It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with a Turkish towel and, after the fashion of all good men, singing lustily in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he materialized through the wreaths of steam.
"Hello, back again!"
Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him.
"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind."
"Fire away."
Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil.
"Scribble your signature on this bit of paper."
"I see. My writing. Here you are."
Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath—and without thinking—dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result.
"No good?"
"'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write."
"I won't."
Cranbourne glanced at the page again.
"This is your real name, I suppose."
Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded.
"There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business."
"My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know."
"I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."
"Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a gentleman and nothing else—never was taught how to earn a living. That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now."
"I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father realised his ambition. Goodnight."
"Night-oh!"
At the door Cranbourne paused.
"I'm almost ashamed of having dragged you into this business," said he.
"Don't you fret, my dear fellar. I'm delighted. I've been spending that five thousand in imagination ever since I heard of it. Think I'll emigrate in the fine style."
"Hm!" he paused. "Altar! I shouldn't really tell you this, but you're likely to be kidnapped tonight."
"What?"
"I thought you might like to know."
"Thanks very much."
"That's all."
"Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful with my hands or a gun either for that matter."
"It would help us if you did nothing at all—except comply."
Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up.
"Oh, very well, if you say so."
"Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap."
"You bet."
Cranbourne went out and a moment later the front door slammed.
Then Richard began to laugh.
"Kidnapped, eh! What a game. Doran!" The last word rang out imperatively.
"Sir," came the reply.
"Have I got any clothes?"
"In the bedroom, sir."
"Righto." He put his feet into a pair of slippers, donned a bath gown and shuffled into the adjoining room. At the door he paused to survey the appointments.
"I think this is a nice bedroom of mine, don't you?"
Doran signified assent with a smile.
"Very nice flat altogether. What sort of taste have I in the matter of clothes?"
"Pretty good, sir. I've laid out a blue cheviot."
"Aha! And an M.C.C. tie. Shan't wear that."
"No, sir."
"I'm not a member."
"But in the circumstances, sir."
"P'raps you're right. A sound taste in shirtings, I see."
"Rather a strong feature with us, sir."
Richard whistled cheerfully as he dressed himself. The clothes fitted him astonishingly well—even the collars were right to a quarter size. In the intervals between whistling solos he put questions on a hundred matters.
"Am I a fairly decent sort of chap, Doran?"
The question received a frowning affirmative.
"Splendid! You stick up for me."
The rattle of enquiry proceeded. How much did he drink? How long hadhe had the flat? What were his clubs—games—favourite restaurants?What was his telephone number? Did he smoke to excess—go out much?Was he fond of reading? Had he got a profession?
"Ah! and this is important. What about money?"
"There's seven pound ten in that note case, sir."
Richard verified the statement.
"Suppose I want more?"
"There's about two hundred in the second drawer of the bureau, sir."
"That's the sort of bureau for me. And I can get some food here?"
"I shall look after that, sir."
"First rate. Everything seems snug and in order. Let's take a look round the flat."
They inspected every corner, with the exception of the wine cellar, paused for a moment in the hall to try on hats and finished up in the dining room where Doran presented him with a bunch of keys, explaining their various uses.
Richard dropped into a saddle bag chair and smiled expansively upon a friendly world.
"A very pleasant finish to the day," he remarked luxuriously. "If you'd mix me one small drink and put the cigarettes in reach, I'll bother you no more tonight."
Doran was moving toward the decanter when a low knock sounded at the front door. He stopped, raised his head, listened, and stood quite still. The knock was repeated.
"Better find out who it is," Richard suggested.
"Yes, sir," said Doran, but made no move.
"What's the matter? You look worried."
Doran admitted that he was worried—very worried.
"But good heavens, why? Tough looking chap—ought to be able to look after yourself."
"I can, sir, but I was forbidden to do so. And I was wondering if it's to be a bar of lead or a sponge of chloroform."
"Oh, rats," Richard laughed, "you go and find out."
"Very well, sir."
Doran took a grip on himself and marched out.
"And now," said Richard to himself, "I suppose the fun is going to begin."
He lit a cigarette and waited. It was quite a long time before the door opened and a woman came quickly into the room. And she was lovely. She had a mass of black hair swept clear of the brow. Her eyes were black, large and luminous. She was unnaturally white but her lips were scarlet. It was a beautiful mouth, shapely, sensuous, sensitive, but with a hint of strength. Her brows very straight and as thin almost as pencil lines. She wore a flame-coloured evening dress—'Tout feu' as a ladies' journal would describe it—and a cloak of smoke colour which fell from one shoulder and double draped the other. There was nothing ordinary in the appearance of Auriole Craven. She attacked the eye and held it captive. A woman would have declared her to be overdressed—outre—almostdemi mondaine—would have denounced the white face and the red curled lips—would have criticised the uncanny knack of falling instantaneously into attitudes of flowing lines. But to a man the subject of these criticisms was matter for appreciation. By her very daring she stirred a spirit of adventure. Richard checked a gasp of admiration—of surprise—rose to his feet and bowed, but other than by settling her eyes upon him the girl gave no sign of recognition. Clearly it was up to someone to make a move, wherefore Richard politely offered her "good evening."
