"He's lucky," I said grimly.
Billy nodded. "Damned lucky," he repeated. "If they'd come to any other conclusion, I should have plugged the bunch of them through the window. I had my gun on me. As things turned out, I thought it best to postpone the picnic."
"It won't be for long," I said. "We must have Mercia out of that to-night, whatever happens."
"Yes," agreed Billy gently. "I think it's time we led trumps. What's your news?"
Without waste of words, I told him about my conversation with Mercia and the arrival of the mysterious wire for Maurice.
"By Jove!" he said, staring at me thoughtfully, "that does open up matters a bit. Fancy Northcote being that damned villain Prado! I always heard he was an Englishman, but I didn't believe it. No wonder you're unpopular, my lad."
"I'd like to know how he escaped," I said, "and what this infernal League is that's on his track."
Billy smiled. "A man like Prado," he answered ironically, "is likely to be out when people start blowing up his palace. I shouldn't wonder in the least if he did it himself, and used the chance to sneak out of the country. As for the League—well, you know as well as I do what these rotten little South American States are like. Prado probably belonged to some secret society that helped him murder Solano and bag the Presidency; and then, when he'd got the job, I've no doubt he rounded on them. They must have some pretty strong reasons for chasing him round the world like this."
"Well, strong reasons or not," I said, "I'm going to fetch Mercia out of that house to-night and take her up to London. I shan't rest till I know she's safe with the Tregattocks."
"I'm with you," said Billy simply. "How do we work it?"
I thought rapidly. "We'll take a tip from Maurice," I said. "You go back to Woodford, and send me a wire about five o'clock saying that I'm wanted in London immediately. That will give me an excuse for getting away. I'll tell them that I'm going to motor up, and then I'll drive over and meet you at the Plough."
Billy nodded. "Right you are," he said. "I'll see the car's ready." Then he chuckled. "We ought to have quite a cheery little evening," he added, rubbing his hands together.
"It's business, Billy," I said, "not pleasure. We don't want any fighting if we can get Mercia away without."
"There's a precious fat chance of that," observed Billy. "I can see old Dot-and-carry-one handing her over with his blessing—can't you?"
"He can take his choice," I answered.
There was a short silence. "And what's the next move when we get to London?" inquired Billy.
I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not much good making plans," I said. "Man proposes and Señor Guarez disposes. The only thing I've quite made up my mind about is that I'm not going to give the show away before the three weeks are out. They've got my back up, Billy, apart altogether from my having given my word to Northcote."
Billy nodded. "There's Milford, too."
"Therewas," I said. "And that's another good reason for hanging on. We'll clear that business up whatever happens." Then I paused. "I should like to put a spoke in Sangatte's wheel if I could," I added reflectively.
"Well, we shan't be dull," said Billy, smiling. "I think I'd better shift my quarters, and come and camp in Park Lane."
"Why, of course," I said. "You don't suppose I'm going to let you out of my sight till it's all over. I want you to be my best man."
"Anything to oblige," returned Billy. "Though I guess I'm more likely to be chief mourner."
As he relieved himself of this encouraging statement, I suddenly spotted Sir George and Miss York strolling round the ground towards us.
"That's settled then, Billy," I said hurriedly. "You get the car ready and send me the wire, and I'll meet you at the Plough at about seven o'clock."
He nodded, and we both got up as the other two approached.
"We've been sent to fetch you back," began Miss York. "Men are scarce in the grand stand, so you mustn't be selfish."
"Doocid good innings of York's—what!" remarked Sir George. "Very pretty shot that late cut of his."
"Charming," I said, with enthusiasm; while Billy, evidently feeling that the ground was dangerous, contented himself with a reflective smile.
We all four sauntered back to the small group of chairs under the elm trees, where York was explaining to Aunt Mary and Lady Baradell some of the finer beauties of the game.
"You'll stay to lunch, won't you, Mr. Logan?" said the former. "We always prepare for an indefinite number on cricket days."
"That sounds distinctly hopeful," I said, with a laugh, as Billy signified his pleasure in accepting. "It's just the sort of lunch that I shall be delighted to meet. Nothing makes one more hungry than watching other people exert themselves."
"What an excellent appetite you must enjoy, Mr. Northcote," put in Miss Vane mischievously.
Lady Baradell laughed dryly. "An excellent appetite," she repeated, "but tempered by a stern sense of self-control. That is why Mr. Northcote is so successful."
At this point, a sudden roar of "How's that?" proclaimed the downfall of another wicket. "That's nine," observed York gloomily. "Nine for ninety-eight, and only Sir Charles left."
"You might have expressed it a little more kindly," said Lady Baradell.
There was a general laugh, and while York was endeavouring to explain his meaning, we saw Baradell come out of the pavilion, looking mightily depressed. He walked to the wicket, took guard, as I believe it's called, and carefully marked the spot with one of the bails. Then he faced the bowler, played forward with belated dignity, and had his middle stump sent flying out of the ground.
"There, but for the grace of God," I remarked, "goes Mr. Stuart Northcote."
"Poor dear Sir Charles," murmured Aunt Mary, getting up from her chair; "at least he tried."
"And that," said Billy, following her example, "is the best of all epitaphs."
With the dismissal of the unfortunate Baronet, the two teams adjourned for lunch.
Cricket lunches, I should imagine, are much alike everywhere, so I will spare you any lengthy description of the repast. I need only say that at Aunt Mary's request, as the leading representative of the family, I installed myself at the head of the table, an honour which was considerably enriched in attraction by the presence of Billy. Whenever I caught his eye in the intervals of carving cold lamb, I felt an almost irresistible desire to burst into a shout of laughter. I could not help picturing the faces of the worthy company if I had only been able to get up and explain the true facts concerning my presence at the banquet.
Such an interlude being unfortunately out of the question, we finished our lunch, smoked our pipes, and after chatting amiably over the course of the match and other exciting topics, sauntered back to the cricket field.
Not being anxious to appear too intimate with Billy, I left him to amuse himself with Lady Baradell and the others, while I promenaded round the ground with Sir George. Billy, who always gets on with women, seemed perfectly contented: indeed, it was not until just on half-past three that he got up and made his excuse to Aunt Mary.
"You will come and see us again, won't you, Mr. Logan?" urged that hospitable lady. "My nephew will be back to-morrow, and I want you to meet him."
"I want to myself," said Billy heartily. "I've heard so much about him."
He shook hands all round, lingering a moment over the operation when it came to Lady Baradell, and then strode off, waving a cheerful farewell to York, who was perspiring freely in the outfield.
"A delightful man," observed Aunt Mary. "I wonder what he can be doing down in this part of the world."
