Miss Finner stopped, fixing on Gimblet a gaze full of modest pride. But Gimblet sat, to all appearance, lost in thought. Though his eye met hers, it was with an abstracted look, and this in spite of the fact that Miss Finner’s eyes were blue and darkly fringed. He could not fail to observe her curls of gold, the pink transparency of her cheek, the broad green and white stripes of her silken gown. He could not fail to hear, whenever she moved, the jingling of bracelets, of the many charms that were suspended from the chain around her white throat, and the merry peal of her laugh; but all this seemed to be escaping his attention, and Miss Finner could detect nowhere the glances of admiration, which she considered the least that was due to her.
Instead, he had nothing but prosaic questions for her.
“What time do you say this was?”
“After the theatre. Nearly midnight. I was late getting away.”
“You don’t know the name of the street? Could you find your way to it again?”
“Afraid not, it’s not the way one generally goes. I’ve no idea where it was, beyond what I’ve told you.”
“And the house? Did you notice nothing about it to distinguish it from its neighbours?”
“No, I didn’t look at it specially. Yes, I did, though; there was a board with ‘To Let’ on it, up on the railings. The light from the lamp showed it very clearly.”
“That’s the only thing you can remember?”
“Yes,” said Seraphina.
“You said the door was open. Could you see anything of the inside of the house?”
“No, or at least I didn’t notice anything. There might have been some one standing in the hall. I don’t know.”
“Try and remember,” urged Gimblet.
Miss Finner shut her eyes, contracted her brows, and gave herself up to reflection.
“No good,” she remarked, after an interval in which one might have counted twenty.
“Did you notice the carriage which was driving away?”
“Can’t say I did. It was a brougham, I think. I looked at the people on the pavement.”
“Did you see lights in the house—in the windows, I mean?”
“No, I think the only light came from the door.”
“Were you able to observe the expression on the ladies’ faces?”
“Oh no, we went by too quick for anything of that sort. I didn’t notice their faces at all, except that I believe they were both more or less young women.”
“You can’t think of anything else, however trivial?”
Miss Finner could not.
“If anything else comes back to me, I’ll let you know,” she said hopefully. “Don’t you think you can find them from what I’ve told you?”
“I don’t think there ought to be much difficulty in discovering the house, or at all events the street,” said the detective, “thanks for your information, which may prove most valuable. You must allow me to present you with the reward offered in the papers.”
After a slight show of protest she did allow him.
“Well, I must be off now,” she said, after that formality was accomplished, and proceeded to gather her things together. “Thank you for the tea. But, I say, don’t you want to know a little more of the beauteous stranger who is the bearer of the good tidings? You don’t even know my name.”
“Oh yes, Miss Finner, I do know it,” Gimblet assured her. “You left a card in the hall; I saw it asI came in, but I should of course be delighted to know more of you than that.”
“Know then,” said Seraphina, speaking in high, clear tones and with an assumption of affectation, “know then that I am not what I seem. My name, indeed, is a disguise, for my father, worthy man, was a Fynner with a y, an obscure relation of the noble house of Fynner of Loch Fyne. Though honest, he was poor; and my beloved and beautiful mother came of a line as well connected and impecunious as his own. The marriage aroused the wrath of both families, and the head of my father’s house, proud and haughty earl that he was, would never be brought to acknowledge his unhappy cousins. I was educated in a convent, and, at the death of my parents, found myself at the age of sixteen alone, and without a penny in the world. Scorning to beg, I adopted the profession of the stage, chiefly with a view to supporting an aged and suffering relative, the aunt of my father’s cousin. Now you know all there is to know about the innocent and unfortunate daughter of a gallant gentleman, the scion of a proud, but noble race.”
Miss Finner tilted her nose skyward and drew herself up haughtily. Then, with a disconcerting suddenness, she winked at Gimblet, and burst into a peal of laughter.
“If you can’t detect something fishy in that story,” she cried, “you’re not the detective you’re cracked up to be! But I often say that piece about my family. A poor chap I used to know in my young days, when I was in the provinces, made it up for me. A poet, he called himself, and was always making up things; very pretty some of them were—if you like that sort of thing. It was him that thought of my name, and I’ve never regretted it really. But I never heard that he got anyone else to take any notice of his composings,poor fellow.” Miss Finner sighed and looked rather sadly out of the window. “He was a good sort,” she added reminiscently; “one of the best. I put that bit in myself about being educated in a convent,” she concluded, pulling at her gloves. “It’s the usual thing.”
With a white dog under one arm and a white cat under the other, Miss Seraphina Finner, of the Inanity, talked herself out into the hall, and, after an interval for the purpose of regaling Gimblet with an anecdote of her earlier struggles, finally talked herself through the door and out of the flat altogether.
Gimblet, returning to the little room and absently rearranging the displaced chairs and tables in their habitual order, found it more silent and lonely than before Seraphina had ever entered there, with her incessant chatter, her boisterous mirth, and her happy vulgarity. As he moved about the place, restoring to it the appearance of every-day tidiness, his mind was busy with the information she had brought and the question of his next move. He decided on it quickly as he was finishing his task, and only lingered to pull back the curtain and throw open the window, so that the odour of scent that Seraphina had bequeathed might have an opportunity of dispersing. This he did, and then taking his hat and a light overcoat, for the evening was chilly and the weather had turned afresh to rain, he went down to the street and hailed a taxi.
“Drive to the Inanity,” said the detective as he got into the cab; and when the man stopped before the theatre: “Do you know Carolina Road, North West?” he asked him, leaning out of the window to do so.
“Yes,” the driver said. “The other side of Regent’s Park, isn’t it?”
“Then go there.” Gimblet drew his head back and sat down as the man let in the clutch and the taxi started again. It was almost seven o’clock and the roads were comparatively clear of traffic, while the pavement seemed still more deserted, the few people who were to be seen walking quickly to get out of the rain; but it appeared that for the most part the world was within doors, resting after the day’s work, or preparing for the entertainments of the evening.
The taxi went swiftly, and in a short time had drawn near to its destination. As they left the more fashionable streets behind and passed northward into semi-suburban districts, Gimblet leant eagerly forward, noting every characteristic of the neighbourhood with an observant eye and an expectant alertness.
They soon came upon tree-lined roadways, bordered by houses that boasted small plots of ground before their doors. Railings enclosed these plots, and in many cases a minute carriage drive circled from the pavement to the entrance of the house; but as they turned corner after corner and the same scene, withslight variations, continually repeated itself, Gimblet’s hopes gave way to an incredulous disappointment, for of all these dwellings not one answered to the description given by Miss Finner. She had mentioned particularly that the house he was looking for stood alone in its little garden; but in all the streets traversed by the detective not so much as a cottage was to be seen of the kind known technically as “detached.”