"Is that all you have to say?" came the answer.
"Of course not," he laughed, "but I make a point of saying that first.Do sit down, won't you?"
She occupied the offered chair and looked up at him.
"At least I thought you'd be surprised," she said. "Still it doesn't matter."
"P'raps I am," he admitted reluctantly, "but my surprise was drowned in a very natural pleasure."
"Pleasure?"
"It was awfully nice of you to look in like this. Been to a theatre or something?"
"No."
"No?"
"I came to talk."
"Fine! We—we've every facility."
"Yes." Her head was slightly raised and she seemed to be listening."Yes."
"I didn't hear anything, did you?" said Richard gaily.
"No. Nothing." But again she raised her head.
"I say, are you sure you're all right?" he asked.
"Yes, perfectly."
"'Cause if I can get you anything——"
"You can hardly expect me to be normal," she retorted with a flash of bitterness.
It was difficult to know what to say, so he nodded understandingly. An inspiration suggested the offer of a cigarette, but she shook her head.
"I prefer my own," she said, and drew a gold case from her bag. "Try one."
He took the case and she nodded toward it.
"I still carry your gifts."
Richard turned it over and read the inscription "Auriole Craven from A.B." It was a stroke of luck to get her name without asking. He smiled and handed it back with the words,
"Ungallant of me to expose your identity and conceal my own behind initials."
Auriole laughed shortly.
"Perhaps A. B. guessed that a day might come when his name engraved on a present to another woman would be a mistake."
"Give him a chance," said Richard. "He hasn't all that subtlety."
"Men change their views very readily, Tony."
"Only men?" he countered.
She jerked the reply at him over her uncovered shoulder.
"My being here, you mean? My having joined the other side?"
This was a grateful piece of intelligence but Richard preserved a stern expression.
"Since you suggest it yourself——" he admitted.
"Do you hate me for doing it?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Not at all. I'm sure your reasons were adequate."
"They were. Still I thought you'd be surprised."
It was clearly evident that some sort of emotion would have to be expressed. Richard passed a hand across his forehead and walked to the fireplace.
"My dear Auriole," he said, "did I ever strike you as a man who betrayed my real feelings?"
"I always knew them," she returned.
"Then you must know how hurt I am—how very hurt—to think that you—well, I mean, it's dreadful—most—er—most dreadful."
"Were you expecting loyalty from me?"
"There are degrees," he replied with a reproachful glance.
"Wonderful," said Auriole. "It's wonderful really." Her voice dropped and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "Tony, you're not really in love with that girl, you know."
He was concealing bewilderment behind the action of mixing a drink, but the statement so startled him that he sent a column of soda water straight into his shoe.
"Look here," he declared, vigorously mopping his sock with a handkerchief. "If you're going to say things like that I simply——"
"You can't love her."
A tinge of scarlet showed upon her white cheeks. Evidently the girl was in earnest. It was useless to flirt with the situation.
"I am not going to attempt to prove it," said Richard very gallantly.
"In fact it's an offence for me to mention her name."
"You haven't—yet," he observed tentatively.
And as she took this to be a challenge, she leaned back in her chair and said "Isabel Irish" with very little charity of inflexion.
"Please!" said Richard—but what he really meant was "Thank you." Inside himself he was thinking "Damn that fellow Doran! Why the blazes didn't he tell me about all these girls."
The sound of Auriole's voice brought him back to the necessity of the moment.
"Sosans gene," she was saying, "so innocent—so unworldly. I wonder what her views would be if she learnt you had entertained a lady in your flat at midnight."
"As the lady came uninvited," Richard returned, "I am hardly likely to refer to the matter."
"Suppose I referred to it—advertised the fact. Do you imagine she would marry you then?"
Richard smiled.
"I should say she'd be as likely to marry me then as she is now."
"A girl brought up as she has been?"
"Aha!"
"You're very confident. Tony, there are people watching this flat to-night."
"Dear, dear!"
"People who will talk tomorrow morning."
"What, the chatty-at-breakfast-kind. How dreadful."
"If you wish to stop them, there is only one way."
"Yes—tell me. Always believed they were incurable."
Auriole shut her hands tight and spoke with difficulty.
"Tony, I don't know how real your affections are for this girl, but I know this. If you refuse to answer our questions your chance of marrying her is worth—nothing. Understand? Nothing."
And all at once Richard became serious.
"Will that please you?" he asked.
"Perhaps."
"I don't think so. I don't think it will please you, really."
"What do you mean?"
"You're too good a sort to enjoy spreading rotten fables about people who are in love with one another."
