitehouse. This gentleman was a quiet, reserved sort of person, and Lydon did not feel particularly attracted to him. Stormont added an explanation that they were very old friends, and did a good deal of business together. As he said this, Leonard remembered that he had never heard the nature of Stormont’s business either from himself or his niece.
This visit was quite a different one from the last. No big dinner party at night with the army of well-trained servants in attendance; just a cosy meal in a smaller apartment, half morning-room, half dining-room. Mr. Whitehouse seemed well known to the household, but he was not by any means a great talker. Probably he had come down to discuss business matters with his host.
After dinner the two elder men retired to Stormont’s study. Lydon went with the ladies into the drawing-room, Stormont excusing his absence with the genial remark that they were treating him as one of the family.
After Gloria had played and sung a little, she proposed that they should adjourn for billiards, a game at which she was no mean performer. The billiard-room was next to Stormont’s study, the door of which was open, and as they went in Lydon heard these words uttered in Whitehouse’s rather deep voice:
“Yes, it is most unfortunate that the thing should have happened at the moment it did. She is absolutely essential to this particular scheme. We can’t start it without her.”
These words made the young man wonder a good deal. What possible business could it be, to the prosecution of which a certain woman was essential?
CHAPTER FIVE
He had always felt curious on the subject of Stormont’s business, one which evidently brought him in a large income, for how otherwise could he have maintained the upkeep of such an expensive place as Effington. It was strange, too, that the man had never made any allusion to it himself, more especially as he did not appear to be of a reticent or secretive nature. With the majority of persons it is not necessary to know them for very long before they let drop something that proclaims their occupation.
He had told the Stormonts all about himself on the occasion of his second meeting with them at Brighton, without any reserve. If he had foregathered more intimately with them at Nice, he would have told them then. Even with such a very reticent man as Craig, you could not have been in his society for a few hours without learning that he was a member of the diplomatic corps. It certainly was odd that Stormont never dropped a remark that enabled you to fix his occupation. He occasionally spoke of himself as a business man, and that was all.
To carry on any sort of business, he must have an office or offices somewhere, and presumably they were in London. But Stormont had never given him the address. Only once, when they had travelled together up to London and parted at Waterloo, he had mentioned that he was bound for the City, a sufficiently vague definition.
Those words he had overheard uttered by the man Whitehouse aggravated the curiosity he had for long felt on the subject since he had become so intimately acquainted with the family.
Very delicately he questioned Gloria as they proceeded with their game in the billiard-room.
“I suppose business does not take up all your uncle’s time? He spends a good deal of it in this delightful place,” he said.
There was not the slightest hesitation in the girl’s reply. He had long ago made up his mind that everything about Gloria Stormont was open and above-board. How frank she had been about herself, and her youthful days in China with her father and mother.
“I shouldn’t say he went up to London more than three days a week on an average; his heart has been wrapt up in Effington ever since he bought it from young Sedgemere a few years ago. When we lived in London itself, he used to work much harder.”
“Oh, you lived in London before you came here,” said Leonard, who learned this fact for the first time. Certainly Stormont was a very reticent fellow about strictly personal matters. He had never made any allusion to a previous home which, from his intense fondness for rural life, the young man fancied might have been in the country.
“Yes, we had a dear old eighteenth-century house in Curzon Street. It was very comfortable and convenient, but my aunt and I welcomed the change as much as he did. I should hate to go back to town life again after this sweet Effington.”
“I suppose you had a very large circle of acquaintances in town?” asked Lydon, still pursuing his questioning.
“Not large at all, considering the fact that my uncle seemed so well off,” was the frank answer. “He honestly owns that he is not very fond of general society. He has a few friends who come down here now and again. There were some of them with us on your first visit. Of course we know a lot of people round about here, in fact a great many more than in London.”
“You travel a great deal, don’t you? Mr. Stormont seems well acquainted with all the principal places in Europe.” This was one of the subjects on which her uncle had not been reticent. His knowledge of the Continent, of the customs and habits of the different foreign nations, was extensive and exhaustive, and he always seemed pleased to air it.
“Oh, uncle is a tremendous traveller; he has been everywhere and seen everything; but he has not travelled so much since we have been here, a matter of some five years. Before that he used to be away the greater part of the year. Sometimes my aunt and I went with him, but usually he went alone. His business took him a good deal abroad, you know.”
Here was the opportunity he had been waiting for, and he hastened to seize it. “It seems rather funny, one learns these things so soon, as a rule. But I have never heard what your uncle’s business is.”
Gloria’s reply was perfectly free from embarrassment. “It is connected with finance; I suppose he is what you call a financier.”
So the secret was out: the owner of Effington Hall was a financier. Well, there were a good many people belonging to that profession, some of them quite reputable, controlling vast interests, some of them quite the reverse, addicted to very shady doings. No doubt the rubicund Stormont was one of the respectable ones, but why the deuce had he been so reticent about it? The proper pursuit of finance was quite a respectable calling. When a man does not openly mention his occupation, his silence rather gives you the idea he is secretly ashamed of it.
It was quite within the bounds of possibility that Stormont was not amongst the high spirits of the financial world, that his activities inclined a little to the shady side of the profession. But if that were so, would he have had the hardihood to buy Effington, and run the gauntlet of the respectable people of the neighbourhood?
On the Sunday morning Stormont absented himself from church, contrary to his usual custom. Mr. Whitehouse remained at home to keep him company. All the others went as they had done on the previous occasion. Lydon had a shrewd suspicion that the two men wanted to be alone to discuss business affairs. Evidently matters were settled during the morning, for the two men did not shut themselves up again during the rest of the day.
Whitehouse might possibly be an excellent man of business, but he was not a lively or inspiring person. Grave and taciturn to a degree, he spoke very little, and only when addressed directly by his host or some other member of the party. He did not volunteer conversation. From a few hints dropped by Gloria, Leonard gathered that the women rather disliked him, and looked upon him as a wet blanket.
In reply to further questioning, Miss Stormont said that he used to be a frequent visitor to Curzon Street; but since they had taken up their residence at Effington, he came somewhat infrequently, not more than three or four times in the year, and then only for a stay of a day or two. She understood that he and her uncle had been connected in business for many years and that they had a very great regard for each other.
Whitehouse left directly after breakfast on the Monday morning, and Lydon hailed his departure with pleasure. There was something rather repellent about the man, with his taciturnity, his unsmiling gravity, his deep-set eyes and sombre gaze. For himself, he accepted Stormont’s cordial invitation to stay another day, during which he enjoyed the society of the charming Gloria to the full.
