The room in which Richard found himself was of modest size and unpretentious in decoration. Its walls were panelled in white and below the fireless grate was a second door leading to a small bedroom. There were no curtains to the windows which were closely shuttered, the shutters themselves being made of steel plates rivetted together and held in place by a series of dropping bars. Apparently some system of burglar alarm had been installed, an exceptionally large electric bell being fitted in the framing where, normally, the cornice poles would have run. Glancing over his shoulder Richard observed the absence of a handle to the door through which he had been admitted. A plain deal table occupied the centre of the room, with a couple of hard upright kitchen chairs, one on either side. There was no carpet nor any rug upon the floor. A single unshaded electric light bulb hung from the ceiling.
"Hospitable sort of place," he remarked and passed through to the bedroom, the door of which was on a spring and closed behind him.
Beyond the presence of a bed of extremely uncomfortable appearance the same severity confronted him. There was neither washstand nor dressing table, chair nor picture. Nothing to read, nothing to look at. The windows were shuttered and, as in the other room, a single light point was the only illumination. High up above the bed was the mouthpiece of what looked like a motor horn. This and an iron ventilating register let into the wall a couple of feet away from the pillow were the only objects that provided any variety in the way of decoration.
The atmosphere of the place, though chilly, had a distinct sense of oppression. There was no vitality in the air—it breathed mossy and damp.
"Do with an open window," said Richard and moved toward the shutters. He had hardly covered half the distance when the lights went out with startling suddenness. There was something distinctly eerie in the absolute darkness in which he found himself. He stretched out a hand and felt for the nearest wall like a blind man, groped his way to the door and opened it. But the other room was also in pitchy blackness.
"Fuse gone somewhere," he conjectured. "May as well try and get to a chair and wait till the lights come on."
Roughly memorising the position of the furniture he made for the centre of the room with hands extended. The effort was a failure and brought him to the opposing wall. Accordingly he turned and tried again on a slightly altered course. He had hardly taken three steps when he received a shock. His left hand touched something rough but soft. There was a sense of warmth about it but no movement. Richard started violently and caught his breath.
"What's that?" he cried.
But there was no answer.
Standing very still he listened. The house was deathly silent and he could almost hear the pulsing of his heart. Then very faintly he became aware of another sound—the gentle hiss of a man breathing.
"Now we know where we are," thought Richard bracing himself up. "Sneaked in while I was looking at the bedroom, I suppose. Not going to let those idiots frighten me with bogey tricks."
As quietly as possible he went down on all fours and ran his fingers across the floor boards in a semi-circle. They had not travelled very far before encountering the hard edge of a boot sole. That was good enough for Richard. Judging the distance nicely he seized its owner's ankle in an iron grip and springing to his feet lifted it high into the air and flung it backward. There was a squeal and a crash as the chair went over and Richard broke into a laugh.
"Look here, Laurence," he said. "I've had enough of your practical jokes tonight. You'll get hurt one of these days if you go on being so funny."
And without warning the lights went up.
Laurence was scrambling to his feet, rubbing the back of his head ruefully, and there were two other men in the room. The first was a stranger to Richard and the second, who stood by the door, was one of the servants. The stranger was a shrewd-looking young man of moderately prepossessing appearance. He nodded to Richard as to an old acquaintance.
"We meet again," he remarked affably, "though you don't appear to recognise me."
"Well you're not much to remember," replied Richard whose temper was a little frayed.
"My name is Smith. Had the honour of sharing your taxi to Hendon the other day. You were good enough to ask me in for a drink."
It was clearly the moment to be noncommittal.
"If you've come to get it," said Richard, "you'll be unlucky."
"Just thought I'd like to take a look at you, that's all."
He rose to his feet, for he had been occupying the second chair and scanned Richard's face closely. A shadow of perplexity showed in the wrinkles of his forehead.
"Sorry I'm not looking my best," said Richard, with an uneasy feeling of having been detected.
"Hm!" said the young man called Smith, "I'm not very often wrong about things like that but I can't remember those humorous lines at the corners of your eyes."
"Ah!" said Richard, "but I hadn't seen the humour of the situation when last we met."
"Bad light, I suppose," the young man nodded. "Still, it's rather surprising. Thanks, Mr. Laurence, I think that'll do. Goodnight, sir."
"Oh, goodnight. Drop in whenever you feel like it."
"I may." He moved toward the door then turned suddenly. "By the way,I've a message for you."
"Yes?"
"Pineapple." He spoke the word incisively.
Richard shook his head.
"Haven't the smallest idea what you mean," he said, "but not to seem lacking in appreciation, bananas or any other fruit you've a fancy for."
The door opened and closed behind the three retreating forms and once again the room was plunged into darkness.
The business of getting into bed was embarrassed by the constant reverses of light into darkness and back again. There appeared to be no specified period for either—sometimes the light would burn ten minutes—sometimes two and sometimes would merely flash up and down. A more successful irritant could hardly have been devised. The shock of the extreme contrast was in itself enough to infuriate an ordinary individual. Richard would gladly have accepted total darkness in preference to the blinding changes. This, however, was no part of his tormentors' programme—it was clearly evident they intended to prey upon his nerves as actively as possible. He reflected that no doubt many other devices were in preparation to induce him to speak. There was this talk of pineapple which appeared to carry with it some kind of threat.
"Pineapple. Why the deuce should pineapple loosen a man's tongue?" he said aloud as he struggled into a pair of pyjamas that had been laid on the bed. "Might make his mouth water perhaps but——"
At this particular moment the lights came on and he was able to finish undressing and nip between the sheets before the darkness fell again.
He observed with satisfaction that there was nothing funny about the bed. It was soft and "cushy" and there were ample coverings. It was vastly more comfortable than the bench which had supported him during the preceding nights and this in itself was something to be grateful for. After all, even if these earnest financiers perpetrated a few ill-humoured practical jokes upon him he was being absurdly overpaid to endure them.
