At Queen’s Farm, Hockliffe, the excitations of the terrible evening on which Juana faced her father, and on which Richard and Teresa were betrothed, seemed to have exhausted the actors in those trying scenes. Only Teresa herself maintained her spirits through a night of sleeplessness, and Teresa’s eyes disclosed a simple and profound happiness of the soul, which proved how well the forced engagement with Richard suited her inclinations. As for Richard, he, too, was happy in the betrothal, but his experience of the world—a thousandfold greater than Teresa’s—was responsible for forebodings that filled him with apprehension. He could not but feel that disaster—perhaps immediate disaster—waited upon the schemes of Raphael Craig, those schemes of whose success the old man was so proudly confident Richard guessed, naturally, that Raphael Craig was waging war on Simon Lock, and his common-sense predicted with assurance that in this struggle of the weak against the strong the strong would crush and the weak would be crushed. The exact nature of Raphael Craig’s plan, of which Richard was still in ignorance, seemed to the young man to be a matter of comparative unimportance. He perceived, at any rate, that the campaign was a financial one. That was enough; in the realm of finance Simon Lock had long been peerless, and though, as the newspaper hinted, Simon was temporarily at a disadvantage, it was absurd to pretend for an instant that Raphael Craig, undistinguished, even unknown, could win.
So ran the course of Richard’s thoughts as he lay resting during the early hours of the morning on the Chesterfield in the drawing-room. Raphael Craig had retired to his room. Teresa had also retired. Juana and Bridget were attending on the stricken detective. Each had expressed her intention of sitting up all night. Whenever Richard’s somewhat somnolent meditations turned in the direction of the detective he could not help thinking that here, in this sick man, helpless, hurt, delirious, was the instrument of Simon Lock’s ultimate success. Nolan knew, or Nolan shrewdly surmised now, that Raphael Craig had grossly outraged the Coinage Acts. Nolan had doubtless collected a sufficient body of evidence at least to secure a committal for trial, and so it was an indubitable fact to be faced that, immediately Nolan recovered, or partially recovered, the forces of the law would be set in motion against Craig—against Craig, the father of his betrothed. Then—Queen’s Farm would doubtless explode like a bomb!
But was Raphael Craig the father of his betrothed? Had Juana lied on the previous night, or had the old man lied? Here were questions which Richard preferred to shirk rather than to answer.
A much more important question was, What would Raphael Craig be likely to do in regard to Nolan? As things stood, Nolan was at his mercy—helpless in his house. Certainly Craig would by this time have arrived at the conclusion that instantly Nolan was enabled to leave the house his own ruin would occur. Richard did not believe that Craig’s scheme could possibly succeed after Craig was clapped in prison as a coiner. He, indeed, suspected that Craig had only made this boast in order to dispel any suspicions which Richard might entertain as to the bodily safety of Nolan within the precincts of Queen’s Farm.
Yet it came to that: Richard was not without fear that the old man might attempt to murder Nolan. Nolan dead, and his body disposed of, Craig was safe. It was a frightful thought, but Raphael Craig’s demeanour whenever he referred to his life-long scheme of vengeance gave at least some excuse for it.
At eight o’clock there was a tap at the drawing-room door. Richard jumped up and came out of the room. Bridget stood before him.
‘Miss Teresa up?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said the housekeeper, ‘and not likely to be yet, the darling! I came to give ye a hint, Mr. Redgrave, that ye might do worse than seek a breakfast down in the village, at the White Horse.’
‘Micky, ye mean? Better—though the spalpeen doesn’t deserve God’s goodness nor Miss Juana’s loving care.’
‘Mr. Craig up?’ he asked further ‘No,’ said Bridget.
‘Yes,’ said Richard, ‘I’ll go down to the village, and come back again in a couple of hours.’
‘How’s the patient?’ he asked.
He passed quietly out of the house. He had, however, not the slightest intention of going down to the village. Determined to ignore the fact that he had been caught as a spy once, and the risk that he might be caught again, he turned to the left as soon as he was out of the garden and crept under the garden wall up to the sheds, which he cautiously entered. Safely within the range of buildings, he soon found an outlook therefrom which commanded a view of the house—a vantage-point whence he could see without being seen.