He had expected that his host would accompany him to town on the Tuesday morning, but Stormont announced that, as the weather was so fine, he had made up his mind to take a week’s holiday. Lydon thought it must be a very accommodating business that allowed him so much leisure, more especially in view of the fact, inadvertently dropped by Gloria, that he was in a certain sense living from hand to mouth, at any rate spending money as fast as he made it.
Mrs. Barnard said good-bye to him in the dining-room after breakfast. Stormont and his niece went with him into the hall. When he had shaken hands with them, rather a lingering process in the case of Gloria, Stormont detained him with a gesture, and went out to tell the chauffeur to drive down to the lodge gates and await them there. “Just a word with you, my boy, before you go,” he said, linking his arm in that of the young man and conducting him slowly down the avenue, leaving a rather surprised Gloria behind.
When they were well out of earshot, he spoke. “Look here, my dear Leonard, I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your Christian name, but I think we are now intimate enough to excuse the liberty.”
“Not in the least,” answered Lydon, who wondered what was coming.
“Thanks. I want to tell you that I’m not blind, neither is my sister. You are in love with Gloria, aren’t you?”
Leonard was rather taken aback by the direct question. In his confusion he could not make any coherent reply. “I am,” he stammered, “But, of course, I—I—I——” He could not finish the sentence.
“I quite understand, my dear fellow,” said Stormont, his broad rubicund face relaxing into a smile. “You admit you love Gloria. I wanted you to be quite frank and open with me in the matter. I don’t wonder at it, for she is a sweet girl, one out of a thousand, charming, honest, open as the day. Well, I will let you into a little secret. If my observations are correct, I believe she returns your affection. My sister thinks so too, and women can read each other pretty well as a rule.”
He spoke in his hearty, breezy way. In spite of Craig’s caustic criticism of him, there was something engaging about the personality of the homely-looking man. Lydon could not help flushing. “It makes me inexpressibly happy, sir, to hear you say that. I take it, from your telling me so much, that you do not disapprove. Have I your permission to speak to Miss Stormont?”
“When and as soon as you please,” was the hearty response, “I had half made up my mind to tell you yesterday. I wish I had; I dare say by now I should have been congratulating you and my niece. Personally I am very pleased that you have fixed your affections on Gloria. So is Mrs. Barnard, who is a shrewd judge of character. In common with myself, she likes you very much and thinks you would make an excellent husband. Well, I can’t say more, can I? Run down here again next week, and fix it up. Come as often as you like. My sister and I love young people about the house.”
Lydon thanked him in warm terms for having made his wooing so easy. True, Gloria had not yet revealed her feelings, but in his heart he had not much doubt as to what they were.
But Stormont had not yet said all he wanted. As they drew near to the lodge gates, where the car was waiting, he motioned the young man to a halt.
“Just a little something more, to make everything plain and clear. Very possibly you have thought that Gloria is the niece of a rich man and will come into a tidy sum when I die?”
The young man interrupted him hastily. “I assure you, on my word of honour, Mr. Stormont, I never speculated on such a contingency. If I gave it a thought, I was rather depressed by the circumstance than otherwise. I felt a natural reluctance to ask a girl brought up so luxuriously to share a very modest fortune.”
“You’re not the sort of which fortune-hunters are made. I could see that at a glance, or I should not have been so open with you,” was the generous reply. He sank his voice very low when he continued: “Well, I must let you into a little secret which I think nobody suspects. I am not in the true sense of the term a rich man. I make plenty of money and I believe I shall continue to do, if my luck holds, as long as I live. But I am an incurable spendthrift; I fritter as fast as I make. Of course, you are a totally different temperament from me. At such an admission you will shrug your shoulders and think I am an insensate fool.”
Lydon preserved an embarrassed silence. Had he expressed in words what he really felt, they would have been far from palatable to the hearer.
After a short pause, Stormont spoke in a tone of considerable emotion, as if he were voicing his real remorse. “You cannot blame me any more than I blame myself. But this love of spending for spending’s sake, when it once gets hold of a man, is as deadly as any other form of vice, as drink or gambling. Dozens of times I have tried to check myself, to act prudently, but to no purpose.”
Again there was a pause, and again Lydon could find nothing to say, since if he had spoken he would have been compelled to condemn, in no measured terms, the man’s contemptible and selfish weakness.
And Stormont went on in that half-apologetic, wholly shamed voice. “So when I do die, I shall have lived my life to the full, but I shall leave next to nothing behind. Mrs. Barnard is provided for; she will always be able to live in comfort, and luxury makes little appeal to her. It is on Gloria’s account that I feel remorse, the selfishness of my conduct.”
And then at last the young man found something to say: “There is one thing I should like to tell you, Mr. Stormont, without attempting to criticize you in any way, a thing I have no right to do. So far as Gloria is concerned, I am glad she is not likely to be an heiress. I love her for herself. I want no dowry with her.”
“It is just what I should have expected from you,” replied the rubicund financier with a rather melancholy smile. “Well, things may not turn out so badly for Gloria after all. My brother, her father, is the exact opposite of myself, a prudent, evenly-balanced man who counts the cost of everything, looks long before he leaps, and I should say out of every pound he earns, saves ten shillings. He has a splendid position, and only another child, a son. He is one of the justest men I know, and whatever he leaves—I’ll wager it will be no mean sum—will be divided equitably between his family. So my dear Gloria may be an heiress in a small way, in the end. Now I have kept you talking too long, you have got your train to catch. Good-bye for the present. We shall expect you next week.”
The two men shook hands and Lydon drove to the station, thinking very much over Stormont’s somewhat humiliating confession. How deceitful are appearances! In the eyes of the local circle round Effington, the man with his lavish expenditure must have passed as a person of considerable wealth. And yet the real truth was that he was living, in a sense, from hand to mouth, and that any day might see him stripped of his fair possessions.
Well, the way was perfectly clear to him now. He would run down again next week and ask Gloria to marry him. He would make a lucid statement of his position to her uncle, if he were not already aware of it. Stormont was a weak man, a foolish man in most important respects, but he was certainly not simple-minded, and he seemed to possess an amazing amount of information about other people. He had probably seen a report of the elder Lydon’s will in the papers soon after his death, and knew the exact extent of Leonard’s fortune.
The next week, availing himself of Stormont’s general invitation, he went down on the Friday, having written his host to that effect. The car met him as usual at the station, and to his great delight Gloria was on the platform to meet him. This was, of course, the first time she had ever done such a thing, as on the previous occasions he had travelled down with her uncle.