Five thousand pounds for a fortnight's badgering. Who wouldn't put up with a bit of discomfort for that. The wily Hun had handed him over far more substantial terrors than these gentlemen were likely to command and his pay for enduring them had worked out at approximately three pound ten a week. He fell to considering in what manner he would invest his earnings and a very attractive farming scheme in New Zealand began to formulate prettily. Farming had always appealed to him and there was a spot in the Canterbury district which had taken his fancy when he had visited the South Island two years before. There were green plains there and lettuce green woods and it was watered by a network of fast running streams, great and little, where fat rainbow trout sunned themselves in the shallows or leapt and jostled where the water tumbled creaming over rock and boulder. By Gad! it would be something like to build one's house in such surroundings—and maybe later on to marry and——
It was the word marry that switched his thoughts up another channel and in imagination found him once again standing beside the girl with the splendid eyes who called at Barraclough's flat two hours before.
"Wish she wasn't mixed up in this outfit," he said to himself. "A girl like that! Perfectly ripping creature. By jing! put her alongside a man after her own heart—some decent fellow with the pluck to stand up against that wayward strain—and there might be a good deal of happiness knocking around for the pair of them. I suppose that ass Barraclough turned her down. Pretty hard to please. Wonder if he got away all right. Ripping scent she used. Coty, I believe, something Jacque Minot."
As a man will who is trying to revive the impression of a scent he sniffed the air gently with his eyes shut, only to open them with an expression of surprise. Surely it was no imagination but the odour of Rose Jacque Minot, taint and exquisite, seemed to hang in the air. Thin waves of it growing and diminishing in intensity were wafted across his head almost as though directed from a spray.
"If that isn't the oddest thing," he gasped. "Now I wonder——"
The light flashed up for a second—just long enough to reveal the fact that the room was empty.
"Damn funny," he said and sat up in bed puzzling. He remained thus for several minutes but no solution to the mystery presented itself. Moreover, the scent had gone from the air and nothing but the memory remained.
"Suppose I can't have been fool enough to imagine it. Never heard of a man being haunted by a perfume."
He lowered his head to the pillow feeling, for no explainable reason, strangely disquieted, only to rise again almost instantly exclaiming:
"'Tany rate, this is no imagination."
For the reek of onions was in the air—gross and nauseous. You could have cut it with a knife.
Probably Richard's most violent antipathy was for the smell of onions. He abhorred it as the devil abhors virtue. With an exclamation of disgust he disappeared beneath the bedclothes and stuffed the sheet into his mouth. He lay thus for a long while before venturing to emerge and sample the air. To his relief he found the detestable taint had vanished and the atmosphere had recovered its original slightly tomby flavour.
"That's a blessing any way," he said. "I suppose it's no use wondering how it's done or why it's done. Better get to sleep and ask questions in the morning."
And quite unexpectedly he found he was afraid—filled with a kind of nameless dread—a horrible prescience of some villainy about to happen. There was a motive in this programme of changing scents, a deeper significance than the mere will to annoy. He knew without even asking himself how he knew that the smell of pineapple would be next. But why he should fear pineapple was not at the moment apparent. He only knew that when it came he would have to command every nerve to prevent crying out.
Sitting up in bed he sniffed the air tentatively.
"Nothing! (sniff) No, nothing. (sniff) Wait a bit, wasn't that—?No. (sniff) No—"
And then it came—pungent, acrid, bitter sweet, gathering in intensity second by second.
With a stifled cry he clapped both hands over his mouth and swung a leg to the floor. His eyes wide open in the dark began to sting violently. He caught his breath and burst into a spasm of coughing. Somewhere from the wall by the bedside came the faint sound of gas hissing from a cylinder.
"Phosgene!" shouted Richard Frencham Altar. "You dirty swine!Phosgene!"
It is a smell that once learnt can never be forgotten—a smell pregnant with memories. As it invades the nostrils the doors of a dreadful past fly open. The white mist hanging over the sunken road, the clangour of beaten shell cases ringing out alarm, the whistle of the warning rockets and the noise of men choking in the spongy fog.
Richard struggled back to the farthest corner of the room. He had picked up his shirt and thrust it over his mouth and nostrils but even so his lungs were nearly bursting. "You rotten, rotten swine," he repeated. "I'll make you pay for this."
And a voice answered out of the dark:
"If you find the atmosphere oppressive, Mr. Barraclough, why not go into the next room. It's perfectly clear in there. But don't wait to collect your blankets because we're going to intensify this little lot."
There followed a louder hissing from the cylinder and Richard waited for no more. Somehow he located the door, dashed through into the adjoining room, and fell gasping on the uncovered boards. For several minutes he made no effort to rise, then he sat up and shivered. The air was like ice. A bitter freezing draught swept across him, cold as winter spray.
His inquisitors were following up an advantage. There was to be no remission in the warfare. Dark, poison and cold. These were the instruments of torture devised to make him speak.
Richard struggled to his feet and stood with clenched hands.
"All right, my lads," he said. "You go ahead but I'll see you damned before I talk."
He could hear the ice-cold wind whining through the registers as though in derision of his boast. It cut him to the bone through his thin silk pyjamas.
For the rest of the night Richard Frencham Altar paced the floor, stamping his feet and beating one hand against the other.
When the young man named Smith left Laurence's house after his interview with Richard he was slightly angry and not a little puzzled. The cause of his perplexity was the humorous lines round Richard's eyes and the cause of his anger was his failure to have noted them when first they met in the taxi and travelled home together on the Golders Green tube.
He had remarked on the peculiarity of this circumstance when he found Hipps and Van Diest in the dining room and had received no other comment than a snub from the American for his lack of observation.
