The Project Gutenberg eBook of The sting
Title: The sting
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: December 22, 2025 [eBook #77530]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Macaulay Company, 1928
Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
THE STING
By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of “The Crime Code,” etc.
New York
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
[COPYRIGHT]
Copyright, 1928, by
The Macaulay Company
CONTENTS
THE STING
CHAPTER I.
ON THE RACK
“Well! You! Here again! What do you want now, eh?”
The speaker, Sir Michael Evenden, crossed the pretty room which overlooked Lake Geneva, to confront his visitor, who just had been announced by a manservant as Dr. Laidlaw.
There was a great contrast between the two men as the latter entered. The baronet was tall, with an athletic, willowy frame, of classic profile, and his slightly upturned grey mustache and well-brushed grey hair added distinction to an already striking personality.
The man whom he confronted was a little, meager, gimlet-eyed fellow, who seemed meanness personified. His sandy hair and foxy features were as unpleasant as the grating tones of his voice.
“Only the usual, Sir Michael,” he replied after a short pause. At first, as the baronet spoke, an evil glint had shown in the little ferret eyes, but this was quickly replaced by a smile as he made his reply. The baronet thought he detected contempt in the smile, and frowned his intense exasperation. His right hand clenched and crumpled a newspaper he had been reading, as he determinedly spoke again.
“I will not be bled like this continually,” he said, as he took a step nearer to his unwelcome guest. “You had a thousand pounds three months ago, and you said then that you would not make another call upon me for at least twelve months. Only yesterday I was turning up our account. Do you realize that in the last seven years you’ve had over eighteen thousand pounds out of me—you—blackmailer!”
“Is it really worth while to rake all this up again, Sir Michael?” the little man asked with a provocative expression meant to convey extreme indulgence.
The baronet lost control of himself as he shouted:
“I refuse to give you another farthing.” Then, as the little man was about to speak, the baronet continued: “If you are not out of this villa and off the premises in two minutes I’ll have the local gendarme arrest you for blackmail. They’re giving men like you life now, you know.”
Dr. Laidlaw deliberately cleared his throat. Then, with an effort, he raised his voice to the level at which Sir Michael had been shouting.
“Right you are, my noble swindler. You want your servants to hear all my pedigree. Now let them hear yours. How did Sir Michael Evenden repair the family fortunes? Very simply. He——”
“Stop! Stop! You wretched little cur,” interrupted Sir Michael. “Do you realize what you are doing?”
It was pathetically evident that the little doctor had won. The baronet almost gasped as he put out a hand, then stepped—almost staggered—back into a chair, wiping the beads of perspiration from his brow with a large yellow silk handkerchief.
“It is my duty to warn you, Sir Michael, that you must not give way to these outbreaks of passion—your heart simply won’t stand them. One of these days——”
The little doctor moved forward, towards the baronet’s chair, but Sir Michael stopped him with a gesture and, interrupting him with rather a whimsical smile, said:
“I shall have a fatal attack, eh?—and then your source of income will have gone.”
“Sir Michael, why can’t you look at these things reasonably?”
Dr. Laidlaw, unasked, seated himself opposite the baronet, and his accents took on a tone of sweet reasonableness. “You know in all these years, on your own showing, what I have had? Eighteen thousand, you say. Well, what if I have?—I have not troubled to keep count. But if I have, look at the hundreds of thousands that you have had in the interim! You know it is an exceedingly hard thing for a poor country practitioner to make ends meet, unless, of course, he follows your example and——”
“We need not discuss that,” interrupted Sir Michael. “What is it you want to-day? Tell me—and then get out.”
“Well, Sir Michael, I must have a thousand, if you don’t mind. I——”
“But I do mind!” stormed the baronet. “I do mind very much. A thousand three months ago and another thousand to-day. You’ll be coming weekly next.”
“Well, I’m very sorry, Sir Michael,” returned the little man. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been having a small flutter on the Stock Exchange—and gone down.”
“Now, look here!”—Sir Michael, somewhat recovered, sat upright in his chair. “I want some sort of a guarantee that there is to be a limit to your encroachments. How do I know but that you will be back again in no time?”
“Well, Sir Michael—you have my word,” replied Dr. Laidlaw innocently enough.
“Your word!” sneered the baronet. “Now—seriously—if I give you a check to-day it must be the last for at least a year. Understand this. I have felt sometimes like chancing everything and having you prosecuted. Judges are very sympathetic towards men in my position who are being steadily bled until——”
“Judges are not always sympathetic,” interrupted Laidlaw, “towards baronets who suddenly emerge from being poor men of title into rich people. What would your family think—nay, what would every decent man and woman in England think—when they read of your perfidy towards the unfortunate people whom you got the Bolsheviks to send to their deaths? What——”
“Oh, for the love of heaven, stop!” almost pleaded Sir Michael; and it was pitiful to see the distress in his face. “You know I have always resented that interpretation——”
“Then why not have it tried in open court?” interrupted Dr. Laidlaw.
“Here!” The baronet rose and crossed to a small bureau, took from a drawer a check-book, and wrote a check. “Take this—your thousand—and go!”
“Good-day, Sir Michael, and thank you,” said the little man, but the baronet made no reply. He waited until the door closed behind the doctor, then he buried his face in his hands and remained silent.
Minutes went by, and still Sir Michael sat there. The door opened and a woman entered. She looked at the silent figure at the bureau, gave a little gasp, then hurried across the room.
“Mike, dear, Mike,” she said anxiously, and touched her husband lightly on the shoulder.
The baronet turned a strained face up to her, and she bent down and kissed him.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” she asked. “Have you had one of those awful attacks, again?”
“Only a very slight one, Margaret?” he replied, patting her hand gently. “I’m all right again, now.”
“Dear, you look terrible! When is your appointment with Professor Gaspari?” Lady Evenden laid her cool hand on her husband’s brow.
“I am driving over to Lausanne to-morrow,” Sir Michael replied. “But I don’t want you to worry so much, Margaret. Gaspari is a very clever chap, by all accounts, and I have little doubt but that he’ll be able to fix me up all right.”
“Well, in the meantime, do take a rest,” she urged him. “Leave business or anything that distresses you. Will you?”