When they reached the lodge gates, Lydon halted the car and suggested to the girl that they should walk up the avenue. She agreed, not without blushing slightly. He had been unusually quiet during the journey, as if he were pondering very deeply. No doubt with womanly intuition she guessed what was in his mind.
Having resolved upon the step he was taking, he lost no time; as soon as the chauffeur was out of earshot, he spoke:
“I was delighted to see you on the platform; somehow it seemed so intimate. The last time I was at Effington, your uncle brought me along here, and we had a very serious talk together. Perhaps he has told you something of this?”
With a deep blush, the girl admitted that he was correct in his surmise, and this answer encouraged him to proceed.
“I love you very much, Gloria. I wonder if you can care for me a little.”
Her bosom heaved, there was a tender light in the deep blue eyes, her lips trembled slightly as she gave him her answer: “I think I can care for you more than a little.”
The car by now had reached the stables: a bend in the avenue hid the lodge gates: there was nobody in sight. He did what any lover worthy of the name would do under such circumstances. He bent down and pressed his first kiss upon the sweet lips that made a tremulous response to his. He and this charming girl, whom he knew he had fallen in love with at first sight, were now betrothed lovers.
They walked up to the entrance to the picturesque Tudor house, both perhaps a little shy from their new-found happiness, the great event that had happened in their young lives. The door was wide open. Stormont and his sister stood in the hall to greet them; there was no white-haired butler, no inconvenient servants to extend a silent welcoming. Lydon shook hands with his host and hostess, and then turned with a radiant face to his fiancée.
“Gloria has made me very happy,” he said simply, by way of announcing the tremendous fact.
Mrs. Barnard first kissed her niece, and then bestowed an affectionate salute upon Leonard. Stormont literally hugged Gloria and wrung the young man’s hand heartily. “We must celebrate this at once,” he cried in his loud, ringing voice. “Come along. There is only one wine worthy of the occasion. I have still left in the cellar a few bottles of a matchless Krug. We will open one.”
And, as they went along to the dining-room, Stormont and his sister leading the way, the young couple following them, Gloria laid her slender hand on her lover’s arm and whispered, “You have made me very happy too, dear.”
CHAPTER SIX
The week-end was a very quiet one, Lydon being the only guest. The young man thought this might be due to Stormont’s delicacy, that he felt it was only kind to allow the lovers to pursue their courtship in comparative seclusion. But in the following week the phenomenon was repeated. Nobody came down from London; none of the neighbours were asked to luncheon or dinner.
Stormont occupied his time in pottering about the grounds and taking long walks. But there was a certain restlessness about him, an air of boredom which showed that this somewhat unusual isolation was not agreeing with him. Leonard commented on it to his sweetheart.
Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He’s always like that when he leads a quiet life; he is never really happy unless he is surrounded by plenty of people. He loves crowds.”
“Perhaps he is sacrificing himself for our sakes,” suggested Leonard.
The girl’s smile was good-humoured but sceptical. “Uncle Howard has a heap of good qualities, but I don’t think self-sacrifice is conspicuous amongst them. To tell you the truth, I think he is going a bit slow because he is compelled to.”
They were walking in the beautifully-kept gardens which required a small army of gardeners to keep in order, and must have cost a pretty penny to maintain in such perfection.
Only one interpretation could be put upon her words. “You mean to infer that he is a bit hard up,” said Lydon bluntly.
She nodded her pretty head. “Yes, from what auntie told me, he has been spending a lot more than he ought, and has got to pull up for a time. These sorts of crises occur now and again. We have had about a dozen of them at least since we came here, and at such times entertaining has to be cut down with a ruthless hand. In Curzon Street I don’t suppose the outgoings were a quarter what they are here. Auntie says he ought never to have bought the place, considering the expense it entails. He gets a lot of enjoyment out of it, of course, but he also gets a lot of worry.”
“And yet I suppose he is a shrewd business man?”
“He must be, or he could not make the money he does. But you see he has got the spendthrift temperament. If he takes a fancy to a thing, he will have it, whether he can afford it or not. And the fatal thing about him, and it is that which worries my aunt more, he has no hesitation about going into debt, if he hasn’t got ready money to pay for his whims.”
“Your aunt does not share his extravagant ideas, then?”
“Oh, dear no. She has a nice little income of her own which she lives up to, but I am sure she never exceeds it. And she has a most wholesome horror of debt. I know she is awfully worried now because some of the tradespeople’s accounts are overdue; they are getting a bit pressing.”
Delightful as Effington was, and perfectly satisfying to the lover of natural beauty, Lydon thought residence there was dearly purchased by these crises to which she had alluded. So Mr. Stormont was behindhand with the local tradespeople! What a horrible situation! They would begin to gossip presently, and then the bubble would be burst amongst the neighbours.
“There was a perfect orgy of spending for a couple of months just before you paid us your first visit,” said Gloria after a short pause during which her lover was ruminating on the hollowness of the position at this splendid country residence. “A big dinner party nearly every day in the week, on the usual lavish scale, and all this time he was giving liberally, not to say ostentatiously, to all the local charities. I suppose it was then he overran the constable. You came in at the fag end of it. Since then the motto seems to have been retrenchment all round, with a disastrous effect on my uncle’s spirits.”
“These crises worry you a good bit, don’t they?” queried her lover.
“To tell the truth, they do. Much as I love the place—and nobody could live at Effington without loving it—I often wish that we could have a place that entailed smaller outgoings. And, of course, one is always haunted by the fear that one day he will get himself into a terrible mess from which he cannot extricate himself.”
Lydon thought this very possible. It was very likely the spendthrift himself had some premonition of such a catastrophe, and that was the reason he had almost thrown his niece at the young man’s head. In spite of her fondness for Effington, perhaps Gloria herself would not be sorry to exchange all this for a position of less magnificence and greater security.
Had he not been convinced of her frank, open nature he might have thought that the girl had been in league with her uncle to secure him. But he was sure of her good faith and honesty of purpose. He remembered her agitation when he had proposed to her in the avenue, the love-light that had shone in her beautiful eyes. No woman, not even the most practised coquette, can summon that light at will.
He did not see his sweetheart at all the following week. The stern exigencies of his profession called him abroad. At Ryder Street, on his return, he found a letter from Stormont awaiting him, asking him to lunch the following day at the Piccadilly, as he wished to consult him on a matter of some urgency.