"He thinks of buying a place," explained Miss York. "He says he's tired of wandering about, and wants to settle down."
I repressed a chuckle just in time.
"That would be very nice," said Aunt Mary complacently. "He is just the sort of man we want. I was telling him about the Primrose League, and he was most interested in it. He would be quite an acquisition to the neighbourhood—don't you think so, Lady Baradell?"
Lady Baradell smiled.
To me, the rest of the afternoon dragged in the most distressing fashion. Even if I had been able to take an interest in the cricket, I should still have been feverishly impatient for the evening. The thought of Mercia, helpless in the hands of that precious pack of scoundrels, filled me with a horrible restlessness that made the effort of sitting still and exchanging semi-humorous banalities about the match almost intolerable. I longed for Billy's wire, so that I might have an excuse for escaping into the house to put my things together.
As it was, I was compelled to sit matters out, until the game terminated in a glorious victory for the visitors by sixty-three runs. There were the usual congratulations and chaff,—poor Sir Charles Baradell coming in for a rather unfair share of the latter,—and then, after filling themselves up with tea to an alarming extent, the triumphant Orbridge warriors clambered into their brake and departed. It was while the rest of us were slowly making our way back up the garden that the telegram arrived.
I saw Maurice's butler advancing from the house bearing the inevitable silver tray, and all my muscles seemed instinctively to tighten. It's good to feel that the time for action is at hand, when you've been chafing your heart out all day.
I took the wire and opened it, with an apology to Aunt Mary.
"Must see you to-night. Important business in connection with the Company. JACOBS."
I gave a nicely calculated laugh, just tinged with annoyance.
"It never rains but it pours," I said ruefully. "First Maurice is called off to town, and now I've got to go."
"What, to-night!" exclaimed Aunt Mary and Miss York simultaneously.
"I'm afraid so," I admitted; "it's a matter of business." And then I read the wire out aloud. I couldn't very well show it them, considering that the somewhat awkward statement, "sent off from Woodford 5.40," was decorating the left-hand corner.
"Oh, dear, dear, I am sorry," cried Aunt Mary. "And there's no train till the 9.30, too."
"Oh, that doesn't matter," I said. "If you can give me a lift into Woodford, I'll motor up."
"But what about your dinner?"
"After that tea," I declared, laughing, "dinner is a minor consideration."
Aunt Mary looked genuinely distressed. "But, of course, you must have something to eat," she said. "I'll tell cook to put you up some sandwiches and a flask. They'll be ready by the time you've packed."
And without waiting to hear my protests, the dear, kind soul hurried off into the house.
I followed, courteously declining the butler's proffered assistance in packing, and going up to my room, proceeded to stuff my belongings into the handsome Gladstone bag and dressing-case which Northcote had bequeathed to me. I had just finished when I heard the trap roll up to the front door.
The whole party had assembled in the porch to see me off.
"You'll come back, Stuart, if you possibly can," said Aunt Mary.
I felt rather a scoundrel, though it really wasn't my fault.
"Why, of course," I said cheerily. "Miss York has promised to teach me tennis. You don't think I am going to miss such a chance."
"You might ring up Maurice at his rooms and come down with him to-morrow," she suggested.
I nodded. "That's a good idea," I said, "if he'll trust himself to the motor. Well, good-bye, everybody."
I shook hands with them all except Lady Baradell, who was standing by the trap patting the horse's neck. As I stepped out and the butler put my bags in, she came up to me.
"Good-bye, Stuart," she said, in a low voice. "Will you do a little commission for me?"
"Certainly," I said.
With a quick movement, she handed me a scrap of folded paper. "You'll find it there," she whispered. Then, as she gave me her hand, she added aloud some laughing remark apparently for the benefit of the others.
Thrusting the paper into my pocket, I climbed up into the trap beside the coachman. A farewell wave, a chorus of good-byes, above which there came some vague words from Aunt Mary about "the sandwiches—under the seat," and I was spinning off down the drive through the long avenue of beech trees.
It was not until we were well out on the high road that I took out Lady Baradell's "commission." It consisted of a few words scribbled hastily on half a sheet of the Ashton notepaper—
"Maurice's message last night concerned you. I think you are in great danger, but I don't know what."
And there are some gentlemen who profess to understand women!
"A good, heavy spanner," I said, "will be about my mark."
Billy rummaged in the tool-box, selected the article in question, and handed it over to me.
"If you get well home with that," he observed, "we shan't have much need of a gun."
I stored it away in my side pocket. "No guns, Billy," I said, "except as a last resort. This is going to be a case of 'all done by kindness.'"
Billy grinned, and walking round to the front of the car, proceeded to start her up.
The hands of the big clock in the stable-yard were just pointing to half-past seven. We had squared our account with the Plough, swallowed down a hasty meal, and strapped our belongings on the grid at the back. Everything, so to speak, was cleared for action, and as we slowly turned out of the yard into the street I could feel my heart beating a little quicker than usual with a pleasant sense of anticipation.
Beyond the fact that we meant to get Mercia out of the house, we had made no particular plans. Somehow or other, we should find a way of breaking in, and, as Billy said, once inside it would take more than a couple of Dagoes to stop us.
We steered our way through the quiet old town, which looked singularly peaceful in the mellow light of the setting sun. There was something delightfully incongruous between these pleasant, well-ordered streets and the wild enterprise on which we were embarking. I smiled to myself at the thought of what the emotions of some of the worthy passers-by would have been if they could have guessed our immediate purpose.
The Hollies lies a mile and a half outside Woodford, on the Orbridge road. Billy, of course, thanks to his two previous expeditions, knew every inch of the land. He halted the car under the shelter of a small plantation of pine trees, about a hundred yards from the house, and then as quietly as possible turned her round.
"She'll be all right here at the side," he said, in a low voice, "but we'd better leave the engine running. Might be in a bit of a hurry when we pick her up."
I nodded my approval, and going round to the back of the car, took out a couple of pieces of stout cord with which we had thoughtfully provided ourselves. Billy, meanwhile, having left everything ready for a flying start, proceeded to equip himself out of the tool-chest with a duplicate spanner to mine.
"We'll work round and up through the shrubbery," he whispered, weighing the implement in his hand. "That brings us out just opposite the back door."
"Right you are, Macduff," I said contentedly; "lead on."
It was already getting dusk, even in the open, and once under cover of the thick trees we practically said good-bye to daylight. Both Billy and I, however, possess a good working knowledge of woodcraft, gained from bitter experience, and I don't think we made more noise than was absolutely necessary. Anyhow, we finally arrived safe, if a trifle dishevelled, at the low railing which separated the back garden of the Hollies from the wood.