They turned at length into Carolina Road and the driver slowed up, looking round as he did so for instructions.
Again Gimblet’s head went out of the window.
“Go back towards the theatre,” he said, “but go another way,” and after much noise and backing—for the street was a narrow one—the cab turned, and off they started again.
Rain was falling heavily by this time in a cold, persistent downpour. The wind blew chill from the west, and the detective, all a-shiver on this summer’s evening, told himself, as he drew up the windward pane, that there must be icebergs sailing down the North Atlantic. He wrapped his coat closer around him, and hugged himself in a corner of the taxi. Again they splashed and bumped over the muddy, streaming macadam; the water swished from the wheels; the driver cowered under his shining waterproof screen; and the car skidded unpleasantly as they swung round corners and narrowly avoided collision with other vehicles in the same plight.
Gimblet kept a look-out no less sharp than before, but with no better result. Here were houses, indeed, in plenty, here were gardens and carriage gates, and dripping trees; but here was no single detached building of any shape or kind whatsoever. Another drive Gimblet took, following devious ways. He felt inclined to ring at Miss Finner’s door and reproachher with inaccuracy; but she had not told him the number in Carolina Road of the house she lived in. Besides, at this hour she would be at the theatre preparing to remove the apple which young Tell was undauntedly balancing.
For an unpleasant moment the detective wondered if she had merely made a mistake, or whether the whole tale were a fabrication. He remembered uneasily the readiness with which he had accepted it and his urgent pressing upon the voluble lady of the reward offered in the papers. No doubt she was laughing at his gullibility, and regaling her friends with an embellished account of how easily she had taken in the well-known detective. Gimblet’s lips tightened as he thought of it. Was he becoming unduly credulous in his old age? There was the story Sidney had told him, too. He had assured himself that he had kept an open mind as to the truth of it, and had reserved his opinion till proofs were offered him; but, as a matter of fact, as he now acknowledged sardonically, he had believed every word spoken by the young man, and allowed himself to be absurdly influenced by an honest face and an appearance of frank trustfulness.
“A nice sort of detective you are!” said Gimblet to his reflection in the little slip of looking-glass that adorned the cab; and he cried to the driver to go back to Whitehall.
Higgs was waiting for him, and reported that he had taken a second advertisement to the advertising agents, and that he had also been to most of the principal taxi garages, where he had made inquiries and posted notices.
“The man is sure to turn up to-morrow morning, sir,” he said.
In the morning there was no news. Gimblet telephoned to Grosvenor Street and was himself called upby Sidney. To him he replied coldly that so far he had nothing to report. Directly after breakfast Sir Gregory arrived, panting. “I couldn’t get you on the telephone,” he said. “Have you heard nothing?”
“I had an answer to my advertisement,” replied Gimblet, “but I am afraid the information brought me was quite unreliable.”
He told Sir Gregory in a few words of Miss Finner’s visit.
“I tested her story pretty severely yesterday,” he said, “but there still remains a chance that the man who drove her may appear, and be able to remember the exact route by which he took her on Monday night. There is no doubt her own account is so inaccurate as to be worthless; and it is possible,” he added, owning the secret dread he could not keep from his thoughts, “that she was only indulging in a kind of practical joke.”
Sir Gregory was beginning to show the effect of his days of anxiety. Though his face was still pink, the lines on it seemed to have become deeper and more numerous, and he had the weary, listless air of one to whom sleep has denied herself. Gimblet was not anxious for his company, but Sir Gregory would not be shaken off. The detective said he had letters to write and business that must be attended to; but was met by a pleading request to be allowed to remain, in case the taxi driver should make his appearance.
“I don’t know what to do with myself if I go away,” said Sir Gregory miserably. “If I am here I feel that, if any news does come, I shan’t have to wait longer than is necessary for it. Nothing like being at headquarters.”
Finally Gimblet consented to his staying, and himself withdrew into another room with a bundle of papers that needed his attention. When he went back afteran hour’s work to the library, where he had left Sir Gregory surrounded by newspapers and books, he found these cast aside or strewn on the floor and the baronet himself standing by the telephone, in the act of hanging up the receiver.
“I got tired of reading,” he explained; “nothing of interest in the papers, or I can’t take any interest in them, whichever it is; so I just thought I’d call up young Sidney, and tell him about the ladies having been seen by that young woman. Relieve his anxiety, poor chap, to have some one to talk about it to.” On the incidental relief to his own feelings afforded by having a listener into whose ears to pour them, Sir Gregory did not think it necessary to expatiate.
Gimblet showed his vexation.
“Really, Sir Gregory, you might have known better than to put him on his guard in that way! Supposing there’s anything in Chark’s suspicions, don’t you see that the more complete Sidney thinks our ignorance and mystification, the better? While, as soon as he knows us to be on the track, we lose any advantage we may have?”
“But—but you said you didn’t suspect him!” stammered Sir Gregory, dumfounded.
“I didn’t say so. I said there was no reason to take a tragic view or to suspect anyone at all at first. I certainly do not accuse anyone now. But day after day is passing, and the matter looks very much more serious with each succeeding hour. It seems impossible, if all were well, that the ladies should not have communicated with their friends before now. This is Thursday. They vanished on Monday. I have been anxious to spare you, Sir Gregory. I know you have been only too ready to imagine the worst, and I did not wish to add to your fears; but this is the third day without news, and it is impossible todisguise any longer that you have grave reason for them.”
Poor Sir Gregory’s last hopes flickered and were extinguished.
“You think—you think——” he murmured.
“I think there is cause for grave anxiety, but that is not to say that I am without hope. Far from it. Still, it is necessary to act with caution; and it was most imprudent of you to tell Sidney that we had heard anything. It is true that what we have heard is probably a mare’s nest, but in any case there is no need to go blurting things out like that.”
Sir Gregory paid little attention to what Gimblet was saying. “So you do think Sidney may know more of this business than he admits,” he repeated, half to himself. “Well, perhaps it was a pity I spoke to him just now, though I don’t see what harm it can do either. The question is, what do you think he’s done with her? Do you think”—Sir Gregory’s voice seemed to fail him but he cleared his throat and continued with a gulp—“he’s killed her?”
The words came with a rush, and the question was plainer than Gimblet cared to answer. “I don’t think anything,” he replied, still rather testily, “but I must consider everything and anything possible. At present it is all mere suspicion, but things look rather black, though not only against Sidney. As a matter of personal opinion I incline to the idea that that young man is innocent; still, I can’t admit his character cleared on that account. I’ve no evidence worth mentioning one way or the other.”