She echoed the words "too good a sort" rather faintly.
"Yes. I suppose you—you're jealous or something—angry because my feelings have changed. I understand that—it's natural, and I don't defend myself, you know. It's natural you should want to hurt me, but aren't you choosing rather a rotten way of doing it, 'cos you're hurting an innocent girl into the bargain. It's way down below your form to side up with these men who are against me—isn't it, now? As a friend, I'd drop out of this deal—clean out—it—it's not up to your standard."
"Why do you say this to me?"
"Because I like you too well to associate you with——"
"You like me?"
"Yes."
"Still?"
"Not still," he answered, truthfully, "but now."
She was silent for a long while, then she shook her head.
"No good, Tony. It wouldn't make any difference if I dropped out. I know it's beastly, but that can't be helped. They mean to have their answer, whatever happens."
"They've come to the wrong house to get it," said Richard and he folded his arms very heroically.
"You refuse to speak?"
"I do."
"Mr. Van Diest would pay you—enormously."
"Course he would."
"Twenty per cent after exploitation and a million down."
It was a staggering proposition, but Richard preserved his calm and remarked humorously:
"I'll take it in copper, please."
Auriole sprang to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. Her face was lovelier at close range. A faint and delightful perfume came to his nostrils, her eyes burned brightly and the scarlet mouth, with its moist trembling lower lip, was an exquisite invitation. This indeed was a very woman, he thought, a striking contrast to the small and wistful Doreen. With sudden intuition he realised he had but to open his arms and she would enter—willingly, anxiously. An insane desire possessed him to do this thing. She was adorable, desirable, magnificent, and he was certain beyond doubt she loved him. With a catch of the breath he raised his hands and in so doing his glance fell upon the sleeve of the coat he wore. The cloth was of blue Cheviot which reminded him abruptly that he was Richard Frencham Altar masquerading in someone else's clothes, a circumstance which in no way admitted him to the use of short cuts to the affections of their real owner's admirers. It is disappointing to have to acknowledge that someone is violently in love with someone else that you happen to resemble and the reflection sobered him quickly. With an awkward laugh he turned away and repeated:
"Yes, tell him I'll take it in copper."
"Tony!" she said, "Tony, don't fool with it! Don't you, realise how frightfully serious it is? Haven't you any imagination?"
Apparently he did realise—apparently he had some imagination, for he replied:
"I imagine it is much too late for us to be talking here together. I'm going to ring the bell."
"No," she cried.
"My man will get you a cab."
"If you ring you'll be sorry."
"Life is full of regrets," he answered, and pressed the button.
He saw the startled gesture she made to prevent him and simultaneously the hall and the bedroom doors were thrown open and three gentlemen, each levelling a revolver at his head, advanced into the room.
To a person of less even temperament than Richard the unexpected appearance of these three gentlemen marching in the wake of nickel plated shooting irons might well have aroused feelings of alarm and indignation. But for a matter of some four years Richard had been shot over pretty thoroughly and the lessons of calm learnt in the hard school of war did not desert him in the present situation. He felt, moreover, a curious certainty that the chance of bullets flying around was pretty remote. The primary necessity was to keep his head and avoid any word or action that might betray the fact that he was not the man they believed him to be. The name Van Diest, which had occurred in his conversation with the girl, came quickly to his brain and he glanced from one to another in the hope of determining whether its bearer was present.
His eyes were held by a short rotund person of advanced middle age who occupied the centre of the room. In outline this person was distinctly Dutch. His face was heavily pleated, with dewlaps pendant from the jaw. He wore side whiskers that did not make a good pair and dark bushy brows almost concealed his small, twinkly eyes. He possessed very little hair, but what there was had been pasted in thin separated strands across the shiny bald pate. A low collar of enormous circumference encircled his short neck and his tie was drawn through a Zodiac ring. His clothes were ill-fitting—shapeless trousers and a voluminous morning coat, in the buttonhole of which was a pink carnation with a silver papered stem, an immense watch-chain spread across a coarsely knitted waistcoat of Berlin wool. And he seemed out of breath. The pistol in his extended hand vibrated in sympathy with an accelerated pulse rate.
Richard's left hand wandered carelessly to his hip.
"Look here, Mr. Van Diest," he said, "were you never taught that it's rude to point?"
A twang like the snapping of a 'cello string brought his head round sharply.
"Hands away from your side pocket."
It was less of an invitation than an order.
The speaker was a big, broad-shouldered American of the thruster school, heavy jaw, black hair and hurry. He held his gun dead rigid against his thigh and there was that in his eyes which foretold that where he looked he could hit. This was Ezra P. Hipps.
"Set down and don't move—this thing goes off," he said.
Richard considered the proposal and the speaker and judged both to be sound.
"Thanks," he said, "I'd like a stall for this entertainment," and dropped into a chair.
