“Barclay-Seymour—no, he won’t be there,” replied Leslie, “he’s the Leeds Johnnie, isn’t he? He went up from London last night. What’s this talk of your having run away the other night?”
“It was an important engagement,” said Gilbert hurriedly, “I had a man to see; I couldn’t very well put him off——”
Leslie realised that he had asked an embarrassing question and changed the subject.
“By the way,” he said, “I shouldn’t mention this matter of the money to Mrs. Cathcart till after you’ve both settled down.”
“I won’t,” said Gilbert grimly.
On the way to the church he reviewed all the troubles that were besetting him and faced them squarely. Perhaps it would not be as bad as he thought. He was ever prone to take an exaggerated and a worrying view of troubles. He had anticipated dangers, and time and time again his fears had been groundless. He had lived too long alone. A man ought to be married before he was thirty-two. That was his age. He had become cranky. He found consolation in uncomplimentary analysis till the church was reached.
It was a dream, that ceremony: the crowded pews, the organ, the white-robed choir, the rector and his assistants; the coming of Edith, so beautiful, so ethereal in her bridal robes; the responses, the kneeling and the rising—it was all unreal.
He had thought that the music would have made a lasting impression on him; he had been at some pains to choose it, and had had several consultations with the organist. But at the end of the service when he began to walk, still in his dream, towards the vestry, he could not recall one single bar. He had a dim recollection of the fact that above the altar was a stained glass window, one tiny pane of which had been removed, evidently on account of a breakage.
He was back in the house, sitting at the be-flowered table, listening in some confusion to the speeches and the bursts of laughter which assailed each speaker as he made his point: now he was on his feet, talking easily, without effort, but what words he used, or why people applauded, or why they smiled he could not say.
Once in its course he had looked down at the delicate face by his side, and had met those solemn eyes of hers, less fearful to-day, it seemed, than ever he had seen them. He had felt for her hand and had held it, cold and unresponsive, in his.…
“An excellent speech,” said Leslie.
They were in the drawing-room after the breakfast.
“You’re quite an orator.”
“Am I?” said Gilbert.
He was beginning to wake again. The drawing-room was real, these people were real, the jokes, the badinage, and the wit which flew from tongue to tongue—all these things were of a life he knew.
“Whew!” He wiped his forehead and breathed a deep sigh. He felt like a man who had regained consciousness after an anæsthetic that did not quite take effect. A painless and a beautiful experience, but of another world, and it was not he, so he told himself, who had knelt at the altar rail.
* * * *
Officially the honeymoon was to be spent at Harrogate, actually it was to be spent in London. They preserved the pretence of catching a train, and drove to King’s Cross.
No word was spoken throughout that journey. Gilbert felt the restriction, and did not challenge it or seek to overcome it. The girl was naturally silent. She had so much to say in the proper place and at the proper time. He saw the old fear come back to her eyes, was hurt by the unconscious and involuntary shrinking when his hand touched hers.
The carriage was dismissed at King’s Cross. A taxi-cab was engaged, and they drove to the house in St. John’s Wood. It was empty, the servants had been sent away on a holiday, but it was a perfectly fitted little mansion. There were electric cookers, and every labour-saving appliance the mind of man could devise, or a young man with great expectations and no particular idea of the value of money could acquire.
This was to be one of the joys of the honeymoon, so Gilbert had told himself. She had willingly dispensed with her maid; he was ready to be man-of-all-work, to cook and to serve, leaving the rough work for the two new day servants he had employed to come in in the morning.
Yet it was with no sense of joyfulness that he led her from room to room, showed her the treasures of his household. A sense of apprehension of some coming trouble laid its hand upon his tongue, damped his spirit, and held him in temporary bondage.
The girl was self-possessed. She admired, criticised kindly, and rallied him gently upon his domesticity. But the strain was there all the time; there was a shadow which lay between them.
She went to her room to change. They had arranged to go out to dinner, and this programme they followed. Leslie Frankfort saw them in the dining hall of Princes, and pretended he didn’t know them. It was ten o’clock when they went back to their little house.
Gilbert went to his study; his wife had gone up to her room and had promised to come down for coffee. He went to work with all the skill which a pupil of Rahbat might be expected to display, and brewed two tiny little cups of Mocha. This he served on the table near the settee where she would sit… Then she came in.
He had been fast awakening from the dream of the morning. He was alive now. The dazement of that momentous ceremony had worn away. He rose and went a little way towards her. He would have taken her in his arms then and there, but this time the arm’s length was a reality. Her hand touched his breast, and the arm stiffened. He felt the rebuff in the act, and it seemed to him that his heart went cold, and that all the vague terrors of the previous days crystallised into one concrete and terrible truth. He knew all that she had to say before she spoke.
It was some time before she found the words she wanted, the opening was so difficult.
“Gilbert,” she said at last, “I am going to do a cowardly thing. It is only cowardly because I have not told you before.”
He motioned her to the settee.
He had woven a little romance for this moment, a dream scene which was never to be enacted. Here was the shattering.
“I won’t sit down,” she said, “I want all my strength to tell you what I have to tell you. If I hadn’t been an arrant coward I should have told you last night. I meant to tell you,” she said, “but you did not come.”
He nodded.
“I know,” he said, almost impatiently. “I could not come. I did not wish—I could not come,” he repeated.
“You know what I have to tell you?” Her eyes were steadily fixed on his. “Gilbert, I do not love you.”
He nodded again.
“I know now,” he said.
“I never have loved you,” she said in tones of despair; “there never was any time when I regarded you as more than a dear friend. But——”
She wanted to tell him why, but a sense of loyalty to her mother kept her silent. She would take all the blame, for was she not blameworthy? For she, at least, was mistress of her own soul: had she wished, she could have taken a line of greater resistance than that which she had followed.
“I married you,” she went on slowly, “because—because you are—rich—because you will be rich.”
Her voice dropped at the last word until it was husky. There was a hard fight going on within her. She wanted to tell the truth, and yet she did not want him to think so badly of her as that.
“For my money!” he repeated wonderingly.
“Yes, I—I wanted to marry a man with money. We have had—a very hard time.”
The confession came in little gasps; she had to frame every sentence before she spoke.
“You mustn’t blame mother, I was equally guilty; and I ought to have told you—I wanted to tell you.”
