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Title: A woman's debt

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: November 5, 2023 [eBook #72041]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co, 1924

Credits: Bob Taylor, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


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A WOMAN’S DEBT




  SUCCESSFUL NOVELS

  BY

  WILLIAM LE QUEUX

  Published by

  WARD, LOCK & CO., Limited,
  in various editions.


  THE LITTLE BLUE GODDESS
  AS WE FORGIVE THEM
  THE DAY OF TEMPTATION
  AN EYE FOR AN EYE
  GUILTY BONDS
  THE IDOL OF THE TOWN
  IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE
  IN WHITE RAIMENT
  THE LURE OF LOVE
  THE MYSTERIOUS THREE
  NO GREATER LOVE
  THE PLACE OF DRAGONS
  THE SIGN OF SILENCE
  THE TEMPTRESS
  THE WILES OF THE WICKED
  THE HOTEL X
  THE HEART OF A PRINCESS
  THREE KNOTS
  THE YOUNG ARCHDUCHESS
  No. 7 SAVILLE SQUARE
  THE LADY-IN-WAITING
  SCRIBES AND PHARISEES
  THE BRONZE FACE
  A WOMAN’S DEBT
  THE SIGN OF THE STRANGER
  THE BOND OF BLACK
  THE BROKEN THREAD
  THE COURT OF HONOUR
  SINS OF THE CITY
  THE MARKED MAN
  WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE
  A MAKER OF SECRETS
  THE VALROSE MYSTERY
  THE BLACK OWL
  THE SCARLET SIGN
  THE HOUSE OF EVIL




  A WOMAN’S
  DEBT


  BY

  WILLIAM LE QUEUX

  _Author of “The Temptress,” “The Way of Temptation,”
  “The Hotel X,” “The Bronze Face,” etc._

  WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

  LONDON AND MELBOURNE




Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




  To

  RUBY GRAYSON




CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                                             PAGE

       I A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW!                                         9

      II THE RIFLED SAFE                                              18

     III RICHARD IS DISMISSED                                         25

      IV GIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND                                     34

       V ROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER                                    47

      VI LANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT                                    54

     VII THE HEAD WAITER                                              63

    VIII MRS. MORRICE’S GIRLHOOD                                      73

      IX IMPORTANT INFORMATION                                        80

       X THE SAFE IS ROBBED AGAIN                                     89

      XI A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS                                         96

     XII SIR GEORGE’S VALET                                          103

    XIII AUNT AND “NEPHEW”!                                          113

     XIV AN ALARMING INTERRUPTION                                    120

      XV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER                                        130

     XVI AT SCOTLAND YARD                                            141

    XVII LANE VISITS RICHARD                                         146

   XVIII MRS. MORRICE’S DRESS                                        153

     XIX MISS ALMA BUCKLEY                                           161

      XX RUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE                               169

     XXI ROSABELLE HAS A GRIEVANCE                                   176

    XXII HUSBAND AND WIFE                                            185

   XXIII RICHARD IS CLEARED                                          194

    XXIV LANE MAKES A CALL                                           205

     XXV MRS. MORRICE’S CONFESSION                                   210

    XXVI THE STORY CONTINUED                                         219

   XXVII IN VINO VERITAS                                             228

  XXVIII BLACKMAILED!                                                235

    XXIX SIR GEORGE IS ARRESTED                                      244

     XXX RUPERT MORRICE MAKES AMENDS                                 252




A WOMAN’S DEBT




CHAPTER I

A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW!


“You’re a lucky chap, Croxton, to have got the measure of the old man
so well. I don’t suppose it will be long before you blossom into a
partner.”

The speaker, Archie Brookes, a slim elegant young fellow, very
good-looking but with a somewhat effeminate expression, cast a sidelong
glance at his companion as he uttered the remark, to observe covertly
what impression it made upon him.

There was no love lost between these two young men, although they were
thrown constantly into each other’s society. Richard Croxton was the
confidential secretary of Rupert Morrice, the well-known foreign banker
and financier, whose firm had colossal dealings abroad. Brookes was a
nephew and great favourite of the financier’s wife, the son of a dearly
beloved sister who had died many years ago. In consequence of that
relationship, and the partiality of his aunt, he was a frequent, almost
a daily, visitor to the big house in Deanery Street, Park Lane, where
the Morrices entertained largely and dispensed lavish hospitality.

Croxton’s voice was very cold, as he replied to the other’s suggestion.
“Those are the sort of things one does not permit oneself to speculate
about, much less to discuss.”

For a second an angry gleam showed in the light blue eyes of Brookes.
Not troubled with very refined feelings himself, he thought it was
rank hypocrisy on the part of Richard to refuse to talk to a man of
his own age about prospects upon which he must often have meditated.
But the angry gleam passed away quickly. Archie Brookes was a very
self-contained young man. He seldom allowed his temper to get the
better of him, and he never indulged in sarcastic remarks.

“Ah, you’ve got a very wise head upon your shoulders, Dick,” he said
in a genial tone, and accentuating his air of good-fellowship by the
unfamiliar use of the Christian name. “You’ll never let your tongue
give you away. But I am sure it will be as I say. Uncle Rupert thinks
the world of you, and he has no near relative of his own. What more
natural than that you should succeed?”

To his emphatic reiteration of his previous remarks, Richard made no
reply. While always perfectly civil to this elegant-mannered young man
for whom he felt a vague dislike, he never encouraged intimacy. He was
just a little resentful that he had been addressed as “Dick.” Nothing
in the world would have induced him to accost the other as “Archie,”
although they met nearly every day, and the one was the favourite
nephew of the mistress of the house, and the other was as good as the
adopted son of the master.

There was a certain element of romance about the introduction of
Richard Croxton into the Morrice _ménage_. The great financier, hard
as iron in his business dealings, was in private life a man of the
greatest sentiment and sensibility. Some years before he met the lady
who was now his wife, he had been desperately in love with a charming
girl, who had been one of the fashionable beauties of the day.

The fate of this lovely girl had been a sad and tragic one. With the
world at her feet, she had bestowed her affections upon a man utterly
unworthy—a rake, a gambler—and a spendthrift, and alienated her friends
and her family by marrying him. On her death-bed she had sent for her
old lover and confided her only child to his care. Rupert Morrice had
accepted the trust, his heart warming to the son, as he grew to know
him, not only for his own qualities, but for the sake of the mother
whom he had so fondly loved with the passionate ardour of a strong,
intense nature.

He had taken the young fellow into his own house and made him his
confidential secretary. Some women might have resented such a sudden
intrusion, but Mrs. Morrice was not of a petty or jealous nature. She
grew in time to be very fond of Richard Croxton, and did not in the
least begrudge him his place in her husband’s affections.

There sauntered up to the two young fellows a very
distinguished-looking man of about fifty years of age. Aristocrat
was written all over him—in his tall, elegant figure, his aquiline
features, his long, shapely, well-manicured hands, his cultivated and
well-bred voice. This was Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the paternal
uncle of Archie, a well-known personage in London society, a member of
some of the most exclusive clubs, and, report said, the possessor of
considerable wealth. He had added the name of Clayton on inheriting a
fortune from a distant relative.

He greeted Croxton with an air of great cordiality. His manners were
very polished, some people thought they were just a trifle too suave
for perfect sincerity.

“Well, my dear Richard, how goes the world with you?” Using the
privilege of seniority, he always addressed the young man by his
Christian name. For his part, Croxton did not always feel anything like
the same antagonism towards the uncle that he felt for the nephew, but
he did not really like him. There was something too oily about the man
for his taste.

Some commonplace reply was made to this inquiry, and Sir George went on
in his smooth, well-bred tones.

“A charming gathering, everything perfect and in good taste, as usual.
I really think this is almost the most pleasing house in London; luxury
without ostentation, wealth without oppressive magnificence. But then
who can wonder at it when you have host and hostess who pull together
so splendidly?”

He was a great hand at compliments, this elegant-mannered man of the
world, well-known on every race-course in England, well-known in Paris
and at Monte Carlo, where he played with varying fortune, sometimes
winning, more frequently losing. For he was an inveterate gambler.

And in paying his flowery compliments, either directly, or as in this
case, obliquely through the medium of a third party, he generally
laid it on with a trowel, so to speak. But to-night, in praising the
Morrices as he did, he was not speaking much more than the truth.

For wealthy as they were, both Morrice and his wife loathed anything in
the shape of ostentation. They left that to the _nouveau riche_. The
man had been used to riches from a boy, they were no novelty to him,
for his grandfather had founded the great business of which he had for
so many years been the head. His wife, though poor for her position,
was said to be descended from a very old family. Such people as these
were not likely to shock their friends and acquaintances with vulgar
display.

The house in Deanery Street looked very charming with its softly shaded
lights, its profusion of flowers, its crowd of beautifully dressed
women and well-groomed men. It wanted about three weeks to Christmas.
Very shortly the host and hostess were leaving for a month’s sojourn at
Mürren, to enjoy the ski-ing. Richard Croxton and Rosabelle Sheldon, a
niece and ward of the financier, were to accompany them.

Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary
remarks.

“Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not
actually _the_ most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its
atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one
of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little
involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined
with tact and manners.”

Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very
heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be
envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the
tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession
of both in great abundance.

He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am
not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but
of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the
dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think
only in thousands.”

Richard thought he understood. Sir George’s habits were pretty
well-known. He betted on every race; cards and all forms of gambling
had for him a fatal allurement. With such weaknesses, a rich man might
often find himself temporarily poor.

“You are a lucky young fellow, my dear Richard, to have been brought up
under the careful guidance of such a wise mentor as Rupert Morrice. The
man is sound to the core; no weaknesses, no failings. He has told me
that he has never touched a card in his life, nor made a bet. And yet,
withal, he is not a bit of a Puritan.”

Richard was quite aware of the fact that he was a very lucky person;
that, thanks perhaps mostly to that old love-affair, he had won the
favour of the wealthy financier. But he was not over-pleased to have
the fact rubbed into him so very persistently by this smooth-mannered
man of the world, whose attitude towards himself, he fancied, always
showed a trace of bland superiority.

He wished that he could get away from the too close proximity of the
uncle and nephew, and was meditating how best to accomplish his object,
when Providence intervened in the shape of Rosabelle Sheldon, who
fluttered up to them.

She was a very charming person, this good-looking girl over whose fair
head some twenty-two summers had passed. Her blue eyes looked at you
with a full unwavering glance that told you there was no meanness or
pettiness in her composition, that she was open and frank. She had a
fine figure, a splendid complexion, an exquisite mouth, which, when she
smiled, revealed perfect teeth. She was a merry-hearted girl, fond of
dancing, fond of sport, loving an outdoor life, and of a most equable
temper. But sunny as was her normal disposition, she was capable of
grave moods when occasion called them forth, and could be very serious
when she was deeply moved.

“I am dying for an ice. Please take me and get me one, Dick, that is if
I am not interrupting an important conversation,” she said, addressing
the young man.

Sir George regarded her with that benign smile of his which, when he
bestowed it upon women, suggested a subtle flattery and appreciation of
their charm.

“You’ve been enjoying yourself very much, I can see, my dear Rosabelle,
from the happy light on your expressive face. But I wager you will
enjoy yourself more at Mürren, delightful as this evening has been, and
is.”

The girl laughed gaily. “Oh, Sir George, how well you understand me. I
enjoy nearly everything, you know; I am made that way. But above all
things, I am an out-of-door girl, and I prefer to take my pleasures in
the open air when possible.”

She went away on Richard’s arm, leaving uncle and nephew standing
together side by side.

“Two types of people born with silver spoons in their mouths,” remarked
the elder man in his smooth, even voice. “She is the apple of old
Rupert’s eyes, and young Croxton is as dear to him as a son. They will
ultimately get the millions the old man has piled up. And unless I
am very much mistaken, there is already a pretty good understanding
between the young couple, and the millions will be united.”

The nephew had not spoken up to the present. Truth to tell, when Sir
George was there with his ceaseless flow of urbane small talk, it was
not very easy for another person to get a hearing, but now he found
voice.

“I have not the slightest doubt of that. The old boy seems to approve,
apparently has no wish that she should look higher, and my aunt doesn’t
disapprove, although I don’t think it would greatly affect matters if
she did. Miss Rosabelle, good-tempered as she is, has a very strong
will of her own in things that affect her strongly, and the old man,
being so fond of them both, would take their part against his wife.”

Sir George shrugged his shoulders. “What must be will be. It is a pity
though that this young Croxton has fascinated her. But for him, you
might have had a chance, and of course you would have had your aunt’s
backing.”

“I’m not the sort that finds favour in the eyes of men like Morrice,”
said the nephew curtly. “He leads too strenuous a life himself to take
very kindly to an idler like me. And Croxton might be his own son from
certain aspects of his character. He’s a tremendous worker, like the
old man, and I fancy Rosabelle prefers the strenuous type herself, and
that she has no great liking for people who just saunter through life.”

“Strange that Morrice should work so hard at his time of life, although
of course fifty-five is not a very great age. You’d think he had
millions enough without slaving to pile up a few more for the young
people to spend. And he has no vices, no weaknesses to run away with
his money.” And again Sir George indulged in that rather melancholy
sigh as he gave utterance to these sage remarks.

“He’ll die in harness as his father and grandfather died before him,”
said the young man decidedly. “It’s ingrained in them. But it does seem
a pity that there’s nobody of his own blood to take the reins, I mean
of course in the male line. But see, my aunt is beckoning me. We shall
meet as usual to-morrow, if I don’t come across you again to-night.”

Sir George made his exit; evening parties did not appeal to him
greatly. He went to one of his clubs where he was sure to find some
eager gambling spirits like himself, and Archie Brookes made his
way through the crowded rooms to his aunt, with whom he held a long
conversation.

Mrs. Morrice was a handsome, charming mannered woman, some five years
younger than her husband. Rupert Morrice had remained a bachelor till
he was thirty-five, faithful to the memory of the beautiful girl who
had made such a tragic wreck of her life, and then he had put the past
away from him as far as it was possible, and married his present wife.

His father had died young, and he had been at the head of affairs
for some six years and was a man of very considerable wealth, for
he had been the only son and inherited a large fortune as well as
the lucrative and old-established business. It would not have been
difficult for him, in such a position, to have made a brilliant
marriage; had he so chosen, he might have entered the ranks of the
aristocracy, for more than one dowerless Belgravian maiden would have
welcomed him as a suitor.

But although he had plenty of business ambitions, he was not very
ambitious socially, considering his vast wealth. He had no desire
to enter a proud and impoverished family who might think they were
condescending when they allowed him to mate with their blue-blooded
daughter. For rich as he was, he had come of homely stock, the founder
of the great business having been a poor man of humble origin who had
begun on the lowest rung of the ladder.

So he followed his own inclinations. He went abroad for a long holiday
and returned with a wife, much to the astonishment of his friends and
acquaintances. And not very much was vouchsafed about the antecedents
of the lady who had become the wife of the much-sought-after banker.
The world was given to understand that she was a woman of good family,
but no very full details were given until the arrival of Sir George
Clayton-Brookes upon the scene, when it was announced that a younger
brother of his had married her sister.

The long conversation between Archie Brookes and his aunt came to an
end presently, and then the young man took his departure. Like Sir
George, he was not greatly interested in this kind of function. He
did not belong to the exclusive clubs which opened their doors to his
fashionable uncle, but there were less pretentious establishments which
welcomed him. Like his relative, he was addicted to cards and betting,
and was only really happy when in the society of kindred spirits.

Rosabelle and young Croxton spent some time together, while the uncle
and nephew had been discussing them, and Archie Brookes had held that
long conversation with his aunt. When young people have got much to say
to each other, it takes a long time to consume an ice.

As they came back to the crowded rooms, the first person they met
was Rupert Morrice himself. He was a fine-looking, grey-bearded man,
carrying his fifty-five years well. The face was a little hard,
perhaps, the clear blue eyes were very keen, but the tones of his voice
showed that there was a very tender strain in his composition. He gave
a kindly glance to his niece, and addressed the young man.

“I hope we shan’t be kept up too late, Dick; we have to be astir
betimes to-morrow, to open that safe.”

Rosabelle smiled her sunny smile. “That wonderful safe, uncle, of which
nobody but you and Dick knows the secret.”

The great financier indulged in a satisfied chuckle. “Yes, young lady,
you may smile, but I am very proud of it. It is ‘some’ safe, as the
Yankees would say, I can tell you.”




CHAPTER II

THE RIFLED SAFE


Later on, in the small hours, the young couple had a further
_tête-à-tête_. The members of the family had done their duty by their
several guests, and were at leisure to follow their own inclinations
for a while.

A celebrated violinist played the opening notes of a wailing melody—the
best of its kind was always a feature of the entertainments at Deanery
Street—and at the sound, Richard exchanged a meaning glance with
his sweetheart. Quietly they stole away to a secluded corner where
they could whisper away to their hearts’ content, and were safe from
interruption.

“Do you find it so difficult to screw up your courage to the sticking
point, you silly old Dick?” asked the girl presently in a low voice,
pursuing a conversation that had been proceeding for some little time.

The young man smiled; the smile was a little rueful and apologetic. “To
tell the truth, my darling, I do. When I think of it in cold blood, it
seems such a daring thing to do.”

“‘Faint heart’—you know the rest,” said the girl, in a bantering voice.
“Well, Dick, if you can’t manage it, I shall have to throw my maidenly
modesty to the winds, and undertake it myself. I am not afraid of my
uncle, if you are.”

“But from my point of view, dear, you must admit it wants a lot of
pluck. A poor devil of a fellow with a couple of hundred a year of his
own, asking a millionaire to consent to a marriage with a niece whom he
is going to make his heiress. Wouldn’t ninety-nine men out of a hundred
kick me out of the house in double quick time?”

The smile on Rosabelle’s charming face grew sunnier than ever. “But
first of all, we will say, and it is the truth, that he is the
hundredth, not one of the ninety-nine. And then, it isn’t as if he
didn’t know. I don’t think we have kept our little secret very much to
ourselves, have we, Dick?”

“I am not so sure that he does know,” answered the still doubting
lover. “He is always so frightfully absorbed in his business, I think
it uses up all his faculties. We know we are in love with each other,
but I doubt if the fact is so patent to everybody as you think, my
darling.”

“Rubbish!” cried the girl pertly. “Don’t you make any mistake about
Uncle Rupert being so wrapt up in business that he doesn’t observe
anything outside. Why, those keen eyes of his never let the most
trivial thing escape them. And I have often seen them resting on us
with a very intelligent expression. Take my word for it, Dick, he knows
what is going on, and he approves. You know how swiftly he puts his
foot down when he has a mind to. If he disapproved, he would soon give
me a very strong hint, or if he did not care to speak to me himself, I
should soon have a serious warning from auntie.”

Young Croxton was greatly encouraged by these words. He had a firm
belief in his sweetheart’s judgment and powers of penetration.

“That settles it then,” he said, speaking in a much more confident
tone. “I will tackle him to-morrow. I want to get it settled before we
go away to Mürren. Oh, my darling, if it is all right, as you think,
shan’t we have a lovely holiday?”

She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “And, as for all that
nonsense about having no money, why, I have no money either to speak
of. You have two hundred a year of your own, I have a hundred. Well,
Dick, if we were very wilful, I daresay we might be brave enough to
start on that, even if the worst were to happen. But there, don’t let
us think of that; I tell you it is going to be all right.”

He returned the affectionate squeeze she had given him with interest.
“By Jove, you do put courage into a fellow, little girl.”

“Not so little, if you please, Dick. I am rather above the average
height, you know. And if he is going to make me his heiress, as you
think, he doesn’t intend to leave you in the cold. He has treated you
like a son from the day you first came into the house. Everybody knows
how he worshipped your mother, and kept single all those years because
of her. I do not say he is not fond of auntie in a steady, quiet way.
But his other love was the sort that comes once in a lifetime, and
never again.” She bent her head very close and whispered shyly in his
ear. “He loved your mother, Dick, in the way that you and I love each
other, and of course he loves her son for her sake.”

And after such a declaration, it is small wonder that these devoted
young lovers, knowing they were safe from observation, testified their
affection for each other in a long caress.

Later on, when the last car had rolled away, and the somewhat weary
host and hostess were alone, a brief conversation took place between
them on the subject of the young couple. It was begun by Mrs. Morrice.

“You still approve of it, Rupert?” It was evident from these words
that the matter had been discussed between them before. “Remember that
Rosabelle is a very pretty girl, as well as a charming one, and will
have plenty of lovers in time.”

By these remarks it might be inferred that if Mrs. Morrice did not
offer actual opposition, she was quite ready to take a neutral attitude
in the matter.

Her husband did not beat about the bush in the least, he was always a
man who spoke out his mind unhesitatingly.

“Yes, I have thought it well out. If he is the man of Rosabelle’s
fancy, and everything points that way, I am quite willing he should
marry her. The moment he asks for my consent he shall have it.”

Mrs. Morrice heaved a gentle little sigh. “I know how fond you are of
Richard, that you could hardly be fonder of him if he were your own
son. Well, I own I am just a little sorry that her choice did not fall
upon Archie. It is not to be wondered at, for he is to me what Richard
Croxton is to you.”

Mr. Morrice frowned ever so slightly at the suggestion, but he turned
away his face quickly so that his wife should not see it. He had wasted
his heart upon Richard’s mother, and he could never give another woman
what he had given to her. But he was fond of his wife, he appreciated
her charm, her good qualities, the help she gave him in the social side
of his life, and he would not have pained her for the world.

“If Rosabelle had set her heart upon Archie,” he said gravely, “I
cannot say for certain what my attitude would have been. I should have
hated to make her miserable, and yet—and yet I could not have approved.
I am glad that things are as they are. Archie has his good qualities,
no doubt; he is pleasant and amiable; I daresay he would make a good
husband. But, forgive me if I speak a little too plainly, he is an
incurable idler, and much too fond of pleasure—I could not bear to see
her married to a man of that stamp.”

There was a little quiver in the wife’s voice as she replied: “Are you
not just a little too hard upon poor Archie, Rupert? Remember, he has
not had the advantages of Richard’s training. If he had had you for a
tutor, how different he would have been. My brother-in-law is not an
ideal guardian of youth. An idler himself by the accident of birth,
and I fear by inclination, he does not see the necessity for work in
others.”

The great financier, whose life was one long strenuous working day,
from choice not necessity, shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, his uncle will leave him his money, that seems understood, and
therefore Archie has no need to work for a subsistence. But I should
think better of him if he took up some occupation, if only as a hobby.
Nothing saps a man’s character like the idle loafing life he is leading
now.”

There was a note of bitterness in Mrs. Morrice’s voice as she replied
to those uncompromising remarks.

“It is not at all certain that some day Archie will not have to work
for a living.”

Morrice looked at his wife in some surprise. “But Sir George is
credited with being a well-off man. You have told me the same yourself.”

“He is well off perhaps now. But whether he dies rich or not will
depend upon what the gaming table and the race-course have left him.”

Mr. Morrice pursed his lips, and his face grew very hard. It wore
the look that some of those who knew him in business dreaded to see.
Upright and of iron resolution himself, he had small pity for the weak
and self-indulgent. Above all, he loathed men who had made ducks and
drakes of their money, who threw it away in unprofitable enterprises.

“I own that I have heard some rumours of this, that he bets too
highly, that he plays for too big stakes,” he said presently. “Well,
it would be a good thing if Master Archie could be removed from such a
corrupting influence.”

“Would to heaven that he could be.” There was a note of almost anguish
in the woman’s voice as she spoke, then she recovered herself quickly,
and added in a calmer tone: “But it is too late. His uncle worships
him, and he is devoted to his uncle.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The morning came. Mr. Morrice was not going to his business house; a
client was calling on him in Deanery Street, and after that visit had
been paid, he was going to a jeweller’s in the West End for a certain
purpose. He had lately purchased some very fine and expensive diamonds,
which he had put away in readiness for an important event—the birthday
of his wife falling a week hence. He was going to have these made up
into a necklace and present it to her upon the happy occasion. Like
most women, she was passionately fond of jewels, and though she already
had plenty, he knew she would be delighted to add to her store.

The client who was paying him a visit was coming to receive a large
sum of money, a million francs, which the financier had put for safe
custody in that wonderful safe to which allusion has been made.

Morrice and Richard breakfasted alone that morning at an early hour,
while the ladies stayed in bed to recover from the fatigue of the
previous evening.

Neither of the men spoke much during the progress of the meal. The
financier’s busy brain was at work upon his various schemes, and he had
almost forgotten that conversation a few hours earlier with his wife
concerning her brother-in-law and Archie Brookes.

Young Croxton was very preoccupied too. This was the day on which,
fortified by the encouraging counsels of his sweetheart, he had
resolved to screw up his courage and ask Morrice’s consent to his
betrothal to Rosabelle.

The two men from time to time looked at their watches, and at last the
elder rose with a quick, alert movement.

“It wants five minutes, Dick. Let us be going.” They went into
Morrice’s study, a spacious room, solidly furnished. In a corner stood
a big safe, from which, when the actual time arrived, they were going
to take the packet of French notes and the loose diamonds. Two days
previously they had shifted them to an easily accessible spot.

They stood before the formidable-looking receptacle, watches in hand,
and then with a simultaneous exclamation of “Now!” from each, Morrice
and his confidential secretary inserted their two separate keys. The
heavy door swung back, the financier advanced his hand to the spot
where the articles had been placed, and drew back with a cry of dismay.

_The packet of French notes, the canvas bag containing the loose
diamonds, had been removed from their hiding place, also a parcel of
private papers containing important secrets._




CHAPTER III

RICHARD IS DISMISSED


For an instant the two men stared at each other in blank amazement
as they stood in front of the big safe, the door of which had been
unlocked with such startling results.

The elder man recovered himself first. His was a strong, resolute
character, and it was always said of him by those who knew him
intimately, that no man could grasp the bearings of an unexpected
situation more readily. Croxton seemed dazed and stupefied beyond the
power of speech.

“But they were there, all of them, when we shifted them the other
morning, the packet of notes, the bag of diamonds, the parcel of
papers. You saw them, we both saw them.”

The young man’s voice was trembling as he answered: “We both saw them,
as you say, sir. They were there, right enough.”

The big financier took a great interest in the mechanism of safes; it
had always been one of his hobbies. He had tried half a dozen different
kinds during his business career, and in the present one he was
confident he had found the latest thing in ingenuity and safety.

In truth it was a marvel, and there was nothing else like it in all
the world. He had availed himself to the full of the resources of the
locksmith’s art, and had contributed a few practical suggestions as to
the actual mechanism himself. It had a marvellous time lock, the secret
of which was only known to himself and his secretary. The time when the
safe could be opened was automatically controlled by the day of the
month.

For example, if it was secretly set to open at nine o’clock on June the
twelfth, it would not open before nine plus six (the sixth month of
the year), plus twelve (the day of the month). Therefore, it would be
twenty-seven minutes past nine before the two keys could be inserted,
and then only for one minute. If that time passed, the safe could not
be opened till next day, and then not one minute but two minutes later.

There was a long pause in which both men were thinking furiously.
Richard Croxton, recovering slowly from the shock, was beginning to
realize the awkwardness of the situation with regard to himself, and to
anticipate the thoughts that were forming themselves in the mind of the
man who had, up to the present, treated him more like a father than an
employer.

Gradually over Morrice’s countenance came that hard, grim look which
Richard had seen a few times during their association together; notably
in the early days when some gross act of carelessness or inattention
had aroused dissatisfaction and subsequent anger.

“Well, what have you to say about it?” thundered the banker at length.
When he had once come to a conclusion he never beat about the bush, but
went to the point as straight as an arrow.

The unfortunate young man moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
It was an agonizing moment for him, and, engrossed as he was with
the terrible aspect of the situation, he could not help thinking of
Rosabelle and her heartening words uttered a few hours previously.
This was the day on which he had resolved to confess to her uncle his
love for the charming girl, and beg his consent to their betrothal.
In a few seconds this roseate prospect had been blotted out, and he
was confronting, not a kindly master and friend, but a stern and angry
judge.

“I have nothing to say, sir, except that I am innocent, and that
statement you do not look as if you were inclined to believe.”

The elder man emitted an angry exclamation, and the grim expression
grew grimmer as he gazed searchingly at the pale and shaken young man.

“Richard Croxton, you are no fool, you can see the situation as it
presents itself to me, as it would present itself to anybody who knew
the circumstances. The secret of that safe is known only to us two, you
and I alone have access to it with our separate keys. Even supposing
for a moment, and it is a most wild supposition, that some third party
could have gained temporary possession of your key and mine, and, after
taking impressions of them, had duplicates made, how was he to know the
secret of the mechanism, the time at which the safe would open. We saw
the articles here two days ago; they have been taken between yesterday
and this morning.” He paused and added significantly: “At that time
when the safe could be opened, I had left the house early, and was in
my private room in the city. You had work to finish here, and were to
come down to me with the report you were preparing at twelve o’clock.”

It was difficult for Croxton to preserve his faculties of thought as
the damning evidence grew and accumulated on him. But a ray of light
seemed to pierce suddenly through his benumbed brain.

“We breakfasted together at eight o’clock, sir, and you left directly
you had finished. After you had gone, I went up to my own room, and
remained till it was time for me to leave to join you in the city. I
never during that time entered this apartment. To that I am ready to
swear; I will take any solemn oath you care to dictate to me.”

Morrice seemed just a little staggered by the solemnity with which
these words were uttered, and for a second the hard, stern look melted,
but only for a second. His keen, logical mind at once prompted the
question.

“You say that you were in your own room practically all the time you
were alone. Is there any evidence you can bring forward to corroborate
this statement? Did Mrs. Morrice, Rosabelle, any of the servants look
in upon you during that period?”

The young man made a despairing gesture: “Alas, no. It is very rarely
that either Mrs. Morrice or Rosabelle pays me a visit when I am at
work. The servants are hardly ever about the house at that time. And I
know from what they said that both the ladies were out very early on
a shopping expedition. I don’t suppose that anybody knew for certain
whether I was here or in my own room. I have nothing to offer you, sir,
but my bare word, my solemn oath, if you choose to accept it. But if I
am what you appear to think me, my oath would carry no more weight than
my word. Again I say, much as appearances are against me, inexplicable
and astounding as the whole thing is, before heaven I am not the thief
who has stolen your property.”

“Then if you are not the thief, I must be,” cried the irate financier
with bitter sarcasm, “though, I take it, the most suspicious detective
in the world would hardly dare to suspect me of purloining my own
money and diamonds.”

There was another long pause. Morrice walked up and down the spacious
room with long strides, the stern frown on his face now deepening,
now clearing a little, as his conflicting thoughts raced through his
brain. No doubt to him the brazen effrontery of the young man seemed
incredible, in view of the damning facts of the situation. And that
seemingly feeble excuse that he had been in his own room during the
time of the burglary, during the whole period between breakfast and the
moment when he left the house—did it hold water?

Was it a lie invented on the spur of the moment, or had it been thought
out beforehand to be produced at the moment of discovery. And yet, if
Richard were a cunning criminal, would he not have taken precautions to
secure some sort of alibi? The theft from the safe would not have taken
more than a minute, the articles were all together, their removal would
have taken no time. He could have gone back to his room, rung the bell
three or four times to summon a servant on one pretext or another. It
might not have been convincing proof, for the robbery could have been
accomplished so quickly, but it would have been better than no proof at
all.

But then the cleverest criminals made often very stupid mistakes, and
he could not believe the young man to be a hardened malefactor. He had
some secret vices that had never been suspected, he had got into money
difficulties; in his perplexity he had taken advantage of the trust
reposed in him, and yielded to a sudden temptation.

And then, in the midst of his anger and disappointment, came softening
thoughts of the dead mother whom he had loved with such a passionate
devotion. Could he act towards her child as if he were a stranger
between whom there had been no tie save that between employer and
employed. The stern look melted away; he came up to the stricken
Richard and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Listen to me, Dick. You are the son of the woman whom I would have
given up everything else to make my wife, had she not preferred your
father to me. When you were left to the tender mercies of the world, an
orphan cast aside by your own family, with a small pittance, enough to
keep you from actual want, I came to your rescue. I took you into my
business; I took you into my house. I have not perhaps told you very
definitely of my future intentions, but you can guess what they were
likely to be. In a year or two I proposed to give you a share of my
business. I have noticed the attachment between you and Rosabelle, who
is very dear to me. I should have put no obstacles in your way.”

The bitter irony of it all! But for this disastrous happening, what
a fair and golden future! The unhappy young man could not speak, but
inwardly he was suffering tortures. Those beautiful dreams of an
honourable and prosperous career, of a happy wedded life with the
charming girl he loved so dearly—all had vanished in those hateful few
moments!

“Listen to me, Dick,” went on the deep, resonant voice, and the tone
was now one more of sorrow than anger. “Abandon this stubborn attitude
of pretended innocence. Don’t regard me as the stern and inflexible
judge, ready to mete out deserved punishment, but one who will incline
to mercy, the mercy that all of us may stand in need of some day. Your
mother’s son cannot be naturally dishonest, it is impossible. You have
got into difficulties that I have never suspected; in an evil hour your
better instincts yielded to your pressing needs, your fear of disgrace;
and you did this base thing. Confess your fault, make restitution if
you can, if it is not too late, and I will help you as I vowed to your
mother I always would.”

A dreadful groan escaped from the tortured Richard. “You are one of the
best and kindest men on God’s earth; my mother whom you so loved always
told me so. If I were the guilty wretch you believe me to be I would go
on my knees and implore your pardon. But I am not a thief, and I cannot
restore what I have never taken.”

But Morrice, more than ever convinced of his obduracy, continued to
urge him, in tones that were almost pleading.

“There must of course be something between us that can never be quite
blotted out, in spite of repentance on the one side and forgiveness
on the other. I could never again put you in a position of trust, for
that fatal weakness might come over you once more. But I would give you
a post where temptation could not assail you. You have spoken of your
mother, so dear to us both. I implore you by the memory of that beloved
woman who, for aught we know, is even now watching us from afar, to
quit this stubborn attitude and confess the truth.”

No reply came from the accused man, and the hard, stern look came
back to the banker’s face. At that moment the door of the room slowly
opened, and the charming vision of Rosabelle, looking her sweetest and
daintiest, stood framed in the opening.

“May I come in?” she cried in her fresh, girlish voice.

“Come in, my poor child,” was her uncle’s answer. “Come in; something
has happened that you will have to know sooner or later, although I
fear the knowledge may break your heart.”

White as death at these ominous words, she advanced into the room,
closing the door, her troubled glance changing from the stern, set
face of her uncle to the pallid countenance of her lover, the two men
who were the dearest to her in the world, loving the one with a filial
devotion that could not have been surpassed by a daughter, the other
with all the fervour of her ardent youth.

It was a painful scene. In a few trenchant words, the more weighty from
the cold, judicial tone in which they were uttered, Morrice explained
to her what had happened. She learned to a certain extent the secret
of that wonderful safe, about the protecting properties of which she
had so often laughingly rallied its owner, this wretched safe which had
worked the ruin of Richard, and now menaced her own happiness.

She was too much dazed by the sudden and tragic happening to do much
more than grasp a few salient facts. The safe was opened by two keys,
one carried by each of the two men. They alone of all the inmates of
the house knew of its mechanism. That safe had been opened, and certain
valuable property extracted.

“But how could it be opened by one person, if it requires two keys?”
she cried, grasping at the first difficulty that presented itself to
her in her distress.

Mr. Morrice did not mince matters. “If I had a duplicate key of the one
carried by the other man, I could open it alone, and vice versa,” he
explained.

She understood the horrible suggestion, but her heart refused to credit
it. Of course she realized that her uncle would not steal his own
property, that would be a surmise altogether too ridiculous. But it was
equally impossible to believe that Richard, the man in whom the great
financier had placed such implicit trust, to whom her whole soul went
out in pity and yearning, should stoop to such a dastardly act, with
all the long and sinister preparations for its execution.

She stretched her hands out imploringly to her lover. “Richard, you
are no thief, nothing shall ever convince me of it,” she cried in a
voice of agony. “Deny it, deny it to us both. Say something that will
persuade him of the falseness of the accusation, of the injustice he is
doing you.”

The miserable young man was hardly less moved than herself. “I have
denied it, Rosabelle; I have offered to swear it, to take any oath he
may dictate to me. But he refuses to believe either word or oath. I can
do no more. Thank heaven, black as appearances are, you believe that I
am an honest man.”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” she cried brokenly. “I do not care a straw for
appearances, if they were twice as strong against you as they are.
I know you so well, my heart tells me that you have not done this
horrible thing.”

And then Morrice delivered his sentence. Incensed as he was at what he
considered the obstinacy of Croxton, he could not fail to be moved by
the girl’s passionate vindication of her lover.

“Richard Croxton, needless to say that from this day forth we are
strangers; my house can no longer give you shelter. For the sake of one
whose memory I shall always revere, I shall take no steps. Nobody but
Rosabelle and my wife will know the real reasons of your departure.
I am now going to the city to get money to replace that which has
been stolen. I shall go there and return here as quickly as possible.
I have no heart for any other business to-day. When I return, let
me find you gone. Later on I will invent some plausible explanation
of the severance of our relations, and give it out to those who are
interested.”

He turned on his heel without vouchsafing another glance at the
miserable man upon whom, up to the present, he had lavished kindness
and affection, strode through the hall, and a minute later he had left
the house.

The two wretched lovers were left alone, and when the door had closed,
the poor girl broke down, and threw herself into Richard’s arms,
sobbing bitterly.




CHAPTER IV

GIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND


“What an awful day!” she cried when Richard had calmed her a little,
not that he was in much of a mood to administer consolation to others.
“And last night, when we talked of our future, and I told you to pluck
up your courage, I felt so gay and light-hearted. Oh, Dick dear, it
will kill me; but no, I must not let it do that. We must both be brave,
and strain every nerve to prove your innocence.”

“It is indeed a tragic day,” corroborated her lover. “And, my darling,
but for this inexplicable mystery, it would all have been such
plain-sailing. In the midst of his reproaches, he paused to tell me
that he knew of our love for each other, and that he would have put no
obstacles in the way.”

The poor girl sobbed afresh at this. To have the cup of happiness
dashed down when it was so near her lips—could there be a more poignant
disappointment? But presently, she rallied and dried her tears, and
inquired his plans for the future. Morrice had ordered him to quit
the house before he returned to it. There could be no disobeying that
command.

“I have often spoken to you of the dear old soul who was first my
mother’s nurse and then mine. My grandfather left her a small annuity
as reward for her faithful services to his family. She has a tiny
little cottage at Petersham, near Richmond. She will take me in until
I have collected my thoughts sufficiently to decide upon my future.”

“And I shall come and see you there, Dick,” cried the girl eagerly,
“even though you are forbidden this house.”

“My darling, you must not do anything without your uncle’s sanction. In
certain moods, he is a stern and hard man.”

Richard felt that life, in a way, was over for him, but for this
brilliant young creature it was only just beginning. Touched as he was
by her faith in him, he knew that it would be folly for her to cling to
a man over whom hung the shadow of disgrace. As yet, he could not wound
her feelings by telling her so. But presently, when he had recovered
himself sufficiently to think and plan, he would pass quietly out of
her life.

“He may be stern and hard at times, but he is always just,” said
Rosabelle. “He will not think the less of me because I refuse to
believe you guilty. Why, Dick, I know you so well,” she added
impetuously. “I would not credit the evidence of my own eyes against
your word. If these things had been found in your pockets and you had
denied you stole them, I would have believed you, and known the real
thief had put them there for the purpose of incriminating you.”

Young Croxton smiled a wan smile at his sweetheart’s vehemence. Can
anything equal the blind faith of a woman in the man she loves? It is
one of those qualities amongst many which they must surely derive from
a divine source.

“He is sore and angry over his loss now,” went on the beautiful girl.
“In a day or two he will calm down, and see that he has been too hasty
in his judgment.”

“I have never known him angry over losses, and hardly a year goes by
that he does not make heavy ones,” answered Richard sadly. “No, to do
him justice, what has cut him to the quick is the supposed discovery of
my unworthiness.”

Half an hour later, Richard Croxton had left the familiar house in
Deanery Street which had sheltered him so long. His sweetheart bade
him a tearful farewell, and Mrs. Morrice, to whom the young couple
explained the terrible happenings of the morning, showed considerable
emotion. In her heart, she would have preferred her nephew, Archie
Brookes, as a husband for Rosabelle, but she had always been very fond
of Richard, and stoutly expressed her belief in his innocence.

A taxi bore him swiftly to the neat little ivy-covered cottage at
Petersham, where he received a hearty welcome from his old nurse,
a comely old woman verging upon her seventieth year, but hale and
vigorous for her age. To her he did not explain the actual truth, but
simply stated that circumstances had suddenly arisen which rendered
necessary the severing of his connection with Mr. Morrice.

The good, simple old soul said little, but she was very upset at the
news. She knew very well that the great financier had treated him like
a son, and that this sudden separation meant the ruin of his bright
prospects.

“And Miss Rosabelle?” she inquired anxiously. Hitherto he had kept few
secrets from the faithful and sympathetic old woman, who had long ago
learned the history of his love affair.

“She will come and see me, dear old nurse, that is to say, if her uncle
does not expressly forbid her.”

Mrs. Hart, such was the name of this faithful old servant, made no
comment upon this significant remark. It crossed her mind that it was
more than probable Richard’s departure had been caused by this very
love-affair; that fond as he was of him, the wealthy financier had
resented his attentions to his niece, who, in the course of time, would
be a considerable heiress.

It may be observed in passing that the same opinion was held in the
servants’ hall at Deanery Street, where the young man’s sudden exit had
naturally aroused a tremendous amount of interest. It had also occurred
to Morrice, desirous of keeping the true facts to himself, more perhaps
from respect for the dead than tenderness to the living, that he might
get his wife to give some hints which would produce the same impression
amongst their acquaintances.

True to her promise, in a few days Rosabelle arrived at the ivy-covered
cottage, having warned her lover, in a letter received by the first
post in the morning, of her visit.

He noticed that she drove up in a taxi, not, as was usual, in one of
her uncle’s cars. He was, of course, overwhelmed with joy at seeing her
so soon, but he was very anxious that the fidelity to himself should
not entail disastrous consequences to her own fortunes. So the first
question he asked was whether Mr. Morrice knew of her visit.

“Everything is straight and above-board, dear Dick,” was the girl’s
answer. “I had a long talk with him yesterday morning at his early
breakfast. I got up early myself in order to seize a chance of finding
him alone. He seemed very sad and preoccupied, but he was not as stern
and harsh as on that dreadful day. I told him a lot of things as they
came into my head, how dearly we loved each other, how we had fallen in
love from the first day we met—that no matter if all the world turned
against you, I should still be faithful, that my one great object was
that you should take steps to get yourself cleared and discover the
real criminal.”

“And what did he say to all this?” asked the young man eagerly. “I can
guess, my darling, that you pleaded very well.”

“He listened very attentively, and was very quiet for a long time. When
I had finished, he asked me if I wished him to send for detectives
from Scotland Yard. I hastily said that I did, and that I was sure you
would wish it too. ‘My poor child, you don’t know what you are talking
about,’ was his answer. ‘The certain result of that would be that the
man in whom you believe would be arrested, and once having taken the
case up, I could not drop it, I should be bound to prosecute.’ That
scared me dreadfully, you may be sure. His final words were spoken in
a very sad voice. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie, my poor wronged Rosabelle.
Richard Croxton through his own act has passed away from my life, as he
must pass away from yours. You are young, and in time your grief will
heal, and some day you will meet a man worthy of your love.’”