“Who else are you thinking of, when you say things look black against others than Sidney?” asked Sir Gregory eagerly. “I have thought myself, that, perhaps, the servants——”
“Mrs. Vanderstein’s servants? I don’t think theycan have anything to do with it. It would have been impossible for one of them to have got rid of the two ladies, while they were at home, without the knowledge of the others. And we can hardly contemplate the possibility of an organised conspiracy at present. The chauffeur and footman, you think, may have disposed of them by some means when they were supposed to be driving to the opera? But the chauffeur is an old and trusted servant, and, moreover, the box opener says that the ladies occupied their box. There is also the night watchman, who is an ex-corporal of the Foot-guards, and whose character is of the best. Suppose that, on their late return to the house, he let them in quietly, as it was his business to do, and then killed them both in order to possess himself of Mrs. Vanderstein’s jewels. The difficulties that would then confront him before he could dispose of the bodies would be well nigh insurmountable, even if it were possible for him to silence two women simultaneously so effectively as to prevent anyone in the house from being aroused. The probabilities are strongly against the night watchman’s having anything to do with it; and, indeed, I think all the servants may safely be left out of the reckoning.”
“Then who can have harmed them?” Sir Gregory asked.
“I hesitate to mention anything more to you, Sir Gregory, after your recent injudicious conduct. However, I don’t think you’d be able to warn the other person upon whom suspicion may fall. It is odd that it should not have occurred to our friend Chark that Sidney is not the only one who would benefit by Mrs. Vanderstein’s death,” said Gimblet.
“Why, what do you mean; who would benefit?”
“Surely you know. It was you that told me.”
“I told you?” Sir Gregory looked the picture ofbewilderment. “I don’t know anyone, except, of course, Miss Turner, who would be a penny the better if my dear friend should die.”
“Exactly.” Gimblet, his chin on his hand, gazed over Sir Gregory’s head at his newly-discovered Teniers, which he had found time to hang up in a central position. “A little further to the right, and it would be still better,” he thought.
But Sir Gregory was bounding in his chair. “Miss Turner! Impossible! A young girl, sir! You don’t know what you are saying.”
“I thought you disliked her.” Gimblet was very calm, almost indifferent.
“That’s a very different thing from thinking her capable ... surely it’s impossible.... What makes you suspect her?” Sir Gregory finished by asking, his curiosity getting the better of his incredulity.
“I don’t say I suspect her,” Gimblet answered patiently. “I say that suspicion might possibly fall on her more reasonably than on Mr. Sidney, with whom, by the way, I think she is in love.”
“Really, how do you know that?”
“I have evidence that she sympathised very deeply with his troubles, and carried her sympathy to a length unusual in young ladies for men to whom they are not attached. I saw him last Sunday in the company of a girl, who I think must have been she. If it was, there is no doubt about the thing. Anyone could see it in her face at a glance.”
“Still, if that were so, I don’t see why she should injure Mrs. Vanderstein.”
“Love is a very common prompter of crime. I don’t say it is likely, but it is not impossible that this young woman, knowing Sidney to be in terrible straits for want of money, his career threatened, heaven knows what other threats on his tongue, should be preparedto go to desperate lengths to procure him what he needs. You never can tell what they will do in such cases; and the one piece of real evidence that I have shows that she did not mean to sit by idle while her lover went to his ruin.”
Gimblet took Barbara’s telegraph form from his notebook, and spread it on the table before him. “Look at this,” he said; and Sir Gregory got up and peered eagerly over his shoulder, eyeglasses on nose.
“Luck is coming your way at last expect to have good news by Wednesday removing all difficulties.”
“Luck is coming your way at last expect to have good news by Wednesday removing all difficulties.”
“There’s no signature. Who is it from?” he asked.
“It is from Miss Turner. I was able to get this form from the post office and to compare it with a specimen of her handwriting,” said Gimblet. “The absence of signature alone looks as if a good deal of intimacy exists between her and Sidney, though the name may possibly have been omitted accidentally.”
“But what could she mean?”
“Her meaning is plain enough. She promises Sidney that the money he wants shall be forthcoming. I do not know how much he requires, but he told me that the sum is a large one. Now, how was she going to get a large sum by Wednesday?”
“She might raise something on the legacy from old Vanderstein, in which his widow has a life interest,” suggested the baronet.
“I don’t know the exact conditions of the will; but, supposing she dies before Mrs. Vanderstein, what happens?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Gregory confessed.
“If it reverts to Mrs. Vanderstein, there wouldn’t be much security to borrow money on. In any case, there is little difference between the ages of the twoladies, and rates would be very high. She might not be able to raise nearly enough, even if she could get any at all,” said Gimblet.
“It would be too terrible if a girl like that so much as lifted a finger against one who has been the soul of kindness to her,” Sir Gregory repeated.
“Ah, Sir Gregory, terrible indeed! But terrible things happen every day. Let a crisis arise, and you never know who may not surprise and horrify you by showing the cloven hoof. I hope that Miss Turner is entirely innocent of all knowledge of this affair, but there are two points which are against her.”
“And what are they?”
“One is her parentage. I have been making inquiries about her father, and find that William Turner was a most unholy scoundrel, a man who would shrink at nothing to gain his ends, always escaping the penalties of the law by the skin of his teeth. He slipped from beneath the hand of justice over and over again, and finally bolted to South America, where he is reported to have died. Suppose that there was no truth in that rumour? Suppose he should in reality have returned to Europe, that he is even now in England, in London, his presence unknown to anyone but his daughter? With such a man to instigate her to crime, who can say what the girl might not venture? In any case she has bad blood in her; and there is much truth, Sir Gregory, in the old saying that ‘blood will tell,’ despite the socialistic opinions to the contrary which now prevail.”
“True enough,” murmured the baronet. He was leaning forward listening intently to Gimblet’s every word. “But you said there were two points against her.”
“Yes. The second is what may have prevented you from suspecting her before. It is the fact that sheappears to have been spirited away as well as Mrs. Vanderstein. Well, if there has been foul play—which heaven forbid, but we must consider all the possibilities now—if, I say, the vanishing of these ladies has its origin in crime, the disappearance of Miss Turner is the most suspicious part of the whole affair. For why in the world should she share with Mrs. Vanderstein the attentions of any hypothetical criminal? She had no diamonds to be robbed of; she did not go about covered with jewels, having none of any value to display. She could only be an additional danger, and one that no ordinary robber would willingly burden himself with, since her presence could be no possible source of profit.
“No, it seems clear that if Mrs. Vanderstein were to be decoyed away and murdered for her jewels it would be on an occasion when she was unattended by her companion. So far, Sir Gregory, you may take that as an encouragement to think that she is uninjured. It is indeed a most hopeful sign, and one of the reasons why I have refused, until to-day, to take a gloomy view of the business. Still, why has the girl disappeared? We are driven back on the supposition that she did so of her own free will; and, if that was the case, what was her purpose? Remember, all this is the merest theory, which it would be ridiculous to accept before we obtain further facts by which to test it. At present we have a very insufficient acquaintance with anything that does not involve these wild conjectures.” As he finished speaking, Gimblet took out his watch and gazed at it long and significantly.
