Richard Frencham Altar had a sense of humour but never before in his hitherto easy going life had he so earnestly needed it. A sense of humour in a queer abstract way provides a quality of companionship—it gives a man the power to be a pal to himself—to talk to himself aloud—to laugh at adversity—to spot the comic side in the most pathetic predicament. Each day provided something new in the matter of discomfort or alarm. The calls he was obliged to make upon his resources of humour were therefore severe and exacting. Over and over again he had need to remind himself that there was something classically funny in three financial giants demanding from him information of which he was entirely ignorant and, technically speaking, putting him on the rack in order to obtain it. The fun was grim but it existed. No one ever thought of mentioning what it was they wanted to find out—doubtless assuming that to do so was waste of time. For his own satisfaction Richard would dearly have loved to ask point blank what it was all about, but to indulge curiosity to that extent would be to imperil the safety of the cause he represented.
To keep a record of days he made a scratch on the wall paper each morning with his finger nail. There were seventeen scratches in all and he was as proud of them as an old campaigner of his medals for they stood for seventeen successful engagements. Whoever it was had charge of arranging his persecution lacked nothing in the way of imagination. Methods of destroying his repose and a course of rigorous fasting were prominent features but these were varied with details of a terrifying and sometimes abominable kind. On one occasion thirty or forty rats were introduced into his apartment where they fought and squeaked and scurried all night long. But Richard's experiences in France had robbed him of any particular fear of rats. If anything he welcomed their appearance and devoted the short periods when the light was on to shooting at them with a catapult fashioned from the elastic of a sock suspender and a piece of angle iron detached from the underside of a broken armchair. For ammunition he used a few bits of anthracite coal which he found in the sitting room grate. Altogether he accounted for seventeen before the servants arrived and deprived him of his weapon. The remainder of the rats were corralled and carried away rejoicing. This little entertainment took place during the first week of his imprisonment and served the unhappy purpose of convincing his captors that Richard's nerves were not susceptible to frivolous attacks. Thereafter they concentrated on sterner measures. Food was reduced to a minimum and frequently doped with chemicals that caused him acute internal suffering. When the pain was at its height either Van Diest, Laurence or Hipps would pay him a visit and over and over again the question would be asked.
Times out of number sheer desperation and want of sleep almost induced him to give away the secret but something inside his nature—some fourth dimensional endurance over which he appeared to have the most astounding control—checked the impulse. Often he wondered at himself and questioned how he contrived to face the pressure put upon him, but the only motive he could trace beyond the stalwart desire of every decent man to take his gruel without squealing was an ambition to be able to meet Auriole Craven's eyes squarely when she came to see him and say "I'm afraid your friends haven't got my strength just yet." She would shake her head at that and reply cynically—"It's only a matter of time, Anthony." But at the back of her eyes was a light that seemed to read "Well done you."
He was in a sad enough plight on the morning of the seventeenth day when the door opened and Van Diest followed by Laurence entered the room.
Van Diest was chanting a German hymn, a habit greatly affected by him in moments of perplexity. With thumbs tucked in his waistcoat and fingers drumming upon the resonant rotundity of his waist line he marched slowly up and down moaning the guttural words in a melancholy and tuneless voice. Richard had learned to hate that song as cordially as its performer.
"Take it down another street," he implored.
Van Diest stopped singing long enough to shake his head and Laurence who had seated himself with crossed legs on one of the hard upright chairs said "Barraclough" with a note of pseudo-friendly warning.
"Why not have a shot at 'Avalon,'" Richard suggested sleepily. "Suit you, that would, and make a nice change for me." His throat was burning and talking was painful.
"Hm! A change," said Van Diest. "I wass thinking you would want a change very soon. It is tired you look this morning."
"That's queer, for I had a splendid night." Richard's hollow, dark rimmed eyes gave a lie to his words.
"Hm! Laurence, they use the siren—yes?"
Laurence nodded.
"Had it going every ten minutes. Didn't give him much of a chance last night."
"So! But to these young boys sleep comes very easily—I think—think it wass a goot idea to take away his bed—yes."
Richard rolled his eyes threateningly toward the speaker and checked a sudden torrent of abuse that sprang to his lips.
"It iss bad for these boys to have too much comforts—s'very bad; with the sleep fogged brain a man loses so much the intelligence. You will arrange—yes?"
"Of course I will if he insists," said Laurence.
"Oh, you swine," said Richard staggering to his feet. "You rotten blasted swine. Aren't you satisfied with what you've done—isn't it enough that you make the nights into a hell for me—a screaming hell. Sleep? How can I sleep? How can I sleep when——"
A violent, paroxysm of coughing seized and shook him this way and that.