Nothing unusual occurred. Indeed, save that Bridget came forth to attend to the mares, having doubtless been instructed to do so by Teresa, nothing occurred at all till a little after nine o’clock. Then Mr. Craig issued quickly out of the house, went along the boreen, and down towards the village. At a discreet distance Richard followed him, for he deemed it his bounden-duty to keep an eye on Raphael Craig until Nolan, the detective, should have departed from the house. It was not pleasant for him to think of his prospective father-in-law as a potential murderer, but he had no alternative save to face the possibility. It is a full mile from Queen’s Farm to Hockliffe village. Mr. Craig, however, walked quickly, and the distance was soon accomplished. The old man went into the general store, which is also the post-office—a tiny place crammed with the produce of the East and of the West. After a moment’s hesitation, Richard also walked towards the post-office. When he reached it, Mr. Craig was in the act of paying for a telegram.
‘Hullo! Good-morning,’ said Raphael Craig blithely. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came for some stamps,’ Richard answered.
‘Hum! They said you’d gone down to the village for breakfast. What with one thing and another, our household arrangements are somewhat upset, I’m afraid. Ta-ta!’
Raphael Craig left the shop, apparently quite incurious as to Richard’s doings or plans for the day. Richard was decidedly reassured by the man’s demeanour. He seemed as sane, as calm, as collected as a bank manager could be. And yet—last night!
Richard breakfasted at the hostelry of the White Horse, and then walked slowly back to Queen’s Farm. As he approached the house he met Richard Craig again going down to the village. Four times that day the old man went down himself to the village post-office to despatch telegrams, and he openly stated that he was going to despatch telegrams.
Teresa was in the orchard, and Richard went to her. He said that he did not see how he could stay longer in the house, that he ought to return to London, and yet that he scarcely cared to leave.
To his surprise, Teresa appeared agitated and distressed at the mere idea of his leaving.
‘Don’t go at present,’ she urged him. ‘Stay at least another twenty-four hours. Just think how I am fixed. That man ill and delirious—by the way, Juana won’t leave his side—and father and Juana not on speaking terms. There is no knowing what may happen. We needn’t pretend to each other, Dick, that there isn’t something very peculiar and mysterious about father. I dare say you know more than I do, and I shan’t ask questions. I don’t want to know, Dick, so long as you’re here. But do stay a bit. Stay till something turns up.’
‘Till something turns up?’ He repeated her phrase. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said simply; ‘but stay.’
He kissed her.
That night Richard was provided with a bed, but he found himself unable to sleep on it. About the middle of the night—or so it seemed to him—there was a rap on his door.
‘Mr. Redgrave.’
The voice was Juana’s.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Can you come and speak to Mr. Nolan? He wants to speak to you, and nothing else will satisfy him.’
Richard rose and dressed, and came out on the landing, where a lamp was burning. Juana, fully dressed, her eyes ringed with fatigue, stood waiting for him. She beckoned him down the side-passage, and he entered the room occupied by the sick man.
‘Shut the door,’ the sick man commanded in a febrile voice.
As though it had been previously arranged between them, Juana kept out of the room. Richard and the detective were alone together.
‘You’re looking better,’ Richard said.
‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said Nolan. ‘That old scoundrel sleeps next door. Yes, I’m better,’ he went on rather wearily, shifting the position of a pillow, ‘thanks to nursing. I wish to say something to you. You know a good deal about my business up here. You’ve been on the same business yourself. Well, look here: if any questions are asked, I don’t want you to know anything about what I’ve done or what I’ve found out.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Richard asked. ‘Oh dear!’ the other said pettishly; ‘can’t you understand? I mean down at Scotland Yard. If any of ‘em should come to you, you know, say nothing. Fact is, I’m going to let the old man off, if I can—I’m bound to let him off. It’s all got to be hushed up, if Mr. Nolan, Esquire, can manage it.’
‘Why?’ asked Richard calmly.
‘Why did you chuck the job up?’ returned Nolan. ‘Can’t I follow your example?’
‘Do you mean that you—er—Miss Juana?’
‘Precisely,’ said Nolan. ‘I met her down at Limerick months ago—long before the death of old Featherstone—when I was engaged on inquiries about old Craig’s antecedents, to try if I couldn’t throw any light on the matter of his treasure of new silver, which has interested the police for a year past. I met her. I hadn’t the least notion that she was his daughter. I was afraid that I should never see her again. And then, when I woke up in the cursed little room here and found her bending over me—by Heaven, it was too much! For the time, I do believe, it made me worse. She has told me a lot to-day. I haven’t been delirious since early this morning. Oh yes, Redgrave, I’ve got to chuck it. I wouldn’t harm that woman, or anything that belonged to her—not to be Chief of Police in Paris! You and I must put our heads together and concoct a tale that will satisfy the people in London.’