These two gentlemen were in a state of exaggerated well being induced by enthusiasm over the capture they had made. Hipps was laying odds that after a course of treatment Anthony Barraclough would not only give away the secret but would breathe his first sweetheart's pet name. Van Diest was more concerned with details for the notation of the future radium company.
They appeared to regard the intrusion of Mr. Smith as a nuisance.
"Seems to me, gentlemen," he said, "there's something queer about the whole business. Barraclough was known to be starting tonight—and instead you succeed in laying him by the heels."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing—except that it was all so infernally easy. Then again the fellow seems in such high spirits."
Van Diest wrinkled his forehead and nodded at this but Hipps waved it aside.
"Take it from me, he's in darn sight lower spirits than he wants us to think. Anthony's a sport and he'll sure pull the cucumber act as long as the cool weather lasts."
"You may be satisfied, gentlemen, but I'm not! You don't think he'd have given the information to anyone else."
Van Diest looked at the young man with a pitying smile.
"If you wass possessed millions and millions of pounds, my friend, iss it very likely you would trust anyone to look after it?"
"Perhaps not——"
"Very well then."
"Still I'm sure there's something fishy. If I might be allowed to investigate——"
But Van Diest negatived this suggestion very heartily. He argued that persons prying about at this stage of the game would bring suspicions on themselves.
"Mr. Torrington and all those peoples are very happy to believe thatBarraclough hass given us the slip. S'no goot to make them miserable."
"Still if—without attracting attention——"
"You run along and play," said Hipps.
And so the interview ended.
Smith was heartily offended to be brushed aside in this fashion. He had served his employers faithfully and with sound intelligence. Practically the entire control of the ring which had prevented Barraclough's escape on the preceding days had been in his hands. Earlier in the night he had received telephone instructions to call off his watchers and having done so he had driven over to Laurence's house to satisfy himself that all was in order.
It was quite absurd he should be assailed by these feelings of doubt. Barraclough had been caught and there the matter ended. But in his own mind it refused to end. Why hadn't Barraclough put up a fight and how had Barraclough grown funny lines round his eyes? These were mysteries which for his own peace he was bound to elucidate.
It was four o'clock when he got to bed but he was up again in good time next morning, roughly sketching out a programme for the day.
At nine fifteen precisely he was standing by the ticket barrier at Liverpool Street station awaiting the arrival of the Woodford train. Presently it steamed alongside the platform and one of the first persons to get out was Nugent Cassis. He was swinging his cane andmirabile dictuhe was whistling. In his buttonhole he wore a flower.
From a distance Smith had studied Nugent Cassis on many previous occasions and knew his peculiarities by heart—also he knew that there was no single precedent for this rare display of jauntiness.
Harrison Smith shook his head hopelessly. It was inconceivable with all their immense resources that Torrington's crowd had set no watch on Barraclough's movements over night. Surely they must be aware that his intended flight had been frustrated. Why Barraclough's servant Doran would surely have rung up and informed them. He was confident that somewhere a breakdown had occurred.
As he passed by Nugent Cassis said "good morning" to the ticket collector—a thing he had never done before.
Harrison Smith got into a taxi and drove to Shepherd Street, Mayfair. He sent up his card by the parlour maid with the request that Miss Craven would grant him an interview. He was asked to wait and was kept waiting the best part of three quarters of an hour while Auriole completed her toilet. When at last she entered she did not show the least enthusiasm for his presence but asked rather shortly what he wanted.
"I'm tired," she added, "so be as quick as you can."
"All right," he said. "It's only this. You were an old flame ofBarraclough's?"
"Well?"
"How long is it since last you met?"
"Until last night—four years, I suppose."
"Hm! Had he changed at all?"
"Changed?"
"In appearance—er—manner."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"Bit more amusing perhaps—less of a prig."
"Ah!" said Smith. "Go on—anything else?"
"He seemed to have learnt how to smile."
Harrison Smith leapt to his feet and paced up and down.
"I knew I was right," he said, "but what the deuce does it mean?Anything else to tell me?"
"Yes. Sit down, for Heaven's sake. My head's aching and you irritate me walking about."
He obeyed and continued his interrogation.
"In love with him once, weren't you?"
"Once," she replied.
"And you've no very good reason for wishing him well?"
"I've a very particular reason for wishing him ill."
"Hm! His engagement to Miss Irish?"
"Perhaps."
"How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?"
"I happened to know Mr. Hipps and heard what was going on through him. It was my idea—kidnapping Anthony. Doubt if they'd have had the nerve to think of it for themselves."
"D'you think they'll get him to talk?"
"I don't thinktheywill get him to talk," she replied, "but——"
"Yes?"
"But I could. He's a tough proposition among men but a woman can worm a secret out of him—at least——" She stopped and shook her head.
"Yes?"
"That used to be my impression."
"Has it altered then?"
"I'm not quite so certain as I used to be. He was different last night——"
Harrison Smith leant forward.
"Tell me," he said, very earnestly, "did you notice anything queer about his eyes?"
"I don't know."
"Try to remember."
"Four years is a long while."
"But to a woman like you."
"I believe something struck me—they puckered at the corners a bit—rather attractively."
"That's it," said Harrison Smith. "That's exactly it. Lord, I wish I could understand."
"What's troubling you?"
"Just a crazy idea—probably it's nonsense. By the way, I've had orders from our employers to leave it alone so you'd do me a kindness by saying nothing of this visit."
"All right," she replied listlessly. "But I don't see——"
"It's solid in my head that a muddle has been made—and between you and me, I'm going to sift it out."
"I shouldn't," said Auriole. "You won't be thanked for disobeying orders."
"Must take a chance of that," he answered. "Only learnt yesterday what it was all about and the size of the deal has got me gasping."
"Pretty tremendous, isn't it?"