The young man’s head sunk on his breast. Yes, Mr. Morrice was right.
Appearances were too black against him; if the authorities were called
in, arrest would be sure to follow.

The girl went on in a low, tearful voice. “I told him that the day to
which he looked forward would never come, that if I could not marry
you, no other man should be my husband. And then, Dick, I ended with
the boldest thing I had said yet—I am pretty brave as a rule but I own
I trembled as I said it—I told him I was coming to see you here, that I
would no more forsake you in your trouble than your mother would have
done. She would have clung to you in your darkest hour because she
loved you, and that I did not love you less.”

“And he did not forbid you?” cried the young man in amazement. He knew
Rupert Morrice so well, of a nature singularly kind and generous, but
hard as flint to evil-doers, to those who betrayed his trust.

“No, he did not forbid me, Dick, and I am almost as amazed as you
are, but I think that reference to your mother softened him. It was a
long time before he spoke, and then his words came very slowly. ‘If I
allow you to do this, at any rate for the present, till I have thought
matters out further, will you give me your solemn promise that you will
only play the rôle of consoler, that you will do nothing rash?’ Of
course I knew what he meant, that we might get secretly married. So I
gave him that promise, Dick; do you blame me?”

“A thousand times No, my darling,” cried Croxton, as he took her in
his arms and kissed away the tears on the sweet face. “And considering
what he believes me to be, nay more, what he is sure I am, I cannot but
marvel at his giving his consent.”

For a long time the young people talked together, and all through their
conversation the one thought uppermost in Rosabelle’s mind was that her
lover should take steps to clear himself, that he should not be content
to rest under the unmerited stigma, that he should not meekly consent
to pass out of their lives.

“If you do not act, I shall act myself,” she told him finally.

The young man listened attentively, and hope and resolution began
to stir in him. He had been so stunned by the damning nature of the
evidence against him, by the stern attitude of his once benevolent
protector, that he had been crushed almost into insensibility, into
a benumbing of his faculties. But, as the girl spoke in her bright,
incisive way, the clouds about his brain seemed to melt. He seemed to
see himself rehabilitated, able to prove to those whom it concerned
that he was the honest man they had always believed him to be.

“The question is how to go to work,” he said gravely. “Mr. Morrice
is right when he says that to call in Scotland Yard might lead to
disastrous consequences. But we could employ a private detective to
probe the mystery to the bottom. Even if he could not lay his hands on
the actual thief, he might be able to prove my innocence.”

Rosabelle caught eagerly at the idea. “And where can we find the sort
of man we want?”

“One of the cleverest is Gideon Lane; his office is in Shaftesbury
Avenue. I know him a little, and Mr. Morrice knows him too. We employed
him to watch a suspected clerk in our office, and he trapped him very
cleverly.”

“Would it cost much to employ him?” asked the girl anxiously. She knew
that Richard’s capital, like her own, was very small, and it was hardly
likely that Morrice would spend any money on a case he had already
pre-judged. It was not possible for her to help, for her uncle was her
trustee and not likely to allow her to adventure a penny in such a
cause.

But Croxton’s small amount of capital was entirely under his own
control, and now that he was recovering from his despairing mood,
he was fired with the desire to establish his innocence, and had no
hesitation in employing some of it for the purpose.

After a great deal of discussion as to the initial steps to be taken,
it was decided that Rosabelle should visit the detective, tell him the
whole facts, and commission him to undertake the investigation on her
own behalf. Richard would give her a brief letter of introduction to
Gideon Lane, and furnish her with money to pay a preliminary fee.

The enthusiastic girl did not allow the grass to grow under her
feet. Two days later she was seated in the waiting-room of the small
suite of offices in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had sent in her letter
of introduction and was waiting to be summoned to the presence of
the well-known detective who was, fortunately for her impatience,
disengaged. He was not many seconds reading the letter, but it seemed
hours before the restless Rosabelle saw the inner door open, and was
asked by a smart young typist to step in.

Mr. Gideon Lane rose to receive her, a tall, good-looking man with
nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance; with his
clean-shaven face and strong, resolute expression he might have been
taken for an actor, there was certainly nothing about him to suggest
an unraveller of mysteries. The most striking features in an agreeable
countenance were his eyes, which were piercing and brilliant.

“I remember Mr. Croxton perfectly,” said the detective. “He was the
confidential secretary of Mr. Morrice, and struck me as much above the
ordinary young man in intelligence and quickness of perception. I hope
he is quite well,” he finished politely.

This remark gave Rosabelle an easy opening. “He is quite well in
health, Mr. Lane, but exceedingly unhappy, lying as he is at the moment
under the stigma of a terrible accusation.”

Mr. Lane gathered from these serious words that the girl had come upon
a grave errand. His face reflected her concern at once.

“I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Sheldon. I took rather a liking to
the young man, he seemed so open and frank. Well, please tell me all
the details, I take it you want my assistance in the matter. And please
conceal nothing from me, if you want me to give you of my best. Let me
know everything that tells against him, you will naturally inform me of
everything in his favour.”

The shrewd man of the world divined immediately that there was a close
bond between this charming girl and the accused man, and he put her at
once at her ease by adding: “I need hardly tell you that what you say
will never be divulged; you are as safe with me as if you were in the
confessional.”

He had a very ingratiating manner with him, this calm, self-possessed
man who looked more like an actor than a detective. Rosabelle felt very
much at home with him, and at once launched forth in her narrative of
the details of that eventful morning, as they had been told her by her
lover.

Mr. Lane listened to her attentively without interruption. He judged
it best to let her tell her story her own way, more particularly as
she told it very well, without redundance or repetition. His questions
would come later.

When she had finished, he sat silent for some time, while the girl
regarded him anxiously. “It is, of course, too early for you to form
any opinion?” she asked in a faltering voice, feeling the prolonged
silence somewhat of a strain upon her nerves.

He shook his head. “A great deal too early, Miss Sheldon. Of course,
it is easy to say at first blush, upon the evidence before us, those
articles could only have been abstracted by one of two persons, Mr.
Morrice or his secretary.”

“And it would be absurd to think that my uncle stole his own property,”
cried the girl swiftly.

A rather non-committal smile illumined the calm face of the detective.
“From your point of view, it would be absurd, as you most rightly say.
From mine, it would be so very difficult to discover a plausible motive
for such an act.”

She could not follow him in this subtle explanation, and waited in
silence till he began to put certain questions to her. First, with
regard to the servants, would she give him full particulars of their
number, the nature of their duties, their length of service and so on?

She supplied him with the requested information. He entered all this in
a private notebook, in a shorthand of his own invention which nobody
could read but himself.

What did the family consist of? was his next question.

“My uncle and aunt, Richard Croxton and myself. Two other people
came to the house who were practically of the family, Sir George
Clayton-Brookes, my aunt’s brother-in-law, and young Archibald Brookes,
his nephew and the son of my aunt’s sister.”

These particulars went into the notebook. “I have heard of Sir George,
he is well known on the turf, and reputed to be a man of substance.
I know nothing of the young man. Has he means of his own, or is he
dependent upon his relatives?”

“Dependent upon Sir George, I believe,” answered Rosabelle. “We have
always understood his uncle makes him a handsome allowance, and will
leave him his property.”

Mr. Lane asked a few more questions and then closed his notebook.
“Well, Miss Sheldon, that is as far as we can go at present. Before I
start, I must visit the scene of operations and take a look at this
wonderful safe. I take it that will not be easy to accomplish without
Mr. Morrice’s knowledge and permission. Is he likely to refuse it?”

Rosabelle, needless to say, was a little dismayed. He had refused to
call in Scotland Yard, would he peremptorily refuse admission to a
private inquirer?

She hazarded her fears to Mr. Lane, who thought that he would yield
in the matter. The fact that Richard Croxton was prepared to break
into his small capital for the purpose of establishing his innocence,
should make a favourable impression upon Mr. Morrice, however firmly he
believed in the young man’s guilt. If Morrice obstinately refused, he
would be forced to revise his opinion of that gentleman, although he
was too diplomatic to say as much to Rosabelle.

“I will tell you the principal object of my visit, Miss Sheldon. The
theft would have to be committed in a great hurry, and there are sure
to be finger-marks on the safe. I want to take a photograph of them.
If Mr. Morrice does refuse, for reasons sufficient to himself, I shall
have to get a photograph of them somehow, and in this I dare say I
shall have to avail myself of your co-operation.”

He smiled a little as he spoke. It was not the first time by many
dozens that he had gone in at the back door where he had been refused
entrance at the front, or obtained information he required in spite of
every obstacle being put in his way.

Rosabelle was quite sure she understood what he was driving at. She
would have dared anything for her lover, and if it was a question of
smuggling Mr. Gideon Lane into her uncle’s room while he was in the
city, her woman’s wit, sharpened by her love, would find a way.

“Now we will not waste time,” said the genial Mr. Lane as the excited
girl rose to take her leave. “Pending the obtaining of your uncle’s
permission to do the thing openly, I want you to co-operate with me in
a little matter. Pay Mr. Croxton a visit as soon as possible and get
him to give you an impression of his fingers. If you tell him what you
want it for, he cannot refuse.”

“But, of course, he will not refuse,” cried the girl a little
indignantly. “Would he have let me come to you if he was not prepared
to face the ordeal? And if you find, as you will, that the finger-marks
on the safe are not his, that will establish his innocence once and for
all, will it not?”

Mr. Lane seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question. “It will go a
long way,” he said, speaking with some hesitation.

“Why not the whole way?” demanded Rosabelle, and her eyes flashed a
little.

“Miss Sheldon, it is better you should not ask me too many questions
till we are more sure of our ground. We experts require a great deal
of evidence before we venture to say of any accused man that he is
absolutely innocent or absolutely guilty.”

“But if the finger-marks are proved not to be his, how can he be
guilty?” she cried obstinately.

“You force me to say what I would rather leave unsaid. But our
investigations would not be very useful if we refused to weigh not only
every probability, but also every possibility. You say that your uncle
firmly believes in this young man’s guilt, although he loved him and
treated him like a son. If he still maintains that belief, is it not
open to him to say that if Richard Croxton was not the actual thief, he
was an accomplice or an accessory? How otherwise could the actual thief
have got the necessary knowledge of that safe’s complicated mechanism?
Please understand I am not advancing this as my own opinion, but as one
that might be entertained.”

And for the first time poor Rosabelle began to see how very hard was
the task before them. The tears came into her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Lane, what
will be wanted to prove his absolute innocence? I see too clearly the
terrible difficulties in our way.”

The great detective spoke very gravely. “The surest way of proving Mr.
Croxton’s innocence is by discovering beyond any possibility of doubt
the person who opened that safe, and proving that that person, whoever
it may be, had no connection with him. To that point my investigations
will tend, with what results it is impossible for me to foresee.”

Mr. Morrice gave his permission for the detective’s visit more readily
than Rosabelle had hoped. His attitude towards young Croxton now seemed
to be more one of sorrow and disappointment than of the deep anger
he had at first displayed. But he expressed to her his sense of the
futility of the task on which she was engaged.

She thought she knew what was passing in his keen and analytical
mind. Croxton was playing a game of bluff, perhaps for the purpose of
establishing himself firmly in the esteem of his sweetheart. And if the
finger-marks were those of somebody else, he would fall back on the
theory that Gideon Lane had already anticipated.

With Richard, her task was easy. He gave an impression of his fingers
without a moment’s hesitation, and Rosabelle carried it to Lane with a
certain sense of triumph, which would have been complete but for those
last damping words of the cautious detective.

In due course the visit was paid to the house in Deanery Street;
Rosabelle and her uncle were present. Sure enough in addition to the
recent finger-prints of Morrice and young Croxton, there was a third
set, equally recent.

The development of the photographs proved that Croxton’s finger-prints
were totally different from the third set. Lane announced his intention
of taking them to Scotland Yard in order that a search might be made
amongst their voluminous files.

His investigations on this subject completed, Lane dispatched a brief
telegram to Rosabelle asking her to call at his office. A few minutes
after its receipt, she was seated in his room feverishly awaiting his
news.

“It promises to be a deeper mystery than I thought, Miss Sheldon.
There has been some very clever and deeply thought-out work here. I
have identified the finger-prints, they are those of a well-known
professional thief named Thomas, known amongst his confederates
as ‘Tubby’ Thomas. He is an expert safe-breaker, the cleverest in
England.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “An expert safe-breaker!” she repeated
joyfully. “Does one want to pursue the inquiry any further? Is it not
obvious who was the thief?”

But the next moment came the slow words which fell like ice on her
heart.

“Unfortunately, the mystery is deepened, not solved. The finger-prints
are those of ‘Tubby’ Thomas, for finger-prints never lie. _But ‘Tubby’
Thomas himself has for the last two years been serving a sentence for a
similar offence in Dartmoor, and he is still there._”




CHAPTER V

ROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER


Dazed as she was, cast in a moment from a feeling of elation into one
of bitter disappointment, she saw the point at once. If the criminal
known as “Tubby” Thomas was safe under lock and key, he could not have
been the thief. They were as far from the solution of the mystery as
ever, in spite of those tell-tale finger-prints which, according to
orthodox belief, never lied.

Gideon Lane was bitterly disappointed too, but he had suffered so many
checks in his time that he never allowed his fortitude to desert him.
When he discovered those finger-prints he really thought the game was
in his hands, and that, with the aid of Scotland Yard, he could put
his hand on the actual thief, as he could have done had they been
those of a criminal actively pursuing his nefarious career. But the
incarceration of the man Thomas provided an _impasse_.

Narrowing the issue to the only two men who were supposed to be
acquainted with the complicated mechanism of this wonderful safe, he
had thought very deeply, twisting and turning about in his keen and
alert mind the possibilities that suggested themselves.

Taking the young man himself first. According to the flattering report
of Rosabelle, he led a perfectly blameless and open life. In his habits
he was temperate, almost abstemious, he never touched a card, he never
betted, the only gambling habit he indulged in was to take a ticket in
a couple of club sweepstakes. But, of course, Rosabelle’s report was
sure to be coloured a little on the favourable side. There are plenty
of young men who lead double lives; models of discretion and decorum
to all appearances, but secretly addicted to ruinous and discreditable
vices which are only brought suddenly to light by some accident or
fatal false step.

This young man might be one of these. He might be hard pressed for
money, the victim even of some blackmailer who had become possessed of
a terrible secret in his double life, and had risked all his bright
prospects on the chance that Morrice would disbelieve the evidence of
his senses, and accept his bare denial that he was innocent, in spite
of the damning evidence against him.

But if he was clever enough to scheme out such an artfully-planned
robbery, either alone or with the aid of a confederate, would he not
be clever enough to see that scrupulous honesty and fidelity to his
employer was the best policy? For Morrice, according to Rosabelle’s
account, had treated him like a son; there was little doubt that he
intended to take him into partnership at an early date, and would leave
him a considerable slice of his vast fortune. There was no doubt of
his wealth, for, by common consent, he was reputed to be amongst the
half-dozen richest men in England.

Then there was no doubt that the two young people were lovers. Would a
man, capable of a moment’s sane thought, put in certain jeopardy his
chances of happiness with this charming and lovable girl?

But then, of course, crimes would never be perpetrated if the criminals
could foresee all the consequences likely to flow from their yielding
to sudden impulses. At the fatal moment they appeared to be driven
forward by some blind force which, for the moment, they were unable to
fight against. And so it might have happened in the case of this young
man, who, according to Rosabelle’s testimony, had led such a regular
and blameless life.

Turning his attention to the other of the two men, Rupert Morrice
himself, the detective found the situation one of greater complexity.
Strange as it may sound, men have robbed themselves before now and done
their best to fix the guilt upon others, from more than one sinister
motive. For instance, a man knowing himself to be on the verge of
bankruptcy might, in desperation, purloin some of his own property to
put it in a safe place beyond the reach of his creditors. In the case
of this wealthy financier, whose credit stood so high, such a theory
might be at once dismissed.

At first blush, the refusal to apply to Scotland Yard might seem a
trifle suspicious, might suggest that he had a personal interest in
stifling independent investigation. But when one considered the unusual
circumstances, the action seemed only a natural one.

According to Rosabelle’s statement, Morrice had treated the young man
as a son; not only had he a great affection for him, but that affection
had been accentuated by the elder man’s passionate love for the mother.
However deep his belief in his guilt, a father does not hand over a son
to be dealt with by the stern processes of justice. He may dismiss him
from his house, he may refuse to hold further intercourse with him,
but he shields him, where possible, from the fatal consequences of his
rash act.

There was, however, one point on which he wished to be assured, and
which caused him to put a certain question to the girl.

“I am going to ask you something, Miss Sheldon, not, believe me, from
any spirit of impertinent curiosity, but because it is essential that
I should be acquainted with every little fact. I am assuming that your
interest in Mr. Croxton arises from a warmer feeling than that of mere
friendship. Am I not right in saying that there is a close bond between
you; that, to put it in plain words, you are lovers?”

Rosabelle admitted quite frankly that Lane was right in his surmise.

“Now for my next question. Did Mr. Morrice know of this understanding
between you, and if so, did he approve of it?”

To this the girl’s answer was equally frank. Up to the day of the
robbery she could not have been absolutely certain that her uncle did
know of it, although she was pretty sure he did. Their interest in each
other was so openly displayed, that it was almost impossible it could
have escaped his observation. If he had disapproved, he certainly would
not have hesitated to express his disapproval, being a man of the most
straightforward character, who never scrupled to express what was in
his mind, or take drastic action when he judged it necessary.

“All doubt, however, on this point was removed by what he said to
Richard on that terrible morning,” Rosabelle went on in a voice that
trembled a little. “After overwhelming him with his anger at what he
believed to be his baseness, he told him he knew we were attached to
each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in our way. It was
really as I thought. Richard was always a little dubious as to what
his attitude might be, while I never had the slightest fear. We were
both so very dear to him that I was always sure our marriage would have
given him the greatest pleasure.”

The detective considered her reply carefully, as was his invariable
custom. He never accepted any statement without probing it very deeply,
none knew better than he the futility of jumping to rash and hasty
conclusions.

“There would seem to be some reasonable ground for Mr. Croxton’s doubts
in the matter,” he said very quietly. “Kind and generous as Mr. Morrice
was to him, there was no actual blood-tie between them; you tell me the
young man had practically no money of his own, that his future depended
entirely on a continuance of his benefactor’s favour. You, on the other
hand, are a near relative and it is to be assumed that your uncle will
leave you a considerable sum. It would be a very natural thing that he
should have different views for you, should have wished you to look a
little higher than one who, after all, was not your equal in anything
but birth. At any rate, it is what the ordinary person might think, of
course; Mr. Morrice may be an exceptional man of liberal independent
views.”

“Oh, but that is just what he is,” cried the girl warmly. In spite
of her fervent belief in her lover, and perhaps a little natural
resentment against her uncle for his obstinate presumption of Richard’s
guilt, she loved him very dearly and thoroughly appreciated his
sterling qualities.

“That is just what he is, Mr. Lane,” she repeated. “Rich as he is, hard
as he works to make himself so, he does not love money for its own sake
or value the possession of it in others. One or two of his closest
friends are poor men, and he is happier in their society than in that
of millionaires like himself. He loves his business and his work, it
is true, but more for the mental excitement and stimulus they bring
than for their pecuniary results. And he doesn’t attach much importance
to birth or what the world calls position. At heart, I believe he is a
good bit of a democrat.”

“If a millionaire can be truly a democrat!” suggested Mr. Lane with a
smile. “Anyway, if he is one, there must be a good many reservations.”

The girl’s replies to his questions had rather disposed of a somewhat
fantastic theory that had formed itself in rather nebulous shape in
his astute brain, accustomed to weigh all sorts of possibilities and
probabilities, to search for unusual and far-reaching motives. Had
Morrice engineered this theft, not for the ordinary sordid reasons,
but with the object of fixing upon the innocent secretary a stigma
that would effectually remove him from his niece’s society? But then
again, a man who could in cold blood conceive such a scheme would be
more than the vilest criminal. It would be impossible that one of such
good repute, for even his enemies and rivals credited Morrice with the
highest integrity, should stoop to such sinister methods.

“Well, Miss Sheldon,” he said as the interview drew to a close, “I will
not disguise that I am very disappointed with the result of my visit
to Scotland Yard. When I found those strange finger-marks on the safe,
I thought we were on the right track. Now, I have got to start again
from the beginning, and I am afraid it will be a long time before I
shall make any considerable headway. I shall do my best, but it may be
that in the end I shall be beaten. I think you said you would be going
abroad very shortly.”

“Yes, we start for Mürren a week before Christmas for the winter
sports. I was so looking forward to it, but now——” The girl’s voice
faltered and she could not finish her sentence.

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lane soothingly. “All the same it
will be better for you to get away for a time from these painful
associations. I will, of course, keep in touch with you to the day of
your departure, and communicate to you anything of importance. If you
don’t hear from me, you will know that so far I have nothing to tell
you. You will, of course, acquaint Mr. Morrice with the rather puzzling
information about the man Thomas, that while the finger-prints are
undoubtedly his, he is and has been for the last two years in prison.”

It all seemed very hopeless, she thought, as she rose to leave. It was
useless to ask Lane if he had formed any theory; she had seen enough
of the man to know that he would not say a word till he felt himself
justified in speaking.

“One little thing before you go, Miss Sheldon. Will you kindly let me
know your aunt’s maiden name, and, if you possess them, any particulars
of her family.”

Rosabelle did not know much beyond the fact that she was a Miss
Larchester; that her sister, no longer living, the mother of Archie
Brookes, had married a younger brother of Sir George. She was not quite
sure but she fancied that, as a girl, Mrs. Morrice’s home had been in
Sussex, but she did not know in what part. The lady very seldom alluded
to her past life. Her Christian name was Lettice.

Mr. Lane entered the scanty information in his notebook, then, after
Rosabelle’s departure, he rang up White’s Club and inquired for a Mr.
Sellars. In a few moments this gentleman was speaking to him.

“Good-day, Mr. Sellars. I should be obliged if you would come round to
me as soon as convenient.”

The reply was that the owner of the name would at once put himself in a
taxi and be there in a few minutes.




CHAPTER VI

LANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT


Mr. Sellars, Reggie Sellars as he was known to his intimates, was a
tall, good-looking young man of about thirty, of the aristocratic type,
with aquiline features and an elegant figure. Following no settled
occupation or profession, he formed one of that numerous brigade of
men-about-town who belong to good clubs, frequent respectable society
and always seem to have plenty of money for their personal wants,
although nobody knows the exact source of their incomes, or how they
contrive to present such a good appearance.

These men are usually very scrupulous in money matters, pay their bets
promptly when they lose and expect to be paid as promptly when they
win, are never behindhand in a club subscription, liberal but not
ostentatious in their tips to waiters. Many of them, in fact most, have
a small annuity which forms the nucleus of their income; how the rest
of that income is earned is often a puzzle to even their most intimate
friends.

Mr. Sellars was one of a large family, some twelve in all, sons and
daughters. His father had left capital bringing in about fifteen
hundred a year to be divided amongst this numerous offspring. This
brought Reggie in the modest competence of about a hundred odd pounds
a year. He dressed very well, and his tailor must have taken more
than that. It was obvious, therefore, that he had a knack of picking
up money somehow and somewhere, as he belonged to several clubs,
frequented fashionable society, and was by no means an anchorite in his
tastes.

As a matter of fact, he lived on his wits, using the expression in
a perfectly respectable sense. He furnished gossip to a well-known
Society newspaper for which he received a liberal remuneration; he was
a scientific backer of horses, he played a first-rate hand at bridge,
sometimes he got a handsome fee for initiating some _nouveau riche_
into the mysteries of fashionable life. Since his acquaintance with Mr.
Gideon Lane, he had often been useful to that gentleman, and had been
paid well for his services.

They had met at a Bohemian club to which both men belonged, for Reggie
Sellars, although of very good family and an aristocrat by instinct
and connection, was by no means exclusive, and was equally at home in
Bohemia and Mayfair.

At first Lane had not been attracted to the young man, whom he regarded
as the usual type of lounger who led a life of aimless pleasure, a mere
idler with whom he was not likely to have anything in common. And,
truth to tell, although in a certain way he was one of the shrewdest
fellows alive, Sellars’ good-looking countenance did not furnish any
striking evidence of mentality or strenuous impulse.

But one night in the smoking-room the two got into a conversation on
the subject of criminals and criminology, and Lane found that this
seemingly idle, pleasure-loving young man, with apparently no thoughts
beyond the race-course and the bridge-table, displayed a keen knowledge
and a swift power of deduction that astonished him.

Lane had a considerable _clientèle_ amongst persons high up in the
social scale, he frequently wanted to obtain special information
about people belonging to or moving in fashionable circles. Into such
quarters he was unable to penetrate himself for obvious reasons. Here
was a man just fitted for the job, keen, quiet, quick in resource;
a man, in short, disguising a considerable mentality under a most
deceptive exterior. Lane suggested that there was certain work in
which his previous knowledge and facilities of approach could be of
material assistance to him. Mr. Reginald Sellars, the good-looking
young man-about-town, jumped at the proposal, and Lane had to confess
that, in his own line, he had never possessed a more competent
lieutenant.

He was just the man for the Morrice job, or at any rate one particular
portion of it, and that was why the busy and brainy detective had rung
him up to-day.

“Not been very long, eh, Lane?” was the young man’s greeting as he
entered the private room. “Always ready for business, you know, for
anything that brings grist to the mill. I hope you’ve got something
good for me.”

At his fashionable clubs, in the society of his aristocratic friends,
he cultivated a rather languid manner. When he talked to practical
people like Lane his tone was brisk, his whole manner alert.

The detective went to the point at once. “Of course, you know of Rupert
Morrice, the big financier, most probably you are personally acquainted
with him?”

“Known him for years, he was rather a pal of my father’s, used to give
him a good tip now and then for his investments,” was the answer.
“Can’t say I’m one of the intimates of the house, but always get a card
for their big things, have been asked twice, I think, to fill up a
dinner-party. What’s up?”

But without answering his question, Lane asked one himself. “We all
know the man’s story, that is public property. But what about Mrs.
Morrice; do you know anything about her antecedents, her family, her
history, before she met her husband?”

Sellars shook his head. “I’ve never heard, I don’t think anybody has.
A very charming woman, well-bred and all that, does the honours
perfectly, but never seems to talk about herself as most of her sex do.
The only thing I can remember is that some few years ago a nephew was
introduced, a young chap named Archie Brookes, who was also a nephew
of Sir George Clayton-Brookes who is as well-known in London as the
Monument. Her sister married his younger brother, we were told.”

“You don’t know her maiden name?”

“No, but that of course can easily be got at Somerset House,” said the
bright young man who had proved such an able colleague.

“Of course, I know that, but we need not go there. I have got the name,
a rather uncommon one. She was a Miss Lettice Larchester, and I believe
she hails from somewhere in Sussex.”

“And you want me to find out all about her before she became Mrs.
Morrice, eh? He met her and married her abroad, I suppose you know
that. He was awfully gone on Mrs. Croxton, the mother of that young
chap whom he practically adopted and who acts as his secretary. It is
said he remained a bachelor for years because of her.”

Reggie Sellars’ knowledge of the annals of the people who moved in
certain circles was of the most exhaustive nature. And he had a memory
like a vice; he never forgot a fact or a date, and never confused one
history with another. He was certainly a most deceptive person. To look
at him you would never imagine he would take the slightest trouble
to acquire any knowledge that was not strictly necessary for his own
immediate purposes.

“Yes, I want you to find out all you can about her; of course you will
make your inquiries very discreetly. But, there, I need not warn you of
that. You are always discreet.”

And in truth he was. He could pursue the most delicate investigations
without giving himself away for a second.

“Well, now, you haven’t given me an inkling of what’s up yet, and you
know I’m not fond of working in the dark. Why this sudden interest in
Mrs. Morrice’s past?”

Lane was not addicted to telling more than he could help, for secrecy
had become an ingrained habit with him. But the young man was a bit
touchy on some things. He was especially so on the point that perfect
confidence should be reposed in him, and it must be admitted that
that confidence was never abused. He was a perfectly honourable young
fellow, and his word was better than the bond of a good many people.

So Lane told him the salient details of the robbery in Deanery Street,
ending with the remarkable discovery of the finger-prints of “Tubby”
Thomas, and the incarceration of that accomplished criminal.

The quick mind of Sellars speedily grasped the complicated nature of
this puzzling case. “By Jove, it wants a bit of thinking out, doesn’t
it, Lane? In the meantime, according to your invariable custom, you are
suspecting everybody, including Mrs. Morrice; the secretary, of course,
and Morrice himself, and naturally the Brookes’s, uncle and nephew.”

Lane smiled. “I intend to know everything I can about every one of
them. I exclude the servants, it is too deep a job for any of them.”

“And what about that pretty girl, the niece, what’s her name—eh, Miss
Sheldon? You’ve got your eye on her, of course?” He spoke in rather a
joking manner, for he often rallied Lane on his tendency to reverse the
usual principle of British law and believe everybody to be guilty till
his innocence was fully established.”

“She is a very charming young lady,” replied the detective a little
grimly, for he did not relish being chaffed. “But I shall certainly not
exclude her from the scope of my investigations if all others fail.
Well now, look here, Mr. Sellars, I expect it will take you a little
time to get at Mrs. Morrice’s history. What do you know about this
Clayton-Brookes and his nephew? The uncle is a great racing man, I
understand, and you are amongst the racing set.”

“I know Sir George just a little, we nod to each other when we meet,
but I don’t think I have exchanged half a hundred words with him in my
life. Archie Brookes I know about as well. But I can tell you this, he
is not popular; most people think him a bit of a bounder. Do you want
me to investigate in that quarter too?”

“Yes, I wish you to find out all you can. I want you to discover
particularly what is known about the young man’s father who, according
to what we are told, married Mrs. Morrice’s sister.”

“Right, it shall be done,” replied Sellars. “Now, as I have said, I
don’t know either of the men well, and I can’t get any information from
them. But I do know pretty intimately a man who is a great pal of Sir
George; he’s a member of White’s, a good, garrulous sort of person, and
he’ll talk by the hour when you once get him started. I’ll tap him as
soon as I can get the chance. He’s much older than I, of course, but we
are rather pals, and I’ll make him give me what I want.”

Lane did not possess a very keen sense of humour, his calling did not
greatly encourage it, but he was a bit tickled by the gusto with which
this remarkable young man, who hid his talents so successfully under
that indifferent exterior, set about the task of extracting information
from his numerous friends and acquaintances.

For it was one of his greatest assets, moving as he did in so many
various circles, that if he could not get what he wanted directly,
he could always do so indirectly. Here, for example, although he did
not know Sir George very well, he was more than intimate with that
gentleman’s great friend, whom, of course, he could pump with greater
freedom than Sir George himself. Presently he took his leave, promising
to let Lane know the result of his investigations at the earliest
moment.

He appeared a couple of days later. “He rose to the fly beautifully,”
he said in that brisk voice which he always assumed when he was engaged
on strict business. “He has got it all pat. Sir George had a younger
brother Archibald, a bit of a rolling-stone. He couldn’t make good
here, so his family packed him off to Australia to try what a change
of climate might do. He didn’t do very well there, but he didn’t come
back. He married—but my friend doesn’t know the maiden name of his
wife; Sir George had either never mentioned it, or he had forgotten it.
Anyway, there was one child, the boy Archie, named after his father.
The mother died a few years after his birth. The father died later in
Melbourne. When the young one was grown up, Sir George sent for him to
come home, and adopted him. There’s the whole history cut and dried for
you.”

“And very lucidly told too,” said Mr. Lane approvingly. Sellars knew
him well now, and he inferred from the careful way in which he entered
the details in his notebook that he attached great importance to the
information. So he did, much more than the young man guessed; this he
was to learn later on.

To be a really great detective a man must have a certain amount of
inspiration and imagination, and Lane possessed both these in a
remarkable degree. While ruminating over the various problems of this
puzzling case, one of these flashes of inspiration had come to him,
and he intended to test it. But for the present, he was not going to
take Sellars into his confidence in case it proved to be wrong.

The young man shortly took his leave and returned to his modest
rooms in Bennett Street. To-morrow, he was going to embark on his
investigations into Mrs. Morrice’s past, and it behoved him to set his
affairs in order, in a sense, so as to be left free to devote his whole
energies to the task.

This he easily did, being a very methodical and business-like person,
although most of his acquaintances regarded him only as a saunterer
through life, a frequenter of fashionable salons. He posted his
little paragraphs of Society gossip to his editor, he wrote certain
instructions to his bookmaker, he wrote and despatched a short breezy
article on current topics to a newspaper which published his effusions
at regular intervals. Then he felt himself free to embark on the great
adventure to which he was looking forward, for he revelled in detective
work as much as the great Lane himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Poor Rosabelle had gone home after that interview in a very
crestfallen and despondent mood, for she had pinned her faith to those
finger-marks, and in prophetic imagination had seen her lover restored
to his old place in the esteem of all who were in the terrible secret.

She communicated the new facts to her uncle on his return to Deanery
Street. Morrice said little, but a pitying look came over his face
as he noticed how pale and sad she looked. He laid his hand upon her
shoulder with a kindly gesture.

“Give it up, my poor little girl, give it up before it breaks your
heart. Steel yourself to face the fact that Richard Croxton, by his own
act, has passed away from your life.”

But she would have none of that. Her voice was pleading but half
indignant as she cried out in her pain: “Oh, uncle dear, do not ever
say that to me again. I know, I feel it in my heart, that a day will
come when you will regret bitterly that you spoke those words.”

The hardest task was when she had to tell her lover that the mystery,
so far from approaching solution, was deepened by what had happened.
Richard took it calmly to all appearance, but she noticed that the
depression which had been temporarily lifted by the discovery of those
strange finger-prints, seemed to settle on him again.

“Oh, Dick, my poor darling,” she cried tearfully; “how I wish we were
not going to Mürren! I think I shall ask uncle to let me stay behind so
that I can come and cheer you.”

But he would not hear of that. It seemed as if he was beginning to
realize that he must pass out of her life, as Morrice had put it, and
that the sooner the separation began the better for both.

So a week before Christmas a sad group of three started for
Switzerland, an expedition they had all so looked forward to when
Richard Croxton was to have been one of the party.

And some days before they left a cable from Australia arrived at Lane’s
office, and as he read it, his eyes gleamed. That inspiration of his
had been true. The contents of that cable were communicated to Sellars
in a brief note:—

 “You will remember I attached great importance to the details you
 obtained for me about Archibald Brookes, the brother of Sir George,
 who went to Australia. A certain inspiration came to me on that
 subject which I did not tell you of at the time for fear it might lead
 to nothing. I cabled out to an old colleague of mine in that country
 to make certain inquiries. I have heard from him to-day. It is true
 that Archibald Brookes died in Melbourne, but he was a bachelor and
 consequently left no children. Therefore the tale Sir George told his
 old friend is a lie, and the story of Mrs. Morrice’s sister being
 married to his brother is a fabrication. Here is another mystery in
 the Morrice household which must be unravelled.”




CHAPTER VII

THE HEAD WAITER


The letter despatched by Mr. Lane to his lieutenant was directed to
the Brinkstone Arms, Brinkstone, a small Sussex village about five
miles from the sea, which Sellars had made the starting-place of his
investigations.

He had chosen the place because he had learned that Brinkstone Park,
situated a mile and a half from the little village, was the ancestral
home of the Brookes family, of which Sir George was now the head.
Acting on the assumption that the baronet stood in the relation of
brother-in-law to Mrs. Morrice, he thought it probable that not only
would he pick up first-hand information about the man, but might glean
some equally valuable data with regard to the woman whose maiden name
had been the somewhat uncommon one of Larchester.

He had only been established in his quarters a few days, but during
that time fortune had favoured him, and he had picked up some very
useful facts concerning both the lady and gentleman. The Brinkstone
Arms, which was part public-house and part small hotel, was run by a
middle-aged couple who had purchased it a few years ago, and were not
likely to be deeply versed in local knowledge.

But attached to the hostelry was an ancient and very
respectable-looking servitor of the name of Dobbs, who was now verging
on his sixty-fifth year and had been associated with the place in
various capacities from the age of fifteen. Staying guests were few and
far between, but in the summer-time the pretty village of Brinkstone
was a great attraction to excursionists, and in the busy season
luncheons, teas and dinners were served in an attractive room which
had been added on to the old-fashioned main building. In this spacious
apartment Mr. Dobbs officiated as head-waiter, with a subordinate or
two in the strenuous months to assist him.

This genial person, with his highly respectable appearance, his neat
side-whiskers, was purely a local product. He had been born in the
village, as his mother and father were before him, the latter having
been an agricultural labourer, the former in domestic service, and
with the exception of two excursions to London and about a dozen to
Brighton and Eastbourne, he had never been farther than a few miles
from Brinkstone.

Mr. Sellars posed as a literary man in search of local colour. This was
not after all a very great exaggeration of the truth, as he did write
a good deal in a desultory fashion. He had a nice, clear, airy bedroom
which in summer would have been a delightful apartment, overlooking
as it did a beautiful expanse of country, and a small but comfortably
furnished sitting-room. In order to keep up his assumed character, he
religiously strewed the table at judicious intervals with sheets of MS.
which were in reality the opening chapters of a detective story with
which he occupied himself from time to time.

He took long walks, presumably in search of the local colour he
professed to be seeking. But of course the real object of his brief
sojourn in this picturesque but dull little village, was to extract all
the information he could from the pleasant-faced head-waiter with the
neat side-whiskers.

It was an easy task. Dobbs was a genial, garrulous sort of soul with
a great respect for all persons connected with the Arts. What he did
not know about the local gentry for several miles round was not worth
the knowing. Nearly sixty-five years of life had been passed in the
close neighbourhood of Brinkstone, and there was not a piece of local
gossip that was not firmly retained in his retentive memory. It was the
greatest bit of luck, thought Sellars, that he should have come across
the very man for his purpose, full of knowledge and ready to pour it
into the ears of a listening and appreciative guest. The long winter
evenings afforded an unrivalled opportunity. In this, the dull season,
Mr. Dobbs descended somewhat from his exalted position of head-waiter
and made himself generally useful in minor and less dignified posts.
Under pressure of business, he had been known to serve occasionally in
the general bar, for the contemptible failing of false pride had no
place in his honest and manly nature.

Sellars used to mix the old fellow a stiff tot of whisky which he
absorbed with the air of one fairly well acquainted with strong drink.
It refreshed his memory while not in the least clouding his faculties.
The young man heard many details of the various families in the
neighbourhood in whom he was not even slightly interested. Then he got
Dobbs on to the subject of Brinkstone Park and its owners by a casual
observation:—

“I know Sir George Clayton-Brookes a little in London,” he said
carelessly. “I understand he assumed the name of Clayton with some
property he inherited. It seems a very fine place from what I can see
of it from the outside. He doesn’t inhabit it now, they tell me; it’s
let on a long lease to a rich retired merchant. I suppose you know all
about the family?”

This set the talkative Dobbs off at full tilt; he indulged in a
reminiscent chuckle. Was there any family he did not know everything
about within a twenty-mile radius? And Brinkstone Park lay close to
his doors; you could see its chimneys from the hotel door across the
swelling upland.

“I knew the father, old Sir George, and his lady, and of course the
three boys; there were no girls. The old man was very popular and, at
one time, had plenty of money. It was a fine estate when he came into
it, for his father was as thrifty as the son was lavish. He harked back
to some of his forbears—raced, gambled and spent money like water. The
boys were all a wild lot, but they hadn’t their father’s good nature
or kind heart. There were three of ’em, Charles the eldest, George,
now the Baronet, and Archibald. Most people thought Charles was a bit
wanting in the upper storey. Archibald was the wildest and the maddest
of the lot; they had to pack him out of the country to Australia, where
he died. George was pretty wild too, but he wasn’t a fool; far and away
the cleverest of the three.”

Sellars of course drank in all this information with greedy ears; he
would be sure to learn something of importance if he listened long
enough. He encouraged the flow of reminiscence with appropriate and
judicious remarks, with the result that Dobbs launched forth into a
full and exhaustive history of the Brookes family.

Charles, who was suspected of not being quite right in the upper
storey, pre-deceased his father. Lady Brookes died a couple of years
later, her death having been hastened, according to general rumour,
by the recklessness of her husband, and the excesses of her children.
Archibald, a young man of a rather common type, a frequenter of the
Brinkstone Arms, a village Don Juan whose scandals affronted the
countryside, who was looked down upon by his equals in station, had
been sent out of the country in the hope that he might lead a new life
when removed from his evil associations. George by the death of the
eldest brother had become the heir to the title and estates.

Then came the death of old Sir George, as Dobbs called him to
differentiate him from the present Baronet. He left little behind him
save debts, and what had once been a fine property was found to be
mortgaged up to the hilt. There was very little left for his successor.

“For the last few years of the old man’s life, during which he was
compelled to live in a rather shabby sort of way on account of the
heavy interest on the mortgages, the present Sir George was very seldom
at the Park,” Dobbs explained. “He lived in London chiefly; I suppose
he had some small allowance from his father, but the general impression
was he lived on his wits. When affairs were gone into, he saw it was
impossible to take his rightful place. And I don’t suppose, if it had
been possible, he would have found it very pleasant. From being one
of the most highly respected families in the neighbourhood, they had
incurred the contempt and ill-will of their neighbours, and he had
always been unpopular from a boy. We heard very little of him here for
some years till the news came that he had inherited a fortune from a
distant relative, and added the name of Clayton to his own. I presume
he could have afforded to come back here, but I don’t expect he had
any fondness for the old place, and in my opinion, sir, it is better
without him. The present tenant is a liberal, open-handed gentleman
and does a lot of good round about.”

“He has a nephew in London, Archie Brookes, I presume a son of the man
who went to Australia. Do you know anything about him, Dobbs?” queried
the amateur investigator.

The respectable-looking waiter paused before replying, searching no
doubt in the caverns of his retentive memory. “No, sir, absolutely
nothing. I think there did come a report that Mr. Archibald married and
had children, or at any rate a child. But I cannot be positive. You
see, interest in them died out very quickly after the old man’s death,
and we are a very stay-at-home lot of folk about here, only odds and
ends of news, as it were, get to us at long intervals.”

This conversation took place about a couple of days before the arrival
of Lane’s letter, and Sellars was of course assuming the accuracy
of the history of the Australian brother as told him by his club
acquaintance, who was an intimate friend of Sir George. Old Dobbs was
not so sure of his facts as usual in this particular case, but he
thought news had reached him of Archibald’s marriage. As far as it went
it was a confirmation of what he had been told.

Having heard pretty well all there was to hear about the Brookes
family, Sellars was about to play his trump card on the garrulous
waiter, and inquire if he had ever known a Miss Lettice Larchester. But
a small incident frustrated him.

He noticed that Dobbs had been rather hurrying over his narrative for
the last few minutes, and had refused a second instalment of whisky
which the young man pressed upon him.

The reasons for his fidgetiness and indifference to alcohol were soon
explained. It happened to be Saturday night, and there was always a
brisk business doing at the end of the week in certain portions of
the house. The hotel proper, at this dead season of the year, had
practically no custom. With the exception of the “literary gentleman
in search of local colour,” who so ostentatiously left his manuscript
about for curious eyes to see, there was no resident.

It had occurred to this honest and faithful servant of the good old
school that he could render sorely needed help downstairs, and was
wasting his employer’s time in pleasant but profitless conversation
with this affable stranger.

“You will excuse me, sir, I am sure,” he said with a little cough of
embarrassment, “but Saturday night is a busy night with us, and we
are short-handed downstairs. Will you forgive me if I run away now,
thanking you very much for the whisky, sir,” he concluded with his
customary old-fashioned courtesy.