The man who was standing behind Van Diest came forward and smiled gracefully. He was sleek and too well dressed and gave the appearance of being out of his natural element and ashamed of the one in which he found himself.
"You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his pistol as though it were a cane.
"I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly."Remind me."
"Oliver Laurence. Met you in '11 at old Dick Harris' place."
"Good old Dick," said Richard in the spirit of the scene. "But as I was about to remark, here we all are, gentlemen, and what happens next?"
Hugo Van Diest flickered his eyes at Auriole and asked in a soft guttural voice:
"You prevail—yes?"
Auriole shook her head.
"Mr. Barraclough refuses," she said.
Van Diest drew in his breath between shut teeth and Oliver Laurence sighed sadly.
"Refuse."
"'Fraid so," nodded Richard.
"You know vot is it dot we ask?"
"Perfectly, but if you'd care to repeat it——"
Ezra P. Hipps rapped his free hand on a chair back.
"Don't get fresh," he snapped, "we're after business."
"Sorry," said Richard. "Thought it was a kind of Wild West act."
Evidently Van Diest wanted to avoid a row. He approached the subject in his most agreeable tone which sounded like a puma purring.
"Twendy per cent and a million pounds for der map. A man like you he can't spend a million pounds in a lifetime."
"Don't be too sure," said Richard unwisely. "I might have inherited the knack."
"Let's hear a price."
Richard turned to the American with a grin.
"Honestly," he replied, "anything you got from me would be dear at a shilling."
The friendly quality died out of Van Diest's voice.
"We was very sincere, Mr. Barraclough."
"Oh, that's fine," said Richard.
Oliver Laurence laid a soothing hand on his shoulder and the touch of the man was beastly. It inspired an instant and substantial dislike. Richard rounded on him with his first show of temper and brushed away the hand.
"Look here, Daisy," he said. "Better not touch the exhibits unless you want to be hurt."
And at this point Ezra P. Hipps showed himself a man of action.
"Guess what you won't give we'll have to take. Keys?"
"Take 'em by all means," said Richard, fishing the bunch from his pocket. "Tell me if you find anything."
"It will save a lot of troubles to you if we find something," murmuredVan Diest.
There was a distinct menace in the words but Richard was too interested in the activities of Ezra P. Hipps to pay heed to that. With lightning-like rapidity the American had unlocked every drawer in the bureau, withdrawn them from their runners and laid them in a precise row on the floor.
"Guessed it," he ejaculated. "Simple. One of 'em is shorter than the rest."
He dived a hand into the cavity lately filled by the short drawer and produced a small steel despatch box.
"The goods!"
Richard leaned forward with a sudden impulse to prevent the box being opened but the caressing muzzle of Van Diest's revolver coaxed him back to the chair.
"Very simple," said Van Diest. "Maps inside. Open it."
Hipps wasted little time trying to find a key that would fit. He put the box on the floor and kicked it scientifically. From the wreckage he rescued a neat roll of parchment with a tape round its waist. Once again he remarked "The goods!" whisked off the tape and spread out the parchment.
"Writing."
"Read it."
And he read.
"That would be altogether too easy, gentlemen. Perhaps there isn't a map after all."
Richard settled himself comfortably with a sigh of satisfaction and the three men turned to look at him.
"Don't blame me," he said sweetly, "I never said there was a map, didI?"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Auriole with a flush of what might easily have been taken for pleasure on her cheeks. It was very perplexing.
"Hm!" Van Diest nodded. "Hm! A wise man keep this sort of informations in his head."
"'Course he does."
"Yes, yes. Mr. Barraclough, a great deal you oblige by coming with us to an apartment we have prepared for your receptions."
"It's nice of you but I'm very comfortable here."
"I'm afraid we must insist."
"Since you're so pressing."
"And as a gentleman you make no troubles—no noise."
"There's no such thing as a noisy gentleman."
Ezra P. Hipps rapped the butt of his automatic on the table top.
"You can keep the cross-talking for the automobile," he said. "We're through here—step out."
As they moved toward the door Laurence slipped a hand through Richard's arm.
"My dear old fellow," he said, "if you only knew how distasteful all this is to me."
Richard drew his arm away sharply.
"So's that to me," he said, brushing his sleeve with the deliberate will to offend. Then he turned and bowed to Auriole. "Your friends are amusing but I'm afraid they are going to waste a lot of time. Are you coming our way?"
The clocks were striking seven when Anthony Barraclough descended the stairs of the flats and hailed a taxi. The street was deserted save for a policeman and an old hag who was sorting over the contents of a dustbin outside the adjoining house. She shot a quick glance at Barraclough and broke into a cackle of thin laughter.
"Didn't take you long to come up in the world," she piped. "Always thought you were a bit of a fraud."
Barraclough gasped. The disappointment was so cruel.
"You are making a mistake," he said and opened the taxi door.
"You've had a shave, that's all, but, bless you, that don't deceive me."
"Look here——" he began.