"Big enough to be worth taking some private trouble over. You don't imagine Barraclough would have deputed anyone else to get the concession?"
She shook her head.
"Neither do I. But if it isn't that why does his crowd sit still and grin?"
"I suppose they don't know of his capture."
"Maybe. 'Tany rate, it's what our folk believe. I have my own views."
"Tell me."
"They're a trifle too fantastic for publication yet awhile." He rose and buttoned his gloves. "There's to be a meeting at Lord Almont's flat this morning. I'm going to hang about and study character."
"Better not be seen."
"Trust me. I'll take cover in the motor show rooms on the street level and watch 'em as they come out."
"Hm! Goodbye." And she held out her hand.
"Au 'voir. You look a bit down this morning."
"Don't feel up to much."
He scanned her face quizzically.
"Those tender feelings haven't revived, have they?"
"What do you mean?"
"For friend Barraclough?"
"Idiot," she retorted. "As if I had any feelings."
"He's a decent looking chap."
"Oh, go away," she said.
And he went—smiling.
Auriole waited until the front door closed, then picked up the telephone receiver and gave a number.
"I want to speak to Lord Almont Frayne. Oh, is it? Good morning. Yes, that's right. A. B. was kidnapped last night at twelve thirty. They've taken him to Laurence's house in Totteridge. What? Yes, perfectly satisfied. One of their agents, a man named Harrison Smith, has been here a minute ago. He seems to be suspicious about something. Thinks you all seem too contented. He'll be hanging about outside your flat this morning. Yes, that's all. Oh, Lord Almont, wish you'd explain the situation to me—can't understand it at all. Wouldn't make any difference. No, but what was to be gained by letting Anthony Barraclough be kidnapped? If you won't say it doesn't matter but it seems stupid not to trust one's own side. Oh, Mr. Cassis. I doubt if he'd trust himself. 'Bye!"
She hung up the receiver with a little gesture of annoyance and crossed to the writing table. From a small drawer above the pigeon holes she took a photograph of a man in flannels. It was signed "Yours for keeps, Tony." She read the inscription and smiled—and it was not a very kindly smile.
* * * * * *
Harrison Smith, as a prospective buyer, proved extremely tiresome to the staff of the Motor Show Rooms in Park Lane. He shilly-shallied from one car to another asking rather stupid questions for the best part of two hours. The exquisitely dressed salesman poured forth his eulogies in vain. Nothing could make Mr. Smith decide. He would listen attentively to long recitals of the respective virtues of this make and that and then would gaze out into the street as though lost in contemplation. In the midst of listening to a highly technical discourse on the subject of cantilever springs, without a word of warning he leapt into the interior of a big Siddeley Saloon and closed the door behind him. The salesman looked at Mr. Smith in amazement but Mr. Smith was looking into the street along which three very serious-looking men were slowly progressing. Two of them supported the third who was very old and very bent. His face was set in an expression of acute anguish. They helped him into a waiting automobile, shook their heads at each other and proceeded in different directions. The automobile started up and moved away. The old man's head was sunk upon his chest.
When all three were out of view Harrison Smith emerged from the Siddeley Saloon, glanced at his watch, thanked the salesman, said he would call again and passed out of the showrooms. On the pavement he halted and, like the three gentlemen who had occupied his attention, he too shook his head.
"They seem pretty well in the depths now," he reflected. "Wonder ifI'm making a fool of myself."
He would have wondered even more acutely had he seen Mr. Torrington straighten up and smile as the big ear turned into the Park through Stanhope Gate. Every trace of anguish had gone from the old man's face. To speak the truth he looked extremely well pleased with himself.
Harrison Smith walked slowly down Piccadilly debating in his mind whether or no he should abandon his investigations.
He stopped at the bottom of Clarges Street to allow a taxi, laden with luggage, to pass. The taxi had its cover down and inside he had a glimpse of a girl with a happy, smiling face. The girl was Isabel Irish and the brief glimpse decided him.
"One more cast," he said and jumped into an empty cab that was coming down the slope.
"Follow that chap in front," he cried. "The one with box on top.Don't lose sight of him whatever happens."
He slammed the door and settled down on the cushions. Pursuer and pursued threaded their way through the traffic to Waterloo Station.
Anthony Barraclough's mother was seventy-eight and still a sport. She loved her garden, she loved her son and she loved adventure. She was very fond of life, of punctuality, of the church, and of good manners. She was deeply attached to the memory of her late husband and her late sovereign, Queen Victoria, upon whom, with certain reservations, she patterned herself. The reservations were a taste for stormy literature and a habit of wearing her ice-white hair bobbed. The bobbing of her hair, and it used to be waist long, was a tribute to patriotism. She sacrificed her "ends" in 1914 to give a lead to hesitating girls of the neighbourhood. This she conceived to be a duty and one that would materially expedite the close of hostilities.
Mrs. Barraclough lived in the sweetly named village of Clyst St. Mary where you will find Devon at its gentlest. She was waited upon by four strapping girls who bore the names Flora, Agnes, Jane and Cynthia. These young women arrived in a body during the spring of 1919 and took possession of the house. Flora who was spokesman of the party bore a note from Anthony in which he wrote—
"Mother Darling,
Am sending these girls to look after you. No more servant worries.They are tophole. Flora and Jane saved my life when I was in France.
Love,TONY."
That was all.
Being a dutiful mother, Mrs. Barraclough asked no questions;—instead she arranged accommodation and bought some new dimity chintzes for the top floor bedrooms.
As Anthony declared, the girls were certainly tophole and made their mistress so unreasonably comfortable that she greatly feared the risk of being spoilt. It is true they perplexed her not a little, since no single one of them bestrewed the house with fallen aspirates, sang while sweeping nor spoke ill of her fellow. Herein perhaps they provided some small ground for disappointment for, in company with many ladies of the older school, Mrs. Barraclough dearly loved bestowing an occasional rebuke in words calculated to improve and uplift. This, however, was a trivial concern weighed against the obvious advantages of loyalty, good nature and efficiency.