“Run away, Dobbs, by all means,” was the cheery answer. “Hope I haven’t
kept you too long, but knowing Sir George just a little, I was awfully
interested in all you told me.”

The old man bowed, and withdrew. After all, to-morrow would do as well
for Sellars to put his question. Mrs. Morrice had come from Sussex, and
instinct, coupled with the association of Sir George Brookes, told him
that he had fixed on just the right spot, and would be able to kill two
birds with one stone as soon as he got Dobbs again into a reminiscent
mood.

After the old waiter’s departure, Sellars set himself to weigh the
value of the information he had gleaned. Was it worth much? On the
death of the father, the son had succeeded to a barren inheritance;
he could not cut any dash on the revenue derived from this deeply
mortgaged estate. And yet, so long as Sellars had known him, he was
making a brave show. Well, of course that fortune left by a distant
relative accounted for this, if the tale of that fortune were true.
Who and what was this benevolent relation? That might be a subject for
further investigation. His club acquaintance might again prove useful.

Two days elapsed before he saw the communicative Dobbs again. The good
old fellow suffered from some internal trouble which laid him up now
and then, and he had one of these attacks late on the Saturday night.

By the time he was ready to resume his duties the letter from Lane had
arrived. Needless to say, Sellars was much surprised at the information
it contained, and also at his friend’s insight in having pounced
upon this particular portion of the story as requiring verification.
Sellars was pretty cute in his own way, but he had to admit that in the
qualities of imagination and intuition he had to give pride of place to
the older and more experienced man.

It opened out a new region of speculation. There could be assumed a
close connection between Mrs. Morrice and the elegant man-about-town,
from the fact that they were said to be related pretty closely by
marriage. But if this cable spoke the truth, that marriage was a myth
and had been invented by a pair of conspirators from some motive which
could not at present be defined. Truly, as Lane had remarked in the
closing passage of his brief note, there was a mystery in the Morrice
household which it was necessary to unravel in the course of their
general researches.

Mr. Dobbs looked a little pale and shaken by the suffering he had been
through, but he was as attentive and genial as usual, and he accepted
with alacrity the good dose of whisky which Sellars now always supplied
him with.

When he removed the last of the dinner-things and it was evident he was
quite ready for one of those long chats which had become a feature of
their relations, Sellars put his question carelessly as he always did,
not to excite the suspicion that he was not what he seemed, a literary
man come to this quiet spot just for a short visit.

“By the way, Dobbs, I wonder if you ever came across a Miss Larchester,
Lettice Larchester. I fancy she came from this part of the country. I
don’t know her exact age now, but I suppose she would be getting on for
fifty.”

Before he finished speaking, he knew by the gleam in the old waiter’s
still bright eyes that he was on the right track—his intuition that
in looking for Sir George Clayton-Brookes he would come on traces of
Lettice Larchester, was correct.

“I should think I did, sir, and a bonnier, handsomer young girl I never
came across. Of course, she never came here, but I got to know her a
bit by meeting her often in the village, and she always had a cheerful
‘Good-morning, Mr. Dobbs,’ and a bright smile for me. Her father we
often saw; he was one of our regular customers, a jolly, pleasant
fellow when all right, but apt to show a rather ugly temper in his
cups. And that I am sorry to say was very frequently.”

Mr. Dobbs lifted his tumbler to his lips with an expressive gesture and
took a deep draught. “Too fond of this, sir. Many a night he’s gone
home to that poor girl in a shocking state. I used to pity her from the
bottom of my heart. And no mother, sir; she died when her daughter was
born. Only them two, in that little cottage at the end of the village;
Vine Cottage, it is called; you may have noticed it in your walks.”

Yes, Sellars had noticed it; in taking up the investigating business he
had trained himself to very close habits of observation, of noting the
most trivial details.

He settled himself comfortably in his easy-chair and proceeded to fill
a large briar pipe.

“Fire away, Dobbs, and tell me all you know of this Miss Larchester.
It’s not Saturday night, you know, and we can’t do better than a yarn
and a drink.”

But before embarking on a fresh history which he was always pleased to
do, the man put a question himself with a rather deprecating air; for
he was a very delicate-minded old fellow, and although he was always
ready to satisfy the curiosity of other persons, he hated to appear
curious himself.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know the lady now? I _should_ like to know
all is well with her. I was so afraid what her fate might be with that
careless father.”

Sellars explained glibly that she had married well and seemed quite
happy. Fortunately Dobbs was too well-mannered to ask for further
information, to inquire her name and station, for instance. But, if he
had, there is no doubt the young man would have proved himself equal
to the occasion. He certainly would not have let him know that Lettice
Larchester, the handsome daughter of an evidently disreputable father,
was the wife of a financier of great eminence.

Sellars took deep pulls at his pipe, as the old man proceeded with his
reminiscences. He felt very pleased with the turn things had taken.
Nobody had ever seemed to know anything about Mrs. Morrice except,
of course, Sir George, who kept that knowledge in his own breast,
imitating, in that respect, the reticence of the lady herself. Sellars
was now going to learn a good deal from the lips of this garrulous
waiter, with his old-world air and respectable side-whiskers.




CHAPTER VIII

MRS. MORRICE’S GIRLHOOD


This was the history of a part of the lives of Lettice Larchester and
her father as set forth by old Dobbs, the head-waiter and general
utility man of the Brinkstone Arms, extending over a period of some
four years.

The daughter he had already described as a bonnie, handsome girl. When
she arrived at Vine Cottage, a very modest residence the rental of
which was only a few pounds a year, she was about eighteen, a tall,
slender girl with a wealth of beautiful brown hair, soft grey eyes and
a charming figure.

The father was a fine, good-looking man with the long hair and
the rather dreamy expression of the artist, and his profession
was emphasized by the regulation velvet coat. There was a look of
dissipation about the pleasant features which told of late hours and
heavy drinking both at home and abroad.

He arrived at Vine Cottage about midday, and The Brinkstone Arms made
his acquaintance a few hours later. He seemed a very genial, affable
sort of person, hail-fellow-well-met at once with the proprietor and
his factotum, Dobbs, and ready to be friendly with everybody, no
matter what his station—the farmer himself, the farmer’s labourer,
the carrier, the postman, the village blacksmith. Very soon it was
discovered that when he took a drop too much, a not infrequent
occurrence, his geniality disappeared and he developed an ugly and
aggressive temper, and was inclined sometimes to resort to personal
violence against those who happened to offend him at the particular
moment.

In his normal mood there was no pride about the man. Five minutes
after he had ordered his first drink in the place he had told them
all about himself. By profession he was an artist, a painter of
landscapes. He hardly ever exhibited at the public galleries, working
almost exclusively for dealers, who gave him what he described—in his
loud, breezy voice, more like that of a robust mariner than a man
practising a refined art—as a “cut-throat price.” But they always
paid on delivery, sometimes a bit on account, and that was a great
consideration to a poor devil who was always hard-up. These statements
he made without any false shame or shrinking modesty.

An artist, but evidently not a very successful one! The reasons for
this were not far to seek. Drink had been the ruin of the man’s life;
if he had possessed twice the talent he had, the fatal impulse to
alcohol would have set his feet travelling swiftly on the downward
path. He drank steadily at all times, but several times a year his
propensities assumed alarming proportions. When one of these fits took
him, his brushes were laid aside, he shut himself up in the house and
devoted himself to his favourite vice till it passed. Then he would
pull himself together and work with feverish energy to make up for the
time he had lost.

On that first evening of his acquaintance with the little village
hostelry, he explained to those who cared to listen to his intimate
revelations, that he came to this part of the world because of the
suitability of the scenery to his particular kind of work, but more
especially because he wanted to escape from late hours and the
numberless temptations of great cities.

This hope was, as a matter of course, never destined to be realized.
During the four years of his sojourn in the picturesque little village
the man slowly but steadily deteriorated, and he was not much to begin
with. The bouts of drinking became more frequent and more sustained.
And no doubt his hand lost much of its cunning, for their fortunes,
never very bright, seemed to grow more clouded. His own appearance grew
shabbier every year, and the bright, handsome girl was hard put to it
to maintain her early smartness.

No doubt the major portion of what he earned went to defray the cost
of his most expensive vice. From the very beginning they lived in the
most frugal manner; they kept no resident servant, a woman of the
village coming for a few hours in the morning to do the rough work.
This elegant, refined-looking girl who seemed born to grace a palace,
prepared and cooked their simple and inexpensive food, and performed
other distasteful and incongruous domestic tasks. Yet withal she always
carried herself like a young queen, had always a cheerful word and
smile for the few people with whom she grew to exchange greetings.
However much her life with this impossible and selfish father disgusted
her, however deeply the iron entered her soul, she never spoke of her
private sorrows and disappointments, or showed them in her demeanour.

“You see, sir, to my way of thinking,” explained the honest
head-waiter, and there was a suspicion of moisture in his little,
bright old eyes as he spoke, “to my way of thinking it was a cruel
piece of work, knowing the kind of man he was, as he must have known,
to bring a young girl like that to a peddling place like this; she just
eat her heart out in that poor little cottage. You see, sir, they were
neither fish, flesh nor fowl, in a homely way of speaking. They were
too good for the ordinary folk about here, and of course the gentry
wouldn’t look at them.”

Sellars agreed, well knowing the aloofness of country society. He could
not help contrasting the two pictures, Lettice Larchester preparing and
serving her father’s cheap meals in that cramped cottage, Mrs. Morrice
doing the honours of her luxurious home in Deanery Street with the calm
and gracious dignity of one to the manner born. The girl must have had
grit in her, despite the terrible handicap of that callous and selfish
father.

Mr. Dobbs proceeded with his vivid narrative. The county young ladies,
if they met her in their walks, looked over her head. Some of the
county young men ogled her rudely and tried to scrape acquaintance
with her, but the girl kept herself to herself and gave them no
encouragement, although her heart must have ached for companionship.

There was, however, an exception which ultimately led to a most
thrilling episode. Archibald Brookes, it has been said, often
frequented the Brinkstone Arms, unlike his brothers and the other
young men of good family. Here, of course, he soon became acquainted
with such an habitual attendant as the artist, and the men fraternized
quickly.

Of course, the young man was cultivating the artist for his own ends.
He had already gained the reputation of a rather tawdry sort of
village Don Juan, much to the grief of his parents, and in justice it
must be said to the disgust of his brothers, whose vices were of a
different pattern. Lettice had attracted him very much when he met her
accidentally in the village or when she took her solitary walks. No
doubt he thought a lonely girl like her would prove an easy conquest to
a man of his attractions. He wanted to get at the daughter through the
father.

Larchester, who was very simple in some things, fell into the trap set
for him. He took the young man home one afternoon and formally made
the two acquainted. Lettice was dressed very simply, as she usually
was, but her beauty did not require the aid of dress, and she looked
very charming. Young Archibald was very much smitten, he soon found
frequent pretexts for unceremonious visits, bringing her baskets of
fruits and flowers, and paying her compliments that embarrassed more
than delighted her. For she very soon saw through him and guessed that
his artificial politeness concealed a base and unscrupulous nature.

Then one day a catastrophe occurred. He called one morning when her
father was out. The village woman had finished her work and left, the
girl was alone in the house, preparing to engage in her usual daily
duties. In spite of her attempts to keep him out young Brookes, fired
by her attractiveness, managed to edge his way in. The coast was clear,
he had nobody to deal with but a weak woman. He lost his head, and was
guilty of abominable rudeness.

He seized her roughly in his arms, and in spite of her struggles,
managed to snatch a kiss from her reluctant and outraged lips. Then,
finding she was not the easy conquest he had anticipated, and perhaps a
little fearful of the consequences of his unmanly act, he beat a hasty
retreat. When the father returned he was told of what happened, and
burst into a paroxysm of wild fury, venting imprecations on the young
dastard who had dared to offer such an insult to a virtuous girl like
his daughter.

Selfish, soddened and callous as the man had become from long habits of
intemperance, if there was one being in the world that he respected,
it was this unhappy girl whom he had condemned to such a sordid and
degrading existence. He knew well enough that, in his position, the
young cub had no serious intentions, but merely wished to play with her
as he had done with many of his village light-o’-loves.

Shabby, down-at-heel, familiar as he was with his inferiors, there were
times when he remembered that he had once been a gentleman, descended
from a long line of decent people; that his daughter had ever been and
was still a lady—that a kiss from a man in the position of Archibald
Brookes was an insult to a girl in hers.

What ensued may best be described in the words of good old Dobbs, who
waxed dramatic and at times sadly ungrammatical in his narration.

“I shall never forget that day as long as I live. He comes into the
Arms about five o’clock, the usual time for young Brookes to make a
call, looking terribly mad and waving a thick stick. There was me and
Mr. Simpson, the landlord, in the bar, an old farmer named Coates
and three other men. ‘Has that dirty dog, Archie Brookes, been in?’
he roared out in a voice of thunder. We all looked up, of course,
wondering what was the matter, what had turned Larchester against him.
We told him he hadn’t, and he roared out again in that big voice, ‘When
he does I’m going to half thrash the life out of him. He came to my
house this morning and insulted my daughter.’

“At that moment young Brookes comes in, and when he sees the other
man’s furious face he turns a bit white about the gills. ‘Good-day, Mr.
Larchester,’ he says in a very small voice, trying to carry it off easy
like. Larchester was a powerful man, and young Archie was on the small
side; he could have broken him across his knee. He made one long stride
to him, seized him by the collar, and beat him with that big stick till
I thought he would have broken every bone in his body, roaring out,
‘You dirty young swine, I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget in a
hurry. In future, stick to your village trolls, and don’t dare to lay
your filthy hands on a respectable girl.’

“We got him away at length, while one of the men fetched young Brookes
a cab. But at the last moment Larchester, with his great strength,
broke away from us, and gave him a kick that sent him flying into the
roadway.”

“The best thing I have heard of Mr. Larchester yet, Dobbs,” said
Sellars, whose blood had warmed during this recital. “Well, what become
of all the actors in the drama?”

“Well, sir, young Archie got mended of his bruises, and a few months
later he was shipped off to Australia, where he died. The Larchesters
stayed here for just four years, and then went, but we never rightly
knew where they went to. He got worse in his habits, and shabbier and
shabbier, and the poor girl began to show the strain in her looks. They
were very poor at the end, and the woman who used to do the charing
for them only went once a week instead of every morning. It was a real
tragedy, sir, for that poor young thing; the man had brought it on
himself, he didn’t deserve overmuch pity. And yet, when he was sober,
he was delightful company, and could be a gentleman when he liked.”

The polite Dobbs gave the usual little preliminary cough which heralded
farewell. “I hope I haven’t bored you, sir, but I got that excited,
although it all happened so many years ago, that I was a bit carried
away.”

“Not at all, Dobbs. Knowing the lady just a little, I have been most
interested. Now tell me, was Miss Larchester an only daughter?”

“The only child, sir.”

“You are quite sure of that, Dobbs. There was no elder or younger
sister knocking about somewhere on her own?”

Dobbs did not seem surprised at the question; he was not by any means a
suspicious man.

“Quite sure, Mr. Sellars. I have heard her father say a dozen times,
that he only had one child, and that his wife died in giving it birth.”

Dobbs retired after another dose of whisky, and Sellars ruminated over
the latest information.

Both Sir George’s brothers had died unmarried, and there had been no
sisters. Therefore it was impossible for him to have a nephew.

Mrs. Morrice, _née_ Lettice Larchester, was an only child, therefore it
was equally impossible for her to have a nephew.

And yet young Archibald Brookes was accepted as the nephew of both, the
son of her sister and his brother.

What was the mystery that lay behind this obvious lie?




CHAPTER IX

IMPORTANT INFORMATION


It was getting close to Christmas, and Sellars had got as much
information as it was possible to obtain in the little village of
Brinkstone; in fact, his visit had been particularly fruitful, thanks
to the exhaustive knowledge and retentive memory of the useful Dobbs.
It was time to pack up, return to London, and discuss matters with Lane.

But before he left he had a further chat with the head-waiter of the
Brinkstone Arms, and this proved as valuable in its results as the
previous ones.

“You say that Miss Larchester formed no acquaintances here—that she led
an isolated life?” He put his question to the old man after pressing
into his hand a very substantial tip.

Dobbs shook his head. “A very lonely, miserable life, sir, for anybody,
more especially for such a young and attractive girl. There came just
a little break in the last year of their stay here. She then did get a
little companionship with a member of her own sex, though not quite her
own class.”

And Dobbs proceeded to relate the circumstances in his usual clear
and straightforward way. An elderly man of the name of Buckley came
to reside in Brinkstone, in a cottage just a little superior to that
rented by the Larchesters. Like the artist, he brought with him a
daughter, also, like Lettice, an only child.

He was a retired builder in a small way who, by dint of thrift and
self-denial, had accumulated enough capital to bring him in an income
sufficient for their needs, but allowing no margin for luxuries. A
plain, homely man who looked exactly what he was, a small, thrifty
tradesman with no pretensions to education or refinement, but not
aggressively common. His habits were regular; about twice a week he
looked in at the Brinkstone Arms, took a modest glass of ale, and
chatted with the landlord and the other customers. He had a nice little
piece of ground attached to his cottage, and, being passionately fond
of gardening, spent most of his time in it.

The daughter was a refined edition of her father, not a lady like
Lettice Larchester, but a very good imitation of one, and fairly well
educated. The girls soon got to know each other and quickly became
great friends, constantly in and out of each other’s houses, and taking
long walks together in the fine weather.

“It must have been a boon and a blessing to both of them, sir,”
remarked Mr. Dobbs, “for although you could see with half an eye Miss
Buckley was not of the other one’s class, she was miles above the
ordinary folk about here. And naturally there are lots of things a girl
can only talk about with another girl. Of course, Buckley was a selfish
old man or he wouldn’t have buried his daughter alive in such a place
as this. You see, he was so wrapped up in his gardening that time never
grew heavy on his hands. What with cauliflowers, peas, French beans and
the other vegetables—and he was a fine gardener—the days flew by to
him; there was always something to be looked after, always something
coming up.”

They were certainly much better off than the Larchesters. Their cottage
was quite a roomy, comfortable little dwelling, they kept a small
resident maid, and lived upon the best. Alma Buckley was a good-looking
girl, rather of the buxom and dairymaid type, and just a little bit
loud in comparison with her refined friend. But neither was in a
position to pick and choose; they had to accept what companionship came
their way, and it was fortunate they met with each other.

The Larchesters left at the end of four years; the Buckleys remained
behind. The soil suited Mr. Buckley’s gardening propensities, and so
long as he could grow excellent peas and beans he had no desire to
shift his quarters.

Six months later death claimed the old man. His demise was caused by
his devotion to his hobby. He would insist on digging the ground in a
pouring rain, with the result that he caught a violent chill, pneumonia
supervened and carried him off within the week.

As soon as he was buried the daughter shook the dust of Brinkstone off
her feet; she had been profoundly unhappy ever since the Larchesters
had left.

“She was civil enough to all the folk around, but she had made no
friend in the place except Miss Lettice,” the old man explained. “So we
didn’t hear anything of her after she left any more than we did of the
other two. But I did hear from a theatrical gentleman who stayed here
for a few days a couple of years later, and with whom I used to gossip
a bit, as I’ve done with you, sir, that there was a Miss Alma Buckley
on the stage, and from the description he gave me of her I should say
it was the same. I heard from Mr. Larchester that she was very fond of
play-acting, but that the old man was a bit strict in his notions, a
regular attendant at church and all that sort of thing, and he kept a
pretty tight hand on her.”

Sellars pigeon-holed the name in his memory. This Alma Buckley might be
useful to him if he could get hold of her. On the stage, according to
Dobbs—well, she could not be a particularly well-known actress, or he
would have heard of her, as he was a great theatre-goer. And besides,
all this happened a great many years ago; it was very unlikely she was
still pursuing her theatrical career.

“Now tell me, Dobbs, after the Larchesters left, do you know if
the friendship was kept up at all—I mean, of course, in the way of
correspondence?”

Mr. Dobbs answered this question in the affirmative. Mrs. Simpson, the
then landlady, used to chat a little with Alma Buckley when they met in
the village, and he distinctly remembered being told some three months
after the Larchesters had left, that at one of these meetings the girl
had mentioned she had heard from her friend, and that Mr. Larchester
was going from bad to worse, and that things were growing very hard for
them, in a pecuniary sense.

Sellars went back to London and, of course, paid an early visit to the
detective. It had been arranged that he should not write during his
absence, but deliver his news in one budget on his return.

“Well, you’ve got some very important information,” said Lane when the
young man had finished. “Strange that I should have been suspicious
of that nephew story almost from the beginning. Now, it is evident
there is some mystery in which both Mrs. Morrice and Sir George are
concerned, which has led them to concoct this lying tale. And this
young Brookes, if he is not the relation it is pretended he is, who
and what the deuce is he?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said Sellars. “This Mrs. Morrice
is evidently a queer fish, and, of course, her pretended brother-in-law
is another. I suppose Morrice really knows very little about her; they
say he married her abroad, and, of course, she could fudge up any tale,
mixing up truth and fiction as she liked.”

“And yet Morrice must be a shrewd old bird, or he wouldn’t be where he
is,” observed the detective. “You would think before he married a woman
he would have made exhaustive inquiries about her. Unless, of course,
he does know certain facts, and winks at the nephew business, thinking
it doesn’t concern anybody but themselves. But, of course, I incline
to the belief he doesn’t know. He has the highest reputation for
integrity, and it is more than improbable he would lend his countenance
to such an imposture, even if it were an innocent one, which I very
much doubt.”

“So do I,” agreed Sellars. “Now as soon as I can I will get hold of
this Alma Buckley and see if she knows anything, and if so, if she will
impart it to me. But I am not very hopeful in that quarter. It’s a
deuce of a long time ago, and she may be out of business or dead.”

“If she’s dead, of course we are done. But as long as people are alive
we can generally get at them sooner or later,” said Lane with a knowing
smile.

“I quite agree, they can’t hide themselves for long if one is
sufficiently persevering. Well, now about this Clayton-Brookes. We have
established that he is as queer a fish as Mrs. Morrice; we want to know
a good bit about him, don’t we?”

“What is the general report about him—I mean, of course, amongst the
circles in which he moves?”

Sellars paused a moment or two before he answered. He had heard a good
deal about the man, of course, but up to the present he had not taken
any particular interest in him.

“The general impression is that he is very well-off, not from his
property, because it is well-known that was so heavily encumbered by
his father that it would take more than a lifetime to redeem it. He is
supposed to have come into a fortune from a man named Clayton, whose
name he assumed, either out of compliment or because it was a condition
imposed.”

“Have you ever heard any details of this man Clayton, who was so
obliging as to leave him a fortune?”

Sellars shook his head. “None. You know how easily people swallow a
story when it is properly prepared and ladled out in a circumstantial
way. Clayton may be as much a myth as the nephew for aught we know. You
see how readily that has been accepted. You would say, at first hand,
that a man would be afraid to invent a marriage in his own family; that
there would be dozens of people who knew Archibald Brookes had no wife,
and would come forward and say so.”

“He was helped in that case by the man having cut himself adrift for
so many years, that nobody was likely to know anything about him. But
now concerning this Clayton—if we could get to know who the man was;
there is such a place as Somerset House, there are such things as wills
there. We could soon get what we wanted.”

“I’ll try my old friend at White’s,” suggested Sellars, which in a few
days he did, but not with any brilliant results. All he could learn
was that the man Clayton was a very distant connection of the Brookes
family, that he had made his money in sheep-farming in Australia.

“Obviously he knows just what Clayton-Brookes thinks it is good for him
to know,” observed the young man when he reported to Lane; “and he has
been told in order that he may communicate his knowledge to anybody who
is a bit curious. We are done, I am afraid, in that direction.”

“I agree,” was Lane’s rejoinder. “Well, the resources of civilization
are not yet exhausted, as was once remarked by a very famous man. I
must employ other methods. Now, of course, you don’t happen to know the
name of his bank?”

“No, I don’t, but I can get it like a shot. He deals with the same
bookmaker as I do, but in a much larger way. We are great pals,
my ‘bookie’ and I; I’ve done him several good turns in the way of
information about people who want to open accounts with him. He’ll tell
me for the asking.”

That was the great utility of Sellars in such a complicated business as
that of Lane’s. If he could not give you the precise information you
required, his acquaintance was so varied, his ramifications were so
wide, that he could get it for you from somebody else in a very short
time.

Within a couple of hours the detective was informed that Sir George
Clayton-Brookes banked at the Pall Mall Branch of the International
Bank.

Mr. Lane reached for his hat. “I’ll just step down to my man and put
a little inquiry through as to the gentleman’s financial status.
Fortunately for me, the sub-manager is in charge just now, and like you
and your ‘bookie,’ we are great pals. He’ll do more for me than the
manager, who is a very orthodox person and a bit of an old stick.”

The report came in double-quick time. The wealthy Sir George, who
betted high and gambled for big stakes according to general rumour,
was considered by the custodians of his money not to be good enough for
five hundred pounds.

“Another illusion shattered,” said the detective with a grim smile when
he next saw young Sellars. “This promises to be a very interesting
case. We are unearthing a few queer things, aren’t we? The Clayton
business is a myth, of course; there never was such a person, or if
there was, he never left a fortune to our friend. It is admitted that
his income from his estates is practically nil, and the evidence of
your very useful waiter confirms that. We also know that he passes off
a spurious nephew, for some sinister purpose obviously. The man is a
‘wrong-un’ and lives by his wits, that is pretty evident.”

Sellars could not help laughing. It was a bit comical to find that the
magnificent Sir George was not good enough for five hundred pounds.
Sellars’ bankers would have given him a reference for that amount, and
he lived by his wits too. But then it was in a respectable way, and he
did not invent spurious relations.

“I think we had better set about old Morrice himself next,” he said.
“What’s the odds on finding something fishy about him, in spite of his
high reputation?”

Lane smiled. “By gad, when you’ve been in this line as long as I have,
I’m hanged if you’ve got much belief left in anybody. It is marvellous
the queer things we do unearth, many of them of little actual
importance to the case, when we once start a long investigation.”

“Well, what’s the next move on the board?” queried his colleague. He
began to feel great interest in the Morrice mystery; if it went on as
it had begun, there promised to be some surprising developments.

He was not so astonished about Sir George. He was not popular, partly,
perhaps, on account of the wildness of his youth, and Sellars himself
had been repelled by the man; he had always thought there was something
a little sinister about him.

But the discovery that Mrs. Morrice, that pleasant, gracious woman who
made such an admirable hostess in the big house in Deanery Street,
was a party to such an extraordinary fraud, had fairly taken his
breath away. He recalled the old waiter’s admiration for her as a
girl, of his pity for her lonely life, his disgust with her soddened
father. She must have changed very much from the girl who lived in the
little village of Brinkstone and ate her heart out in these sordid
surroundings.

“I hardly quite know,” was Lane’s answer to the question put by his
young lieutenant. “I want thoroughly to digest all that very important
information you got for me, and make up my mind as to how we are going
to utilize it. But certainly one of the first steps is to discover
who this so-called Archie Brookes really is. It only wants two days
to Christmas; I’m not going to work on it any more till after the
holidays. Then you’ll try to get into touch, if possible, with this
woman Alma Buckley, who is a very strong link with Mrs. Morrice’s past.”

Lane was spending his Christmas in the bosom of his family. Sellars, as
became a young man of his position, was due at a smart country house.
They would meet in the New Year.

Richard Croxton passed the festive season with his kind old nurse.
Rosabelle kept up a smiling face that hid a very aching heart in
Switzerland. It was not a cheerful Christmas for any member of the
Morrice family; they missed greatly the familiar figure that had been
with them for years.




CHAPTER X

THE SAFE IS ROBBED AGAIN


In the New Year, Sellars, having spent a most enjoyable Christmas, and
fortified both in spirits and body by the season’s jollity and good
cheer, set to work to discover whether Miss Alma Buckley was still in
the land of the living, and if so, where she was to be found.

It has been said that nobody knew better how to set about getting
information that he was in need of than this agreeable young
man-about-town, who had never been credited by his ordinary
acquaintances with ability beyond the average.

Amongst his various clubs was a very unpretentious and Bohemian one
called “The Strollers.” As its name implied, its members were mainly
recruited from the theatrical profession, but it also admitted within
its portals musicians, artists, journalists, authors, and a few people
who were great admirers of the arts but did not practise any of them
as a means of livelihood. If Miss Alma Buckley was still in the
profession, he would find somebody here who knew her, or at any rate
knew of her.

We know that, strictly speaking, his proper _milieu_ was the
fashionable world, his proper place for relaxation a club like White’s
or Boodles’; but he was a young man of catholic tastes, and he was
also entitled to call himself a journalist, if his activities in that
profession were not very great. He was also very fond of people who
“did something,” whether in music or art or literature. Therefore “The
Strollers” suited him very well when he got a bit bored with exclusive
society, and the rather banal talk of fashionable and semi-fashionable
people.

The subscription was very moderate, the entrance fee equally
reasonable; he met there men who could talk well, a few quite
brilliantly. Once a week during certain seasons they held an
entertainment at which there was quite a respectable array of talent.
To this very delightful little place he repaired one evening in search
of information about Miss Alma Buckley.

He inquired of two theatrical members, not of the very highest rank
in their profession, but neither of these gentlemen had ever heard of
the lady in question. They suggested that she might probably be on the
provincial stage.

The third time, however, he was more lucky. He came across a rather
well-known music-hall artist, one Tom Codlin, who reddened his nose and
leaned decidedly to the vulgar side on the boards, but who was a very
quiet, decorous fellow off. He knew the name at once.

“Alma Buckley, of course, known her since I first took up the business;
must be a good ten years older than I am, I should say, makes up
wonderfully, too. Saw her a few months ago in one of the Stein shows,
and I was surprised to see how well she wore. No particular talent, no
particular line, but generally gets an engagement, even when cleverer
people are out.”

“Has she ever been on the stage, the real stage, I mean?” asked young
Sellars. Mr. Codlin shook his head.

“Never. She started in the halls when quite a young girl and has stuck
there ever since.”

“Do you know if she’s playing now, and if so, where?”

Codlin had no idea; he had not seen her name for some time in any of
the bills. She might be in the provinces, she might have gone for a
tour abroad.

He thought a moment, and then added: “The best thing you can do if you
want to get hold of her is to go to her agent, ‘Mossy’ Samuelson, as we
call him. I’ll scribble his address on my card; he knows me well. That
will get you the _entrée_ at once, for he’s an awfully busy chap, and
if he doesn’t know you, will keep you waiting for hours.”

The next day found Sellars presenting his club friend’s card to a
small, sharp-looking boy in the rather dingy front room of a house
in a street off the Strand. A communicating door led to Mr. “Mossy”
Samuelson’s private sanctum, where he received his clients. A lot of
women, mostly young, but a few middle-aged, were waiting to see the
great man. Sellars thought that if all these people had to go in before
him he would have to wait for hours. He did not of course know the ways
of busy theatrical agents, that they do not see half the people who are
waiting for an audience, only come out and dismiss most of them with a
brief “Nothing for you to-day.”

“Tell him I won’t keep him a minute,” he whispered to the sharp-looking
boy, slipping half a crown into his rather grubby but appreciative palm.

Mr. Codlin’s card had a magical effect. In less than a minute the boy
appeared in the opening of the doorway and beckoned him in. A gentleman
with a pronounced Hebraic aspect sat in solemn state at a big table,
wearing the shiniest tall hat that Sellars had ever seen on a human
head. He doffed this resplendent article when he observed the young man
remove his own.

“Good-morning, sir; good-morning. Sorry I can’t give you more than a
minute or two. I’ve got three contracts to draw before one o’clock, and
there’s half the music-hall profession waiting in the other room to see
me. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Codlin’s card, couldn’t have given you a
second.”

In view of Mr. Samuelson’s evident importance, Sellars adopted a most
respectful tone. “Very kind of you, sir, very kind indeed. I will come
to the point at once. You are the agent of Miss Alma Buckley, I am
told.”

“I am, sir; been her agent for the last twenty years. What can I do for
you?”

“I want to see the lady on some private and important business. You
could not, of course, give me her address?”

“We never give addresses of our clients; clean against the rules, sir.”
The little, keen, beady eyes looked at him inquiringly. The young man
belonged to White’s Club and looked what Mr. Samuelson would describe
in his own words, “a toff.” What could such a person want with a
middle-aged, undistinguished music-hall artist?

“I quite appreciate that, Mr. Samuelson. Would you be good enough to
forward a letter for me?”

“Very ’appy, sir,” replied the Hebraic gentleman affably. “But it’s no
good your sending it yet. Miss Buckley is returning from South Africa;
at this moment she’s on the ocean, and she’s not due in London for
another ten days. Send it then, and I will take care it reaches her.
Good-morning, sir; ’appy to have met you.”

He held out a podgy hand, and the interview terminated. It was a bit of
a check, this waiting for ten days, for Sellars was getting very keen
on the Morrice case. But there was no help for it, and it was always on
the cards that Miss Buckley might refuse to receive him, or if she did,
might decline to give information about her old friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rosabelle returned to London with her uncle and aunt, very glad to get
home again. Under ordinary conditions she would have enjoyed herself
hugely at Mürren, for she was a thorough open-air girl, and delighted
in every form of sport. But the sight of other people’s gaiety made
her sad when she was so miserable herself. Mrs. Morrice, too, seemed
very unhappy and restless during what should have been such a festive
season. Rosabelle thought that Mrs. Morrice must have been fonder of
Richard than she had believed.

The first visit she paid, even before she went to see her lover, was to
the offices of Gideon Lane. This man, with his strong resolute face, was
her only hope; she had longed to be back in London so that she might be
near him; his propinquity to her gave her a sense of comfort.

“I don’t want to make myself a nuisance, Mr. Lane, but I simply could
not keep away,” she explained by way of greeting. “You have not been
idle during our absence, I am sure. Are you any nearer to discovering
the true criminal? Have you found out anything at all?”

It was an awkward question for the detective to reply to. A very great
deal had been discovered during the time that had elapsed between her
departure for Mürren and her return to London; startling facts at
present known only to himself and Sellars.

If she had been a hard-headed practical man instead of an emotional
girl wrought up to a pitch of almost unendurable tension by the serious
plight of her lover, he might have been disposed to make a clean
breast of it. But for the moment he dared not trust her. Guided by her
feelings, she might act impulsively and spoil all his plans.

“I will be frank with you, Miss Sheldon, as far as I can be, as I
dare be, at this juncture. Certain things have been discovered of
considerable importance. What they are, the precise nature of them,
even a hint, I dare not indulge in for the present, not until I know
much more.”

She knew the man well by now; it was useless to attempt to shake his
determination. When he had once made up his mind, it was like beating
against an open door.

“Will you at least tell me this, to ease my suspense,” she said at
length. “What you have discovered so far, does it tell against or in
favour of Mr. Croxton?”

There was a perceptible pause before he answered. Caution was so
ingrained in the man, his habit of carefully weighing every word, his
dread of expressing an opinion before he was fully justified, had
become so deeply rooted that he could hardly ever exhibit complete
frankness. Optimism was, of course, a mood unknown to him.

“If certain nebulous suspicions which are slowly forming in my mind
turn out to be correct, the result of my discoveries, so far, is rather
in favour of Mr. Croxton.”

That was all she could get out of him for the present, all she would,
in all probability, ever get out of him till he had fully and finally
solved the Morrice mystery. It was not great comfort, but it was better
than nothing.

The next day she went to Petersham, and received a warm welcome from
her lover, whose heart had been aching for her during those weary days
of separation. Small as were the crumbs of comfort which Lane had given
her, she made the most of them, and heartened Dick considerably by her
assurance that all would come right in the end.

“There are things about the man that irritate me—just an impulsive
woman with more heart than head—his slowness, his caution, his dislike
to speak positively; but I do believe in him, in his capacity, his
ability. If the mystery is to be solved by human agency, I am convinced
he will solve it.”

The lovers had a fairly happy day, considering the depressing
circumstances. They took a long walk through busy Kingston, over the
Thames glistening in the winter sunshine, to Hampton Court, where they
had lunch at that best of old-fashioned hotels, the Mitre. They got
back to Petersham late in the afternoon, and Richard’s kindly old nurse
had a dainty tea ready for them. And too soon the hour of parting came
and her lover put her in a taxi and kissed her fervently as they said
good-bye.

“God bless you, my darling; need I tell you how I appreciate your faith
in me? But for your visits, and I count the hours till you come, I
think I should go mad. And yet I must not reckon on them. One day your
uncle will forbid them.”

The steadfast girl smiled bravely. “We will talk of that when the time
comes, my poor old boy.”

She returned his fond caress. “Remember, Dick, whether Lane succeeds or
fails, it will make no difference to me. We are sweethearts now, and we
are going to be sweethearts till the end.”

During her long absence startling events had happened in the big,
old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.

Gideon Lane had spent a busy morning away from his office. It was three
o’clock before he found time to snatch a hasty lunch. When he got back
it was close upon four. His clerk had an urgent message for him.

“Mr. Morrice of Deanery Street has rung up three times during your
absence, sir. The last time he left word for you to go round as soon as
you came in. He said it was of the utmost importance.”

A taxi soon conveyed the detective to the financier’s house. He found
Morrice in his room in a great state of anger and excitement.

“Another robbery, Mr. Lane, this time a small one. A bundle of
Treasury notes and a quantity of Swiss bank-notes have been abstracted,
to the value of two hundred and eighty pounds. This time I am
determined to get to the bottom of it. If you are agreeable, you shall
act for me as well as for the other parties. You have no objection to
that, I suppose?”

Lane bowed. “None at all, sir. Whoever employs me does so with the same
object—to bring home the guilt to the right person.”

There were finger-marks on the safe as before. These were duly
photographed. They were identical with the previous ones, those of the
expert safe-breaker known as “Tubby” Thomas.

_And “Tubby” Thomas, as they knew beyond the possibility of doubt, was
safely locked up in Dartmoor._




CHAPTER XI

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS


Could there be two men the whorls of whose fingers were the same?
Scotland Yard says impossible.

“I do not question that this is a very wonderful safe, Mr. Morrice,”
the detective remarked quietly to the financier in a subsequent
conversation, “but it is evidently not as invulnerable as you and the
makers thought it.”

“Once know the secret of its mechanism, and the rest is easy,” retorted
Morrice, a little nettled at this depreciatory reference to the
wonderful invention, to the perfecting of which he had contributed not
a little himself with his own ingenious suggestions.

He explained to Lane a few of its marvels. To begin with, it was
the only safe of its kind that had ever been manufactured. The
combinations of the times when it would open would run into millions.
Supposing you worked on tens, for instance, that is ten, twenty,
thirty, the days of the month, it would only open if both keys were
applied to the same keyhole!

The detective listened politely, but he was not very interested in
learning how the thing worked; his object was to find out if there was
anybody besides young Croxton and his employer who could have become
acquainted with the secret of its working.

“It seems to me that it is really a matter of exercising ordinary
common-sense,” observed the angry banker. “Two men alone know the
secret, myself and Richard Croxton, therefore either of us could open
it after having obtained surreptitiously a duplicate of the key held by
the other. Let us assume, for a moment that you, acting on Croxton’s
behalf, say that I was the thief, that from some sinister motive
I stole my own property. Well, you are perfectly entitled to that
opinion, as an opinion.”

“I have not expressed it,” said the detective quietly.

“I know you haven’t,” snapped Morrice. He was in a very angry mood
to-day, and inclined to let his temper run away with him. “But I also
know that gentlemen of your profession cast your net wide when you
start, in the hope of catching some very unlikely fish. Of course, I
could have opened it and cast it upon Croxton, if I were so disposed.
But where is my motive for robbing myself? I can understand certain
circumstances which might induce a man to commit such an act, and
cleverly provide a scapegoat. Men set fire to their own warehouses
to get the insurance money. Why? Because they are on the verge of
bankruptcy and that money will save them. A desperate man might steal
his own money for similar reasons, to place it beyond the reach of his
creditors, so that he should not go forth to the world a beggar. But
these motives are absent in my own case. I am more than solvent; I
don’t wish to speak in any boasting spirit, but I have more money than
I know what to do with.”

Lane thought for such a practical man of the world, and possessing,
as he did, such a clear logical brain, he was indulging in rather
superfluous observations. Besides, he had referred to one aspect
of the situation as it affected himself—the absence of financial
embarrassment. If one chose to argue with him, one could cite from
the annals of crime instances of more than one other motive that had
impelled men to commit crimes which they artfully fixed upon innocent
persons, whom for some subtle reason they wished to remove from their
path, or on whom they desired revenge.

The next words, however, showed why the banker had volunteered such an
elaborate defence of himself.

“I am therefore eliminated, at any rate to my own satisfaction.” His
tone was still angry, as if he inwardly resented Lane’s rather lukewarm
attitude. “There is only left this young man whom I have treated as a
son, whom I have loaded with benefits, whom I have preserved from the
consequences of his criminal acts, his dastardly ingratitude to me.
He alone, beyond myself, knew the secret of this safe’s mechanism,
therefore he alone could open it, unless, which of course is possible,
he employed a confederate whom he took into his confidence. Is that
common-sense or not, Mr. Lane?” he concluded in a slightly calmer tone.

“Perfectly common-sense so far as it carries us, Mr. Morrice,” was the
detective’s judicial reply.

“So far as it carries us,” cried Morrice with a slight return of his
previous explosive manner. “I do not understand you.”

Lane smiled. It was a slightly superior smile, prompted by the thought
that these clever business men, excellent and keen as they were in
their own pursuits, did not exhibit that logical mind which is the
great equipment of a trained investigator.

“By that expression I mean simply this, that when you definitely assume
Mr. Croxton’s guilt you are acting on the presumption that nobody but
you and he knows the secret of this mechanism. Can you prove that?”

“Of course I can’t prove it in a way that might satisfy you, but I
do know that I have never told anybody else. There is of course the
maker,” he added sarcastically. “Perhaps you are including him in your
calculations.”

“I think I will consent readily to his elimination,” replied Lane in
his quiet, not unhumorous way. “Now, Mr. Morrice, we will discuss this
matter without heat. I am now employed by you as well as Mr. Croxton,
and I have only one object in view. But I must conduct my investigation
in my own way, and I want to go a little deeper than we have yet gone.”

Morrice was impressed by the grave authoritative manner of the man;
he showed a strong touch of that quality which we notice in eminent
judges, successful barristers and all properly qualified members of
the legal profession, a patient pursuit of facts, a strongly developed
power of deduction from whatever facts are presented, a keen faculty of
analysis.

“Now, Mr. Morrice, I shall ask you a question or two for my own
enlightenment. From the little you have explained to me, the mechanism
of this safe is extremely complicated. Did you and Mr. Croxton carry
all the details of it in your heads, or had you some written memorandum
of its working to refer to in case of a temporary lapse of memory?”

Morrice was quick enough immediately to see the drift of that question,
and his manner changed at once. “Thank you for that suggestion, Mr.
Lane; I fear I have shown a little impatience. For all practical
purposes, we did carry it in our heads, but I have in my possession,
as you surmise, a written key to which reference could be made in the
event of our requiring an elaborate combination.”

“And that key is still in your possession?”

“Yes. I keep it in the safe in my dressing-room. I looked this morning,
and it was there.”

The detective ruminated over this latest piece of information. While he
was doing so, Morrice spoke again, with just a little hesitation, as
if he knew that what he was going to say would cut the ground a little
from under his strongly expressed theory of Croxton’s guilt.