Very curious as to what this matter of some urgency could be, Lydon presented himself at the Piccadilly at the hour appointed. He noticed a decided change in Stormont in the short time he had parted from him at his splendid country house. The man’s manner was restless and jerky, and he looked anxious and worried.
He ordered a very sumptuous lunch, the most expensive food and wine on the list. Lydon found it far too sumptuous; he was not accustomed to a heavy meal in the middle of the day, in fact, was not very keen on the pleasures of the table at any time. Stormont drank by far the greater portion of the champagne, and finished up with a couple of liqueurs of the finest brandy. During the progress of the meal he talked fitfully, and it was easy to see he had something weighing on his mind; but he made no allusion to the subject on which he wanted the young man’s advice. It rather looked as if he were justifying himself before he could approach it.
When they had finished, he led the way into the smoking-room, where he selected a quiet corner suitable for private conversation, and ordered refreshment. Lydon would take nothing but a cup of coffee. For himself he ordered a large whisky and soda. When he had taken a deep draught, he unburdened himself, not without a considerable tinge of embarrassment in his manner.
“I am afraid you will think I am taking an infernal liberty, Leonard, so early in our acquaintance. But the fact is, at the moment I am in a bit of a hole, and hardly know where to turn.”
Lydon had an idea of what was coming, by the man’s fidgetiness and embarrassment, which had been patent from the moment they met. He murmured some conventional words of condolence, and waited for further details.
“I’m expecting a sum of five thousand pounds in a week at the latest, in fact I may receive it any day between now and then. In the meantime there are some pressing things I ought to pay. Would it be possible for you to lend me a thousand pounds for a week, at a fair interest, of course?”
It was rather a cool request, even to a man who was about to enter his family. Leonard was by no means a parsimonious man, but he rather resented it. Why the deuce did he not manage his finances properly, curb his extravagance, instead of sponging upon somebody apparently much poorer than himself?
He spoke rather coldly; he thought that if he made it too easy, Mr. Stormont would be encouraged to fall back upon him at any time he thought fit. “It’s a bit inconvenient, but if you can’t get it anywhere else, I must do it. Won’t your bank do it?”
Stormont shook his head. “The manager is a very cross-grained chap, puts every obstacle in the way of doing you a favour. And, to tell you the truth, I am just a trifle overdrawn. It is not the most propitious time to ask for even a short loan.”
This admission revealed a terrible state of things, thought Lydon. Just a trifle overdrawn! He had probably drawn his last cheque to pay for the unnecessarily expensive lunch, unless he had borrowed the money from his sister. The solid fact emerged that Howard Stormont, who had driven up to the Piccadilly in his Rolls-Royce, the supposed man of wealth, the owner of that lordly pleasure-house, Effington Hall, was at the present moment as hard up as anybody could be. And he appeared to have no credit, no husbanded resources. He was awaiting that five thousand which was to come not later than a week, which might come earlier, which, for all the young man knew, might never come at all. That request for a thousand pounds might be the last throw of a desperate gambler.
Still, if he was going to run the risk, he might as well do the thing gracefully. “Can you deposit anything in the way of security, in case of unforeseen accidents?” he inquired casually. He was fairly certain of what the answer would be, but he wanted to make quite sure as to whether or not Stormont had any resources.
Again the financier shook his head. “Nothing that you could call absolute security,” he replied, his rubicund face growing a shade redder as he made the damaging admission. “I could, of course, show you papers proving there is a lot of money coming to me. But as the accommodation is for so short a time, I should suggest my note of hand for the amount, plus interest.”
“I don’t want any interest,” said the young man hastily. “I am not a money-lender. I am doing this in a friendly way. Well, I’ve a busy afternoon before me, so, if you don’t mind, we’ll settle this affair as soon as possible. Drive me round to my rooms in Ryder Street and I will give you my cheque; I have as much lying at the bank which I was intending to invest. We can get a bill at the nearest post-office as we go along.”
But there was no necessity for this; Stormont had a bill of the required amount in his case. He explained that he always carried bill stamps with him, as they were so frequently used in his business dealings. Lydon did not quite believe this. He thought the man had taken his acquiescence for granted, and had come prepared.
They drove to Ryder Street, and in five minutes the transaction was completed. The rubicund Stormont put the cheque in his pocket, it being too late in the afternoon to pay it in, and drove back to Effington in his opulent-looking car, leaving Lydon wondering whether he should ever see his money back, whether that five thousand pounds was a myth invented for the occasion.
It was on the Tuesday that this affair took place, and it was understood that Lydon would go down to Effington on the following Friday. His confidence in Stormont was now so rudely shaken that he was prepared for anything unexpected to happen in the meantime. He would not have been surprised to receive a frantic letter from him to the effect that he was flying the country, that Mrs. Barnard and Gloria were seeking refuge in some suburb round London, and that Effington Hall was up for sale.
Lydon rather wondered what was his position with regard to this splendid mansion. Originally he must have been able to put his hands on a considerable sum of money for its purchase. In all probability it was now mortgaged up to the hilt.
Happily, nothing of such a disturbing nature happened. On his arrival at Guildford Station, Gloria met him in the car. She was, of course, delighted to see him again after his brief absence; but her lover fancied there was just a shade of embarrassment in her manner, the reason of which he presently learned as they drove along.
“There is a renewal of festivities which are such an abiding joy to my uncle’s soul,” she said, speaking in a hard voice. “To-night we’ve a dinner-party of a dozen people, all neighbours; nobody is staying in the house but you.”
So the rubicund Stormont had resumed his extravagant habits the moment he found himself in possession of a bit of money. He had no doubt paid off some pressing old debts, and was feverishly incurring new ones. The young man had no desire to face a lot of strangers, but perhaps this dinner-party was, in a way, a healthy sign. Even Stormont would not have been so rash as to fritter away his last shilling if he were not sure that salvation was close at hand. Lydon was relieved to think that this five thousand pounds was not a myth, but a solid fact.
Gloria went on in low and embarrassed tones: “I cannot say how ashamed and humiliated I am that he should have come to you. I only heard it this morning from my aunt, who thought I ought to be told. When he mentioned to her that he was going to apply to you, she did all in her power to dissuade him from making such a request, but all to no purpose. The fact of it is, he is not a man who feels any shame in borrowing.”
He could see plainly that she was very much distressed, and he hastened to console her. “My darling, there is really nothing for you to worry about. I am sorry your uncle was put about, but he made it clear to me it was quite a temporary embarrassment, and I was very pleased to be of service to him. Such a thing might happen to anybody—might have happened to myself.”
