“That makes it alittleawkward,” regretted Superbus, “owing to the difficulty of watchinghim when he’s asleep. Unless Aunt Lizzie would mind? I am a family man.”
“She might object,” said Diana. “No, I don’t think that you need do that. If you can keep a general eye on him. He must not leave the house on any excuse.”
Mr. Superbus smiled.
“You needn’t worry about that, ma’am,” he said.
There followed more instructions and warnings. Diana flew into The Study to pacify a distracted Dempsi, whose urgent voice had interrupted her twice during the interview with the detective.
Mr. Superbus went into the kitchen thoughtfully. He saw no resemblance between Gordon Selsbury and his uncle. He noted that in Aunt Lizzie’s face was an expression of uneasiness.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “My name’s Smith.”
Gordon pointed to the door.
“Go out and change it,” he said.
Mr. Superbus was amused.
“I thought I’d pop down and have a look at you, Uncle Isaac,” he said, and bowed to the lady, “and Aunt Lizzie.” He radiated compassion.
“Get out!” roared Gordon, red of face. “Goback to the lady who employs you and tell her that I give her ten minutes to hand me my keys and kick her infernal Dempsi out of the house!”
“What’s the good?” It was Heloise who spoke. “If you make a fuss you’ll be seeing the judge on Monday.”
“I don’t care!” Gordon was toeing the limit. “I simply don’t care. I’m the master of this house and I will assert myself.”
“Say, Gor-don! What am I—one of the extras? Ain’t I got any say in this? You don’t care! Well, I’m certainly glad you’re that way—it’s grand. But I allowed myself to be trapped by a she-octopus and I’ll find another way of getting out than taking the short trail to the hutch. And the only way out is to behave.”
Mr. Superbus agreed. He was not unprepared for the claim that Gordon was master of the house: against this strange hallucination on the part of Uncle Isaac that he was his own nephew, Diana had warned him.
“You’re a good lad and I’m a good lad,” he murmured. “We’re all good lads together.”
He winked at Heloise. Susceptible to such signals, Heloise winked back.
It was maddening—to what degree, Gordonlearnt painfully. Mr. Superbus was so kind and so helpful and so tolerant. Gordon went into his pantry and searched for a large, razor-sharp carving knife. There are some things no man can endure—kindness is one of them.
“Life,” said Mr. Dempsi, stretching the toes of his small feet to the fire with a luxurious intake of breath, “is a beautiful thing. From the utter depths of loveless despair to the sublime accomplishment of heart’s desire—what a transition, my own!”
“Mr. Dempsi—” began Diana.
“Wopsy,” he murmured reproachfully.
“Well—Wopsy. I have allowed you to stay because I wanted a quiet talk with you. A quiet talk,” she stressed the qualification as he reached out for a hand that was not there.
“Silence is so wonderful.” He turned his languishing eyes upon her. “Silence and thought and The Woman.”
But Diana had her piece to say, carefully prepared and rehearsed in the solitude of her room.
“Five years ago you were good enough to ask me to marry you. I refused. People say that young girls are brainless—the fact that I declined the honour you offered is proof to the contrary.What I felt then, I feel now. My heart is in the grave!”
“Mygrave.” His smile was melancholy but complacent.
“Don’t be silly. You are alive, I’m sorry—I mean I should be sorry if you weren’t. I had a lover—my heart went out to him, Wopsy,”—her voice trembled, she thought there were tears in his sympathetic eyes, “but he passed.”
“Ran away from you?” Mr. Dempsi sat up.
“When I say ‘passed’”—there was more than a trace of acid in Diana’s voice—“I mean ... to the Great Beyond.”
“Pegged out?” Dempsi shrugged. “These things happen. Once I loved a girl—oh, Diana, such a girl amongst girls! Tall, divinely fair, gracious in every look and movement. She also passed—to the Great Beyond.”
“She died?” whispered Diana.
“She went on to the stage—in America,” said Dempsi. “She was dead to me. I cut her out of my heart. I could have killed myself, but I said: ‘Wopsy, have you forgotten your little Diana—your first, your only love?’ With a courage that I have often admired, I forgot her. She is now the greatest screen vamp in Hollywood. I seeher frequently without a tremor. Such things happen.”
Diana was unmoved, though a little discouraged.
“My love will never be forgotten,” she gulped. “Wopsy, you see how impossible it is—did you get the money?”
“The money—you sent it to me? But, Diana, how foolish!”
“I sent it by cheque,” she said.
He sank back again in his chair.
“You are a foolish little one. Money!” He laughed cruelly. “How you Anglo-Saxons worship money! To men of my temperament ...!” He snapped his fingers. “As to your unfaithfulness to the great ideal I provided, your heartless disregard for my memory, I forgive you. You were only a child—you could not be expected to cherish the memory of the man who died for you. That is past. We belong to the Day—to-morrow, Monday, Tuesday we shall be married.”
“What are we doing on Wednesday?” she asked. “Forgive me for looking so far ahead.”
For a second he was disconcerted, uneasy: that he betrayed in his laughter.
“My dear little Diana, how droll you are——”
“Listen, Dempsi or Wopsy, as the case may be—you are returning to your hotel to-morrow. We are not getting married on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. Shall I tell you why? I see that you are interested. Because I don’t want to marry you.”
His face darkened.
“This is Uncle Isaac!” he said between his teeth. “The influence of that man is diabolical! All my life I have been thwarted by aunts and uncles. He shall answer to me—Guiseppi Dempsi!”
He flung out of his chair, took two strides toward the door, when she caught his arms desperately.
“Let me go,” he stormed.
“If you leave this room I will telephone for the police!”
The tension relaxed.
“For me—the police for me!” He covered his face in his hands and his shoulders heaved convulsively. Diana felt no regrets.
“And she of whom I dreamt threatens me. Let me die!”
Diana let him. At the end of three minutes he was still alive.
“Mr. Dempsi, dry your eyes.”
Like a faithful but heart-broken hound, he obeyed.
“You may stay here to-night,” she said; “your bedroom is at the top of the stairs. I hope you sleep well. If you want anything, ring the bell. Good-night.”