Here we paused, crouching down side by side, and surveying the back of the house with a kind of suppressed exhilaration.
Billy laid his hand on my sleeve. "Look here, Jack," he whispered, "I'll trail across first and see how the land lies. You stop here, and cover me with the gun. You're a better shot than I am."
It was just like Billy to bag the dangerous work with such an excuse, but this was no time for arguing. "Go on, then," I said. "Give me a hoot when you want me to join you."
He wriggled off noiselessly through the undergrowth in the direction of a large fir tree, which cast a gloomy shadow straight across the lawn. For a moment I was just able to make him out, creeping silently down this sombre pathway.
I shifted my gaze to the house and, revolver in hand, watched keenly for any sign of life. There were four windows looking out at the back, two on the ground floor and two above. They were all in darkness and, so far as I could see, tightly closed.
I spotted Billy once more, just by the back door. Then he disappeared again, and for perhaps five minutes I waited in cold tension, my eyes fixed steadily on the house.
Suddenly, very faint, came the hoot of an owl.
I thrust the revolver into my hip pocket, and picking my way through the undergrowth, cautiously followed Billy's track across the lawn. I found him crouching down under the left-hand window, almost invisible against the thick creeper.
"I've got it," he whispered, putting his lips right up against my ear. "There's a window open at the side—the pantry, I think. We can get in there."
He led the way round, stealthily as a panther, and I followed, clutching the spanner affectionately in my hand. The distance could not have been more than about twelve yards, but I have never reached a destination safely with greater thankfulness.
We found ourselves facing a small window about two feet from the ground. The top sash was a few inches open, and through the gap we could see a faint glimmer of light stealing in under the door opposite.
"I'd better go first," whispered Billy. "You're so devilish big, you'll probably stick."
I nodded, and with infinite care we lowered the sash, until every possible inch of space was available. Then, mounting on my back, Billy inserted his legs, and wriggled himself down bit by bit, until his feet touched the floor.
For a moment we paused, listening intently for any sounds in the passage. None came, and Billy, leaning forward through the window, again whispered in my ear.
"Head first, Jack. That's the only way for you."
I took his advice. I never thought I should get through, for my shoulders are at least a couple of inches broader than Billy's, and it had been a tight fit for him. A mighty squirm, combined with a sharp pull from inside at the critical moment, just did the trick, however, and there I was standing beside him in the darkness, sore but triumphant.
We waited a few seconds so that I could recover the breath which had been nearly squeezed out of my body. Then, treading as delicately as Agag, we advanced towards the door. Feeling about in the darkness, I discovered a latch, and the gentlest pressure showed me that the way was clear.
"Ready, Billy?" I whispered, drawing out my revolver.
"Right oh," came the swift response.
I swung the door open, and we stepped out swiftly into the passage.
We found ourselves in a long, low corridor lit by one gas jet, which was flickering away feebly over a baize door at the end. Except for the loud ticking of a clock in the room opposite, the place was as silent as a tomb.
Up the passage we crept, our ears strained for the first sound of danger. Billy made a mean effort to get to the baize door first, but I just managed to forestall him. Gripping the handle, I swung it open, at the same time raising my revolver ready to shoot if it were needed.
We were looking into the hall, a square, ill-furnished, dimly lit place, from which a staircase ran up to the floor above. There were a couple of doors opposite, both shut, and behind one of them we could hear the sound of voices.
Billy laid his hand on my arm, and for a moment we stood there motionless. Then came the unmistakable clatter of dice, followed a moment later by a burst of laughter and a peculiarly foul Spanish oath. In a second we had crossed the hall.
"Madre de Dios! I'm tired of this. You have the luck of Satan!"
There was the scrape of a chair as the speaker pushed back his seat.
Billy's hand was on the door-knob.
"Ready, Jack?" he whispered.
I nodded.
There was a crash, a gleam of light, and side by side we hurled ourselves into the room.
About what happened next I shall always be a bit confused. I recollect seeing a man in front of me—a big, dark fellow, his face wild with amazement and terror, his hand grabbing the back of the chair from which he had just started up. Then I suppose I must have flung my spanner, for his face seemed suddenly to double up, and he went backwards across the table with an ear-splitting shriek. As I leaped forward, I had a swift inspiring vision of Billy battering somebody's head against the wall, and the next thing I knew was that I was kneeling on the floor with a moaning, bloodstained object writhing feebly in my grip.
A few quick turns of the cord which I had whipped out of my pocket, and I rose to my feet again, panting and exultant.
Billy's voice, cheerful and cool as ever, rang out across the room.
"Well done, Jack! Now come and give us a hand with this lot."
He was in the farther corner, sitting comfortably astride of a furiously agitated mass of arms and legs, from which proceeded an unintelligible smother of Spanish and English blasphemy. He looked up smiling as I strode across.
"Get hold of that off leg, old son, will you?" he added. "Take care he doesn't bite: he's very peevish."
A brief scuffle, and our second captive was as trussed and helpless as the other.
Billy jumped up with a laugh. "Good work that," he said, "devilish good!" Then he walked across to where I had left my prisoner. "I say," he added, "you've put it across old Dot-and-carry-one all right. Spoilt his beauty for keeps from the look of it."
I picked up my discarded spanner.
"I'll leave you here, Billy," I said. "I'm off to find Mercia."
He nodded. "Right you are. Don't forget there's a female Dago about somewhere. She might be nasty."
He leant down over the writhing figure on the floor, and without waiting any further, I hurried out into the hall.
For a second I hesitated, wondering whether to go upstairs or to search the back regions first. The latter seemed the most likely spot, so crossing the hall and pushing open the baize door, I entered the passage up which we had so lately crept.
The first door on the right, where we had heard the clock ticking, proved to be the kitchen. It was empty, except for a solitary cat that arched her back and spat at me from the window-sill.
I gave a hurried glance round, then stepped back into the passage.
"Mercia!" I shouted. "Mercia!"
From the end of the corridor came a faint, stifled sound, like the cry of someone buried alive.
Two savage strides and I had reached the spot—a worm-eaten trap-door in the floor fastened down by a wooden bar. In my furious haste, I wrenched the thing off bodily, and then gripping the ring with both hands tore away the flap.
A short flight of stone steps met my gaze. I cleared them with a reckless jump, and the next moment, in the close, warm darkness, Mercia was in my arms.
"Ah," she cried, "it's you, it's you!" and I could feel her dear hand moving up and down my sleeve with a sobbing, half-incredulous joy. Then, somehow, our lips met, and all the barriers between us went down like matchwood in that first passionate kiss. I drew her up into the passage, and gazed hungrily into her white face. She was trembling violently, and my own hands were shaking like leaves.