The house in which Mrs. Barraclough dwelt was called "Chestnuts" and it lay a few miles off the London Exeter main road. To reach it by rail you alighted at Digby Halt and were met by either a car or a governess cart. Mrs. Barraclough possessed both and invariably despatched the governess cart to meet her favourite guests, on the theory that a horse is more of a compliment than a "snuffly engine." As a matter of fact the car was a very sterling, if rather old, Panhard Levassor and in no sense could be accused of snuffling.
When once an enquiring visitor, after vainly searching the garden for chestnut trees, asked why the house was so named, Mrs. Barraclough replied—
"The chestnuts apply to myself and not to the vegetation. I am an old woman with an incurable habit of repeating the same anecdotes over and over again."
To this sanctuary of mid-Victorian calm Isabel Irish came in the late afternoon of the day following Anthony's departure into the unknown. To wait in London for three weeks without word or message was more than she could tolerate. Accordingly she sent a wire to Mrs. Barraclough and followed close upon its heels. Of the presence of Mr. Harrison Smith in the next compartment of the corridor carriage, she, of course, knew nothing, and this circumstance provided that enthusiastic investigator with every opportunity of studying her without attracting attention to himself.
On the pretext of smoking a pipe he lounged up and down the corridor, every now and then glancing at Isabel, who sat alone with compressed lips and chin sunk on her chest. He concluded from her attitude and expression that she must have heard of Barraclough's capture but later on another impression superseded the first, for every now and then a light of excitement and enthusiasm would leap into her eyes as though in imagination she were following her lover along the ways of desperate adventure. Harrison Smith shook his head.
"Don't know what to make of it," he muttered. "Certain sure they've got the man yet—I don't know——"
Once he saw her do a very odd thing but foolishly enough paid little heed to it. A sudden blank look came into the girl's face—the kind of look people wear who have suddenly forgotten an important matter or discovered a loss. Her lips moved rapidly and her brow creased under an intensity of thought. She turned and breathed on the window glass and with quick movements of her forefinger wrote upon it half a dozen figures and characters. But before he had properly noted what they were the moisture evaporated and the glass was clear again. It did not occur to Harrison Smith to worry over his failure to read what she had written, since he regarded the action as symptomatic of mere nervousness, but he noted with surprise that after this little episode the girl seemed to relax and her face assumed lines almost of contentment. After all, no one could blame him for failing to realise the true significance of that hurried, transient scrawl. One does not expect to find the map reference of probably the greatest source of wealth the world has ever known scribbled across the window pane of a South Western Railway carriage by the fat little forefinger of a girl scarcely out of her teens. Such an eventuality never even crossed the mind of Harrison Smith. Nevertheless the girl puzzled him more than he cared to confess.
To reach Digby Halt necessitated a change. Harrison Smith took good care to make his descent from the train as far as possible from Isabel's carriage. He watched her enter the governess cart and drive away before attempting to leave the station. Prior to this it struck him that he might have difficulty in obtaining lodgings in the neighbourhood without bag or baggage and this being probable he had resorted to the unpleasant expedient of stealing a suit case. Its owner, a clergyman, was at the time enjoying a cup of tea in the dining section—the risk therefore was small. The suit case bore no initials and might have belonged to anybody. Harrison Smith showed as little as possible of his face as he passed through the wicket gate. He turned in the opposite direction to the one taken by the governess cart, waited till he was out of sight and climbed through a gap in the hedge. Ten minutes later, dressed as a clergyman and looking very good indeed, he marched down the road in the direction of the village.
It was Flora who drove the round, short legged pony, who drew the dog cart, and because Flora had driven a high power car in France during the war and had earned a reputation as a merchant of speed she looked, as she was given to look on these occasions, a shade sorry for herself.
Also, because she had an admiration for Anthony that was little removed from adoration she did not attend greatly to the business in hand, but instead engaged in a critical survey of the girl he was to marry. She decided that Isabel was very pretty but a shade too serious. She wondered if her nerves were any good. She wished she had been allowed to fetch her in the motor as there were one or two sharp corners on the way home which, taken fast, provided a good test of a passenger's courage. Perhaps it was as well that permission had been denied, she reflected, since had Isabel screamed or turned even the least bit pink she, Flora, would certainly have hit her with a spanner.
In extenuation for these violent emotions please remember that Flora, in company with Jane, had been instrumental in saving Anthony Barraclough's life when they found him lying on the roadside bleeding like a stuck pig during the great retreat of 1918. After all, a girl is justified in feeling strongly about a man's choice of a wife when he owes his life to her. She is more or less responsible.
Isabel said nothing for perhaps a quarter of a mile, then suddenly exclaimed:
"I say, this is beastly slow."
She could not have made a happier remark. Flora relaxed instantly.
"Isn't it chronic," she returned, "but the old lady was firm about it.If I'd had the car we'd have whooped it up a bit."
"Wish we had. Can't stick this jogging—want to get out and run."
"Fond of speed?" said Flora.
"Um, rather. That beastly old train—then this. I'd half a notion to fly down only I didn't know any landings round here."
"You've flown then?"
"Yes, lots."
"Who with?"
"By myself a fair amount."
"Got a pilot certificate?"
"Yes, ages ago."
"I say!" said Flora and began to feel quite hopeful about Anthony's future. "Agnes was in the Flying Corps, you know."
"Agnes?"
"She's housemaid. 'Course she's been up dozens of times but she never handled the joystick. Ever looped?"
"Often."
"You must talk to Agnes," said Flora.