“You ought to know the whole truth, Mr. Lane, and you shall have it
for what it is worth. This present memorandum—I will speak of it by
that name—is one that I wrote out from memory. I had an original one,
perhaps just a trifle fuller, but I lost it, that is to say I could not
find it amongst my papers, some two years ago.”

Still clinging obstinately to his theory, he added a few comments
which, needless to say, did not make much impression on his listener,
who went into possibilities and probabilities perhaps just a trifle too
elaborately for the ordinary man.

“You know how easily papers get lost or mislaid. It is as likely as
not that the original memorandum will turn up in the last place I
should expect to find it. And if it got loose and was swept up by some
careless servant, it would get into the hands of the dustman. To the
ordinary person it would, of course, be quite unintelligible.”

To this Lane simply remarked that when a paper of importance had
disappeared it was quite impossible to prophesy into whose hands it
would fall. The dustman was a comforting theory, but it was no part
of his business to adopt comforting theories that did away with the
necessity to think. If “Tubby” Thomas had not been safely locked up
at Dartmoor for the last two years, he would have been pretty certain
that by some felonious means it had come into the possession of that
accomplished safe-breaker.

His position had changed since Mr. Morrice had summoned him to Deanery
Street on the occasion of the second burglary. He was now representing
the financier as well as Richard Croxton. In a way he was glad, for
Richard Croxton was poor according to Rosabelle, and this promised to
be an expensive investigation. To Morrice money did not matter; he
would not be stopped from ascertaining the truth by lack of funds.

But in another way it was awkward. They had already found out about
Mrs. Morrice that, in conjunction with Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the
supposed wealthy baronet, she was passing off as her nephew a young man
who had no claim to the title. In course of time Morrice would have
to be acquainted with that suspicious fact, and whatever degree of
affection the banker felt for his wife, whether he loved her very much
or hardly at all, it would be a terrible blow to him, either to his
love or pride, or both.

Lane had a long talk with Sellars over the latest development of the
Morrice mystery. The young man strongly maintained that it greatly
strengthened the presumption of Croxton’s innocence, and although the
detective, with his usual habit of caution, did not take quite such a
decided view as his more impetuous lieutenant, he readily admitted
that it told in his favour, that any man possessing the legal mind must
concede as much.

“The more I can find out about him and his habits,” Sellars remarked,
“the more it seems unlikely, although not, of course, impossible, that
he should have done this thing. As far as I can learn, he has been in
love with Miss Sheldon for years, and his life has simply been bound up
with the Morrice family. They entertained very largely, and he always
showed up at their entertainments, was at every dinner-party they
gave, just like a son of the house. He seems to have very few young
men friends, but they are all of a most respectable type. He doesn’t
gamble, he doesn’t drink. Other women don’t come into the case, for he
is hardly ever a yard away from his lady-love. Does he seem the kind
of man to get himself into a hole out of which he can only extricate
himself by robbery?”

And Lane was forced to agree that if the good report of one’s
fellows could establish innocence, young Richard Croxton was already
satisfactorily whitewashed. But of course, in the opinion of this
eminent practitioner, all this was negative evidence, not positive.

Rosabelle, who was duly informed of the loss of the original
memorandum—for Lane was at bottom a very kind-hearted man and thought
he could give the harassed girl this crumb of comfort without
jeopardizing his future action—was very jubilant. She was also
pleased that her uncle had appointed the detective to prosecute his
investigations on his behalf. It would mean that Lane would not be
hampered for money.

She went over to Petersham the next day to tell her lover what had
happened, and succeeded in infecting him with her own hopeful spirit.

“And is Mr. Morrice still as bitter against me as ever, does he still
believe as firmly in my guilt?”

Rosabelle was not very sure of the financier’s real thoughts, but she
gave the best answer she could.

“You know, my dear old Dick, how obstinately he clings to an idea when
he has once taken it into his head, but I fancy he is a bit shaken.”




CHAPTER XII

SIR GEORGE’S VALET


In a back street behind the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly there is a
small, quiet-looking public-house which is a great rendezvous for male
servants of a superior class. Thither in their leisure moments repair
chauffeurs, butlers, valets in good service, to take a moderate amount
of refreshment—such men seldom drink to excess—to chat over the news of
the day, and very frequently to comment to each other on the characters
and doings of their employers.

On the evening following the day on which Lane had held that long
conversation with Mr. Morrice recorded in the last chapter, two men
sat in a corner of the snug little bar, drinking whisky and soda and
talking together in confidential tones.

The one party to the conversation had “gentleman’s gentleman” written
all over his manner and appearance. The deferential voice, the trick of
lowering his eyes when he spoke, proclaimed the valet who had served
in good families. He had not the smug pomposity of the butler nor the
breezy open-air demeanour of the driver.

His companion was no other than our old friend the detective, who did
not, like his companion, exhibit any signs of his calling, as far as
appearance went; he might have been anything—respectable bookmaker,
prosperous commercial traveller, well-to-do shopkeeper, whatever you
pleased.

In the pursuit of his professional duties Lane penetrated into several
circles, outside the higher ones. These he left to Sellars principally,
although he had two other occasional assistants of the same class, but
less zealous and capable. His object in coming to this quiet little
place to-night was to extend his acquaintance, one formed a few nights
previously, with the man who was drinking now at his expense, who
rejoiced in the popular name of Simmons and was valet to Sir George
Clayton-Brookes.

Lane was speaking in answer to some remarks just brought to a
conclusion by the valet with the neat, respectable appearance and the
low, deferential voice.

“And so you think of shifting. Well, it’s no use staying in a place
that doesn’t square with your ideas of comfort.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Cox.” The detective had assumed this name for the
purposes of the temporary friendship. “I knew after the first fortnight
it wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’ve stayed nine months for reasons. It
doesn’t do for a man with my record in good families to go chopping and
changing every five minutes, it gets him a bad name.”

Lane signified his approval of this politic conduct, and noting that
the valet’s glass was empty, hastened to have it refilled, a proceeding
to which Mr. Simmons offered no objection. With his shrewd knowledge
of men, his habit of drawing conclusions from small but infallible
signs, the detective inclined to the belief that his new friend was an
acquisitive kind of fellow, a man who would take all he could get and
give as little as he could in return.

“Your health, Mr. Cox.” The man lifted his glass and looked
appreciatively at his host, while he gave utterance to further thoughts
of his master.

“I don’t say Sir George isn’t all right in the matter of family,
although of course we know they’ve come down through his old father
playing ducks and drakes with the property. But the truth is, a poor
place doesn’t suit a man at my time of life, forty-five last birthday.
Wages are nothing; it’s the pickings that enable a fellow to put by and
start a snug little place of his own to keep him in his old age.”

A poor place, an absence of “pickings”! This confirmed the banker’s
report. As a matter of fact, Lane did not want the banker’s report
confirmed, he could rely on it as far as it went. He was on a much
deeper game, and with that object he had sought the society of Mr.
Simmons in the hope of finding him the sort of person who would help
him to play it.

“Now, that’s rather funny,” he said in assumed surprise. “I’ve heard a
good deal about Sir George, one way and another, and I was always under
the impression he was a wealthy man, had come into a large fortune.”

Mr. Simmons gave a contemptuous sniff. “If he came into a large
fortune, and I think I’ve heard something of that tale myself, it was
before my time. I’ll bet he hasn’t got any of it left now. I tell you
what he does, Mr. Cox, he bluffs a lot, he makes out to most of his
acquaintances that he’s got tons of money, and, of course, several of
them take his word. I’ve heard him putting the pot on often myself when
he didn’t know I was listening.”

An eavesdropper, this quiet, respectable-looking man! If he had the
smaller infirmities, he would be pretty certain to have the bigger
ones. Such was the thought of the shrewd detective.

“But I’ve always heard he bets high, Mr. Simmons.”

The valet, warmed by his potations, gave another sniff of contempt.
“Not he; that’s where he bluffs again. I know it for a fact. I
overheard him one morning put a fiver on a horse over the telephone;
it won at six to one. That same evening, when I was bringing in the
whisky, he told a pal of his right before me he’d laid a hundred. Of
course, he didn’t know I’d heard him in the morning. That’s how he got
the reputation of wealth, by bluffing, gassing and lying.”

It was clear that Simmons hated his employer with the deadly rancour
of a man deprived of his legitimate “pickings,” for he proceeded to
further disclosures, not at all redounding to Sir George’s credit.

He emitted a sardonic chuckle. “I overheard a little conversation
between him and that precious nephew of his one day, and I soon put
the pieces together, though I wasn’t in at the beginning of it. It
seems Sir George had changed a cheque for thirty pounds at one of his
clubs, in the expectation of some money coming in the next day. Well,
the money hadn’t come in, and he was in a frightful stew. ‘If I can’t
pay-in the first thing to-morrow morning, I’m done, and I shall be had
up before the Committee. The bank won’t let me overdraw five pounds;
the manager refused me a week ago when I begged the favour of him.’
That’s your wealthy man. Bah! I’m a poor chap enough, but I believe I
could buy him up if he was for sale.”

Lane shrugged his shoulders. “If you weren’t in the know you’d hardly
credit it, would you, Mr. Simmons?”

“By George, he was in a stew. I remember his words to his nephew; he
almost screamed them; ‘Archie, old boy, you must stand by me, you must
get me that money this afternoon, or it’s all up with me.’ Queer sort
of thing to say, wasn’t it, Mr. Cox.”

“Very queer,” agreed the detective. “Did you hear young Brookes’s
reply? I take it you were listening outside the door.”

“I was,” admitted Mr. Simmons, quite unabashed. It was evident he was
a very curious sort of person, and spent a considerable portion of his
time eavesdropping. “Young Archie was talking extremely low, and I
couldn’t catch very distinctly what he said. But there was a bit of an
argument between the two. I thought I caught the words, ‘it’s so soon
after the other,’ and then Sir George almost screamed out again, ‘I
can’t help that; I tell you it’s got to be done.’”

“An interesting couple,” remarked the supposed Mr. Cox. He was quite
sure now of the kind of man Mr. Simmons was. Should he approach him
at once or cultivate him a little further before he did so? Being a
cautious man and disinclined to do things in a hurry, he chose the
waiting policy. So he asked the valet when he would be likely to meet
him there again, at the same time proffering another whisky.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Cox, I shall be here for the next three
evenings. A bit of luck has come my way. Sir George is going into the
country to-morrow morning, and won’t be back till Friday. He isn’t
taking me with him, and I don’t know where’s he’s going. No letters or
telegrams are to be forwarded.”

“A bit queer he doesn’t want his valet with him, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” replied Mr. Simmons with a knowing expression. “A very
dark horse is our respected and wealthy baronet! If he’s going to a
swagger country house he takes me fast enough. But it’s not the first
time by half a dozen that he’s sloped off like this by himself. He’s
after something that he doesn’t want anybody else to know about, you
bet. A very queer fish, Mr. Cox.”

So Sir George would be away for a few days; that would just suit Lane’s
plans. He must open the campaign with the not too scrupulous valet as
soon as possible, but not to-night.

“Look out for me to-morrow evening then, Mr. Simmons. I like this
little place, it’s very snug and quiet, and I have very much enjoyed my
chats with you. Good-night. Sure you won’t have another before you go?”
But the acquisitive valet had that delicacy in him that he declined
further hospitality; he had already done himself very well at his
companion’s expense, and was perhaps fearful of trespassing too greatly
on his good nature.

The next evening they were again in their quiet corner, and Lane opened
the ball a few minutes after they had exchanged greetings.

“Now, Mr. Simmons, I am going to be quite frank with you. I didn’t come
here by accident. I got to know—it doesn’t matter how—that you were Sir
George’s valet, that you frequented this place. If you are so inclined,
you are just the man to give me help in a little job I’m after. I’m a
detective by profession; here is my card with my name and address. If
you have any doubts about the truth of my assertion, I will take you
down to Shaftesbury Avenue now and convince you by ocular proof.”

Mr. Simmons scrutinized the card carefully; he was a shrewd and wary
fellow, and not one to be easily taken in.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox, or rather Mr. Lane, to give you your
true name, I had a sort of suspicion all along that you were a ’tec and
wanted something out of me. I’ve never seen you in this place before,
and you’ve given me a lot of drinks and wouldn’t take one back. Now,
sir, if I may speak without offence, a man who meets a stranger doesn’t
do all the paying without a motive. Well, sir, let’s come to business.
What can I do for you—of course, with safety to myself, and if I do it,
what do I get out of it?”

A business-like fellow, a bit of a rogue, in a noncriminal way no
doubt! But it was always easier to deal with a rogue than a fool in
matters of this kind. There would be no beating about the bush.

Lane briefly explained what he wanted. He wished to examine Sir
George’s pass-book; if that was not available, his paying-in slips. Did
the valet know where he kept them?

Yes, Mr. Simmons did know. Sir George was in the habit of getting his
book every month from the bank, and after examining it, returning it
in about three weeks to be made up for the following month. He kept it
with his cheque-book and the paying-in slips in one of the top drawers
of his writing-table. Sometimes the drawer was locked, more frequently
not, for in some matters where the vast majority of men were cautious,
the mysterious baronet was singularly careless. At the present moment
Mr. Simmons did not know whether it was locked or not, but it would
probably be locked before he went away.

“That doesn’t present much difficulty,” said Lane with a calmness that
took away his companion’s breath. “If it is not a very complicated
lock, and it’s not likely to be if the writing-table is an ordinary
sort of one; I can easily pick it.”

Mr. Simmons pursed his lips in perplexity. “But that’s burglary, isn’t
it, and spells quod if were caught?”

The detective smiled. “’Pon my soul, I’m not very sure. We have to do
this sort of thing sometimes, but we don’t run any very great risk,
because the people we do it to have so much to conceal that they
daren’t take action. I’m not proposing to take away anything, you
know.”

But Mr. Simmons evidently did not like the prospect. He was perfectly
unscrupulous in a small way, would not have objected to certain petty
pilferings sanctioned by custom and tradition amongst certain members
of his profession. One of his grievances against the baronet was that
he counted his cigars and his bottles of wine; there was never a chance
of getting a free smoke or drink.

But this looked a bigger thing than he expected. He thought very
deeply for a few seconds, while Lane cursed him in his heart for a
faint-hearted rogue, who let his inclination wait upon his fears.

“Look here,” he said at length. “We haven’t said anything yet about
terms. If I do it—and mind you, I’m not very gone on it—what’s the
price? It ought to be a good one.”

Lane named a liberal sum, and, truth to tell, it did make the valet’s
mouth water, but he was a greedy fellow, and he was determined to try
for a bit more. So for a few minutes they haggled till a compromise was
effected. But still Simmons was torn in two between his greed and his
fear of detection and would not say positively that he would assist.

The detective was a man of resource, he saw that he must adopt
different tactics with this cowardly rogue and relieve him from his
apprehensions.

“Look here, my friend, I can see you are in a blue funk; you are
afraid of what I am certain won’t happen, that Sir George will return
unexpectedly, walk into his flat and find me at work. Of course, he has
got his key.”

Mr. Simmons wanted to get that money in his possession, and his greed
sharpened his wits.

“Yes, he has got his key; he always carries it with him. But I could
put the inside latch up, making some plausible excuse for doing so,
and while I was going to the door you could put things straight and
escape into my room, hide there and be smuggled out as soon as we got a
chance. What do you think of that?”

“Quite ingenious,” was the approving answer. No doubt the fellow would
have developed a very pretty talent in the domain of “crookdom” if he
had been properly trained by a qualified professor.

“Quite ingenious,” repeated Lane; “but I think I can manage it in a way
that will avert any danger from yourself if accidents should happen.
Now here is my plan. I will explain it as briefly as possible. You
won’t appear in the matter at all.”

Mr. Simmons heaved a sigh of relief. He looked at his new friend with
an air of admiration; he felt he was in the presence of a master mind.

The detective lucidly explained his scheme. “You meet me at the bottom
of the street to-morrow evening at seven o’clock, and hand me the key
of the flat. You come on here, I join you in five minutes; we have met
here as usual for a chat. I’m in a hurry; I stay with you a quarter of
an hour, then hasten off on the plea of having to attend to some urgent
business. I go on to the flat, take care that nobody is about, put the
key in the door, enter Sir George’s room and do my business. You will
sit here for an hour with your pals, then you will leave and meet me,
say, in the buffet of Victoria Station, when I will hand you back your
key.”

“It sounds all right,” said Mr. Simmons, still speaking dubiously.
“But what happens if Sir George ‘cops’ you, and you can’t meet me at
Victoria?”

“I’m coming to that, although there’s not the smallest probability
that Sir George will ‘cop’ me. If he does, I think I shall have
to say something to him that will prevent him from giving me in
charge. But whatever happens, all that can be proved against you is
indiscretion—mind you, rather unpardonable in a man of your years, but
still only indiscretion. So you tumble to it now?”

“I think I’m getting an inkling; but you might explain it fully. You
are a clever chap, and you make things seem so clear.”

“You met a very plausible stranger in a certain pub. Give the name
to show good faith. Your friends can prove they have seen us talking
together. You got rather pals; he stood you a lot of drinks. On this
particular evening he gave you a little too much, perhaps put something
in it to make you stupid, and while you were losing your wits, picked
your pocket of the key and rushed round to the flat, leaving you to
recover yourself. So remember, after I leave you to-morrow evening, to
be a little foolish in your manner for half an hour or so.”

“Excellent,” cried Mr. Simmons in genuine admiration. “By jingo, you
are a knock-out; you think of everything. To-morrow evening, just at
the bottom of the street; afterwards here. Now, what do you think of
something on account—say a ‘tenner.’”

“I don’t mind a ‘fiver,’” was Lane’s answer; he was not disposed to
trust the valet too much. If he got as much as ten pounds safely into
his hands he might back out at the last moment and leave the detective
in the lurch. “I won’t give it you before all these people; you never
know who’s looking. We’ll leave here in about half an hour, and I’ll
hand it over when we’re safe out of the street.”

About eleven o’clock the next morning he received a further surprise in
connection with this most puzzling case. A note was sent round to him
from Mr. Morrice:

 “DEAR SIR,—Another development! On opening my safe this morning I
 found that the packet of papers abstracted in the first robbery has
 been put back, also the bundle of Swiss notes. I suppose the thief
 found they were of no use to him and obligingly returned them. Come
 round as soon as you can. I shall be in all day.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “RUPERT MORRICE.”




CHAPTER XIII

AUNT AND “NEPHEW”!


There was not very much to discuss when Lane did get to Deanery Street.
Certain inexplicable things had happened for which, at present, there
seemed no accounting. Somebody seemed to be doing what he liked with
this wonderful safe, abstracting and replacing property when he chose,
without hindrance, in a house full of people. One novel feature on
this occasion was the total absence of finger-prints. They had been
carefully rubbed out.

Morrice seemed greatly perturbed, as was quite natural under the
circumstances; but Lane noticed that there was a considerable
difference in his demeanour on this occasion from the last, when he had
insisted, with some display of temper, upon the certainty of Croxton’s
guilt.

Lane had been a little nettled at the time—at the cocksure attitude
of this hard-headed man of business who, however great his success in
his own particular line, did not seem to possess a very great logical
faculty, and could not forbear putting a rather pertinent question.

“Are you quite as sure as you were, Mr. Morrice, that your late
secretary is the thief?”

Morrice shrugged his shoulders. It was easy to see that he was in
a subdued mood; there was no fear of further explosions to-day.
“I admit there are complications in this infernal business that
perplex one extremely. But I don’t think that, so far, I can see any
particular reasons for altering my previous opinion. You can’t get
over the insurmountable fact that Croxton and myself were the only
two persons who knew the secret of the mechanism. He may not be the
actual purloiner, I admit; he may have passed on his knowledge to a
confederate with whom he shares the spoil.”

Lane let fall only a few words in answer to these observations, but
they were very significant ones.

“Don’t forget, Mr. Morrice, that you lost the original key or
memorandum, as you call it, of the workings.”

But the financier was an obstinate person, as many strong-minded men
are. When he had once formed a theory, he did not give it up in a hurry.

“Only mislaid, I expect,” he answered, but it was easy to see his tone
was not quite so confident as usual. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it
turned up at any moment.”

But Lane hastened to put on a damper at once. “And if it did, I don’t
see that it would help you so very much. You couldn’t possibly know in
what other hands it might have been during the interval.”

The financier had no wish to engage in further argument with this calm,
self-possessed man, whose merciless logic made such short work of
anything in the nature of a positive opinion.

“It doesn’t seem to matter much what I think,” he cried with a slight
return of his old petulance. “And perhaps it would be wiser to admit at
once that I don’t possess your capacity for weighing facts and drawing
deductions from them. I should like to know one thing, Mr. Lane—does
what has just happened convey any new suggestions to you, throw any
fresh light upon the situation?”

He did not gauge the detective as accurately as one might have expected
from a man with his wide knowledge of human nature, or he would never
have put this question in the hope of getting a satisfactory answer.
Whatever theory or theories might be forming in his mind, and there
could be no doubt that it was working at full-speed all the time, and
readjusting itself to every fresh turn of events, Lane would make no
disclosures till he judged the time was ripe.

He shook his head with great gravity: “We work very slowly, Mr.
Morrice; we come to conclusions with equal slowness, in our profession.
I dare say to a keen business man like yourself who plan your _coups_
with lightning rapidity, make and clinch a deal of many thousands in a
few minutes, we must seem dull, plodding fellows. But you must remember
that most of our time we are working underground where very little
light penetrates. What has happened to-day may suggest a new line of
thought to me, but I have not yet had time to digest its significance.
It will want a great deal of patient thinking over before it bears any
fruit.”

With this the rather impatient financier had to be content. He was
beginning to have a certain respect for the firm, self-reliant attitude
of the detective, who did not appear to be in the least overawed by
Morrice’s wealth and position. And he had a shrewd idea that, in his
own particular and less remunerative line, Lane had a brain not greatly
inferior to his own. They worked in different directions with a vast
disproportion between the rewards attending their efforts. Morrice had
the instinct of moneymaking, Lane the instinct of unravelling criminal
mysteries. Perhaps in the bare fact of intellectual equipment there was
not much to choose between them.

As the detective passed through the hall on his way out, he found
Rosabelle waiting for him. She was of course cognizant of what had
happened, and on Lane’s arrival her first idea had been to be present
at the interview between him and her uncle. But on second thoughts she
had decided to speak to the detective alone.

She still loved her uncle very dearly; she must always do that for
all the kindness and affection he had lavished on her. But it was
impossible there should not be a little secret antagonism between the
two in the circumstances. He appeared to be firmly convinced of Richard
Croxton’s guilt, she as firmly convinced of his innocence. She was a
fair-minded girl, and she was prepared to make every allowance for
Morrice’s attitude, but as there did not seem any common ground on
which they could meet when the matter was under discussion, she judged
it best to speak of it to him as little as possible.

She put to him practically the same question that her uncle had done:
“Well, Mr. Lane, what do you think of the new development? Does it
reveal anything to you?”

That wary and cautious person shook his head. He had taken a great
liking to Rosabelle. Her staunch devotion to her lover had appealed to
the finer chords of his nature; for although he never allowed sentiment
to sway him unduly, he was by no means destitute of that human quality.
But not even for Rosabelle’s sake would he depart greatly from that
cautious attitude which was habitual to him.

“It is a strange development, Miss Sheldon, but I have not yet had
time to think it over. I am going back to my office to do so, and the
thinking over will take some time.”

Her charming face fell. “You cannot see in it even the remotest thing
that tells in favour of Richard Croxton?”

The eyes were very sad, the voice was very pleading. Should he give
the unhappy girl one little crumb of comfort? For a little time he
hesitated, then compassion got the better of prudence and of his iron
reserve.

“I will just say this, Miss Sheldon, and no more. It is becoming a less
impossible task to clear him than I at first thought; but please don’t
be too jubilant—there are still very formidable difficulties in the
way.”

A radiant light came into the charming face, although her eyes filled
with tears and she clasped her hands nervously together. Her voice
trembled as she spoke.

“You have put new life into me with those words, Mr. Lane. I know you
quite well by now, and I am sure that, coming from you, they mean much.”

Poor Lane began to think he had made a bit of a mistake in departing
from his usual caution, in being moved by the pleading attitude of the
girl into giving her this small crumb of comfort. That was the worst of
women—they were so impressionable and optimistic, or pessimistic, as
the case might be. Their moods were never equable: they were either at
the height of elation or in the depth of despair.

“Please do not let me excite false hopes, Miss Sheldon,” he hastened
to say. “Remember, I have told you there are great difficulties in the
way. Until we are on much firmer ground I would beg that you do not
repeat my words to Mr. Croxton.”

But she did not give any answer to this request, and he knew that for
all practical purposes he might have held his peace. Of course, she
would post off to her lover as soon as she could get away, and infect
him with her own optimism. Well, he was loath to confide too much in
the most hard-headed and sceptical man; he had only himself to blame
for having been over-confidential with a member of the emotional sex.

Later on in the day Rosabelle carried out his prediction; she made
up her mind to pay a visit to Petersham, to hearten her lover with a
recital of those words which she was convinced meant so much, coming
from a man of Lane’s cautious temperament.

Morrice had left the house shortly after the detective’s departure.
The two women would have lunched alone together but for the unexpected
arrival of young Archie Brookes, who was pressed to stay for the meal.

Rosabelle was very sensitive to impressions, and, for so young a girl,
particularly observant. It struck her that during the progress of the
luncheon the young man seemed rather _distrait_ and preoccupied. Two
or three times he answered at random, and once Mrs. Morrice called out
to him sharply, “I don’t think you are listening to what I am saying,
Archie.” At that rebuke he seemed to pull himself together, but the
girl was sure his thoughts were far away from her aunt’s light chatter.

Presently aunt and nephew, to call him what Rosabelle, ignorant of
Lane’s discoveries, still believed him to be, went up to Mrs. Morrice’s
boudoir. There was nothing unusual in this; it was a frequent custom
when the young man called or lunched at the house.

Rosabelle thought she would start for Petersham at once, making her
journey there as usual in a taxi. She always had plenty of money for
her needs, as Morrice supplemented her own little modest income of a
hundred a year with a very generous allowance.

As she went upstairs to her own room to make ready for her expedition,
she passed her aunt’s boudoir, the door of which stood slightly ajar.
It was a rather unusual circumstance, for when the two were closeted
together Rosabelle had noticed that it was nearly always closed. This
time it had evidently been forgotten by both.

She was not a girl who in ordinary circumstances would have
condescended to listen at doors, but she could not help hearing words
that startled and puzzled her.

Archie was speaking in a voice of great excitement and emotion. “But
if I don’t have it I am ruined. It means that I cannot face the
disgrace—there is only one alternative——” His voice had by now sunk
almost to a whisper, and she could not catch what followed.

She stood rooted to the spot. The young man’s preoccupied manner at the
lunch-table was accounted for. He was in some deep trouble from which
he was begging Mrs. Morrice to rescue him.

She heard her aunt reply in tones that were half angry, half tearful.
“How many times have you threatened me with that, and I have yielded. I
have half ruined myself for you; it cannot go on much longer.”

Suddenly she felt that she was listening to a conversation not intended
for her ears, and resolutely turned away and went to her own room. For
the present she would say nothing, not even to Dick, of what she had
heard by the purest accident. But she thought over it all the way on
the long drive to Petersham. Was there yet another tragedy going on in
the Morrice household, and was her placid-looking, dignified aunt the
centre of it?

And what was that alternative which Archie Brookes had described in
a whisper she could not catch? Had he threatened to destroy himself
if his request were not acceded to? And what did Mrs. Morrice mean by
saying she had half ruined herself for him?




CHAPTER XIV

AN ALARMING INTERRUPTION


Punctually at five o’clock on the appointed evening Lane and Simmons
met. On the face of the valet was a triumphant expression.

“We needn’t try this new scheme of yours, Mr. Cox—Mr. Lane, I should
say. I’ll come back to the flat with you; it’s all plain sailing. The
drawer is unlocked. The bank-book isn’t there, and he’s taken the
cheque-book with him; but he’s left the paying-in slips all right. You
said these would do.”

Not by any means for the first time was Gideon Lane impressed by the
inconsistencies of the human temperament. Here was a shrewd, clever
man like Sir George Clayton-Brookes, one who counted his cigars and
wine-bottles to prevent his valet helping himself to a surreptitious
smoke or drink! Surely he would be equally meticulous in other and
more important matters. And yet, he had gone away leaving that drawer
unlocked, its contents open to the prying eyes of Simmons.

The detective himself would never have done such a thing, and he was
quite sure he had less to conceal than this mysterious baronet who
passed himself off as a wealthy man, while all the evidence that had
been gathered pointed to the contrary. Perhaps Sir George, like many
other persons of considerable mentality—for there was little doubt
that he had brains of a certain order—entertained a great contempt for
the intelligence of his inferiors, and thought that if Simmons did pry
about in his absence he would not be much the wiser for his researches.

The baronet resided on the first floor of a block of service flats in
the Victoria direction, finding this mode of living very suitable to
him. Simmons slept out, coming early in the morning and leaving at all
sorts of times dependent upon his master’s convenience. In the course
of his communications to Lane, the detective had gathered that, in
many respects, it was a very easy place. Sir George did a great deal
for himself, so that the valet’s duties were not onerous, and he had
a lot of spare time. If his master went out for the evening, and this
happened on most evenings of the week, Simmons was never required to
await his return. His meals he occasionally took in the restaurant
attached to the flats, but more frequently he lunched and dined at
his clubs or the private houses of his acquaintances. Breakfast, a
Continental one of coffee and rolls, was served in his own apartments.

“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want a valet at all,” was Simmons’s
rather contemptuous comment on his master’s habits. “And if he
consulted his own inclinations, I don’t believe he would keep one, for
he’s that dirt mean that I know he begrudges me my wages every time he
pays me. What can you expect of a man who sells all his old clothes to
a second-hand dealer? Not a waistcoat or a pair of old boots have I had
since I was in his service. He’s obliged to keep one to carry out his
policy of ‘swank.’ He knows his friends would think it deuced queer for
one in his position to be without a man.”

It formed a handsome suite of apartments, with its two elegantly
furnished sitting-rooms, large airy bedroom and capacious bathroom.
Still, one would only put it down as the abode of a man comfortably
well-off, not one supposed to be actually wealthy.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Simmons, as he ushered the detective into
the smaller of the two sitting-rooms, which was used as a smoking-room
and study in which the owner wrote his letters and attended to his
business, whatever it was.

“And here’s the writing-table, and that top one on the left is the
drawer in which you want to look. I’m glad it’s turned out like this,
Mr. Lane; I feel a good bit easier in my mind. Nobody can call this
burglary, eh? No harm in taking a peep at things that be under your
hand, is there?”

By which it will be seen that Mr. Simmons, though perhaps not a high
authority on morals, had certain well-defined ethics of his own. It
was not stealing to abstract a cigar from the store of a master who
did not resort to the discreditable meanness of putting out a dozen in
a box at a time so that he would easily miss one; it was not wrong to
help yourself as often as you could to a glass of good wine; it was not
against the moral code to listen outside doors, or to read letters and
papers to which you could procure easy access through your employer’s
carelessness. But in some matters the valet was a purist, more, it
is to be feared, from terror of the legal consequences than from the
revolt of a tender conscience. He did draw the line at picking locks or
steaming open a letter.

Growing quite daring in his comfortable belief that they were engaged
in a comparatively innocent operation, he pulled the drawer open with
his own hands and pointed to the pale-coloured little book which
contained the paying-in slips.

“There it is; goes back for two months. Is that enough for you? I hope
so, for I don’t know where he puts the old ones; locks them up in his
safe, I expect.”

Lane intimated it would be quite sufficient for his purposes, and got
to work at once. He took careful notice of the exact position of the
little book which was lying at a slight angle on the top of a pile of
papers, so that he could replace it in the same position. Sir George,
careless as he appeared to be in some matters, might have a good memory
in certain things, and might notice on his return that the contents of
the drawer had been disturbed. Still, that did not matter very much if
he did suspect; his suspicions would naturally fall upon Simmons as
the guilty party, and, truth to tell, the detective was not very much
concerned about that individual. He had proved a useful and adaptable
instrument, but Lane could not help despising him for a smooth-faced
hypocrite and venal rogue.

It cannot be said that he enjoyed the situation very much himself. He
had taken this course because he could think of no other which would
serve his ends, and one has often to resort to dirty means in a good
cause. But even if Sir George was the scoundrel he was beginning to
believe him to be, the action he was now taking savoured just a little
too much of hitting below the belt to square with his stolid English
notions of fair play. If it had been possible he would have preferred
to come out more in the open. Still, all is fair in war; he had
comforted himself with that reflection many times in the course of his
active career.

It was not a very long task, for there seemed to be but few payments,
and those mostly for small sums. The name of Willis occurred frequently
in the margin of the counterfoils, evidently this was the person who
had paid the amounts to Sir George.

“Do you know anything of a man named Willis?” asked Lane of the valet
who was watching his proceedings with great interest. He was a very
curious fellow, and he would dearly have liked to know the particular
object of the present researches.

“Yes, that’s his bookmaker,” was the answer of Simmons.

Mr. Willis’s cheques were for trifling sums which seemed to prove
that the baronet did not bet so high as was generally supposed, as he
pretended to his friends, according to the valet’s account. But, of
course, it was not proof positive. Like most men who follow racing, he
would win one day and lose the next, so that at the end of the week
there might be a very trifling balance against him or in his favour.

What, of course, Lane was looking for was an entry a little subsequent
to the first big burglary, when the diamonds and the big bundle of
foreign notes had been stolen. There was certainly the biggest entry
he had seen in the book about a week after the actual date of the
robbery, and against it was marked the word “cash.” But it was only for
seventy-five pounds.

Now the diamonds alone, according to Lane’s information, had cost
Mr. Morrice no less than eight thousand pounds, as the stones were
big ones, perfect in matching and colour. Granted that they had been
realized by the thief or thieves at a tremendous depreciation, they
should at least have brought in a fourth of that sum. It was hardly
possible that Sir George, even if he were a member of a gang who shared
the spoil, would engage in such a dangerous operation for the sake of
the paltry sum of seventy-five pounds.

Including that item the total payings-in for the two months were a
little over four hundred pounds. Assuming that this was a fair average,
the baronet’s income would be only slightly more than two thousand a
year. It was a small amount for a man who went about in good society,
and according to Simmons, spent about five hundred a year at least
on his clothes, and entertained his friends lavishly to lunches and
dinners at the most expensive restaurants.

“That’s what riles me about him,” observed the valet when he had
answered Lane’s direct questions on these points. “A month ago he
bought a new car that must have cost him every penny of a thousand
pounds. He thinks nothing of paying fifty pounds for a dinner to his
pals, I know that from one or two waiters who are friends of mine. And
yet he’s so devilish mean in some things, he sells his old clothes, he
begrudges me a cigar or a glass of wine, and while he’s blueing all
this money, his bank won’t let him overdraw five pounds, according to
his own statement which I overheard him make to his nephew.”

“On the evidence of this book, one would say he was, comparatively
speaking, a poor man, that is to say a poor man for his position,” said
the detective in a musing tone, as he restored the little pale-coloured
book to its original position, and shut the drawer. “And yet he spends
any amount of money on clothes and entertaining, and can plank down a
thousand pounds for a new car. You said yourself he was a poor man,
pretending to be rich.”

“He seems to be wealthy one day and hard-up the next, now one comes to
go into it a bit closer,” remarked Mr. Simmons. “I expect I was guided
a bit too much to my opinion by the fact of his being in such a blue
funk about that cheque he had changed at the club.”

“That little book is a blind, Simmons; no wonder he is careless about
that drawer; he knows that whatever you can see there will not disclose
the true state of his affairs. And you say he bought that car about a
month ago.”

“Of course, he may owe for it, for anything we know to the contrary,”
was the valet’s comment, “only just paid a bit down and is trying to
raise the wind somewhere now. Perhaps that’s the object of his present
journey.”

The detective was thinking deeply, it was a puzzling situation. He
had been in hopes that he might have got some absolute results from
his visit to Sir George’s flat and the inspection of his paying-in
book. The outcome was quite negative. The one suspicious thing was the
purchase of that car, and as Simmons had truly remarked, it might have
been bought on credit. Still, supposing it had been, Sir George must
have expected to lay his hands upon a thousand pounds pretty soon.

The drawer contained nothing to help him. He cast his eyes longingly
at the safe which stood in the corner of the room, a big one, made by
one of the best-known makers in London. He would very much have liked
to have a peep into that safe, it might have yielded up some secrets.
But he was not an expert safe-breaker like Mr. “Tubby” Thomas now
languishing in Dartmoor, or the hitherto undiscovered thief who had
practised his art in the big, old-fashioned house in Deanery Street.

He lost himself in speculation for some little time, almost oblivious
of the valet’s presence. That gentleman thought it time that attention
should be paid to his own immediate affairs, and coughed gently to
raise Lane from his reverie.

“Haven’t you found what you wanted?” he asked, with an anxious look in
his cunning little eyes.

“To tell the truth, I haven’t. For all practical purposes I might as
well not have taken on the job.”

The anxious look grew more intense. Mr. Simmons had small faith in his
fellow-men. Perhaps the detective might try to get out of his bargain,
if not altogether, to a very considerable extent.

He spoke in an ingratiating tone. “Not my fault, is it? I’ve done all
you wanted, haven’t I?”

“Oh, certainly, there is no blame attached to you.” Lane understood
what he was driving at and extracted from a letter-case several
five-pound notes, the balance of the sum which he had undertaken to
pay, and handed them to the valet, who received them with profuse
expressions of gratitude and a look of relief.

“Many, many thanks. Is there any other question you’d like to ask? Only
too happy to oblige.”

“Well, yes, Mr. Simmons, since you’re so kind, we may as well have a
little further chat while I’m here; we shan’t be disturbed. It’s about
this nephew, young Archie Brookes, who seems so fully in his uncle’s
confidence. What can you tell me about him?”

Mr. Simmons with that nice sum of money nestling snugly in his pocket
was in a most obliging mood, and hastened to unfold all he knew.

“Well, Mr. Lane, as you know, I haven’t been in Sir George’s service
very long, and what I know is chiefly gathered from his former valet,
who is now with the Duke of Droitwich, a man named Dundas, and other
servants who have been about in the same sort of set.”

“What I want to know particularly is when he first appeared upon the
scene. I understand the story given out is that he’s the son of a
younger brother of Sir George’s, that the father died in Australia, and
that his uncle sent for the young fellow and introduced him to London
society.”

“Quite right, Mr. Lane. This happened about five years ago. Sir George
gave out the story as you have heard it, the young man came over, and
ever since his arrival the two have been inseparable. When Sir George
is in town, and that’s the best part of the year, there’s hardly a day
passes that young Archie doesn’t come here, sometimes staying for only
a few minutes. Sir George put him up for a couple of decent clubs that
he belongs to himself, but not for the two very exclusive ones of which
he is a member. I suppose the young chap is not quite big enough for
them.”

“Is he supposed to have any money of his own?”

“According to my friend Dundas, not more than a pittance. Dundas was
in the service of a great friend of Sir George’s before he went to the
baronet, and he got the information from him. The father, according
to this account, died leaving very little; the mother had died years
before. His uncle practically adopted him with the intention of making
him his heir. Although, as you and I know, Mr. Lane, whether there will
be anything for him to be heir to is a bit of a puzzle, I think.”

“There is the furniture of this flat which is worth a bit, and the
motor-car,” observed Lane with a humorous smile. “Do I take it then
that the young man is supported by Sir George?”

“That’s what my friend Dundas gathered.”

“If that is a fact, it might account for the baronet being a
comparatively poor man, then. What sort of style does this young Archie
keep up?”

“From all that I hear, he makes a greater show than his uncle. He
rents a flat in the Hyde Park district twice the rent of this, runs
a Rolls-Royce and keeps a valet. I know his man, and he says it’s a
ripping job. He’s as open-handed as his uncle is stingy. Gives jolly
bachelor dinners sent in from outside to his own place, where they swim
in champagne and the most expensive wines. Jenks, my friend, can take
as many cigars as he likes, nothing is ever said; many a time I’ve
cracked a bottle of young Archie’s best champagne when he’s been out of
the way. Jenks says he’d give him one if he asked for it. When he goes
for his holiday, he chucks him a tenner; he does the same at Christmas.
He has no end of clothes which he never half wears out, and as soon as
he tires of a suit he tosses it over to my friend. Oh, there’s some
pretty little ‘picks’ there, I can tell you. If I was in the young
man’s service, instead of in this old curmudgeon’s, I shouldn’t be
looking out for a new place, you bet your life.”

“A gay young gentleman, evidently,” observed Lane, to whom all this
information was intensely interesting.

“Rather! He spends money right and left. He’s got a lot of lady
friends, many of them not too particular, married and single. He’s
always buying handsome presents for them. His jeweller’s bills tot up
to a nice round sum, Jenks tells me. Besides that, he gambles a lot,
but he doesn’t back horses much.”

“Then we have established one fact pretty clearly,” said the detective
decisively. “If this young scapegrace has no money and his uncle is
paying the piper, Sir George must, after all, be the wealthy man that
popular report considers him.”

The door of the room in which they were sitting and holding this
confidential conversation was partly open, and just as Lane had
finished speaking, both men distinctly heard the sound of a key being
inserted in the hall door.

The valet swore wickedly under his breath, and sprang to his feet, his
face white as chalk, his hands shaking.

“It’s Archie, I know his cat-like footstep. The old devil has left his
key with him. He’s come after his letters, they won’t trust me with the
address.”

Lane was disturbed too, he had not bargained for this sudden
interruption, and Simmons looked so panic-stricken, being a
white-livered sort of fellow, that his looks were enough to hang him.

“Pull yourself together and leave as much as you can to me,” he
whispered to the shaking valet. Then he strode across the room and
pretended to be examining a picture while he awaited the entrance of
Archibald Brookes.




CHAPTER XV

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER


Disturbed as he was at this untoward happening, and perhaps a little
annoyed at his prophecy to the valet, that they ran practically no risk
of interruption, having been falsified, Lane was compensated by the
knowledge that he would have the opportunity of observing this young
impostor at close quarters, and judging what manner of man he was. If
Simmons’s account was correct, he did not resemble his supposed uncle
in the more ungracious of his qualities.

Young Brookes came into the room and took in the situation at a glance.
Sir George’s servant had taken advantage of his master’s absence to
ask in an acquaintance; he knew the habits of that master too well to
believe that there was any hospitality involved in the invitation. If
that had been, or was about to be exercised, it would have to be at
Simmons’s own expense.

He was an easy-going fellow in many ways, and there was nothing very
heinous in such a proceeding. The man had been in the service of
well-known people for many years, and had come to his present employer
with a most excellent character. He was also a very shrewd fellow and
not likely to mix with undesirable associates, much less introduce one
of them into a place which contained a good many valuable articles.

Probably he would have thought little of the incident but for signs of
consternation on the valet’s panic-stricken face. Truth to tell, the
unhappy man was so unstrung that he thought it must be as patent to
Archie Brookes as it was to his own guilty conscience, that the two
men had been engaged in a nefarious enterprise.

A look of suspicion gradually stole over the young man’s features,
growing deeper as Simmons’s lips stammered forth a few confused words
which showed that the man’s mind was in a whirl and he hardly knew what
he was saying.

“Good evening, Mr. Archie; hardly expected you’d pop in. Sir George
left early this morning for the country, didn’t say where he was going.
A friend of mine, Mr. Cox, very fond of pictures, been in the line
himself at one time, a dealer. I told him Sir George had a few very
fine ones, thought he might like to have a peep at ’em. Hope you won’t
think I’ve taken too great a liberty, sir.”