"They've not hurt you, Mercia?" I whispered. Then my eyes fell on her wrist, circled by four livid bruises. "By God!" I cried savagely, "who did that?"
She hastily drew her sleeve over the marks.
"It's nothing, it's nothing," she sobbed. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!"
I caught her arm, and gently turned back the covering so that I could see the bruises. They were the marks of a man's fingers,—there could be no question about that,—a vicious, brutal grip, which might easily have broken her wrist.
"Who was it, Mercia?" I repeated.
"It was Rojas," she added; "but it doesn't matter. He would have killed me last night if Guarez had not stopped him. Oh, let's get away before they know you're here."
"It's too late for that, Mercia," I said coolly. "They know I'm here all right. Billy's sitting over them with a spanner in the drawing-room."
She gazed at me half-skeptically, and then the old delicious smile broke through the mist of her eyes.
"They said last night that you were the Devil. I think I am beginning to believe them."
I laughed happily. "They'll be sure of it now," I said. "Where's the woman?"
"Juanita? She is in London. Guarez sent her up this morning to find out about Da Costa. She is to come back by the last train."
"I am afraid we shall miss her, then," said I. "We must leave here in ten minutes. Can you be ready, Mercia?"
"Yes, yes; I am ready. I have only to put a few things in my bag. But how are we going? Where are you taking me?"
"The car is outside," I replied. "I'll explain everything when we've started. I've got a few words to say to Señor Rojas first."
"You are going to kill him?" she asked dispassionately.
I shook my head, smiling. "No, Mercia," I said. "Not at present. He makes life so interesting, I really couldn't spare him."
"It would be best," she said simply. "And Guarez as well."
There was a childish candour about her point of view that appealed to me immensely.
"Well, you're right, of course," I said; "but they are so absurdly sensitive on these points in England. If it was San Luca, one might be reasonable."
Taking her hand, I led her into the hall, and at the foot of the stairs I drew her into my arms, and kissed her again on the mouth and hair and eyes before I let her go.
I watched her as far as the first landing and then, opening the door, came back into the sitting-room.
Billy had shifted the two prisoners into the centre of the floor, and was seated comfortably on the edge of the table smoking a pipe.
"It's all right," I said. "The woman's in London, and I've found Mercia. She'll be ready to come with us directly."
He nodded. "I heard you."
"How's Guarez?" I asked, going across to my injured enemy.
"So that's Guarez, is it?" said Billy, slipping off the table. "Oh, he's all right; you've only smashed his face a bit. There's no real damage done; I've been having a squint at him."
It must be admitted that my late adversary was not a pretty sight. He lay on the floor saying nothing, but glaring savagely at us out of one eye. The other had temporarily struck work.
"He's had enough, anyway," I said; "but I've got one or two words to say to the other gentleman. Let me introduce you. Señor Rojas of San Luca, Mr. William Logan of London. Billy, what do you think one ought to do to a man who crushes a girl's arm till it's nearly broken?"
"Flog him," said Billy cheerfully.
A muffled imprecation—too poignant to repeat, I am afraid—broke from the prostrate Dago.
"Besides," added Billy, "it may teach him to use prettier language."
He bent down, and with a swift jerk hoisted the prisoner to his feet. I looked round the room. In the farther corner was a stout ash walking-stick, leaning invitingly against the wall.
Whatever natural taciturnity Señor Rojas may have possessed vanished abruptly when he saw me pick up this useful weapon. He burst into a hideous jargon of Spanish,—the dog-Spanish of the Argentine Hinterland,—whining and imploring that we should not put this indignity on him.
"Kill me, Prado," he shrieked. "Kill me. I do not fear death."
"Shut up," said Billy. "The Devil's much too good a chap to be landed with a skunk like you. Come over."
He hauled the squirming figure across the table, and held it there by the simple expedient of lying across its head.
I gave the stick a tentative swish through the air. "This, my friend," I said in Spanish, "will teach you not to bully women."
Whether my optimistic prophecy was fulfilled I cannot say, but certain it is that Señor Rojas was no hand at suppressing his emotions. He howled and screamed with a vigour that warmed my heart, and it was only when his voice finally cracked, and the entertainment became less inspiriting, that I threw down the stick.
Billy released him, and he slid down on to the floor, blubbering and sobbing like a naughty boy.
"Here endeth the first lesson," observed Billy irreverently. Then, turning over the lachrymose figure with his foot, he added in a kind voice: "Take my tip, sonny, and pad your trousers next time you come out Prado-shooting."
I laughed and threw the stick in the corner of the room. "We'll leave that as a keepsake," I said. "Come along, Billy. I expect Mercia's ready by now."
We went out into the hall, shutting the door behind us, and thus cutting off the somewhat incoherent curses of Señor Rojas. Mercia, carrying a bag in her hand, was just coming down the staircase. From the sparkle in her eyes, I gathered that some echoes of our revelry must have reached her ears.
"Mercia," I said, taking the bag, "this is Billy. We owe a lot to Billy."
She gave him her hand with that sweet grace that characterised every movement.
"How can I thank you?" she said softly.
Billy bent down and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I don't want any thanks," he answered, straightening himself and looking at her with his frank smile. "I love a row any time."
"Are you quite ready, Mercia?" I asked.
She nodded, and we went out, closing the front door behind us.
The car was standing where we had left it, its big headlamps throwing two broad beams of golden light up the deserted road. As we reached it, Mercia, who was walking between us, suddenly swayed. I caught her in my arms, or I believe she would have fallen.
"I—I think I must be a little faint," she faltered. "I've not had anything to eat since last night."
I swore with some vigour. Then, picking her up tenderly, I carried her to the car and placed her in the back seat.
"We'll soon remedy that," I said. "I was an idiot not to have thought of it before."
I wrenched open my bag, and took out the sandwiches and whisky with which the ever-to-be-blessed Aunt Mary had so thoughtfully provided me. Mercia smiled gratefully; and the first sip of the spirit brought back a faint fleck of colour into her white face.
Billy was standing by, his brows drawn down in an angry frown.
"We let that cur off too easily," he growled. "Shall I go back and give him some more?"
"No, no," said Mercia. "I am much better. I am sure you have hurt him quite a lot. I heard him crying, and I was glad; but you mustn't hurt him any more. Take me away from this place—that's all I want."
"Just as you like," said Billy reluctantly. "I should love to have had a cut at him, though."
He took his seat at the wheel, while I climbed in beside Mercia and tucked her up comfortably with the rug. A minute later, we were spinning southwards through the cool night air along the road to Woodford—and London.