He turned wearily toward the door.
“This is not Diana.”
His dejection would have touched a heart of stone. Diana was unmoved. She heard his door close, went silently up the stairs and slipped a key into the lock. He heard, too late, the grating of steel against steel. Before he could reach the door the lock snapped.
“Who is that—who has locked the door? Open it at once.”
“It is I,” said Diana in a low voice.
“But, Diana, this is extraordinary!”
“I do it for your own protection,” she whispered through the keyhole. “Uncle Isaac does not like you—andhe is armed.”
A silence.
“But this is dangerous! If there is a fire——”
“Use the extinguisher!” she hissed. “It is hanging in the wardrobe.”
She was tired, aching in every limb, immensely lonely. Oh, for the comforting presence of Gordon! Or even Eleanor, at that moment sitting in agitated conference with Mrs. Magglesark, discussing the strange behaviour of mistresses in general and Australian mistresses in particular.
Happily there was Mr. Superbus.
The faint sound of music came up from the servants’ hall as she descended the stairs. Mr. Superbus was playing a mouth-organ softly, almost musically. Aunt Lizzie sat before the kitchen fire, chin in hand. Uncle Isaac leant against the kitchen dresser, glowering at the musician. The harmonies were confirmed as she opened the door.
“Had a pleasant evening?” she asked.
“I’ve had nothing to eat but bread and cheese,” said Gordon. “This little joke of yours is going too far, Diana.”
She looked at him aghast.
“We didn’t have any dinner!” she said in dismay, tempered with the satisfaction that Dempsi was at that moment starving in his locked room. “I haven’t even had bread and cheese—it is time for you to go to bed.”
“I’ll go when I please,” said Gordon loudly.
Mr. Superbus shook his head reprovingly.
“Naughty, naughty!” he chided. “That’s not like my Uncle Isaac. And he’s been such a good boy, ma’am, singing as gay as a lark.”
Gordon blushed.
“I didn’t sing, you jackass!” he growled.
“Didn’t he sing, Aunt Lizzie?”
She shrugged indifferent shoulders.
“Well, if he didn’t sing he ’ummed,” insisted Mr. Superbus.
His repertoire on the mouth-organ included the Eton Boating Song—Gordon was an old Etonian. Doubtless he had ’ummed: no Etonian could resist the lilt of it.
“To bed,” said Diana curtly.
Swinging her keys, she had the appearance of a jailer.
“You will regret this,” said Gordon between his teeth. “I can bring a thousand people to identify me.”
“And how many to identify Aunt Lizzie?” asked Diana with a curl of her lips.
Gordon had no answer. She had the exasperating habit of shutting every door in his face,dispelling every wild vision of liberty that hope conjured to shape.
Heloise was not silenced.
“Why, that’s not going to be difficult,” she drawled. “I’m Mrs. van Oynne of 71 Clarence Gate Gardens.”
“Very good,” nodded Diana. “You are at liberty to telephone to the police and allow them to identify you. I’ll tell them that by an error I have mistaken you for Double Dan’s—what is the word? partners? They will put things right.”
Heloise got up.
“I was never strong for fighting,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
Diana led the way, Gordon came after, Mr. Superbus followed, emitting soft tuning noises from his mouth-organ. Were it in his repertoire, Gordon would have selected “The Death of Asa” as an appropriate accompaniment to that solemn march. He imagined himself a malefactor on his way to execution. Diana had the air of hangman and private torturer.
“Good-night,” he said mechanically, and stopped at the door of his room.
“Not in there!” Her loud whisper was threatening. He followed to the floor above.The room chosen was that in which Diana said she intended sleeping the man and wife who were to be engaged for the autumn cleaning. Heloise went in—she knew the room.
“Good-night,” she said.
“You have forgotten something,” said Diana.
“If you think I’m going to kiss you, there’s a surprise coming to you, girl,” said Heloise, and tried to shut the door.
“Your husband,” said Diana primitively.
The door slammed, Diana heard a chair dragged across the room, and guessed that the back of it was being propped under the handle. Gordon’s throat went dry.
“You have quarrelled?” said Diana. “Or perhaps you don’t....”
“I don’t!”
The voice came from his stomach—he had never suspected such a range of sound in himself.
“That’s very awkward.” She tapped her lips with a key. “You’ll have to go into the spare room. Come down.”
The spare room was at the far end of the passage and the bed had not been made up.
“There are the blankets,” said Diana and pointed. “To-morrow I will find sheets foryou. The bed is more comfortable than any you’ll find at the police station.”
She locked the door on him.
The window was open, but there was no method of reaching safety. Here the wall dropped sheerly to the bottom of the area, and if you missed the area there was a row of sharp, spiked railings. Gordon decided to go to bed. For an hour he tossed from side to side, his nerves on edge, sleep farther from him than ever. There might be a spare key to the room in one of the drawers. He searched diligently, but without success. Then he tried the door. From somewhere outside came the sound of a knife-cleaner working eccentrically. Or it may have been the noise of a carpet-sweeper being pushed across the floor by one who had no conception of rhythm. As he turned the handle, the noise ceased and a voice said:
“Sleep well, Uncle Isaac.”
Mr. Superbus, that faithful watch dog, was sleeping on the mat.
Dianastirred uneasily in her sleep and woke. There was no sound but the distant snore of Mr. Superbus, but she had an uncanny instinct that all was not well. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her dressing-gown and looked out of the window. She saw a figure on the sidewalk. A man, slight of build, round-shouldered. She saw him clearly in the light of the street standard which was immediately opposite the house. She guessed his face rather than saw it, and wondered where she had seen him before. Stark, the window-cleaner! Now she knew him. As she looked, he stood back quickly, bringing himself against the railings. Craning her neck, she saw a shadowy policeman slowly passing the end of the street. He reached the opposite corner and stopped, came a few steps down Cheynel Gardens and stopped again. There was the flare of a match. It was the hour when policemen produce surreptitious pipes in defiance of all regulations. The figure against the railings remained motionless.
“What do you want?” demanded Diana.