There was a bell under the pony's chin strap and it jingled continually. From her chair by the open French window Mrs. Barraclough could hear the jingle as the cart turned into the lane. Herein lay the essence of using the cart for particular friends, for Mrs. Barraclough knew that as soon as she heard that sound there would be just time to walk down the garden path and be at the gate to welcome the arrival. With the car one could never get there soon enough and to her way of thinking the hospitality of a house should be offered at the entrance to its grounds. She liked to stand under the arboured gate with extended hands and from there to speak the first welcoming words and then to link arms and lead the visitor indoors with promises of tea or fires in bedrooms and little kindly appreciations of the fatigue of travelling. She would as soon have omitted any of these gentle rites as have neglected to satisfy herself that the sheets were properly aired or the carpets swept beneath the beds.
Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife; that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs. Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance—the cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on the account of happiness.
Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in heart, which is a very great pity indeed.
They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers—was also a darling—was also a trump—was also every kind of good thing that she ought to be.
"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with you to help me wait."
And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking about, nodded and replied:
"Of course not, my dear, of course not."
Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lustre of wedding presents and even the little methylated spirit flame that boiled the water looked as if it had been polished with a chamois leather.
There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs. Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and the water was put in—and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right temperature—warm—mellow—comforting. Outside the window was a thrush who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice.
And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom, a lump came into Isabel's throat—hot, angry and convulsive. For somewhere out beyond was her man—facing unknown dangers, taking terrible risks, followed by relentless men.
Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left her—deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who commands us all—that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings, pence.]
She put her tea cup on the tray with a little tinkle and suddenly covered her eyes with the palms of her hands.
"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Why couldn't he have been satisfied?"
"What is it, my dear?"
"Money," she answered with a staggering breath. "Money. And it couldn't buy a moment that was as sweet as this."
The fair curly head tilted forward into the black silk lap. Mrs. Barraclough's hands went round the girl's shoulders and held them tight. They were shaking so.
A clergyman passing down the road halted for a moment and peered over the yew hedge into the open windows of the room. But nobody took any notice of him and he couldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises with which one woman will comfort another.
Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the fabric of her gown.
When first the question of radium arose in this chronicle it will be remembered that Barraclough, under considerable pressure, yielded the secret of the map reference to his fiancée, and by this very act made a present of it, through the pages of narrative, to whosoever might chance to read.
It would seem a perfectly reasonable supposition that there must be many avaricious persons to whom the possession of untold riches would prove more attractive than a mere interest in the doings of another man. Let it be said at once that although Barraclough certainly confided the correct map reference to Isabel, that reference, for the purposes of caution and public safety, underwent several important variations before passing into my hands. The reason of this precaution will be readily appreciated by the thoughtful however great may be the disappointment it provides to the adventurous. A memory of average length will recall the high percentage of disaster, of wrecked hopes and of ruin pursuant upon the gold rush to Klondyke at the close of the last century. Barely one man in a hundred made a living—barely one in a thousand saw the yellow specks in his shovel that shone so bright among the brown. Those who had set forth, buoyed up with boundless belief, dragged back to where they had started from broken in purse and spirit, barren of hope and faith.
What then would be the result if the illimitable source of wealth upon which by chance and a whisper Barraclough had stumbled should be revealed to the world? A panic—a mad headlong exodus of men and women too. Unequipped and unqualified they would pour from city and country-side, leaving desk and furrow, in a wild race to be first upon the scene—to stake a claim—any claim—to dig—to grovel—to tear up the kindly earth with fingers like the claws of beasts. Wealth, upon which our civilisation has been built, is the surest destroyer of civilisation. What it has given it takes away. Dangle a promise of gold before the young man at the ribbon counter and behold he is become a savage. Whisper it never so gently—and it will sound as the roar of torrents in our ears.
Brewster's Series 19. Map 24. Square F. North 27. West 33. Look it up for yourself. It exists all right but there is no radium there, not any within a thousand miles for aught I know to the contrary. In that location and over a large stretch of surrounding country-side the earth's outer crust is mainly argillaceous with here and there an outcrop of sandstone. There is not the smallest indication of pitch-blende anywhere in the neighbourhood, and radium, as even those little versed in chemistry or geology are aware, is only to be found in that particular ore.
It would be well, therefore, to think twice before embarking upon a fruitless treasure hunt after reading what has here been set down. It was the knowledge of the inevitable consequences that would result from incautious confidence that sealed Barraclough's lips and made his movements on arriving at Southampton so secretive. It is known there was a fog over the Solent on the afternoon in question and that a small brown-sailed boat with a man sitting in the stern put out from the shore and was presently swallowed up in the white tasselled wreaths of mist. That same boat was discovered minus its passenger in the early hours of the following day. A coastal collier, racketing into port in the quiet of evening, brought the tale of a seaplane that narrowly missed crashing into her deck house. Long after it was out of sight the crew heard its engines droning overhead. Then for a while there was silence during which a curious pinkish glow appeared to the starboard and died away. This glow was repeated three times and at the third repetition the waterplane engine was again audible, increasing in volume every moment. Presently it cut out and nothing was heard for several minutes. When it started again it must have been quite near at hand for the sound of water cut by the floats was detectable. The engines howled and whined until the roar diminished to a sound no greater than the buzzing of a bee fading into nothing over the wake of the little steamer.
Whether or no these recorded circumstances have any bearing on the mystery of Anthony Barraclough's disappearance it would be impossible to say but the Harbour Authorities who were questioned as to whether they had knowledge of the movements of this particular waterplane replied with a regretful negative. They neither knew where it came from nor whither it went and there is a strong rumour that one or two quite important persons got into severe trouble for their want of information.
The one thing that is positively known is that Barraclough arrived in and disappeared from Southampton in a single day, but whether he went North, South, East or West is a matter for speculation.
"That guy," said Ezra P. Hipps, "that guy is some stayer."