It was a desperate invention on the part of Simmons, this about the
picture-dealing, not a very happy one, the detective thought. But the
poor wretch was in too confused a state to think, and said the first
thing that suggested itself to him. Archie Brookes looked from one
to the other and he did not appear to be quite satisfied. Lane bore
himself very well, and his conscience did not prick him in the least.
He assumed the stolid demeanour of a man who has nothing to fear, an
attitude to which his rather grave countenance lent strong support.
If only this white-livered fellow could conceal his tremors, Archie
Brookes would suspect nothing; but this was just what the unfortunate
valet found it so difficult to do.

The young man favoured Lane with a very prolonged stare which the
detective bore without flinching. He had made up his mind as to his
course of action if things got troublesome, if young Mr. Brookes
adopted a threatening attitude. He would disclaim the valet’s ingenious
fiction about the picture-dealing, boldly proclaim who he was, admit he
had made use of Simmons to learn what he could about his master, and
tell the young gentleman himself he knew him for the impostor he was.

Still, he did not wish to push matters to extremes, to take a step
which would put the two men on their guard. He would only do all this
as a very last resource. Meanwhile, he would trust to diplomacy to get
out of the awkward situation in which he had been placed by the valet’s
extreme cowardice.

“So you are in the picture line, are you?” said Brookes at length;
and Lane thought there was a slight sneer on the good-looking, rather
effeminate face, which the detective did not allow himself to be
ruffled by.

“Was,” answered the other, backing up the valet’s mendacious statement
so far. “Been out of it for many years, but still retain my old
fondness for good stuff.” He spoke in his most stolid manner, assuming
the rôle of a small tradesman quite successfully.

“And what might be your line now, pray?” The tone was just a trifle
insolent. There was no doubt the young man could be a bit of a bully
when he liked, and Lane was quite sure that the undeniably gentlemanly
appearance was only veneer. Sellars had told him that he was considered
rather a bounder.

Lane had told one lie, in order to bolster up things; it would not hurt
him very much to tell another.

“I’m in the furniture business now,” he exclaimed briefly.

Young Brookes looked hard from one man to the other. He did not appear
quite satisfied; on the other hand, he did not seem quite certain of
the grounds on which he could express his suspicions.

“I shouldn’t think much of the thing in an ordinary kind of way,” he
said in a hesitating voice. “‘When the cat’s away the mice will play,’
and of course servants have their friends in when their masters and
mistresses are safely out of the road. I don’t say it isn’t all square
and above-board, but Simmons here looks in such a devilish funk that
one might be pardoned if one thought you had been burgling the place.”

What had crossed his mind was out at last. Lane drew himself up with a
stolid air of offended dignity.

“I’m rather thinking you mean that as a kind of joke, sir. If I
didn’t, I might remind you that there is such a thing as an action for
defamation of character.” He delivered these words with a splendid air
of outraged virtue which, he was pleased to observe, rather cowed the
impetuous young man. “As my presence seems unwelcome, I will take the
liberty of wishing you good evening, unless you would wish me to stay
while you go through Sir George’s property to satisfy yourself that I
haven’t helped myself to anything.”

It was a master stroke, a fine piece of bluff, and it had the effect
intended. Lane was pretty certain he had taken a correct measure of the
young man.

Young Mr. Brookes thought it wiser to temporize; he did not relish
that nasty hint about defamation of character. Besides, there was
nothing burglarious about Lane’s appearance. It would have been very
difficult to say what he looked like. He was certainly not a common
person, neither could you say that he gave you the impression of being
a gentleman. With his clean-shaven face and rather grave expression you
might perhaps have associated him with the theatrical profession.

“Oh yes, a joke of course, Mr. —— I didn’t quite catch the name Simmons
gave me.”

“Cox,” hastily interposed the valet. Seeing that in consequence of the
detective’s masterly attitude, things seemed to be taking a turn for
the better, he was gradually regaining control of himself, his colour
was coming back to his pale cheeks, and he was beginning to think
coherently.

“Ah, Mr. Cox. I make no insinuations. But you must admit Simmons cut a
devilish rum figure when I came in.”

It was all blowing over very nicely. Lane felt he could afford to
unbend from his lofty attitude of outraged dignity. His smiled quite
pleasantly and spoke in an almost jovial tone.

“No offence taken, sir, where none is intended. My friend Simmons is
a very sensitive chap, I know. I suppose he felt he had been taking a
bit of a liberty. If you should want me any time, my friend knows where
to find me, at a little place where we sometimes take a little mild
refreshment together. Good evening to you, sir. Bye-bye, Simmons; see
you again soon, I dare say.”

And with these parting words Lane walked out, carrying with him the
honours of war, and grateful that a decidedly awkward situation had
ended so satisfactorily. He trusted that when the valet was left alone
with young Brookes he would keep his head, and be wary in replying to
any too searching questions which might be put to him.

But, as a matter of fact, as he learned subsequently, nothing awkward
occurred. Archie Brookes had apparently recovered from his suspicions
in the face of Lane’s manly and dignified attitude, and accepted the
theory so adroitly put forward that the valet’s appearance of guilt was
the outcome of a remarkably shrinking and sensitive nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

All that night, Rosabelle could hardly get any sleep for thinking of
that strange fragment of conversation between aunt and nephew which she
had overheard in the afternoon. It was with great difficulty she kept
herself from telling her lover, but she wanted to meditate well over
the matter before confiding it to anyone.

She felt that if anybody ought to know it was her uncle; in fact,
was it not almost her duty to tell him? On the other hand, she had
a considerable affection for her aunt, and shrank from getting her
into trouble. The relations between the two had been for years very
close, and Mrs. Morrice had always shown her great kindness. Since the
introduction of Archie Brookes there had been a certain diminution of
affection on her aunt’s part, the new-comer had considerably ousted her.

But Rosabelle was a very fair-minded girl, and she did not resent that.
There was no blood-tie between her and Mrs. Morrice. The husband and
wife got on very comfortably together, but it was easy to see it was
a very placid union, that their marriage had not been prompted by any
great depth of feeling on either side, and there were no children to
draw them closer together.

It was only natural, therefore, that she should welcome this young
man so closely related to her, the son of a, probably, deeply loved
sister. On him she could expend that wealth of maternal feeling which,
so far, had never been called into existence, but which resides in the
heart of every good, womanly woman. Small wonder that Rosabelle, to a
considerable extent, should have receded into the background. Had she
been in her aunt’s position, the same thing would most probably have
occurred.

She had not told it to Dick, she shrank from telling it to her uncle;
for the present she was disposed to keep it to herself. Under ordinary
circumstances it would have seemed to her a tragedy of the first
importance, that this good-looking young nephew was preying upon his
aunt’s weakness or fondness for him, to such an extent that she had
declared herself to be half ruined. But the greater tragedy of her
lover lying under a horrible stigma absorbed all minor ones; she saw
them, as it were, only in perspective.

The two things could not be in any way related, she felt pretty
sure. And yet, as she lay in the darkness, pondering and pondering,
suddenly there flashed across her the thought, coming almost with
the force of an inspiration, that the detective ought to be told. He
had especially impressed upon her at the beginning of their business
connection, that she was to report to him any uncommon happening in the
Morrice household, irrespective of whether or not it seemed to her of
importance. What was troubling her now was certainly not a common or
trivial thing.

To think was to act. If the knowledge were of benefit to him, he would
use it as he thought fit—and after all, the greatest concern of her
life at the moment was the restoration of her lover to his former
honourable place in the regard of those who knew the real reason of his
exile from her uncle’s house. And, if the knowledge was useless to him,
she was quite sure of the man; he would never divulge it unless she
gave him permission.

She was round at Lane’s office early the next morning. Mrs. Morrice had
not appeared at breakfast, but Rosabelle noticed at dinner the night
before, and afterwards when they were together in the drawing-room,
that her manner had appeared anxious and preoccupied.

It could not be said of Lane at any time that he was a man whom you
could read like an open book, but she was sure the information made
a great impression on him. As was his custom after an important
communication had been made to him, he sat silent for some little time.

“And you have said nothing about this to your uncle, or Mr. Croxton?”
he asked at length. “I am so far the only person to whom you have
revealed it?”

“Because I thought you ought to know,” answered the girl frankly. “My
uncle ought to be told, I feel that, but I shrink from telling him; it
might create an irreparable breach between them, and I should be very
grieved to be the cause of it. I think, or rather I am sure, that my
aunt has not the same affection for me that she had before the arrival
of Archie, but that is only natural, and not a thing to be resented.
She has always shown me unvarying kindness, and made my life in Deanery
Street very happy. And you know, Mr. Lane, it is not every woman who
would have done that in the circumstances. For my dear uncle has been
always very demonstrative in his love for me, and it might have aroused
the jealousy of a great many wives.”

What a sweet-natured, tolerant-minded girl she was, her listener
thought. Then he said decisively: “Certainly Mr. Morrice ought to know.
You would object to my telling him, I suppose?”

Yes, Rosabelle shrank from that. “It would come to the same thing,
would it not? He would want to know where you got your information
from, and you would have to tell him. I might as well do it myself.
Besides, I expect he would be very angry with me for having told you at
all. He is a very proud man in certain things.”

Yes, there was a good deal of shrewdness in that remark. He might be
able to get through it without bringing her in, for he was a man of
infinite resources, but although by no means scrupulous when driven to
use subterfuge, he did not employ tortuous methods if it was possible
to avoid them.

“Tell me, Miss Sheldon, what do you know of your aunt’s affairs? Has
she money of her own?”

“I should say very little. I have more than once heard her jokingly
allude to her ‘paltry income.’ But I know my uncle makes her a very
handsome allowance, although I don’t know the precise amount. And he
is always making her presents of valuable and expensive jewellery.”

It was evident, by his serious look, that he was thinking very deeply.
“That allowance, of course, he makes her for her own personal needs,
and to maintain her proper position as the wife of a wealthy man. If
he knew that she was diverting any, or a considerable portion, of this
money to supplying this young man’s extravagant needs, you are of
opinion he would be greatly incensed.”

“I am sure of it. He is peculiar in many ways, he abhors strongly
anything in the nature of deceit. If she came to him openly and said
she was going to give Archie money, he might remonstrate with her,
actually forbid her, or take the view that it was her own and she could
do what she wished with it. But he would never forgive her doing it
clandestinely, I mean in large sums. He would think it a betrayal of
the trust he had reposed in her.”

Lane’s brain was still working on the problem presented to him.
Morrice, according to Rosabelle, made his wife a handsome allowance.
That might be taken for granted. He had a wide reputation for
generosity, and for pride’s sake he would be especially lavish to his
wife. But what is a very ample allowance for a woman does not go far
when constant drains are made upon it by a young man who lived in the
style that Simmons had described when speaking of Archie Brookes.

“Have you noticed any diminution in Mrs. Morrice’s expenditure on
herself since the arrival of this nephew on the scene, Miss Sheldon?”

Rosabelle gave her evidence very reluctantly, but it was right Lane
should know the whole circumstances. From the very beginning, her aunt
had appeared to curtail her personal expenditure. For the last twelve
months, her economy in her own direction had been much more marked. It
pointed to the fact that Archie had been draining her considerably.

Lane thought more than considerably. That poignant exclamation that she
had been half ruined suggested a good deal to him.

“I am going to ask you a rather peculiar question, Miss Sheldon. Are
Mr. and Mrs. Morrice what might be described as a very devoted couple?
You know what I mean, are they wrapt up in each other as some people
are at their time of life when they have married solely for love?”

It was a peculiar question certainly; to Rosabelle it seemed rather an
irrelevant one. But she was sure the detective never asked irrelevant
questions. He had some good reason for putting this one, without doubt,
and she would give him a perfectly candid answer.

“Why, no, it certainly would not be accurate to describe them as that.
I am certain they have a great respect for each other, and a very quiet
and placid affection. He is the soul of generosity and courtesy to
her; she respects his wishes in everything. You see, he was devotedly
in love with Mr. Croxton’s mother; he kept unmarried for years for her
sake. A man cannot love twice like that, can he, Mr. Lane?” concluded
Rosabelle artlessly.

The detective smiled kindly at the romantic girl. No doubt she was
contrasting the placid affection between the Morrices, and her own
ardent love for young Croxton and his for her. And no doubt she was
sure, like all fervent souls, that when the years had silvered her hair
and stolen the roses from her cheeks, love would burn as brightly as in
the hey-day of their glorious youth.

“I am not a great expert in the tender passion, Miss Sheldon, but I am
quite prepared to believe real love comes but once in a lifetime to
either man or woman. Well, now, I am much obliged to you for telling me
what you have done, and I am glad you told me. For the present we will
keep it to ourselves. But I think you had better face the fact that,
sooner or later, Mr. Morrice will have to be told by one of us.”

When the girl had left, Lane indulged in a long fit of meditation. Yes,
Morrice had better know this at once. He could probably invent more
than one plan by which Rosabelle could be kept out of it, even if he
approached him directly. But Lane had gauged the financier sufficiently
to know that in some respects he was a very peculiar man. He might
resent the detective’s interference in what he considered a purely
private matter, and order him out of the house.

He would adopt a method which he had used more than once before when he
did not wish to appear personally. He went to a small typewriter which
he only used on special occasions; his usual one had a personality of
its own which might be easily identified, for certain typewriting is
sometimes as distinctive as handwriting.

He indited a brief epistle and addressed it to “Rupert Morrice,
Esquire,” taking care to mark it “Private.” He would take it down
to the City and post it there, thus avoiding the tell-tale West End
postmark.

It was an anonymous letter, signed by “A Well-wisher.” “If that
doesn’t stir him to some sort of action, we must think of something
else,” so ran the reflections of this astute man. “It may precipitate
an explosion, and amongst other things reveal to him that Mr. Archie
Brookes is no more his wife’s nephew than I am.”

He walked away from the pillar-box in the City well pleased with
himself. It could not be said that he felt any compunction with regard
to Mrs. Morrice _née_ Miss Lettice Larchester. She had, no doubt,
married the man for his money, and was treating him very badly. But
even if he had, his hand would not have been stayed in consequence. His
first duty was to his clients.




CHAPTER XVI

AT SCOTLAND YARD


Dismissing from his mind for the moment the incident which Rosabelle
Sheldon had made a special visit to communicate to him—the anonymous
letter would put in train the machinery for elucidating the real facts
of that—there were two pressing problems that Lane was anxious to solve
without any undue delay. The one was the actual position of Sir George
Clayton-Brookes. Was he a comparatively poor man, as his paying-in book
went to prove; or a rich one, as his lavish expenditure in certain
directions tended to show? The second problem was the real identity
of the young man calling himself his nephew, and also passing as the
nephew of Mrs. Morrice by the marriage of her sister to the brother of
the mysterious baronet.

The latter of the two puzzles was in the capable hands of Sellars. Much
would depend upon the result of that interview with the friend of Mrs.
Morrice’s youth, Alma Buckley. And the result depended upon the woman
herself. First of all, had she any knowledge of Lettice Larchester
after they had parted company at the little village of Brinkstone
sufficiently intimate to include the details of her life between that
date and her marriage to the wealthy financier? If she knew them, was
she too staunch a friend to the companion of her youth to satisfy the
curiosity of a stranger, or could she be tempted to open her mouth by
a bribe of sufficient magnitude. If she were a venal person she would,
no doubt, require a considerable sum for any information she gave.

No large sums could be extracted from the meagre resources of Richard
Croxton. Anxious as he appeared to clear himself, he could not be
expected to reduce himself to penury for an investigation which might
not lead to any clear evidence of his innocence. Even if Alma Buckley
knew the real identity of Archie Brookes and sold the knowledge for
an agreed sum of money, the fact of proving him an impostor would not
necessarily acquit Croxton of the suspicions resting upon him.

In that case the only person to whom application could be made would be
Morrice himself. And that would entail immediate avowal of what Sellars
had found out; and it might be that such an immediate avowal might be
a little too precipitate for Lane’s plans. Anyway, in that direction
he could do nothing till he knew the result of his lieutenant’s
negotiations with this middle-aged actress.

The further investigations into the case of Sir George he was for the
present keeping in his own hands. Later on he must tackle that of
Archie Brookes, not as regards his antecedents, but his expenditure and
the source of his income. Popular rumour credited Sir George with the
financial support of his alleged nephew. Well, a certain light upon
that portion of the problem had been thrown by Rosabelle’s statement of
the conversation in her aunt’s boudoir which she had overheard.

It was evident, even from the little she had gathered, that money was
the topic of that conversation; equally evident that Mrs. Morrice had
contributed large sums to the young man’s support. But however generous
her allowance, his supposed aunt could not alone maintain the burden
of young Brookes’s lavish expenditure as detailed by Simmons, who had
the information from a reliable source. He must have other resources,
and the nature and extent of those resources must be discovered.

Lane felt he would like to discuss this matter in strict confidence
with somebody as clever as himself. Sellars was very intelligent in his
own way, had a wonderful nose for investigation when he was once put
on the right track, when, to use a hunting metaphor, he had picked up
the scent. But he lacked experience and he was not very imaginative—he
had little faculty of anticipating facts, in contrast to Lane, who had
moments of inspiration which guided him instinctively in a puzzling
labyrinth.

Casting about in his mind for a helpful confidant, he thought at once
of his old friend MacKenzie, who now occupied a prominent position at
Scotland Yard. They had joined the Force together as young men, had
risen together, step by step, till separation came when Lane decided to
set up for himself. Of the two, Lane was slightly the better man, owing
to the particular streak of imagination—that frequency of inspiration
to which allusion has been made. But MacKenzie was only slightly
inferior; very sound, very painstaking, very logical.

There was perfect confidence between the two men. If MacKenzie wanted
counsel or sometimes assistance from Lane, he applied to him without
hesitation; and his friend as frequently availed himself of the shrewd
Scotchman’s powers of analysis and deduction. There was nothing the
two men enjoyed more than a long yarn over their experiences, to the
accompaniment of a good cigar and a stimulating dose of sound whisky.

“Ah, glad to see you, my boy, it’s a little time since we met,” was
MacKenzie’s greeting to his old friend and comrade, uttered in his
rather broad Scotch, which need not be reproduced here. “We are rather
quiet at the moment, nothing very exciting, just a few simple little
things. I hope you have got something really worth taking trouble
about.”

“I’ve got in hand one of the most remarkable cases I think I’ve ever
had in my life,” was Lane’s reply, and he straightway plunged into a
full recital of the Morrice mystery and the salient facts connected
with it.

His friend listened with the deepest attention, and when it was
finished the two men engaged in a long and animated discussion,
exhausting the arguments for and against the various hypotheses that
were thrown out first by the one and then by the other.

“Well, now, about this Clayton-Brookes,” said MacKenzie presently.
“I think I can give you a little assistance. We’ve had him under
observation since a little after you left us, and that’s a few years
ago now.”

“Ah!” Lane drew a deep breath. He was glad that he had paid this visit
to his old friend and wished that he had come sooner.

The Scotchman waved his big hand round his comfortable, roomy
apartment. “I wouldn’t care to say it outside these four walls, and
not to more than a few inside them, because we’ve nothing but very
substantial conjecture, and up to the present we’ve not been able to
lay a finger on him, he’s so devilish clever. But there’s no doubt he’s
a ‘wrong ’un.’”

“Do you mean actually a crook?” queried Lane.

MacKenzie nodded his massive head. “Anyway, the friend of crooks; he’s
been observed in some very queer company quite outside of his own
proper beat, which we know is the West End and the fashionable clubs
and a few smart and semi-smart houses. We know birds of a feather flock
together, and men are known by the company they keep.”

So Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the elegant man-about-town, led a double
life then—associating at one end of the scale with the fashionable and
semi-fashionable denizens of the west, at the other with certain flashy
members of the underworld.

MacKenzie proceeded to relate that their attention had been first
attracted to him by a series of burglaries committed at certain country
houses and hotels, from the owners of and visitors at which valuable
jewellery and articles of plate had been stolen. At three of the houses
in question he had actually been a guest at the time of the robberies,
and with regard to the others, he had been a visitor a little time
previously. The theory was that he took advantage of his opportunities
to spy out the position of the land, to furnish the actual thieves with
plans of the interior of the different mansions at which he had stayed,
and give details of the jewellery belonging to the various guests.
It was curious, to say the least, that robberies should occur, as it
seemed, automatically either during his actual visits or very shortly
after them.

Further evidence was afforded by the fact that he had frequently been
observed in the company of certain high-class crooks who engineered and
financed various criminal schemes, the practical working of which was
left to subordinates.

Lane could not say he was surprised overmuch, he had long ago come to
the conclusion that there was something very mysterious about this
supposed man of wealth and substance, who could purchase a thousand
pound car one day, and be scared out of his wits on another lest a
cheque for a paltry thirty pounds should be dishonoured.

“But as I say,” concluded MacKenzie, “he’s as artful as a monkey, and
we can’t get evidence enough to connect him with any one of the actual
thefts. But there is the coincidence I have mentioned, and that’s
evidence for us, although it wouldn’t do for a judge and jury.”

“And what about the young man—his supposed nephew?” asked Lane.

“Oh, we’ve had him under observation as well, and, of course, he must
be mixed up with Sir George in some way or another, but we don’t think
in these particular things. They see each other pretty nearly every
day, but they appear to lead different lives. Young Brookes doesn’t go
very much into the same sort of society; he doesn’t stay at country
houses, seems on a bit lower plane than the baronet. But I’ve no doubt
they run some little show of their own together.”

“Do you know anything about his antecedents before he came on the scene
as Sir George’s nephew?”

“Yes, we know a bit. He was a clerk in a City warehouse before Sir
George took him on. He was living then with a woman who had apparently
brought him up from a child.”

“Do you know the name of the woman?” Lane felt he was on the track of
something, but he was more than startled at the answer. “But of course,
you would learn that.”

“Yes, she is a music-hall artist of a third or fourth-rate type, but
pretty well known in the profession. _She is called Alma Buckley._”




CHAPTER XVII

LANE VISITS RICHARD


Alma Buckley, the friend of Lettice Larchester’s youth, the woman whom
Sellars was proposing to interview at the earliest opportunity! Truly,
the actors who had first played their parts with the small village
of Brinkstone for their stage so many years ago, were apparently
still in close connection. Well, Sellars must be apprised of this new
development in the situation before he saw the music-hall artist; it
would certainly strengthen his hand in case the lady proved obstinate.

Reviewing the position of affairs very carefully after his interview
with his old friend MacKenzie, Lane came to the conclusion that the
time had arrived when young Croxton ought to be told of what had been
discovered so far. He was not quite sure that Morrice ought not also to
be put in possession of the facts. But he was going to leave him to the
last; it was rather a delicate matter having to tell him in cold blood
that his wife, in conjunction with Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the
mysterious baronet about whom he had made a very important discovery,
was countenancing, from some motive, the rank imposture of young Archie
Brookes.

He did not think it politic to be too frank with Rosabelle, sweet and
sensible as she was, much as he liked her personally. She was young
and inexperienced, romantically and passionately in love, and, he
thought, a little inclined to be rash and impulsive. She might find
it impossible to keep her own counsel, and blurt out what she knew in
quarters where he least wanted anything to be known.

Up to the present he had not seen Richard in the affair, although
he was actually employed by him, all the negotiations having been
conducted through Rosabelle, owing to a certain sensitiveness on the
young man’s part. This was naturally accounted for by the fact of the
very damaging evidence against him. He could not help feeling in his
heart that, although it was the detective’s business to prove his
innocence, he must from the nature of the circumstances start with a
very strong presumption of his guilt. Moreover, he might think it a
piece of rather audacious bluff on the young man’s part, designed to
throw dust in the eyes of Morrice, from whom he knew he was quite safe
so far as criminal proceedings were concerned.

When therefore Lane walked into the little parlour of the cottage at
Petersham the day after the interview at Scotland Yard with MacKenzie,
after having apprised Croxton by a telegram that he was coming to see
him, the young man received him with a certain embarrassment.

The detective went to the point at once. “I thought it was about time
we met, Mr. Croxton,” he began. When Lane had once made up his mind
that the time had arrived for abandoning his usual reticence, he did so
whole-heartedly. And his manner to-day was perfectly cordial, the more
especially as he perceived Richard’s embarrassment, and, of course, was
shrewd enough to divine the cause of it.

As briefly as he could, and with admirable lucidity, he narrated to his
attentive listener all the things that had come to light since he had
taken up the investigation; the brief history of Mrs. Morrice’s life in
the little village of Brinkstone where she had made the acquaintance
of Archibald Brookes the elder, and no doubt that of the two other
brothers, Charles and the present Sir George; her close friendship for
a few months with Alma Buckley; the discovery from perfectly reliable
evidence that young Archie Brookes was neither Sir George’s nephew nor
her own, although it served their purpose to pass him off as such;
the admission by Mr. Morrice that he had lost or mislaid the original
memorandum containing a full description of the mechanism of the
safe; the fact that Archie Brookes had been brought up by the woman
Alma Buckley, and had, previously to his adoption by Sir George, been
engaged in a humble mercantile occupation.

There were a few things he did not mention, one of them being the
fact that Sir George was suspected at Scotland Yard of being engaged
in certain criminal enterprises with some leading spirits of the
underworld. Also he made no mention of the anonymous letter. For the
present he kept all this in reserve.

Needless to say that Richard was much astounded at these revelations,
especially at the fact of the imposture of young Archie Brookes, with
Mrs. Morrice’s connivance, and the loss of the important memorandum
relating to the safe.

“You have not told anything of this to Miss Sheldon,” was his first
comment. “Or, if you have done so, it would be under the seal of
secrecy, as otherwise she would have taken me into her confidence.”

“No, I have not said a word to Miss Sheldon,” was Lane’s answer. “To
tell you the truth, Mr. Croxton, in our profession we are not too
prone to make confidantes of women. We respect their good and noble
qualities, but we distrust their impulsiveness, their incapacity to
keep a secret where secrecy is of vital importance.”

Croxton was bound to agree with this general estimate. Women were by
temperament unfitted to be the coadjutors of men in transactions of
this special nature.

“Now, I have told you that Mr. Morrice asked me to allow him to be
joined in this investigation, and I consented because it did not
seem to prejudice your interests in any way, the aim of both being
to discover the guilty party. Now, it seems to me that the time has
arrived, or will very shortly be approaching, when it will be my
painful duty to inform him of his wife’s singular conduct in passing
off this young man, brought up by the woman Alma Buckley, as her
nephew. Before doing so, there is one contingency which we ought
to anticipate, although I consider it a very unlikely one. Is Mr.
Morrice himself a party to the deception? Is he already aware of it,
and has acquiesced in it from some motive satisfactory to himself?
From your close association with him, you must be well acquainted with
his character, his habits of thought, his views of what are right and
wrong. Do you think it likely that he would from any motives be a
consenting party to such a fraud?”

And Richard’s answer was emphatic. Rupert Morrice was one of the
whitest men he had ever known, abhorrent of deceit and chicanery
in any form, high-minded and honourable to a fault, just a little
intolerant perhaps of weakness in others. Even in his business life,
his notions of rectitude were considered by those who knew him best
almost quixotic, and in private life his code of morality was just as
stringent. Even if he loved his wife with a passionate devotion, he
would never have tacitly suffered such a thing as this. And everybody
knew that while he treated Mrs. Morrice with the utmost respect and
consideration, ardent love played no part in their relations. They made
no pretence at being other than a very ordinary couple who jogged along
placidly enough.

After a little further conversation the interview terminated, leaving
the two men mutually pleased with each other. Lane thought that Richard
seemed a very straightforward, transparent sort of young fellow with
whom it was very difficult to associate a criminal enterprise of such
depth and cunning. And Dick recognized in the detective a sound, solid
man, with great gifts for his difficult task, neither optimistic nor
pessimistic, but holding the just mean between the two extremes.

Lane was impressed by the shrewdness of the young man’s remark when
they parted. “If you can find who has got that memorandum, you will
discover the actual thief. I don’t believe in Mr. Morrice’s theory of
it having passed into the hands of the dustman.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Croxton. Well, good-bye for the present. I think for
the moment we will say nothing about these happenings to Miss Sheldon.
It is not because I wish to keep her in the dark, for I am sure she is
a good and noble girl. But for the moment, except to those actually
concerned, secrecy is imperative. A chance word, a chance look, even a
gesture might convey a warning where I do not wish it to be conveyed.
You understand.”

Yes, Richard thoroughly understood. He hated to keep anything from his
beloved Rosabelle, who had stood by him so staunchly in these dark
hours. But the detective was right, women cannot control their feelings
like men, especially where their deepest emotions are concerned.

Lane had perhaps been more frank in his statement of the facts than
illuminating in his deductions from them, if indeed he had suffered
himself to draw from them any deductions of a very positive nature. But
the young man felt much more cheerful after that visit. He felt quite
sure that if the detective had started with suspicions of him, he had
dropped them by now, or his manner could not have been so cordial. He
was certain that was not assumed.

This keen and patient investigator had certainly made a series of
remarkable discoveries, it was almost impossible that nothing would
result from them. It was easy to see that he was not a man who would
tell you what was passing in his mind till the decisive moment for
revelation had come. No doubt, in his own quiet way, he was drawing
his net tighter and tighter. Would he draw it so closely at the end
that the real criminal could not escape from its meshes? And would
he, Richard Croxton, be rehabilitated in the sight of all men? Would
the day come when Rupert Morrice would ask his pardon for his unjust
suspicions, his harsh treatment, for having branded the son of his old
sweetheart as a thief?

On his return from Petersham to his office, Lane found Sellars waiting
for him by appointment. To this keen-witted young man he detailed
the three fresh incidents that had occurred in so short a space—the
conversation between Mrs. Morrice and her supposed nephew, overheard
by Rosabelle; the fact that Sir George was under the close observation
of Scotland Yard, the further startling fact that Archie Brookes had
been brought up in the home of Alma Buckley. He wound up with the
information that he had dispatched an anonymous letter to Rupert
Morrice, the contents of which he trusted would induce the financier to
start a searching investigation on his own account.

“By Jove, that was a fine idea, Lane, and got you out of an awkward
situation,” said Sellars in a tone of admiration. “If he finds what, no
doubt, we expect him to find, there will be trouble in Deanery Street.
For, although I can’t pretend to know very much about him, he strikes
me as just the kind of man who could be as hard as nails in certain
circumstances.”

“Yes, I should say it was so,” Lane agreed. “Young Croxton, with whom
I had a long talk to-day, tells me that he is the soul of honour and
rectitude, that he has no toleration of wrong-doing in others, being
so exempt from weaknesses himself. He gives me that impression too—the
sort of man who would sacrifice his own son if he thought justice
demanded it.”

Sellars had no petty jealousy of the other man’s superior powers in the
line in which Lane was a master, and he, comparatively speaking, only
a promising pupil. But he did occasionally fancy that he could see a
point which the master, perhaps through carelessness, had overlooked.
He thought he saw one now.

“That’s not quite true, is it? He firmly believed in young Croxton’s
guilt, believes in it still from what you have told me. But he didn’t
prosecute him. Not quite such a hard nut as we think him, perhaps.”

But Lane was not to be worsted in argument by his nimble-minded young
pupil. “I didn’t say he was out for revenge, only for justice. He
satisfied justice by turning him out of the house and ruining his
career. And he did that in spite of the fact that he passionately loved
the mother.”

“Yes, I see your point. Perhaps he may shield his wife in the same
way, or rather a different way, keep up the appearance of a happy
couple in public, and treat her as a stranger in private. Well, the
next important move on the board is the meeting with Miss Buckley—that
information you have just got ought to give me a point in the game,
anyway.”




CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. MORRICE’S DRESS


When Rupert Morrice received that anonymous letter, which arrived
by the last post of the day on which it had been dropped in a City
pillar box, and was brought to him in his study, his first impulse
was to throw it in the fire. Like all men in prominent positions,
whose success in life is bound to raise up enemies, he had in his time
received many of these waspish and stinging epistles.

But on second thoughts he resolved that he would reflect a little
before he finally dismissed it from his mind. It was a very brief
epistle, but it contained a most definite suggestion. And something
in the exceedingly positive wording of it conveyed the impression that
the anonymous writer knew a good deal of what was going on in the
financier’s household.

 “SIR,—You are a man of such scrupulous integrity yourself, that you
 are apt to believe all those associated with you are possessed of
 similar high-mindedness. The last thing a prudent man should do is to
 put a blind trust in those of his own household, for it will be in
 these that he will most often be bitterly disappointed. I have reason
 to know that Mrs. Morrice has for a long time past been spending
 large sums of money in a certain direction, which could not possibly
 be defrayed out of your allowance to her, generous as it is. I would
 advise you to make an inspection of the costly jewels you have given
 her, and satisfy yourself that they have not been tampered with. If my
 suspicions turn out to be wrong, I shall much regret having disturbed
 you and suspected an innocent woman. But I think it my duty to tell
 you what I know.

  “A WELL-WISHER.”

There was, of course, no clue to the identity of the writer, the
ingenious author of this very plain-spoken epistle had seen to that.
The envelope was one of a common make and pattern, it bore a certain
City postmark, like thousands of other letters posted at the same time
in the same neighbourhood; the paper was a sheet torn from one of the
thousands of letter-pads in common use. It did not even possess the
slight clue of a water-mark.

Morrice thought that even the astute Lane himself would never be able
to trace it to its sender, if he were to take it to him. But, of
course, he had no intention of doing this. He was a very reticent man
in all things appertaining to his private affairs, and a slur cast upon
the woman who bore his name was an affront to himself.

It is possible that in ordinary circumstances he would have dismissed
the matter from his mind, deeming it the work of some hidden enemy
who, in his desire to annoy him, had chosen this way of wounding him
in his tenderest relations; for if he was not deeply in love with his
wife, as he had been with Richard Croxton’s mother, he was fond of her
in a calm, steadfast way, he was proud of her social qualities, he was
grateful to her for her ready obedience to all his wishes.

But recent events had rendered him very distrustful and suspicious; and
the wording of the letter was very positive. One of the sentences in
it was strangely significant: “I have reason to know that Mrs. Morrice
has for a long time past been spending large sums of money in a certain
direction.” He was advised to examine the costly jewels he had given
her with a view to seeing that they had not been tampered with.

It would seem, assuming that there was any truth in the innuendos it
contained, that it must be written by somebody who had an intimate
knowledge of Mrs. Morrice. For a moment it flashed across him that from
motives of revenge Richard Croxton had written it to stir up strife
between the husband and wife. It could not be Rosabelle, she was too
fond of her aunt, and besides, if she wanted to do her an injury, he
was certain the girl was too high-minded to make use of such a shameful
weapon as an anonymous letter. Probably it might have come from a
discharged servant who chose this method of wreaking his or her spite.

But Morrice could not remember that any servant had been discharged for
several years past. It was such a comfortable service that those who
entered it stayed till natural circumstances brought about a severance
of the relations.

Ought he not to show it to his wife, and accept the denial of the
accusation which she would be sure to make? Had he not been rendered
doubting and embittered by these recent happenings, that is just
what he would have done. But the discovery of Richard Croxton’s
unworthiness, for he still believed in his guilt, in spite of the
doubting attitude of Lane, had rendered him morbidly suspicious of
everybody, with perhaps the single exception of Rosabelle.

And yet, and yet, it could not be true. It would be absurd to pretend
that their marriage had been one of ardent or romantic affection;
neither of them had made any pretence of such to the other. He was
tired of celibacy, he wanted somebody to be the mistress of his home,
possibly to give him an heir. She, on her side, was quite naturally
attracted by his wealth, by the position he could give her. But because
a woman is swayed in her choice by worldly advantages, it does not
follow that she is a person of dishonourable impulses.

After a good deal of rather perturbing reflection, he came to the
conclusion with regard to this letter that, while he would not attach
undue importance to it, he would not definitely ignore it. And
certainly he would not follow what a few months ago would have seemed
a natural impulse, go to her and show her the letter, and say in his
blunt, straightforward way: “You see what it suggests. Is it a lie or a
truth?”

He happened at this time to be very busy on one of those big financial
schemes which had made his house so famous, and although at no
particular moment was the incident entirely removed from his mind, it
was greatly overshadowed by the almost incessant calls upon his time
and thoughts in connection with this huge foreign loan. He thought of
it, as it were, only to put it aside to a more convenient season.

A trifling incident brought it back to his recollection in full force.
They were attending a big function at a certain ducal house to which
all the _élite_ of London had been invited. At such an important
gathering every woman would naturally wish to appear her best, to wear
her smartest clothes, to don her most valuable jewellery. Mrs. Morrice
was as proud of her appearance as most women, she would certainly not
wish to be outshone by her neighbours.

For some days past the two women had talked of this function, had
discussed who was likely to be invited and as likely excluded, and
settled what they were going to wear. Rosabelle had ordered a new frock
for the occasion and was much surprised that her aunt had not done the
same, but was going in one that had already done her good service.

This entertainment was fixed to take place a few days after she had
overheard that suspicious conversation in the boudoir. The girl thought
she understood now the reason of her aunt’s economy, not only on this
particular occasion but for a long time past. The money which would
have gone to her dressmaker in the ordinary course had been diverted in
the direction of Archie Brookes, to pay his pressing debts, to enable
him to avert disgrace for the time being.

Rosabelle thought it rather a pity her aunt should not have made some
special effort for such a unique affair; she thought she owed it to her
husband to maintain her position in a proper manner. Still, if she was
not going to assume any striking raiment, she would certainly put on
the most magnificent of her jewels, and these, no doubt, would carry
her through.

There was one very valuable pearl necklace which she was wont to
assume at magnificent functions like the present ducal reception, and
in a conversation the day before it took place, Rosabelle carelessly
remarked to her aunt that she supposed she would wear it when the
evening arrived.

Mrs. Morrice had appeared to hesitate before she answered. When she
did, she spoke in an indifferent tone, and, to the girl’s quick ears,
it seemed that the indifference was assumed.

“I suppose I shall, my dear, but I haven’t really made up my mind,
probably shan’t do so till the last minute. I might put on something a
bit newer. I have worn it so often, everybody who knows me has seen it
dozens of times.”

A painful thought crossed Rosabelle’s mind and gave her an inward
shiver, but on reflection she dismissed it. Her aunt’s fondness for
her nephew might lead her to stint herself in many ways to enable her
to minister to his extravagances, but surely she would not go to any
desperate lengths.

But that hesitation, the assumed indifference of her manner, were very
strange. This particular necklace was far and away the most exquisite
and costly thing in her collection, which was pretty extensive. She had
other necklaces of varying value, but nothing that was so suitable to
such an important occasion.

Mrs. Morrice was the last to come down, the other two had been ready
for some little time and were waiting for her in the hall. To the
girl’s surprise, she wore a necklace of considerable value, but only
about half that of the gem of the collection. Again Rosabelle felt that
curious sensation that there was some hidden significance in the fact.

Morrice was not, as a rule, very observant of woman’s dress. But
to-night, for some reason or another, he seemed to scrutinize his wife
very keenly. His eyes travelled over her frock till they reached the
comparatively modest article of jewellery. Then he spoke:

“This is not a new dress for the occasion, is it?”

Mrs. Morrice answered in a low voice that it was not, that she had worn
it once before and that she thought it suited her extremely well. This
was a falsehood, for Rosabelle had seen her aunt in it half a dozen
times.

“I thought I recognized it,” was her uncle’s comment, and the girl
thought there was a rather hard inflexion in his voice, as if he were
not too well pleased. He touched the necklace lightly with his finger.

“This doesn’t seem quite good enough for such a grand occasion. Why
didn’t you put on the big birthday one?” He always called it this
because it had been one of his birthday presents to her.

His wife gave much the same answer that she had given to Rosabelle. She
had worn it so often, everybody knew it. She was getting just a little
bit tired of it herself, and would give it a rest for a little time.

Rosabelle, watching her uncle keenly, saw a hard look come over his
face, a look which she knew denoted displeasure not unmixed with
suspicion. What could have caused it? Was it possible he suspected
anything? Of course, she knew nothing of the anonymous letter. He said
no more, however, and the small party trooped out to the waiting car.

But something in his wife’s manner had not satisfied him, and he was
now on the watch. Two days after, husband and wife were to attend a
big dinner-party. In the afternoon when he came home he went into Mrs.
Morrice’s boudoir, where she and Rosabelle were sitting together.

“Oh, Lettice, I only just wanted to say I wish you particularly to wear
the ‘birthday’ pearls to-night.”

Rosabelle looked up, just a little startled. His tone was not quite
so hard as it had been the other night, but it was certainly not his
ordinary one.

She turned her glance rather anxiously to her aunt. But Mrs. Morrice
seemed perfectly at her ease, as she answered: “Certainly, Rupert, if
you wish it, although I think they are just a little overpowering for
to-night.”

So she came down in the “birthday” pearls when it was time to start
and Rosabelle, who did not accompany them, was very relieved. Whatever
suspicions her uncle had formed, he would be free of them now.

But that was just what Morrice was not. Subtly influenced by the
anonymous letter, he thought he had noticed an evasiveness in his
wife’s manner on the night of the ducal entertainment when she had
given her reasons for not wearing her most valuable necklace.

There was only one way in which he could be satisfied, and that way he
was going to take as soon as he could find an opportunity. When he once
took a thing in hand, he never rested till he got to the bottom of it,
being of a determined, not to say a dogged nature.

The opportunity came one morning when Mrs. Morrice started early to
lunch with an old friend, living some forty miles out of London. Her
maid had been given a holiday till five o’clock, the hour at which her
mistress proposed to return, for she was a very kind and considerate
employer and frequently showed these small kindnesses to her servants.
The coast was clear.

He went upstairs to her dressing-room. The more valuable articles
were kept in a safe which had once been used by him, and of which he
possessed a duplicate key, unknown to his wife.

Quickly he took the pearl necklace in its case, and put it in a small
bag which he had brought up with him for the purpose, then went
downstairs, feeling in his honest and upright heart, rather like a
thief himself. But, as a matter of fact, he could not rest till he had
convincingly tested the truth of that anonymous letter.

He hailed a taxi and drove to a shop, a high-class jeweller and
gem-merchant in the neighbourhood of St. James’s to whom he was not
known personally as he was at so many Bond Street establishments. He
asked to see the proprietor in his private room and asked him his fee
for giving him his opinion on what was supposed to be a very fine pearl
necklace.

In a very short time he was in possession of the information he sought.
The pearls were pronounced to be splendid imitations, likely to deceive
anybody except an expert, but worth as many shillings as the original
necklace had cost pounds.

His face set like a grim mask, he returned to Deanery Street and
replaced the sham gems in the safe. The anonymous letter had told the
truth, the writer of it had evidently known what had been going on in
his household.




CHAPTER XIX

MISS ALMA BUCKLEY


Miss Alma Buckley did not seem at all anxious for that interview so
desired by young Sellars. He had written her a very polite letter,
forwarded by her obliging agent, stating that he wished to see her for
a few minutes on a private matter which it was difficult to enter into
by correspondence, and inviting her to name a day and hour suitable to
herself. He had found out that she was appearing nightly at certain
suburban music-halls, and judged from this fact that she would appoint
a morning or an afternoon.

He waited three days for an answer, but as none came, he dispatched a
second missive expressing his fear that his first had miscarried, and
begging the favour of a reply by return.

By return it came, a very brief and curt note but well-expressed,
written in the third person. “Miss Buckley has to acknowledge the
receipt of two letters from Mr. Sellars, asking for an interview on a
private matter. She has no knowledge of the writer, and before granting
his request, would like to know the nature of the business on which he
is desirous of seeing her.”