The door opened, and Juana entered with a firm step.
‘Time’s up,’ she said, looking at the man in bed. ‘I gave you five minutes, and you’ve had ten. Good-night, Mr. Redgrave—and thanks.’
Here indeed was spirited nursing.
Richard retired to his own room, intending to think things over, but instead of thinking, for some reason or other, he slept heavily till nine o’clock. Then he dressed and descended, and, seeing no one about, went into the garden. Almost at the same moment a light trap drove up to the garden-gate. Telling the driver not to wait, a man got down from the vehicle. It was Mr. Simon Lock.
‘Ah! Mr. Redgrave,’ said Simon Lock, ‘you seem to be at home here. Can you tell me if Mr. Craig is at home?’
At the same moment as Simon Lock spoke a window opened in the upper story of Queen’s Farm, and Raphael Craig showed his head. Raphael Craig was fully dressed, and his face had the freshness of morning. Richard looked apprehensively from one to the other of these old men and old enemies, expecting from either or both an outburst of wrath—such a terrible outburst as twenty years might have prepared; but nothing of the kind happened.
‘Good-morning, Mr. Lock,’ said Raphael Craig blandly.
Simon Lock, equally with Richard, was astonished by the mildness of this greeting.
‘Good-day to you,’ said Simon Lock. ‘You do not seem surprised to see me,’ he added.
‘Not in the least,’ said Craig. ‘On the contrary, I was expecting you.’
Simon Lock started.
‘Ah!’ was all he said.
‘Excuse me one instant,’ said Craig. ‘I will be down immediately to welcome you to my house. You will, I trust, take breakfast with us. And you, too, Redgrave, will breakfast with us. Let me beg you not to run away as you did yesterday morning.’
The bank manager had positively turned courtier!
On his way down he intercepted Mrs. Bridget between the dining-room and the kitchen, and told her to have breakfast ready for five within half an hour.
‘But——’ began Mrs. Bridget, raising her bony hands.
‘For five,’ repeated Raphael Craig, ‘in half an hour.’
Then he went forward, and invited Simon Lock to enter, and led him to the drawing-room, and Richard also. His attitude towards his guests, though a shade formal, was irreproachably hospitable. Anyone could see that Simon Lock felt himself at a disadvantage. The great and desperate financier had anticipated a reception utterly different; this suavity and benignity did not fit in with the plan of campaign which he had schemed out, and he was nonplussed.
Once he did manage to put in:
‘I called to see you, Craig——’
‘After breakfast, I pray——’ the other cut him short.
A gong rang. Raphael Craig rose and opened the drawing-room door, and the three men passed into the dining-room. Coffee, bacon, and eggs were on the table. The two girls—Teresa in a light summer frock and Juana still in her dark habit—stood by the mantelpiece. They were evidently in a state of great curiosity as to the stranger, the rumour of whose advent had reached them through Mrs. Bridget. Juana was, beyond question, perturbed. The fact was that at Teresa’s instigation she had meant that morning to approach her father amicably, and was fearful of the upshot. Raphael Craig, however, cut short her suspense. He kissed both girls on the forehead, and then said:
‘Mr. Lock, let me introduce my daughter Juana, my daughter Teresa. My dears, this is Mr. Simon Lock, who has run down to see me on a matter of business, and will do us the honour of breakfasting with us.’
The meal, despite the ordinariness of its service, had the deadly and tremendous formality of a state dinner at Buckingham Palace. Conversation, led judicially by the host himself, was kept up without a break, but Simon Lock distinctly proved that the social arts were not his forte. The girls talked timidly, like school misses on their best behaviour, while Richard’s pose and Richard’s words were governed by more than his characteristic caution. Only Raphael Craig seemed at ease, and the old man appeared to take a ferocious but restrained delight in the unnatural atmosphere which he had created. It was as if he saw written on every face the expectation of some dreadful sequel, and rejoiced in those signs of fear and dread. His eyes said: ‘Yes, I can see that you are all desperately uncomfortable. It is well. You are afraid of something happening, and you shall not be disappointed.’
‘Now, girls,’ he said lightly, after the meal was finished, ‘go and amuse yourselves, and don’t forget your poor patient upstairs.’
‘You have someone ill in the house?’ Simon Lock ventured.