Hugo Van Diest, from the deeps of a big arm chair, omitted a kind of rumbling affirmative. He was smoking a porcelain pipe enamelled with roses and forget-me-nots. His fat, short fingered hands were spread across the waistcoat of Berlin wool, his chin was sunk and his bearing that of a man who is out of humour.
Gracefully disposed upon the hearthrug stood Oliver Laurence, an excellent advertisement for his tailor.
Ezra P. Hipps, hugging one knee, sat upon the centre table and he was looking at Auriole Craven with much the same expression as might be seen on the face of a slave buyer in an African market. He had passed her shoes, appreciated her stockings, nodded approval at her gown and millinery and was now observing with satisfaction that the gloves which she was peeling off revealed two arms of perfect proportion.
"That guy," he proceeded, "has got to be made to talk. Looks like.He's made fools of us too long. Looks like," he threw a glance atLaurence, "your durn psychology isn't worth a hill o' beans."
"We haven't given it a chance yet," said Laurence in defence of his method.
"Seventeen days," grunted Van Diest. "And no progress—nothing. This was not an ordinary man."
"Am I to see him today?" asked Auriole.
Hipps shook his head and the girl brightened perceptibly.
"Seems to please you."
"No, it doesn't. I'll go up if you want me to—only——"
"Get on with it."
"I can't help thinking it's a mistake. Can't help thinking that somehow that minute I spend with him every day strengthens rather than breaks him down."
"Guess you're right—it would me," Hipps agreed. There was a shade of gallantry in the tone.
"I take leave to doubt that," said Laurence. "I'm positively sure that if a man is feeling the pinch all day long and everybody he comes in contact with is definitely against him, a momentary glimpse of someone who is seemingly sympathetic is far more likely to weaken his resolve than strengthen it. It makes him relax and even though you relax only a trifle it's the very deuce to get a grip on yourself again. You can see it when chaps are training—that extra cigarette—the whiskey and soda that isn't allowed plays the devil with their constitution. I know when I was at——" He stopped for Auriole's large eyes were looking at him critically.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing," she replied. "Nothing." Then to everyone's amazement burst out: "What a mean rotter you are, though."
"Here——" he began.
"I honestly believe you enjoy all this beastliness."
"Enjoy? My dear girl, do be sensible. Damn it, no one enjoys having to put on the screw. It's a case of necessity."
"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," she acquiesced hurriedly in an effort to regain her composure. "Only it seemed to me—but never mind."
Ezra P. Hipps crossed the room and put a hand on her arm.
"Come on, dear. What's the trouble?"
"I wouldn't mind," she returned, "if he weren't so—so desperately plucky."
"Hm!" said Van Diest. "I think it was a goot idea that you don't go to see this young man any more."
"That's nonsense," she replied hotly. "I'll see him. Besides he's used to my coming and if I didn't turn up he——"
"Disappointed," suggested Hipps.
"Exactly," said Laurence. "Perhaps it 'ud be a good idea to vary the programme for a day or two. Use the siren a bit more freely at night and cut down his water supply. If he isn't ready to talk in another forty-eight hours I'll be surprised."
"Had a word with him yet?" demanded Hipps.
"Not this morning."
"Then you and Van try a few sweet speeches."
The Dutchman rose heavily from his chair and nodded.
"It was a bad business all this," he said. "You come with us—no?"
"I'll be right along in just a minute."
He tilted his head a fraction toward Auriole and laid a finger on his lips.
Van Diest and Laurence went out. He waited until he heard their footsteps mounting the stairs before he spoke again. Auriole was looking through the window at the trees margining the little estate. She presented a charming silhouette against the light.
"Say, you look very womanly in that fawn outfit," said Hipps. "Where did you get it built?"
She turned with a smile that was a shade cynical.
"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Hipps."
"I do—fine."
"I'll wear it again."
"You've passed down the wardrobe hooks pretty prodigal these last few days. What is it—a dress parade?"
"One changes," she replied.
"That's sure what I'm frightened of."
"If you'd rather I appeared in a blouse and skirt——"; but he interrupted the sentence with an uplifted hand.
"I've a fancy we'll cut cross talking," he said, "and come to grips."
"About what?"
"This young fellow Barraclough has cut ice with you?"
"I thought you knew my feelings about him."
"To borrow from your vocabulary—'one changes,'" he replied.
"I haven't changed."
"Glad to hear it."
"I admire his pluck."
"It's a dangerous quality—admiration. Sure the old 'pash' hasn't looked up a bit?"
"Quite sure."
"Still it 'curred to me you were shaken some at the treatment we're serving out to him."
"That's not surprising. I merely wanted to get my own back, not—not——" She left the sentence unfinished.
Ezra P. Hipps took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and chewed it reflectively, his eyes never leaving the girl's face.
"Women are queer ships," he said, "and never too even on the keel. You've an important hand to play and kind of to keep your mind from revoking here's a proposition to think over."
"Revoking?"
"That's the word. You're in this deal on a jealousy outfit and we're not after any renunciation, splendid sacrifice and that gear. We want you dead hard and seemed to me to get that I might do well to tie you up a bit closer to the cause."
"What do you suggest?"
"You're an ambitious woman."
"I suppose so."
"I suggest this child." And he tapped his chest with the chewed butt of the cigar.
"I don't see——"
"This child thrown in as a sweetener."
For a moment she flushed, then the colour died away and was replaced by a smile distinctly crooked at the corners.
"Are you making a proposal of marriage?" she asked.
"I sure am."
"Oh!"
He stretched his legs and rattled the coins in his pockets.
"I've a hell of a lot of money and damn! I've never asked a woman this question up to yet."
"Have you not?"
"Mention that fact 'cos I know they fall for molasses."
"You're very wise about women, Mr. Hipps."
But the irony was wasted.
"I read a bit of heart stuff in the trains sometimes," he said.