With a sigh, Sir Gregory was at last obliged to take the hint. It was luncheon time: the footsteps of Higgs as he journeyed between the kitchen and the dining-room; the clatter of the dishes as he placed them upon the table or sideboard; the delicious smellof pie that was wafted in whenever the door was opened—all these proclaimed that the hour had sounded on the stroke of which it was Gimblet’s custom to take his place before the dining table, full of the pleasantest anticipations. He was an eccentric gourmet, devising for himself meals in which strange dishes appeared in the menu, and he had an excellent cook, who was content to humour his taste and to labour secretly to prevent his poisoning himself altogether; so that, when he ordered fried oysters and Schwalbachsouffléfor luncheon, or lobster and chocolate ice for dinner, she would intersperse what she considered more wholesome dishes, such as legs of mutton and rice puddings, among those he had chosen for himself, in the vain hope that they might tempt him from his dangerous combinations. He gave up remonstrating with her after a while, although he refused to be coerced into eating what he did not like, and his persistent neglect to partake of the rice puddings caused such distress in the kitchen that Higgs fell into the habit of removing a spoonful from them before he cleared them away, and consumed it himself rather than that the cook should what he called “take on.”
To tell the truth, Sir Gregory was not without hope that Gimblet would have asked him to stay to lunch; but it was plain to the most sanguine that the detective had no such intention, and with hesitating reluctance the baronet was obliged to depart. He turned in the doorway, however, to say firmly: “I shall come back this afternoon,” and then hurried away before Gimblet had time to put into words the objection his lips were struggling to form.
Sir Gregory walked to his club, and regaled himself on cold lamb and a glass of claret. He had no appetite, and soon pushed away his plate and wandered into the smoking-room, where he fidgeted about, disconsolateand dejected. Several members whom he knew, aware of his friendship with the ladies whose mysterious disappearance was by now arousing general interest and, as a topic, shared the favour of the newspapers with the preparations for the Royal function that was to take place during the following week, came up to him and tried to get him to talk about it. But if they hoped to glean from him some grains of gossip beyond the reach of common knowledge, too scandalous possibly for a decorous press, wherewith they should proceed to acquire a libellous popularity among their acquaintances, these gentlemen were to know the leaden flavour of disappointment. Sir Gregory, with the sting of Gimblet’s reproaches fresh in his mind, shut his mouth like a vice at any attempt to turn the conversation in the forbidden direction, and scowled as horribly at his friends as his naturally amiable cast of countenance rendered practicable; so that they soon moved off, telling each other that old Jones was becoming a cantankerous old fool and seemed likely to go off his head altogether, as far as they could judge.
It happened in this way that the baronet found himself more and more neglected and alone; till, after standing it for a couple of hours, he could at last bear no longer a state of things as disastrous to his nerves as it was wearing to his temper. About half-past four he put his pride in his pocket, and leaving the smoking-room caught up his hat and hastened from the building. Ten minutes later he was again ringing at Gimblet’s door.
Scarcely had he been ushered into the detective’s presence than the bell rang again, and Higgs came in to say that a taxi driver had arrived in answer to an advertisement, and asked to see Mr. Gimblet.
To Sir Gregory’s despair Gimblet at once left him, and called the man into the little waiting-room.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the taxi man, an intelligent looking fellow with a clean-shaven face, who returned his greeting civilly as he followed him into the room; “are you the man who drove a lady from the Inanity on Monday night to a house in Carolina Road?”
“That’s me, sir,” answered the man, “leastways, as you may say, I drove one of them there.”
“What?” said Gimblet. “Was there more than one?”
“Yes, sir, there was two young ladies when I took them up, but only one of them went to Carolina Road.”
“What happened to the other?”
“I took her to another address first, sir,” said the driver; “I forget the exact number, but somewhere about half-way down Hilliard Street it was, and on the right hand side as I went. That’s Maida Vale way, Hilliard Street is.”
“And you went there first,” cried the detective, “why then, of course I see it all now; the lady only told me she went from the theatre to Carolina Road, and my not knowing of the detour you made on the way has led me to some wrong conclusions.”
“To Hilliard Street first. Those were the orders they give me,” repeated the man.
“Yes, of course,” said Gimblet. “Now, as you drove on from there to Carolina Road, do you by any chance remember seeing two ladies, very richly dressed, standing in front of the open door of a house, which had a small garden or yard between it and the street?”
“Now you’re asking me a riddle,” said the taxi man. “I may have seen two ladies, or again I may have seen a hundred of them, or I mayn’t have seen none at all. That’s more than I could tell you.”
“You didn’t happen to notice any particular two?”
“No, sir, I did not. If I was to go driving about the streets a-looking at all the pretty ladies I see about, I’d be troubling the insurance people a bit too often. I keep my eyes on what’s in the roadway and that takes me all my time, I don’t think.”
“Quite so,” said Gimblet. “Of course you are perfectly right not to look about you. Well now, perhaps you could tell me this. In going from Hilliard Street to Carolina Road, would you pass through a row of single detached houses on the way? Houses all standing in their own gardens some little way apart from each other?”
The man considered, mumbling to himself the names of the streets, as he made a mental journey along the route the detective indicated. In a minute he looked up.
“There’s Scholefield Avenue,” he suggested, “that’s all little places like what you say.”
“Did you go by it on Monday?” asked Gimblet.
“I did, sir. It’s about half-way. There isn’t no other street on the road with the houses all separate like that, so far’s I can recollect. I’ve got me cab down at the door, sir; why don’t you jump in and let me take you along to see for yourself?”
“I think that’s exactly what I will do,” said Gimblet. “You go down and I’ll follow in a moment.”
Gimblet was all eagerness. Here at last he seemed to be off on a definite scent, and he leapt to it all the more keenly for last night’s check. The door had not closed upon the driver of the taxi before the detective had decided in his mind more than one question requiring an answer. First, he would take Higgs, secondly, he would not take Sir Gregory. He tiptoed along the passage, and noiselessly turned the handle of the pantry door.
“Higgs,” he said, “I am going out to have a lookat a certain house. I may want you. Get ready to come. I give you three minutes.”
As quietly, he repaired to his own bedroom, and going to a cupboard made a rapid selection of various small articles, which he stuffed in his pockets. Then, opening a drawer, he took out a Browning pistol, and that also was stowed away. He stood an instant in the middle of the room with his head on one side, tugging absently at his ear. Had he forgotten anything? Ah, he knew what it was, and springing back to a shelf he seized and added to his collection a box of chocolates. “One never knows when one will get back from these sort of jaunts,” he said to himself, “and I have been very hungry before now on my hunting trips.”