I shall never forget that drive. A strange, delightful sense of intimacy had sprung up between Mercia and myself, and I sat there holding her dear hand under the rug in a rich contentment that needed no words for its expression. Despite the dangers and perplexities that still surrounded us, there seemed no longer to be any cause for worry and doubt. The barriers were down—we knew that we loved each other, and in the light of that knowledge the world and its difficulties slipped temporarily into insignificance.
Indeed, it was only with a painful effort that I at last succeeded in wrenching myself back to the very necessary thought of our future proceedings.
"Mercia," I said, "when are the Tregattocks expecting you back? Soon?"
She nodded her head. "I told them I should be away for a few days. I did not know how long."
"Well, it seems to me," said I, "that the best thing we can do when we get to London is to drop you at an hotel. Then you can go back to them to-morrow, as if you'd just come from Woodford."
"And you?" she asked anxiously.
"I must go back to Park Lane. Whatever happens, I must stay there for another fortnight."
"But it is madness," she whispered fearfully; "more than ever madness now. Do you think Rojas will forget—"
"No," I interrupted, smiling; "I'm quite sure he won't forget for a long time. All the same, I've no intention of running away. I shall have Billy with me, and we're a fairly useful combination." Then I looked straight into her eyes. "Mercia," I said, "why did you come to Woodford?"
"Guarez sent for me," she answered simply. "He said that you were to die the next day, and I thought that perhaps I might save you."
"But why did he want you?" I persisted.
"I think he guessed," she said slowly. "Da Costa saw us that night in Park Lane, and since then Guarez has suspected that you cared for me. He meant to use me—how do you say?—as a decoy. I was to bring you to the Hollies, and once there—" She shivered.
"Things didn't pan out quite as he intended," I finished, with a laugh. "How did he find out about our meeting?"
"Your cousin sent a message."
"Maurice?" I cried. "But he didn't know!" Then a sudden idea struck me. "By Jove," I said, "Lady Baradell must have told him."
Mercia looked at me calmly. "Lady Baradell?" she repeated, "the beautiful woman who loves you?"
I sat up with a jerk. "Who told you that?" I demanded.
She shrugged her shoulders. "No one told me. I was watching her eyes when she spoke with you."
"Were you!" I said, with some admiration. I was learning quite a lot about women these days. Then I paused. "I wish I knew why Maurice had bolted up to London," I added regretfully. "I'm sure he's got some mischief up his sleeve."
"To London?" echoed Mercia. "Has your cousin gone to London?"
In a few words I acquainted her with the details of the telegram incident. "If it was about me," I finished, "I can't think who sent it, unless it was your missing Da Costa."
She shook her head. "It could not have been Da Costa. He would have let Guarez know first if there had been anything to tell. It is more like that it was Lord Sangatte."
"Sangatte!" I repeated in amazement. "What on earth has Sangatte got to do with this business?"
Mercia looked troubled. "I do not know, but I fear that your cousin must have told him something. They were speaking of him last night; they—they—" she faltered.
"Yes, Mercia?" I said.
I felt her clasp tighten. "I think that he would help them, if they should give me to him. I think that was why Guarez would not let Rojas kill me."
It took an instant for the blackguardly scheme to sink into my mind. Then, at a very opportune moment, Billy blew the horn, drowning the comment that forced itself from my lips.
"If that's the case," I said slowly, "I must have a little talk with Sangatte."
There was a short silence.
"Mercia," I went on, "why do you call yourself Miss de Rosen? I suppose Tregattock knows who you are. He evidently recognised me as Prado at the dance."
She shook her head. "No; he doesn't know that I am Mercia Solano. He was a friend of my father's when he was in San Luca, but I was only a little girl then. Later, when I was coming to England, some friends wrote to him about me, and Lady Tregattock invited me to stay."
"But why did you hide your real name?" I asked.
"I did not want my father's murderer to know that I was in England," answered Mercia. Then, with a kind of passionate break in her voice, she turned to me. "Oh, I have trusted you—I do trust you with all my heart! But tell me—ah, for pity's sake tell me!—who are you? You are so like Prado that even Guarez has been deceived."
I would have given much to be able to answer her questions, but like a black barrier my promise to Prado rose between us. I knew well that deeper even than her love for me was her passion for revenge on the man who had killed her father; and scoundrel as Prado might be, I had given him my word that for three weeks I would keep his secret.
"Just a few days longer, Mercia," I pleaded, "God knows I would tell you everything now if I could, but I have given my word, and I can't break it."
She did not answer for a moment Then slowly came the whispered words: "It shall be as you wish. I trust you always, because—because I love you."
A sudden furious blast from Billy, a violent swerve of the car that nearly took us into the hedge, and we were out on the road again with a pretty duet of abuse following us through the darkness.
Billy looked round with a smile. "Close shave that," he observed. "Fancy making love in the middle of the road!"
"Where are we?" I asked.
He pointed ahead to a clustered mass of lights that spread out long tentacles into the darkness.
"That's Romford, or ought to be. I shall have to slow up a bit now. We're getting into civilisation."
Through the apparently endless suburbs of London we slowly picked our way south-westwards. Billy steered with a cheerful confidence that was characteristic of him, never troubling to ask the way, but apparently contenting himself with an occasional glance at the stars to make sure that he was keeping in the right direction. As he observed to us over his shoulder, "You couldn't very well miss London, even if you tried."
The result was that we came in by a route which made up in length what it lacked in refinement. Interminable slums, lit by flaring public-houses just discharging their crowds into the street, rolled past us in monotonous succession. Twice we had to slow up to allow for the passage of two perspiring policemen and an obstructive prisoner, followed in either case by a vociferous, but judiciously unenterprising, crowd.
At last the houses began to give place to warehouses and factories, and in a few minutes we were threading the practically deserted thoroughfares of the City.
"We're all right now," observed Billy complacently. "Where do you want to go to?"
"Mercia is going to put up at an hotel for the night," I said. "We'll take her there, and then go on to Park Lane."
"What about the Inns of Court?" he suggested. "I stayed there for a fortnight last month, so I know the manager."
Mercia, who was looking very tired, nodded her head.
"That will do, Billy," I said. "Then you can go in and see him and arrange about the room. Tell him we've had a breakdown or something."
We passed the Mansion House and turned down Cheapside, pulling up at the door of the hotel, where Billy disentangled himself somewhat stiffly from the wheel.
"I'll just run in and fix things up," he said. "I shan't be a minute."
Mercia and I sat on in the car, in the broad lamplit thoroughfare, which at this hour was practically deserted. I took her hand and raised it gently to my lips.