The girl spoke with some heat. “It is very sweet of you to try and restore my self-respect, but it would never have happened to you. You are the last man in the world to spend your money on riotous living and then go with a pitiful tale to a friend. Why did he not go to one of his business friends, if he was forced to borrow, or, better still, sell some of the valuable things he has got at Effington?”
She was evidently stung to the quick that her happy-go-lucky uncle had exploited the young man’s affection for herself in order to replenish his exhausted exchequer. Lydon himself could not help thinking it was a mean thing to do, in spite of his making light of it to her.
The dinner-party was a great success. Stormont beamed on his guests as genially as ever, and was in the highest spirits. As he sat at the table he gave the impression of a man who had not a care in the world. Lydon could hardly understand such a swift alteration of mood, of the change from the haggard, harassed man of a few days ago to this jovial creature who laughed and joked with the greatest ease. But then he did not comprehend the mercurial temperament of the incurable spendthrift.
The Saturday was to be a comparatively quiet day, Gloria told him, there being only two guests expected. The taciturn Mr. Whitehouse was bringing down his niece, Zillah Mayhew, to lunch. But their visit would not be a very long one. They were returning to London by an afternoon train.
The words that he had overheard that night when he had passed the door of Stormont’s study recurred to him at the mention of Miss Mayhew’s name. Was this the woman whose co-operation was essential to some business there was on hand? “What sort of a girl is she?” asked the young man. “Not as gloomy as her uncle, I trust?”
Gloria smiled. “She is the exact opposite, most bright and vivacious, really quite charming. I haven’t seen her more than half a dozen times in my life, but I took a great fancy to her.”
“Does she live with the solemn Whitehouse?”
“Not permanently. Uncle has never told me much about her history, but I know that her parents are dead, that she has a little income of her own, and lives now with one relative, now with another. She passes a great deal of her time abroad, where she has several friends and connections.”
Lydon began to feel rather interested in the young woman. When the time came for them to be met at the station, he noticed a rather peculiar thing. Stormont dispensed with the services of the chauffeur and drove the car to Guildford himself, a most unusual proceeding on his part. The young man was convinced by this circumstance that his suspicions were correct. Stormont wanted to be alone to have a quiet chat with Whitehouse and his niece.
The lovers went for a walk, and on their return a few minutes before luncheon the visitors had arrived. Lydon shook hands with Whitehouse, and was introduced to Miss Mayhew, a tall, dark, handsome girl, with splendid eyes, and the complexion of the brunette. She spoke English without the faintest trace of accent, but there was a foreign air about her.
He looked at her very attentively, and his scrutiny revealed two very strange things. On the back of her neck was a blemish partially concealed by powder, and she wore as a pendant a magnificent sapphire carved in the shape of a closed lotus flower.
His memory flew back to that day when he had stood in the drawing-room of the Villa des Cyclamens, and called the attention of Madame Makris to a similar jewel which was lying unheeded on the table.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Like a man in a dream, he heard the pleasant, contralto voice of Miss Mayhew asking him if he did not think Mr. Stormont looked wonderfully well, and then, without awaiting his answer, go on to remark that country life evidently agreed with him.
Having broken the ice with Lydon in the easy manner that showed she was endowed with plenty of self-confidence, she turned to the rubicund gentleman himself, whom she addressed familiarly as Uncle Howard. “I’m afraid since you took possession of this lovely place, you don’t work half as hard as you used to do.”
Whatever her relations with the other two members of the family, she was apparently on very close terms with the head of it, as was apparent from the way she addressed him. Gloria had said that they had seen very little of each other, Stormont then must have had additional opportunities of intimacy. Unless she knew him very well, she would not have called him uncle in the presence of his real niece.
He wondered whether Gloria quite relished the familiarity. In spite of her obvious recognition of Stormont’s failings, and her resentment of what had just taken place between himself and her fiancé, he was sure that she had a very soft spot in her heart for her uncle, whom she always declared to be one of the kindest and most generous of men.
But Gloria did not seem piqued in any way, and she had told him that Miss Mayhew was not only very bright and vivacious, but especially charming also. One of his sweetheart’s best traits was that she was not a jealous or an envious girl.
Whitehouse was always taciturn; he ate heartily and drank a fair amount, but neither of these processes ever seemed to exhilarate him. Mrs. Barnard was naturally a quiet woman, of a disposition rather reserved than otherwise. The conversation at lunch was carried on mainly between the host and the dark, handsome girl. Miss Mayhew appeared to have travelled a great deal abroad, for she was constantly making references to places where apparently she and “Uncle Howard” had been in each other’s company. It was no doubt owing to these meetings that they seemed so intimate with each other.
The visitors did not stay very long after lunch, although Stormont, in his hospitable way, pressed them to reconsider their decision, and postpone their departure till at least the following day. But Whitehouse shook his head and replied briefly it was impossible, as he and his niece had an engagement on Sunday.
Stormont drove them alone from the house, as he had driven them alone to it. There must be some reason, for Lydon knew he was not fond of acting as chauffeur. Probably he wanted a few last words with the girl who was necessary to the prosecution of some business scheme hatched between the two men.
After they had left, Mrs. Barnard retired to her usual task of writing letters, and the engaged couple went into the billiard-room.
“Well, what do you think of the handsome Zillah?” asked Gloria as they chose their cues. “Uncle says she breaks hearts wherever she goes. Did you find her very fascinating?”
Lydon had certainly been greatly fascinated by her, but not for the reasons Gloria had in her mind when she put the question. What had fascinated him was that brilliant sapphire pendant and the blemish on her neck, only partially concealed by the liberal use of powder.
He answered her question lightly: “I expect most men would find her more than ordinarily attractive. But you know, darling, I have never had any great admiration for dark women.”
Gloria no doubt was quite satisfied with the answer, for she did not pursue the subject. She had been rather eclipsed at lunch by the vivacious and brilliant Miss Mayhew, but now she was alone with her lover she chatted away merrily enough as they played their game.
And, as she talked, Lydon found himself speculating on the recent visitor and the strange position of affairs at Effington. There was plenty of unreality about the whole thing. Was there also perhaps more than a mere suspicion of mystery? Why did Stormont maintain that persistent reticence about his business, a man usually of a most garrulous disposition? Even now Lydon did not know precisely where his offices were situated. On the bill of exchange it was necessary for him to put an address, but he had simply described himself as of Effington Hall, Surrey.