"Tut, tut, tut! You haf a very bad cold there," said Tan Diest sweetly. "You must eat one of these lozenges."
Richard struck the box out of the hand that proffered it and fell heaped up into a chair beside the table.
"No pleasure to us you stay awake, eh, Laurence, eh?"
"'Course not. Now don't look at me like that, old fellar, I was thundering decent to you when first you arrived. Barring smoke, literature and alcohol it was a home from home. It's your own pigeon things have got a bit tight. Doesn't pay striking out against the odds."
"You little rat," said Richard turning a bit in his chair. "I'd like——" and he closed his fist.
"Silly talk, old chap, waste of time."
"I could waste a lot of time that way."
Laurence humped his shoulders.
"What are you to do with a fellar like this?"
Van Diest drew up a chair and smiled over the rims of his glasses.
"Of course we let you go to sleep if you waas sensible. Consider now the small shareholders that look to us for their little incomes. All these widows from the war. You speak and you wass a rich man all at once. Very soon forget the discomforts of these three weeks. S'no goot—no goot to make a fuss."
"I have nothing to say."
"Ach!" said Van Diest and rose. "I'm afraid, Laurence, we must take away this bed."
But Richard raised no further protest and somewhere below stairs a gong rumbled for lunch. It was part of the programme to emphasise the arrival of meals and in spite of himself he could not resist starting hungrily. Such signs and tokens were watched for. Laurence laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered:
"There's a fourth place laid, old friend."
"Why not join us to the lunch," said Van Diest coaxingly, "just a word spoken and—oh, it's goot the lunch."
"Thanks, but I'm rather particular who I sit with," said Richard and moved unsteadily toward the fireplace.
"It's rather a special menu," Laurence remarked. "There's a lobster Americaine—that was in Hipps' honour. But perhaps you don't care for shellfish, Barraclough."
"No, no, thank you. Prefer a Spartan diet. Glass of water and a piece of bread."
"Bread? Yes. I hope the baker remembered to call. Be awkward if——Well, come along, Chief, no good letting things get cold."
They passed out of the room and the bolt slammed home.
With a crazy impulse Richard staggered across the floor, seized the door handle and shook it violently. One of those violent paroxysms of hunger suddenly possessed him which while they endure are acute agony. The longing for food gripped at his vitals like an eagle's claw and drove reasoned action from his head. He knew well enough that there was no escape to be made through the shuttered windows but ignoring the knowledge he leapt toward them and seized the iron cross-bar. As he lifted it from its slot the alarm bell above the frame rang out a fiery summons.
He fell back a pace beating the air impotently and whining. The door opened and Blayney and Parker, the two men servants, entered. Parker placed a tray on the table, then returned to stand in the open doorway. Blayney, ignoring Richard's presence, replaced the shutter bar in its old position and the bell stopped ringing. Then he turned and said:
"I shouldn't advise you, to try the window, sir. There's a strong electric current passes through the catch."
"Thank you," said Richard and slouched despondently toward the table where his glance fell upon the tray. Whatever victuals had been provided were concealed beneath a small silver cover but there was a napkin, a knife and fork and a cruet. On the whole it looked rather promising. Then suddenly he noticed that the glass beside the plate contained barely an inch of water.
"I say," he exclaimed, "look! Can't I have a jog of water? There isn't——"
"Not today, sir," said Blayney.
The very courtesy of the man was an incentive to fury.
"Yes, but——"
"Not today, sir."
Parker in the doorway grinned.
"Don't smirk at me, blast you," said Richard.
Blayney nodded toward the bedroom and changed places with his companion. When Parker came out he was carrying a great pile of bedclothes.
"Here, what are you doing? Put 'em down. D'you hear me?"
"My orders were to take them away, sir."
As Laurence had said it was useless to fight against present odds.Richard shut his teeth tight.
"Obey your orders," he said, but as the door was closing the craving for drink mastered his pride. "For God's sake," he cried, "for God's sake give me some more water. I'll give you twenty for a jug of water—honest I will—twenty——"
Blayney laid a finger to his lips and went out. The gesture might have meant anything. With trembling hand Richard seized the glass of water and drained it at a gulp. There was miserably little—it barely cooled the heat of his throat. Whimpering he set the glass down and lifted the cover from the plate. Underneath was a cube of bread the size of a lump of sugar. With a savage cry he picked it up and flung it across the room but a moment later was on all fours gathering up the broken bits and pieces and eating them wolfishly.
Blayney found him searching pathetically for the last crumb when he came stealthily into the room and put a tin mug on the table.
"I'll collect that twenty later," he said and vanished.