Mr. Stark looked up.
“Nothing, lady. I can’t sleep,” he stammered.
“See the policeman: he’ll nurse you,” said Diana.
He disappeared up the passage leading to the courtyard, but presently he came back and walked boldly back to the main street. Diana saw the smoking policeman cross the road. There was a brief conversation and Mr. Stark disappeared. Diana thought she had seen the policeman’s hands moving scientifically over the loafer’s body.
She was thoroughly awake now. The hour was 3.15. She took up her handbag, unlocked and opened her door and listened. The watchful Julius was awake instantly.
“It is only I, Mr. Superbus,” she said, relieved to find him so alert. “I am afraid you’re having a very uncomfortable time.”
“No, miss: I seldom sleep. Napoleon was that way by all accounts. Want anything, ma’am?”
“I’m going to make myself a cup of tea,” she said, and went down the gloomy stairs to the kitchen.
She was very hungry—she made tea, found a tinful of biscuits and called her protector in a whisper to share the feast.
“We might as well have some light,” she said, and lit the hall lamp. “Come in, Mr. Superbus.”
The door of The Study did not yield to her pressure, and she frowned.
“I’m sure I did not lock this door,” she said, and found the pass-key in her bag. The door was bolted on the inside!
“Wait here whilst I dress,” she said.
The eyes of Julius Superbus bulged. Excitement toned his complexion from petunia to old gold. He was not nervous; he was not frightened. Danger made him go pale. Mark Antony was that way.
She was down again in an incredibly short space of time, took the revolver belt from the hall cupboard and fixed it about her waist. Mr. Superbus saw the gun in her hand and felt more comfortable.
“Open the door, please.”
There was a faint rustle of movement on the other side of the door. A not so faint click as if lights were being extinguished.
“Guard the back of the house,” she said in a low voice. “He will probably escape over the wall. Take no risks—strike him down at once. He may be armed!”
Mr. Superbus did not move. He was rooted to the spot, as they say.
“What about getting a policeman?” he asked hollowly.
She shook her head.
“I don’t want the police here. Do as I tell you, please.”
Mr. Superbus tried to lift a foot and winced; his rheumatism had “come on” again.
“I won’t leave you here by yourself,” he said unsteadily; “it would be cowardly, leaving a lady by herself.”
From the hall there was one entrance to The Study. You might reach it, however, through the small ante-room which Gordon used as a book store. He refused to dignify the place with the description of “library.”
“Stay here,” she whispered, and sped along the dark passage.
The door was unlocked, the smell of books came to her in the darkness, and she stepped stealthily into the room, pistol in hand.
The second door into The Study opened. The big room was in darkness except for the faint light of the painted window.
“Hands up!” she called. “I see you!”
The light control was at the other end of the room—she felt cautiously forward. She had taken a few steps when the door into the hall jerked open and a figure darted through, slamming the door....
Superbus would have him, she thought exultantly as she ran in pursuit. But there was no sound of struggle, and when she flew into the hall it was empty.
“Mr. Superbus!” she called.
“Here, ma’am.” He came out of The Study behind her. “I follered you,” he said; “it wasn’t right to let a lady take risks. Did you see him?”
“Oh, why didn’t you do as I told you?” she wailed.
“My duty was to foller you.” Julius was dogged. “It was safer.”
Which was true.
She put on all the lights of The Study. Nothing apparently had been disturbed except——
She had left the pointer of the combination on the letter “X.” It was now on “A.”
“Bring in the tea,” she said, and continued her inspection.
Mr. Superbus returned with the tray she had filled.
“What we want are cloos,” he said gently, so gently that she did not hear him aright.
“The wine cellars are closed. I don’t want the bother of unlocking them—and I never drink.”
“Cloos,” said Julius loudly.
“Oh! I thought you said ... well, find some.”
Bent double, he prowled round the room. Diana ate biscuits ravenously.
“Somebody has been here,” he pointed to the big chair near the fireplace. “Look at that cushion—there’s the mark of a head.”
“Mine,” she was laconic, a trifle unkind. “Look for cigar-ash, my dear Watson!”
He eyed her with a certain amount of suspicion which was largely justified.
“Come and eat,” she said, and dropped the biscuit tin within reach. “Now how on earth did he get out?”
“Who?”
“Doub—Uncle Isaac.” She corrected her error instantly.
Julius could afford to smile.
“He didn’t get out. I’ve never left my post, ma’am. My own theory is that it was a burglar.”
“How did he leave the house?” she asked. “The front door is still chained and bolted. He must still be in the house.”
“Don’t say that, miss—ma’am,” begged Julius nervously. “If he was in this house I wouldn’t be responsible for myself. I go mad when I see burglars—that’s why the doctor ordered me to keep away from ’em.”
“He’s in the house; probably hiding in the kitchen. Have some biscuits; when I’ve finished my tea we’ll go look for him.”
Julius had no appetite.
“This is a case for the regular police,” he said earnestly. “They’re paid for it, anyway. The Government supports their widows. Besides,” unselfishly, “they get promotion for capturing burglars. I believe in doing somebody a good turn whenever I can. Shall I get a copper?”
She motioned him to remain.
“Stay here: I will look.”
He refused to stay. His place was by her side and a little behind her. He liked the way shehandled that Browning. She seemed the kind of woman who would stand no nonsense.
The kitchen drew blank.
“I never thought he was here,” she said. “No, it was Uncle Isaac.”
Mr. Superbus, back in The Study, propounded a startling theory.
“There’s such things as subterranean passages,” he said. “I’ve seen ’em. You push back a panel and there’s a flight of stairs, leading to an underground vault. You touch a spring——”
“There are no springs to be touched at 61 Cheynel Gardens,” she said, “and no panels, and no underground vaults except the cellar where the furnace is. Go down and satisfy yourself.”
Mr. Superbus countered graciously that her word was sufficient.
The hour was a quarter after four o’clock. Mr. Superbus lit the fire, going very slowly down to the kitchen to find the kindling wood, and coming very swiftly up again. His teeth were chattering: it was very chilly in the kitchen, he said.