"You don't want to be recognised, my dear. I can easily forget, you know, if I'm encouraged." She stretched out a filthy clawlike hand.
There was something queer in her manner—a difference from the rank and file of Van Diest's regiment.
Clearly, too, her poverty was genuine. With a little tact her allegiance might be diverted. He pulled a note case from his pocket and detached a fiver.
"Take that," he said, "and if you want more——"
He rattled off Lord Almont's address in Park Lane.
"Save my soul!" gasped the old woman. "Are you crazy? Didn't expect more'n a florin. Bless your pretty heart. You must be badly frightened of something."
But Barraclough waited for no more. He jumped into the taxi with the words 'Westminster Bridge' and drove away, swearing to himself.
"Of all rotten luck. Yet I can't help feeling she didn't belong to that gang after all. Wonder if I've made an almighty fool of myself."
For the first time in his life his nerves were beginning to fray. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather seat of the cab and, despite the chill of early morning, his brow was hot and clammy.
"Likely enough it was just a begging stunt."
He put his head out of the window and said 'Waterloo Station.' A sudden memory persuaded him to glance above his head and reassure himself no other passenger was concealed upon the roof. The action in itself was fresh evidence of nerves.
"Must pull myself together," he said. "Those infernal hours in the wine cupboard have shaken me up."
To a man of action nothing is so wearing as inactivity. It had been intolerable sitting in the darkness while the new proxy had borne the enemy's assault unaided. He had heard the rumble of talk which had followed the first stifled cry from Doran when the sponge of chloroform was thrust into his face, and every now and again he had heard Frencham Altar's voice ring out high and mocking and exasperatingly like his own. Finally the front door had slammed but he remained concealed for over an hour in case of misadventure. Doran was lying in the hall when he stepped from his hiding place. Barraclough knew a little of the rough science of medicine and very heartily cursed the man who had doped his servant. A little more of the anaesthetic would have put a period to Doran's career. There was an hour's hard work with ammonia and respiratory exercises before the good fellow blinked an eyelid and made the wry faces of recovery. After that Barraclough stewed himself a cup of coffee, broke a couple of eggs into it and made ready for departure. Altogether it had been a trying night as his nerves were beginning to testify.
It was encouraging to find no suspicious watcher at booking office or barrier. He passed through unobserved and entered an empty first-class compartment in the 7.30 to Southampton. There were ten minutes to wait before they were due to start—minutes which dragged interminably. But at last the green flag dropped, the couplings tightened and the train began to move.
"Thank God for that," he exclaimed and relaxed against the cushions of the seat.
But his relief was short lived. A large man, running at full speed, came abreast the carriage window which was lowered, a suitcase came flying through and landed on the opposite seat, while the man himself leapt to the running board, threw open the door and sprang into the carriage.
"Jing! but that was a near squeak," he exclaimed. "Another half minute and you'd have beaten me."
Barraclough's muscles tightened and his mouth went hard and straight. So the bluff had failed after all. He was spotted. That idiot from the benches had given them away.
The man opposite did not appear to have lost his breath through the race and was looking at Barraclough with an expression of good-natured humour in a pair of twinkly blue eyes. He was of very powerful physique, broad-shouldered and bull necked. Also he had the appearance of being uncommonly fit. In any other circumstance Barraclough would have taken him for a pleasant, likeable fellow, who might have helped to pass the tedium of a long journey. But his actual feelings were far removed from any such consideration. The smug affability of the man coupled with his obvious strength aroused such indignation in Barraclough that he was scarcely able to remain seated. The difference in their weight and stature precluded all chances of a successful frontal attack. It would be sheer waste of energy to seize this intruder and try to chuck him on the line. But, on the other hand, something drastic would have to be done. At such a stage of the game it was intolerable to contemplate defeat. He thought of his words to Mr. Torrington the evening before and of the assurance he had given to Isabel. Then there was the immense prize that success would award him. Was everything to be lost because of one piece of infernal bad luck. If he could reach Southampton unobserved he was confident that the arrangements he had prepared would baffle observation. Besides the presumption was that the watchers had been called off and this infernal smiling idiot on the seat opposite had failed to receive new instructions and was acting upon the old.
In Barraclough's right hip pocket was an automatic pistol but between its butt and his hand was a thick buttoned upholster. Any attempt to reach the weapon would surely result in an immediate counter offensive, with himself at a disadvantage. No, he must think of something subtler than that.
On the seat beside him lay a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, bought from a trolley on the platform. It gave him an idea. He put one in his mouth and began to slap his pockets as though searching for matches. He might have saved himself the pains for the man opposite produced a lighter and offered it with a friendly word.
"Always keep one handy."
Barraclough, silently swearing, thanked him and lit up.
Clearly his companion was a person of some geniality. He spread out his legs, cleared his throat, and observed:
"All's well as ends well. Still, I didn't expect to catch you."