Almost like a miser Richard took the mug in his hands and purred over it possessively. With a sigh of absolute content he raised it to his lips. Then a scream broke from him—harsh, strident, savage. There were no soft spots in the walls of Hugo Van Diest's fortress. The water was salt.
Mrs. Barraclough was one of those old ladies who are constantly being surprised. She courted surprise. She never forestalled a climax and of the hundreds of sensational novels which she so greedily devoured never once was she guilty of taking a premature peep at the last chapter to ensure herself that right would triumph. "I shall find out all about it in good time" was the motto she affected. This being so she made no effort to secure Isabel's confidence but simply waited for Isabel to speak. The same reticence possessed her in the matter of the four mysterious serving girls. She hadn't the smallest idea why Anthony had suddenly transformed himself into a domestic agency although, at the back of her head, she guessed at a deep underlying motive. It gratified her beyond measure to be surrounded by unfathomed waters and frequently as a corollary to her prayers she would thank God for the little excitements and mysteries He sent to flavour her declining years.
After the uncontrollable rush of tears on her arrival Isabel pulled herself together and made a show of gaiety and preserved it nobly for nearly three weeks. Anthony had gone and gloomy forebodings were of no service. Accordingly she helped Mrs. Barraclough in the garden and made the very best friends of the four girls. Perhaps she was the least bit resentful on finding out that they knew almost as much of Anthony's plans as she herself.
"But did he tell you?" she asked in surprise.
"It's like this," said Flora who generally spoke for the company. "Jane and myself were with him in the Secret Service during the last year of the war."
"He got us the job," Jane interpolated. She was a big, bonny girl with broad shoulders, steady blue eyes and a complexion that would have advertised any health resort. "Cook kicks herself that she wasn't in that show."
It was at this point Mrs. Barraclough came into the room.
"Kicks herself! What a very unbecoming expression, Jane."
"Sorry, madam," said Jane and she and Flora sniggered uncontrollably.
"You girls perplex me greatly," said Mrs. Barraclough. "You do not laugh in the least like ordinary servants."
"How do ordinary servants laugh?" Jane asked.
"Generally speaking, in a high note that echoes distressingly throughout the house, whereas you laugh like young ladies."
"Oh, you old darling," exclaimed Flora with sudden impulsiveness. "I suppose if a decent education and upbringing counts for anything that's just what we are."
Mrs. Barraclough sat down rather abruptly on a small upright sofa in the centre of the room.
"Then for goodness sake tell me what you are doing in my kitchen."
There was no escaping the explanation especially when Isabel contributed:
"Come on, Flora, out with it."
"It's this way, madam. Lots of us went broke after the war—lots of us who'd only fifty quid a year to live on."
"Quid?" said Mrs. Barraclough. "Isn't that something to do with sailors and tobacco?"
"Pounds, then. We ran across Mr. Anthony out in France."
"Picked him out of a ditch near Arras with a bullet through his foot,"Jane contributed.
"And after that got most awfully friendly and kept knocking up against each other."
Mrs. Barraclough shook her head.
"It must have been very painful for him with a bullet through his foot."
"When he heard we'd gone broke he said—just like him—'my mother's a sport, go and look after her.'"
"So I'm a sport," said Mrs. Barraclough with a smile. "But even so, why should I want looking after?"
"That's what puzzles me," said Isabel.
Jane and Flora exchanged glances.
"I don't know whether we ought to," said Jane.
"He's my fiancé," said Isabel, "and you're jolly well not going to keep me in the dark."
"And quite incidentally," Mrs. Barraclough remarked, "he's my son."
"Oh, very well," said Flora. "It seems he was all over some great big, get rich quick scheme—and there was a chance anyone connected with him might be got at."
"Got at!" Mrs. Barraclough's dark eyes opened a little wider.
"Um! A tough crowd was up against him you see."
"I see." The old lady nodded gravely but there was a sparkle of excitement in her expression. "So you and Jane and Cynthia and Agnes are here to protect me against the assaults of—of a 'tough crowd.'"
"We're here if we're wanted," said Jane robustly.
"And somehow," said Flora, "I think we shall be wanted."
Mrs. Barraclough's hands went out and she drew the two girls a little closer.
"My dears," she said, "I don't know why but lately I've had a pringly sort of feeling—as if something were going to happen. It's a sense of adventure perhaps. I used to be a very wild girl myself."
"But you mustn't worry," said Isabel. "It's sure to turn out all right, you know."
"I'm not worrying. I'm only hoping that if anything does happen I shall be in it."
"But look here," exclaimed Flora, "that's the very thing he wants to prevent."