“Yes, yes,” he assured her. Then he rose and kissed her tenderly. “I just want to glance through an account of something in the paper, dear; then I’ll join you in the garden.”
“Do,” she smiled. “By the way, Frank is coming to-morrow, Mike—he’s just wired.”
“Splendid,” exclaimed Sir Michael. “Great news! The rest here will do him good.”
Lady Evenden smiled her acquiescence and left the room by the French windows. Sir Michael watched her progress through the beautiful rose-garden down the steps to the lawns, which, tier by tier, dropped down to the very shores of the lake, where the boathouses were. Sir Michael did not resume his perusal of the newspaper at once. But, with a quiet smile on his face, he watched his wife until she was joined by her present companion, a pretty girl, Jill Kilby, near the boathouses.
Lady Evenden was the baronet’s second wife, and their union was ideally happy. Each had one son. By his first marriage the baronet had a son—Jack—and by her first marriage his wife, Margaret, had a son—Frank Gough.
Jack, of course, was the heir; but, the baronet felt, sometimes, that it was difficult to tell which of the lads he liked best. Jack was a navigating lieutenant in the Navy; Frank was a law student, reading for the bar. Indeed his projected visit to the lakeside villa was to enable him to devote, in quietude, time to preparation for his final examinations.
The Evenden family was an exceedingly united and happy one. Only once had the two boys, Jack and Frank, met in any sense as rivals, and that was all forgotten now. Even at the time no quarrel had arisen, though the baronet and his wife, watching events, with at first amused, and later some alarmed, interest, never had found it necessary to intervene. The facts were that three years ago Lady Evenden had employed as companion a very pretty girl called Brenda Trenchard.
Jack and Frank had promptly fallen in love with her. Their parents, when attention was called to it, at first, looked on and laughed.
Later, Frank, after playing with Brenda’s affections for a while, retired in favor of Jack. Nothing came of the affair at the time; and Jack, feeling his interests becoming too diversified, threw himself more deeply into his naval duties and—as he imagined—put Brenda forever from his mind, declaring himself to be a confirmed bachelor.
This little affair had not disturbed the great friendship of the two young men; but, as Lady Evenden met Jill Kilby, the incident recurred to her for a second, with inward amusement. Jill was an exceedingly pretty girl, rather diminutive, but with pretty ways and wonderfully expressive eyes. Lady Evenden knew that her son Frank, at any rate, was attracted very deeply to Jill; and, as she met her by the lake, she wondered what her attitude would have to be if the affair developed more seriously.
“Frank is coming to-morrow,” she announced, taking the girl by surprise.
The slightest suggestion of a frown crossed Jill’s face; but, it was quickly followed by a bright smile as she replied:
“Oh, really! Such a nice time to come, isn’t it, with all the roses out, and the lake banks so pretty?”
“Yes,” Lady Evenden rejoined. “But I think his holiday will be largely taken up with his studies.”
“Will you come out in the long canoe, your ladyship?” asked Jill. “I want to show you a perfectly sweet family of squirrels that have taken possession of the big pine tree, just beyond the point.”
Lady Evenden glanced at her watch.
“Not just now, my dear,” she replied. “I want to do something—and I expect Sir Michael out in a few minutes.”
With a little nod she left the girl. Again glancing at her watch, she cut across the lawn and entered a shrubbery. Then, with one glance over her shoulder, she hurried along a narrow walk until she came to an arbor set back from the path. The arbor was open in the front, disclosing a rustic seat all around.
From this seat arose the mean little figure of Dr. Laidlaw. Lady Evenden, her beautiful features dark and angry, stepped up to him. As a matter of fact, she towered above him, almost as much as her husband did.
“What on earth do you want with me here?” she asked. “Surely you know how stupidly dangerous this is.”
“Yes, but it is necessary, Lady Evenden,” replied the little man. “I want to see you——”
“You won’t get any money out of me to-day, Dr. Laidlaw,” interrupted Margaret Evenden.
“I don’t want any—to-day,” replied the little doctor. “I want to have a long talk with you when you get back to London, Lady Evenden. There are one or two things that will have to be put in order. Do you realize that Sir Michael——”
“Hush—there’s someone coming. Go,” she ordered in alarm, as she heard the crackling of twigs on the path behind.
“See you in London—quickly as possible,” the doctor whispered, and ran on tiptoe along the path to the main road. He was just in time; for, as Lady Evenden turned to retrace her steps, she came upon her husband at the first turn in the path.
“What on earth are you doing here, Margaret?” he asked in some amusement. “Got an assignation?”
She laughed merrily as she replied: “Yes, with a family of squirrels that Jill has found somewhere in one of these trees—but I can’t find them.”
“Oh! Suppose we try to find them together,” laughed Sir Michael. “I saw you turn into the shrubbery as I came down the garden.”
They spent a happy hour before dinner in the vain quest of squirrels. All the time Margaret Evenden felt her heart still beating irregularly as she thought of the narrow escape she had had. What if her husband knew that it was unavoidable that she must meet the little blackmailing doctor, from time to time? What could he wish to say to her so urgently that he took the unwarrantable risk of seeking a clandestine interview in the very grounds of her husband’s villa?
However, Lady Evenden betrayed in her manner nothing of the cares that burdened her. At dinner she was beautiful and scintillating as ever, presiding so ably at her end of the long table.
There were several guests—friends staying in the vicinity, and a Swiss professor of geology.
Only occasionally, Jill Kilby, who was keenly observant, saw a shadow flit across the lovely face of her mistress. Jill had long believed that some dark shadow rested in the background of Lady Evenden’s life. Occasionally she would have a faraway look in her eyes; and sometimes, as she took her letters, Jill thought she had seen positive terror there.
Then, again, Jill had a great friend, Dr. Wilfred Barlow, a young surgeon in London to whom she just had become secretly engaged. The engagement had to be secret for the reason that Lady Evenden, who only had met him once, and had seemed quite charmed at the time, had taken a curious and inexplicable attitude towards him, afterwards. She would not hear his name mentioned, and forbade Jill to have anything to do with him, or, alternatively, to leave her service.
On all these things Jill pondered as she watched her mistress—watched the shadows occasionally descend upon her beautiful face, like threatening thunder-clouds obscuring the sun for a few minutes and then passing and leaving the sky again blue, the sun still bright.