Barraclough assumed an air of indifference.
"Did you not?" he said.
"It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said, it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me."
This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However, he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.
"I'm tenacious," said the man. "That's what I am—tenacious."
"A fine quality."
"And pretty useful in my trade."
"Must be."
Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward. Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The association of idea is obvious.
"Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry.
In common with all South Western Railway carriages, the wooden partitioning above the upholstery was decorated with choicely coloured views of cities and country-side.
"Since there would appear to be no point in hiding anything from you," Barraclough replied, "there is a picture of my destination behind your head."
"That's funny," said the man and, responding to natural curiosity, turned to examine the picture, while Barraclough embraced the opportunity to slip the crook of his stick through the handle of the bag and tug hard. But the bag was heavier than he had imagined. It scarcely moved and only by bracing his foot on the seat opposite was he able to upset its balance. Just a fraction of a second too soon the man turned. Conceivably he saw murder in Barraclough's eyes or else he was unusually quick at grasping a situation. He flashed his eyes upward at the moment the bag was toppling, realised it was too late to save himself, and dropped his head forward. He caught the weight of the bag on his massive shoulders and, as though it were a pillow, slewed sideways and heaved it straight on to Barraclough's chest.
And Barraclough's lungs emptied like a burst balloon. Next instant he felt himself lifted into mid air as though he were a child.
"I've a damn good mind to pitch you through the window," said the man. "I would, too, if I didn't reckon you were mad. As it is, I guess I'll stick you up in the luggage rack out of harm's way."
And this he did without apparent effort.
"Damn me!" he went on. "What's the game?"
"The game," replied Barraclough, "isn't played out yet."
Which was true, for in the tussle his overcoat had rolled up under his arms, the pistol pocket was clear, and a blue black automatic flashed dully in the man's face.
"If either of us leaves this carriage I fancy it's going to be you."
To do the man justice he betrayed more amazement than alarm. He backed away a pace and his hand travelled upward to the communicator.
"If you touch that cable I'll put a bullet through your wrist," saidBarraclough. "Sit down and attend to me."
He obeyed, shaking his head perplexedly.
"Damn me, if I can get the strength of it."
"Then listen," said Barraclough, steadying his aim along the ash rail of the luggage rack, "and keep your hands in your lap. I'm going to carry my scheme through even if I have to shoot you and lots like you. My patience has run out—understand? I've been fooled and badgered and headed off and shot at for as long as I can stand. The boot's on the other leg now and whoever tries to stop me or follow me or get in my way will find all the trouble he's looking for."
"Yes, but it seems to me," said the big man plaintively, "that it's you who's looking for trouble. Been a nice thing if that bag had caught me on the lid. There were two fifty pound bells inside and a coil of wire for my trapeze act."
"Your what?" said Barraclough.
"Trapeze act. Done in my tour nicely, that would."
Barraclough's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What's your name?"
"My real name's John Lever," he replied, "but I'm better known to the music hall public as Madrooba, the Muscular Muscovite."
"Madrooba—the chap who lets eight men stand on his chest?"
"That's me."
"Then what in blazes were you following me for?"
"Following you?" repeated Mr. Madrooba. "Never set eyes on you before.Run after the train 'cause I got a contract to appear in Paris tonight."
Barraclough lowered the point of his pistol slowly.
"And you've never heard of Van Diest?"
"Never! Van Biene I know and Van Hoven, but——"
"Then it looks to me," said Barraclough regretfully. "It looks to me as if I've made a pretty substantial fool of myself. If you're big enough to accept an apology, Mr. Madrooba, I'd be glad to come off this perch and offer it."
"I reckon if I can stand eight men on my chest," came the reply, "I don't need to take a lot of notice of this little misunderstanding. Let yourself drop and I'll catch you."
And from sheer relief Barraclough began to laugh—and laughed solidly for ten miles of the journey.
Richard Frencham Altar was exceedingly affable in the car. It was a big, comfortable, Rolls saloon, and he sat between Van Diest and the American. Laurence occupied the seat next to the driver.
He had tried to say a few words to Auriole before taking his place in the car but she had merely shrugged her shoulders and entered a waiting taxi. The two vehicles drove in opposite directions, from which it would appear that her task in the affair was accomplished.
"I hope I shall see some more of that young lady," he remarked. VanDiest nodded gloomily and Hipps jerked out:
"Probably will."
After that they drove in silence.
"Forgive me for criticising your methods," said Richard at last, "but shouldn't I be blindfolded or something? I'm familiar with all these roads and could walk back without even asking the way."
"There might be difficulties."
"Oh, quite. It was only a suggestion. I want to keep up the spirit of the thing. If I have to be Shanghaied I'd like it to be done properly."
"You wass very high spirited, Mr. Barraclough."
"Why not? Comfortable car—pleasant company."
"Yees. With us this was a very serious business."