“I see,” he said calmly.
It is wonderful what reserves of strength come at a man’s bidding. In this terrible crisis, in this moment when the whole of his life’s happiness was shattered, when the fabric of his dream was crumbling like a house of paper, he could be judicial, almost phlegmatic.
He saw her sway, and springing to her side caught her.
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
She obeyed without protest. He settled her in the corner of the settee, pushed a cushion almost viciously behind her, and walked back to the fireplace.
“So you married me for my money,” he said, and laughed.
It was not without its amusing side, this situation.
“By Heaven, what a comedy—what a comedy!” He laughed again. “My poor child,” he said, with unaccustomed irony, “I am sorry for you, for you have secured neither husband nor money!”
She looked up at him quickly.
“Nor money,” she repeated.
There was only interest that he saw in her eyes. There was no hint of disappointment. He knew the truth, more than she had told him: it was not she who desired a fortune, it was this mother of hers, this domineering, worldly woman.
“No husband and no money,” he repeated savagely, in spite of the almost yearning desire which was in him to spare her.
“And worse than that”—with two rapid strides he was at the desk which separated them, and bent across it, leaning heavily—“not only have you no husband, and not only is there no money, but——”
He stopped as if he had been shot.
The girl, looking at him, saw his face go drawn and grey, saw the eyes staring wildly past her, the mouth open in tragic dismay. She got up quickly.
“What is it? What is it?” she whispered in alarm.
“My God!”
His voice was cracked; it was the voice of a man in terror. She half bent her head, listening. From somewhere beneath the window arose the soft, melancholy strains of a violin. The music rose and fell, sobbing and pulsating with passion beneath the magic of the player’s fingers. She stepped to a window and looked out. On the edge of the pavement a girl was playing, a girl whose poverty of dress did not hide her singular beauty.
The light from the street lamp fell upon her pale face, her eyes were fixed on the window where Gilbert was standing.
Edith looked at her husband. He was shaking like a man with fever.
“The ‘Melody in F,’ ” he whispered. “My God! The ‘Melody in F’—and on my wedding day!”
Leslie Frankfort was one of a group of three who stood in the inner office of Messrs. Warrell & Bird before a huge safe. There was plenty to attract and hold their attention, for the floor was littered with tools of every shape and description.
The safe itself bore evidence of a determined assault. A semi-circle of holes had been burnt in its solid iron door about the lock.
“They did that with an oxyhydrogen blow-pipe,” said one of the men.
He indicated a number of iron tubes which lay upon the ground with the rest of the paraphernalia. “They made a thorough job of it. I wonder what disturbed them.”
The eldest of the men shook his head.
“I expect the night watchman may have alarmed them,” he said. “What do you think, Frankfort?”
“I haven’t got over my admiration for their thoroughness yet,” said Leslie. “Why, the beggars must have used about a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of tools.”
He pointed to the kit on the ground. The detective’s gaze followed his extended finger. He smiled.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “these people are pretty thorough. You say you’ve lost nothing?”
Mr. Warrell shook his head.
“Yes and no,” he said carefully. “There was a diamond necklace which was deposited there last week by a client of ours—that has gone. I am anxious for the moment that this loss should not be reported.”
The detective looked at him wonderingly.
“That is rather a curious request,” he said, with a smile; “and you don’t usually have diamond necklaces in a stockbroker’s office—if I may be allowed to make that critical remark.”
Mr. Warrell smiled.
“It isn’t usual,” he said, “but a client of ours who went abroad last week came in just twenty minutes before the train left, and asked us to take care of the jewel cases.”
Mr. Warrell said this carelessly. He did not explain to the detective that they were held as security against the very large difference which the client had incurred; nor did he think it necessary to explain that he had kept the jewels in the office in the hope that the embarrassed lady might be able to redeem them.
“Did anybody know they were there except yourself and your partners?”
Warrell shook his head.
“I don’t think so. I have never mentioned it to anybody. Have you, Leslie?”
Leslie hesitated.
“Well, I’m bound to admit that I did,” he confessed, “though it was to somebody who would not repeat it.”
“Who was it?” asked Warrell.
“To Gilbert Standerton. I certainly mentioned the matter when we were discussing safe robberies.”
The elder man nodded.
“I hardly think he is the sort of person who is likely to burgle a safe.”
He smiled.
“It is a very curious coincidence,” said Leslie reflectively, “that he and I were talking about this very gang only a couple of days ago before he was married. I suppose,” he asked the detective suddenly, “there is no doubt that this is the work of your international friend?”
Chief Inspector Goldberg nodded his head.
“No doubt whatever, sir,” he said. “There is only one gang in England which could do this, and I could lay my hands on them to-day, but it would be a million pounds to one against my being able to secure at the same time evidence to convict them.”
Leslie nodded brightly.
“That is what I was telling Gilbert,” he said, turning to his partner. “Isn’t it extraordinary that these things can be in the twentieth century? Here we have three or four men who are known—you told me their names, Inspector, after the last attempt—and yet the police are powerless to bring home their guilt to them. It does seem curious, doesn’t it?”
Inspector Goldberg was not amused, but he permitted himself to smile politely.
“But then you’ve got to remember how difficult it is to collect evidence against men who work on such a huge scale as do these bank smashers. What I can’t understand,” he said, “is what attraction your safe has for them. This second attempt is a much more formidable one than the last.”
“Yes, this is really a burglary,” said Mr. Warrell. “In the last case there was nothing so elaborate in their preparations, though they were much more successful, in so far as they were able to open the safe.”
“I suppose you don’t want more of this to get in the papers than you can help,” said the Inspector.
Mr. Warrell shook his head.
“I don’t want any of it to get in till I have seen my client,” he said; “but I am entirely in your hands, and you must make such arrangements as you deem necessary.”
“Very good,” said the detective. “For the moment I do not think it is necessary to make any statement at all. If the reporters get hold of it, you had better tell them as much of the truth as you want to tell them, but the chances are that they won’t even get to hear of it as you communicated directly to the Yard.”
The police officer spent half an hour collecting and making notes of such data as he was able to secure. At the end of that time the old Jewry sent a contingent of plain clothes policemen to remove the tools.