Quite early the next morning, after he had attended to his correspondence and had eaten a light breakfast, the baronet entered his Rolls Royce car and drove over to Lausanne, where he soon was closeted with the great Professor Gaspari, the world-famous heart specialist.
Dr. Gaspari sat at a table. He wore the long white linen smock that nearly all continental doctors affect. His keen eyes twinkled behind strongly magnifying spectacles; his right hand stroked his full brown beard.
Soon, he had completed his examination, and he asked two or three questions.
“Would you like an attendant to assist you?” he asked, as Sir Michael began to put on his coat and vest, again.
“No—no! that’s all right, thanks,” Sir Michael answered, anxiously watching the sensitive face of the great man, which, however, betrayed nothing.
Not until the baronet had finished dressing and had reseated himself at the table did the specialist speak.
“Be extremely careful,” he began in French. “My régime, which you must follow, will do all that I can for you. Carry it out very carefully—very strictly. But I beg of you to put your affairs in order, my dear friend. You may live for another fifteen or twenty years. But I regret most deeply to tell you that you may collapse in as many hours.”
As he listened, Sir Michael’s face turned a shade paler, and the muscles of his right hand twitched. But he just bowed his head slightly, as if acknowledging a decree of fate that he was powerless to oppose. The great specialist saw the effect of the blow he had delivered—and admired the grit of the man who had received it. As he saw Sir Michael to his car, the specialist shook his hand warmly. Sir Michael entered his car, dropped his head back wearily upon the cushions, and closed his eyes.
On his arrival at the villa he was met by Lady Evenden. She was entertaining a party of friends, to meet Frank on his arrival, later in the day, but she left them a moment to learn from her husband the news.
He smiled bravely as he kissed her lightly.
“I’ll tell you all about it later, dear,” he said. “It’s all right.”
Reassured, she rejoined her friends, and Sir Michael went to his study alone, where he spent three hours reading papers, writing notes, and burning others.
At dinner that night all was gay—none gayer than the doomed man. Margaret Evenden thought how well he looked, and was glad. She could brave anything else so long as he remained, she thought. Frank had managed to get himself a place next to Jill Kilby, and the baronet, despite his inward misery, could not but be a little amused as he watched what he believed were Frank’s advances rebuffed.
Frank was a tall, clear-eyed young man, handsome in a slightly domineering way. He had all the presence of his mother, but she charmed to domineer—Frank domineered to charm.
Before retiring, Sir Michael called his wife into his dressing room.
“Now, my darling,” he said. “I know you won’t make it any harder for me, will you? I’m going to tell you exactly what Gaspari said.”
“Oh, my dear! my dear!” she exclaimed, instantly divining the worst, and flew to her husband, throwing her arms about his neck—passionately, but in some strange way protectingly also—as if she would hold him and protect him from anything that would tear him from her—even death itself.
“Margaret, my dear,” Sir Michael softly continued, “don’t—don’t distress yourself. It might be worse. The old chap said I might live twenty years if I follow his treatment. But—but—you see, my dear——” The baronet found it impossible to put into cold words the remainder of the tidings.
“You mean that it might—any—time?” she asked fearfully.
“H’m——” Sir Michael slowly inclined his head, and for a few moments both remained locked in each other’s arms, their emotion too strong for tears or words. They just cowered there, under the wing of the angel of death.
At last Sir Michael spoke.
“My darling,” he said. “It is necessary to talk of things—of certain things that must, yes, must be discussed. There is the question of my will——”
“Oh, in heaven’s mercy, don’t,” cried Lady Evenden. “Don’t! How can I bear to hear of wills. What is money, or property, or anything, to me if you are gone? You mustn’t go, Mike. Let us try another doctor. Oh, Mike! Mike! I can’t bear it! If you go, I’ll come, too! Oh, Mike! my Mike!”
Her distress was terrible to witness, and for a few more minutes Sir Michael simply soothed her as best he could; then he managed to get her to listen as he outlined what his views were about certain things that would happen in the event of his early death. John, his son, would be the heir, of course; but, adequate settlements would be made for her; and something—he did not quite know yet—something would be arranged out of the estate to give Frank a good income.
Margaret Evenden listened in abject misery. Her devotion to her husband was quite unfeigned and would rise superior to anything else in her life. Anything that he thought right would be right, and she said so. Three hours elapsed before they parted. But for neither of them was there peaceful sleep that night. Each thought of the horrible shadow that had descended upon their lives, and each thought in terms of its effect upon the other.
The next day, a new and unpleasant matter cropped up. Sir Michael came down to his library to find that the London papers were embarking upon a terrific campaign against Soviet oil. Anything might happen. If the campaign was wholly successful he would be nearly a ruined man.
He decided at once, without saying anything to his wife, or to anyone else, about this new trouble, to get to London as quickly as possible. So, he merely told Lady Evenden that he felt he would like to be back at Evenden Priory, his family seat near Norwich; and, though a little surprised at the sudden change, Lady Evenden made arrangements to travel in two days.
Meanwhile Frank Gough had been meeting with quite unforseen resistence in his suit for Jill’s hand. She told him plainly that she did not care for him—that she did care for some one else. Frank was furious. He thought once of getting his mother to intercede and then changed his mind; for he was not at all sure what his mother would think of the affair. On the journey home, which he made with them at his stepfather’s request, he spent a good deal of time with Jill—but with no better success. Desperate, as the journey neared its end, Frank Gough conceived the most cattish thing of his career.
On the train Jill occupied a single compartment; and, in the night, Frank crept along the corridor to her compartment, knocked peremptorily, and, when she asked what was wanted, replied in a gruff voice that he wished to see her passport. After a little delay she opened her door—only to find the alleged passport officer none other than her importunate lover.
With a gasp of astonishment, the girl moved towards the alarm signal. But, Frank rushed in, caught her in his arms, partially closed the door with his foot, and passionately declared his love for her, though her composure did not entirely desert her. Vainly did she struggle. Presently she threatened to shout.
“Will anybody believe you?” Frank asked. “Can’t you see you’re hopelessly compromised already? Why not marry me, Jill darling?”