"Till to-morrow, dearest," I said. "I'll ring you up first thing in the morning, before you go to the Tregattocks'. Then we can arrange about meeting."
She drew the fingers of her other hand down my sleeve. "And you will be very careful," she pleaded, "for my sake?"
I smiled at her reassuringly. "Mercia mine," I whispered, "I have something to live for now."
Billy came out of the hotel, accompanied by a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man with a short grey beard.
"It's all right," he said. "M. Paulhan will see that Miss de Rosen is quite comfortable."
The manager bowed. "I will be sure that Mademoiselle has everything she wishes."
I opened the door and helped Mercia out, a porter who appeared from the hotel possessing himself of her bag. I insisted that she should go straight up to bed, for she was obviously so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. So we parted in the lounge, Mercia going up in the lift, and Billy and I getting back into the car.
"I expect we shall find the house all locked up," I said. "I ought to have sent them a wire from Woodford to say we were coming."
"Well, it can't be helped," returned Billy. "We shall have to knock 'em up, that's all. Where do you keep the car?"
"Goodness knows," I laughed. "I never thought of asking Simpson."
Billy steered neatly round the corner of Park Lane. "It doesn't matter," he observed. "There's a big garage in Piccadilly. I'll shove her in there for the night after I've dropped you."
We slowed down and came to a stop outside the house. Through the glass above the door I saw that the hall was lit up.
"Someone's about, after all," I said.
"I expect they've got the policeman to supper," chuckled Billy. "Pleasant little surprise for 'em—eh? You go and knock, and I'll wait and see it's all right."
I walked up the steps, and thrust my key into the door. As I did so, it suddenly swung open, and I found myself face to face with a man who was standing just inside the threshold. Over his shoulder, I caught a momentary glimpse of the white, startled face of my pretty housemaid.
For a second I stared at the man without speaking. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and middle-aged, with a short, grizzled moustache and keen, watchful eyes.
"If you won't think me inquisitive," I remarked politely, "may I ask who you are?"
"I am Inspector Neil of Scotland Yard," he said slowly. "I believe that I am addressing Mr. John Burton."
It was a nasty shock, but I met it serenely.
"Well?" I returned.
Billy had jumped out of the car, and was coming up the steps.
The man raised his hand, and laid it quietly but firmly on my shoulder.
"Then, sir," he said, "it is my duty to arrest you."
There was a short pause.
I looked at him in frank amazement
"Arrest me!" I repeated. "What on earth for?"
The answer came with prompt and startling clearness—
"For the murder of Stuart Northcote."
One seldom does the right thing in moments of great emergency. As an innocent man I suppose I ought to have started back and exclaimed, "Good heavens! What is the meaning of this outrage?" But, to tell the truth, I did nothing of the kind.
I stared blankly at my new friend for a moment, and then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter which I was quite unable to suppress. My mirth seemed to infect Billy, who sat down on the railings and chuckled like a fool.
The Inspector's face was a joy!
"I'm awfully sorry," I jerked out at last. "Suppose we go inside?"
Still keeping his hand on my shoulder, the Inspector stepped back, and Billy and I followed him into the hall—the former shutting the door behind us.
"Now," I said, "perhaps you'll be kind enough to explain."
As I spoke, there was a sound of heavy footsteps, and a police constable came tramping down the staircase.
The Inspector looked at me with a not unfriendly interest.
"There is not much to explain, sir. I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Mr. Stuart Northcote, and it is my duty to inform you that anything you say now will be used in evidence against you."
"But what makes you think Mr. Northcote is dead?" I inquired.
"Because his body," returned the Inspector grimly, "is at present in the East Street mortuary."
I have had several fairly unpleasant shocks in the course of my life, but this one was something of a novelty. Even Billy, whose usual equanimity nothing but an earthquake can disturb, was surprised into a long low whistle of amazement.
So they had got him after all! Despite his unscrupulous cunning, despite the almost devilish ingenuity with which he had covered his tracks, Ignace Prado's long and black account was ended. I thought of Mercia, and I was glad.
"As a breaker of news, Inspector," I said, "you seem to me a little abrupt. When did this regrettable accident occur?"
"It's not my place to answer any questions now, sir," replied the Inspector civilly. "The charge will be read over to you at the station; and if you wish to employ counsel, we shall afford him the usual facilities."
I nodded. "You'll forgive me bothering you," I said, "but I've had so little experience of being arrested for murder. What happens next?"
The Inspector's eyes twinkled. "I shall have to ask you to accompany me to Bow Street, where you will be detained until this charge is cleared up."
"May I come too?" inquired Billy, coolly lighting a cigarette.
"This is Mr. Logan, Inspector," I said. "I don't know whether you're looking for him as well?"
The Inspector shook his head. "I have no warrant for your arrest, sir; but since you arrived with Mr. Burton, I shall have to keep you under observation till to-morrow."
"That'll be all right," returned Billy cheerfully. "I've only got to put the car in the garage; then I shall come back and go to bed. You'd better leave Robert with me. He can have a shake-down here, and we'll stroll round to Bow Street together in the morning."
I don't know how much experience of this kind of work Inspector Neil had enjoyed, but our method of accepting the situation evidently struck him as being both original and entertaining.
"Very well, sir," he said, with a broad smile. Then turning to the constable, he added: "Jackson, you are responsible for this gentleman till to-morrow morning. You will report to me at Bow Street by telephone if you have anything further to communicate."
The constable saluted.
"And ring up now for a taxi."
As the man stepped forward towards the telephone my pretty housemaid, who all this time had been hovering in the background listening to our conversation, suddenly came forward. Her face was very pale, and she was clasping and unclasping her hands in a pitiable state of agitation.
"Oh, what does it mean, sir? They're never going to take you to prison, sir?"
She gasped out the words—her eyes fixed pleadingly on mine.
"It's quite all right," I said soothingly. "You stay on here and look after the house for me. I shall be back in a couple of days."
"Oh, sir," she sobbed, "I hope I haven't said anything I oughtn't to have! They've been asking us questions—all sorts of questions, sir. Oh, I wouldn't have said anything to hurt you, sir—not for the world, I wouldn't!"
The poor girl's distress was so genuine that I must admit I was rather touched. I laid my hand on her shoulder.
"It's generally the best to tell the truth," I said, "and I'm sure you did that."
"Cheer up, Gwendoline," added Billy kindly. "We're not in the soup this journey—you can take my word for it."
There came the sharp honk-honk of a motor horn from outside, followed by the noise of a taxi pulling up at the door.
I turned to the Inspector.
"That sounds like our carriage," I observed. "Ought I to be handcuffed or anything?"