Auriole began to draw on her gloves.
"Isn't this rather a queer place to settle one's future?" she said.
"Donno—is it? Struck me it 'ud keep you from side-stepping having me on the horizon."
"I see. And do you always mix love making with business?"
"Sure. Marriage is a business and bank books talk sweeter than the long haired boys."
She flashed a glance up at him and there was a definite appeal in her eyes.
"Are you in love with me?"
The question seemed slightly to take him off balance.
"Damn! I think you're fine," he said.
"That is—splendid," she replied and turned her head.
"Feeling good about it?"
"Who wouldn't be?"
"Thought you took it quiet."
"I'm sorry."
"Maybe you had some hopes along this street?"
"I guessed there was something doing," she answered in an echo of his tone.
"It's all fixed then."
"I suppose so."
"Say I don't want you to think I'm only doing this out of expediency."
"You're not?"
"Not altogether."
"Better and better," said Auriole.
"I must scrape half an hour for lunch one of these days and we'll talk over settlements."
"That will be—jolly."
"I'll get right upstairs now."
"Goodbye."
He made no effort to take her hand or to kiss her and she offered no encouragement. At the room door he turned.
"Paris for the honeymoon?" he asked.
"Wherever you like."
He looked at her critically and she met his eyes without flinching.
"And you feel kind of strong—soft spots eradicated?"
"Naturally."
"I'm a hell of a tonic," said Ezra P. Hipps and closed the door behind him.
Auriole stood where he had left her. Presently she raised her hands and they were clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white as ivory.
"How utterly, utterly awful," she said to herself. "How unspeakable."
She picked up her bag and the other odds and ends a woman will carry and passed out of the house with flaming cheeks.
The chauffeur of the little two seater car that stood by the gates asked where he should drive.
"I don't care," she replied. "Anywhere you like. Get on a hill—some place where I can breathe."
The little Wolseley Ten wound through the green lanes and presently mounted a pine fringed slope. Away to the west hung the smoke of London with the pleasant countryside in between.
Auriole touched the chauffeur on the arm and he stopped. Alighting from the car she scrambled over uneven ground and presently threw herself down under the shade of a tree. Somewhere overhead a lark was singing and the air vibrated to the drone of summer insects. The day was blue, peaceful, sweet. A thin breeze rustled the foliage, and golden sun spots dappled the brown carpet of pine needles upon which she lay. A single cloud travelled in the sky and its shadow fell across the house and grounds in which Richard Frencham Altar was imprisoned. Auriole clenched her hands tightly and bit her lip. Somewhere behind those shuttered windows on the second floor the inquisition was going forward. Three men to one. The relentless interrogation. The same question repeated in a hundred ways and the same unshakable refusal to give an answer. It was fitting indeed that nature should cast a shadow over such doings.
"And I'm part of it," said Auriole.
Her thoughts flew back to her first meeting with Barraclough during the war. She was nursing then at a hospital in Eastbourne. He had had a bullet through the foot and was sent to the sea to recuperate. Strange how instantly they had liked each other. His good nature, pluck, generosity, were splendid assets in a friendship which went floundering loveward after the fashion of those crazy days. There was the fortnight they spent together in Town—perfectly respectable if a little unorthodox. He had money to burn and she helped him burn it. He had never asked more of her than companionship. Of course they kissed each other—everyone did during the war—that was understood; and he bought her presents too—ripping presents—and took her everywhere—theatres, undreamed-of restaurants, dances. A glorious time they had. He had denied her nothing except the offer of his name. After all there was no particular reason why he should have asked her to marry him—theirs was a mere partnership of gaiety added to which she knew well enough that it would not have been practicable. They were of a different mould. His blood was of the Counties and hers—Lord knows where she came from—"the people" is the best covering phrase to employ. She had been a mannequin in a Bond Street shop before the war. But was it fair—was it just to engender a love of luxury—to introduce her to all that her nature—vulgarised by unfamiliarity—coveted most! If he had proposed likely enough she would have been generous and refused him. But he didn't propose—he took it for granted that they were no more to each other than the moment dictated. There was a kind of long headed caution in his diffidence with regard to the future. He was exigent too in his demands and would not tolerate her being pleasant to anyone else. It was her nature to be pleasant to all men and restraints were odious and insulting. That was how the row came about. It took place on the night before his return to Prance. It was her fault no doubt because really he had been a ripping friend and loyal and trustworthy but the little climber felt that for once she had failed to climb. She was left, so to speak, in mid air, inoculated with the germs of all manner of new ambitions no longer realisable. Wherefore she forgot her affection for him and forgot all the lessons of politeness so studiously acquired in the years of climbing and let him have her opinions hot and strong as a simple uncultivated child of the people. The expression on Anthony Barraclough's face read plainly enough relief at his escape. He packed his valise and departed wondering greatly at the intricacy and unreasonableness of women. It did not occur to him that he was greatly to blame for having given her such a good time. Such a consideration was as remote as the thought of congratulating himself on his generosity. He was only awfully sorry she should have turned out as she did and rather perplexed at the apparent want of reason. And Auriole with the disposition to like him better than any man of her acquaintance suffered an entire reversal of feeling and went headlong to the other extreme in a spirit of unbecoming revengefulness.
And in the valley below, under the shadow of a cloud, this man was being tortured.
"I never meant that," Auriole cried. "I never meant that—did I—did I? I just wanted to pay him back. I just wanted——" She bit her lower lip and choked. "What a fool I am," she gasped. "Haven't I won a millionaire out of it? What's it matter if he does suffer a bit—he wouldn't be the only one. A millionaire," she repeated, "a millionaire—the wife of a railroad king. That's worth something surely."
A couple of unruly tears trickled out of her eyes and fell on her lap. It is really too absurd that even the thought of a million pounds cannot prevent a girl from crying.