"That's all to the good, but let's keep in humour. By the way, since everything's open and above board, where are you taking me?"
"Laurence's house."
"Wanted to know 'cos of getting my letters forwarded."
"There won't be a whole lot of communication with the outer world," said Hipps.
"I see. And how long are you proposing to keep me there?"
"My dear old fellow," Laurence spoke over his shoulder, "that depends entirely on yourself."
There was deeper significance in the tone than in the words.
"That's cordial," said Richard, "downright hostly."
"But paste this in your hat," said Hipps ominously. "Conditions won't improve by outstaying your welcome. It'll be sweet if you make it short—if not——"
He did not complete the sentence.
"A declining stock," Richard smiled then shook his head reproachfully. "You know, gentlemen, yours is an extremely heterodox way of doing business. You must be feeling pretty hopeless to have resorted to measures of this kind."
"I guess the market'll improve," said Hipps and relapsed into silence.
It seemed ages before the car slowed down and entered the gates of a solid mid-Victorian house, isolated from similar houses by two or three acres of treeful grounds. The front door was opened by two men-servants of none too prepossessing appearance, who came down the steps as the car pulled up. It was significant of precaution that they tacitly formed up one on each side of Richard and escorted him within.
"The only thing lacking," he remarked, "is a red carpet and an awning."
But his disposition toward gaiety was unshared by his companions. The two servants conducted him mutely into the dining room where a meal was awaiting them. Van Diest beckoned him to a place at the table and, tucking a napkin under his left ear, seated himself and began to attack the victuals without comment. Ezra P. Hipps turned the key in the lock and dropped it in his pocket before occupying the chair facing Richard. As the ostensible host Laurence sat at the head of the table and instructed the servants to open the wine. The change of courses was effected by means of a small service lift inset in one of the walls.
Not the smallest effort was made at conversation—dishes came and went, glasses were filled and emptied in absolute silence. There was something ominous in this freedom from talk and the quiet broken only by the tinkle of table implements and the rather noisy character of Van Diest's feeding. Richard was struck by the old man's prodigious capacity for devouring food. He ate with a calculated energy as though the safety of nations depended upon his sustenance. Apart from the ordinary fare, he demolished about eighteen inches of a long French loaf at his side, tearing pieces from it with his short stubby fingers and filling his mouth with great wads of crust and dough. Richard afterwards learnt that this voracity of appetite was nerve begotten. In moments of acute agitation it was Van Diest's custom to eat enormously on the theory that a full belly begets a placid mind. His little piglike eyes darted to and fro among the cates before him assuring themselves that he was missing nothing.
In direct antithesis to this wolfish feeding were the manners of Oliver Laurence. He toyed with his victuals, cutting them into the littlest pieces and almost flirting with his glass of wine.
Ezra P. Hipps ate and drank, as he did everything else in life—thoroughly and with conviction. The meal finished he pushed back his chair, unlocked the door, tilted his head to indicate to the servants that they could get out, locked the door again and crossed to the mantelpiece.
"Cigar," he said.
Laurence provided one and offered a light. Hipps shook his head and sticking the cigar in his mouth he proceeded to eat it with a curious rotary motion.
"Now!" he said and it sounded like a blow upon a gong.
"Curtain up," said Richard and steeled himself for any eventuality.
"You're caught, Mr. Barraclough."
"But not caught out," came the instant reply.
"Ever handled a cheque for a million pounds?"
"I have not."
"Van!"
Mr. Van Diest felt in his pockets and produced a banker's draft which he laid on the table before Richard. It was payable to the order of Anthony Barraclough.
Richard flicked it aside.
"Old ground," he said. "No good to me, gentlemen."
"Let's talk."
"Fire away."
"I needn't repeat what you have to do to earn that trifle, Anthony, but here's a point worth considering. Doubtless you got the idea the price we're willing to pay'll rise. You're wrong—it'll fall. If you speak tonight that draft's yours and an interest beside, but every day you keep us waiting'll cost you fifty thousand pounds."
"Thank God I can afford it," said Richard.
"Roughly speaking it'll pan out over a period of three weeks, at the end of which time you get just nothing, savez?"
"I savez that you and I will be in the same position at the end as we are at the beginning."
Ezra P. Hipps shook his head gravely but his metallic blue eyes never shifted their gaze for an instant.
"Tony boy," he said. "The price isn't solely financial. There's a little physical programme in the skyline. Get me?"
"Sounds like a threat."
"And is," came the rejoinder.
"Interesting."
The American took three steps forward and leant across the table.
"For example," he said, "you smoke too much and smoking'll be curtailed."
With a quick movement he plucked the cigarette from Richard's mouth and threw it into the grate.
A dull red surged over Richard's face as he sprang to his feet.
"I warn you——" he began, then checked himself at the sudden memory ofCranbourne's words. He was not allowed to put up a fight.
"Well, what?"
"Oh, nothing. I've neither the mood nor the patience to teach you manners."