The burglars had evidently entered the office after closing hours on the previous night, and had worked through the greater part of the evening, and possibly far into the night, in their successful attempt to cut out the lock of the safe. That they had been disturbed in their work was evident from the presence of the tools. This was not their first burglary in the City of London. During the previous six months the City had been startled by a succession of daring robberies, the majority of which had been successful.
The men had shown extraordinary knowledge of the safe’s contents, and it was this fact which had induced the police to narrow their circle of inquiry to three apparently innocent members of an outside broker’s firm. But try as they might, no evidence could be secured which might even remotely associate them with the crime.
Leslie remembered now that he had laughingly challenged Gilbert Standerton to qualify for the big reward which two firms at least had offered for the recovery of their stolen goods.
“After all,” he said, “with your taste and genius, you would make an ideal thief-catcher.”
“Or a thief,” Gilbert had answered moodily. It had been one of his bad days, a day on which his altered prospects had preyed upon him.
A telegram was waiting for Leslie when he entered the narrow portals of the City Proscenium Club. He took it down and opened it leisurely, and read its contents. A puzzled frown gathered on his forehead. It ran:—
“I must see you this afternoon. Meet me at Charing Cross Station four o’clock.—Gilbert.”
Punctually to the minute Leslie reached the terminus. He found Gilbert pacing to and fro beneath the clock, and was shocked at his appearance.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” he asked.
“Matter with me?” demanded the other hardly, “what do you think is the matter with me?”
“Are you in trouble?” asked Leslie anxiously.
He was genuinely fond of this friend of his.
“Trouble?” Gilbert laughed bitterly. “My dear good chap, I am always in trouble. Haven’t I been in trouble since the first day I met you? I want you to do something for me,” he went on briskly. “You were talking the other day about money. I have recognised the tragedy of my own dependence. I have got to get money, and get it quick.”
He spoke briskly, and in a matter-of-fact tone, but Leslie heard a determination which had never formed part of his friend’s equipment.
“I want to know something about shares and stocks and things of that sort,” Gilbert went on. “You’ll have to instruct me. I don’t suppose you know much about it yourself”—he smiled, with a return to the old good-humour—“but what little you know you’ve got to impart to me.”
“My dear chap,” protested the other, “why the devil are you worrying about a thing like that for on your honeymoon? Where is your wife, by the way?”
“Oh, she’s at the house,” said the other shortly. He did not feel inclined to discuss her, and Leslie, in his amazement, had sufficient tact to pass over the subject.
“I can tell you all I know now, if you want a tip,” he said.
“I want something bigger than a tip—I want investments. I want you to tell me something that will bring in about twelve thousand a year.”
Leslie stopped and looked at the other.
“Are you quite——?” he began.
Gilbert smiled, a crooked little smile.
“Am I right in my head?” he finished. “Oh, yes, I am quite sane.”
“But don’t you see,” said the other, “you would want a little over a quarter of a million to bring in that interest.”
Gilbert nodded.
“I had an idea that some such amount was required. I want you to get me out between to-night and to-morrow a list of securities in which I can invest and which must be gilt-edged, and must, as I say, secure for me, or for my heirs, the sum I have mentioned.”
“And did you,” asked the indignant Leslie, “bring me to this beastly place on a hot afternoon in June to pull my leg about your dream investments?”
But something in Gilbert’s face checked his humour.
“Seriously, do you mean this?” he asked.
“Seriously, I mean it.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you the list like a shot. What has happened—has uncle relented?”
Gilbert shook his head.
“He is not likely to relent,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I had a note to-day from his secretary to tell me that he is pretty ill. I’m awfully sorry.” There was a genuine note of regret in his tone. “He is a decent old chap.”
“There’s no reason why he should hand over his wealth to the ‘demnition bow-wows,’ ” quoted Leslie indignantly. “But why did you meet me here, my son? Your club is round the corner.”
“I know,” said Gilbert; “but the club is—well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I am giving up the club.”
“Giving up your club?” He stood squarely before the taller man. “Now just tell me,” he asked deliberately, “what the Dickens all this means? You’re giving up your club, you’ll be giving up your Foreign Office job next, my Crœsus!”
Gilbert nodded.
“I have given up the Foreign Office work,” he said quietly. “I want all the time I can get,” he went on, speaking rapidly. “I want every moment of the day for my own plans and my own schemes. You don’t know what it’s all about, my dear chap”—he laid his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder—“but just believe that I am in urgent need of all the advice you can give me, and I only want the advice for which I ask.”
“Which means that I am not to poke my nose in your business unless I have a special invitation card all printed and decorated. Very good,” laughed Leslie. “Now come along to my club. I suppose as a result of your brief married life you haven’t conceived a dislike to all clubs?”
Gilbert made no answer, nor did they return again to the subject until they were ensconced in the spacious smoking-room of the Junior Terriers.
For two hours the men sat there, Gilbert questioning eagerly, pointedly, jotting down notes upon a sheet of paper. The other answered, often with some difficulty, the running fire of questions which his friend put.
“I didn’t know how little I knew,” confessed the young man ruefully, as Gilbert wrote down the last answer to the very last question. “What an encyclopædic questioner you are; you’re a born examiner, Gilbert.”
Gilbert smiled faintly as he slipped the sheet of paper into his pocket.
“By the way,” he said, as they were leaving the club, “I made my will this morning and I want you to be my executor.”
Leslie pushed his hat back with a groan.
“You’re the most cheerless bird I’ve met for quite a long time,” he said in exasperation. “You were married yesterday, you’re wandering round to-day with a face as long as an undertaker’s tout—I understand such interesting and picturesque individuals exist in the East End of London—you’ve chucked up the billet that’s bringing you in quite a lot of money, you’ve discussed investments, and you’ve made your will. You’re a most depressing devil!”
Again Gilbert smiled: he was grimly amused. He shook hands with the young man before the club and called a taxi-cab to him.
“I’m going to St. John’s Wood. I suppose you’re not going my way?”
“I am relieved to hear that you are going to St. John’s Wood,” said the other with mock politeness. “I feared you were going to the nearest crematorium.”