Obviously not an ill-educated person to whom the use of the third
person would have presented numerous pitfalls. Sellars did not relish
the tone of her letter at all, and did not quite know how to proceed.
He could probably gain admittance by pretending he was engaged in some
professional enterprise in which he would be glad of her co-operation.
But he would have to abandon that attitude when he got there, and
most certainly arouse her resentment by admitting that it was a
trick to enable him to steal a march upon her. He would then, in all
probability, be unceremoniously bundled out.

Miss Buckley dated her letter from No. 5 Elvenden Mansions, Kew Bridge,
evidently a block of flats. He thought the best way would be to take
direct action by calling there without preliminary announcement,
trusting to luck to find the lady at home and willing to admit him. He
arrived there about twelve o’clock on the morning of the day after that
on which he had received her somewhat brusque letter.

He thought this would be a judicious hour. Professional ladies he had
always understood were not early risers, they preferred the day to be
well-aired before they got up. In the afternoon they probably rested
to prepare themselves for the arduous duties of the evening. He found
the place quite easily—a very extensive block of flats of respectable
appearance, the rentals of which he thought would be neither cheap nor
expensive, just suitable to persons of moderate means.

Miss Buckley opened the door herself, it was very likely she did not
keep a resident servant. She was a comely, good-looking woman of an
unrefined type, looking much younger than her years, which Sellars,
piecing together the information he had gathered at Brinkstone, put in
the region of fifty. She had a very brilliant complexion, obviously the
result of very careful art. She was a trifle inclined to stoutness,
but not by any means unbecomingly so, and she had a very pleasant
expression. Perhaps she was only brusque when she took a pen in her
hand.

As she surveyed him, taking in every detail of his immaculate get up
and elegant appearance, a twinkle appeared in her rather bold, blue
eyes, and she smiled broadly.

“I don’t think you need tell me who you are,” she said in a jolly,
rather loud voice. “I’ll lay five to one to anybody who likes to take
me on that you’re Mr. Sellars.”

This was quite a breezy reception, better than the young man had hoped
for. Miss Buckley was evidently not a mincing person nor inclined to
finnicking speech.

Sellars made his best bow, removing his hat with a grace peculiarly
his own. “I compliment you on your penetration, Miss Buckley, you have
guessed at once. I ran up here on the chance of finding you in, as I
am leaving London very shortly, and I didn’t want to waste time in
needless correspondence. Now that I am here, I hope you won’t be so
cruel as to turn me away.”

The music-hall artist looked at him not unkindly, he was a very
personable young fellow, and possessed charming manners.

She opened the door a little wider. “Well, I suppose I ought to send
you to the right about, but then you’d only pester me with more of your
polite letters. So come in, and let me know what it is you want of me.”

She led the way into a very daintily-furnished little sitting-room, the
greater portion of which was taken up with a semi-grand piano on which
she, no doubt, practised the vivacious songs that found favour with her
public. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. A fair sized round table
stood in the centre, and on this was a good sized cake and a decanter
of port wine.

“I couldn’t make much of a show at breakfast this morning,” she
explained candidly to her visitor. “Some of us were keeping it up a bit
last night late. So I’m just picking a little bit now, as I don’t have
my meal till five. The profession’s very awkward for meals. Now before
you start, Mr. Sellars, try a glass of this port. I’ve had one and I’m
going to have another—doctor’s orders, you know.” She laughed her loud,
genial laugh, and again the twinkle came into the big, blue eyes.

Sellars hastened to get on friendly terms with her by cheerfully
accepting her hospitality, and found the port very excellent. It
was evident that Miss Buckley, although a very small light of the
profession, was by no means forced to practise rigid economy. All
the furniture was elegant and costly. A handsome bronze clock and
candelabra adorned the mantelshelf, which was hung with elegant
rose-pink drapery. In a word, her surroundings were much more refined
than herself.

Yes, there was no doubt she was very comfortably off. And there was
every reason she should be, he reflected. The retired builder, her
father, must have had a decent income which, no doubt, he had left
entirely to her, she was hardly ever out of an engagement, so his club
acquaintance had told him, and she would get a decent salary from her
profession, even if she was only a star of small magnitude.

When they had drunk to each other’s health, for the lady insisted upon
this ceremony being observed, Miss Buckley came to business, speaking
in a brisk tone that rather suggested the writer of the brusque letter.

“And now, Mr. Sellars, please tell me the reason that has brought you
into this remote part of the world. Judging by what I’ve seen of you so
far, I should say you were more likely to be found in Bond Street and
Piccadilly than the wilds of Kew.”

While they had been drinking their port and chatting discursively,
the keen eyes of Sellars had been taking in the details of the dainty
little apartment. Most particularly had he directed his attention to
the half-dozen photographs on the rose-pink covered mantelpiece. Two
of them he recognized at once as those of Sir George Clayton-Brookes
and young Archie Brookes. A third was that of a young girl of about
eighteen or nineteen years of age, in which he thought he could trace
some resemblance to the present handsome and dignified Mrs. Morrice.
Ah, if only his old friend Dobbs were here he could have told him at
once. One thing was very evident, there was no portrait of the Mrs.
Morrice of the present day amongst the collection.

After putting her question, Mrs. Buckley looked at the young man very
keenly while awaiting his reply. He did not answer at once, but rose
from his chair, walked to the mantelpiece, took a leisurely survey of
the photographs and then turned to the music-hall artist.

“I see you have the likenesses of two men I know a little of, Miss
Buckley, Sir George Clayton-Brookes and his nephew. I should say your
memories must often carry you back to the old days in the little
village of Brinkstone.”

In spite of the self-possession engendered by so many years of facing
big audiences, the woman could not help giving a start of surprise
which did not escape the keen eyes of Sellars.

“What in the world do you know about Brinkstone?” she asked in a hard
voice. Her jollity had gone for the moment, she was the sharp, alert
woman of the world, ready to keep a close watch on her words, more
disposed to ask questions than answer them.

Sellars left the mantelpiece and sat himself on the chair opposite her,
putting on a very ingenuous expression of countenance.

“I know rather a lot,” he said pleasantly. “Shortly before Christmas I
took a fancy to run down there, and I put in a few very agreeable days.
I was engaged on some literary work, and I found it very quiet and
peaceful. There I made the acquaintance of a very delightful old-world
sort of fellow who had seldom stirred beyond the confines of his native
village—the head waiter, as he is now, one Dobbs. I am sure you can’t
have forgotten dear old Dobbs, Miss Buckley?”

The lady breathed a little hard. He guessed that she had half a mind to
tell a lie, disclaim all knowledge of the little village of Brinkstone
and its inhabitants, but she was afraid to because she was not sure how
much he knew.

“Perhaps I have, perhaps I haven’t. And how does it concern you, Mr.
Sellars, whether I know him or not?”

But Sellars did not answer her question, he put one himself.

“The portrait of that very pretty girl—am I not right in saying it is
one of your girl friend—Lettice Larchester?”

Again he saw that she was strongly tempted to tell a lie, to give him
another name as the original of that charming picture, and that she
refrained for the same reason.

“You seem to know all my friends, apparently. Can you tell me the other
three?” she inquired in a voice of heavy sarcasm.

“I am afraid I cannot, they do not interest me in the least,” he said
easily. “Well, to resume about good old Dobbs. In the evenings when he
was clearing the dinner things, we used to have long chats together, a
drop of whisky set his tongue going nineteen to the dozen, and he told
me lots of things about Brinkstone people.”

“Must have been very interesting, I’m sure,” said the lady, with
something like a snort. She helped herself to another glass of port,
but did not offer one to Sellars.

“It was extremely interesting,” agreed Sellars in his calm, placid
way. “I don’t know when I ever listened to a more delightful recital
of village annals. I heard all about the rather lurid doings of that
remarkable family, the Brookeses, the father and the three brothers of
whom Sir George is now the sole survivor. And equally absorbing, the
history of Miss Larchester and her derelict father, and last the story
of your arrival at Brinkstone and your subsequent friendship with the
young lady in question. Old Dobbs had a great tenderness for her, he
used to grow quite lyrical in his descriptions.”

“You went down there, of course, to spy out all this,” remarked Miss
Buckley in contemptuous tones. “I take it you are really a detective,
although I must say you haven’t got the cut of one. Well, Mr. Sellars,
what is it you want with me? Please come to the point.”

“I am not exactly a detective, not professionally I mean, only just
a rather curious person. I am very anxious to know something of the
career of your pretty friend Miss Larchester, after she left the little
village.”

And then Miss Buckley spoke. It was evident she had been thinking
pretty quickly while the young man was talking, and had made up her
mind what sort of a story she was going to tell.

“I have known Sir George on and off since the Brinkstone days, he mixes
a good deal with artists; I knew his nephew through him when he brought
him over from Australia and adopted him. I met Lettice Larchester a
few times in London—they seemed to be getting poorer and poorer. Then
suddenly they drifted away and I never heard any more of her.”

Sellars was silent for a long time. “Then it comes to this,” he said
presently, “you won’t tell me anything of your old friend.”

“I have nothing to tell,” said the woman obstinately.

“You do not know whether she is dead or alive?” persisted Sellars. “And
if alive, whether she is married or single.”

Again the same obstinate answer. “I know nothing, and now, Mr. Sellars,
I think it is time to end this interview.”

The young man was chagrined at the negative result of his visit. The
only thing he was certain of was that Mrs. Morrice had certain secrets
in her past life which this woman was resolved to guard jealously. Also
she had told a deliberate lie about Archie Brookes in saying that her
acquaintance with him had dated from his arrival from Australia.

“I will trouble you no more on that subject, Miss Buckley. Are you
disposed to be more frank with me on the subject of Archie Brookes?”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “My good man, will you have the
kindness to go. I know hardly anything of him except that he is Sir
George’s nephew and came over here a few years ago from Australia.”

Sellars looked her straight in the face. “And that, pardon me for my
rudeness, is not a fact. When Sir George adopted him, he took him from
your home, and at that time he was occupying a commercial post in the
City.”

And this time the shaft went home. The woman dropped her eyes, and a
tell-tale flush spread above the rouge on her painted cheek. But she
recovered herself quickly, walked to the door and flung it open. “For
the second and last time, Mr. Sellars, I request you to bring this
interview to a close.”

He moved after her, speaking as he went. “I am sorry our acquaintance
ends so abruptly. One last word—if a certain person would give you a
handsome sum to disclose what you do know about these two people, would
you be induced to speak?”

And for the last time came the defiant answer: “I should be taking your
money under false pretences. I have no information to sell.”




CHAPTER XX

RUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE


Lane was as chagrined as Sellars himself when he learned the result of
that interview with Alma Buckley, for he had rather pinned his hopes
on it. The great majority of people who engaged in wrong-doing were
corruptible, as he had found by long experience. This middle-aged
music-hall artist was a striking exception.

“Drawn into crooked paths by accident perhaps,” he commented, “and
makes loyalty to her pals her first principle or, equally probable, is
too well paid by the other side to consider it worth while treating
with us.”

He rose and paced the room, a sign with him of unusual mental activity.
“Well, now, it is needless to say, I am very grievously disappointed,
I looked for some good results, and the worst of it is, we have given
ourselves away. In another twenty-four hours our friend the baronet and
Mrs. Morrice will know of your visit, and will be on their guard.”

Sellars agreed. “That is inevitable. Unless she happened to speak the
truth when she said that she knew nothing of Mrs. Morrice and did not
know whether she was dead or alive.”

“That’s a lie like the other about Archie Brookes,” replied the
detective grimly. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I have had
Mrs. Morrice under observation by one of my best men for a little
time. During that period she has paid two visits to the Kew flat.
Alma Buckley is a useful friend in many ways, although she is not an
official one and doesn’t show up at Deanery Street—and no doubt, she
gets well paid for her services. It won’t be very long now before we
shall have to open the eyes of the master of the house.”

He was pacing up and down the room with very vigorous strides now,
his physical energy reflecting his mental activity. In that keen and
resourceful brain he was doubtless planning his campaign, determining
the best method of exploding his bombshell in Deanery Street.

He paused at last in his restless pacing and turned to his lieutenant,
who knew the man too well to put any direct questions.

“Well, Sellars, we have drawn a blank with Alma Buckley, through no
fault of yours. You couldn’t have done more than you have. We shall
have to precipitate matters, and blow up Clayton-Brookes and that young
impostor, whom the world takes for his nephew, in the process.”

Sellars would have dearly liked to have an actual inkling of what his
astute leader was planning, but he knew it was useless asking. Lane
never revealed his _coups_ beforehand. When they were accomplished, he
was as frank as he had previously been reticent, and would explain with
perfect candour the processes by which he had engineered them.

“Well, good-bye, Lane. Sorry the result wasn’t satisfactory. Better
luck next time. Can I get on to any other portion of the job?”

The detective thought not, at the moment; what was left he was going
to take into his own hands. But he praised his able young lieutenant
very highly for the work he had done down at Brinkstone, the foundation
on which the superstructure of the subsequent investigations had been
built.

In the meantime, while Lane was preparing his _coup_, Rupert Morrice
had been stealthily pursuing his line of investigation.

A passionate man by nature, he had experienced the greatest difficulty
in restraining himself on his return from the jeweller who had told
him that the supposed “birthday” necklace was a worthless imitation.
When his wife returned about five o’clock unconscious of the tragic
happenings during her brief absence, his first impulse was to follow
her up to her room, tell her what he had learned and wring from her a
confession.

But he held himself in by a great exercise of self-control. He wanted
more evidence, he wished to make sure if this was an isolated instance
or one of a series of similar transactions.

As it happened, fortune was adverse to the wrong-doer, and in the
banker’s favour. Mrs. Morrice’s friend was very unwell, and the
lady drove down to her on the two following days to cheer her up,
leaving early in the morning and returning about the same time in the
afternoon. As on the previous occasion, the maid was given a holiday
during the few hours of her mistress’s absence.

The coast therefore was quite clear for Morrice, and he took advantage
of his unique opportunities with grim determination. Rosabelle alone in
the house had an idea that something was going on from noting the fact
that she met him in the hall on one of the mornings, carrying a small
bag and wearing a very grim expression, as if he were engaged on some
urgent but disagreeable business.

In all he took some ten very valuable pieces of jewellery to the same
man for examination. The result in each case was similar, they were all
cleverly executed imitations of the original gifts he had presented to
her. That was enough for him. She had a pretty large collection, and it
might be that a great many of them were not substitutes; that she had
not so far made use of them for her secret purposes. On those of which
he was quite certain from the expert’s evidence, he reckoned that, even
selling at a greatly depreciated price, she must have realized several
thousands of pounds.

On the afternoon of the third day he was pacing his room about five
o’clock like a caged lion, feverishly awaiting his wife’s return,
waiting to confront her with the anonymous letter, and reveal to her
his verification of the charges it contained.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, the quarter, and the
half-hour. His face grew darker and darker, as the tide of his
righteous wrath swelled. Six o’clock struck, and no sign of Mrs.
Morrice. Then ten minutes later a telegram was brought to him which
after reading he cast angrily on the floor. It explained that her
friend was very unwell, that she was stopping the night at her house,
and would return home at lunch time to-morrow.

The storm could not burst to-day on the devoted head of the woman who
had played so foolishly with her husband’s trust in her. The unexpected
delay incensed further the unfortunate financier, against whom of late
fate seemed to have a special grudge.

Rosabelle came in while he was fuming, to ask him for a small cheque in
anticipation of her quarter’s allowance. So preoccupied was he with his
bitter thoughts of the gross way in which he had been deceived that he
wrote the cheque like a man in a dream, and the girl noticed that his
hand trembled. When he looked up to give it to her, she saw that his
face was as black as night.

“Uncle dear, whatever is the matter?” she cried impetuously. For
some little time past she had had an uneasy feeling, one of those
presentiments which occur so often to sensitive people, that there was
trouble of some sort brewing in this household.

“Nothing the matter, my child,” he answered evasively, passing his hand
wearily across his forehead. Much as he loved his pretty niece, much
as he trusted her, he could not as yet reveal to her the cause of his
trouble, betray the woman in whom he had believed—who bore his honoured
name.

But the girl persisted. “But, dearest uncle, you are hiding something
from me. You look so strange, I am sure you are very much moved. Have
you had disturbing news?”

For a little time the unhappy man refrained from answering that
question, inspired by no spirit of girlish curiosity, but by the
sincerest and most loyal affection.

“Yes, my child, I have had bad news, very bad news, I am afraid I am a
poor dissembler,” he said at length. “Later on, under the strict seal
of secrecy, I may tell you the cause of my trouble. But not now, not
now. Run away, my precious little girl, and leave me to my black mood.”

She dared not worry him further, although her heart was aching for him.
Nobody knew better than she the kind, tender nature underlying that
rather stern exterior. Before she obeyed him, she put her arms round
his neck and kissed him affectionately.

“Tell me when you please, dear, in your own good time, and your poor
little Rosabelle, to whom you have always been so kind and generous,
will do her best to comfort you.”

“I know you will, you precious, warm-hearted girl.” He clasped her hand
almost convulsively. What he had found out had wounded him to the core.
Nothing hurt this strong, proud man so much as the discovery that his
confidence had been misplaced in those near to him, that his trust in
them had been abused.

“Thank heaven, I have one dear little friend in the world, one dear,
loyal little friend who has never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who I
am confident never will. But run away now, my darling. I cannot speak
yet, even to you, of what is troubling me.”

She obeyed him, and left the room wondering. The words he had spoken
had been very vague, but her quick instinct had prompted certain
suspicions of the cause of his deep perturbation. She was confident
that Mrs. Morrice was at the bottom of it. Had he found out something
to her discredit, and if so, what? Was it possible that Lane had
conceived it to be his duty to report to him that conversation between
aunt and nephew which she had overheard?

They dined alone that night, and she was sure that his deep gloom must
have been noticed by the servants who waited on them. And she was sure
it was not business matters that troubled him. He had always boasted
that he never brought home his office worries with him, had expressed
his contempt for men who did so, who had no power of detachment. “When
a man comes back to his home it is his duty to make his family happy,
and leave his business behind him,” had been a favourite dictum of his,
and to do him justice he had always acted up to it.

After dinner they went up to the drawing-room, but he made no pretence
of being cheerful. Rosabelle asked if the piano would disturb him.
He shook his head, and she played very softly a few of her favourite
pieces. Suddenly Morrice rose, went to her, and kissed her.

“I am wretched company to-night, my little girl,” he said; his face
still wore its hard gloomy expression, but there was a sadness in his
voice that went to the girl’s heart. “You stay here and amuse yourself
as best you can. I am going to my study, and shall not see you again
this evening. Good-night, dear.”

Rosabelle clung to him. “Oh, uncle, can I do nothing to help you?”

He gave her a grateful smile, but shook his head obstinately, and left
the room. She played on a little after he had gone, but she was full of
troubled thoughts, and hardly knew what she was doing.

And Rupert Morrice, the great financier, the successful man of
business, respected by all who knew him, envied by many, sat alone in
his room, devoured by bitter and revengeful thoughts. What had his
wealth done for him, if it failed to buy loyalty from those who were
near to him, on whom he had lavished such kindness and generosity?

It was only a little past eight o’clock, they had dined early as was
often their custom when they had no company. Would the weary evening
ever come to a close? But when it did, and he went to his room, he knew
he would not be able to sleep.

Suddenly the telephone bell rang. Glad of the momentary diversion, he
crossed to the instrument and unhooked the receiver.

It was Lane’s voice that was speaking. The detective was late at his
office, and it had occurred to him to ring up on the chance of finding
Morrice in and making an appointment for to-morrow morning. He had that
day, after much reflection, judged that it was time to precipitate
matters—to launch his _coup_.

“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Morrice. I have something of the utmost
importance to communicate to you, and the sooner the better. Can I see
you to-morrow?”

The financier’s deep voice came back through the telephone. “To-morrow,
certainly, any time you please, preferably in the morning. But, if
convenient to you, come round at once. Mrs. Morrice is away; I am here
alone.”

Lane was rather glad to hear it. He answered that he would come at
once. What he was about to tell Morrice was bound to produce a violent
explosion, but it would not occur while he was in the house.

A few moments later the detective stood in the financier’s private
room, in a mood almost as serious as that of Morrice himself.




CHAPTER XXI

ROSABELLE HAS A GRIEVANCE


“You have something of importance to communicate to me, Mr. Lane,” were
Morrice’s first words. “Take a seat, please.”

“Something of the greatest importance, and also, I am very sorry to
say, of a most unpleasant nature. You must be prepared to receive a
great shock, Mr. Morrice.”

A grim smile fleeted across the financier’s gloomy countenance. He had
already received a very startling shock, in time he would get inured to
them.

“It concerns a young man named Archibald Brookes who, I understand, is
a frequent visitor at your house, also a member of your family, the
alleged nephew of your wife and also of Sir George Clayton-Brookes,
supposed to be her brother-in-law by the marriage of his brother
Archibald, who died in Australia, to her sister.”

At the two ominous words “alleged” and “supposed,” Morrice looked
keenly at his visitor, but he made no comment. He knew this was a man
who did not speak at random, who carefully weighed his utterances. What
was he going to hear now? Well, nothing would surprise him after what
he had already discovered for himself. Duplicity came naturally to some
temperaments.

The detective went on in his calm, even voice. “It is one of the
disagreeable duties of our profession to make unpleasant disclosures.
I made certain discoveries after taking up this case for Mr. Richard
Croxton which up to the present I have withheld from you, out of
consideration for your feelings. The time is come when you ought to
know the truth. Sir George’s family consisted of himself and two
brothers, there were no sisters. Both of these brothers died unmarried.
Therefore Sir George can have no nephew. Mrs. Morrice was the only
child of a not very successful artist; her mother lost her life in
giving her birth. Therefore the same remark applies to her, young
Archibald Brookes is no more her nephew than he is Sir George’s. And,
of course, it follows that there was no marriage between her sister and
his brother.”

Morrice’s face went very white. “You have satisfied yourself that there
is no flaw in your evidence—that it is quite reliable?”

“Unquestionably,” was the detective’s answer. “My evidence with regard
to your wife is her father’s statement made frequently in the hearing
of several persons. As to Sir George’s brother, a colleague of mine
in Australia made exhaustive inquiries on my behalf and found that
Archibald Brookes senior had never married. I have also got further
evidence from an old friend of mine at Scotland Yard who has had Sir
George and his supposed nephew under observation for some time; that
the young man was brought up under the charge of a woman named Alma
Buckley, a not very prominent member of the music-hall profession, up
to the period when Sir George adopted him and put about this story.
Further, that at the time of his adoption young Archie Brookes was
occupying an insignificant commercial post in the city of London. Of
course, you know nothing of all this?”

The words were not put in the form of a question, but rather conveyed
the assumption that it was impossible the financier could have any
knowledge of such a gross deception.

But they brought to the surface at once that fiery temper which up to
the present he had kept in check.

“What do you take me for, sir? My greatest enemy can never say of me
that I have been guilty of a mean or dishonourable action. Do you think
for a moment, from any motives whatever, even from a desire to shield
one so closely related to me, I would be a party to such a shameful
fraud?”

Lane hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Pardon me, Mr.
Morrice, I did not hint at such a thing. I said that, as a matter of
course, you knew nothing about it.”

“It was almost unnecessary that you should say even as much as that,”
growled Morrice, only half appeased. His mind was quick enough when
he chose to exercise it. This man had been rendered suspicious and
distrustful of everybody by his calling, and the sinister secrets he
discovered in the pursuit of it. He had half suspected, or at any rate
thought it within the bounds of possibility, that Morrice might have
some inkling of what had been going on, and he had chosen this way of
provoking a definite disclaimer.

“There are other things it is my duty to tell you,” went on the
detective smoothly; he was not going to take any further notice of
that angry outburst. “For some long time past Mrs. Morrice has been in
the habit of supplying the young man with money. I cannot estimate the
amount that has passed into his hands, but judging from his extravagant
habits, I should say it must be a considerable sum, much more than the
lady could afford if she were to maintain her position as the wife of a
wealthy man.”

A lightning inspiration came to the unfortunate financier. “Am I not
right in saying that you sent me an anonymous letter on this very
subject?”

Lane felt it was useless to prevaricate. “I did. I may be wrong, but I
felt it was the best way to set you on the track. I thought it would
be very painful for you to be warned in a more open and direct way. I
trust that the suspicion I threw out was not justified.”

He said this with a very good show of concern, although he was certain
he had not fired that shot at random. Mrs. Morrice’s avowal that she
had been half ruined, and that it could not go on, had convinced him
that her assistance to young Brookes had not been confined to a few
hundreds out of her annual allowance—these would have gone no way with
such a determined prodigal.

For the first time in his life, Rupert Morrice’s proud head drooped
in deep humiliation. It was terribly degrading to him to listen to
the detective’s merciless recital, to know that the treachery of the
woman who bore his name, to whom he had given an honoured and assured
position, was, as it were, the common property of others.

“Alas,” he said, in a voice from which every trace of anger had fled,
which only expressed feelings of the most unutterable sadness. “Your
suspicions have been fully justified. From whence did you get all this
information that enabled you to make such an accurate diagnosis of what
was happening?”

But Lane was very staunch, and as high-minded as a man could be in the
trying circumstances of such a profession. He would certainly not give
Rosabelle away, for if he did Morrice would be sure to think she should
have come to her uncle first and discussed with him the propriety of
going to Lane at all. He had in a manner rather stolen a march upon
her, but she should not suffer.

“You must excuse me, Mr. Morrice, if I am unable to answer that very
natural question. I always like to be as frank as possible with my
clients, but there are times when, from motives perfectly satisfactory
to myself, I am unable to reveal the means by which I obtain our
information.”

Morrice made no reply. He would have dearly loved to know, but he was
fair-minded enough to appreciate the detective’s excuse. Probably he
had obtained his knowledge from some prying servant in the house who
had kept a close watch upon his wife. Lane was not the man to despise
the assistance of any instrument, however humble. Not for one moment
did it occur to Morrice that his niece was implicated in the matter.

“And now, Mr. Morrice, I don’t wish to ask you more than I can help,
for I can fully understand how you must be suffering, and how painful
it must be for you to talk over these things with a stranger. But you
say that my suspicions are confirmed—in short, you have made your
investigations and found what I surmised, that a considerable number
of jewels have been realized, and imitations put in their place. Am I
right in saying that it means a large sum?”

“Several thousands of pounds, even taking into account the depreciated
price which could be obtained for them,” was Morrice’s answer.

“I guessed it. But I doubt if it has all gone into the pockets of young
Brookes. Mind you, I have no actual evidence of what I am going to
say—it is, if you like, absolute theory—but Sir George is in this game
and has engineered it from the beginning. They are in this together,
depend upon it. Which gets the better share I cannot say; I should
fancy the older and more experienced rogue.”

“I daresay you are right,” said Morrice wearily. “We know him to be a
rogue from his being a party to this nephew fraud. And yet he poses as
a rich man, although Mrs. Morrice has more than once dropped a hint
that he is fast dissipating his money at the gaming-table.”

So that was his vice attributed to him by one who knew too well,
thought the detective. That accounted for his being well-off one day
and a pauper the next.

After exacting from Morrice a promise that he would not use the
information in any way, Lane told him what he had picked up from his
friend at Scotland Yard, viz. that Sir George was strongly suspected of
being in league with high-class crooks.

The unhappy financier sat crushed and humbled by all these terrible
revelations. His world seemed falling about his ears—his wife, of
whose integrity he had never entertained the slightest suspicion,
the friend and confidant, the associate in a vile deception, of a
man of good birth and position strongly suspected of being engaged in
criminal enterprises. He had never taken kindly to Sir George; he was
too plausible and artificial for his liking. For the supposed nephew he
had entertained a good-natured contempt. But he had never harboured the
faintest idea that they were a couple of base scoundrels.

Lane rose to go. Later on he would have to say more to Mr. Morrice, but
to-night he had said enough.

“I think you told me over the telephone that your wife was away. I
suppose you have said nothing to her yet?”

“Nothing,” answered Morrice, with a face like granite. “I have not had
time. It was only to-day that I got the full amount of proof I wanted.
If it had only concerned itself with one article of jewellery, or a
couple at the outside, I might have thought she had sold them to defray
some gambling debt, some bills that she was ashamed to tell me about.”

“Quite so, Mr. Morrice. But I take it when your wife returns you will
confront her and extort a confession.”

Nothing could have been grimmer than the husband’s expression as he
answered. It was easy to see he would be as hard as flint when his
righteous wrath was aroused—pitiless, unforgiving.

“Of course. And please, Mr. Lane, do not speak of her as my wife. The
law, I know, will not sever the tie for such a cause as this, but
so far as I am concerned that tie is already severed. She returns
to-morrow, and in another twenty-four hours the same roof will not
shelter us. I shall not leave her to starve; I shall make her a decent
allowance, and she can live out the rest of her shameful life in the
society of friends congenial to her—this scoundrel Clayton-Brookes
and the rascal whose aunt she pretends to be—perhaps the woman Alma
Buckley, of whom I have never heard.”

“And whom she visits secretly,” interposed Lane. “I have had her
watched and know that for a fact.”

“Ah, I am not surprised; in fact, nothing would surprise me now. Mark
you, I shall not publish to the world the story of her treachery. Why
should I fill the mouths of curious fools? It would not undo my wrongs
nor alleviate my bitter humiliation. I shall agree with her to concoct
some tale of incompatibility extending over many years and culminating
in a separation absolutely necessary for the peace of mind of both. The
truth will be known for certain to two people, you and myself, perhaps
a third—my niece Rosabelle Sheldon. You, I am convinced, Mr. Lane, are
a man of discretion and will keep your knowledge to yourself.”

Lane assured him that the secrets of all his clients were sacred to
him. One last question he put before he left.

“You will make her confess who this so-called Archie Brookes really is?”

And Morrice’s voice was as hard as iron as he answered: “You may rely
upon me to do my best. Good-night, sir. What I have learned through
your masterly activities has been inexpressibly painful, but thank
heaven I know at last the foes in my own household. I shall no longer
live in a fool’s paradise.”

Shortly after Lane’s departure he went to his room, but try as he
would, sleep refused her kindly solace. The man had been shaken to the
very foundation of his being.

On his way out Lane found Rosabelle waiting for him in the hall as on a
previous occasion; she had heard of his visit from one of the servants.

“Why are you here to-night?” she whispered. “Has anything of importance
happened?”

“A great deal,” Lane whispered back. “It was not till the last moment I
made up my mind to come, but certain things happened which rendered it
necessary to hasten matters. I have not time to tell you now, it would
take too long. Slip down to my office to-morrow morning as early as you
can.”

Much wondering, the girl promised she would be there as near ten
o’clock as possible.

“And just one last word, Miss Sheldon. I have told your uncle that
young Brookes has been sponging on Mrs. Morrice, and much has been
found out. But your name has not been brought in. Forget all about
that conversation you told me of. Best, if your uncle should question
you to-night or to-morrow, to dismiss it from your mind, to appear
surprised as you would have been if you had never overheard it. I will
explain to-morrow. Good-night. I will not stop a second longer; he
might come out any moment and surprise us.”

Restless and impatient for that to-morrow, the girl’s sleep was little
less broken than her uncle’s. What was Lane going to tell her? Was he
going to be perfectly frank after all?

She was there a little before the time appointed, but Lane was
disengaged and saw her at once. He made a clean breast of it this time,
and told her everything that had happened from the beginning of his
investigations.

“I may as well tell you that I went over to Mr. Croxton the other
day and told him all that I knew. And I am afraid you will never
forgive me, Miss Sheldon, when you know that I made it a condition of
my confidence that he should keep it to himself till I removed the
embargo. But I had my reasons, reasons which I can’t very well explain
and which, I am sure, would be unconvincing to you.”

Rosabelle was very shocked at her aunt’s duplicity and disgusted
when she learned the truth about Archie Brookes. But she was not so
preoccupied with the emotions to which his recital gave rise as not to
be more than a little hurt that Lane had kept her in the dark longer
than anybody else.

“I suppose the truth is you have a contempt for women, and place no
trust in them?” she said resentfully.

The detective made the most diplomatic answer he could in the
circumstances, apparently with a satisfactory result. Anyway, they
parted good friends.




CHAPTER XXII

HUSBAND AND WIFE


Morrice stayed in the next day waiting for the return of his wife from
her country visit. She was to arrive home in time for lunch. About
twelve o’clock Rosabelle came into his room; she had just returned from
her visit to Lane.

“Oh, uncle, there is a strange young man in the hall with a letter for
auntie. He says his instructions are to give it into her own hands. He
was told that she would be back before lunch-time, and he said he would
wait. He seems rather mysterious. Would you like to see him?”

Morrice nodded his head and strode into the hall, where he found
standing a sallow-faced young fellow, quite a youth, with a tall
footman mounting guard over him, as it were, on the look-out for
felonious attempts.

“What is it you’re wanting, my man?” he asked roughly. He did not, any
more than his servant, like the appearance of the fellow, who seemed a
furtive kind of creature with a shifty expression.

The furtive one explained hesitatingly in a strong cockney accent: “A
letter for Mrs. Morrice, sir. I was to be sure and give it into no
hands but her own.”

Something very suspicious about this, certainly. Morrice thought a
moment, pondering as to the best way to proceed with this rather
unprepossessing specimen of humanity. He had a common and unintelligent
kind of face, but he looked as if he possessed a fair share of low
cunning.

A week ago Morrice would have thought nothing of such an incident;
he would have told the man to come later when his wife would have
returned. But recent events had developed certain faculties and made
him anxious to probe everything to the bottom, to scent mystery in
every trifling act.

“Who sent you with the letter, and gave you such precise instructions,
my man?”

The answer came back: “Mrs. Macdonald, sir.”

Morrice’s brows contracted. He was as sure as he could be of anything
that the man was telling a lie.

“Mrs. Macdonald, eh? Where does she live?” was the next question.

This time the answer did not come as readily; there was a perceptible
hesitation. Morrice guessed the reason as rapidly as Lane himself would
have done. The sender of the letter had primed the messenger with a
false address. Out of loyalty to his employer, he had been cudgelling
his rather slow brains to invent one.

“Number 16 Belle-Vue Mansions, Hogarth Road, Putney,” he said, speaking
after that slight hesitation with a certain glibness that was likely to
carry conviction.

Morrice did not know of any woman of the name of Macdonald amongst
his wife’s acquaintances. Still, that might mean nothing; it might be
a begging letter which the writer had taken these unusual means of
getting to her.

“Let me have a look at the envelope,” demanded Morrice.

The shabby, furtive-looking young fellow began to appear a bit uneasy,
with the dictatorial master of the house regarding him with anything
but a favourable eye, the young girl standing in the background who
seemed no more friendly, and the tall footman standing before the door,
barring a sudden exit.

“Beg pardon, sir, but my orders was most precise to only give it into
the hands of the lady herself.”

Morrice saw that he must change his tactics. He took from his pocket a
couple of treasury-notes which made a pleasant crackle as he flourished
them before the youth’s face.

“You see these, don’t you? I take it you haven’t got too much money.
They are yours if you let me see the envelope, only the envelope. I
don’t want to take your letter,” he added with a cunning that was quite
a recent development of his character. “As soon as I’ve seen that
you can go out and come back in an hour when Mrs. Morrice will have
returned home.”

The youth fell into the trap. Slowly he produced from his pocket the
letter which he held gingerly between his finger and thumb for the
inspection of the superscription on the envelope. Quick as lightning,
Morrice snatched at it and put his hand behind his back, throwing at
him with his disengaged hand the treasury-notes he had promised.

“Now get out of this, my fine fellow, and never dare to come to this
house again with such an impudent message. Tell Mrs. Macdonald of
Putney, or whoever it may be that sent you, that Mr. Morrice insisted
on having that letter, and that it will be given to Mrs. Morrice on her
return.”

The furtive creature slunk away; after that drastic action he had
no more fight in him. Morrice remembered the waiting footman whose
impassive countenance did not betray any surprise at this rather
extraordinary scene over what seemed a trifle, and turned to his niece
with a smile that was decidedly forced.

“Never heard of such cheek in my life. Some impudent mendicant, I
expect. By gad, they are up to all sorts of dodges nowadays.”

He marched back into his own room, and Rosabelle went to hers to think
over what this action of her uncle’s meant. It was evident he attached
considerable significance to that letter which was only to be delivered
into Mrs. Morrice’s hands. What was he going to do with it? Well, it
did not much matter. He knew enough now, and in a very short time the
bolt would fall, according to what Lane had told her.

Morrice had made up his mind what to do with it. Never in his life
had he opened correspondence not intended for his perusal; never
again, he hoped, would he be forced to resort to such a mean action.
But everything was fair now; it was justifiable to meet cunning with
cunning, duplicity with corresponding duplicity.

He opened that letter with the sure instinct that it would be of help
to him, and he was not deceived. There was no address and no signature.
Evidently the handwriting was too well known to Mrs. Morrice to require
either. It was very brief; but even if he had not known what he already
did, it would have revealed to him a great portion of what he had
lately learned.

 “A young man has been to see me, says he is not a professional
 detective, and doesn’t look like one, but very keen. Wanted to get out
 of me all about your early life. Of course, he got nothing. The worst
 is he seems to know something about Archie, knows that I brought him
 up. Be on your guard; I am afraid trouble is brewing.”

He put this damaging missive in his pocket along with the anonymous
letter, and presently went up to his wife’s room to await her return
to the home which, he had resolved, should no longer shelter a woman
who had deceived him so grossly. He guessed at once the writer of this
warning note—it could be none other than Alma Buckley, the friend of
her youth. The reference to her having brought up the man known as
Archie Brookes proved that beyond the possibility of doubt.

How long it seemed before the minutes passed and the door opened to
admit the familiar figure! Preoccupied with her own thoughts, Mrs.
Morrice hardly looked at her husband as she advanced to give him
the perfunctory kiss which is one of the courtesies of a placid and
unemotional married life.

But when he drew back with a gesture of something like repugnance
from the proffered caress, she noted for the first time the terrible
expression on his face, and was overcome with a deadly fear.

“What is the matter? Why are you looking like that?” she gasped in a
trembling voice.

Consumed inwardly with fury as Morrice was, he exercised great control
over himself. He knew that he would put himself at a disadvantage if
he stormed and raged; he must overwhelm this wretched woman with the
pitiless logic of the facts he had accumulated. He must act the part of
the pitiless judge rather than that of the impassioned advocate.

He advanced to the door and turned the key, then came back to her and
pointed to a chair. There was a cold and studied deliberation about his
movements that filled her guilty soul with a fearful terror.

“Sit there while I speak to you,” he said in a harsh and grating voice.
“You have much to account to me for. Read that.”

He drew the anonymous letter from his pocket and flung it in her lap.

Like one dazed, she drew it from the envelope with trembling fingers,
and very slowly, for her thoughts were in terrible confusion, mastered
its accusing contents. Then she looked up at him with a face from which
all the colour had fled, leaving it ghastly to look at.

“It is a lie,” she stammered in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“It is the truth,” he thundered, “and you are as shameless in the hour
of your detection as you have been in your career of fraud and deceit.”

“Prove it,” she cried faintly, still feebly trying to oppose his
gathering anger.

“You have lived with me a good many years,” he said witheringly, “and
yet you know so little of me as to think I should speak like that if
I were not sure I was on firm ground. And yet perhaps you have some
excuse. I have been a blind fool so long that you were justified in
your hopes I should continue blind to the end. Well, that letter opened
my eyes. Your fortunate absence gave me facilities that it might have
been difficult to create. I have taken several of the most valuable
articles in your collection and had them examined. Need I tell you the
result? Your guilty face shows plainly enough that you need no telling.”

And then her faint efforts at bravado broke down.

“Forgive me,” she moaned. “I yielded in a moment of temptation. Many
women have done the same; they were my own property after all,” she
added with a feeble effort at self-justification.

That answer only provoked him the more. “A moment of temptation,” he
repeated with scornful emphasis. “Rather many moments of temptation.
This has been going on for years; these things were realized piece by
piece. And now tell me—for I will have the truth out of you before you
leave this room—where have these thousands gone, what have you got to
show for them?”

It was a long time before she could steady her trembling lips to speak,
and when she did the words were so low that he could only just catch
them.

“Nothing. I have been a terribly extravagant woman. I have lost
large sums of money at cards. You never guessed that I was a secret
gambler—there is not a year in which I have not overstepped my
allowance, generous as it was. I was afraid to come to you.”

He silenced her with a scornful wave of the hand. “Lies, lies, every
word you have uttered! You have done none of these things you pretend;
it is an excuse you have invented in your desperation.”

He drew himself up to his full height and pointed a menacing finger
at the stricken woman. “Will you tell me where these thousands have
gone? No, you are silent. Well then, I will tell _you_—not in gambling
debts, not in unnecessary personal luxuries—no, if it were so I would
be readier to forgive. They have gone to support the extravagance of
that wretched idler and spendthrift who is known by the name of Archie
Brookes. Do you dare to deny it?”

She recognized that he knew too much, that further prevarication was
useless. “I do not deny it,” she answered in a moaning voice.

And after a little pause he proceeded with his denunciation.

“It is as well that you do not, seeing I know everything. Well, bad
as that is, there is worse behind. I have learned more; I know that
you, in conjunction with that smooth scoundrel Clayton-Brookes, have
practised upon me, upon all your friends, a gross and impudent fraud in
passing off this young profligate as your nephew.”

She made a last attempt to defend her crumbling position. “Who dares to
say that?” But her ashen lips, her trembling voice proved her guilt.

“You deceived me when I married you with a fictitious account of your
family—the only truth in your many statements being that your father
was a clever artist of dissolute habits. I know now that you were an
only child and that your mother died when she gave you birth; it is
therefore impossible you can have a nephew. The same applies to your
confederate. He had no sisters, and his two brothers died bachelors. I
would demand from you the motives of this fraud, but I know you will
refuse to confess them. Well, I can wait. The people who have unmasked
you so far will unmask you still farther, and in time I shall know all
in spite of your obstinate silence.”

She said nothing for a long time. When she spoke it was in a voice of
resigned despair. “What do you intend to do?”

In a cold, hard voice he delivered his inflexible sentence.

“From this day, from this hour, we are absolute strangers, and this
roof can no longer shelter us both. I am not going to turn you
out penniless—for your own small income is insufficient even for
necessities—I will pay the penalty of my folly in having married you.
Through my solicitors I will pay you an income sufficient to maintain
you in decent comfort, but not enough for extravagance or for the
maintenance of unscrupulous pensioners.”

She rose from her chair, half-tearful, half-defiant, but she did not
attempt to dispute the justice of the sentence pronounced upon her.
“When do you wish me to go?”

He handed her two envelopes, one containing the unsigned letter which
he had opened, the other a bundle of notes.

“As soon as possible. Eat your last meal in this house if you wish.
Here is something for immediate necessities; my solicitors will see to
the rest. Take what you want for to-day and to-night; the rest of your
property I will send later on to any address you give me.”

“And what is to be said to the world?” she interrupted in a broken
voice.

“Ah, I had forgotten that, but it is already cut and dried in my mind.
We will both tell the same tale; it will make curiosity silent if
it does not altogether satisfy it. For years we have led an unhappy
life through incompatibility of ideas and temperament; it has at last
culminated in this. There is one other thing before we part for ever.
That other letter which you will read is one addressed to you which I
opened. It is from the friend of your youth, Alma Buckley, who brought
up this impostor, and confirms the knowledge which I had already gained
from another source.”

At those terrible words she seemed on the point of collapsing, but
recovered herself with a strong effort. “I will go as soon as possible.
You must hate the sight of me, I am sure of that.”

He did not contradict her statement. He was as pitiless as he had once
been considerate and generous.

“When I believed that Richard Croxton had proved ungrateful and
betrayed the trust I reposed in him, I told you what I then said to
him. I repeat those words to you. I shall return here in about a couple
of hours. When I re-enter this house, let me find it empty of your
presence.”