“There was nothing to hurt you in the kitchen,” she said.
Julius was amused.
“Hurtme? I’d like to see the thing that tried it on! I don’t know what fear is, ma’am. All our family is that way. My brother Augustus walks through a churchyard every night from the Duchesses’ Arms——”
“Does she know him so well—how odd!” she said.
“It’s the name of an inn, ma’am. He’s married. Yes, he walks through the churchyard and he’s never seen anything. His wife—she’s got a bitter tongue—says that she’s not surprised. He can’t see her by the time he gets home. My sister Agrippa is as brave as a lion—it runs in the family. What’s that!”
He half rose. From the hall came the sound of stealthy footsteps.
“Go out and see.”
She reached for the gun.
Mr. Superbus went reluctantly, making a wide detour. You can as easily see into the hall from the far side of the room as from the doorway. She saw him creep slowly onward until he was in a position, by stretching his neck, to command a view of the hall.
“Don’t shoot, ma’am,” he quavered; “it’s Aunt!”
Heloise advanced into the room, a scowl on her face.
“What’s the trouble?” she demanded. “I heard somebody running upstairs.”
Her eyes fell on the biscuit tin. She reached for a handful, sat down before the unlit fire and munched moodily.
“There’s a cat and canary feeling about this house,” she said. “I wish I was home!”
Diana was impressed by the abysmal dejection of the woman.
“Get another cup and saucer, Mr. Superbus,” she said. “Aunt Lizzie would like some tea.”
Julius had gone down on his knees before the fireplace, in that attitude resembling a priest of some mystic sect of fire-worshippers. Straightening his back, he looked up anxiously.
“You will find a cup and saucer on the servery at the end of the passage,” said Diana. “You need not go down to the kitchen.”
Julius rose with relief.
“Idon’t mind the kitchen,” he said untruly.
It was Heloise who lit the fire and crouched above it, folded arms on knees, staring down at the little banners of flame. It seemed to herthat a million years had passed since she had discussed anybody’s soul. Watching her, Diana had a view of a delicately moulded cheek and the tip of a well-shaped nose, and experienced an inexplicable wave of compassion toward the woman.
“What is Double Dan to you?” she asked.
Heloise shrugged her left shoulder.
“Are you married to him?”
Mrs. van Oynne was sensitive to atmosphere. No English barometer (the most restless of all scientific instruments except perhaps a Japanese seismograph) was quite as responsive to the emotions of others as was the little detector which registered sympathy in the nimble brain of Heloise.
“Some day I will tell you,” she said, in a tone of deepest melancholy, “but not now—not now!”
She drew a long, shivering sigh.
“I don’t suppose you’re following this kind of life for the fun of it,” Diana went on, her heart softening toward her unwilling guest.
“You’ve said it!” Heloise nodded slowly.
“If I could do anything—” began Diana.
Mr. Superbus arrived with the extra cup andsaucer, and confidences were temporarily sidetracked.
“Sleep well, Aunt Lizzie?” asked Julius, drinking audibly.
She shook her head.
“No, I can’t sleep in strange beds. Besides, I’ve got trouble—big trouble. People can’t sleep when they’re in trouble.”
“Ah!” said Julius wisely. “My theory is that youhaveslept.”
She looked round at him over her shoulder.
“Where do you get that theory? Don’t you think I know whether I slept or not, you poor ... Mr. Superbus?”
“No,” said Julius calmly; “there’s one thing nobody knows—you can never know that you’re asleep. You’re a bit of a sonombulist?” he asked with elaborate carelessness.
“How’s that?”
“Sonombulist—walk in your sleep. I got an idea I saw you about one o’clock?”
She turned her face away to the contemplation of the fire.
“Got ideas too? That mind of yours is surely active. If I thought you’d seen me at oneo’clock, why, I’d die right here at this very minute. I was taking off—you married?”
Julius, with some complacence, confessed that he was.
“Well, I guess I can discuss corsets without offending against Public Morality. You didn’t see me at one o’clock—I’d be sorry to think you had.”
Julius was embarrassed but not completely discouraged.
“Maybe it was three o’clock—I saw somebody coming downstairs. Ha ha, Aunt Lizzie, I saw you!”
He lifted a roguish finger.
“You’re nutty,” she said tersely, yawned and got up. “I guess I could sleep now. And I’m going to hang a stocking over the keyhole of my door.” She directed this remark at Mr. Superbus and he choked indignantly at the base insinuation.
“Did you see her?” asked Diana after Heloise had gone.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t,” admitted Julius. “You can often get people to confess that way. It’s called the Third Decree in America. I’ve triedit myself. We had a charwoman help once who used to pinch my tobacco for her husband. I tried it on her—and other cases.”
“You think it was Aunt Lizzie that was in the room?”
“Certain!” said Julius. “Notice how quiet she walks? That’s a bad sign——”
“Notice how she reeks of Origon?” mimicked Diana.
“I didn’t see her reeking,” admitted Mr. Superbus, confused.
“I wonder you didn’t—those heavy perfumes are almost visible. And there was no scent of Origon in the room—no fresh scent, anyway.”
It was still dark when she drew up the blind and looked out. She felt very wide awake without knowing exactly in what manner her activity might be best employed.
“Take this key, go up into Uncle Isaac’s room, open the door quietly and see if he is there. And then get out—quick!”
Julius did not like that word “quick!” Climbing the stairs leisurely, he listened at the door of Uncle Isaac’s room. There was no sound. Which was satisfactory. On the other hand, thevery stillness might be ominous. Mad people are notoriously cunning. He remembered gruesome stories he had heard of cat-footed maniacs who had crept up behind their guards and cut their throats with pieces of old iron secretly sharpened.
Julius Superbus drew a long breath. The blood of his Cæsarian ancestors ran a little coldly; the pumping station under his left-hand waistcoat pocket increased its thump noisily. Again he listened. If Uncle Isaac was asleep, he would make no noise. Therefore, if there was no sound, he must be asleep. He went downstairs again.
“Sleeping like an innocent child,” he reported, “one ’and under his cheek an’ a sort of smile on his face.”