Gilbert found his wife in the study on his return. She was sitting on the big settee reading. The stress of the previous night had left no mark upon her beautiful face. She favoured him with a smile. Instinctively they had both adopted the attitude which best met the circumstances. Her respect for him had increased, even in that short space of time; he had so well mastered himself in that moment of terror—terror which in an indefinable way had communicated itself to her. He had met her the next morning at breakfast cheerfully; but she did not doubt that he had spent a sleepless night, for his eyes were heavy and tired, and in spite of his geniality his voice was sharp, as are the voices of men who have cheated Nature.
He walked straight to his desk now.
“Do you want to be alone?” she asked.
He looked up with a start.
“No, no,” he said hastily, “I’ve no wish to be alone. I’ve a little work to do, but you won’t bother me. You ought to know,” he said with an affectation of carelessness, “that I am resigning my post.”
“Your post!” she repeated.
“Yes; I find I have so much to do, and the Foreign Office takes up so much of my time that I really can’t spare, that it came to a question of giving up that or something else.”
He did not enlighten her as to what that “something else” was, nor could she guess. Already he was an enigma to her; she found, strange though it seemed to her, a new interest in him. That there was some tragedy in his life, a tragedy unsuspected by her, she did not doubt. He had told her calmly and categorically the story of his disinheritance; at his request, she had put the whole of that story into a letter which she had addressed to her mother. She felt no qualms, no inward quaking, at the prospect of the inevitable encounter, though Mrs. Cathcart would be enraged beyond reason.
Edith smiled a little to herself as she had stuck down the flap of the envelope. This was poetic justice, though she herself might be a life-long sufferer by reason of her worldly parent’s schemings. She had hoped that as a result of that letter, posted early in the morning, her mother would have called and the interview would have been finished before her husband returned. But Gilbert had been in the house half an hour when the blow fell. The tinkle of the hall bell brought the girl to her feet: she had been waiting, her ears strained, for that aggressive ring.
She herself flew down the stairs to open the door.
Mrs. Cathcart entered without a word, and as the girl closed the door behind her she turned.
“Where is that precious husband of yours?” she asked in a choked voice.
“My husband is in his study,” said the girl calmly. “Do you want him, mother?”
“Do I want him?” she repeated in a choked voice.
Edith saw the glare in the woman’s eyes, saw, too, the pinched and haggard cheek. For one brief moment she pitied this woman, who had seen all her dreams shattered at a moment when she had hoped that their realisation was inevitable.
“Does he know I am coming?”
“I think he rather expects you,” said the girl dryly.
“I will see him by myself,” said Mrs. Cathcart, turning half-way up the stairs.
“You will see him with me, mother, or you will not see him at all,” said the girl.
“You will do as I tell you, Edith,” stormed the woman.
The girl smiled.
“Mother,” she said gently, “you have ceased to have any right to direct me. You have handed me over to another guardian whose claims are greater than yours.”
It was not a good preparation for the interview that was to follow. Edith recognised this even as she opened the door and ushered her mother in.
When Gilbert saw who his visitor was he rose with a little bow. He did not offer his hand. He knew something of what this woman was feeling.
“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Cathcart?” he said.
“I’ll stand for what I have to say,” she snapped. “Now, what is the meaning of this?” She threw down the letter which the girl had written, and which she had read and re-read until every word was engraven on her mind. “Is it true,” she asked fiercely, “that you are a poor man? That you have deceived us? That you have lied your way into a marriage——”
He held up his hand.
“You seem to forget, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said with dignity, “that the question of my position has already been discussed by you and me, and you have been most emphatic in impressing upon me the fact that no worldly considerations would weigh with you.”
“Worldly!” she sneered. “What do you mean by worldly, Mr. Standerton? Are you not in the world? Do you not live in a house and eat bread and butter that costs money? Do you not use motor-cars that require money for their upkeep? Whilst I am living in the world and you are living in the world worldly considerations will always count. I thought you were a rich man; you’re a beggar.”
He smiled a little contemptuously.
“A pretty mess you’ve made of it,” she said harshly. “You’ve got a woman who doesn’t love you—I suppose you know that?”
He bowed.
“I know all that, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said. “I knew the worst when I learnt that. The fact that you so obviously planned the marriage because you thought that I was Sir John Standerton’s heir does not hurt me, because I have met so many women like you, only”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I must confess that I thought you were a little different to the rest of worldly mothers—forgive me if I use that word again. But you are not any better—you may be a little worse,” he said, his thoughtful eyes upon her face.
He was looking at her with a curious something which the woman could not quite understand in his eyes. She had seen that look somewhere, and in spite of herself she shivered. The anger died away in fear.
“I wanted you to postpone this wedding,” he went on softly. “I had an especial reason, a reason I will not give you, but which will interest you in a few months’ time. But you were fearful of losing your rich son-in-law. I didn’t realise then that that was your fear. I have satisfied myself—it really doesn’t matter how,” he said steadily, “that you are more responsible than I for this good match.”
He was a changed man. Mrs. Cathcart in her gusty rage could recognise this: there was a new soul, a new spirit, a new determination, and—that was it!—a new and terrible ferocity which shone from his eyes and for the moment hardened his face till it was almost terrible to look upon.
“Your daughter married me under a misapprehension. She told you all that I had to tell—almost all,” he corrected himself, “and I anticipated this visit. Had you not come I should have sent for you. Your daughter is as free as the air as far as I am concerned. I suppose your worldliness extends to a knowledge of the law? She can sue for a divorce to-morrow, and attain it without any difficulty and with little publicity.”
A gleam of hope came to the woman’s face.
“I never thought of that,” she said half to herself. She turned quickly to her daughter, for she was a woman of action. “Get your things and come with me.”
Edith did not stir. She stood the other side of the table, half facing her husband and wholly facing her mother.
“You hear what Mr. Standerton says,” said Mrs. Cathcart irritably. “He has opened a way of escape to you. What he says is true. A divorce can be obtained with no difficulty. Come with me. I will send for your clothes.”
Edith still did not move.
Mrs. Cathcart, watching her, saw her features soften one by one, saw the lips part in a smile and the head fall back as peal after peal of clear laughter rang through the room.
“Oh, mother!” The infinite contempt of the voice struck the woman like the lash of a whip. “You don’t know me! Go back with you? Divorce him? You’re mad! If he had been a rich man indeed I might; but for the time being, though I do not love him, and though I should not blame him and do not blame him if he does not love me, my lot is cast with his, my place is here.”