He turned on his heel, unlocked the door and passed out, leaving the
wretched woman alone to confront the ruin of her life, to face the
punishment of her treachery.




CHAPTER XXIII

RICHARD IS CLEARED


When Morrice returned to Deanery Street about four o’clock he went
straight up to Rosabelle’s room. The girl was seated in a chair, trying
to read; he noticed that she looked very sorrowful and that she had
been crying. She had a most sympathetic nature, and although she could
find no excuse for Mrs. Morrice, she could not but feel a certain
compassion for the wretched woman who in the course of a few hours had
lost home and husband, all that seemed to make life worth living.

“Has she gone?” asked the financier in a hard voice.

“Yes, she came down to lunch a few minutes after you went out. She
spoke hardly a word while the servants were present, but when we had
finished she asked me to come up to her boudoir, and in a broken voice
and with many tears she told me what had happened, that you had ordered
her to be out of the house before you came back to it.”

“Did she tell you the reasons that impelled me to that apparently harsh
step?”

Rosabelle nodded. “Yes, she told me that she was very fond of Archie
Brookes and that he traded upon her affection for him; that it was
owing to his influence she was forced to lead this double life, to sell
her valuables and replace them by spurious substitutes; that she was
weary and tired of the deception, and was almost glad that it had come
to an end; that she would not be sorry to go away and hide her head
from everybody.”

“Did she tell you that this so-called Archie Brookes was an impostor,
that he is nephew to neither her nor her confederate in the fraud, that
infamous scoundrel, George Clayton-Brookes?”

Yes, Mrs. Morrice had told her that, but had said very little on
the subject, only narrating the bare fact that the secret had been
discovered.

“Did you urge her to tell you who the man really was?”

“In a rather feeble way, yes,” was the girl’s answer, “for in her
heart-broken state it occurred to me that she might be more ready to
confess her secrets to one of her own sex than to a man. But she evaded
what little attempts I made in that direction. And to tell you the
truth, dear uncle, she was so overwrought and seemed so near the verge
of an utter collapse that I had not the heart to persevere.”

The face which had maintained its hard expression for so long softened
as he looked at the pretty girl, whose compassionate soul shone through
her beautiful eyes, now dimmed with tears. He laid his hand very kindly
on her shoulder.

“Ah, my little Rosabelle, your heart will ever guide that pretty little
head of yours. Well, I would rather it were so. Men have to be hard,
but we don’t want our women to lose their softness. And tell me, you do
not, you cannot blame me for what I have done? You do not think I could
have endured her presence in the house after I had discovered her two
acts of treachery, the motives of one of which have yet to be found?”

The girl kissed him tenderly. Upright and honourable herself, she could
not but sympathize with him in his drastic action, even while she
was not without compassion for the wretched victim of his righteous
justice. And as she bestowed on him that affectionate caress, she could
not but think miserably of the havoc that had been wrought in that
small household in such a brief space of time.

Her memory went painfully back to that night in December when they had
sat in a secluded corner of one of the pretty rooms, and she had urged
her lover to screw up his courage to approach Morrice on the subject
of their marriage. They had then been a happy family of four, always
together, taking their pleasures, their amusements in common. And now
that joyous little band had been reduced to two. Mrs. Morrice, the aunt
for whom she had always entertained a sincere affection, was exiled,
justly exiled, from the home that had sheltered her for so many years.
And Richard, the lover in whose innocence she so firmly believed, was
another exile, lying under the ban of his benefactor’s displeasure, and
eating his heart out in that little cottage at Petersham.

“You do not blame me for what I have done, my little Rosabelle,”
repeated her uncle, as he held her slender form against his. “We have
both had a great sorrow in our lives, my poor child, we must be all in
all to each other now.”

“Oh, no, dearest uncle, I do not blame you. In her case, you had proved
everything up to the hilt. I do not see that you could have taken any
other course. If there had been the slightest room for doubt I should
have taken her part against you, I should have held that you were bound
to believe her innocent until you proved her guilty.”

He winced a little at those words, for he knew what was at the back of
her mind. He had tried and condemned Richard Croxton, the son of his
old sweetheart, on suspicion only—strong suspicion, it is true, but not
strong enough to justify absolute conviction.

They were interrupted by the entrance of the butler, a staid person who
had been in the financier’s service for over twenty years.

“A Mr. Lane rang up for you about half an hour ago, sir, and wished you
particularly to ring him up as soon as convenient to yourself.”

He went down to his room and was soon in communication with the office
in Shaftesbury Avenue. Lane’s measured tones came over the instrument.

“Good-day, Mr. Morrice. Am I right in concluding that a certain person
has left your house by now?”

“Quite right; has been gone since shortly after lunch,” was the
financier’s reply.

“Has not yet taken away any private property—trunks, boxes or that sort
of thing, I suppose?” was the next question.

“No; these are to be sent when we receive an address.”

“Good! Then I may run round to you at once? There is a little business
I want to embark on without delay.”

Morrice readily gave his consent; he had a shrewd inkling of the nature
of that business, and thought what a smart fellow Lane was. He never
let the grass grow under his feet. A few moments after he had hung up
the receiver a taxi deposited the detective in Deanery Street.

Uncle and niece were sitting together when he entered; they had been
talking on the old subject. Lane came to the point at once.

“Mrs. Morrice has left, you say, sir. Has she taken her maid with her?”

He was informed that she had. They did not know where she had gone
to. Rosabelle had said good-bye to her aunt in her own room, had not
accompanied her down the staircase into the hall. They had left very
quietly, letting themselves out. Presumably they had hailed a passing
taxi in the street.

“Do you know what they carried with them?” asked Lane sharply.

“Yes,” answered Rosabelle. “I went to the top of the stairs with them.
Mrs. Morrice would not let me come farther. I think she wanted to slip
away as quietly as possible, not to be seen by any of the servants. She
had a small attaché-case; her maid carried a similar one.”

“Of course, you don’t know what was in those cases?”

Rosabelle’s answer seemed to please him. “I was in my aunt’s room while
she packed hers. I don’t know what was in the one the maid carried.
Mrs. Morrice just put in a few things for the night, saying that she
would send instructions for the dispatch of the rest of her private
property in a day or two.”

“Thank you, Miss Sheldon.” The detective turned briskly towards
her uncle. “Well, Mr. Morrice, we have proceeded so far in our
investigations into this very painful drama. I want now, with your
permission, to proceed a step farther.”

Morrice looked at him gravely, and Rosabelle too. In the minds of both
had flashed a swift idea of what he had come for.

He produced from his pocket a small bunch of skeleton keys, and held
them in his hand.

“These will open everything in this house that has an ordinary lock,
Mr. Morrice. Before this lady’s property is sent to her—and I think she
will want it very soon—I wish to examine every box and trunk belonging
to her. I cannot, of course, do this without your permission, and I
would not ask it if I did not consider myself justified.”

For a few seconds Morrice hesitated. Espionage, even practised in a
rightful cause, was abhorrent to him, and, base as she was, the idea
of ransacking this woman’s property the moment her back was turned
repelled him.

Lane observed his hesitation and struck in swiftly. “We have discovered
so much, Mr. Morrice, that we may as well investigate a little farther.
It is in the interests of _everybody_ for whom I act”—he laid a strong
emphasis on the everybody—“that we should leave no quarter unexplored.”

Those significant words decided the hesitating man. “Do as you wish,
Mr. Lane. I am sure you would take no action that did not justify
itself to your own conscience.”

Lane bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I would be glad if
Miss Sheldon would accompany me in my search. I am not known to all
your servants, and if one of them happened to intrude and find me
alone, it might be awkward and entail troublesome explanations.”

Together the detective and Rosabelle left the room, leaving Morrice to
his bitter and humiliating thoughts. To think that his house should be
the hunting-ground of a private inquiry agent, even such a courteous
and urbane member of his calling as Lane.

A long time passed, half an hour, three-quarters, and still they did
not return. The search was evidently a very thorough one. Then the door
opened, and they came in, the girl’s face flushed with excitement,
and on the detective’s usually impassive countenance an expression of
triumph. Once again he had had one of his flashes of inspiration.

In his hand he held some sheets of paper which he handed to the master
of the house.

“Here is the memorandum which you lost of the mechanism of the safe,
I think you said about a couple of years ago, Mr. Morrice,” he said.
“I dare say you remember you made rather light of it at the time;
you told me that you had mislaid it, and you thought it might turn up
any day. In the case of its not doing so, you suggested that, in all
probability, it had been thrown away by some careless servant along
with other rubbish and had passed into the hands of the dustman.”

Yes, Morrice remembered that conversation well. It was one in which he
had obstinately maintained his belief in Richard Croxton’s guilt, and
had shown some annoyance at Lane’s rather neutral and judicial attitude
in the matter.

“To me the loss of that memorandum assumed considerable significance,”
the detective went on in grave, convincing tones, “and I was by no
means ready to subscribe to your theory of the dustman. Personally,
I was convinced that this paper was still in existence, and of
considerable use to some person unknown. I have had a long search, as
you can tell by the time we have been absent. I found it in the most
securely-locked box amongst Mrs. Morrice’s collection; it took me a
considerable time to open it.”

A duller man than Morrice could have experienced no difficulty in
realizing the situation, suddenly as it was presented to him.

“Then this woman, not contented with realizing everything of her own
she could put her hands upon, has gone farther afield. She is the
actual——” He paused, and a low groan escaped him; he could not bring
his lips to utter the hateful word.

“I am afraid there is no longer any possible doubt,” was Lane’s
uncompromising answer. “For some time, I may tell you, my suspicions
have been tending in that direction—from the day, in fact, that I
knew she was abetting this young impostor in his career of unbridled
extravagance. We have yet got to find the real reasons of his sinister
influence over her; they were more than those of ordinary womanly
weakness.”

Morrice hardly heard those last few words. He was humbled beyond
expression by the knowledge that, in his arrogant belief in his own
infallibility, he had committed a grave injustice towards an innocent
man.

“And I branded Richard Croxton, who was the son of the woman dearer to
me than anything on earth, a thief,” he cried in a voice of anguish.

“It is always a mistake to form hasty judgments, Mr. Morrice,” said
Lane soothingly. “But I admit your error was a quite natural one; it
would have been committed by nine persons out of ten on such strong
circumstantial evidence. I will confess that, at the beginning, I kept
quite an open mind on the subject, if Miss Sheldon will forgive me for
saying so.”

The girl flashed an indignant glance at him. “Would he have been such a
fool as to consent to my calling in your services, Mr. Lane, if he had
not been sure of his innocence?”

Lane, unmoved by her angry outburst, bestowed an indulgent smile upon
her. “Ah, my dear young lady, your heart spoke there rather than
your head. But I will not enter into any lengthy defence of myself,
and explain to you why I sometimes am compelled to suspect my own
clients. Well, happily there is no longer any question of Mr. Croxton’s
vindication. The fact that this memorandum was found securely locked
in the least accessible of Mrs. Morrice’s boxes, conveys enough to the
mind of any reasonable man.”

Morrice rose up, his face working with the intensity of his emotion.
“She must be made to confess, in justice to the innocent. I will go to
her at once and wring the truth out of her.”

“But you do not know where she is,” cried Rosabelle swiftly.

The tortured man made a gesture of despair. He was longing to confront
again this woman who was callous enough to let another suffer for
her own black deeds. “True, I must wait till we hear from her. Great
heavens, how can I have the patience to wait?”

The grave, resolute man, who never lost his head under the most
perturbing circumstances, interposed:

“Pardon me, Mr. Morrice, but if you are agreeable, I should be pleased
to act for you in this matter. I have had unfortunately such a long
experience in this kind of case that I am rather successful at bringing
an obstinate person to confession. I assume that you are making some
provision for Mrs. Morrice’s future?”

“Yes, through my solicitors.”

“But, of course, nothing as yet has been absolutely fixed in that
direction.”

Morrice nodded assent. “That gives me a very powerful weapon, then,”
said Lane. “Are you disposed to entrust the matter to me? It is not as
if I were unacquainted with these painful details.”

Yes, the financier thought he was. He was beginning to have a little
less confidence in himself, and to think that the acute and diplomatic
Lane might achieve better and speedier results.

“Yes, take it in hand, please. But you have got to find her first.”

Lane smiled. “I don’t think I shall find much difficulty in that. In
fact I fancy I could put my hands on her now.”

“She would naturally go to some small hotel, till she had arranged her
future plans, not, of course, to any big one where she would be likely
to come across people she knew,” suggested Rosabelle.

“I think not, Miss Sheldon,” answered the wise Lane. “In this crushing
hour of her misfortunes, instinct will lead her to the friend of her
youth, whose connection with her up to now has, without doubt, been a
very close one. For a time, till she has got used to the situation, she
will avoid even the smallest publicity.”

“You mean the woman, Alma Buckley,” cried Morrice, appreciating this
capable man’s acumen.

Lane nodded. “It is much more than an even chance. Well, I will set
about it early to-morrow morning. I will give her to-day to recover
from the first effects of the shock. Now, Mr. Morrice, I have never
seen the lady. I should be glad if you would show me her photographs
and entrust me for a brief space with the memorandum. I expect I shall
have to flourish that in her face just at the beginning.”

Three photographs were shown him, one in ordinary dress, one in evening
attire, one in outdoor costume.

The detective impressed the features of the wretched woman on his
retentive memory. He would recognize her in any garb. He also carried
away with him the important memorandum, the loss of which the financier
had treated so lightly.

Rosabelle accompanied him into the hall for a few last words.

“Up to quite recently, Mr. Lane, you have not been very frank with me,”
she said. “I think now you might try to make amends, and let me know
what led you to fix upon Mrs. Morrice as the guilty party.”

“Well, I could hardly explain very clearly. I began of course with a
general distrust of everybody in the house, for I was sure the thief
was of the household.”

“Including myself, I suppose?” suggested the girl.

“Present company always excepted,” replied the detective with a low
bow. “But seriously, Miss Sheldon, well-brought-up young ladies of your
tender age do not take to burglary as a general rule. Well, as I said,
I suspected from the beginning it was somebody in the house. I fear I
must touch upon rather delicate ground for a moment. Reasoning from my
theory, Mr. Croxton might as well be the criminal as anybody else, more
so because collateral evidence was certainly very strong against him.”

“You thought, in other words, his employing you through me might have
been a bit of audacious bluff?”

“I reckoned it amongst the possibilities of the case,” was the frank
answer. “Then came the second robbery when Mr. Croxton was no longer
an inmate. This fact gave rise to fresh speculations, for I did not
greatly believe in the theory of an outside confederate, although
I know Mr. Morrice held to it. Then I learned that the original
memorandum of the mechanism was lost; it was no longer possible to
say for certain that the knowledge it contained was confined to two
people, it might have been acquired by more than one other party, and,
of course, from that my area of suspicion was extended. What, however,
finally clinched the matter in my mind, Miss Sheldon—and this is a
feather in your cap—was that conversation which you overheard and
reported to me.”

“It was quite good of you not to give me away, when uncle wanted to
know the source of your information.”

“I am not quite such a brute as I seem, my dear young lady, I assure
you. When I can do a good turn to anybody I like and respect, believe
me it gives me pleasure. With regard to my general reticence which
I know must have offended you very much, you must remember I have
moved so much amongst mystery that I have become more than a little
mysterious myself.”

“And you believe Mrs. Morrice committed these burglaries alone?” asked
Rosabelle.

“I am inclined to think so, although we are quite certain where the
proceeds went to.”

“And what about those finger-prints of the man who was in Dartmoor at
the time of the first burglary?”

“That, no doubt, was an invention, employed more for purposes of
devilment, to lead a detective a useless dance and make a fool of him.
In the second robbery the same game was played, but when the safe was
opened a third time, it was dropped. There were no finger-prints then,
they had been carefully rubbed out.”

“How she could have had the courage,” exclaimed Rosabelle, “and you
know I should not have considered her a very strong-minded or resolute
woman.”

Lane shrugged his shoulders. “Evidently she was in mortal terror of
these two scoundrels, hypnotized by them in a sense. Those restitutions
that were made had certainly a feminine touch. A man would never have
ventured back for such a purpose, anything that was useless to him he
would have destroyed.”

“It is all very horrible and tragic,” said Rosabelle in a sad voice.
“My heart bleeds for my dear uncle. Thank heaven he will have Richard
still left to comfort him.”

“Yes, I am very glad the young fellow is cleared,” said Lane heartily.
“Well, I must be off. Before long I hope to get the whole details of
this miserable affair out of Mrs. Morrice. Good-bye for the present.”




CHAPTER XXIV

LANE MAKES A CALL


On the following morning Lane’s own private car was waiting for him in
Shaftesbury Avenue. He was expecting a message from a trusted emissary,
to whom he had given the three photographs of Mrs. Morrice, and
dispatched to watch the flat of Alma Buckley in Elvenden Mansions.

About twelve o’clock the telephone bell rang. Lane answered it in about
as great a state of excitement as was permissible to a man of his
strong self-control. At the first words his face lightened. Once again
his instinct had led him right to the presumption that the wretched
woman, crushed under the weight of her misfortunes, would fly for
shelter to the friend of her youth.

“It’s all right, sir. The lady went out with another woman about an
hour ago; they have just returned.”

“Good,” was the detective’s answer. “I am starting now. Maintain your
watch till I come, it won’t take me very long to reach there when I get
through the Piccadilly traffic.”

He got into the waiting car, drove along as quickly as he could, and
halted at a spot a little distant from Elvenden Mansions where a full
view of the block of flats could be obtained. A respectable-looking man
was lounging about, who reported that the two women were still there.
He was quite a discreet person, and one often employed by Lane on
such errands. Not wishing to bring too many people into this delicate
affair, the detective would have preferred to put Sellars on the job,
but that would have been unwise, as the young man was known to both
Miss Buckley and Mrs. Morrice, and might have scared his quarry away.

He dismissed his subordinate, ordered the car to wait where it was, and
proceeded to Number 5. The door was opened by a comely buxom woman,
whom he rightly took to be Alma Buckley.

“I wish to see Mrs. Morrice on very urgent business,” he said,
proffering his card which bore his name, profession and address. “You
will see from that who I am.”

The woman read the card, and her face paled visibly underneath the
thick rouge she had laid on it. She scented danger at once and flew
to that readiest resource of certain women of not too scrupulous a
nature, a lie.

“No Mrs. Morrice lives here. I am the sole tenant, and my name is
Buckley, Alma Buckley,” she stammered.

“I know quite well you are the owner of this flat, Miss Buckley,”
replied Lane suavely. “But you will pardon me for questioning your
statement. This place has been under observation by an employé of mine.
You and Mrs. Morrice went out this morning together, and returned about
three-quarters of an hour ago. You have not stirred from it since,
therefore Mrs. Morrice is within.”

When she saw he knew so much, she abandoned the fiction and tried
another tack. “It is quite true she is here for a short time, but she
is too unwell to see anybody.”

“Her indisposition must have come on very suddenly then, since she was
well enough to shop or walk about with you for over an hour. Come,
Miss Buckley, let us leave this fencing, it will do your friend more
harm than good. I wish to impress upon you, and through you upon Mrs.
Morrice, that it is necessary I should see her in _her own_ interests,
apart from those of other people. If she refuses to see me, her future
will be jeopardized to an extent she does not at present realize.”

There was no mistaking the gravity of his manner. Miss Buckley was
a strong-minded woman and capable of holding her own in an equal
encounter. But she recognized that this calm, strong man was master of
the situation.

“Come in, then,” she said, in a tone the reverse of gracious. “I will
see if she is well enough to permit your visit. I must ask you to wait
in the hall, I have no spare apartment to which to show you.”

Lane was not a man much given to unprofitable moralizing, but as he
stood in the small hall, he could not help reflecting on the awful
havoc which a few hours had wrought in the fortunes of this wretched
woman. From the splendid house in Deanery Street with its luxurious
apartments, its retinue of trained servants, to this middle-class flat
in which there was not even an apartment to which to show a visitor!
What a descent! Truly the way of the transgressor is hard!

In a few minutes, Miss Buckley reappeared and announced that Mrs.
Morrice would see him. She led him into the comfortably furnished room
in which Sellars had interviewed her. The detective was favourably
impressed by the air of decent well-being about the place: there was no
evidence of straitened means. Still, it was a terrible come-down for
the wife of a millionaire.

Mrs. Morrice was seated in an easy-chair, the marks of acute suffering
plainly written on her ravaged features. She nodded slightly to him,
and as she did so, the music-hall artist withdrew, closing the door
after her.

“Your business with me, Mr. Lane?” she said in a very low voice. “Miss
Buckley told you the truth when she said I was not in a fit condition
to receive visitors. But I understand you have important reasons for
desiring an interview.”

Lane wasted no time in preamble. Truth to tell, he lacked the wide
charity of Rosabelle, and had no compassion for the woman who was ready
to sacrifice Richard Croxton without compunction, also her niece’s
happiness.

“As my card will have informed you, I am a private inquiry agent. It
is through me that these discoveries have been made; the systematic
sale of your valuable jewels to supply young Brookes with money for his
extravagant needs; the fraud you and Sir George Clayton-Brookes have
practised in passing him off as the nephew of both. Since you left
the house yesterday, serious as these things are, we have discovered
something more serious still.”

At these ominous words he saw a shudder shake her body, but she uttered
no word.

“I discovered the original memorandum of the mechanism of your
husband’s safe, locked up in one of your boxes, securely as you
thought; I have it in my pocket at the present moment. At last we
have put our hands upon the actual criminal who purloined the million
francs, the loose diamonds, committed the second small robbery, made
some inconsiderable restitution in the third—the criminal who left an
innocent man, Richard Croxton, to suffer for her crime, reckoning on
the fact that the evidence was so strong against him that one would not
be tempted to look elsewhere.”

He paused, expecting that she would show some sort of fight, say
something, however feeble and unconvincing, in denial. Had he been
dealing with a woman of the calibre of Alma Buckley, she would have
lied and turned and twisted and fought him as long as she could. But
Mrs. Morrice was made of weaker stuff. Rosabelle had been right when
she said she had never regarded her aunt as resolute and strong-minded.

She was trembling all over. “What does Mr. Morrice intend to do?” she
asked in a faint voice, and admitting her guilt by putting the question.

“This is his last word. Write him a full confession giving him ample
details of the burglaries, and equally important, the actual truth
about young Brookes, in what way he is connected with you. If this is
done, secrecy will be preserved.”

“And if I refuse?” she asked in the same faint voice. But Lane was sure
she would not refuse in the end.

“In that case, he will publish the facts to the world, and he will not
give you one penny towards your support.”

Of course, Lane had not received any such instructions from Morrice, he
was acting entirely on his own initiative, judging that he knew better
than the financier how to wring the truth out of obstinate malefactors.

She rose. “Excuse me for a few moments while I speak to my friend. Mr.
Morrice has you for an adviser, I have only her to consult.”

She was so broken down and unnerved that she almost tottered through
the door which Lane held open for her. While she was absent he kept a
sharp look-out on the hall from force of habit. But he was quite sure
she would not attempt to run away. What was the use of flight? It would
only supply additional evidence, if further were needed, of her guilt.

At the end of half an hour she returned, a little more composed than
when she went away, the two old friends had had a long talk together.

“Sit down, Mr. Lane. I will sign any confession you like to draw up,
on the understanding that it is shown only to the persons actually
interested. I will answer truthfully any question you like to put to
me, and give you all the details of my life since I left the village of
Brinkstone.”




CHAPTER XXV

MRS. MORRICE’S CONFESSION


And this was the story told by Mrs. Morrice, as she sat facing Lane in
the small but elegantly-furnished room of her friend Alma Buckley’s
flat. She told it throughout in a low voice which now and then broke
down, indicating that she was on the verge of tears. For the most part
it flowed forth in a continuous narrative, but now and then she paused
to answer some question, to give fuller details of some incident,
at the detective’s request. She informed him at the beginning that
although Miss Buckley knew much—she did not know everything—that she
was ignorant of the robberies.

Lane thought better of the music-hall artist after that. From the
readiness to tell a lie, he had judged her to be a fairly unscrupulous
woman, with full knowledge of her friend’s criminal acts, probably
drawing a handsome share of the proceeds. It was evident that she drew
the line at actual lawbreaking.

Lettice Larchester and her father had gone straight to London after
leaving Brinkstone, and established themselves in some cheap lodgings
in the Fulham district. Larchester had left the quiet little village
for more than one reason. For one thing he had grown tired of it,
had become weary of the ignorant people who frequented the bar of
the Brinkstone Arms, his visits to which constituted his sole social
recreation. Then the inspiration which he first derived from the
charming scenery around had waned in its intensity, and stimulated
him no longer. He was also rather weary of working continually at the
one theme of landscape, and trusted that by moving to London he might
break fresh ground amongst dealers and infuse variety into his rather
monotonous art.

This hope was not realized to any considerable extent. For the
first three months he displayed a certain feverish activity both in
the business and the artistic side of his calling, with decidedly
beneficial results to his exchequer. He was fairly moderate in his use
of alcohol; out of every payment he received for a picture he put a
small proportion in the Savings Bank for “a rainy day” as he announced
with importance to his hopeful daughter, who really began to believe
he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf.

Alas, at the end of those three comparatively bright months, the old
deterioration set in, the old dissolute habits once again assumed
mastery of his relaxed will power. He had long bouts of intemperance,
during which he could not do a stroke of work. By degrees the small
savings were withdrawn from the bank to pay rent and purchase the bare
necessities of life.

Then came the sudden death of old Mr. Buckley, and the arrival in
London of his daughter Alma. The girls had corresponded occasionally,
and the first thing Alma did when she reached London was to visit her
old friend. The acquaintance which had been so close in the country
soon ripened again, and this time into a life-long friendship. With her
father now beyond hope of salvation drifting rapidly downward, this
companionship was a great consolation to Miss Larchester. Old Buckley
had left more money behind him than people would have expected, and
every penny had gone to the daughter. It was, of course, only a very
modest competence, but it removed the girl for ever from any fear
of poverty so long as she did not touch the capital, which being a
very level-headed young woman she was never tempted to do. She was a
very kind friend to the Larchesters—helping them often in their hours
of need, which grew more and more frequent, as the artist’s powers
of self-control waxed weaker and his capacity for work declined in
consequence.

She did not, however, propose to live on a small income all her life.
Her great ambition was to go on the stage, but as her several attempts
in this direction met with no result, she grew less ambitious, and in
time blossomed into a music-hall artist who could generally rely upon
engagements at moderate fees which made a very pleasant addition to her
private income.

She was fairly launched in this career when Larchester died after a
lingering illness, the cause of death being an internal malady which
had been greatly aggravated by his dissolute habits, the doctor
declaring that his organs were those of a man ten years his senior.

One would have predicted that a man of his type would have left his
daughter absolutely penniless. Fortunately, this was not the case. At
a very early age he had taken out a life-policy for fifteen hundred
pounds, the premium being very low. To his credit, be it said, he had
strained every nerve to keep it up, even knocking off his drink when
the time approached for payment.

Under the guidance of her friend, who was a very shrewd young woman of
business, Miss Larchester invested this capital sum judiciously; the
interest would keep her from absolute starvation.

With the exception of Alma Buckley she had nobody to whom she could
turn for advice or assistance. Her father had been a member of a highly
respectable family, with members in the professions of the Church, the
Army, and the Law, but they had early parted company with the dissolute
artist, and had never seen either his wife or child. Her mother had
been a country girl, the daughter of a small village shopkeeper whom
Larchester had met in his wanderings in search of the picturesque, and
fallen in love with. Of that mother’s kith and kin she knew nothing.

Miss Buckley, just beginning to feel her feet upon the music-hall stage
about this period, had taken a cosy little flat in the neighbourhood of
Southampton Row; it was handy for the halls, her connection being in
London, only entailing a moderate cab fare to and from her home.

She insisted that, as there was plenty of room for two, Miss Larchester
should take up her abode with her, saying that it was a bit lonesome
in the day time, and she would be glad of a companion. Although pretty
keen in business matters, in private life she was very generous, and
she would not allow Lettice to contribute a farthing towards the rent,
and herself bore the greater share of the housekeeping, being very fond
of good living and not averse from occasional stimulant of an expensive
kind such as champagne and old brandy.

Mrs. Morrice dwelt fully, but not unkindly, on this weakness of her
generous friend, for to this unfortunate propensity was due the
beginning of her own tragedy.

For some time before the death of the dissolute artist, his daughter
had taken up painting under his tuition and attained some little
proficiency in it, enough to enable her to supplement her tiny income
with here and there a commission from one of Larchester’s old patrons,
and occasional work in the lower branches of art.

Needless to say that, although this was better than nothing and
relieved her from the intolerable ennui of idleness, it did not satisfy
a girl who was fond of pleasure and all the amenities that money could
bring, and at heart of an ambitious nature.

Like many other girls of poor position and no particular talent, she
looked forward to a judicious marriage to give her what she wanted, to
justify her aspirations. The future was precarious. Alma Buckley was a
good enough friend now, but any day she herself might marry, and then
Lettice might no longer find herself a welcome inmate in a changed
establishment.

But opportunity was a long time coming. Alma was a jolly, genial
soul, with a great genius for friendship, and she soon gathered round
her a goodly circle of acquaintances, nearly all members of her own
profession. Truth to tell, there was not much refinement amongst the
men and women who frequented the little flat, and Miss Larchester,
due, no doubt, to the good blood on her father’s side, was rather
fastidious. She wanted a man who was not only well-off, but also a
gentleman in manners and appearance.

Her friend used to rally her upon what she considered her high-flown
notions. “No use waiting for the impossible, my dear,” she said to her,
with her loud, jolly laugh. “The Prince Charming you are sighing for
won’t make his way to our flat. Get hold of the first chap who takes
you seriously, after satisfying yourself he’s making plenty of money.
Never mind if he doesn’t come up quite to your standard in certain
things. You can try the polishing process on him after you’re married,
and as likely as not you’ll make a good job of it.”

But these accommodating views did not recommend themselves to a girl
of refinement. She thought the profession her friend had adopted was
at best a very precarious one, and the type of male artist she came
across rather repelled than attracted her. It was different, of course,
with Alma Buckley. She came from humble stock and was naturally at home
amongst her own class, she discovered nothing to find fault with in the
manners or appearance of the men who frequented her flat, sang comic
songs, made broad jokes, and often indulged in more stimulant than was
good for them.

And then suddenly Prince Charming made his appearance, and Miss Buckley
was constrained to admit that he appeared to be “quite the gentleman,”
and was distinctly on a higher social plane than the persons at whom
Lettice turned up her fastidious nose.

The meeting happened this way. Miss Buckley had been working very hard
for some time, doing two halls a night at a considerable distance from
each other, and incidentally making a considerable sum of money. When
the engagements came to an end she felt fagged and run down, and on
consulting a doctor, he prescribed a month’s holiday.

The idea pleased her and she could well afford it. Very soon she made
her plans, and with her usual generosity, included her friend in them.

“We’ll go to dear old Paris,” she announced, “and we’ll stop there not
a minute less than four weeks; if we’re enjoying ourselves very much,
I don’t say we won’t put in an extra week. Better than going to the
seaside; what we want is a complete change. ‘Gay Paree’ will give it
us.”

On board the boat Alma got into conversation with a very elegant young
man whose name she afterwards discovered to be the high-sounding one of
Darcy. He was quite good-looking, possessed a pleasant well-bred voice,
and was attired in costume appropriate to travel of a most fashionable
cut. Miss Buckley did most of the talking, but she could see that this
aristocratic young man was greatly attracted by Lettice, and that
Lettice appeared equally attracted by him.

“I really think this is Prince Charming,” she took an opportunity of
whispering to her friend. “And, my dear, there’s a look of _money_
about him. Did you notice that lovely emerald pin? It’s worth no end.”

The elegant young man devoted himself to the two girls during the
short crossing to Boulogne, his glances ever resting admiringly upon
Miss Larchester. He found seats for them in the train to Paris, and
travelled with them in the same carriage. He talked pleasantly about
his travels; there did not seem to be a city in Europe that he had not
visited.

When they were nearing their journey’s end, he inquired where they were
going to put up. Miss Buckley, who had promised herself a good time, no
matter what it cost, replied that they had selected the Hôtel Terminus;
it was convenient for everything.

Mr. Darcy approved their choice. “You couldn’t do better,” he said in
his well-bred, slightly languid voice, the cultivated tones of which
appealed strongly to Miss Larchester. “’Pon my word, I think I might as
well stay there myself. If you don’t want to see too much of me,” he
added with his charming smile, “you’ve only got to give me a hint. I
shan’t intrude.”

“You won’t intrude,” said Miss Buckley with her usual downrightness.
“We shall look upon you as rather a godsend. Neither of us has been to
Paris before; it’ll be awfully good of you to show us the ropes.”

Darcy replied cordially that it would afford him the greatest pleasure
to show them “the ropes,” as the young lady so elegantly put it. When
he was asked where he usually stayed, he named half a dozen of the most
select hotels, with each one of which he appeared intimately acquainted.

The music-hall artist, who had picked up more knowledge of things
than her friend, recognized one of them as patronized by Royalty. She
was much impressed. She was greatly addicted to slang, living in an
atmosphere of it, and she expressed her opinions freely to Lettice
later on.

“We’ve struck it rich this time, you bet your life,” she said in her
picturesque vernacular. “I’ve seen a few ‘toffs’ at the halls, but he
beats ’em hollow. He’s ‘the goods,’ and no mistake.”

Miss Larchester had drawn the same conclusions, which she would
naturally have expressed in different language.

Things went swimmingly. They had all their meals together at a table
reserved for them by an obsequious waiter. Mr. Darcy showed them all
the sights, Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Bois de Boulogne, the Bourse;
he took them to Versailles and Fontainebleau; he accompanied them to
the music halls and the theatres where they were a bit bored, as they
knew very little of the French language.

He spent money like water. Alma, who was no sponger, had begun by
offering her share of the expenses, but Darcy would not hear of it. “No
lady pays when she is in the company of a man,” he explained with an
air of finality.

Very soon he told them all about himself with an air of the most
engaging frankness. He was an only son; his father had died some five
years ago, leaving him a snug little fortune. “By that I don’t mean
that I am what would be called a rich man, just decently well off,” was
his comment on this particular announcement, “always sure of comfort,
now and then a few luxuries.”

On their side, the two girls were equally communicative. Alma Buckley
did not suffer from false shame. She made no attempt to conceal her
humble origin, she used no camouflage about the status of the defunct
builder, she frankly avowed her profession.

Miss Larchester told the truth about herself and her position, letting
her father down as lightly as possible. A man like Darcy could not fail
to see the difference between the two women, he said as much to her one
day when they were alone.

“Miss Buckley is an awfully good sort, one can see that with half an
eye,” he remarked.

“She is a darling,” cried Lettice enthusiastically, “and my only friend
in the world.”

Darcy took her hand in his own. “No, you must not say that. We met in
a very unconventional manner certainly, but that does not matter as we
know all about each other now. I hope you feel you have another friend
in me. But what I really wanted to say was this, and, of course, you
are as aware of it as I am. You are of quite a different class from
her.”

The acquaintance, begun casually on board the boat, ripened with
amazing rapidity into friendship, swiftly into love on the part of the
young man and also of Lettice Larchester.

Alma Buckley, who had no real experience of the world, although perhaps
she was just a little more sophisticated than her friend, looked on
approvingly. Darcy was a gentleman, a man of culture and refinement, he
had plenty of money. It would be an ideal match for Lettice, and the
girl was as much in love with him as he was with her.

The visit prolonged itself to six weeks instead of the four originally
contemplated, and at the end of that time Alma Buckley returned to her
flat alone. George Darcy and Lettice Larchester were married in Paris,
and started on their honeymoon the day before she left for England.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE STORY CONTINUED


After a prolonged honeymoon, in which they visited Rome, Naples,
Venice and other places of interest, the young couple returned to
London, where they took a small suite of rooms at the Metropole. The
bride was very happy: Darcy proved an ideal husband, a man of equable
temper and sunny disposition, and the luxury with which she had been
surrounded since her marriage was a delightful contrast to the drab
life at Brinkstone and Fulham, and the comfortable but rather unrefined
atmosphere of her friend’s flat.

With regard to Miss Buckley, Darcy had hinted very delicately that
while she would always be a welcome guest wherever they were, he would
prefer that his wife should see as little as possible of her music-hall
acquaintances, which was no longer quite the right sort of society for
a woman in her position. In other words, her friend could come to her
as often as she liked, but she was not to go to Alma.

Lettice at once fell in with his wishes, which she did not consider
unreasonable in the circumstances. Alma’s friends were good-hearted
and pleasant enough in their way, but they were certainly boisterous
and lacking in refinement, and a man like the elegant Darcy could have
nothing in common with them.

Miss Buckley, who had a strong fund of common-sense, did not resent
this arrangement in any way. “I don’t blame him a little bit, my dear,”
she said with absolute sincerity. “Of course he’s a different class
altogether from my crowd. He wants to make a lady of you—I don’t mean
to say you haven’t always been a lady, but you were under a cloud, in
a manner of speaking—you know what I mean. If you came, he would have
to come too, which would be awkward for him. He’ll be taking you into
Society soon, and introducing you to his swell friends. Never mind, old
dear, we can still be pals under the rose.”

But that day to which Lettice had also been looking forward in her
inmost thoughts never came. She was sure that a man of Darcy’s wealth
and upbringing—for he had spoken of Eton and Oxford several times to
his unsophisticated young wife—would introduce her into some very
agreeable society.

When she spoke to him rather timidly on the subject, for in spite of
his general amiability she stood just a little bit in awe of him, he
explained that he disliked general society, that he had not seen any of
his relatives for years, that since his father died, he had spent the
greater part of his time abroad, and had lost touch with most of the
few people he used to know.

“I never cultivated women’s society to any extent,” he told her. “You
are the only girl I ever came across who made me think seriously of
settling down. I’ve just a few men pals, and speaking for myself, you
and they are all I want. Now, I don’t know about you, whether you would
like to have a large acquaintance amongst your own sex. I’ve always
heard that women, in their hearts, are not very fond of each other.
Well, you’ve got Miss Buckley, who’s a real good sort, a little lacking
in refinement perhaps, who can come here as often as you want her. And
if you wish to go farther afield, you are sure to find a decent woman
or two in the hotel you can chat to.”

She accepted this plausible explanation, although she was just a bit
puzzled by it, in spite of her inexperience of the world, on which, no
doubt, this elegant-mannered young man who spoke so glibly of Eton and
Oxford was relying. It seemed a little strange to her that he had no
relatives, but then, she was in the same position. He might think the
same with regard to her, if he ever thought on the subject.

He had spoken of a few men pals. In time these all paid visits to the
cosy little suite at the Metropole, consisting of bedroom, sitting-room
and bathroom—about half a dozen in all. The young couple sometimes took
their meals out at various restaurants, but more often in the grill
room and restaurant of the hotel.

As the first glamour of married life wore off, she began to use her
critical faculties more extensively with regard to things and persons.
Particularly she began to exercise them on these men friends whose
society, he averred, was quite sufficient for him in conjunction with
her own.

Two out of the six were in manners, appearance and conversation quite
of his own class. She did not think the other four came up to the same
standard, in fact they did not display much more polish than the men
she had met at her friend’s flat. She commented on the fact one day to
Darcy, who was immediately ready with an explanation.

“They’re regular ‘horsey’ men, bet and go to nearly every race-meeting,
little girl. I’ve generally noticed that men who are wrapt up in these
pursuits seem to lose their refinement and polish, however well-brought
up they may have been, and grow a bit rough and coarse.”

She was not quite so satisfied with this explanation as she would
have been a few months earlier; she was gaining experience every day.
It struck her that these four particular men had never possessed the
advantages of good early training which her husband claimed for them.

One little fact struck her as rather curious. Whenever any one of these
men called, Darcy was sure to take him away into the bedroom, sometimes
the bathroom, for a long private talk. If was evident there were things
they did not want to discuss before her. In spite of his undoubted
affection, his unremitting attention to and consideration for her, this
young man had certain secrets from his wife. She felt hurt and annoyed,
but said nothing of her feelings to him. She did confide in Alma, and
that shrewd young woman was rather angry and suspicious about it.

They had now been married over twelve months. During that period Darcy
had left her on about half a dozen occasions for a few days at a time.
He was a little mysterious about these absences, avoiding any very full
details of his destination, and saying very little about what he had
been doing when he returned. His wife grew more and more annoyed at his
reticence, and Alma Buckley more and more suspicious. There seemed a
certain air of mystery about Mr. Darcy, in spite of his prepossessing
appearance and frank manners.

How well she remembered that day on which she was expecting him back
from the last of these somewhat furtive expeditions.

Late in the afternoon, a Mr. Granger was shown up to the sitting-room,
a tall, good-looking gentlemanly young fellow of about Darcy’s age. Out
of the half-dozen men who were their regular visitors, she knew him to
be her husband’s most intimate friend of all. Darcy had often declared
to her, with an emphasis he seldom used, that Tom Granger was the
staunchest pal a man could ever hope to find.

This young man, always immaculately dressed like his friend, appeared
very agitated when he greeted the young wife.

“I have bad news for you, Mrs. Darcy,” he said, speaking in a very low
voice.

Lettice went as pale as a sheet. What had happened? Had her husband met
with a terrible accident—with death itself?

In disjointed sentences, the dreadful story came out; it was evident
that this young man Granger did not relish his task and had only
undertaken it out of loyalty to his friend and compassion for his wife.

Graham Darcy, the elegant-mannered, immaculately dressed young man who
threw money about like water, who lived at the most expensive hotels
and posed as a man of fortune, was in reality a member, a prominent
member, of a gang of high-class “crooks,” who preyed upon society,
carrying out their nefarious schemes here and on the Continent. Darcy
was his real name, professionally he was known by several aliases.

The police had tracked him down, and two days ago he had been arrested
in Edinburgh on a charge of forgery. Funds would be at his disposal
for the purpose of obtaining the most skilful counsel for his defence,
but Granger was very hopeless as to the result. The evidence was
too strong, conviction was almost a certainty. The sentence he was
likely to receive depended upon the attitude of the judge: it might
be anything from five to ten years’ penal servitude. Granger himself
admitted that he was a member of the same confederacy, but not involved
in this particular transaction, and therefore for the moment had
nothing to fear.

Having delivered himself of these terrible tidings, he proceeded to
give what he hoped would bring considerable comfort to the crushed and
broken-hearted young woman. Darcy had been a prudent fellow, he had
not, like so many criminals, spent his ill-gotten gains as fast as he
had acquired them. He had a very nice little nest-egg put by in case of
accidents. This nest-egg, amounting to the sum of over five thousand
pounds, was in the custody of Granger, who was prepared to hand it over
to the unhappy woman and advise her as to the best means of investing
it. Dishonest as they were to the rest of the world, these “crooks”
were evidently capable of fair dealing with each other.

As soon as she had recovered from the first effects of this stunning
shock, Lettice sent for her faithful friend Alma Buckley, who
had entertained grave suspicions for some time, without however
anticipating such a tragic _dénouement_ as this. The situation, bad as
it was in any circumstances, was further aggravated by the fact that
the unfortunate young woman was an expectant mother; her baby, the
child of a felon, would be born in about three months from then.

The shrewd and resourceful Alma took a firm grasp of the situation,
and mapped out her plans for the future. The miserable victim was at
present too dazed to think, and left everything in the capable hands of
her friend.

“We were a couple of idiots to be taken in by his flashiness. We knew
nothing about the man except what he told us himself, and that absence
of relatives and friends, except those half-dozen men who came here,
seemed to me to look more and more ‘fishy’ every time I thought it
over. Well, it’s no use bewailing the past, we’ve got to make the best
of the future. If I can help it, you’re not going under because of one
hideous mistake.”