One more look round satisfied him that he had everything he could imaginably need, and he returned to the hall, where Higgs was waiting by the door.
A minute more and they would have got clear away, but at the very instant that Gimblet, hurrying quietly towards his servant, snatched at his hat and lifted it to his head, the library door opened, and Sir Gregory’s pink and anxious countenance peered out on him.
“Mr. Gimblet,” he cried, “where are you off to? The taxi man brought news then; and you would go without telling me! No, don’t let me delay you,” as Gimblet paused, hesitating, “I will come with you wherever you are going, and you shall tell me on the way,” and grasping his hat and stick, the baronet prepared to accompany the others.
There was no help for it, and the detective surrendered at once. Indeed, the anxious face reproached him, and he knew he had been patently a little less willing to endure Sir Gregory’s society than was, under the circumstances, altogether charitable. The poor man’s distress, though it made him rather a depressingcompanion, bore witness to the kindness of his heart and was if anything a circumstance entirely to his credit; and the accident that he bored Gimblet ought not really to be allowed to prevent him from participating in the rescue of his friends, if rescue there were to be.
“Come along, Sir Gregory,” said Gimblet.
Scholefield Avenuewas a short street of moderate-sized houses, which, when they were built, had stood at the extreme margin of what was then a suburb; indeed, some of the original tenants had called it the country. There was considerable variety of appearance about them, but they were alike in one respect: each stood apart from its neighbours, in grounds that differed in extent from a tiny yard to half an acre. Thus No. 1, at the south-eastern corner, possessed a large kitchen garden running back a long way, with outbuildings at the further end, a stable, with a coach house on one side of the stable gate, and a chicken house and run on the other. The old lady who lived at No. 1 was very proud of the fact that she supplied herself with vegetables, eggs, and poultry all the year round, though, as she was fond of saying, her house was within three miles of the Marble Arch. She often thought of keeping a cow.
No. 3, next door, had hardly any garden behind it at all, the ground that should by rights have belonged to it having been bought up by No. 1 in former days and added to its own; and this caused an unneighbourly feeling to exist between the two houses, which was inherited by each successive occupier of No. 3. Most of the other dwellings in the street were more equally provided with land; and the row came to an end with No. 17, a very small house surrounded by nothing more interesting than an asphalt path, with a thin hedge oflaurel between it and the outer railings. Some of the houses showed the large, high window of a studio. On the opposite side of the road the same variety existed.
The taxi containing Gimblet, Sir Gregory, and Higgs drove slowly down the street, and was more than halfway along it when the detective caught sight of the board “To Let” for which he was looking. It adorned the railings of No. 6, which stood on the left hand side as they went north.
They stopped after they had turned the corner, and got out of the cab. Gimblet paid and dismissed it, and they walked back to No. 6.
It did not look very promising, presenting a shuttered and unbroken front to the spectator, and bearing marks of age and disrepair. The gate swung on a broken hinge, and, in the cold wind that was still blowing, a door at the back banged every now and then with uncontrolled and unprofitable violence.
Higgs, at a sign from Gimblet, rang the bell and stood aside, while they waited for some one to answer it. For a few minutes they heard nothing but the jar of the banging door and the rustle of the wind in the trees that lined the street; then they were aware of a slatternly woman, carrying a wooden bucket in her hand, who was trying to attract their attention from the steps of the house next door.
“If you gentleman are a-ringing,” she began, addressing them in a shout over the intervening bushes, “a-thinking, as it might be, by so doing to get into that there house, it ain’t no good; you can’t do it. There ain’t no one in it.”
“Who’s got the key?” Gimblet cried back to her.
“I’ve got it meself. I’ll come round and unlock the door.”
Descending the steps as she spoke she proceededto make her way into the street, and so in at the swinging gate of No. 6.
“‘Ave you got a horder from the hagents?” she demanded when she arrived. “No? Well, I don’t mind you having a look at the ’ouse all the same, if you’re set on it. There ain’t much to see, I reckon, but a lot of dirt and litter.”
As she spoke she inserted the key in the lock, and opened the door. Sir Gregory, who was nearest, was about to enter, but Gimblet laid a hand upon his arm.
“Please, Sir Gregory, I must pass before you to-day,” he said, and putting him gently on one side he stepped across the threshold. The woman was in the act of following, but he motioned her back, and stood for a moment staring at the floor. Then he turned to her.
“I see on the board that the house is to be let unfurnished, or would be sold,” he said, “and I understand it has been empty a considerable time. Can you tell me how long it is since anyone has been to look at it?”
“It’s stood hempty more’n two years,” said the woman, “so I’ve ’eard say. There ain’t been no one come to look at it since I’ve been ’ere. I’m caretaking, I am, for a party what live next door. ’E’s away in foreign parts, that’s where ’e is, and time I’ve been a-caretaking for ’im you’re the first what’s asked to see the hinside of this yere ’ouse.”
“And how long have you been caretaking here, do you say?” Gimblet inquired.
“I’ve been ’ere a matter of four months come next Monday,” replied the woman.
“Thanks,” said Gimblet; and turned again towards the interior of the building. He bent down, and looked close at the bare boards of the passage, on which lay the dust and dirt that accumulates in an emptyhouse. Then as an idea struck him he stood upright again.
“I don’t think we will bother to go over the house,” he said to the woman. “I fear it wouldn’t suit me. At all events, you can perhaps tell me one more thing I am anxious to know,” he continued, coming out of the house and facing the street. “There was another board up in this street about a week ago, but I see they have taken it down. Do you know which number it was, and whether the house has been let?”
“Why yes, sir, they ’ave been and took down the board from No. 13,” said the caretaker, “took it down beginning of the week, they did. But the ’ouse’s let, I think; it won’t be no good your going after it. If it’s a furnished ’ouse you’re looking for, I see a board hup in the next street t’other day. Little Cumberland Street.”
“Thank you very much,” said Gimblet. “I’ll take a look at it if I find No. 13 is let. Good morning, and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
They left the woman to lock up the house and return to her caretaking, and started off up the street.
Sir Gregory went reluctantly, visibly hanging back.
“Look here,” he said to Gimblet, “why don’t you go over that house? It wouldn’t take a minute. Supposing they’ve got her shut up in an empty room at the top somewhere. Much better make sure.”
“My dear Sir Gregory, no one has been in that house for months; the dust was deep on the floor and there were no signs of its having been disturbed recently. Do you think two women in long evening dresses could go in without leaving some mark of their passage so short a time ago. Their dresses would either have swept away some of the dust or, if they held them high, their footmarks would have remained. It is impossible that No. 6 is the house, unless some one has spread freshdust in the hall since Monday. Besides, it is very improbable that they should have gone to such a deserted, filthy building, and, on the contrary, more than likely that they should go to a house that had just been let. I felt sure there must have been a board up at another house in this street when Miss Finner passed, as soon as I looked at the floor. Come, here is No. 13, and I have a feeling that we shall find it a more profitable hunting ground.”