She took the key from his hand and looked at it.
“You went in?”
“Right in,” said Julius, sunning his back at the fire. “Put on the light, had a good look around.”
She looked at the flat steel in her hand.
“I only asked you,” she said, “because I gave you the key of The Study by mistake.”
Julius was a man of infinite resource.
“I’ve got a way of opening doors that’s known only to three people in the world.”
“Come up with me,” she said, rising. “I’ve got a way too—I use the right key.”
He walked behind her, temporarily at a disadvantage.
She opened the door of Gordon’s prison quickly and snapped on the light.
The room was empty.
Knottedto the bedstead was a rope. It was of amateur make, being three strips of blanket plaited together, and the rope led through the open window.
Diana looked down. The end of the rope dangled less than six feet from the window-sill. He must have dropped twenty feet to the stone flags below.
“That’s funny,” said Superbus, game to the last. “When I looked in——”
“Let us keep to facts,” begged Diana, her youthful brows wrinkled. “What is the use of a rope if it only falls him a few feet from the sill—and why didn’t he pull the bed to the window?”
She pulled the bed herself—it moved easily. The weight of a man would have drawn it across the floor.
Thoughtfully she took stock of the apartment. In one corner stood a long, mirror-fronted wardrobe. Drawing her Browning, she pulled open the door.
“Come out, please,” she said coldly.
Gordon stepped forth with some dignity.
Standing in the doorway, Mr. Superbus witnessed the astonishing spectacle and shook his head reproachfully.
“Uncle Isaac, Uncle Isaac!” he said reprovingly. “I never thought you’d play a trick like that on an old friend!”
“Will you kindly tell me why you destroyed my bed linen?” asked Diana, and her cool claim to the ownership of anything in the house aroused Gordon to fury.
“Your bed linen is my bed linen!” he spluttered.
She raised her hand.
“We will not go into that matter, Uncle Isaac,” she said with freezing politeness. “Will you be kind enough to draw in the blanket and close the window? It will be light soon, and I have no wish to give the milkman a topic for discussion. I have my cousin’s interests to guard.”
“Send for Bobbie,” said Gordon, suddenly quiet. “I don’t think he will have any doubt as to who I am.”
“If by ‘Bobbie’ you mean Mr. Robert Selsbury,” said Diana, “I’ve already telephoned to him. He is out of town—probably decoyed away by your agents.”
Gordon was stricken to silence. The last avenue of escape was closed.
“Very well,” he said. “I promise you I will give you no further trouble.”
He pulled in the rope, let down the window and drew the blinds.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, “I would like to go to sleep. I have been up the whole of the night.”
She nodded.
“You may sleep, but Mr. Superbus will sit in this room. I will lock the door on you both——”
“Personally, I prefer sitting outside,” said Mr. Superbus hastily. “I should like a smoke.”
“You will remain,” said Diana with firmness.
“If he does, I’ll chuck him out of the window,” said Gordon savagely.
Mr. Superbus backed from the room.
“He’ll be all right, ma’am—miss,” he said. “Trust old Uncle Isaac.”
Diana knew that it was useless to insist. She shut the door on her captive and went down to The Study, being confident that he would make no further attempt at escape.
She must get in touch with Bobbie, must even risk his annoyance at being dragged from his bedat that unearthly hour. She took up the telephone and put through a call. It was answered with surprising rapidity. The voice of an unknown man spoke: she guessed it was Bobbie’s servant.
“It is Miss Ford speaking. Can I speak to Mr. Selsbury?”
“He hasn’t been home all night, miss. I’ve been sitting up for him. He said he might get into London at daybreak.”
“Where is he?” she asked.
“He’s gone to Ostend, miss. He telephoned me from Dover.”
The news was unexpected and a little alarming.
“Has he gone alone?” she asked.
“To the best of my knowledge and belief, miss,” said Bobbie’s man, tactfully, diplomatically and legally.
Diana hung up the receiver. Had they lured Bobbie, she wondered?
Bobbie Selsburyhad gone to Victoria to rescue his brother at the eleventh hour from a situation which could be mildly described as dangerous. He had searched one Continental train from end to end, and was half way through another when the guard’s whistle sounded, and he was faced with the alternatives of leaving his search incomplete or going on to Dover. He decided upon the latter course, continuing his inspection of the compartments, roving Pullman cars, peeping in upon indignant honeymoon couples, without discovering the object of his search. At Dover he discovered that there had been a relief train leave Victoria at a quarter to eleven; the passengers were already on the steamer. Gordon may have come by that, he thought, and made his decision.
He had no passport, but most of the restrictions affecting Continental travel, especially travel to Belgium, had been removed, and he was able to convince the passport officer at the barrier thathis business was of such urgency, and his identity so well established, that a little licence might be extended to him; and, on the promise that he would return after leaving the ship, he was allowed to pass to the quayside.
He stopped only to get a call through to London, and, by great good luck, found the Dover-London wire disengaged. The boat was crowded, and he was no sooner on board than he saw how impossible it was to make sure that Gordon was not on the boat by a search whilst the ship was in port. ThePrincess Julianacarried Bobbie to sea. He arrived at Ostend at four o’clock in the afternoon, having satisfied himself that, although there were many suspicious characters on the ship, Gordon and Mrs. van Oynne were not two of them.
He spent two hours seeking the British Vice-Consul and persuading that gentleman to give him the necessary certificate to be readmitted, and to placate the passport officer on the other side, who had already been notified of his unauthorized departure.
Very few of the Ostend hotels were open, but Bobbie made a tour of all, examining their visitors’ books. Gordon was not in Ostend. Thatwas a relief. He might have changed his mind at the last moment and gone to Paris, but that was unlikely. Bobbie believed his brother, though he imposed the limit of strain upon his credulity.
He returned to Dover by the night boat, and came in the grey dawn to the port, where he was held for two hours by the outraged passport authorities, missing the boat train and finally catching a slow train from the town station. He arrived in London at ten, unshaven, weary and irritable, and he did then what he might well have done at first—he drove straight to Scotland Yard, and, fortune favouring him, found Inspector Carslake in his room. Carslake and he had been in France together, and for twelve months had worked side by side in the Intelligence Bureau, where enemy regiments were identified and their positions plotted, by methods which would have puzzled cleverer people than my dear Watson.