Thus the encouraging Alma, who proceeded to unfold her plans for the
future.

“You must get out of here as soon as you can. I’ll find you a little
furnished flat where you can hide yourself for a bit; when the time
comes, you’ll go into a nursing home. Later on we’ll find a good home
for the child, under an assumed name, where you can go and see it at
regular intervals, and satisfy yourself that it is being well looked
after. You’re young and have all your life before you. You must drop
the name of Darcy, forget you were ever married, and start again as
Lettice Larchester. It’s lucky that you know hardly anybody, except
those pals of his who are never likely to see you again, and wouldn’t
round on you if they did. Keep clear of my crowd, in six months they’ll
forget there was ever such a person. As a matter of fact, guessing
you’d want to drop them, I haven’t even mentioned your married name,
just said you had married a ‘swell.’ Oh Lord, what a couple of raw
fools we were!”

And a grim smile overspread the young woman’s comely features, she was
only a girl then, as she recalled the days in Paris and the impression
made upon them by the elegant Darcy.

Of that dishonest person, it may be narrated that he came before a
severe judge, who did not believe in leniency, was tried and found
guilty, and received a sentence of ten years. At the end of two he died
of pneumonia—he had always been a delicate man—and Lettice was a free
woman.

Save for that hateful shadow of the past which naturally grew fainter
with the passing of every year, her lot was not altogether an unhappy
one. The five thousand pounds which she had not scrupled to take from
the tainted hands of Tom Granger, added to her own small capital,
brought her in quite a respectable little income and removed her for
ever from the intrusion of sordid anxieties. The child, a winsome
little fellow, was quite happy with his foster-parents. She took up
her art again, more from a desire for occupation than necessity. She
did not go to Alma Buckley, but her friend came frequently to her, and
every day the past seemed to recede further into oblivion.

And as she grew better in health and spirits, her old ambitions began
to revive. Had life really closed for her because of that one hideous
mistake? She talked it over with her faithful friend.

Alma Buckley was a strange mixture. She was very honest in money
matters, she had no inclination to dishonest acts, but she thought
nothing of telling a lie; she was not over scrupulous in the general
conduct of life. Was it possible that Lettice could marry again, in
face of that terrible episode in her past?

Alma laughed her scruples to scorn. “Of course you will marry again,
and equally there is no necessity to tell your husband a word of the
past. Up to the time you marry him, your life belongs to yourself, not
to him. He won’t be likely to have a clean sheet himself, any more than
you.”

The advice so frequently and emphatically tendered, fell upon very
willing ears. But, at the moment, there were no prospects of a second
marriage. Lettice went nowhere and knew nobody but Alma Buckley. That
astute young woman, after much cogitation, evolved a plan to remedy
this state of things.

“Of course, you can come to me as you used to do, and resume
acquaintance with my old lot, but they’re no good to you, I wouldn’t
marry one of them myself. You’ve got to fly at higher game.”

Lettice sighed. She quite agreed with her friend, but how was it to be
done?

“Now, this is my idea. Go and live in a nice respectable neighbourhood,
go regularly to church, and get in with the parson and his wife. Play
your cards well, and they’ll hand you on to their friends. In time
you’ll get a nice little circle round you, and in a couple of years’
time you’ll have more acquaintances than you know what to do with.
You’ve nothing to hide except that one little episode; you’re a lady on
your father’s side, at any rate, and you act and speak like one; you’ll
go down all right when you’ve once got a start.”

It was sound, worldly advice, if it did not err on the side of
scrupulousness, and as it has been remarked before, it fell upon very
willing ears.

Alma Buckley gave further proof of the sincerity of her friendship by
announcing her readiness to efface herself to any necessary extent.

“I don’t think it will do for me to appear upon the scene, I, Alma
Buckley, a third-rate music-hall artist. I should give the show away at
once. Besides, I couldn’t play the lady for five minutes. We can meet
‘under the rose,’ or you can come to me, and I’ll give orders that none
of my lot are to be admitted while you’re there.”

This scheme was put into execution, and worked out splendidly. In
five years’ time Miss Larchester had troops of acquaintances; she had
received half a dozen offers of marriage from fairly eligible men. But
she was in no hurry to choose till she met the man who absolutely came
up to her standard.

She was about thirty when chance threw her in the way of Rupert
Morrice. They were both staying at the same hotel in Venice. He had
confided to her that he had experienced a bitter disappointment in his
youth, she was very kind and sympathetic. Something in her strongly
attracted him, she was not in love with him, but she admired and
respected him. He was not really in love with her, but they were on
equal terms in that respect.

There was a very brief courtship, in which Morrice learned as much of
her life story as she chose to tell him: it was embroidered here and
there with some unveracious details, for reasons which appeared good to
her at the time. And Lettice Larchester, otherwise Lettice Darcy, the
widow of the felon who had died in prison, became the wife of Rupert
Morrice the wealthy financier.




CHAPTER XXVII

IN VINO VERITAS


At the time of her second marriage, the friendship between the two
women was still unimpaired. They had not, of course, seen so much of
each other since Lettice had entered that new world into which Alma
Buckley refused to intrude, as much from disinclination as from
motives of policy. But there had never been a week in which they had
not met, at out-of-the way restaurants or in Alma’s flat when they were
quite certain of privacy.

The son was now a pretty little fellow of about eight, still living
with the same people with whom he had been placed soon after his birth.
His mother paid him visits from time to time under an assumed name. The
kindly couple who looked after him were childless themselves, and were
as fond of him as if they had been his real parents. Naturally they did
not fail to realize the situation, but they were not curious people,
and they never sought to penetrate the identity of the mother who paid
these periodical visits.

Had conditions been normal it is only reasonable to suppose that Mrs.
Morrice would have proved a fond and affectionate mother, and her
maternal feelings were often called into being by the gay prattle and
pretty ways of the charming little fellow who had been born in such
tragic circumstances. But she always came away sad from the visits, for
they brought the past so vividly before her. What would this innocent
child turn out when he grew to manhood? Would he inherit the criminal
instincts of his father? Well, although she could never acknowledge
him, she would do her duty by him—have him decently educated and when
the time came give him a fair start in life.

There could be no doubt that Miss Buckley was very devoted to her
friend, and always thinking of how she could best advance her
interests; it was one of those strong friendships that are rare amongst
men, still rarer amongst women. She had changed her, with advice and
stimulating counsel, from a despairing girl ready to sink under the
burden of her tragic misfortunes, into a resolute woman who faced the
future with some measure of hopefulness.

When she heard of the engagement to Morrice, a culmination far
exceeding her most sanguine hopes, her delight was unbounded. And as
she was above all things eminently practical, she set herself to take
a fresh survey of the situation as regarded her friend. She came to
the conclusion that the safest thing for her to do was to cut herself
away as far as it was humanly possible from every link with the past.
When she became Mrs. Morrice, the wife of the well-known financier,
she must run no risks. Those visits to the son of her former husband
would be discontinued, it would be best that there should be a complete
severance between mother and child.

Mrs. Morrice agreed that it would be the wisest policy, although
perhaps her heart smote her just a little at the prospect of never
seeing her child again. But how was it to be carried out? Alma was
ready with her plans, and the boldness of them almost took away her
friend’s breath.

“I will take him myself,” she said, “and pass him off as an orphan, the
child of a distant relative. My friends are not a particular lot; they
won’t ask too many questions, and they are at liberty to think what
they like; if they think the worst it won’t hurt me.”

“But, Alma, surely you don’t want to be bothered with a child? You are
the same age as I am; some day you yourself will want to marry.”

Miss Buckley shook her head. “Marriage has no attractions for me, my
dear Lettice. It doesn’t suit a professional life. I’ve seen so many
failures amongst the people I mix with; and besides, I’ve been my own
mistress for so many years I couldn’t take orders from a man now. But I
will tell you frankly there are times when I feel my loneliness, with
nothing to look after and care for. This little chap would give me a
new interest in life, and I’m very fond of children, old maid as I am.
He wouldn’t be a burden to me, if I hadn’t a penny with him; but you
can make me an allowance, and I’ll put that by to give him a start in
life.”

Was there ever such a kind and generous friend? The future Mrs. Morrice
thanked her with tears in her eyes.

“And now the best thing for you to do is to wipe the past clean off the
slate. For you he has ceased to exist, and I have adopted him; he’ll be
happy enough with me, I’ll warrant. And when he grows up I’ll make a
decent man of him, I hope, if—if——” She paused out of respect for the
feelings of her listener.

That pause was eloquent; it meant he should be made a decent man if the
criminal taint in the father should not reappear in the son.

“Of course, I shall never come near you, but there are plenty of quiet
places where we can meet now and again to exchange confidences. I shall
so love to know how you are getting on in this new sphere—I never
dreamed, my dear, you would get such a chance as this. Of course, we
are bound to drift apart a bit; you will be taken up with the duties of
your altered position, but I know you will let me have a peep at you
sometimes, that the wealthy Mrs. Morrice will not forget her humble
friend. And just one last word; you must not come to me. The child is
young; in a year or two he will forget you. If he meets you by chance
in after life he will not recognize the mysterious lady who used to
visit him in that little country cottage.”

And so it was arranged in a very short space after the marriage.
Little John Graham—for that was the name by which the unfortunate
little creature was known, that of Darcy provoking too many painful
reminiscences—was transferred from the kindly couple to the care of
Alma Buckley, who petted and spoiled him to her heart’s content.

And the years glided by very happily for Mrs. Morrice. Her youth had
been hard, her young womanhood overshadowed by poignant tragedy; but
she had a happy and facile temperament, and the scars of the past soon
healed in this atmosphere of luxury and refinement. The two women saw
each other from time to time, for Mrs. Morrice, unlike a great many
people who have advanced in the world, did not develop the hateful
quality of ingratitude. She felt she owed the woman whose acquaintance
she had first made in the little old-world village of Brinkstone, a
debt she could never repay. But for her stimulating advice, her staunch
friendship, she would never have attained her present enviable position.

And then, a few years before the opening of this story, came the first
intimation of the second tragedy that was to wreck this unhappy woman’s
life.

She and Alma Buckley had met for lunch one day at an obscure
restaurant, far off the beaten track, where they were never likely
to meet anybody who would recognize the wealthy and fashionable Mrs.
Morrice.

As they were settling themselves for a long chat—for they could not
meet very often and they always had plenty to tell each other—after the
conclusion of the meal, Alma suddenly exclaimed:

“Oh, Lettice, I had almost forgotten to tell you; such a strange
thing happened last night. I was supping with a big party at Daisy
Deldine’s—you wouldn’t have heard of her, I daresay, but she’s quite a
‘big pot’ in the music-hall world—and who do you think I met? But, of
course, you will never guess. Our old friend George Clayton-Brookes,
the second of the three sons. You remember the Brookes family at
Brinkstone?”

Of course, Mrs. Morrice remembered them well. Her cheek even now
tingled at the recollection of the impudent conduct of young
Archibald, whom her furious father had so soundly thrashed in the bar
of the Brinkstone Arms.

“I was sure he remembered me, for he kept eyeing me all the time at the
supper-table, where he was seated a few places below. I heard his name,
but I think I should have remembered him without, for he has altered
wonderfully little, in spite of the fact that he must be getting on.
After supper was over I went up to him and took the initiative by
asking him after all the good folks at Brinkstone. He was awfully nice
and affable; he asked especially after you, but I kept very mum, said I
had lost sight of you for years. We got on famously together. It seems
he goes about a good deal amongst the profession. He’s coming to lunch
at my flat next week. I think he was quite taken with me. Daisy Deldine
chaffed me awfully about him after he left.”

The middle-aged woman, who certainly looked ten years younger than her
years, bridled like a girl as she added: “Fancy me, at my time of life,
attracting a real gentleman, for there’s no doubt about _him_.”

Mrs. Morrice smiled. It struck her that if Sir George had been taken by
her friend, she fully reciprocated the baronet’s admiration. Presently
the conversation turned to young John Graham, who had been put into a
City office a short time before by his guardian to teach him business
habits. Alma had grown very fond of her charge but there were things
about him that worried her. He was of a reckless temperament, far from
industrious and wickedly extravagant. He was always asking for money,
and sulky and bad-tempered when she refused him.

In subsequent meetings with her friend, Mrs. Morrice learned that Sir
George had lunched with Alma, and that the acquaintance had ripened
considerably. It was hardly possible to think that this well-born
man contemplated marrying out of his own class, but there could be
no doubt that he was considerably attracted by Miss Buckley. On her
part, when closely questioned, she did not attempt to deny that she,
the middle-aged woman who had scoffed at men and marriage for so many
years, was as much in love with him as a woman could expect to be at
her time of life. If Sir George asked her to be his wife, she would
gladly say Yes, and if he could not make up his mind to take the fatal
step she was quite ready to remain his very good friend and companion.

It has been remarked before that this good-hearted, level-headed woman
had one particular weakness, a tendency to indulge in stimulants. This
habit, much to her friend’s regret, had tended to increase as she grew
older. She did not allow it to interfere with her business, she was
too sensible for that, she could always pull herself up in time. But
sometimes when she was “resting” or had a night off, she would give
way to her fatal propensity and talk and gabble very foolishly. Once
or twice Mrs. Morrice had seen her slightly overcome in the day-time,
and the sorry spectacle had very much upset and disgusted her. Little
did she think, as she saw her old friend so unlike herself, that this
degrading habit would one day be a cause of misfortune to herself.

One morning she received an urgent note from Alma to meet her at
a certain out-of-the-way restaurant which they patronized. When
Mrs. Morrice arrived there she found her friend in a state of great
agitation, almost hysterical, in fact she could hardly get her words
out, and she spoke very incoherently in her emotion.

“Oh, Lettice, I wish my tongue had been cut out before I let out what
I did last night. I hope to heaven it will do you no harm. I had been
dining out with Sir George, and then we came back to my flat. We had
had quite enough to drink at dinner, but of course we had some more
there. I had one of my silly fits on and I didn’t know at the time what
I did or said. But I remembered it all distinctly this morning, and I
rushed off to tell you.”

Mrs. Morrice turned pale; from the extreme agitation of her friend she
had a presentiment of disaster which was not lessened by the recital of
the story which the unhappy Alma had to unfold.




CHAPTER XXVIII

BLACKMAILED!


It was a very rambling statement, but certain plain facts emerged from
it. Sir George had now become a regular habitué of Miss Buckley’s flat,
and they were constantly in each other’s society, lunching and dining
together, going to theatres when her engagements permitted her to have
an evening to herself. Several times he had come across young Graham,
to whom he seemed to take a very great fancy, and was very curious
about him.

On this particular evening he had put some leading questions on the
subject, and Alma in her confused state had thrown her usual caution
to the winds and blurted out the youngster’s real name, and, worst of
all, had let drop the fact that his father, Graham Darcy, had come into
conflict with the law.

Mrs. Morrice was naturally much annoyed at her friend’s indiscretion,
due to her having lost control of herself. But Alma’s contrition was so
genuine, her contempt for herself so bitter, that she did not like to
show her annoyance too plainly.

She rather affected to make light of it. “Of course, it would have been
much better if it had never happened,” she said in her laudable desire
to cheer up the drooping Alma. “But the name of Darcy will convey
nothing to a man in Sir George’s position. It all happened so many
years ago, and it was not a sensational trial, no paper had more than
a few lines about it. At the same time, my dear old friend, you must
forgive me for saying it is a lesson to you to keep a stricter watch
over yourself in certain respects.”

Alma, of course, promised that she would, as much for her own sake as
for that of others, and the two women parted as good friends as ever.
In a few days the incident almost faded from the minds of both.

They did not meet again for a month, and when they did, Miss Buckley’s
manner was very grave and constrained. Her friend, who knew her moods
so well, surmised at once she had got something on her mind.

“Why are you looking so woebegone, Alma?” she questioned at length
when she noticed that her friend’s gloom seemed deepened rather
than lightened in spite of the efforts of both to keep the ball of
conversation rolling.

It was some time before Alma spoke; when she did she rushed out her
words with a sort of nervous impetuosity. “You’ll have to know it
sooner or later, Lettice; I may as well tell you and get it over. It
all arose from my making an idiot of myself on that fatal night, when I
let out the name of Darcy and the truth about Jack’s father. I’ve told
you that Sir George was always very curious about him.”

It was now Mrs. Morrice’s turn to look grave. She felt instinctively
that something portentous had happened.

Alma went on in her quick, nervous way: “Sir George was round at my
place a couple of days ago, and after we had talked a little on casual
subjects, a queer sort of smile came over his face, and he came out
with it all. I hate to tell you, Lettice, but you must know. He has
found out all about you, how I cannot guess; I begin to think, much
as I like him, he is a dangerous man, and that there is about him
something—how shall I describe it—just a little bit sinister. He knows
all about the trial and sentence; that you and Darcy were married in
France; and that you are now the wife of Rupert Morrice. I cannot say
how wretched and miserable I am about it. When he left, I felt as if I
should like to go and drown myself, but that wouldn’t do any good.”

It was a terrible shock to Mrs. Morrice that her carefully-guarded
secret should be known to anybody beyond themselves. She tried to
take an optimistic view of the situation. Sir George had been wild in
his youth like his two brothers, but he was a gentleman by birth and
breeding, he would never take advantage of his knowledge. And yet—and
yet, why had he taken the trouble to find it all out? It must have
required considerable time and patience, and does any man spend the one
and exercise the other without some adequate motive? And how was it
possible that he should get the information after all these years?

When Mrs. Morrice came to this point in her narrative, Lane made
no comment. But, recollecting what he had learned from MacKenzie,
he guessed how easily the baronet had been able to go about his
researches. Sir George was known to be an associate of “crooks” at
the present time, crooks of the high-class variety; no doubt he had
associated with them for many years past. Even if he had not known
Darcy personally, the name would be a familiar one in the criminal
world, and everything about him was known to those who belonged to it.

It was probable that he had at first embarked upon his researches
out of a mere spirit of curiosity, scenting some mystery about
Alma Buckley’s connection with the youngster, and being desirous
of unravelling it. In doing so, he had stumbled upon a secret of
considerable value to an unscrupulous man. Lettice Darcy, the widow
of a criminal, had married a wealthy and eminent financier of high
standing and integrity, absolutely ignorant of his wife’s past, for it
was not to be presumed that any man in his senses would unite himself
to a woman with such a record. Such a secret ought to be worth a good
deal to him.

He was not long in unmasking his batteries. He and Mrs. Morrice had a
few common acquaintances at whose houses they had often been guests
at the same time. But they had never exchanged a word together. She,
knowing who he was, at once identified him as the brother of the man
who had figured in that disagreeable incident at the Brinkstone Arms,
but he had not appeared to recognize her. She had been rather glad of
this, as she was anxious to consign the past, her girlhood included, to
oblivion.

A week after that disturbing interview with Miss Buckley, she was a
guest at an evening function at a well-known house in Piccadilly, with
Rosabelle Sheldon; her husband had not accompanied them, he was dining
at the club with a brother financier to discuss one of his big schemes.

She had just finished chatting with an old acquaintance, and at the
moment was standing alone in a corner of one of the big salons, when
she saw Sir George approaching her. She felt a slight shiver pass
through her as she realized he was seeking her. She remembered that
Alma Buckley, who had been frankly in love with him, had spoken of him
as a dangerous man, and suggested there was something rather sinister
about him.

He bowed in his usual courtly way, he always infused a subtle air of
deference in his manner towards women which impressed most of them
greatly in his favour.

He addressed her in his pleasant, cultivated voice. She was to find
out later that he was one of the most unscrupulous blackguards who
ever preyed upon a helpless woman, but certainly nothing in the man’s
exterior gave any indication of the blackness of the soul beneath.

“We have met for many years at various houses, Mrs. Morrice, it is
strange that I should only just now recognize you as the young lady I
used to encounter in her walks in that quaint village of Brinkstone,
when you were Miss Larchester.”

She was very agitated inwardly, she knew at once that in recalling
himself to her recollection, he was actuated by a sinister motive
which would presently be revealed. If he were the gentleman the world
supposed him to be, he would have kept locked in his breast the secret
which he had acquired through Alma Buckley’s indiscretion.

A little strained conversation followed, then he plainly showed his
hand.

“I should very much like a little private conversation with you, Mrs.
Morrice. I wonder where we could have it? For the present, it might not
be very prudent for me to call at Deanery Street.”

She felt sick and faint as she listened to those words. It was
impossible to ignore the threat that underlay them. Should she refuse
to grant him this interview and present a bold front? Alas, if he
had made up his mind to use her secret to his own advantage, she was
helpless, she dare not defy him.

She made an appointment to meet him at Miss Buckley’s flat. Alma,
burning with indignation against the man whom she had taken for a
gentleman, on whom she had set her affections, was present. He was
polite and suave as ever, but behind that suavity and politeness lay
an inexorable purpose, to victimize this unfortunate woman to the
fullest extent.

He turned first to Alma with a bland smile. “I do not think you
are aware that for some little time I have been cultivating the
acquaintance of that very charming boy, Jack Graham; he has been in my
company several times unknown to you. I have taken a great interest in
him; he is a sharp, intelligent young fellow, and I may say without
vanity that he has evinced a strong liking for me. I have made up my
mind to relieve you of any further concern regarding his welfare, by
adopting him myself.”

The two women were struck speechless by this bold declaration; they
waited for further disclosures. One thing they were both sure of, that
whatever his course of conduct might be, it would not be dictated by
philanthropic motives.

He turned to the unhappy mother. “While making every allowance for the
unfortunate circumstances in which you found yourself placed, Mrs.
Morrice, I cannot acquit you of having proved a very unnatural parent.
I find this bright intelligent young fellow condemned to an obscure
existence with but little chance of bettering himself, while you, his
mother, are a wealthy woman and living in the midst of refinement
and luxury. I propose to remedy this, to place him in a position
more suitable to him”—he paused for a second and added with deadly
emphasis—“and in this laudable object I shall insist on his mother’s
help.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. Alma, giving way to her naturally
fiery temper, flashed out indignantly, “And supposing we refuse to abet
this scheme of yours, what then?”

At this question, he no longer made a pretence of keeping on the mask.
“In that case it will be my painful duty to inform Mr. Morrice that
this lady, whom he honours so highly, is the widow of a criminal and
the mother of John Graham, that criminal’s son.”

They knew him now for what he really was, a thorough-paced, plausible
and ruthless blackguard, who would use any means to further his vile
ends. But they were helpless and in his toils. Indignation failed to
arouse his cold and pitiless nature, he met it with indifference. Any
appeal to his better instincts only provoked a sardonic smile, and
taunting allusions to “an unnatural mother.”

He forced his project through. His brother Archibald had recently died
in Australia, nobody in England knew whether he was married or not. He
would pass the young fellow off as that dead brother’s son. It was only
fair that the young man should have the _entrée_ to his mother’s house,
should see something of refined life. What had Mrs. Morrice told her
husband about her family? she must have told him something.

If Mrs. Morrice had kept her head just at this juncture, she could have
told him that her husband knew her to be an only child, and that it was
therefore impossible for her to have a nephew. But she was so confused
that she blurted out the actual information she had given Mr. Morrice,
that she was one of a family of three, herself, a brother and a married
sister, both dead. She was never quite sure what reasons had prompted
her to tell this lie to him—at the time it might have struck her that
the introduction of these fictitious relatives gave a greater air of
verisimilitude to her history.

But even if she had put a temporary check on Sir George’s schemes in
this direction, he would soon have invented some other means of forcing
himself and the young man into Deanery Street.

But now it was all very easy. Morrice, the most unsuspicious person in
private life, had accepted his wife’s statements, and had hardly ever
made the briefest allusion to these dead relatives or in fact to her
family history at all.

She would now tell him that her sister had married Archibald Brookes,
that the marriage had been a very unhappy one of which she did not care
to speak, that her dislike of Archibald had extended to Sir George, for
no particular reason, and that for years they had met as strangers;
that learning he was about to adopt her sister’s child, she had agreed
to bury the hatchet and take an interest in the young man’s welfare.

This scheme was carried out in spite of spasmodic opposition on the
part of both Mrs. Morrice and her friend. When they dared to object,
they were met by the stereotyped threat: “Very well. Then your husband
shall be told the secret of your past. The choice lies with you.”

Sir George took young Darcy—to call him by his real name—to live with
him at the beginning, and he found the young man an apt pupil. He
experienced no difficulty in instilling into him a deep resentment
against a mother who had practically cast him out of her life. The
young man had no scruples in helping his supposed uncle to extract as
much money as they could out of the helpless woman.

Their demands grew by leaps and bounds. At first they were content to
take a part of her income—the generous allowance which her husband made
her. Then, in obedience to their insatiable exactions, she was forced
to realize her own small capital. Then came the sale, piece by piece,
of her valuable jewellery, and its replacement by cleverly-executed
imitations.

The unhappy woman was now so completely under their domination, so
broken down by the threat of instant exposure to her husband with which
they met the least show of hesitation or demur on her part, that she
was finally driven into stealing from Morrice’s safe, when she had
exhausted all her other resources.

The way of doing this was made easy by the fact that she had one day,
while her husband was away on a business visit to America, discovered
amongst a loose packet of his papers a cryptic memorandum which aroused
her curiosity. After puzzling over it for some time she came to the
conclusion that it must be the calculations for the time lock which the
makers of the safe had handed to Mr. Morrice after its construction.

She had locked it up, intending to give it to her husband on his
return. But as Mr. Morrice had never alluded to its loss, the incident
had slipped her memory. It was revived when Sir George one day jokingly
alluded to the financier’s wonderful safe—for Morrice was very proud
of this invention and spoke about it to everybody—and wished that he
could put his hands inside it for five minutes. Very foolishly, she
had admitted that she knew the secret of its mechanism as well as her
husband and young Croxton.

Sir George seized upon this indiscreet admission as soon as it suited
his purpose. She did not know how the two exactly apportioned the
money they wrung from her, but she had an idea that the greater part
of it went to the elder man, who lost it at the gaming-table almost as
quickly as it came into his hands.

The five thousand pounds handed over to her by her first husband’s
instructions, together with the few hundreds left her by her father,
had gone to satisfy the insatiable demands of this pair of miscreants.
There were still a few pieces of jewellery which had not yet been
realized, amongst them the “birthday” necklace. Soon these would have
to go the way of the others.

It was necessary to find some other sources of supply; to Sir George’s
acute mind the safe presented an obvious solution, there was always
something of value inside it.

For a long time she fought obstinately against their efforts to
make her a criminal, but in the end—cowed by that terrible threat
of exposure, her will-power weakened by these long years of secret
suffering—she gave in. Fully conversant with the safe’s mechanism,
fully acquainted with the movements of her husband and his secretary,
having free access to his room during the absence of both, it was for
her a comparatively easy task.

She carried out the first robbery, a most fruitful one for those who
engineered it, and this resulted in the disgrace of Croxton and his
banishment from his benefactor’s house.

She carried out the second, although she vehemently warned the two
scoundrels that as Richard was no longer a member of the household,
suspicion might easily be diverted into other quarters. Her arguments
had no influence on them. Morrice, while sure of the guilt of his
secretary, had spared him. If discovery did ensue, he would be equally
sure to keep silence about his own wife.

The third time she opened the safe on her own initiative, driven to do
so by a fit of remorse. The second robbery, it will be remembered, had
produced poor results, the booty being inconsiderable and a portion of
it valueless to the persons into whose hands it fell. It struck the
distraught woman that in putting back the Swiss notes and the packet of
private papers, she was making an act of reparation.




CHAPTER XXIX

SIR GEORGE IS ARRESTED


The long narrative was finished. Three times had Miss Buckley opened
the door, intimating by that action that it was time the interview was
concluded, and each time Mrs. Morrice had signalled to her to withdraw.

It only remained now for the wretched woman to sign the confession
admitting her guilt, and clearing Richard Croxton in the eyes of those
who held him in regard.

Had Rosabelle been present she would have shed compassionate tears over
those passages in which Mrs. Morrice described the mental tortures she
had suffered through the machinations of this evil pair.

But Lane was made of sterner stuff. She had been deeply sinned against,
it was true, but she had been a great sinner herself. She had been the
victim of a tragic set of circumstances which might well have appalled
the bravest woman, but in her selfish desire to keep herself afloat,
she had chosen the line of least resistance.

Apart from her lapse into actual criminal courses, there were three
things he could not forgive her for, her callous abandonment of her
child, the son of a felon it is true, but still “flesh of her flesh and
bone of her bone”; the equally callous sacrifice of Richard Croxton;
her unscrupulous conduct in marrying Morrice, an honourable and upright
man, under false pretences. True, that if she had told him the truth
about her past he would not have married her, but it was little short
of dastardly to involve him in her own unhappy career.

Anticipating that he would have no difficulty in wringing the truth out
of her, Lane had brought with him the confession ready written for her
to sign. But, before handing it to her, he had a few questions to put
upon collateral points.

“Before you embarked upon these robberies, Mrs. Morrice, you had to
obtain possession of the two keys and get duplicates made. That was
rather a difficult matter, wasn’t it?”

Not so very difficult, he learned. Mr. Morrice was a very careless
man in some respects, and he was so confident nobody but himself
and Richard was acquainted with the mechanism of the safe, that he
was incautious in small details. He frequently left his key lying
about in his room when he went up to the City. Richard was not quite
so careless, but occasionally he did the same. The moment Mrs.
Morrice—ever on the watch—got hold of them, Sir George was ’phoned for
to come to the house, and the rest was easy.

“And now tell me about those finger-prints of the man ‘Tubby’ Thomas
who was in Dartmoor at the time the robberies were committed. What was
the motive of that, and how were they obtained?”

The answer to this question involved a longer explanation. It was
done, as Lane had rightly suspected, as a mere act of devilment, for
the purpose of making a fool for the moment of any agent of the law
who might be called in by Mr. Morrice. It had succeeded temporarily in
making a fool of the astute detective himself.

The _modus operandi_ was as follows: Young Archie Brookes, to call him
by his assumed name, had provided her with a pair of surgical rubber
gloves upon which a copy of the expert robber’s finger-prints had been
impressed.

How were they obtained? Sir George, who took a great interest in the
science of identifying latent finger-prints, had procured those of the
notorious “Tubby,” with whom he had maintained some sort of association
before his conviction, and had very cleverly reproduced them upon the
thin rubber gloves.

“It would appear, then, that your pretended relative by marriage was
the friend of crooks; were you aware of this, Mrs. Morrice?”

“By certain things that he let drop now and then, I had no doubt that
the man was engaged in every kind of villainy and wrong-doing,” was
Mrs. Morrice’s answer.

“And now tell me a little about Miss Buckley’s attitude towards him
when she found out his real character. You say she was in love with
him; did she break off all relations with him, and forbid him the
house?”

“It was the dearest wish of her heart to do so,” replied the unhappy
woman. “For my sake she forbore, as she feared that if she angered him
it might make things worse for me. And, besides, her place was a useful
meeting ground when it might have been too risky for him to come to
Deanery Street, in such things as handing over money, for instance.”

“I quite understand. And you are positive that, although she knew about
the blackmailing and the disposal of your jewellery and the fraud of
Archie Brookes, she was ignorant of the robberies?”

“Quite positive. They were very particular about that. I think they
were a bit afraid of what she might do, if she had an inkling. She is a
strong-minded woman in many respects, and she might have determined to
go to Mr. Morrice and tell him the whole truth to save me from becoming
an actual criminal.”

There was nothing more to be said. The confession was signed. Lane,
punctilious in everything he did, gave her a copy and left the flat.
Shortly before dinner-time he went to Deanery Street to communicate the
result of his interview to the financier. He found him and Rosabelle
together, and was invited to speak before them both, Morrice having no
desire to keep anything from his pretty niece in a matter in which her
interest was as keen as his own.

Of course, both had guessed that the pseudo Archie Brookes was, in
all probability, Mrs. Morrice’s son, and that there was some shameful
secret connected with the relationship. But they were not prepared
for the terrible disclosures now made by Lane. It was a great blow
to the proud man to learn that the woman who had borne his name and
done the honours of his house with such a calm and gracious dignity,
was the widow of a convicted felon, that she had involved him in her
disgraceful past.

He turned sternly to his niece. “From this day, never let her name be
mentioned between us. Let us think of her as one dead to us.”

Presently Lane spoke. “This winds up the mystery so far as I am
concerned, Mr. Morrice. I shall pay a formal visit to Mr. Croxton and
acquaint him with these results; he must, of course, be made aware of
them.”

Morrice nodded. “Of course. I have no wish to hide my disgrace from
him.”

“Your reflected disgrace,” said the detective gently. “Well, there
is a little thing I wish to mention. I am not at all sure that this
scoundrel of a baronet has not got some of those French francs left.
They would be awkward things to get rid of in bulk. Depend upon it
he is peddling them out as occasion offers. If you would give me the
necessary authority to act, I do not think it impossible for me to
frighten out of him what he has got left, if any, with the threat of
criminal proceedings. Of course _we_ know you will not take these, for
obvious reasons, but he cannot be sure.”

“No,” said Morrice, “I shall certainly not take proceedings. I have
no desire to wash my dirty linen in public, to show how I have been
made a dupe and a fool. There will be plenty of conjecture as it is;
let it stop at that. But if you feel keen about this, you have my full
permission to do what you think advisable.”

Pretty early the next morning, Lane made his way to Sir George’s flat.
He chuckled inwardly as he recalled that memorable evening when he
and Simmons the valet had been surprised there by the so-called Archie
Brookes. He remembered how he had been puzzled by the smallness of the
baronet’s banking account and the somewhat contradictory statements
made by Simmons with regard to his actual financial position. Of
course, now it was all quite clear. That banking account was a blind,
Sir George had other depositories in which he placed the moneys he made
by his nefarious schemes.

Simmons opened the door; Lane saw that the man was in a state of
considerable excitement. At the query of: Was his master at home? the
valet smiled broadly:

“Come in, Mr. Lane, and welcome. No, Sir George isn’t at home nor
likely to be. Something’s up, sir; we always had an idea he was a
‘fishy’ customer, didn’t we?”

The detective went with Simmons into the room where he had conducted
his investigations on that memorable evening. It was in a state of
confusion; the key of the safe into which he would have so dearly loved
to peep on that occasion was in the door. Lane unlocked it and swung it
open, to find the safe was empty. The drawers of the writing-table were
all unlocked, some of them partly open, and in them nothing of value,
only a few old letters and unimportant memoranda. The fireplace was
littered with the ashes of burned papers.

“What’s the meaning of it all?” asked Lane with a frown. He had a
pretty shrewd premonition that his visit had been paid too late, that
there was very small chance of recovering any of his plunder from this
wily scoundrel.

It appeared that early the previous morning, young Archie Brookes had
called and the two men were closeted together for over a couple of
hours. Simmons had followed his usual tactics of applying his ear to
the keyhole, but they were on their guard, and spoke in such low tones
that he could not catch a word. After the young man had left, Sir
George came out and ordered the valet to fill a good-sized portmanteau
with clothes; he had in his hand a bag which, no doubt, contained all
the money and everything of portable value in the flat.

He explained briefly that he was going abroad for some months, and
had given his solicitors instructions to dispose of the furniture and
contents, and sub-let the flat. He handed Simmons a written character
and—wonderful to relate—gave him three months’ wages in lieu of notice.
A taxi was called, and the chauffeur given instructions to drive to
Charing Cross station.

It was pretty evident that Sir George, to use the valet’s graphic
expression, had “done a bunk.” Simmons had not noticed the number of
the taxi, but even if he had taken this precaution, it was not likely
to have given Lane much assistance. A practised campaigner like this
well-born rogue would be clever enough to conceal his tracks; he had
already his plans cut and dried to evade pursuit.

The valet had come round this morning to clear up things a bit, and
after he had done that he was to post his own key to Sir George’s
solicitors.

The scoundrel had enjoyed a long start, and by now was clear away. It
was not worth while wasting time over him. Mr. Morrice had shown by
his manner that he was sick and tired of the whole matter, and wished
to shut it out of his recollection. To a wealthy man such as he, the
recovery of a portion of the stolen money was a matter of comparative
unimportance.

So Lane decided that he would go no further in what might be termed the
side-issue of the Deanery Street mystery. But second thoughts induced
him to look up his old friend MacKenzie at Scotland Yard.

What was the motive of the baronet’s sudden departure? Of course, he
would have learned from Mrs. Morrice or Alma Buckley that his game was
up in that direction. Did he dread the vengeance of the financier, or
were other causes at work?

MacKenzie received him with his accustomed cordiality. “Well, how are
you getting on with the case you told me about?”

Lane informed him that it had ended successfully from a professional
point of view: he had proved his client’s innocence and found the real
criminal. Lane did not proffer the name of that real criminal, nor did
MacKenzie ask it. They were confidential with each other up to a point,
but a certain etiquette was always preserved.

“I went round to the flat of our friend, Sir George Clayton-Brookes,
this morning and learned that he had left in a violent hurry. I was
sorry, as I wanted to have a little talk with him. Seems something
‘fishy’ about this sudden flight.”

The keen Scotchman smiled and tapped his broad chest with his finger.
“Scotland Yard has got something to do with that. We have been years
trying to get him, as I told you, but he was so devilish cunning that
we might have gone on for years longer but for a lucky accident. We
got one of his gang and the fellow split. We have plenty of evidence
against the gentleman now. I suppose he got wind of it before we could
get a warrant out. It’s astonishing what a freemasonry there is among
these scoundrels. But he won’t escape us now. Clever as he is, we shall
have him by the heels before he is much older.”

“Have you found any evidence that involves the young man known as
Archie Brookes?” queried Lane.

“No, we can’t find that he has any connection with this particular
‘stunt’—I shouldn’t say Sir George was a man to share more than he
could help with anybody.”

MacKenzie’s prophecy was fulfilled. Within three weeks from that date
the baronet was arrested in Italy, and brought back to England after
the observance of the usual formalities.

As he now disappears from these pages, it is only necessary to say
that he was put upon his trial, found guilty, and awarded an exemplary
sentence.

It was a nine days’ wonder in Clubland and the circles in which he had
been a prominent figure; and then other startling events occurred and
drove him out of the public mind, and the plausible, well-mannered,
smartly-groomed baronet who had led such a chequered existence became a
memory.

But much to the relief of Rupert Morrice and his niece, nothing came
out at the trial which could in any way connect him with the robberies
at Deanery Street. Morrice’s friends and acquaintances were, of course,
very grieved at the reflected disgrace cast upon him by the fact that,
through his wife, the financier and the criminal were some sort of
distant connection.




CHAPTER XXX

RUPERT MORRICE MAKES AMENDS


It was a very subdued man who, shortly after breakfast, walked into
Rosabelle’s sitting-room. It cannot be said that Morrice was in any
sense of the words arrogant or overbearing, but his innate strength
of mind and character gave him a certain feeling of superiority over
ordinary men which reflected itself in his general bearing, the
incisiveness of his utterances, the vigour of his gestures, as he
talked. To-day, all these symptoms were absent.

He had passed a sleepless night, bitterly upbraiding himself with
having committed a grave injustice, he of all men, who prided himself
on being inflexibly just. His face was drawn and white, his heavy eyes
showed the want of rest. He stood before the girl almost humble, filled
with remorse and self-accusation.

“Rosabelle, I want you to do me an immediate favour.”

“Of course, dearest uncle.” The sympathetic girl’s heart went out to
him in his misery. It was terrible to see this proud, strong man so
abased in his own estimation, standing before her almost as a criminal
might have stood before a judge. “You know what pleasure it will give
me.”

“I want you to order the car at once, go straight to Richard, and do
your best to make my peace with him. Tell him that I am following
you in half an hour to entreat his forgiveness. If he will accord it
to me,” he added in a broken voice, “I will devote my life to making
amends.”

Rosabelle flung her arms round her uncle’s neck, her eyes full of happy
tears. “Oh, gladly will I go on such an errand. And, of course, Dick
will forgive. All along he has always admitted the terrible strength
of the evidence against him, and told me that nobody but I would have
believed in his innocence.”

“You believed in him because you loved him, child. I loved him, too,
but the love of man lacks the divine quality that always animates that
of a woman,” admitted the humbled man in a voice of deep sadness.

Well she knew as she drove along to the little cottage at Petersham
where Richard Croxton had been eating his heart out for so many weary
weeks, that the treachery of his wife had affected her husband less
than his injustice towards the son of his old sweetheart.

Little need to describe the rapture of the lovers when the wonderful
news had been told. Hand in hand they sat, discussing the golden future
before them, for had not Rupert Morrice avowed his intention of making
amends?

And then, half an hour later, for even in moments of stress, this
capable man of business was ever punctual to the minute, Morrice
unlatched the garden gate of the tiny cottage and found Richard waiting
for him at the door.

Silently the two men clasped hands. It was the elder who spoke first.
“So Rosabelle has induced you to forgive me? She was ever a peacemaker.”

There was perfect sincerity in the young man’s tone when he answered.
“The past is buried, sir, absolutely and irrevocably, so far as I
am concerned. My only regret is that my innocence should have to be
established at such a terrible cost to yourself.”

The financier waved his hand with one of his old imperious gestures.
“No more on that subject, Dick. Thank God, her passing out of my life
will not make the difference to me that yours did.”

Richard was deeply touched. By those few words he knew how deeply his
benefactor had suffered from the severance of their old affectionate
relations.

Morrice took the young man by the arm and led him into the little
parlour where Rosabelle, flushed with her new-found happiness, stood
awaiting them. He took a hand of each and joined them together.

“That is the dearest wish of your hearts, is it not?” he said, a kindly
smile lighting up the drawn face. “Well, God bless you both, and give
you all the happiness you deserve. Sweet little Rosabelle has always
been as dear to me as if she had been my own child. You, Richard, will
resume your place in my house as an adopted son. But I would wish you
to defer your return for a week or two till all this painful business
is over. When you come back, we will draw a close curtain shutting
out that hateful past. I shall live for the future, for you and
Rosabelle—for your children.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A few months later Richard Croxton was married to his loving and
faithful Rosabelle, and rewarded with a partnership in the famous firm.

Mr. Morrice still believes in his wonderful safe, although he does not
talk about it as much as he used, but he is very particular now about
his two keys which he carries himself. He does not leave them lying
about in odd places, and his memorandum of the mechanism is securely
locked up.

Mrs. Morrice lives with the friend of her youth, Alma Buckley, and that
friendship is the only comfort in her miserable life. Jack Graham has
dropped the name of Archie Brookes, and, still helped by his unhappy
mother, has turned over a new leaf and is now in the way of earning
an honest livelihood in the commercial world. The fate of his former
protector, Sir George, struck terror into him, and proved a salutary
warning of what can befall a man who enters upon evil courses.

The Croxtons have a charming home in one of the prettiest spots in
Surrey, within easy distance of London by rail or car. But the greater
portion of the year is spent in Deanery Street, with the grey-bearded
financier whose experience of matrimony was so bitter, and who is never
so happy as when he is in their society. The bad time they all went
through is forgotten in their present happiness, and the name of Mrs.
Morrice never passes their lips. The tender-hearted Rosabelle often
thinks compassionately of her, but there is no forgiveness for her in
the hearts of either of the two men whom she so deeply wronged.


THE END




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 47 Changed: If the criminal know as “Tubby”
             to: If the criminal known as “Tubby”

  pg 155 Changed: If could not be Rosabelle
              to: It could not be Rosabelle

  pg 172 Changed: His face frew darker and darker
              to: His face grew darker and darker

  pg 224 Changed: it was in any cricumstances
              to: it was in any circumstances





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