The girl replied with scorn, and renewed her struggles. What would have happened is difficult to say had not an assistant guard in passing, noticed the door ajar and heard the noise. He entered. And, immediately Frank desisted and left the compartment with the guard.
Evidently it was nothing in the official’s eyes which a little pourboire and a pleasant laugh could not well settle; for, nothing more was heard of the incident.
Jill wondered whether or not to tell Lady Evenden, but decided that first of all she would tell Wilfred Barlow.
The family stopped the night in London upon arrival. So Jill sought an early interview with Wilfred, when she told him all that had happened. Wilfred’s first intention was to go at once and see Frank, but Jill persuaded him otherwise. Finally Wilfred insisted that, if she suffered any more persecution, Jill must consult Lady Evenden immediately.
Jill allowed him to accompany her only part of the way to the hotel, for fear Lady Evenden might see him.
They were just saying good-by, however, when suddenly Jill gave a startled exclamation, and pulled her lover back from the edge of the curb. At the same time, she indicated a taxicab which had stopped in the traffic block, just a yard or two from them.
There, seated side by side in the taxi, in earnest conversation, were Lady Evenden and the rat-faced Dr. Laidlaw.
CHAPTER II.
A GRIM STORY
When Jill Kirby recognized her mistress in the taxi with Dr. Laidlaw, her first impulse was to withdraw with her companion out of the range of Lady Evenden’s vision. But, the effect upon her fiancé was more startling still.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I say, Jill, does your mistress know that little scoundrel, Laidlaw?”
“You mean the man she is with?” Jill replied. “I don’t know, really, but I have seen him once before. He called upon Sir Michael once. I remember seeing him standing in the hall waiting for Sir Michael to receive him.”
“I wonder what on earth Sir Michael Evenden has to do with him?” Wilfred Barlow mused aloud. “And, more particularly still, do I wonder what Lady Evenden has to do with him?”
“Why, Wilfred?” Jill asked. “Who is he? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” replied Barlow. “And I don’t mind telling you he hates me like anything. Wait a minute—they’re just moving on.” At that moment the traffic block was released, and the car containing Lady Evenden and Dr. Laidlaw passed on.
“Do tell me what you know about that man, Wilfred,” persisted Jill.
“Well, briefly—this,” Wilfred answered, frowning slightly as at the recollection of some unpleasant memory. “Some years ago, when I was attached to St. Lawrence’s Hospital, an elderly man was admitted suffering from unmistakable signs of poisoning. In his semi-conscious state he told me that it was the second time his wife had tried to poison him. I took a statement and passed it on to the police, who came and interrogated the man, but he completely reversed the statement when the police came, saying that his mind must have been wandering.
“Nothing could be done of course, and later on he recovered and left the hospital. I saw his wife once—an unpleasant type. Just three months afterwards the man died, and his death was unobserved by anyone of importance until after he was buried, when some question from the insurance company arose which drew the police’s attention. I think the total amount of the dead man’s insurance had been recently increased—and that to a suspicious degree.
“The police made inquiries and found that Dr. Laidlaw had issued a death certificate for angina pectoris—a heart trouble, my dear.
“The insurance people insisted upon exhumation, and obtained the necessary order from the Home Office. Upon a post-mortem, he was found to have been poisoned with arsenic—the same poison from which he was suffering when admitted to St. Lawrence’s.
“Well, after an inquest—and an inquiry before the Medical Council—our friend Laidlaw just managed to scrape through. The coroner’s jury exonerated him—to the chagrin of the coroner, who censured him in round terms. I had to attend the inquiry, and my evidence was in constant opposition to Laidlaw’s.
“He had to leave London. That is my knowledge of Laidlaw—a nasty little fellow—a disgrace to our profession.”
Jill was thoughtful for a few moments, then she spoke.
“You know, Wilf,” she said, “I’ve always been under the impression that there is some dark secret in Lady Evenden’s life, and I’m sure that man has something to do with it. Otherwise why should she want to meet a man like that?”
“So you’ve told me before,” responded Wilfred, “and yet you have very little evidence to go on. In any event it isn’t your affair so long as it doesn’t directly affect you. The best thing you can do is to keep your eyes open and say nothing. Far more important at present is your avoiding the attentions of her caddish son, Frank.”
“Yes, yes,” Jill replied, adding hastily, “but now I really must go. Lady Evenden will be back at the hotel and will miss me. Good-by, dear.”
Jill found Lady Evenden in her sitting room, looking perfectly composed. Certainly, at present, there were no traces of any dark secret in her life.
Dinner that night was late; for, the baronet had not returned from the city, and Lady Evenden insisted on waiting. Frank Gough had gone on to Evenden Priory to arrange certain things in advance; so, Jill and her mistress were alone.
At last, very late—it was nearly eight o’clock—Sir Michael arrived, looking very tired and weary. He greeted his wife and Jill, then passed straight to his dressing room to prepare for dinner.
When dinner was served he ate next to nothing, and throughout the meal he seemed preoccupied, replying to questions monosyllabically. At last it was over. But, evidently the day’s work was not yet done; for, Sir Michael said he would have to go out again. When his wife remonstrated, and begged him to rest, he almost curtly told her not to interfere. Jill heard him say to Lady Evenden that he had an important appointment at the Russian Consulate.
Jill had retired for the night when he ultimately returned, but the next day Sir Michael seemed frenziedly active. The telephone bell rang all the morning, and in the afternoon he made a round of visits. Three telephone calls were made to New York, and Jill gathered that some serious crisis had developed in his affairs.
In point of fact the baronet did not take even his wife into his confidence. The fact was that the oil-war was still waging, and causing him terrible anxiety. Millionaire manipulators came over from the Continent to see him, and one magnate was even at that moment on his way from America, as fast as the Olympic could bring him.
A conference was held in London when all the interested speculators had arrived, and the results soon were forthcoming. A great newspaper suddenly changed hands—and incidentally changed its policy. Two other newspapers, which, up to now, had not taken sides, stated a fair case for the purchasing of Soviet oil. Within a week the battle was over—the attack on Soviet oil had been defeated by the tremendous interests involved, and Sir Michael Evenden announced his intention of proceeding to Evenden Priory at once.