“Melodrama!” said the elder woman angrily.
“There’s a lot of truth and no end of decency in melodrama, Mrs. Cathcart,” said Gilbert.
His mother-in-law stood livid with rage, then turning, flung out of the room, and they heard the front door slam behind her.
They looked at each other, this strangely-married pair, for the space of a few seconds, and then Gilbert held out his hand.
“Thank you,” he said.
The girl dropped her eyes.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” she said listlessly. “I have done you too much wrong for one little act to wipe out all the effects of my selfishness.”
The City of London is filled, as all the world knows, with flourishing and well-established businesses.
It abounds in concerns which proclaim, either with dignity or flamboyantly, the fact that this shop stood where it did a hundred years ago, and is still being carried on by the legitimate descendants of its founders.
There are companies and syndicates and trading associations, housed in ornate and elaborate buildings, suites of offices, which come into existence in the spring and fade away to nothingness in the winter, leaving a residue of unpaid petty accounts, and a landlord who has only this satisfaction—that he was paid his rent in advance.
The tragedies of the City of London lay in a large sense round the ugly and unpretentious buildings of the Stock Exchange, and may be found in the seedy sprinkling of people who perambulate the streets round and round that grimy building like so many disembodied spirits.
But the tragic gambler is not peculiar to the metropolis, and the fortunes made and lost in a day or in an hour has its counterpart in every city in the world where stock transactions are conducted.
The picturesque sorrows of the city are represented in the popular mind with the human wreckage which strews the Embankment after dark, or goes shuffling along the edges of the pavement with downcast eyes seeking for discarded cigar ends. That is sorrowful enough, though the unhappy objects of our pity are considerably more satisfied with their lot than most people would imagine.
The real tragedy and sorrow is to be found in the hundred and one little businesses which come into existence joyfully, and swallow up the savings of years of some two or three optimistic individuals. The flourishing note heads which are issued from brand new offices redolent of paint and fresh varnish, the virgin books imposingly displayed upon new shelves, the mass of correspondence which goes daily forth, the booklets and the leaflets, the explanatory tables and all the paraphernalia of the inexperienced advertiser, and the trickle of replies which come back—they are all part of the sad game.
Some firms endeavour to establish themselves with violence, with a flourish of their largest trumpets. Some drift into business noiselessly, and in some mysterious way make good. Generally, one may suppose, they came with the invaluable asset of a “connection,” shifting up from the suburbs to a more impressive address.
One of the businesses which came into existence in London in the year 1924 was a firm which was defined in the telephone book and in the directory as “The St. Bride’s Safe Company.” It dealt in new and second-hand safes, strong rooms and all the cunning machinery of protection.
In its one show-room were displayed safes of every make, new and old, gratings, burglar alarms, cash boxes, big and small, and the examples of all that iron and steel could do to resist the attention of the professional burglar.
The principal of the business was apparently a Midland gentleman, who engaged a staff, including a manager and a salesman, by advertisement, interviewed the newly-engaged employees in the Midlands, and placed at the disposal of the manager, who came armed with unimpeachable testimonials, a sum of money sufficient to stock the store and carry on the business.
He found more supplies from time to time in addition to the floating stock-in-trade, and though orders came very infrequently, the proprietor of the concern cheerfully continued to pay the large rent and the fairly generous salaries of the staff.
The proprietor would occasionally visit the store, generally late at night, because, as he explained, his business in Birmingham required his constant attention.
The new stock would be inspected; there would be a stock-taking of keys—these were usually kept in the private safe of the firm—and the proprietor would invariably express his satisfaction with the progress of the business.
The manager himself never quite understood how his chief could make this office pay, but he evidently did a big trade in the provinces, because he was able to keep a large motor lorry and a driver, who from time to time appeared at the Bride Street store, brought a safe which would be unloaded, or carried away some purchased article to its new owners.
The manager, a Mr. Timmings, and a respectable member of Balham society, could only imagine that the provincial branch of the business was fairly extensive. Sometimes the motor lorry would come with every evidence of having travelled for many miles, and it would seem that the business flourished, at any rate, at the Birmingham end.
It was the day following the remarkable occurrence which is chronicled in the previous chapter that Gilbert Standerton decided amongst other things to purchase a safe.
He needed one for his home, and there were reasons which need not be particularised why such an article of furniture was necessary. He had never felt the need of a safe before. When he did, he wanted to get one right away. It was unfortunate, or fortunate as the case may be, that this resolve did not come to him until an hour when most dealers in these unusual commodities were closed. It was after six when he arrived in the City.
Mr. Timmings had gone away early that night, but he had left a most excellent deputy.
The proprietor had come to London a little earlier that evening, and through the glass street doors Gilbert saw him and stared.
The door was locked when he tried it, and with a cheery smile the new proprietor came forward himself and unbolted it.
“We are closed,” he said, “and I am afraid my manager has gone home. Can I do anything for you?”
Gilbert looked at him.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I want to buy a safe.”
“Then possibly I can help you,” said the gentleman good-naturedly. “Won’t you come in?”
Gilbert entered, and the door was bolted behind him.
“What kind of safe do you want?” asked the man.
“I want a small one,” said the other. “I would like a second-hand Chubb if you have one.”
“I think I have got the very thing. I suppose you want it for your office?”
Gilbert shook his head.
“No, I want it for my house,” he said shortly, “and I would like it delivered almost at once.”
He made an inspection of the various receptacles for valuables, and finally made a choice.
He was on his way out, when he saw the great safe which stood at the end of the store.
It was rather out of the ordinary, being about eight feet in height and about that width. It looked for all the world like a great steel wardrobe. Three sets of locks guarded the interior, and there was in addition a small combination lock.
“That is a very handsome safe,” said Gilbert.
“Isn’t it?” said the other carelessly.
“What is the value of that?”
“It is sold,” said the proprietor a little brusquely.
“Sold? I should like to see the interior,” said Gilbert.
The man smiled at him and stroked his upturned moustache thoughtfully.
“I am sorry I can’t oblige you,” he said. “The fact is, the new proprietor took the keys when he completed the purchase.”
“That is very unfortunate,” said Gilbert, “for this is one of the most interesting safes I have ever seen.”