"Yes, yes, but I know my Anthony, bless him. It would be so beautiful to help him again after all these years." She smiled retrospectively. "When he was a little boy he was always coming into conflict with his father. Poor Mr. Barraclough, he was a very austere man and Anthony's scrapes inspired from him the severest judgments. Tony had a little signal—he was much too proud to speak—he used to take out his pocket handkerchief and quite carelessly tie a knot in the centre. Whenever he did that I used to come to his aid. Dear Tony, I was always the one to rescue him from difficulty."
"He gets his pluck from you," said Flora.
"His father was a brave man too, until he had a little misfortune with a mule which rather upset his balance."
"Generally does," Isabel laughed.
"Mental balance," Mrs. Barraclough corrected. "For the last few years of his life he thought he was Archbishop of Canterbury and if dead people think I'm sure he believes he is buried in Westminster Abbey. There, run along, my dears, and leave me to collect my thoughts."
But she kissed Flora and Jane before letting them go. Isabel stayed in the room.
"So my boy is in danger," said Mrs. Barraclough with the least touch of tragedy in her voice. Isabel came forward and put an arm around her neck. "You knew, my dear?"
Isabel nodded.
"They oughtn't to have told you."
Mrs. Barraclough snorted defiantly.
"Stuff and nonsense. Think I hadn't guessed? After all, a proper man ought to be in danger. Besides," she added, "he's a good enough reason, hasn't he?"
"What reason?"
"Doesn't he want to marry you?"
"I know," said Isabel forlornly, "but that would have happened in any case."
"Don't you be too sure, my dear. Now I'm going to let you into my confidence—mind I'm only putting two and two together but I'm pretty sure I've got the total right. Did you know that Tony had put every penny he possessed into this enterprise?"
Isabel started.
"No. What makes you believe that?"
"Because all I've got is in it too, and he would never ask of me what he feared to do himself."
"Then you know all about it?"
"Hardly anything."
"But he oughtn't——"
"I think the risks and dangers came afterward."
"Even so," said Isabel, "it's just for money. That's what I hate so."
"Isn't it just for you," said Mrs. Barraclough gently. "Just because if he failed he wouldn't be able to make you his wife."
"He never told me."
"Of course he didn't. How could he?"
"Are you sure of all this?"
"Practically certain. You see his Uncle Arthur is executor of Tony's affairs. Executors are not supposed to speak but Uncle Arthur was an exception who proves the rule."
"For me," said Isabel slowly. "For our marriage—for us. Oh, I'm so glad it wasn't for cash." A cloud came over her brow. "But it makes it frightfully difficult for me supposing I had to——"
"What?"
"I mustn't say—even to you."
Mrs. Barraclough didn't press for an answer. She was pleased there was a little bit of mystery left over.
Isabel kissed the old lady very tenderly and walked out into the rose garden by herself. There was a glow on her cheeks almost as pink as the roses themselves. It was a sweet relief that Anthony had gone into these dangers more for her sake than any other reason and that their happiness and future rested on his success. In her twenty-one years of life she had come too much into contact with men whose ruling passion was the dollar to the exclusion of all else. At the back of her head the fear had haunted her that Anthony had been bitten by the money bug—the hateful contagion that straightened and thinned the lips, chilled the emotions and case-hardened the kindliest natures. But now that fear was gone to be replaced with glad assurance.
On a semi-circular stone bench that backed the roadside hedge Isabel sat and hugged her knees and here a few moments later she was joined by Flora.
"He's a topper, your man," said Flora. "A downright first rater."
Isabel grinned an acknowledgment.
"Did he have any trouble in getting away?"
"Awful, I believe, but—but they had a plan which he said would make it easy."
On the road side of the hedge, barely three feet away, a clergyman, who apparently was seeking protection from the sun, moved sharply and cocked a listening ear.
"What plan?"
"He didn't tell me that and anyhow I shouldn't be allowed to repeat it."
The listening clergyman looked disappointed.
"Do you know what he was going after?"
"Yes, I know."
"Wouldn't care to tell anyone, I s'pose. I'm as safe as a house."
"I'm certain you are, only——"
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter so long as he got away all right. He did get away all right, didn't he?"
"Yes, I—I think so—he must have or his servant, Doran, would have told me."
Harrison Smith, on the far side of the hedge, pushed back his clerical hat and frowned deeply.
"And you had no message?"
Isabel shook her head.
"None. So I just tell myself everything is all right."
"Oh, I'm sure it is—certain," said Flora ecstatically. "It's bound to be. Mr. Anthony'd never let himself be beaten by any crowd." She paused. "If only one could be in it—but nothing ever happens down here. Are you staying much longer?"
"Going back tomorrow or the next day. I must be in Town on the night of the 18th."