So, it came about that, a week after their arrival in London, Sir Michael, Lady Evenden, and Jill, arrived at the wayside station of Little Evenden, where a car was waiting to drive them the three miles to the Priory.
Evenden Priory was a most delightful old residence. Dating from the eleventh century, it was the seat of the Priors of Evenden (“Evenedene,” as it was then called), who had certain far-reaching powers over a wide tract of country. They held their temporalities from the Abbots of Yeleham and the Bishops of Norwich, and great was the early history of the Priory. It was a seat of learning, for many valuable early histories and theological works had been compiled there by the diligent monks, in the far-off days of its activity.
Great had been the charity of the brothers; indeed, it had been made the subject of many a folk song. The old Priory Church, now in ruins, once had been a marvel of architectural beauty. The Priory lay in a grassy hollow, sheltered by banks of woodland.
Long and low in style, like all the buildings of monastic character in the early Middle Ages, it had been added to in Elizabethan times, after it had passed into the Evenden family.
At the time of the dissolution in 1537, Henry the Eighth had presented the Priory, with its rich demesne, to Sir Thomas Evenden, a gentleman of his Court. And, in the Evenden family it had remained since, from generation to generation, right down to the year before the war. Then the present baronet, crippled in finance, and indeed on the verge of bankruptcy, reluctantly had to let it go to cover debts and mortgages that had been increasing through the last two generations. But circumstances had since altered with Sir Michael; and, when Dame Fortune later smiled on him, the first thing he had done was to buy back his old heritage from a plum-and-apple jam manufacturer.
There seemed to be a spirit of peace enshrined in the Priory and in the green woods that formed its setting—a spirit that might have descended from the old monks who, in the long ago, had lived so quietly and happily there. Certainly, under the peaceful influence of his surroundings, Sir Michael seemed to rally. Possibly it was in part the happy issue from his financial troubles; the fact remained, however, that the baronet seemed to take a new lease on life. In the late summer days, he walked about his estate with his keepers and watched the young clutches of partridge that were particularly strong that year. He talked of the prospects of an excellent shooting season. And he and Lady Evenden prepared the lists of guests to be invited.
Needless to say, Lady Evenden was intensely happy. The dark threat to her husband’s life that came at Montreux seemed very unreal at Evenden. She had a curious sort of feeling that if her husband would remain at Evenden all would be well. She felt she hated the villa at Montreux. She never wanted to go there again. Meanwhile, she was happy to live in the present, accompanying her husband on visits to friends in the county, and entertaining the various neighbors who called on her husband and herself.
Jill also would have had a very happy time had it not been for the constant and unwelcome attentions of Frank Gough. Though he never attempted any distressing love-making, that young man had far from given up his intention of winning Jill Kilby.
Many and strange were the maneuvers he employed for getting a tête-à-tête with her. Frequently he would be very disarming for a while. But, invariably, he would return ultimately to the old subject. Her constant refusals only spurred him on to stronger efforts. It is probable that if, in the first place, Jill had consented to flirt with him, he would have got as tired of her as he had got of Brenda Trenchard, three years ago. Frank Gough possessed a curiously persistent nature. The refusals in themselves made the girl precious to him. He never stopped to think of what she would actually represent to him if he did win her.
Jill Kilby divined something of this, and she hated him for it; but she determined to accept the challenge. She would not consult his mother, but would simply stand her ground. He was determined? Then she would show him that she was not less so. Nevertheless, as the months went by, the nervous strain began to tell on her. Only one interval of relief did she have, and that was when Frank went away to sit for his law examinations.
He was away a fortnight, and that fortnight was heaven to Jill; but, at the end of that time, he came back with the light of battle in his eyes and full of the encouragement of victory; for, he had done well in the examinations.
So, with everyone happy except Jill, the summer wore away very pleasantly at Evenden Priory, and very gently, almost imperceptibly, ushered in autumn.
At last the invitations were sent out for the first shooting-party of the season, and amongst the intimations was one sent to Jack, the baronet’s eldest son. It was a pleasant custom in the Evenden family that, when it was necessary to write to Jack, Lady Evenden always wrote the longer letter, her husband sending merely a note. With Frank the same was applied, his own mother merely sending a note, while his stepfather sent a long and affectionate letter.
On this occasion the invitation to Jack was accompanied by a long letter from Lady Evenden, his stepmother. Also, she enclosed a copy of the latest studio portrait she had had taken.
Jack was proud of his beautiful stepmother, and set the photograph upon the bureau in his cabin aboard H.M.S. Invulnerable. The day before he left to join the party at Evenden—for he had secured fourteen days leave—his great friend, Basil Towers, the gunnery lieutenant, dropped in for a chat and a whisky-and-soda.
Jack and Basil were very close friends; and, it was Jack’s intention to take Basil with him to Evenden. But, unfortunately they could not both get leave together.
Presently Basil’s eyes roamed over the small cabin and rested on the photograph, on the bureau. He gazed for a second, with puzzled eyes; then he got up and crossed the cabin, still looking almost unbelievably at the features. Jack watched him with amusement—he was accustomed to hearing compliments passed on the beauty of his stepmother—but he certainly did not expect what came next.
“Good Lord, Jack, old man, you don’t mean to say you know her?”
There was a world of horror and contempt in the voice of his friend. Jack sat for a second—petrified. He was on the verge of assuming the outraged dignity he felt, and of pointing out that it was his stepmother, when he reflected in a flash that Basil Towers was one of the cleanest, straightest fellows living. No retailer of foul gossip this; indeed, Jack had never heard him speak of any woman in terms of anything but respect. He made up his mind to “draw” Basil, and replied:
“Well—slightly. Do you?”
“I should say I do—or, rather, did,” Basil replied, taking up the photograph and examining the beautiful features closely.
“Tell me about her, old man,” Jack begged.
“Well, one hardly likes to—— Is she a friend of yours, Jack?” Basil gazed at his friend with a troubled face.
“Better say acquaintance,” Jack responded, wondering what gave him the power to be so cunning, or even so perfidious, as to deny his stepmother like this. But, he knew that, if he told his friend the truth, nothing would drag the story from him. He felt a little reassured now, however. There must be some mistake. After he had listened to his friend’s yarn, he would prove it to be untrue and tell him the truth. Basil’s chagrin would be amusing. It was not quite sporting, perhaps; but, then, the beggar should be more careful of what he said about ladies!