“It is quite usual,” said the other briefly. He tapped the sides with his knuckles in a reflective mood. “It is rather an expensive piece of property.”
“It looks as if you had it here permanently.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” said the other absently. “I had to make it comfortable.”
He smiled, then he led the way to another part of the store.
Gilbert would have paid by cheque, but something prevented him. He searched his pockets, and found the fifteen pounds which had been asked for the safe.
With a pleasant good-night he was ushered out of the shop, and the door was closed behind him.
“Where have I seen your face before?” said the proprietor to himself.
Though he was a very clever man in more ways than one, it is a curious fact that he never placed his customer until many months afterwards.
Three men sat in the inner room of a City office. The outer door was locked, the door communicating between the outer office and the sanctum was wide open.
The men sat at a table, discussing a frugal lunch which had been brought in from a restaurant near by, and talking together in low tones.
George Wallis, who spoke with such authority as to suggest that he held a leading position above and before the others, was a man of forty, inclined a little to stoutness, of middle height, and with no distinguishing features save the short bristling moustache and the jet-black eyebrows which gave his face a somewhat sinister appearance. His eyes were tired and lazy, his square jaw bespoke immense determination, and the hands which played idly with a pen were small but strong; they were the hands of an artist, and indeed George Wallis, under one name or another, was known as an artist in his particular profession in every police bureau on the Continent.
Callidino, the little Italian at his side, was neat and dapper. His hair was rather long, he suggested rather the musical enthusiast than the cool-headed man of business. And yet this dapper Italian was known as the most practical of the remarkable trio which for many years had been the terror of every bank president in France.
The third was Persh, a stout man with a pleasant, florid face, and a trim cavalry moustache, who, despite his bulk, was a man of extraordinary agility, and his escape from Devil’s Island and his subsequent voyage to Australia in an open boat will be fresh in the minds of the average newspaper readers.
They made no disguise as to their identities, they did not evade the frank questioning which was their lot when the City Police smelt them out and came in to investigate the affairs of this “outside brokers’ ” establishment. The members of the City force were a little disappointed to discover that quite a legitimate business was being done. You cannot quarrel even with convicted bank robbers if they choose to get their living by any way which, however much discredited, is within the law; and beyond warning those of their clients with whom they could get in touch that the heads of this remarkable business were notorious criminals, the police must needs sit by and watch, satisfied that sooner or later the men would make a slip that would bring them within the scope of police action.
“And they will have to wait a jolly long time,” said Wallis.
He looked round his “Board” with an amused smile.
“Have they been in to-day?” asked Callidino.
“They have been in to-day,” said Wallis gravely. “They have searched our books and our desks and our clothes, and even the legs of our office stools.”
“An indelicate proceeding,” said Persh cheerfully.
“And what did they find, George?”
George smiled.
“They found all there was to be found,” he said.
“I suppose it was the burglary at the Bond Guarantees that I have been reading about that’s excited them,” said the Italian coolly.
“I suppose so,” said Wallis, with grave indifference. “It is pretty terrible to have names such as we possess. Seriously,” he went on, “I am not very much afraid of the police, even suppose there was anything to find. I haven’t met one of them who has the intelligence of that cool devil we met at the Foreign Office, when I had to answer some questions about Persh’s unique experiences on Devil’s Island.”
“What was his name?” asked Persh, interested.
“Something associated in my mind with South Africa—oh, yes, Standerton. A cool beast—I met him at Epsom the other day,” said Wallis. “He’s lost in a place like the Foreign Office. Do you remember that quick run through he gave me, Persh?”
The other nodded.
“Before I knew where I was I admitted that I’d been in Huntingdonshire the same week as Lady Perkinton’s jewels were taken. If he’d had another five minutes I guess he’d have known”—he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper—“all this hidden treasure which the English police are seeking was cached.”
The men laughed as at some great joke.
“Talking of cool people,” said Wallis, “do you recall that weird devil who held us up in Hatton Garden?”
“Have you found him?” asked Callidino.
George shook his head.
“No,” he said slowly, “only I’m rather afraid of him.”
Which was a remarkable confession for him to make. He changed the subject abruptly.
“I suppose you people know,” said Wallis, “that the police are particularly active just now? I’ve reason to be aware of the fact, because they have just concluded a most exhaustive search of my private belongings.”
He did not exaggerate. The police were, indeed, most eager for some clue to associate these three known criminals with the acts of the past month.
Half an hour later Wallis left the building. He paused in the entrance hall of the big block of offices, lighted a cigar with an air that betokened his peace with the world and his approval of humanity.
As his foot touched the pavement a tall man stepped to his side. Wallis looked up quickly and gave a little nod.
“I want you,” said the tall man coldly.
“Do you indeed?” said Wallis with exaggerated interest. “And what may you want with me?”
“You come along with me, and not so much of your lip,” said the man.
He called a cab, and the two men were rapidly driven to the nearest City police station. Wallis continued smoking his cigar, without any outward indication of apprehension. He would have chatted very gaily with the officer who had effected his arrest, but the officer himself was in no mood for light humour.
He was hustled into the charge room and brought before the inspector’s desk.
That officer looked up with a nod. He was more genial than his captor.
“Well, Wallis,” he said with a smile, “we want some information from you.”
“You always want information from somebody,” said the man with cold insolence. “Have you had another burglary?”
The inspector nodded.
“Tut, tut!” said the prisoner with an affectation of distress, “how very annoying for you Mr. Whitling. I suppose you have got the culprit?” he asked blandly.
“I’ve got you at present,” said the calm inspector. “I should not be surprised if I had also got the culprit. Can you explain where you were last night?”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Wallis; “I was dining with a friend.”
“His name?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “His name is immaterial. I was dining with a friend whose name does not matter. Put that down, inspector.”
“And where were you dining with this unknown friend?” asked the imperturbable official.
Wallis named a restaurant in Wardour Street.
“At what hour were you dining?” asked the inspector patiently.
“Between the hours of eight and eleven,” said the man, “as the proprietor of the restaurant will testify.”
The inspector smiled to himself. He knew the restaurant and knew the proprietor. His testimony would not carry a great deal of weight with a jury.
“Have you anybody respectable,” he asked, “who will vouch for the fact that you were there, other than your unknown friend and Signor Villimicci?”
Wallis nodded.