"That the day he's expected?"
"Yes, at eleven o'clock."
"Wish I could be there to give him a cheer when he comes in."
Isabel slipped an arm through Flora's.
"It's great of you to be so keen," she said.
"Think so," Flora replied. "Jolly sporting of you not to mind. We've got a bit of a 'pash' on Mr. Anthony, you know."
"I thought you had," said Isabel sympathetically.
"Kind of hero worship it is. Nothing to bother about 'cos as matter of fact we're all engaged—'cept Cook who hates men. But even Cook can't help admiring him. Be a sport and let us know if he gets through all right. You could 'phone."
"I will."
"Any notion which port he'll arrive at?"
"Couldn't say. I've a sort of idea that it might be one of the littleCornish fishing villages."
"What makes you think so?"
"No particular reason only——"
"Yes, go on—be a pal."
"You won't repeat it?"
"No fear."
"There was a West Country guide book on his table one day and I happened to glance at it."
"Um."
"Ever heard of Polperro?"
"Yes."
"On one of the maps Polperro had a pencil line ringed round it and a couple of very small dots marked in certain places."
"That might have been years old."
"It wasn't. I had lent him a blue pencil a few days before—rather a funny colour it was. He'd used that pencil."
"You're a bit of a Sherlock."
"I oughtn't to have said anything about it."
"It's safe enough with me," said Flora. "You can bet your boots I shan't blab."
A silvery toned bell sounded from the house.
"There's tea," said Isabel.
The two girls rose and moved away arm in arm.
Mr. Harrison Smith pulled out his watch and looked at the dial.
"With luck I can catch it," said he.
And through the drawing room window Mrs. Barraclough saw the unusual spectacle of a clergyman running like fury in the direction of the railway station. As she remarked a few moments later:
"This is indeed an age of speed. Even the delivery of the Gospel is conducted by express service."
The train which conveyed Mr. Harrison Smith back to London stopped at every intermediate station and did not arrive until after ten o'clock. He, therefore, was given leisure for thought and the result of his thinking was to bring him perilously near the truth.
He began with the premise that somehow Anthony Barraclough had succeeded in making good his escape—that he was even now obtaining the concession—that he would return to London on the night of the 18th instant at eleven o'clock in all probability carrying the document upon his person. All this was plain sailing but against it was the established fact that Anthony Barraclough was imprisoned in Laurence's house. If this were indeed the case further investigation was useless. But was it the case?
The girl Isabel Irish had said there was a plan to make his exit from London easy but no evidence had been given to suggest that this plan, whatever it was, had been put into operation. Torrington's syndicate was not composed of fools and yet the kidnapping of Barraclough had been mere child's play without a speck of opposition. His own side had been guilty of an act of crass stupidity in failing to carry off the servant Doran as well as his master. It was one of those tragic oversights which occur in the most carefully laid plans. Unquestionably Doran would have told his employers what happened on the night of the 27th and they could hardly have failed to guess the truth. And yet, as private information assured him, not the smallest effort had been made to rescue the man in whose brain was a secret worth millions. And quite suddenly the truth, or a guess at the truth, dawned upon him. Torrington's crowd must have been aware of the intention to kidnap Barraclough and for a reason known only to themselves had deliberately allowed it to take place. Why? Had another man been sent in Barraclough's place? He dismissed that theory without dissection. The shape of Barraclough's jaw and the line of his mouth belonged to the type that does not unduly trust his fellow men. Why? Was another man occupying Barraclough's place—deputising for him in his absence?
Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By God," he exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am."
He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement. His first thought was to proceed post haste to Laurence's house and lay before them the result of his deductions, but a second and more personal consideration dissuaded him. There had been little enough encouragement when last he interfered. He had been rudely ordered to leave things alone. No, he would work out this deal himself and if anything came of it approach Van Diest and Hipps for a lion's share of the plunder. Weeks ago it had been arranged; if by any means Barraclough succeeded in slipping through the outposts and obtaining the concession, he was to be quietly thugged on his return and the paper destroyed. As Ezra Hipps had said, "If we fail to get it for ourselves it's damn sure no one else is going to profit." Wherefore all he had to do was to intercept the returning treasure seeker, put him securely away and then talk business to his own employers.
Harrison Smith hailed a taxi and told the driver to go down the Commercial Road as far as the Poplar Town Hall. This was not a job that could be tackled single handed—on the other hand it would be unwise to admit more people to his confidence than were absolutely necessary. He dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot down one of the narrow crooked byways abounding in that region. The place was quiet and deserted save for a few Orientals—Lascars and Chinamen—who leaned against the walls of their dwellings in silent contemplation of the stars.