“How long have you known her?” Basil asked.
“Oh, not long,” Jack replied. “For heaven’s sake, man, get on with your yarn. You’re like a confounded Joanna Southcott’s box of mystery, standing there like a great goat. Let’s have your yarn, man.”
“Well, it isn’t a pleasant one,” replied the other. “Her name is Margaret Gough—or was. Old John Gough was a friend of my father, and he was considerably older than his wife. They lived in a little house on the shores of Loch Lomond. I believe there were many rows. I remember going there once with the pater, and there was a furious time. He—old Gough—accused her of meeting men friends, visitors to the district, you know. My pater said afterwards that old Gough probably suffered from delusions.”
Jack listened intently, while Basil poured himself out a drink and continued.
“One night, there was the devil of a trouble.” He shuddered at the remembrance. “We lived about three miles from the Goughs, and Margaret Gough came over in great distress. Her husband had accused her of some improper friendship with an artist fellow, with whom, as a matter of fact, she had been seen once or twice. She said her husband threatened to murder her. My father went back with her. He found the husband foaming at the mouth—he had had a paralytic stroke—couldn’t move. They put him to bed and sent for a doctor. The doctor was away and had a locum tenens, a little fellow called Laidlaw. He came over and saw the man, said it was a stroke, gave some directions, and said he would send a nurse in the morning. Mind you, in all this, Margaret Gough was in a state bordering on hysterics. She did not appreciate what was said about her husband, but only exhibited absolute terror of him. My father ultimately left, and Margaret Gough and two maids remained in the house with the stricken man—who could not walk, mark you…”
Again Basil stopped, knocked the ash off his cigarette, then continued.
“In the morning old John Gough was found drowned in the lake.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Jack in horror, realizing the significance of the statement.
“In Scotland,” Basil continued, “there is no coroner’s inquest, but there is a court of inquiry, and at that court the little locum tenens deliberately reversed a previous verdict of total paralysis. My father gave no evidence, but he said at the time that the legs of the man dragged like lead when they were putting him to bed.
“Dr. Laidlaw said the stroke was partial and had certainly affected his brain, and that, in his view, the man committed suicide, while temporarily insane.”
“Well, damn it all, Basil,” Jack burst out, “mightn’t it be so? Why think the worst? He might have recovered and got up. He seemed to be a mad sort of chap, anyhow.”
“Well, that may be—I don’t know,” Basil returned. “But you can’t escape the facts of the figures. At ten o’clock at night the man is helpless—totally paralyzed; at seven in the morning he is found in the lake. The artist chap, who had been a well-known figure in the neighborhood, completely disappeared. Margaret Gough was never heard of again after selling the cottage—and, the little doctor who gave the evidence, which, in my opinion, saved her, disappeared from the scene.”
“Well, it’s a very sad story,” Jack said slowly. “I am sure I would not condemn—off hand. I——”
“My dear old chap,” Basil broke in, “if she is a very close friend of yours, why didn’t you tell me? You seem quite bowled over.”
“No, no—that’s all right,” Jack replied. “I asked, and I’m glad you told me. I can’t believe, mind you, that that woman would do anything terrible like that.”
“Well, of course, I was very young when it happened, Jack,” replied Basil. “I have always carried it in my mind as an awful secret—something never to let out. I wouldn’t have done so to-day but for the curious fact of finding her photograph in the possession of my best pal.”
“You’ve done quite right, old son,” Jack assured him. “And now I’m going to chuck you out. I’ve a thousand and one things to get done before the good ship sails for home in the morning.”
“Good-night, old man.” Basil rose. “You’re sure——”
“Of course, of course; good night.” Jack patted his friend jocularly on the shoulder, saw him out, then closed the door.
For long he remained deep in thought. His cigarette went out and fell from his hand unnoticed, but he sat motionless. At last he rose, and there was resolution on his face. He took up the photograph and, as if speaking to the lovely woman there portrayed, he said:
“No, mum, I’ll not condemn you unheard. I’ll ask you if dad knows. If he does, then that’s good enough for me. Good night, mum dear—see you soon.” He kissed the photograph, placed it back in its place of honor, then tumbled into his bunk.
CHAPTER III.
AN ENCOUNTER BY NIGHT
At Evenden Priory the preparations were complete for the first shooting party of the season. Jill Kilby for several days had been engaged altogether in writing letters of invitation, interviewing tradesmen on her mistress’s behalf, arranging accommodation for the servants of the expected guests, and the thousand and one other duties that fell to her lot; for, she acted as secretary, as well as companion, to Lady Evenden.
Jill was glad of the distraction, because it freed her, in great degree, from the attentions of Frank Gough, who still remained at the Priory.
For Jack, when he arrived, the Prior’s Room had been prepared. This was a room seldom used; it stood in a tower at the extreme eastern gable of the Priory. Tradition had it that it was the room occupied, in the old days, by the Lord Prior himself; and, for several hundred years, generation after generation of Evendens had declared it haunted. It was said that on the eve of the feast of St. Michael and All Angels, the day on which Cromwell’s soldiers had arrived long ago to work their havoc, the ghost of the last prior, John Paseley, appeared and sadly walked his ancient haunts.
Certainly many tales were told of members of the family and their guests who had braved the alleged terrors of the Prior’s Room on that fateful day, and had experienced some nameless horror. All had hurriedly left the room, unable to describe the experience, yet determined never to set foot in it again.
As, however, the house was full, and Jack was the least superstitious man in the world, Sir Michael laughingly gave his consent to the room being prepared for his eldest son.
Meanwhile, Jack had left Portsmouth for London, en route for Evenden Priory, with a mind still troubled by the disclosure of his friend, Basil Towers, about the earlier life of his beautiful stepmother.
As he lay back in the corner of his compartment, he turned over, and over again, the details of that tragedy on the shores of Loch Lomond, and wondered if it could be possible that his stepmother, with her sweet nature, possibly could have been associated with an act of such unspeakable horror. Jack refused to believe it. There must be, he felt, some good explanation.