“I might name, with due respect,” he said, “Sergeant Colebrook, of the Central Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.”
He was annoyingly bland. The inspector looked up sharply.
“Is he going to vouch for you?” he asked.
“He was watching me the whole of the time, disguised, I think, as a gentleman. At least, he was in evening dress, and he was quite different from the waiters. You see, he was sitting down.”
“I see,” said the inspector. He put down his pen.
“It was rather amusing to be watched by a real detective-sergeant, from that most awe-inspiring wilderness of bricks,” the man continued. “I quite liked it, though I am afraid the poor fellow was bored sooner than I was.”
“I understand,” said the inspector, “that you were being watched from eight o’clock last night till——?”
He paused inquiringly.
“Till near midnight, I should imagine. Until our dress-suited detective, looking tragically like a detective all the time, had escorted me to the front door of my flat.”
“I can verify that in a minute,” said the inspector. “Go into the parade room.”
Wallis strolled unconcernedly into the inner room whilst the inspector manipulated the telephone.
In five minutes the prisoner was sent for.
“You’re all right,” said the inspector. “Clean bill for you, Wallis.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Wallis. “Very relieved indeed!” He sighed heavily. “Now that I am embarked upon what I might term a legalised form of thefts from the public, it is especially pleasing to me to know that my actions are approved by the police.”
“We don’t approve of everything you do,” said the inspector.
He was an annoying man, Wallis thought; he would neither lose his temper nor be rude.
“You can go now—sorry to have bothered you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the polite man with a little bow.
“By the way, before you go,” said the inspector, “just come into my inner office, will you?”
Wallis followed him. The inspector closed the door behind them. They were alone.
“Wallis, do you know there is a reward of some twelve thousand pounds for the detection of the men engaged in these burglaries?”
“You surprise me,” said Mr. Wallis, lifting his eyebrows.
“I don’t surprise you,” said the inspector; “in fact, you know much more about it than I do. And I tell you this, that we are prepared to go to any lengths to track this gang, or, at any rate, to put an end to its operations. Look here, George,” he tapped the other on the chest with his strong, gnarled finger, “is it a scream?”
“A scream?” Mr. Wallis was puzzled innocence itself.
“Will you turn King’s evidence?” said the other shortly.
“I should be most happy,” said Wallis, with a helpless shrug, “but how can I turn King’s evidence about a matter on which I am absolutely uninformed? The reward is monstrously tempting. If I had companions in crime I should need very little persuading. My conscience is a matter of constant adjustment. It is rather like the foot-rule which shoemakers employ to measure their customers’ feet—terrifically adjustable. It has a sliding scale which goes up and down.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your conscience,” said the officer wearily. “Do you scream or don’t you?”
“I don’t scream,” said Mr. Wallis emphatically.
The inspector jerked his head sideways, and with the bow which the invitation had interrupted, Mr. Wallis walked out into the street.
He knew, no one better, how completely every action of his was watched. He knew, even as he left the station, that the seemingly idle loafer on the corner of the street had picked him up, would follow him until he handed him over to yet another plain-clothes officer for observation. From beat to beat, from one end of the City to another, those vigilant eyes would never leave him; whilst he slept, the door, back and front of his lodging would be watched. He could not move without all London—all the London that mattered as far as he was concerned—knowing everything about that move.
His home was the upper part of a house over a tobacconist’s in a small street off Charing Cross Road. And to his maisonette he made a leisurely way, not hastening his steps any the more because he knew that on one side of the street an innocent commercial traveller, and on the other a sandwich man apparently trudging homeward with his board, were keeping him under observation. He stopped to buy some cigars in the Charing Cross Road, crossed near the Alhambra, and ten minutes later was unlocking the door of the narrow passage which ran by the side of the shop, and gave him private access to the suite above.
It was a room comfortably furnished and giving evidence of some taste. Large divan chairs formed a feature of the furnishing, and the prints, though few, were interesting by reason of their obvious rarity.
He did not trouble to make an examination of the room, or of the remainder of the maisonette he rented. If the police had been, they had been. If they had not, it did not matter. They could find nothing. He had a good conscience, so far as a man’s conscience may be good who fears less for the consequence of his deeds than for the apparent, the obvious and the discoverable consequences.
He rang a bell, and after a little delay an old woman answered the call.
“Make me some tea, Mrs. Skard,” he said. “Has anybody called?”
The old woman looked up to the ceiling for inspiration.
“Only the man about the gas,” she said.
“Only the man about the gas,” repeated George Wallis admiringly. “Wasn’t he awfully surprised to find that we didn’t have gas at all?”
The old lady looked at him in some amazement.
“He did say he had come to see about the gas,” she said, “and then when he found we had no gas he said ‘electricity’—a most absent-minded young man.”
“They are that way, Mrs. Skard,” said her master tolerantly; “they fall in love, don’t you know, round about this season of the year, and when their minds become occupied with other and more pleasant thoughts than gas mantles and incandescent lights they become a little confused. I suppose he did not bother you—he told you you need not wait?” he suggested.
“Quite right, sir,” said Mrs. Skard. “He said he would do all he had to do without assistance.”
“And I will bet you he did it,” said George Wallis with boisterous good humour.
Undisturbed by the knowledge that his rooms had been searched by an industrious detective, he sat for an hour reading an American magazine. At six o’clock a taxi-cab drove into the street and pulled up before the entrance of his flat. The driver, a stoutish man with a beard, looked helplessly up and down seeking a number, and one of the two detectives who had been keeping observation on the house walked across the road casually towards him.
“Do you want to find a number, mate?” he asked.
“I want No. 43,” said the cabman.
“That’s it,” said the officer.
He saw the cabman ring, and having observed that he entered the door, which was closed behind him, he walked back to his co-worker.
“George is going to take a little taxi drive,” he said; “we will see where he goes.”
The man who had waited on the other side of the road nodded.
“I don’t suppose he will go anywhere worth following, but I have the car waiting round the corner.”
“I’ll car him,” said the second man bitterly. “Did you hear what he told Inspector Whitling of the City Police about me last night?”
The first detective was considerably interested.
“No, I should like to hear.”
“Well,” began the man, and then thought better of it. It was nothing to his credit that he should keep a man under observation three hours, and that the quarry should be aware all the time that he was being watched.