As briefly as possible Bobbie told his story, and the inspector listened with unusual interest.
“It’s curious you should come to me. I have charge of the Double Dan cases, and I must say that this looks like a typical coup of his.”
“Gordon isn’t an easy man to impersonate,” warned Bobbie, “though I told him he was when I was trying to scare him.”
“Anybody is easy to Double Dan,” said Carslake at once. “Tall, short, thin or fat. He’s a specialist—the only man at the game as far as I know. You didn’t see the woman, Mrs. van Oynne?”
Bobbie shook his head.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“He will do nothing till Monday,” said Carslake thoughtfully. “Dan only works in banking hours, but when he does work he moves! I take off my hat to Dan—he’s clever.”
“Who is he?”
“A man named Throgood. He used to be an actor—I believe he’s played opposite some of the best people in America. He was the English dude type. He himself is English or Welsh. His partner is an American or a Canadian, and an ex-chorus girl. Maybe it’s the same—rather slight, short, with golden hair, blue eyes?”
Bobbie shook his head.
“Doesn’t sound like Mrs. van Oynne,” he said, hope dawning in his breast. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. You’re sure?”
Carslake nodded.
“We trailed her to Paris and missed her. I shouldn’t think he’d be working again for a very long time. He likes to allow the excitement to die down, and I shouldn’t think that he’d take on a new partner; they require very careful training.” He chuckled. “Double Dan’s getting on the nerves of some of your commercial people,” he said, “but I don’t think I should worry very much about him. Anyway, I’ll come along and see you on Monday.”
Bobbie went home, feeling happier than he had been for the past twenty-four hours.
Hisservant had news for him.
“Miss Ford rang you up this morning, sir.”
“Oh, what had she to say?” Bobbie turned, lather brush in hand.
“She only asked if you were at home.”
“What time was this?”
“About five o’clock, sir.”
“Five o’clock! You graven image, why didn’t you tell me?”
Lathered as he was, he dashed to the telephone and got through to Diana.
“Is that you, Bobbie? Can I see you to-day?”
“I’ll come at once.”
There was a silence at the other end of the wire.
“I don’t think you need come at once,” said Diana. “Just call in—don’t be surprised if you find somebody here you’ve heard me speak about.”
“Not Dempsi?” he asked, astonished.
“Yes, he is ... staying for a day or two. I’ll explain when you come.”
Bobbie whistled softly.
He lunched in the gloomy solitude of his club (it was Sunday, the day on which all clubs are at their worst) and early in the afternoon strolled round to Cheynel Gardens. The door was opened by a stage butler. Bobbie looked fascinated at the glittering display of shirt-front and the ill-fitting dress suit, several times too small for its wearer.
“Mrs. Ford is in The Study,” said the apparition gruffly.
Bobbie gazed in wonder; the servitor with the concertina trousers might have stepped out from any burlesque of any triangle drama. Had there been printed across the dazzling shirt-front “James: an old family servant, devoted to the children,” he could not have been more obvious.
“So you’re the new butler?”
The new butler put his hand on his heart, bowed and growled:
“Yes, sir—name of Smith.” He was squinting, his face fearfully distorted.
“Well, I’m going to call you Superbus. Take that look off your face and stop looking round corners.”
Mr. Superbus obeyed. He was for a while disappointed.
“Lord, sir, did you recognise me?” he asked. “Maybe Mrs. Ford told you?”
Bobbie smiled derisively.
“Recognise you! Good heavens, why, you absolutely shouted! I spotted you the moment I saw you!”
“That’s funny,” said Mr. Superbus. “My good lady always says that when I disguise my face that way she would pass me in the street.”
“How can you blame her? Who wouldn’t pass you in the street with that face? Even your wife has some illusions left, I suppose. Now, Superbus, what is the game?”
Julius was all innocence. A wreath of wild flowers about his head would not have made him more coyishly artless. Bobbie was not deceived.
“Game, sir?”
“Why are you in this house, got up like a comic seneschal? Does Miss Ford know who you are?”
Mr. Superbus closed the door quickly and put his finger to his lips.
“’Ush!” he said mysteriously.
Bobbie waited.
“Well, I’m ’ushing,” he said impatiently.
Julius tiptoed to The Study and beckoned him through the doorway. He had the air of a respectable conspirator; one who knew that whenever the mine exploded he would be out of the way and could, in certain eventualities, be an acceptable witness for the prosecution.
“She sent for me,” he said darkly. “Asked me to come and stay here—I come! Could I refuse? If there’s any danger I like to be on the spot. That’s me!”
Bobbie thought he understood Diana’s motive. She wanted a man in the house; he was not alone in respecting the genius of Double Dan.
“Oh, I see. Sensible girl!”
Mr. Superbus nodded.
“Yes, sir, very sensible. I don’t know anybody sensibler. She came to the right man. Me.”
“I was talking to myself,” a little stiffly.
Julius inclined his head again.
“Yes, sir; we both heard you,” he said. “I’ve got wonderful ears.”
“I understand Miss Ford was alone in the house and she asked you to come and stay? I’m glad.”
“Well, not exactly alone,” explained Mr. Superbus, loath to share the honours which were rightly his as Chief Protector. “Of course, there’s Uncle Isaac.”
Bobbie’s mouth opened.
“Unc—Uncle Isaac? Uncle Isaac who?”
Julius had meant to ask this question at the first opportunity.
“I don’t know his other name—very bad-tempered gentleman. He has fits; and....” He tapped his forehead, but Bobbie did not grasp the sense of the pantomime.
“Uncle Isaac! Suffering Moses!”
Mr. Superbus shook his head.
“No, sir,hehasn’t come yet. They must be Hebrew gentlemen. Only Uncle Isaac and Mr. Dempsi.”
Bobbie knew about Dempsi.
“—and Aunt Lizzie,” concluded Julius.