Whitehouse, seemingly his most intimate friend, seemed more than a little mysterious too. He always gave Leonard the impression of a man who was constantly keeping close watch upon himself lest he should drop something that he did not wish known.
And who was this independent, self-assured young woman, Zillah Mayhew, with the blemish on her neck and that striking pendant, who seemed to spend her life in rushing hither and thither, and was on such intimate terms with Uncle Howard?
He led the conversation presently round to the same subject, for all the time he was making his strokes the dark, handsome Zillah, with her foreign look, was in his thoughts.
“What a lovely sapphire that is she wears! You noticed it, of course?”
“One could not very well avoid noticing it,” was the reply. “As I have told you, I haven’t seen her many times, but on every occasion she has had it on. Uncle says it is her mascot.”
“And did you also notice that peculiar blemish on her neck which, cleverly as she tries to hide it, peeps through the powder?”
“Yes, I did,” answered Gloria, “for the first time to-day. I am certain it was not there the last time I saw her.”
“And how long ago might that be?” was her lover’s next question.
The girl considered. “Let me see. I am not very good at remembering dates. But I do recollect this much. She came over here a few weeks before we went on that visit to Nice where we met you and your friend, Mr. Craig.”
Lydon was thinking rapidly: “You didn’t happen to meet her at Nice?”
Gloria looked at him in surprise at the question. “No, I am sure I did not. What makes you suggest it?”
The young man laughed a little awkwardly. It was too early to tell his sweetheart the strange suspicions which had formed in his mind. “Oh, no particular reason. But from what she said at luncheon, she seems to be always on the travel. It just struck me she might have been there at that particular time.”
He left on the Monday morning this time, having on a great pressure of work. He would not be able to ask Gloria to lunch in town during the week, as he was so uncertain of his engagements, but he would be sure to be down on the following Friday.
He went back to his business, very much obsessed with his thoughts of the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew. Was it only a queer fancy of his that had led him to connect her with the woman who had been the cause of his friend’s death?
When he got back to his rooms in Ryder Street, he hunted up the portrait in the illustrated paper which he had brought with him from Nice. It was a blurred and wretched thing. One moment he fancied he could detect a resemblance between Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew, the next he was bound to confess he could see not the slightest resemblance.
It happened that he did see his sweetheart during the week. On the Wednesday morning he had to carry out some tests of wireless telephony at one of his Company’s experimental stations at Esher. He was testing a newly-invented thermionic valve, and during the morning he got into communication with Aberdeen and Rotterdam and was gratified to learn they reported his speech and gramophone music as strong and clear.
He lunched at the Bear Hotel, and a happy thought struck him. He would pay a surprise visit to Effington. So he drove away down the Portsmouth Road, passing through Guildford and over the Hog’s Back, and early in the afternoon swung into the big lodge gates of Effington.
His unexpected visit was a most delightful surprise to Gloria. He would remain to tea, of course; and Mrs. Barnard, who was as hospitable as her brother, insisted upon his stopping to dinner. She regretted that Stormont would be absent, as he had motored to London to a directors’ meeting, and would not be back till late.
Mrs. Barnard served them tea from the old silver pot in the great oak-panelled hall where high stained-glass windows bore the rose-en-soleil badge of the dead and gone Sedgemeres.
Duncan, the white-haired, grave-faced butler who never permitted himself the luxury of a smile, except when some guest bestowed upon him a more than usually generous tip, officiated with his customary dignity, handing round the cake-basket of pierced Georgian silver. Duncan had served the greater part of his life in noble families. Stormont, on the look-out for a dignified major-domo, had tempted him from his last place by the offer of a salary about double what he was getting.
Duncan, in a way, had fallen from his high estate in accepting service under a man about whom nobody seemed to know very much. But, like the mercenaries of old, he was content to enlist under any banner where the pay was good.
In the waning light, the big, high-pitched hall looked ghostly and cavernous, with its floor of polished oak over which high-born dames of the days of Charles the Second had danced merrily. There was the great stone fireplace with the wrought-iron fire-back, bearing upon it the date of 1621. There were the Caroline day-bed with spindle legs and fragile canework, the high carved arm-chairs upholstered in faded crimson, and the big oak gate table, loaded with game books, and visitors’ books mixed with modern novels.
Around, upon the dark panelled walls, hung several portraits of women and men in wigs, one being a portrait by Kneller of Hugh, sixth Earl of Sedgemere, and another by Reynolds of Anne, wife of the great Lord Sedgemere who had fought in the Peninsular War.
While they gossiped and sipped their tea, the sun slanted across the oak flooring, tinted by the antique escutcheons in the long coloured glass windows of the lofty hall.
At dinner Lydon casually referred to Miss Mayhew. Had they heard anything of her since he had met her at luncheon?
Mrs. Barnard answered the question: “No, nothing. Isn’t she a splendid girl? I wish we saw more of her. She is so amusing and vivacious. No wonder men are always attracted by her!”
“Does she live in London?” Lydon asked.
“When she is in England, she stays with her uncle, Mr. Whitehouse. But I believe she is a great deal with her brother in Paris.”
So this cosmopolitan young lady had a brother in Paris. Lydon would very much have liked to ask something about the brother, and also in what part of London Whitehouse resided, but his delicacy kept him back. Somehow, personal details never seemed forthcoming in the Stormont family, with perhaps the exception of Gloria, who was frankness itself. You always had to dig for them.
After dinner they went as usual into the billiard-room. Mrs. Barnard, contrary to her usual habit, accompanied them and took upon herself the office of marker.
After the game was over she very considerately left them to themselves for a few moments. No doubt, she had a recollection of her own courting days. A little while before the young man was preparing to take his leave, she came in with a bundle of letters in her hand.
“Leonard, I found these on my brother’s table just now. He had intended to take them along with him, and forgot them in the hurry of leaving. Will you please post them at Guildford or somewhere as you drive along?”
Lydon promised that he would. He said good-bye to the amiable Mrs. Barnard. Gloria accompanied him to his car, and here the farewell was a somewhat protracted one, as is usual with newly-engaged couples.
He drove away over the Hog’s Back, and stopped before the Guildford Post Office. For the first time he looked at the letters as he dropped them into the box. He came to the last, and read the superscription in Stormont’s bold handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Mayhew, 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square.
A little time ago he had been longing to ask at dinner where Mr. Whitehouse lived, and had refrained from feelings of delicacy. By the merest accident, the forgetfulness of Stormont, he had found out what he wanted. This was a piece of luck.