“Hullo!” he said as the door of No. 43 opened, “here is our man.”
He threw a swift glance along the street, and saw that the hired motor-car which had been provided for his use was waiting.
“Here he comes,” he said, but it was not the man he expected. The bearded chauffeur came out alone, waved a farewell to somebody in the hall-way whom they could not see, and having started his engine with great deliberation, got upon his seat, and the taxi-cab moved slowly away.
“George is not going,” said the detective. “That means that we shall have to stay here for another two or three hours—there is his light.”
For four long hours they kept their vigil, and never once was a pair of eyes taken from the only door through which George Wallis could make his exit. There was no other way by which he could leave, of that they were assured.
Behind the house was a high wall, and unless the man was working in collusion with half the respectable householders, not only in that street but of Charing Cross Road, he could not by any possible chance leave his flat.
At half-past ten the taxi-cab they had seen drove back to the door of the flat, and the driver was admitted. He evidently did not expect to stay long, for he did not switch off his engine; as a matter of fact, he was not absent from his car longer than thirty seconds. He came back almost immediately, climbed up on to his seat and drove away.
“I wonder what the game is?” asked the detective, a little puzzled.
“He has been to take a message somewhere,” said the other. “I think we ought to have found out.”
Ten minutes later Inspector Goldberg, of Scotland Yard, drove into the street and sprang from his car opposite the men.
“Has Wallis returned?” he asked quickly.
“Returned!” repeated the puzzled detective, “he has not gone out yet.”
“Has not gone out?” repeated the inspector with a gasp. “A man answering to his description was seen leaving the City branch of the Goldsmiths’ Guild half an hour ago. The safe has been forced and twenty thousand pounds’ worth of jewelry has been taken.”
There was a little silence.
“Well, sir,” said the subordinate doggedly, “one thing I will swear, and it is that George Wallis has not left this house to-night.”
“That’s true, sir,” said the second man. “The sergeant and I have not left this place since Wallis went in.”
“But,” said the bewildered detective-inspector, “it must be Wallis, no other man could have done the job as he did it.”
“It could not have been, sir,” persisted the watcher.
“Then who in the name of Heaven did the job?” snapped the inspector.
His underlings wisely offered no solution.
Mr. Warrell, of the firm of Warrell & Bird, prided himself upon being a man of the world, and was wont to admit, in a mild spirit of boastfulness, in which even middle-aged and respectable gentlemen occasionally indulge, that he had been in some very awkward situations. He had inferred that he had escaped from those situations with some credit to himself.
Every stockbroker doing a popular and extensive business is confronted sooner or later with the delicate task of explaining to a rash and hazardous speculator exactly how rashly and at what hazard he has invested his money.
Mr. Warrell had had occasion before to break, as gently as it was possible to break, unpleasant news of Mrs. Cathcart’s unsuccess. But never before had he been face to face with a situation so full of possibilities for disagreeable consequences as this which now awaited him.
The impassive Cole admitted him, and the face of Cole fell, for he knew the significance of these visits, having learnt in that mysterious way which servants have of discovering the inward secrets of their masters’ and mistresses’ bosoms, that the arrival of Mr. Warrell was usually followed by a period of retrenchment economy and reform.
“Madam will see you at once,” was the message he returned with.
A few minutes later Mrs. Cathcart sailed into the drawing-room, a little harder of face than usual, thought Mr. Warrell, and wondered why.
“Well, Warrell,” she said briskly, “what machination of the devil has brought you here? Sit down, won’t you?”
He seated himself deliberately. He placed his hat upon the floor, and peeling his gloves, deposited them with unnecessary care in the satin-lined interior.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Cathcart impatiently. “Are those Canadian Pacifics down again?”
“They are slightly up,” said Mr. Warrell, with a smile which was intended both to conciliate and to flatter. “I think your view on Canadian Pacifics is a very sound one.”
He knew that Mrs. Cathcart would ordinarily desire nothing better than a tribute to her judgment, but now she dismissed the compliment, realising that he had not come all the way from Throgmorton Street to say kindly things about her perspicacity.
“I will say all that is in my mind,” Mr. Warrell went on, choosing his words and endeavouring by the adoption of a pained smile to express in some tangible form his frankness. “You owe us some seven hundred pounds, Mrs. Cathcart.”
She nodded.
“You have ample security,” she said.
“That I realise,” he agreed, addressing the ceiling, “but the question is whether you are prepared to make good in actual cash the differences which are due to us.”
“There is no question at all about it,” she said brusquely, “so far as I am concerned, I cannot raise seven hundred shillings.”
“Suppose,” suggested Mr. Warrell, with his eyes still upraised, “suppose I could find somebody who would be willing to buy your necklace—I think that was the article you deposited with us—for a thousand pounds?”
“It is worth considerably more than that,” said Mrs. Cathcart sharply.
“Possibly,” said the other, “but I am anxious to keep things out of the paper.”
He had launched his bombshell.
“Exactly what do you mean?” she demanded, rising to her feet. She stood glowering down at him.
“Do not misunderstand me,” he said hastily. “I will explain in a sentence. Your diamond necklace has been stolen from my safe.”
“Stolen!”
She went white.
“Stolen,” said Mr. Warrell, “by a gang of burglars which has been engaged in its operations for the past twelve months in the City of London. You see, my dear Mrs. Cathcart,” he went on, “that it is a very embarrassing situation for both of us. I do not want my clients to know that I accept jewels from ladies as collateral security against differences, and you,” he was so rude as to point to emphasise his words, “do not, I imagine, desire your friends to know that it was necessary for you to deposit those jewels.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I could have reported the matter to the police, sent out a description of the necklace, and possibly recovered the loss from an insurance company, but that I do not wish to do.”
He might have added, this good business man, that his insurance policy would not have covered such a loss, for when premiums are adjusted to cover the risk of a stockbroker’s office, they do not as a rule foreshadow the possibility of a jewel robbery.
“I am willing to stand the loss myself,” he continued, “that is to say, I am willing to make good a reasonable amount out of my own pocket, as much for your sake as for mine. On the other hand, if you do not agree to my suggestion, I have no other alternative than to report the matter very, very fully, very fully,” he repeated with emphasis, “to the police and to the press. Now, what do you think?”