He determined to ask her about it; and, if she told him that his father knew all about it—well, then, he would let it go at that. His father probably knew best.
He had several purchases to make in London; so, he drove first of all to Liverpool Street Station and deposited his luggage in the cloakroom. Then he set off on a round of shopping. He made a call at his tailor’s in Savile Row; then he called at a shop in the Burlington Arcade to buy a present for his stepmother. It was when he emerged from that shop that he encountered a figure that caused him to halt for a second and catch his breath.
The girl—for it was a girl—was tall, slim, clad in a closely-fitting fashionable black tailored suit; her face was pale, her lips—rather generous lips—were a deep red, and her eyes, large, violet-hued, and wonderfully expressive. Jack would have remained silent and allowed her to pass. But, the girl also caught sight of him at the same time and immediately stopped.
“Hello, Jack!” she exclaimed. “Wonders will never cease. Imagine meeting you in the Burlington Arcade!”
“How are you, Brenda?” Jack responded, taking her proffered hand. It was no other than Brenda Trenchard, the companion of his mother of three years ago, whose rejection of him had caused him to declare himself a bachelor for life.
“I’m very well, Jack, and I see you look well. I am glad to see you. Do tell me all the news. How long have you been married, Jack?” She smiled roguishly as she asked the question.
“I am not married—why should you imagine such a stupid thing?” Jack asked rather seriously.
The girl laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “when a man says to a girl that he will never marry because she refuses him, watch the papers! You will possibly see his engagement announced within three weeks!”
“You’ll have to watch the papers a long time before you see my engagement announced,” Jack responded rather bitterly. “Did you think me the type to change much, Brenda?”
“Well, I don’t know—you never can tell.” The girl spoke half-seriously, half-mockingly; then, with a laugh, she shrugged her shoulders. “But, my dear Jack, we’re getting quite serious, and that will never do. Do you want to take me to tea?”
“I should be delighted,” Jack eagerly replied. “Where shall we go?”
Brenda laughed. “I really do believe you are, after all, a confirmed bachelor, Jack. Imagine a man not asking a girl to tea, and not knowing where to take her!”
“Well,” Jack began, in some confusion, “I hardly know—I stay at the Charing Cross Hotel myself when in London, but——”
“Poor, dear old Jack!” (Brenda looked charming as she laughed, Jack thought.) “Take me to Rumpelmyer’s if you like, or the Piccadilly.”
“Very well, let’s go to the Piccadilly,” Jack agreed.
Arrived at the Piccadilly, they had tea, and, as he watched Brenda in charge of the cups, Jack thought how much more beautiful she was than, even in the old days, when she represented to him the most beautiful thing on earth. They chatted lightly of the events of the years that had passed since they had parted.
It appeared that Brenda had inherited a small competency from an aunt, and was secretary to a Cabinet Minister. Two hours slipped by very quickly; and, as Brenda rose, Jack felt once more all the power of the love he once had declared to her. He determined to make one more attempt to win her. Fearful that she would laugh at him—Brenda seemed to laugh at everything now—awkwardly, self-consciously, he began.
“Brenda, Brenda—I—do you think—— I——”
“Yes?” Brenda interrupted his stammering with a sweet smile. “What is it, Jack?”
“Forgive me, Brenda.” Jack’s confusion was pitiful; his honest face was flushed, but Brenda gave him no help. Had he noticed it, however, a very tender smile played about the corners of her mobile lips. “I—— oh, don’t laugh at me too much, Brenda, darling, I can’t help it. I used to love you and I do love you. Do you think there will ever be a chance?”
“I’m certainly not going to allow any scenes in this lounge, if that’s what you mean,” Brenda replied, with a glance about her. “Get a taxi, you old chump, and drive me to my flat—Sloane Street, Knightsbridge. Come along.” As she spoke, she arose and led the way out of the lounge. Like a man in a dream, Jack followed her, hailed the taxi, assisted Brenda in, and automatically got in himself. For a moment or two he did not speak. Brenda watched him with a little smile from her corner. He turned to her.
“Brenda—you heard what I said. I’m not good at this sort of thing——”
“You certainly are not,” Brenda agreed.
“But I love you, Brenda, I——”
Then happened the most wonderful thing which had ever come to Jack. Two arms were wound about his neck, and kisses were rained upon him. Lips that he had loved to kiss were pressed to his—this time in complete and happy yielding. A little voice, very sweet, with a sob in it, said ever so gently:
“Dear, dear old Jack—I’ve wanted you all the time. Why have you been so long?”
Then Jack knew that fairy tales were actualities, and that dreams do come true.
* * * * * * * *
Dinner was in process of being served at Evenden Priory that night when a telegram arrived which Sir Michael opened and read. He frowned, then handed it to Lady Evenden. It merely said:
“Delayed in London on most urgent business for at least three days; expect me about Friday. Don’t be surprised if I bring some one else. Love.—Jack.”
“Fancy that,” said Sir Michael in some annoyance. “I wonder what can have detained him. I was counting upon him to-morrow. We’re a gun short now.”
Several of the guests, who knew Jack well, expressed their polite disappointment. But, soon the talk spread to other topics, and the dinner went merrily on.
After dinner, when the ladies, taking their cue from Lady Evenden, had withdrawn, chairs were moved up and port was served. Sir Michael always sat for three quarters of an hour after the ladies had gone, and many a good joke, that set those at the table in a roar of laughter, was told, many a tale of prowess in the shooting-field, and many a local anecdote was dished up by the same old squires, in the same old way, that they had been since Sir Michael could remember.
He did not mind that. It was music to his ears. A great sense of security came to him as he sat there in the center of his friends. The Evenden estates were more soundly endowed than they had been in any period of their history. The oft-told tales of some of his guests were not boring to Sir Michael; they were part of the Priory—part of the home he had always loved so well, worked for so hard to get back—aye, he thought as he sat there, even sinned to get back.
As the thought occurred to him, Sir Michael shuddered, but quickly recovered himself, shrugged his shoulders, helped himself to another glass of the famous ’34 port, and joined in the laughter that followed a tale of Frank’s.
Immediately after telling it, Frank excused himself and left the room. He made his way direct to the drawing-room in search of Jill; but she was not there. The night was warm for September, and one of the French windows stood wide open; so, thinking that perhaps Jill had stepped out, on to the lawn to take the air, Frank followed.