His first natural impulse was to scribble the address upon his shirt-cuff and send the letter into the box with the others. He never quite knew why he changed his mind. Probably his strong conviction that there was a great element of mystery about Stormont himself, and, secondly, his equally strong obsession that Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew were one and the same person.
Second thoughts gained the day. Instead of posting the letter, as he knew he ought to have done, he put it back in his wallet, jumped back into the car, and drove along the London Road through Ripley, Cobham, Esher and Kingston to the garage close to Ryder Street.
He was determined to pluck at the heart of the mystery. Two hours after it had been given to him by Mrs. Barnard, he stood in his rooms in Ryder Street, and the letter from Howard Stormont to Zillah Mayhew was lying open in his hand. This is what he read:
“My very clever Zillah.—I have seen Edwards and arranged everything. You will leave for Paris to-morrow and wait at the Hôtel Terminus for further instructions. Edwards will bring or write them. Show this to Whitehouse and then destroy.—Uncle.”
He read it through a dozen times, and then he carefully resealed the flap, for the gum was still wet from the steam he had applied. When it had dried under the weight of some heavy body, he went out and posted it in the nearest pillar-box. In all probability, Miss Mayhew would not glance at the postmark.
What did it all mean? Zillah Mayhew was intimately connected with Stormont’s business, whatever it might be. Of what nature was this peculiar business that required a female partner?
On the face of it, that brief epistle might refer to a perfectly legitimate transaction. A woman’s subtle influence might be necessary to secure some special concession, some particular contract.
But the more he thought it over, the more he rejected this explanation. The predominant thought in his mind about Howard Stormont, the country gentleman who played his rôle with such absolute enjoyment of it, was that he was a very different person from what he appeared to his neighbours at Effington.
And this suspicion would become a certainty if he could prove that Elise Makris, the decoy of swindlers and blackmailers, was none other than Zillah Mayhew, the niece, or pretended niece, of the taciturn Whitehouse.
But would it become a certainty without further corroborative evidence? Going into the question a little more deeply, he was bound to admit it would not. After all, he had nothing but undefined suspicions with regard to Stormont. He would be bound to give him the benefit of the doubt.
If the girl were found to be Elise Makris, it did not follow that Stormont was aware of her criminal activities. It was not an absolute certainty that even Whitehouse, if he were her uncle, knew of them. She was obviously a very clever, resourceful young woman; she would not go about proclaiming her nefarious profession from the housetops.
Stormont might have originally made her acquaintance in a quite simple and ordinary way, and found her talents useful to him in a peculiar line of business that entailed the exercise of a considerable amount of diplomacy.
In fair-mindedness he felt bound to reason on these lines. But, all the same, his instincts loudly confuted his reasoning. And those instincts told him that the rubicund financier was very different from what he appeared to be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lydon might not be able to lay claim to any remarkable brilliance of intellect. At Harrow and Oxford his progress had been steady and respectable, but he had not distinguished himself like his friend Craig, for instance, to whom the acquisition of knowledge was an easy task, whose mental alertness was the delight of his masters and tutors.
But he was a shrewd young fellow, and endowed with a considerable fund of common-sense. He also possessed a dogged spirit of determination. When he once took a thing up he persevered with it, and was not easily daunted by obstacles. There were, at the present moment, two things he was resolved to find out by some means or other—the precise nature of Stormont’s business and the life history of the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew.
He thought the best thing he would do as a start was to go and consult Shelford, the solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn. As he was pretty well master of his own time, he paid him an early morning visit before he went to his business in Victoria Street. That genial gentleman was disengaged and saw him at once.
To him the young man related his accidental meeting with Miss Mayhew at the house of a mutual friend, and the two remarkable facts that she had a blemish on the neck, and was wearing a rather original piece of jewellery, similar in design to one he had seen in the drawing-room of the Villa des Cyclamens when he had called there to condole with Madame Makris on the tragedy.
Mr. Shelford was very much impressed, as Lydon was sure he would be: “One or other of the facts, taken singly, would not lead one very far,” he observed. “There are no doubt heaps of girls who may have a mark of this kind, and I suppose there is no piece of jewellery which is absolutely unique, which has not several replicas. But taken in conjunction, the evidence is very remarkable. Well, I suppose you want to go further into it. What you have learned about this young lady in the ordinary course does not satisfy you?”
Lydon answered that it certainly did not, that he wanted to have his suspicions disproved or confirmed. What did Shelford advise?
The solicitor was quite ready with an answer. “If you or I were to undertake the task of tracing the history of Miss Mayhew, I expect we should find out next to nothing. Such a business is not the least in our line. But there is, fortunately, a class of men who are experts in this kind of thing, and perform wonders if you give them something to go on. You have heard of course of private inquiry agents, perhaps may have employed one in your time?”
“I have heard of them, naturally. Some of them advertise their skill in tracking faithless wives and erring husbands. But I have never had occasion to avail myself of their services.”
“Then, if you want to get at the bottom of this, you had better go to one at once, while the scent is hot,” advised Mr. Shelford, speaking in a brisk tone. “Like every other profession, there are all sorts in it, some very smart, some the reverse. I can recommend you to a particularly good man, as keen as mustard. Whenever we have any of this sort of work, we give it to him, and he has always served us well. His name is Grewgus, and his office is in Craven Street, Strand. I will give you a note of introduction to him, and as he is a busy man, you had better ring him up for an appointment. Stay, as it is pretty early, he’ll be at his office. I’ll ring him up now and make an appointment for you.”
In a few minutes the affair was settled. Mr. Grewgus would be engaged practically the whole of the day, but he could see Mr. Lydon at six o’clock that evening, if convenient. If not, at ten o’clock the following morning. As the young man was anxious to get on with the matter as quickly as possible, he chose the evening.
“By the way, I have a little bit of news for you,” said Shelford as they shook hands at parting. “Poor Hugh Craig’s private fortune is sadly depleted. As far as we are able to make out, he has either parted voluntarily or been forced to part with something like twelve thousand pounds in the last eighteen months. You remember, of course, there were some vague allusions to blackmail in that letter he sent to you from Nice, under cover to us?”
“Yes, there was certainly reference to blackmail. But how could he have laid himself open to it? I knew Hugh the best part of my life—he was the soul of honour and probity. He could never have done anything that he would have been ashamed to come to light.”
The experienced man of the world shook his head. “The lives of a great many of us are a sealed book, Mr. Lydon. The poor fellow was no doubt distraught when he wrote that letter, and may have used the word without strict regard to its meaning. This harpy may have inveigled it out of him on some plausible pretext or another. All the cheques were drawn to himself, and paid in cash, so we have no means of knowing to whom the money actually went. But, as you can see, he was bled to a pretty good amount.”