‘Yes,’ said Craig; ‘a fool of a Scotland Yard detective who got himself into trouble up here by ferreting about.’
Simon Lock turned pale.
‘He was nearly killed,’ Raphael Craig went on. ‘We are nursing him back to life,’ The old man laughed. ‘And now for our business,’ he said, and turned to Richard. ‘I will see Mr. Lock in the drawing-room, and I shall ask you, Mr. Redgrave, to be present at our interview.’
‘Is that necessary?’ asked Simon Lock pompously.
‘I have omitted to tell you,’ said Raphael Craig, ‘that Mr. Richard Redgrave is my prospective son-in-law, engaged to my daughter Teresa. I have no secrets from him.’
Simon Lock bowed. They returned to the drawing-room, and at a sign from Raphael Craig Richard closed the door.
‘Now, Mr. Lock,’ said Raphael Craig when they were seated, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘You said from your bedroom window that you were expecting me,’ Simon Lock replied. ‘Therefore you are probably aware of the nature of my business, since I have given you no warning of my arrival.’
Mr. Lock’s face disclosed the fact that he had summoned all his faculties—and he was a man of many faculties—to the task that lay before him. Various things had irked and annoyed him that morning, but in order to retain the mien of diplomacy he was compelled to seem to ignore them. There could be no doubt, for example, that he bitterly resented the presence of Richard at this interview, but what could he do save swallow the affront? The whole situation was a humiliating one for Simon Lock, who was much more accustomed to dictate terms than to have terms dictated to him. Still, it was to his credit as a man of nerve and a man of resource that he was able to adapt himself to unusual circumstances. He had a triple feat to perform—to keep his dignity, to be diplomatic, and to be firm. He had come with a precise end in view, and he was willing to sacrifice everything to that end. Behold him, therefore, in the drawing-room at Queen’s Farm—him, the demi-god of the City, trying to show a pleasant and yet a formidable face under extraordinary trials.
‘It is true,’ said Raphael Craig, ‘that I expected you. But it was my instinct more than anything else that led me to expect you. You come, I presume, about the shares of La Princesse Mine.’
‘Exactly,’ said Simon Lock.
‘You have contracted to sell more of these shares than you can supply, and the price has risen?’
‘Exactly,’ said Simon Lock, smiling cautiously.
Raphael Craig was, so far, courtesy itself.
‘And you wish to get the bargain cancelled?’
‘I am prepared to pay for the accommodation.’
‘And to get the bargain cancelled,’ Craig pursued, ‘you come to me.’
‘I come to you,’ repeated Simon Lock.
‘Yet you could have no direct knowledge that I had any influence over these shares.’
‘No direct knowledge,’ said Lock; ‘but an indirect knowledge. Perhaps,’ he added, in a peculiar tone, ‘I know more than you guess.’
‘As for example?’
‘Perhaps I could answer the question, which certainly demands an answer, how you, a mere manager of a branch of our bank, in receipt of a not excessive salary, found the money to become a power on the Westralian market. As the chairman of the directors of the bank I have, I think, Mr. Craig, the right to put that question.’
‘You have first to prove that I indeed am a power on the Westralian market.’
‘The proof of that is in the mere fact that I—I—am here at the present moment.’
Raphael Craig smiled.
‘You are correct,’ he said. ‘That fact is a proof in itself. I admit that I am a power. To save unnecessary words, I frankly admit that I hold La Princesse Mine in the hollow of my hand. You have come to the proper person, Mr. Lock. We meet at last. And am I to understand that one object of your visit here is to discover how I became possessed of the means which a manipulator of markets must possess?’
‘I confess I should like to know from your own lips.’
‘Well, Mr. Lock, I shall not tell you. It is no business of yours. The sole fact that concerns you is that I am in a position to control this particular market, not how I arrived at that position.’
Raphael Craig’s tone had suddenly become inimical, provocative, almost insolent.
Simon Lock coughed. The moment had come. He said:
‘On the night before his decease the late Mr. Featherstone, whose death we all lament, wrote out a sort of confession——’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Raphael Craig, with absolute imperturbability; ‘it was on the last night but one before his death. After writing it out, he changed his mind about killing himself instantly. He came up here to see me instead. He told me he had put everything on paper. He made an urgent request, a very urgent request, to me to reconsider a certain decision of mine. I declined to reconsider it. On the other hand, I thoughtfully offered him a bed. He accepted it, left the next morning, and killed himself. I merely mention these circumstances for the sake of historical exactitude. I suppose you have somehow got hold of Featherstone’s document.’