Gimblet opened, as he spoke, the gate of No. 13, and took a rapid scrutiny of its exterior as he walked quickly up the short distance that separated it from the road.
It showed a striking contrast to the forlorn and gloomy front offered to the world by the house they had just visited. No. 13 was spick and span; its white walls and shutters shone with the brightness of new paint; a neat grass plot, with a diminutive carriage drive winding in a half-circle round it, divided it from the railings of the street, the whole occupying no more than a few square yards of space. On each side of the flight of steps that led up to the front door there was a little triangular flower bed, gay with pansies, and, as the three men approached, the sun, breaking for the first time that day through the dilatory dispersal of the clouds, cast a shining beam about the place and was caught and reflected from the surface of the windows.
The change in the day was not without its effect even on Sir Gregory, and as he watched Higgs spring forward to ring the bell a new and sudden inrush of hope mounted to his heart.
“I have an excuse by which we may get into the house if they seem disinclined to admit us,” Gimblet was murmuring in his ear. “Back me up in all I say, but leave the chief part of the talking to me.”
They waited eagerly, with eyes fixed on the door and ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps; but minutes passed and no such sound greeted them. Higgs rang again; the loud pealing of the bell could be heard jingling itself to a standstill in the basement, and must surely be audible all over the house. Still no one came, and he tried the area with no better result. Leaving Higgs to continue his efforts, Gimblet backed across the little lawn, and looked up at the windows to see if he could detect any sign of life.
There were muslin curtains in the bedroom windows and he tried in vain to catch sight of a pair of eyes peeping from behind one of them; but not a movement was visible anywhere. The shutters of the drawing-room were closed, and the parapet of the broad balcony shut them out from a searching inspection, which was still further impeded by a wide wooden stand which took up most of the balcony, and extended its whole length. In it were planted flowers, tall daisies and geraniums, which appeared somewhat withered and neglected, and, with the closed shutters, contributed the only hint of disorder in the clean and cheerful aspect of the house.
The detective made his way round to the back. Here the ground fell away, and the basement appeared on the surface instead of below the level of the ground. Another and longer flight of iron steps led up to a door used, no doubt, to give access to the garden. There was no bell here, and the door, of which Gimblet tried the handle, was locked. Through the windows of the basement he could see into the kitchen, clean and orderly as the outside of the house, with white tiled walls and rows of shining stewpans. The table was bare, he noticed, and no fire burnt in the grate; on a summer’s evening such as this it might well have beenallowed to go out. On the other side of the steps he looked into what must be the scullery, and beyond this was a larder; over these was a small window into which he could not see, while above the kitchen a large one was hidden, like those of the drawing-room, by outside shutters. The back window of the first floor, however, and all the other windows at the back of the house were without shutters, and veiled only by curtains of white muslin.
Gimblet took a hasty survey of the garden. It was not large, extending back for some sixty or seventy yards from the house, but bright with flowers and green with lawn and leaf; trees surrounded it on all sides, now golden in the rays of the descending sun; and a high wall gave it privacy from an inquisitive world. Here again the beds were dappled with pansies; here were pinks and poppies, daisies and tall larkspurs, with such other flowers as could be induced to derive nourishment from the unrefreshing showers of smuts, which was their daily portion. By the end wall was a hut, of which the door yielded to Gimblet’s touch, and disclosed a mowing machine in one corner, some garden implements in another, and a potting bench with boxes of mould and some packets of seeds; by the door were stacked a few red pots. Gimblet stood for a moment looking in, and then went back to the front of the house.
Here he found Sir Gregory engaged in conversation with an elderly man, whose velvet coat and the paint brush he carried stuck behind his ear suggested that he was an artist. He introduced himself as the detective came up.
“Mr. Gimblet, I think,” said he; “my name is Brampton. I live next door,” and he waved his hand towards the south.
Gimblet ground his teeth as he realised that SirGregory had given away his identity, but he replied civilly that it was indeed he.
“Although only a stay-at-home painter, I have heard of you,” said the new-comer; “but of course I had no idea who was ringing, when I came round. My wife saw your friends at the door here, and suggested that I should come and tell you that she believes there is no one in the house. We heard that it was let, and the other day a man came and took down the board, but my wife says that no one has been seen to go in or leave the house for several days; she and the servants are of opinion that it is empty at the present moment, and that the new tenant has not yet arrived.”
“Indeed,” said Gimblet, “I am grateful for your information; but I have some reason to think that the new tenant took possession some time ago.”
“It can hardly be very long,” observed Brampton, “for the Mills, to whom it belongs, only went away last week.”
“Really,” said Gimblet, “you interest me. Who are the Mills? Do you know them at all?”
“Most certainly I do. They are great friends of ours, and their having to go away like this is a sad loss to us. Arthur Mill is the son of an old acquaintance of mine—a manufacturer of glass—and is employed in his father’s business. His wife is a charming woman, and we are devoted to them both. It was only lately decided that he was to go abroad, to look after a branch of the business in Italy, and they had very little time to make arrangements about letting their house. They only left on Friday last, and it was a great surprise to us to hear on Monday that the house had been let.”
“Did you hear who had taken it?” inquired Gimblet.
“I think I did hear the man’s name, but I am afraidI have forgotten it. My wife saw a charwoman going in on Monday morning whom she often employs herself, so she ran in here, as she told me, to ask her what she was doing, as the house had been all cleaned up on Friday and Saturday after the Mills left. The charwoman said she had been sent in by the house agents to see if anything remained to be put in order, as the new tenant, or so she understood, wanted to go in at once. That is all we heard; but as no one has been seen or heard about the place since that day it looks as if they had changed their minds.”
“Thanks very much,” said Gimblet. “If you could tell me the name of the agents I think my best plan is to go and try to get the key from them, as it seems impossible to rouse anyone here.”
“Ennidge and Pring are the agents; in Sentinel Street, about ten minutes’ walk from here. You’ll have to be quick, or you won’t catch them. They’re sure to close at six.”
“I will go now,” said Gimblet, and he drew Higgs on one side. “Higgs,” he said, “keep an eye on the front of the house, and if anyone comes out and you fail to detain him, follow him, leaving Sir Gregory to watch the house. In the meantime, let him watch the back. I shall be back soon if I can get a taxi.”
He started off, Mr. Brampton accompanying him as far as his own door and pointing out the way to Sentinel Street. At the gate they glanced back at the shuttered first floor windows and the faded flowers on the balcony.