At the side door of a small and disreputable public house he paused and knocked thrice with the handle of his cane and presently the door was opened by a girl. She was a Jewess and lovely to look at, with the fresh, shameless beauty peculiar to very young girls of that faith. Recognising Harrison Smith she smiled a welcome and said:
"You're in luck—he's sober! Upstairs, in the front room."
She smiled again, revealing a perfect row of little white teeth which mocked the string of cheap pearls at her throat. As he climbed the stairs Harrison Smith speculated on the odd contrast this girl presented to her surroundings. The silk of her stockings, the bangles and gewgaws, the ultra patent leather of her shoes, bore so little relation to the squalor of the narrow passage with its damp stained walls, carpetless floor and hissing gas jet. Probably nowhere in the world do greater incongruities exist than in the East End of London.
Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a glass of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short, his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the model from which Will Owen must have illustrated the stories of W. W. Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the passer-by that it was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set, narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look upon.
At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and extended an open armed welcome.
"Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the hell are you doing with your collar back to front?"
Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.
"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.
"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.Now, if you care to take a hand."
Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy—a circumstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined.
"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy—my jolly old beau—dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe."
Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that.
"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household—lot of smart girls looking after an old woman—Barraclough's mother."
"What's she like?"
"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot."
"Shrewd?"
"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything—bit of a fool—mostly are—that old country sort."
Mr. Bolt mused.
"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?"
"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."
"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley—'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."
"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor."
"And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?"
"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him."
Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.
"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"
Harrison Smith thought for a moment.
"That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?"
"Sure."
"Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50."
"Right."
"And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys."
"Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys.
"Going to have a try," came the answer.
Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle.
"Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick, guttural "S'bad—s'bad pizness. Dese servants wass ver' insubordinate. S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy."
They shook hands cordially.
The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where, at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed to pass before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and passed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St. James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a snatch of song attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally clear—like music from another planet.
"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify any limit of repetition. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.
"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"
"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."
With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust it into Harrison Smith's palm.
"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot together."
Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the fourth floor. There was a brass plate on the front door which informed the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.
"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day and want to turn in."
"T'hell with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the dawn?"
He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses—not without casualties among their fellows—set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep arm chair.
"Help 'self and help me—'cos I'm ver' tired—ov' tired."
Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).
While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an epicure.
"See that one—pho' frame—piano. Tho'bred—perfect tho'bred—a darling—love 'er—love 'em all."
"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."
Mr. Royston rose nobly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of his glass at a single gulp.
"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."
He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy whirl.
"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."
He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. HarrisonSmith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.
"All ri' soon—qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan.
A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning on a light he assured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table. In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil—a new one—since obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a dozen places, a circumstance which Harrison Smith noted with satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.
"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited him—for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.
The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant. Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with excitement. He picked up a magnifying glass and closely examined the erasement. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the outskirts, where three cottages clustered together, was the impression of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in the middle of a clump of trees.
Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound at the disaster he had caused—robbed of the power of action.
It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the zinging of the mantelpiece brasses from the double explosion. Then silence—no movement—and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and the touch of it suggested an idea.
He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.
"My God! You've killed me!"
Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft thud to the floor.
Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated through the darkness toward the door.
"Serve you damn well right," said Doran in a voice that was startlingly near.
Harrison Smith's luck had returned. He found the door and passed through it and down the hall as quietly as a draught. He heard a click as Doran switched up the lights, followed by an oath. Then he streaked down the main stairway with a flight and a half start. A second was lost at the hall door fumbling for the latch and in that second Doran fired again but missed. As Harrison Smith shot out into Albemarle Street he collided heavily with a constable, attracted to the scene by the noise of the shots, but him he overturned to such good effect that he was crossing Piccadilly before the blast of the inevitable whistle screeched through the night. There was no further opposition to his progress and in St. James's Street he fell into a walk and finally entered his own apartment unobserved.
A little breathless but entirely satisfied he flung himself on the bed for a couple of hours' sleep.
In the summer time all the best people, and many who fall short of perfection, go westward to the Cornish Riviera. It is the thing to do. The taxi, the station 'bus, the private automobile, and even the almost extinct four-wheeler, high laden with luggage, by common consent roll down the slope into Paddington and deliver up their cargoes. Long are the queues at the booking offices, thronged the platforms, and loud the voices of those who command. Each little party of voyagers would seem to have its own alarums as an inevitable adjunct to excursion. The genius for organising is manifest on all sides with resultant chaos. Orders and injunctions are flung broadcast—misinterpreted and sometimes abused. The germ of panic infects the multitude.