At this point Richard rose and walked to the window. The frosty coldness, the cynical carelessness, of Raphael Craig’s manner made him feel almost ill. He was amazed at this revelation of the depth of the old man’s purpose to achieve his design at no matter what cost.
‘I have got hold of it—somehow,’ said Simon Lock. ‘You may judge what I think of its value when I tell you that I paid ten thousand pounds for it.’
‘Hum!’ murmured Craig. ‘What surprises me is that the police did not get hold of it long ago. They must be very careless searchers. My opinion of Scotland Yard is going down rapidly.’ He paused, and then continued: ‘It was indiscreet of you, Mr. Lock, to pay ten thousand pounds for that document. It is quite useless to you.’
‘I fear you cannot be aware what is in it,’ said Simon Lock. ‘It is indisputable evidence that during many years past you have been in the habit of coining large quantities of silver money.’
‘What of that?’
‘It means penal servitude for you, Mr. Craig, if I give it up to the police. But I trust you will not compel me to such an extreme course.’
‘How can I persuade you to have mercy on me?’ laughed Raphael Craig.
The other evidently did not appreciate the full extent of the old man’s sarcasm.
‘It will not be difficult,’ said Simon Lock, ‘provided you are reasonable. I will tell you without any circumlocution what my terms are.’ Simon was feeling firm ground under feet at last, as he thought. ‘What my terms are.’ He repeated the phrase, which seemed to give him satisfaction. ‘You must instruct your agents to agree to a cancellation of the contracts to sell La Princesse shares. They must let go.’
‘As those contracts stand, Mr. Lock, how much do you reckon you would lose on them?’
‘I cannot say,’ said Lock stiffly.
‘I will tell you,’ said Raphael Craig. ‘You would lose something between two and a half and three millions of money. What you ask is that I should make you a present of this trifling sum.’
‘In return I will give you Featherstone’s document.’
‘Nothing else? Nothing in solid cash?’
Simon Lock reflected.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I will give you a hundred thousand in cash.’
‘Make it a quarter of a million,’ Raphael Craig affected to plead.
‘I will make it a quarter of a million,’ said Simon Lock, ‘though I am condoning a felony. I will give you the document and a quarter of a million in exchange for a cancellation of all the La Princesse contracts. That is a clear and business-like offer.’
‘It is,’ said Craig. ‘And I refuse it.’
‘You want more? I decline to give it.’
‘I don’t want more. If you offered me ten millions I wouldn’t accept it.’
‘You prefer to go to prison? You prefer that I should give the document to the police?’
‘I care not,’ said Craig. ‘I shall be perfectly content to end my days in prison. I have ruined you, Simon Lock.’ He jumped up, and almost shouted, ‘I have ruined you, Simon Lock, and I can die happy—whether in prison or out of it makes no matter. In four days hence the contracts must be fulfilled—you must deliver the shares, or you are a ruined man. And you cannot deliver the shares. I have seen to that. Let happen what may, the contracts are in safe hands. You will have noticed that my name does not appear on them, and you are ruined. You are ruined, Simon, you are ruined—unless I choose to be merciful.’
He spoke the last words in low, deliberate tones, quite different from the rest of the speech, and this change evidently puzzled Simon Lock, who was now undecided whether still to maintain a peaceful attitude or to threaten and bluster.
Raphael Craig went on, looking at Richard: ‘These great financiers, Redgrave—you see they are not so great after all. The genius of Simon Lock in juggling with other people’s money is supposed to be transcendent, yet how easily I have juggled with his! It is not more than three months ago that I first saw my opportunity of working on a big scale. I obtained information about the probable tactics of the people in charge of Princesse shares, and I took my measures accordingly. By the way, it is surprising the number of people in the City who were delighted to assist me in ruining Simon Lock. The most staid persons seemed to take a fiendish glee in it.’
Simon Lock smiled rather grimly, and Raphael Craig pursued his way:
‘I knew that the great Lock group were selling Princesse shares for the fall. It was very silly of them, though, to sell more than they could deliver, especially as there doesn’t happen to have been a fall.’
‘I am sure,’ said Simon Lock, ‘that you won’t mind telling me who disclosed the nature of our operations in the matter of the Princesse shares.’
‘With the greatest pleasure in the world,’ said Raphael Craig. ‘It was one of your own intimate gang—your private secretary, Oakley. I bought him, body and soul, for a thousand pounds.’