Bobbie staggered, grasped the mantelpiece for support, and turned a wan countenance to the shirt-fronted butler. The unreality of the position was intensified. Presently Julius would produce two rabbits and a bowl of goldfish from a silk hat, and Diana would skip on to the scene in a ballet dress and a fixed smile. And then Bobbie would wake up.
“Do you mind pouring out a drink?” he asked faintly. “My hand’s not steady.”
The Great Detective opened the tantalus with an air of pride and poured forth a potion.
“Say ‘when,’”he said. He would have made a good barman, he was so talkative.
“Aunt Lizzie, I think you said?”
Bobbie had reviewed his relations, but no Aunt Lizzie showed in their serried ranks.
“Yes, sir—she came with Uncle Isaac, yesterday afternoon. Rare pretty young lady she is too. Naturally she and Uncle Isaac don’t get on well together. Fancy calling her Lizzie! It’s common. And when there’s nice names like Maud and Ethel and Agnes to choose from.”
Bobbie got back to normal with a struggle.
“Why—why shouldn’t she be called Lizzie? It’s—it’s an auntish name. Aunt Lizzie!”
Mr. Superbus helped himself from the decanter. He it was who had discovered the tantalus in a cabinet. And rights of discoverers are indisputable.
“Good health, sir!” he said, and drank.
“Aunt Lizzie!” muttered Bobbie.
“What I can’t understand,” said Julius, wiping his mouth deftly, “is, when she’s got a good name like Heloise—that’s what he calls her when they’re alone....”
It was not the whisky, for he had not drunk thereof; nor the smell of it, for the aroma hadnot reached him. The room suddenly spun before his eyes. He saw twenty-four Superbuses wiping twenty-four moustaches.
“Heloise! Heloise!” he muttered. “Has she—has she got hair dark as the raven’s?”
Julius considered. He had never met a raven, but he understood that it was a very dark bird.
“Yes, sir.”
“And eyes that probe your soul?” asked Bobbie.
Again the detective considered.
“Well, she ain’t done any probing as far as I’m concerned,” he confessed, “but there’s something about them that’s—well, peculiar.”
“And the sweetest voice in the world?”
Here again Mr. Superbus was handicapped by a lack of experience. Voices were just voices to him.
“I’ve never heard her singing,” he confessed, “or talking much. She swears a bit at Uncle Isaac, which in my opinion isn’t ladylike. Nor smoking, for the matter of that. The way some of these ladies smoke is very sad. Smoking stunts the growth—which a doctor told me, and what a doctor don’t know ain’t worth knowing.”
Bobbie interrupted him.
“Where—where is Uncle Isaac?”
The reply came like a thunderclap.
“Cleaning the silver.”
Bobbie reeled.
“Cleaning the silver!” he said, dazed. “I’ll wake up in a minute.” He pinched himself, Mr. Superbus watching and ready to offer suggestions. They were unnecessary: Bobbie found a tender spot. “I’m awake—it’s real. Uncle Isaac is cleaning the silver! Where are the servants—the other servants?”
Julius could take exception at the “other.”
“Miss Ford sent them out, if you mean the servants. I’m here professional. I don’t mind tellin’ you, sir, that my job is to see that Uncle Isaac don’t go out too.”
Bobbie began at last to see daylight. If it was Gordon, his desire for liberty was not only pardonable but praiseworthy.
“Does he want to go?”
Julius thought the question unnecessary. Surely a member of the family knew all about the family skeletons? At the same time it was only natural that he should pretend he didn’t. Julius was a just man.
“He’s a bit nutty. See what I mean? He’s got delusions, hallucinations—to use a medical expression. Sees things, thinks he’s somebody else. I’ve had hundreds of such cases through my hands.”
“But who put him to clean the silver?” insisted Bobbie.
“Miss Ford. Said it would keep him occupied.”
A step in the hall, a heavy step.
“That’s him coming now. Don’t be afraid of Uncle Isaac, sir: he’s as harmless as a child——”
Gordon came in at that moment, but stopped dead at the sight of the visitor. He was in his shirt-sleeves, he carried a duster in his hand, his front was covered with a large white apron and a bib that was kept in place by a pin. Bobbie could not speak—he could only stare and stare.
“By heavens, it’s—Uncle Isaac!” he said in a voice that was almost inaudible to Mr. Superbus.
“You know him, sir?” he smiled. “I thought it would be very strange if you didn’t. Members of the same family, so to speak, and very likely inflicted in the same way.”
“Ye-yes, I know him.”
Mr. Superbus approached the unhappy object of their discussion.
“Do you want something, Uncle Isaac?” heasked kindly, and patted Gordon’s arm. So broken was Mr. Selsbury’s spirit that his keeper remained alive and uninjured.
“Yes—no,” he said hoarsely.
Julius shook his head.
“He can’t make up his mind about anything. It takes you that way. I wonder how he ever got married.”
Gordon steadied himself.
“Where is—Aunt Lizzie?” he gulped.
“In her room, Uncle Isaac, reading.”
For a second Gordon’s face was contorted.
“Don’t call me uncle,” he grated, holding himself in hand. “I’m notyouruncle, anyway.”
“No, sir,” admitted Julius. “I haven’t got any uncles. Not as far as I know. They run in some families and they don’t run in others.”
Suddenly his brow clouded, and he glared at Gordon with such intense malignity that even Bobbie quailed.
“Here—I’ve just got an idea in my head, sir,” he slowly, “a sort of inspiration.Isthat Uncle Isaac?”
Bobbie started.
“Eh?”
“Do you know Uncle Isaac?” The idea orinspiration had taken firm hold of his imagination. “Suppose Double Dan was passin’ himself off as him!”
Bobbie looked past the man to his brother. Gordon was frowning and shaking his head. He wished to keep in the character of the patriarch for some extraordinary reason.
“Oh, yes,” said Bobbie, “that is Uncle Isaac.” He was almost breathless.
Julius was not immediately convinced.
“Are you sure?” dubiously.
Bobbie became very confident.
“Oh, rather! That is Uncle Isaac all right—how absurd, of course it is Uncle Isaac. I knew him in a minute.”