There was nothing Freddie Dirk liked better than a holiday crowd. They inspired in him a sense of profound gratitude. Their generosity was boundless. To a gentleman of his skill in the matter of property exchange they represented a fortune. Whatsoever the imagination might picture and the heart of man covet could be had at the mere turn of a hand.
His appointment with Harrison Smith was for 9.50, but Freddie Dirk arrived half an hour ahead of time and this grace he put to excellent account. He had learnt from Bolt that Cornwall was their destination, wherefore his first care was to procure two first-class tickets for Plymouth from the cuff of a gentleman's raincoat—a feat in strict accordance with the laws of economy. The high cost of living had of late reduced his supply of ready cash, on which account he could hardly be blamed for taking possession of a wad of notes carelessly entrusted to a side pocket by another passenger who was seeking to economise by carrying his own bag. Being an essentially practical man Freddie Dirk resisted the temptation to acquire a suitcase in crocodile by Pound. Reticence in the matter did him credit and he rewarded himself with a single stone diamond scarf pin that greatly enhanced the appearance of his own cravat. He was debating with himself the question of a string of pearls of no very great value when Harrison Smith's hand fell upon his shoulder.
"That's a blame silly thing to do," said Dirk when he had recovered from his initial surprise. "Blame silly. Might 'ave a bit more respec' for a man's nerves."
Harrison Smith cursed him fluently as he led the way to a Ford car standing in the yard.
"Lot of use to me you'd have been if the splits had got you. It's a big job we're tackling and I don't want it spoilt by dam-fool sneak thief tricks."
Freddie Dirk apologised and explained his distaste for idleness.
"Ain't we going by train—'cos I got the tickets."
"No."
"Well, 'ang on a minute while I gets the money back."
But even this business coup was denied and with a sense of opportunity lost he entered the car.
There was nothing prepossessing in Freddie Dirk's appearance. He was of the low brow, heavy jaw, bruiser type. The term a "tough" fits him closely. He had a punch like a kick from a dray horse but when called upon to use his hands he preferred to rely upon his mascot to ensure success. Freddie's mascot was a few lengths of whalebone bound with twine and socketed into a pear-shaped lump of lead. Scientifically wielded it would go through the helmet of a City policeman like a hot knife through butter. He had a healthy dislike for firearms which was perhaps the primary cause of his failure to serve King and Country in the late war. His skill as a draft dodger had earned him a great reputation among many of his fellows equally diffident in their will to serve.
"I've got you into this," said Harrison Smith as they chugged up the station incline, "because I want a man who'll stick at nothing."
Dirk nodded.
"There's a chance we may have to——"
"That's orl rite—least said soonest mended."
"Barraclough is a bit of a bear cat and if he's got the concession on him you can lay odds he'll fight."
"If he's got the blinking thing don't see 'ow we're going to make much aht of it."
"Wouldn't his own side pay a goodish cheque? And wouldn't old Van cash in to have it destroyed."
Dirk grinned very prettily revealing his broken front teeth in all the glory of the morning sun.
"I get you. A private deal, like, favouring whichever market pays best."
"That's the idea. There's a fortune in it if we get him tucked away in some quiet place."
"It's a treat to work with you," said Dirk enthusiastically. "I'll lay a quart there ain't a finer 'ead piece than yours from 'Oxton to 'Ammersmith."
"Thank you," said Harrison Smith. "Try and remember that and obey orders quick as you get 'em."
"That's rite, captain, that's the talk. Give me a man wot talks strite."
A Ford is a marvellous eater up of miles and Harrison Smith did not spare his engine nor linger upon the way. Evening was falling when at last they descended the hill into the little fishing village of Polperro. They ran into the inn yard and tried to bespeak a lodging for the night but in this they were unlucky for there was no accommodation to be had. The best obtainable was a shake down in the stable loft, granted on a promise to refrain from smoking. Having refilled the petrol tank and assured themselves that the Ford was in sound running order against the morrow's needs they entered the inn.
"We'll get a snack now," said Harrison Smith, "and after that take a look round and make a few enquiries."
The schooners of ale provided by mine host to wash down the simple country fare were entirely agreeable to Freddie Dirk's parched palate. It had been a long day and, as he pointed out, refreshment had been all too scarce. Harrison Smith might be, and undoubtedly was, an excellent fellow but he did not understand the urgent need for beer without which no good man was at his best. It was all very well going out and asking questions and poking one's nose into this, that and the other but far greater advantage was to be won by poking one's nose into deep foaming tankards of beer. Closing hour came all too soon and it would be time enough to seek fresh diversion after that unhappy event.