Later on, about twelve o’clock, Lydon was rung up in his business room where he was hard at work. Stormont’s well-known voice came through the instrument. He was speaking from the Cecil, he said. Would Leonard lunch with him at one?
He wanted to settle up that little matter with him.
But for the concluding words, the young man might have declined the invitation, making some polite excuse. At the present moment he was too much disturbed in his mind about Mr. Stormont to hold any unnecessary intercourse with him. Repayment of the thousand pounds loan was evidently meant. The expected remittance was not a myth, as he had fancied more than once, but had actually arrived.
He, therefore, accepted. He did not consider Stormont was a safe enough man to have money left in his possession for too long. If he waited, he might only get a part of the debt, some more pressing creditor might be beforehand with him.
Besides, after all, he need not be so squeamish about meeting him. He had no intention of breaking with Gloria just because he had some strong suspicions of her uncle. He would be going to Effington on Friday for his usual weekly visit, and must perforce be the rubicund financier’s guest as before.
Stormont seemed more hearty and genial than ever when they met in the entrance hall. As on the previous occasion, he ordered a most lavish lunch and the most expensive wine. Before going into the restaurant, he slipped into his guest’s hand a rather bulky envelope. “I have brought it in cash,” he whispered, “ten one hundred notes. I should have liked to add something substantial for the accommodation, but you were so emphatic on that point that I didn’t dare.”
Well, Stormont, so far, had kept faith with him; that should certainly be accounted to him for righteousness. But Lydon could not help thinking how strangely the financier managed his affairs for a man of business. Why did he not give him a cheque instead of these bulky notes which he might not have time to pay in to-day? He hated carrying big money about with him.
Then his suspicions, which had become chronic since he had read that letter, leading him to put an unfavourable construction upon every action, recurred to him. Perhaps he owed his bank, not a trifling sum as he had pretended, but a very considerable amount, and had only partially settled with them. Hence his reason for not drawing a cheque.
Lydon was not in a very talkative mood; he was thinking of his forthcoming interview with the private inquiry agent. The host, however, was in the best possible spirits and conversed enough for the pair.
Towards the close of the meal, the young man roused himself from his reveries, and inquired casually whether he was likely to meet Miss Mayhew on his next visit to Effington.
Stormont answered in the negative, adding: “I understood she was going away almost directly on a visit to her brother in Paris.”
After a pause he added: “Splendid girl that, so clever, so accomplished. She’s a first-class linguist too. Gloria often says she wishes she could speak foreign languages like her. A capital woman of business too. She has been of some use to me and her uncle in that way on more than one occasion.”
“She has helped you in your business,” cried Lydon, rather surprised at such a frank admission from a man so reserved on the subject.
Mr. Stormont winked knowingly. In addition to the greater portion of the champagne, he had imbibed two glasses of very fine liqueur brandy. They had perhaps made him unusually communicative.
“In my line of business we often have to deal with persons in high places, some of whom are very susceptible, not to say inflammable. When you come across a person of this description—and there are plenty of them abroad—it is astonishing what influence a pretty and clever woman can wield. And her worst enemy must admit that Zillah is both.”
It seemed quite a straightforward sort of statement. Lydon, in spite of his suspicions, was bound to admit as much. He tried to lead the financier to talk further on the topic, but obviously he did not wish to pursue it. Perhaps he felt he had said enough.
At half-past two they separated. There was just time enough to walk briskly to Coutts, and pay in the thousand pounds. Leonard was busy at the office till it was time for him to keep his appointment in Craven Street with Mr. Grewgus.
He reached the offices of the private inquiry agent a few minutes past the hour. Mr. Grewgus himself was standing in the outer room apparently used by his staff. But there was nobody there except himself, a fact which he explained to his new client.
“I am alone, Mr. Lydon; I never keep my staff after the stroke of six. Of course I don’t restrict myself to the time-table. I am at the disposal of a client at almost any hour.”
Lydon rather liked the look of him. He was a tall, thin-faced man with rather hatchet features, clean-shaven. His manners were suave and courteous, his eyes keen, his expression was indicative of alert mentality.
He led the way into his own apartment, and, after placing a chair for the young man, invited him to state his business. Leonard told him the story as the reader already knows it. Grewgus listened without making any comment or interruption, but it was easy to see his trained intelligence grasped every detail. When Lydon was finished, he spoke:
“I understand that you wish me to find out all I can about this man, Howard Stormont, the nature of his business, etcetera, etcetera. Secondly, you want me to do the same thing with regard to the young woman, Zillah Mayhew, and this will necessarily involve her uncle, John Whitehouse, whom you say lives at 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square.”
Leonard intimated that the detective had accurately comprehended his requirements.
“You do not know the address of Stormont’s offices, only that they are somewhere in London. You have looked him up in the directory, as a matter of course? You have, and can’t locate him. Trading no doubt under another name. Nothing actually suspicious in that by itself, of course, but it is a little peculiar he should be so exceedingly reticent on the subject.”
He paused a minute or two to digest things before resuming: “Well, Mr. Lydon, I can leave Stormont to one of my lieutenants; I have no doubt he can soon be run to earth. The young lady will, I am sure, prove the more difficult job of the two. You say she is starting or has started for Paris?”
“The letter was written yesterday; I posted it last night. Therefore, if she obeys the instructions, she will leave to-day.”
“Quite so,” assented Mr. Grewgus. “I will, as I said, leave Stormont and the man Whitehouse to a deputy; we shall learn something about them in a very short time. I shall take Miss Mayhew in hand myself, and I ought to follow her to-morrow at the latest. But there is a little difficulty. I don’t know her by sight, although I dare say you can give me a pretty accurate description of her. Still, if she registers at the Hôtel Terminus under another name, which is quite likely, time may be lost. Would it be possible for you to accompany me?”
“But wouldn’t our objects be defeated if I did? Remember, we have met at Effington Hall, and if she is the woman I believe her to be, she would be naturally interested in me as the friend of Hugh Craig. She would recognize me the moment she saw me.”
Mr. Grewgus smiled genially. “Quite right, Mr. Lydon, but I shouldn’t manage things as clumsily as that. If you will come round to the office an hour before we start, I will disguise you so effectually that your nearest and dearest will never suspect your real identity. You will enter it Leonard Lydon, you will leave it anything you decide upon. We are used to make-up here, I can assure you.”