He shook his head, smiling again. "I don't think that will be necessary, sir."
"So long, Billy," I said. "See you in the morning. You'll look after Robert, won't you? The cook's got the key of the cellar."
Billy nodded. "Good!" said he. "We'll do ourselves proud—eh, Constable?"
And in this altogether inappropriate fashion I went down the steps to take my trial for murder.
There were not many remarks exchanged during our drive to Bow Street. I saw it was no use questioning the Inspector any further, and, as you may imagine, I had quite enough to think about without wasting my energies in making conversation. The whole thing had happened so unexpectedly and so quietly that I was only just beginning to grasp it as an accomplished fact.
There seemed to be little doubt that Prado must have met his death at the hands of the missing Da Costa. That the rest of the gang were quite innocent in the matter I had fairly convincing evidence. Where and when the tragedy had been played out I was quite unable to guess, and it was equally puzzling to know how the police had discovered the secret of my identity. Maurice's hurried departure from Ashton was doubtless connected with this, and I could understand now why he had looked at me with that strange expression of half-incredulous triumph when he read the wire.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I was not particularly upset. Indeed, my principal sensation, apart from an ardent desire to get to bed as soon as possible, was one of genuine relief to feel that the business was over and done with. Fond as I am of the strenuous life, I had had just about enough of Mr. Stuart Northcote. There was a strange pleasure in being Jack Burton again, even with a charge of murder hanging over my head.
My musings were cut short by the cab pulling up outside Bow Street. The Inspector got out first, and I followed, to the evident excitement of several midnight loafers, who peered at us from the safe distance of the opposite pavement.
We went straight up the steps and entered a long, brightly lit corridor. A policeman who was standing there favoured us with a keen glance of curiosity, and respectfully touched his helmet to my companion.
The latter opened a door on the right. "This way," he said.
It was an office, a big and very tidy room, with two roll-top desks, at one of which a grey-haired soldierly-looking man in plain clothes was seated, writing. He looked up as we entered, and I saw him start slightly as his eyes fell on me.
"It's Mr. John Burton," said my captor, with a pardonable touch of pride in his voice. Then he turned to me. "This is Inspector Curtis. He will read you the charge."
Inspector Curtis had quickly conquered his momentary emotions. "Where was the arrest effected?" he demanded sharply, studying me with considerable interest.
"At Park Lane," returned the other. "I was making inquiries, when Mr. Burton arrived in a car with a companion. I have placed the latter under observation. No resistance was offered."
Inspector Curtis nodded, and rising to his feet crossed the room to a series of pigeon-holes, from one of which he took out an official-looking paper.
"I will read you the charge against you," he said.
I am afraid I cannot recall now the exact phraseology of this impressive document. Briefly speaking, it accused me of having wilfully done to death one Stuart Northcote on the night of the 17th of September at a place called Baxter's Rents in East Street, Stepney. I need hardly say that, sleepy as I was, I listened with the utmost attention while the good man read it out slowly in a serious voice.
"Thank you very much," I said, when he had finished. Then for the life of me I was unable to control a long and most inopportune yawn.
"I really must apologise," I said. "It was most interesting: but the truth is, I'm half asleep."
Both of them smiled.
"You can turn in at once, if you wish to," said Inspector Curtis, folding up the document. "You are also at liberty to communicate with your solicitor or to send any other message."
I shook my head. "A bed," I observed, "is all I want at present. We'll do the communicating to-morrow morning."
"Come with me, then," remarked Inspector Neil, and turning round he conducted me out of the office and down the corridor to a small, plainly furnished bedroom, the window of which was heavily guarded with iron bars. There was a bed, however, and the sheets looked clean, and in my present state of sleepiness that was more than enough for me.
"You will be able to send round to-morrow for your own things," said the Inspector, "but I think you'll be comfortable enough for to-night."
"I'm sure I shall," I returned.
"There's one other thing, sir. I am afraid I shall have to run through your clothes before I leave you. We are compelled to search everyone under arrest by regulations.
"Right you are," I said. "I've really no intention of cutting my throat, but if it's the rule—"
I held up my hands, and with deft fingers he went swiftly through my pockets, taking out the contents.
"These will be entered and returned to you," he said. "Good-night."
"Good-night," I replied; and turning the key in the lock, the good fellow tramped away down the passage, leaving me to myself.
I am afraid I was much too tired to indulge in any of the proper emotions for a wrongly accused prisoner. Indeed, beyond reckoning out in a vague sort of way that the murder must have taken place on the night of Sangatte's party, I did not bother my head any further about the matter. Stripping off my clothes as quickly as possible, I scrambled into bed and flicked off the switch which controlled an invisible electric light. Five minutes later I was as sound asleep as I have ever been in my life.
If the French gentleman who said that life was only worth living for its new experiences was right in his statement, I had no reason to complain when I woke up next morning. It was certainly a novel sensation to open one's eyes in a police station under a charge of murder, and to find an affable-looking Inspector standing beside one's bed with a bag in his hand.
It was my captor of the previous day, and the bag which he was holding was the one which I had brought up with me from Woodford.
"Good morning," I said, smiling at him sleepily.
"I am glad to see you slept all right," he returned. "There are your things. I went round to Park Lane for them first thing this morning."
"That was uncommonly good of you, Inspector," I replied gratefully. "Now I shall be able to do you credit in the dock."
He grinned amiably. "We can give you a breakfast, of course, and if there's anything special you want, you can send out for it."
I shook my head. "I'll leave it to you," I said. "It's not often one gets a chance of sampling His Majesty's hospitality."
"Very good." He paused a moment. "You will be taken before the magistrate at eleven o'clock. Any letters you wish to write will be attended to at once, provided they are in order. I will let you have some paper and envelopes with your breakfast."
I nodded.
"And if you would like a shave," he continued, "I'll send round for a barber."
"It seems to me," I said, "that, next to the Savoy, Bow Street is about the best hotel in London."
The Inspector smiled again. "We try to make prisoners on remand as comfortable as possible," he replied, and going out he left me to my toilet.
I dressed quickly, and dispatched with appreciation the plentiful if somewhat plain breakfast which a stolid constable brought in to me on a tray. It was while I was engaged in this latter occupation that the brilliant thought of writing to Lord Lammersfield suddenly occurred to me. I had been puzzling my brains all the time I was dressing as to what was the best course to pursue, and I think it must have been the Bow Street cocoa which inspired me with this happy idea.
I pushed aside the tray, and taking a sheet of the notepaper which the constable had brought in, I composed with some care the following letter:—
"BOW STREET POLICE STATION,Thursday.