His hand went out to take another cigarette from a silver box at his side.
"No smoking," repeated Hipps in a level voice.
"Don't be asinine, my good fool."
His extended hand trembled, yearning to knot itself into a fist. The silver box was just beyond the American's reach but seizing a small glass jug he threw the contents over Richard's hand, drenching the cigarette he had picked up and half filling the box with water. The quickness and effrontery of the action, its insolent disregard of all the laws of courtesy acted on Richard's temper as a spark on gun cotton.
"I'm damned if I'll stand for that," he shouted and kicking his chair out of the way made a dash round the table toward Hipps. It was Laurence who shot out the leg that tripped him and before he could scramble to his feet both the American and the Englishman were sitting on his back.
"Steady, steady, old chap," Laurence beseeched him. "It's an almighty pity to start this way."
Hipps' long fingers had closed scientifically on the back of Richard's neck and were paralysing the movements of his head. His nose was pressed good and hard into the pile of the carpet. It was all very painful.
"Are you going to quit fighting, Anthony?"
After all there was no particular value in adding to one's discomfort. They were three to one and in a locked room with reinforcements outside. Moreover, had there been a chance of requitals or escape he was under orders to accept neither. But in his existing state of indignation Richard could not induce himself to acknowledge defeat. The fighting strain in his nature could only be satisfied by getting in at least one substantial return for the indignity put upon him.
He was lying near to the grate, his head having narrowly missed the fender rail in the fall. His right hand, which was free, lay across Dutch tiling within easy reach of the open fire from which was projecting conveniently a blazing log. The end nearest him was as yet untouched by the flames and, without considering consequences, Richard dragged it out of the fire and viciously thrust it upward. More by luck than judgment the burning brand scorched across the side of Hipps' face.
"Hell!" came the cry and instantaneously the weight on his back was gone and he was free to rise.
Oliver Laurence, to avoid danger, had thrown himself backwards and was now under the table, looking very like a child playing hide and seek. The American had backed against the buffet but his general dignity suffered a reverse from the fact that his first thought was of remedy rather than revenge. He had picked up a piece of butter and was rubbing it vigorously on his burnt cheek. In the shadows Mr. Van Diest was shaking his head in sorrowful disapproval of the whole proceedings. For the life of him Richard could not help laughing.
"I'm extremely sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but you did ask for trouble." He raised the corner of the table cloth and addressed Laurence. "If you've quite done amusing yourself under there you might come out and give me a cigarette."
Laurence, looking painfully ridiculous, emerged and handed his case to Richard who took one and lit it slowly from the glowing brand which he still retained.
"I think we had better come to an immediate understanding," he said. "I am perfectly prepared to treat you all with civility as long as I receive the same treatment from you, but please understand that I will not tolerate any funny business." An idea flashed suddenly into his brain. "Just one thing more—there was some talk earlier this evening of trying to poison the mind of my—my fiancée in regard to a question of my morals. That was a particularly offensive idea and I want your assurance that you'll drop it. Otherwise——" he took a few paces toward the window, "I shall set fire to your curtains and keep you gentlemen busy until the woodwork has caught. I imagine you aren't wanting the fire brigade or the intrusion of any other respectable force at the moment."
"Seems to me, my son——" began Hipps.
But Van Diest interrupted him.
"Let us agree to this suggestion," he said. "For my part I wass very sorry to make enemy of our goot guest. S'no troubles about that."
"Thank you," said Richard. "Then if you've nothing further to ask meI'd be glad to turn in."
Hipps walked across the room and unlocked the door. The two servants came in.
"Show this gentleman to his apartment."
"Goodnight, everyone," said Richard.
He was passing out when Hipps laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Say," he said, touching his cheek. "You fired me with some ambition to see your flag at half mast. Admire your spirit and all that, but it kind o' gets my goat being branded by a youngster. Ain't used to it. We want that inf. o' yours and want it quick. My advice to you is, don't monkey with our patience. It won't pay."
"If you count this as a day," Richard replied with a grin, "it's cost me fifty thousand already."
For a moment Hipps made no reply and when at last he spoke his remark appeared to have no bearing on the matter in hand.
"In France during the war?" he asked.
"I was."
"Awkward stuff, that poison gas."
"Very awkward."
"Beastly smell."
"Horrid."
"Makes me cry to think of it."
"But you're a born sentimentalist."
"Ah. Goodnight. Shan't be meeting again for a few days. But Laurence here'll bring any messages."
"I shan't trouble him," said Richard.
"No? Well, that's your concern." Once again he relapsed into silence, then very suddenly flashed out the single word "Pineapple."
Richard was accompanied up the stairs by the two silent servants. They ushered him into a room on the top landing, bowed and retired. The door closed with a metallic ring. He heard the sliding of a bolt, the jingle of a chain and the sound of footsteps descending. And all of a sudden he felt very lonely.