There was an autumn nip in the air, and a slight mist had spread over the park. In the distance an owl hooted; while, nearby, he saw the erratic flight of a couple of bats. He threw away the stump of his cigar the better to enjoy the scented air; then he walked slowly across the lawn.
Arrived at the point where the lawn joined a shrubbery bordering the main carriage drive, he halted, discerning two figures—a man and a woman. Wondering who they were, he approached more closely, being careful not to be observed. From the shadow of a tree he recognized them. They were members of the house party, and he smiled to think of what the wife of the one and the husband of the other would say if they had the view he had. But, the girl was not Jill; so, he passed on.
Giving up all hope of meeting her, he walked along the shrubbery path to where it joined the drive. There, to his astonishment, he found that the small wicket gate was open. This gate invariably was kept locked, and all members of the household had a latchkey to fit it. Frank walked through and continued down the drive.
He walked on, until in the distance the lights of the lodge-keeper’s place twinkled, then, about to return, he again changed his mind. He decided he would stroll down and have a word with old Middlemas, at the lodge. With this intention he proceeded, but he had not gone far when he heard voices quite close at hand. He stopped, withdrew into the shadow of a huge oak tree, and listened. Unmistakably there were two voices—a man’s and a woman’s. He started—the woman’s voice was Jill Kilby’s—and she was here—talking to a man!
Frank stood, silent as a statue, and listened. At first, the faint breeze, ruffling the leaves, interfered with his hearing. But, presently he accustomed his ears to the sound, and distinctly heard Jill speaking.
“But I don’t like to tell his mother, Wilfred. I can manage him quite well. If I were to tell his mother I should certainly lose my position. And I don’t want to do that. I like Lady Evenden and I like Sir Michael, and I like the life. Don’t be silly, dear. I know best.”
“What the devil’s this?” muttered Frank to himself.
“Oh, I wish you would let me speak to Lady Evenden, Jill darling,” the man replied. “I am sure if she is the decent woman you say she is, she would listen to reason, and stop that young cad of hers from pestering you.”
“By all the gods, that’s a bit hot,” Frank again muttered. “So, this is the other man she mentioned, is it?” His ruminations were cut short, for Jill was talking again.
“You must be content to leave things to my judgment, Wilfred,” she said. “I told you before you came down that you were taking a great risk by coming and staying at the village inn. That was bad enough in all conscience, but to expect me to meet you in the very grounds is positively stupid, you dear old thing. You know, I have already told you that Lady Evenden hates you for some reason. What would happen if she found out that you were here?”
“This is all very interesting, I’m sure,” said Frank to himself. “I seem to have stumbled on a pretty little intrigue.”
“Well, darling, you know how I long to be beside you,” the man replied. “Do you blame me very much, Jill dear?”
“N-o,” Jill replied, and there was a sound of kissing. Frank ground his teeth in fury. Very little more was said, and the lovers separated.
It took a great effort on Frank’s part not to come out and declare himself, but prudence dictated his silence for the time being. He would find out a little more about this astonishing affair, and then decide what course to pursue. He waited in the shadow of the oak until he saw Wilfred Barlow stride off down the drive in the direction of the lodge, and Jill, after waiting a moment, walk hurriedly towards the house. Then he followed.
“I wonder what it all means,” he mused. “That she has a lover is simple enough. But what do they mean by the tale about my mother hating him, whoever he is? I must find out something about that. What interest can my mother have in the confounded man, anyhow? I shall find some way of dealing with both, or my name isn’t what it is.”
Still deep in thought, Frank returned to the house and, after glancing in the drawing-room and seeing Jill there, made for the billiard room, played one or two games, then went to bed. Before he slept he had decided on a plan of action. He would find out the identity of the stranger at the inn, then find out from his mother what she thought of him, and why. If only he could get Jill away somewhere. Then an idea came, and Frank chuckled with delight. He had decided on a course that was unscrupulous, but what matter? Was not all fair in love?
The next day he found out, by careful inquiry, the identity of Dr. Wilfred Barlow, and for the next two or three days he set himself to watch the movements of Jill. With wicked cunning he managed, without raising his mother’s suspicions, to invent duties which kept Jill busy all day long, and every evening as she left the drawing-room to walk on the lawn, he intercepted her and talked to her until, in despair, she was glad to get back into the room under the protection of Lady Evenden.
Such was the position on Friday when a telegram came announcing the near arrival of Jack Evenden. He came just before five o’clock, while Lady Evenden was dispensing tea in the huge hall-lounge.
Very affectionately did his stepmother greet him. Jack hated the task he had set himself. Nevertheless he firmly believed it his duty to speak to her on the subject, and he could not conceive of a better opportunity. His father was out with the guns, and only two or three ladies were present. After drinking his tea and eating a toasted muffin, Jack said he had a letter to write and retired to the library, which he knew would be unoccupied at that hour.
He seated himself at a desk and wrote a little note to his stepmother, begging her to join him in the library, as he had something of importance to tell her. He dispatched the note with a servant, and in a moment or so his mother appeared.
“You wanted to see me, Jack?” she smilingly asked. “I am glad you sent for me like that. How clever you are. I had been wondering how we could have a little chat before dinner, and you’ve managed it splendidly. Now tell me all about yourself, dear. How did you leave your friends aboard ship? And, Jack, you dreadful boy, tell me why you spent all those days in London, when we were waiting for you here.”
His stepmother was so transparently glad to see him—so unaffectedly sincere in her motherly love for him—that Jack quailed again at the dreadful task his conscience dictated. Almost, he decided to cut the whole thing out; then, stubbornly fighting down sentiment and giving rein to what he considered his duty, he began:
“Mum, dear, I can’t put this thing as it ought to be put. A friend of mine aboard ship, Basil Towers is his name, told me he knew you when you were Mrs. Gough, and said there was a row when your husband died. He said the doctors said your husband was paralyzed—unable to walk, and you and two maids were alone with him and—— Good heavens! What’s the matter, mum?”
The last words were spoken in pitiful anxiety, and Jack rushed forward just in time to catch his stepmother before she struck the floor, for Lady Evenden had fainted.