“Mrs. Mill would be terribly upset if she saw how her flowers are being neglected,” said Mr. Brampton. “She is so very fond of her garden, and is always watering and attending to her plants. A man is to come once a week, on Saturday mornings, to look after the garden and mow the lawn, and I shall tell him toinsist on watering the balcony boxes. That’s your way now, up the street and bear to the left. Ah, there’s a taxi.”
A cab had indeed that moment turned into the street, and Gimblet hailed it and drove rapidly to the offices of Messrs. Ennidge and Pring, house agents.
Mr. Ennidgewas a short, middle-aged man, with grey hair, and a mild, benignant eye, which gazed at you vaguely through gold-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Pring, his partner, tall, thin, nervous and excitable, was the very antithesis of him, and that is possibly why they got on so well together. While Mr. Pring was always able to display enthusiasm in regard to the properties he had to dispose of, to the people who were inquiring for houses, and was never at a loss when it was necessary to explain that what the intending client took for geese were really swans, he was apt to relapse into gloom when called upon to deal with would-be sellers, or those who had houses to let and were disappointed with the rent obtainable, or the failure of Ennidge and Pring to procure them a tenant at any price. He was then only too likely, if left to himself, to disclose his plain and truthful opinion as to their property. This was seldom productive of good results, for, as a rule, the transference of the property in question to the books of another agent followed these outbursts; and, Ennidge and Pring’s business being a small one, they could not afford to lose customers.
It was in such cases, however, that Mr. Ennidge was seen at his best. It was he who, with friendly smile and hopeful, encouraging word, cheered the downhearted householder and sent him away with confidence restored, convinced once more that a tenant wouldshortly be forthcoming to whom the absence of a bath-room, of a back door, of gas or hot water laid on, and the presence of blackened ceilings, wallpaper hanging in strips, and dirt-encrusted paint, would if anything prove a veritable inducement to clinch a bargain most satisfactory to the landlord.
Mr. Pring had already left the office when Gimblet arrived on the scene, and in another quarter of an hour he would have found it wholly deserted. He gave his card to the only clerk of the establishment, who took it in to the little inner room, where he was immediately received by the smiling Mr. Ennidge; and to him he quickly stated his business.
“There can be no possible objection to my giving you all the information in my power with regard to the gentleman who has taken 13 Scholefield Avenue,” said the house agent, “and since you cannot get an answer at the house I will send down my clerk with the key to let you in and assist, if necessary, in explaining matters to the tenant, if he should be discovered to be there after all. A very eccentric gentleman, I fancy, and something of a recluse. I could not, of course, take it on myself to use the spare key, which the owner happens to have left with us, at the request of a less well-known and responsible person than yourself, if I may say so, Mr. Gimblet; but since the capture of the forgers at the Great Continental last year, your name, sir, has been in every one’s mouth; and you will allow me to add that I am, although hitherto unknown, one of your most fervent admirers.”
Thus was it ever Mr. Ennidge’s pleasant way to oil the wheels of intercourse with his fellows.
“The name of the tenant of No. 13,” he continued, “is Mr. West, Mr. Henry West. He has taken the house for a month with the option of taking it on fora year or longer; and I fancy he must be a man of means, as the offer which he made appears to be an unusually high one—unnecessarily so, I may say, between you and me, Mr. Gimblet; but in the interests of our client, the owner of the lease, I need hardly tell you we did not quarrel with him on that account!”
“What aged man is he?” inquired Gimblet.
“I really can hardly tell you,” replied Mr. Ennidge. “The fact is that I myself have not yet seen him. Both I and my partner happened to be out when Mr. West came to the office, and he made all the arrangements with our clerk. Perhaps you would like him to come in?”
“I should be glad to ask him a few questions,” said Gimblet.
Mr. Ennidge put his head into the outer office.
“Tremmels,” he called, with his hand on the door. “Just come in here a moment.”
The clerk appeared, a white-faced young Londoner, showing very plainly the effects of an indoor life and long, hot hours spent upon an office stool; he moved languidly, as if every step were an exertion almost too great to repeat, and stood before Gimblet in a drooping attitude of fatigue.
“Mr. Gimblet wants to hear about the tenant of No. 13 Scholefield Avenue,” Mr. Ennidge told him.
The clerk straightened himself with a perceptible effort, and stared fixedly at Gimblet, who had long since become accustomed to the interest the mention of his name commonly aroused. No doubt this youth knew the detective by repute; but he had an expression of such wooden stupidity, and withal looked so terribly ill and exhausted, that Gimblet wondered if he would be able to extract much sense from him.
“It was you,” he said, “who let the house to Mr. West?”
“Yes,” said the clerk. “He came in one day last week.”
“Friday,” interposed Mr. Ennidge.
“Yes, he came in here last Friday morning, and said he’d been over No. 13 Scholefield Avenue, having seen the board ‘To Let’ in front of the house,” replied the clerk. “The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mill, had only gone away that morning, and Mr. West was shown over by a servant who had been left behind to clear up and follow by a later train. He told me he required a furnished house for a year. He said he was very fond of solitude; that he had lived in India all his life and didn’t care to meet strangers, but wanted a house with a garden, where he could be private, so to speak. He said he thought Scholefield Avenue would suit him admirably, but that he wished to take it for a month first to see how he liked it, and to have the option of taking it on. I was uncertain whether Mr. Mill would be agreeable to such an arrangement, and suggested waiting till we could communicate with the owner, but he wouldn’t hear of that; said he wished to go in immediately, and would take some other house he’d seen unless he could clinch the matter then and there. He made an offer of fifteen guineas a week for the first month, and eight for the rest of the year if he should decide to take it on. This is such a very high price for this part of London that I felt sure Mr. Ennidge or Mr. Pring, if they had been here, would not have let it escape, but would have hit the iron while it was hot, if you take my meaning; and as I was aware that Mr. Mill had left an absolute discretion to the firm with regard to letting the house, and that he was very anxious to do so as quickly as possible, I didn’t hesitate any longer, but agreed to Mr. West’s conditions.
“He said that he wished to have possession of the house from midday of Monday last; told me to get acharwoman in on Monday morning, in case any cleaning up remained to be done, and that he wished me to meet him at the house on Monday for the purpose of going over the inventory. Then he took out a pocket book, which seemed to be stuffed full of bank notes, paid me thirty guineas, the rent for half the first month, and asked me to get the agreement for him to sign. I got him two agreement forms such as we use, as a rule, when letting furnished houses, and he signed them both and put one in his pocket.”
“Perhaps Mr. Gimblet would like to glance at our copy,” said Mr. Ennidge, diving into a drawer. “Here it is,” and he handed a paper to the detective, who turned it over thoughtfully. There was nothing on it beyond the ordinary printed clauses setting forth the terms of the contract. At the end the tenant had signed his name, “Henry West,” in large, sprawling characters, the strokes of which seemed a trifle uncertain, as if the hand that held the pen had not been absolutely steady. Below, in a neat business-like writing, was the clerk’s signature: “A. W. Tremmels, for Messrs. Ennidge and Pring.”