No man readily sacrifices his inspirations—Julius was but human, though there were moments when this was hard to believe.
“Oh!” he said disappointedly. “Mind you, Double Dan’s clever.”
“Nonsense!” said Bobbie with loud scorn. “He couldn’t impersonate Uncle Isaac. I would know him anywhere!”
“Oh, couldn’t he ...!” sneered Superbus. “You don’t know Double Dan!”
Bobbie had done some quick thinking. Hemust talk to Gordon alone. Mr. Superbus being impervious to the hints which followed:
“I want to have a little talk with my uncle,” said Bobbie, “on family business. Do you mind leaving us alone for a minute?”
Julius was in two minds about the matter.
“Don’t let him escape,” he cautioned. “He’s as artful as a monkey! You ought to hear what he did to me last night!”
“Certainly not.” Bobbie was ready to promise that he would bring his brother to execution.
Still Mr. Superbus lingered. Diana had gone out, leaving instructions which were to be carried out to the letter. Julius was a stickler for duty.
“And don’t let him telephone.”
Even this Bobbie promised, and Julius took a reluctant leave.
“I’ll be on hand if he’s troublesome,” he said from the doorway. “Now, no larks, uncle!”
“Uncle” mutely promised.
The portal closed, Bobbie went softly and listened. For a few seconds he waited, and then jerked open the door. Julius was stooping to lace his shoes. A less inquisitive man might have been suspected of having his ear to the keyhole.
“Want me?” he asked with a blameless smile.
“No,” said Bobbie, so emphatically that Mr. Superbus could not mistake his meaning. The door closed again.
“Gordon, what on earth——?”
Gordon threw out despairing arms.
“Bobbie, I’m in a hell of a mess,” he said, his tone one of anguish beyond remedy.
“What has happened—what does it mean?” asked the bewildered Bobbie. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me before?”
Gordon’s gesture cut short his questioning.
“I tried to telephone you, but I couldn’t get on, and ever since, that infernal jackass has been keeping guard over the instrument. Is it a crime to kill an amateur detective? I’ve forgotten. I know that in some circumstances murder is justifiable.”
“What has happened?” asked Bobbie again.
For fully three minutes Gordon paced the room, so agitated that he could not steady his voice. His relief at Bobbie’s arrival had brought the inevitable reaction. Presently he grew calmer.
“When I got to the station to meet—you know——”
“Heloise?”
Gordon winced. He didn’t want to talk about Heloise. The very sound of her name gave him a little pain.
“I found her in a state of terrible fear. You can imagine how I felt when she told me that her husband was watching the barriers and thirsting for my blood! She wanted me to go on and await her, but of course I bolted back; went to the hotel to change, and found that the valet who had my bag and had taken it to the station parcels office, was away for the week-end. I came home, and she must have followed.”
“Heloise?”
Gordon swallowed something.
“Say ‘she’ or ‘her,’”he begged. “I feel better about her when she’s a pronoun!”
“She must have followed?” repeated Bobbie in horror. “Then sheishere! She—she isn’t Aunt Lizzie by any chance?”
“SheisAunt Lizzie! Aunt Lizzie! Oh, Bobbie, isn’t this the most awful thing that ever happened? What am I going to do? I can’t leave the house——”
“But why?” asked Bobbie, thunderstruck.
No man stood less in need of cross-examination at that moment than Gordon. He had hopesthat Bobbie, with his curious insight into human affairs, would accept the situation without demanding analysis.
“I can’t understand,” began Bobbie. “You’ve only to explain to Diana——”
Gordon’s laugh was harsh. Bobbie had heard him laugh once before like that—when he was recovering from gas after having a tooth out.
“I haven’t told you the worst,” said Gordon gloomily. “Diana found me here and accused me of being Double Dan. I was struck dumb. The idea was so grotesque that I could not find words to answer her. Suppose somebody came to you in the street and accused you of murder, what would you say? Something amusing? I haven’t the gift of persiflage. I could have got out of it even then, but that infernal woman made her appearance and hung round my neck! In a sense she was justified. Diana threatened to shoot her. A woman doesn’t like that. What was I to do? My dilemma was a terrible one! I had the alternative of admitting that I was Double Dan, impersonator and teller of plausible stories, or of telling the unbelievable truth, which means that she would have thought that I was engaged in a vulgar affair with Heloise.”
This argument seemed very sound to Bobbie.
“Who called her Aunt Lizzie?” he asked. He might have saved himself the trouble.
“Who do you think?” asked Gordon bitterly. “Diana! Bobbie, that girl is driving me mad! Why did she come from Australia to upset my life? And I’m a member of the British Empire League! Curse the Empire! Diana is terrible! She is carrying on with Dempsi under my eyes. The most shocking little cad! A bounder of bounders! And Bobbie, she pretends to be a widow! I don’t know whose widow—I sometimes think it is mine. If that is so, the things she says about me are enough to make me turn in my grave!”
Bobbie was very grave and thoughtful. This was a situation so bizarre that it could not be tested by his own experience.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Deuced awkward, old man.”
Gordon had expected some other comment. In all the conditions “deuced awkward” seemed rather mild.
“You’ve got to help me get out of this,” he said impatiently. “And we’ve got to deal drastically with Dempsi. Why, he wanted to marry herthis afternoon! Said he knew a place that specialised in Sunday afternoon marriages! The parson called twice! Dempsi carries a special license in his pocket, the hateful little dago! I shall do something desperate. I shall shoot them both.”
Bobbie was looking at him curiously. His real anger was so patently directed toward Dempsi, whose chief offence seemed to be that he wanted to marry Diana: which seemed a reasonable and laudable ambition.
“I shouldn’t shoot them,” said Bobbie slowly. “You’ll only get yourself talked about. And besides, I don’t see that it is any business of yours. They were old friends, lovers——”
“Do you want to drive me mad?” snarled Gordon. “Lovers! They were never lovers! Diana—Diana, of all women in the world, to—to—carry on like this! Encouraging him—there’s no other word for it! Diana, whom I believed the very soul of modesty!”