Wishing to remain in the good graces of his companion Harrison Smith shrugged his shoulders and sallied forth alone in the direction of the quay. The tide was out and from the mud and sand came the pungent ozonous smell of rotting sea vegetation. Dazzling white gulls wheeled and hovered in the air or noisily disputed the possession of fragments of fish and the offal of the market. In the pool a dozen trawlers, green striped and numbered, with furled brown sails and slackened rigging rode sweetly at anchor. A knot of seamen leaned against the outer stone wall of the pier smoking pipes and gazing idly across the opal coloured sea. A couple of artists were wrestling valiantly with the thousand subtle difficulties of the scene—trying to transmit to canvas the changing lights upon the water, the pink blush on the white-washed houses and the dull grey shadows on the mud. It was a scene calm and sweet enough to awaken gentleness and set romance astir but in Harrison Smith's mind it inspired no more than a sense of doubt and disappointment. Surely this tiny harbour was an unlikely landing for a man to choose who carried in his pocket the key to millions. No decent sized vessel would ever put into such a port. The place was asleep—dead almost.
A blasting conviction that the marks in the guide book had no connection whatever with the business in hand came over him. Barraclough might have put them there expressly to deceive the girl. He was subtle enough to employ such a device. What if after all the others were right and it was indeed Barraclough they had kidnapped? A pretty fool he would look then.
Shaking himself out of these melancholy forebodings Harrison Smith approached an old seaman with the offer of a "good evening" and a fill of tobacco.
"Pretty quiet hereabouts," he remarked.
The old man nodded.
"Still I dare say you get steamers and such like popping in every day to liven things up."
"Bearn't draught enuff for steamers. They doan't bother us much, steamers doan't."
The reply was not encouraging.
"I see the fishing fleet is at anchor. Weather too calm?"
"Couldn't say thaat."
"Going out tonight?"
"Med-do."
"And how do you get rid of your fish?"
"Us sells 'er."
"I mean do you send it up by road?"
"Naw!"
"Steam trawler comes in to collect it?"
"Doan't come in—not very often it doan't."
Harrison Smith turned away with a sigh, leaving the old man sucking at his pipe and spitting reflectively. There was no illumination to be found in that quarter.
More than ever doubtful of success he passed slowly through the village to its inland outskirts and there he paused to study the map. It might be worth while taking a casual glance at the group of three cottages marked by Barraclough with the pencil point. They were easily located but their outward appearance suggested little enough connection with the mystery. They were fashioned of grey Cornish granite with slate roofs and the inevitable fuchsia bushes in the front gardens. One of them boasted a small stock yard roughly cobbled, an open cowshed and alongside a stable with a heavy double door. As a mere matter of form Harrison Smith determined to take a glance inside but on approaching the door he found it was fastened by an iron crossbar secured to an eyelet by a large and well made padlock. The door fitted closely into its architrave and there was no crack through which a man might see into the stable. Once more his excitement revived. With a quick glance over his shoulder to satisfy himself no one was about he scrambled over the shale wall of the stock yard and passed to the rear of the building. High up under the gable a few pieces of stone had been removed for ventilation. A broken horse trough placed against the wall served him as a ladder and a moment later he was peering through the gap into the inky darkness of the stable. Nothing could be seen so, with some difficulty, he struck a match and dropped it into the space beyond. It went out in the fall but in the brief space while still alight it revealed the bright parts of a long, low racing car.
Harrison Smith dropped silently to the ground and his breath came short and sharp.
"I was right—I was right," he gasped. "Hispano Suisa by the look of it—and fast too. Shouldn't have much chance against that outfit."
Naturally enough he resolved that it would never do to allow Barraclough to get as far as the stable. On the other hand it would be a wise precaution to disable the big automobile in case of accident. But between him and the carrying out of this resolve was an iron bar and a padlock. To attempt violence against the door would surely attract attention from the house. And all at once a simple and effective alternative suggested itself. If he himself were unable to enter the stable he would take measures to prevent the entrance of any other person. There was no difficulty about that and when five minutes later he strolled down the road toward the inn it was with the comforting reflection that the keyhole of the padlock was entirely filled up with clay and grit in such a manner that no key could ever again force its way in.
He found Dirk already settling himself down for the night and HarrisonSmith smote him boisterously on the back.
"A red hot scent, my son," said he. "We're on the winning side.Success, my boy—success."
Freddie Dirk smiled beatifically through a fog of beer.
"Goo' ni'," he murmured.
"It's up with the dawn for you and me—and then success."
Curious how success reacts even on the best balanced brain and obliterates the most obvious considerations. Harrison Smith entirely forgot the second blue dot on the map—the one situated a mile outside the village where a little footpath converged with the high road.