Gimblet put it in his pocket. “I may keep it for the present, I suppose?” he asked Mr. Ennidge, who looked rather as if he would have liked to object, but on the whole decided not to.
“Can you describe what Mr. West looked like?” Gimblet asked the clerk. “But perhaps you had better tell me that on the way to the house. Mr. Ennidge has promised to send you down with me. One thing, however, before we start: I should like to see the inventory, if I may.”
“By all means,” Mr. Ennidge replied. “Just get it, Tremmels, and the key too. You know where they are kept,” and as the clerk went into the outer office he turned again to Gimblet.
“If you would like me to come myself?” he suggested.
“Oh no, thanks,” Gimblet answered, “do not trouble to come. As the clerk is the only one who met Mr. West, I think he will really be more useful to me. I suppose he can stand a walk down to Scholefield Avenue? He looks dreadfully ill, poor chap; what’s wrong with him? Consumptive?”
“He is ill, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Ennidge regretfully, “but it will do him good to get a walk and a breath of fresh air. The hot weather we had last week was very trying; Tremmels certainly looks very bad since the heat. I have told him to take a holiday to-morrow,” he added kindly, “a day in the country will be the best thing for him, and there is not very much to be done in the office at this time of the year. Business is very slack, Mr. Gimblet. I daresay, now, yours keeps your nose to the grindstone, at one season as much as another?”
“Well, yes,” said Gimblet. “I’m afraid the criminal classes aren’t very regular in their holiday-making. It’s very inconsiderate of them, but I’m afraid they’re a selfish lot.”
The house agent’s ever-present smile broadened, and at that moment young Tremmels made his reappearance with the inventory. In an instant Gimblet’s keen nose had told him that with the clerk there now entered the room a pervading smell of brandy, and his quick eye noted a tinge of colour in the pale cheek of the young man, which had previously not been visible there. “O-ho,” he said to himself, “so that’s the trouble, is it?” Then, with a word of thanks to Mr. Ennidge, Gimblet led the way out into the street, and turned his steps towards Scholefield Avenue.
“Now then,” he said to his companion as they hurried along, “about this Mr. West. What is he like?”
“He’s an elderly, rather horsey-looking gentleman, and odd in his manner,” said the clerk. “What I mean to say is, he has a very pleasant way of talking, and yet somehow he doesn’t talk like an ordinary gentleman might. Seems rather fond of what I may term the habit of using bad language.”
“What does he look like?”
“He isn’t what you’d call a tall man; not that I should call him short either; and thin, very thin. Don’t know if I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Gimblet patiently, “would you know him again?”
“Oh yes. He’s a very uncommon sort to meet about. I’d know him anywhere. He’s got a leather coloured face, which looks as if he’d been out in the sun more than a few weeks, and a funny little bit of a pointed beard on his chin. Tell you what he looks like,” said Tremmels, with more show of animation than he had so far exhibited, “he looks more like an American than he does an Indian; and, come to think of it, he’s got a nasty sort of voice, same as they have, but not very strong.”
“Anything else you can remember about him?” Gimblet asked. He was listening with intense interest.
“Well, he has got a way of standing with his legs apart, and getting up on his tiptoes; and then down he lets himself go with a jerk, if I make myself plain. His wool is a bit grey and is commencing to get baldish on the top. He seems to dislike seeing strangers or making new acquaintances, as you may say. He gave me to understand that he’s a scholar, and going in for reading and what not when he’s settled in Scholefield Avenue; says his health’s bad too, but I shouldn’t wonder if it was more likely something else. More this sort of thing.” The clerk made an upward movement with his right arm and hand, ofwhich, as Gimblet was walking on his other side, the significance was lost on him.
“I beg your pardon?” he inquired doubtfully.
“Granted,” said Tremmels; “what I mean is, if you understand me, I shouldn’t be surprised if anyone was to tell me that he takes a drop too much. Rather rosy about the beak, I thought, and when he left the office I watched him go down the street till he was nearly out of sight, when what should he do but nip across into the private bar of theLion and Crown.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet, “I observed a certain shakiness in the signature of the lease.” In his own mind he was thinking that it was more than probable that the clerk had accompanied Mr. West to theLion and Crown. “Did you notice anything else?”
“I don’t know that I did,” said Tremmels thoughtfully. “He wore ordinary sort of clothes. Gent’s lounge suit with a large check pattern, brown boots, and a very genteel diamond pin in the centre of his tie. Altogether quite the gentleman, and very civil-spoken and pleasant when not swearing. He told me that he wouldn’t want any coals ordered in, as his cooking would be done chiefly on the gas stove with which the kitchen of No. 13 is fitted. There is every convenience, as you may say,” concluded the clerk.
As Gimblet pondered over what he had heard, and reflected that the powers of observation that his companion showed were greater than he had given him credit for, they drew near to Scholefield Avenue and passed beneath its lines of branching plane trees to the gate of Mr. Mill’s house. Higgs was at his post before it and reported that nothing had stirred during the detective’s absence. Sir Gregory came from the back of the house in the company of Mr. Brampton, who had joined him there. The artist was plainly excited.
“Your friend tells me,” he said, as he came up to Gimblet’s side, “that you think that the two ladies of whose disappearance the papers are so full—Mrs. Vanderstein and her companion—came to this house on the night that they vanished. It will be the greatest favour if you will allow me to witness your methods of investigating this affair.”
“By all means,” said Gimblet ungraciously, “why shouldn’t the whole street come? I think it is very probable that it will do so, since Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones appears to be perfectly incapable of keeping his own counsel, no matter whether the safety of his friends is endangered or not.” So saying he turned and held out his hand for the key of the house to the clerk, who, panting and gasping after his walk, now leant against the door as if no longer able to support himself unaided.
Sir Gregory and the artist, off whom Gimblet’s right and left shots had glanced with a sting but produced no permanent wounds, fell back silenced for the moment, though unflinchingly determined to see anything there was to be seen. The quick, searching eyes of Brampton rested on the clerk, and he took in his woeful condition with the rapidity of his trade.
“That young fellow ought to be in bed,” he said, in a low voice, in Sir Gregory’s ear, “but I suppose, like the rest of us, he won’t be able to tear himself away from this exciting spot.”
They followed Gimblet, who had opened the door and passed through it into the hall. He looked round him in despair.
“Really, gentleman,” he cried, “you must stay at the door for the present. If this house has anything to tell, it will never do so after you have trampled all traces from the very floors with your innumerable feet. I will just see if there is anyone here; and, if not, youcan come in after I have begun my thorough examination, as long as you keep out of my way and do as I tell you. Otherwise I warn you, Sir Gregory, that you will ruin every chance of success.”