"DEAR LORD LAMMERSFIELD,—The last time I had the pleasure of meeting you, at Sangatte's dance, you were good enough to say that I was to let you know if I ever found myself in prison. As you will see by my present address, this situation has arisen with unexpected abruptness. I don't know whether the interesting offence with which I am charged is now public property, but if so, I can assure you my present fame is quite unearned. If you could spare me half an hour of your time later in the day, I should be very grateful for your advice. In return, I can promise you a story which will help to relieve the regrettable monotony of the Home Office that you were complaining of last time we met—Yours sincerely,
"STUART NORTHCOTE."
From what I had seen of Lord Lammersfield, I felt fairly confident that this letter would bring him to the station. The circumstances attending the charge against me were so extraordinary, and his own interests so closely tied up with mine, that his curiosity about the case, if he had been informed of it, must already be overwhelming.
I was just addressing the envelope when Inspector Neil came in again, accompanied by the barber.
"Here you are, Inspector," I said, handing it to him. "This is the only letter I want to send at present, but I should be much obliged if it could be delivered at once."
He read the address with a mingled expression of surprise and respect. Then, calling the constable into the room, presumably to assist the barber in case I made a sudden dash for the razor, he went out with the letter in his hand.
I felt rather sorry for that barber. I think he must have had some inkling as to my identity, for I could see that he was almost bursting with anxiety to break into conversation. The cold eye of the constable was on us, however, and the poor man had to pursue his task in silence. He had just finished, and was mournfully dabbing me with the towel, when Inspector Neil returned.
"Your friend of last night, Mr. Logan, is here," he said. "You can see him now if you want to."
"I shall be pleased to receive him," I replied, with dignity.
A minute later Billy was ushered into the room by the constable, who then withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Billy looked round with an expression of mild surprise.
"Hullo, my son!" he observed. "I expected to find you in a dungeon cell. What's the meaning of this magnificence?"
"We try to make prisoners on remand as comfortable as possible," I quoted. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a whisky, but there's some excellent cocoa here, if that's any good."
Billy seated himself on the edge of the table and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Well," he said, "this is rather an unholy mix-up—eh?" Then he looked at the door. "I suppose we've got an audience," he added.
"I expect so," I said, "but it doesn't matter. I'm going to do the George Washington act in any case now. As Northcote's dead, I consider our bargain's at an end."
He nodded. "Of course it is. The only way is to make a clean breast of it. You'll have to have a lawyer or a counsel or whatever they call it over here to put the thing properly. I'd better see about getting one, hadn't I?"
"I've written to Lammersfield," I said, "and asked him to come and see me. I'll wait and hear what he's got to say before I take any further steps."
Billy slapped his leg. "By Jove!" he cried, "that was a sound notion. Nothing like having the Home Secretary behind you. Do you reckon he'll come?"
"I think so, Billy," I said complacently.
"Have you heard anything fresh about the facts?" he asked. "Who the devil put it across Prado, and how did the police get on to your track?"
"I think it must have been Da Costa," I answered, "but we shall know more about it before very long. I'm due to meet the magistrate at eleven."
Billy looked at his watch. "Eleven, is it?" he said. "I ought to be going, then. I've promised to call for your girl and take her to the court."
"Mercia!" I exclaimed. "Does she know?"
"Yes," said Billy. "I told her this morning when she rang up. Was that wrong?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Lord, no," I said. "She'd have heard all about it by midday in any case. The papers will be shrieking themselves purple. The only thing is that I don't want her name dragged in if I can help it."
"Well, she'd have to come to court in any case," said Billy, "so I thought I might as well take her, and let her know the real truth right away. It'll save her a lot of worry."
I held out my hand. "Billy," I said, "you're a brick."
He gave me a vigorous grip, and jumped down off the table.
"Honour amongst thieves, my son," he said, with a laugh.
He walked to the door and tapped on it with his knuckles. It was opened by my friend the policeman with a promptness which was slightly suggestive, and waving his hand to me, Billy passed out into the passage.
For the next twenty minutes I occupied myself with straightening out in my head the exact date and sequence of each occurrence since my fateful meeting with Prado on the Embankment. I had determined to tell Lammersfield the entire truth, and I wanted to be able to present my story as briefly and crisply as possible.
I had just concluded this task to my own satisfaction when Inspector Neil returned.
"The magistrate has arrived," he said. "They are going to take your case first."
I got up from my chair. "I'm quite ready, Inspector," I said cheerfully.
Any doubts I may have had as to whether my arrest was known to the public were effectually settled the moment I entered the court. Despite the earliness of the hour, the place was packed with spectators. The only face I recognised, as I marched to a sort of wooden cattle-pen which the Inspector indicated, was that of Maurice, who, studiously avoiding my eye, was seated in the body of the court. The Press was there in force, and as I took my seat I could hear the quick buzz of whispered speculation going on all round me. This, however, was almost immediately suppressed by a harsh observation of "Silence!" from a severe-faced gentleman whom I supposed to be the magistrate's clerk.
The magistrate himself I took rather a fancy to. He was not unlike Lord Lammersfield in appearance—a very pleasant, acute-looking man of about sixty, with sharp, twinkling eyes behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. I bowed to him politely, and he returned the compliment with a quick, penetrating glance that seemed to take in my entire personality.
The proceedings that followed were what the newspapers would designate as "Brief and formal."
First of all, Inspector Neil stepped into the witness-box, and described with commendable curtness the facts relating to my arrest. It appeared that another officer had already been dispatched to effect this at Woodford, and that my arrival at Park Lane in a motor had been a dramatically unexpected occurrence.
He was followed by Inspector Curtis, who at once requested the magistrate to grant a remand until the next day.
The latter looked at him rather quizzically over his glasses.
"As I did not grant the warrant for the arrest," he observed in a dry voice, "it would perhaps be as well to state your grounds."
I don't think the Inspector was pleased, but he was too old a hand to betray any sign of annoyance. In quick, short sentences he began a brief statement of the case for the police, to which I need hardly say I listened with the most intense interest.
To start with, he informed the magistrate that the body of the man found murdered in Baxter's Rents had been identified beyond all question as that of Stuart Northcote. Secondly, there was ample evidence to show that I had spent some time with the deceased at the Milan Hotel two days before the murder. On the night of the crime, I had attended Lord Sangatte's dance in the character of Stuart Northcote, and his lordship would bear witness that I had left early in a state of some agitation. I had not arrived home in Park Lane until the small hours of the morning, the clothes that I was wearing being subsequently found saturated with blood. The case still presented many mysterious features, but he maintained that this evidence was amply sufficient to justify a remand.