‘And he sold you to me for ten thousand,’ murmured Simon Lock, half to himself. ‘I am well rid of him. And now’—he turned to Craig, and put some firmness into his voice—do, please, come to some arrangement.’
‘Arrangement!’ exclaimed Raphael. ‘A good joke! Certainly we will come to some arrangement. But first I must tell Redgrave, who has the right to know, the history of the girl he is about to marry. I will tell him in your presence, and when I make any error of fact you can correct me. Many years ago, Richard, I was engaged to a beautiful girl, a native of Limerick. She was an orphan, and had lived with friends until she became a school-teacher, when she lived by herself. She had some aristocratic Spanish blood in her veins through her mother’s father, who had married her grand-mother in Buenos Ayres. I met her in Limerick when I was a clerk in the bank there. I fell in love with her. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We were to be married as soon as my salary had sufficiently increased. I then had an offer of a situation in the British and Scottish, just starting on its successful career, and I removed to London. We arranged that I should save every possible penny, and that we should get married in about two years’ time. It was from motives of economy that I allowed a whole year to pass without revisiting Limerick. I continually received letters from my fiancee, and though their tone was never excessively warm, it was always tender, and it satisfied me. As for me, I was passionately in love. I had never seen such an adorable creature as my betrothed—her name was Juana—and I have never since seen her equal. For me she was, and always will be, the world’s jewel.... Well, a change came over the scene. I noticed something in her letters—something which I could not define. Then, after an interval of silence, came a letter saying she could not marry me. I got leave of absence—not without a great deal of difficulty—and hastened over to Limerick. Juana had left Limerick. I found her at length in a remote mountain village, and I drew from her her story. It was a shocking one. A man—a stranger from London—who must have been a highly plausible person in those days, whatever he is now—had dazzled her by his professions of admiration and love. He was a rich man even then, and he made her a brilliant offer of marriage. The poor girl was carried off her feet. Unduly urged, and her mind poisoned by his lies concerning myself, her faith in me shaken by the stoppage for some weeks of my letters, she consented to marry this man. She married him. They lived together for a brief period. And all this time she had not courage to write and confess to me the truth. Then the man left her, and coolly informed her that the marriage was a bogus marriage from beginning to end—that he was, in fact, already married. He said he wished to have nothing more to do with her, and gave her a bank-note for a thousand pounds to solace her wounded feelings, which bank-note she flung into the fire. You may ask why this man was not prosecuted for bigamy. I will tell you. The matter was kept quiet in order to spare the feelings of my poor deluded Juana. Think what the trial would have meant to her. I myself arranged with the priest and one or two other officials that the whole thing should be buried in oblivion. I had reserved my own punishment for the villain who thus escaped the law. To proceed, Juana had two children—twins. They were named Juana and Teresa. Shortly after their birth their mother died. But before she died—on her death-bed—I married her. I had begged to do so before, but she had declined. I swore to her that I would regard Juana and Teresa as my own children, but of my intended vengeance against her murderer I said nothing. Hers was a gentle heart, and she might have put me on my oath to abandon that vengeance. From the day of her death I lived for nothing save the punishment of a villain. It was my one thought. I subordinated everything to it. It made my temper uncertain; it involved me in endless difficulties; it estranged me from my dear one’s elder daughter, and often I felt that I was harsh to Teresa, my favourite and the last-born. But I could not do otherwise. I was a monomaniac. I dreamt only of the moment when I should see my enemy at my feet, begging for mercy. That moment has come. He is here. Watch him. He could only be wounded in one place—his pocket. His pocket is the heel of this noble Achilles, and it is his pocket that my sword has pierced.’
With outstretched finger Raphael Craig pointed with passionate scorn at the figure of Simon Lock.
‘Beg for my mercy,’ Craig commanded.,
And to Richard’s amazement Simon Lock answered:
‘I entreat your mercy, Craig.’
‘That is well. I am satisfied,’ said Craig.
‘They say that revenge turns to ashes in the mouth. I don’t think it does.’
‘Mr. Craig,’ said Lock suavely to Richard, ‘has given a highly-coloured account of a somewhat ordinary affair. But to appease him I do certainly ask his mercy. I do admit that he has the upper hand.’
‘And I will see you eternally damned, Simon Lock,’ said Raphael Craig, ‘before I grant you an ounce of mercy! There is no mercy for such as you, who are never merciful yourselves. I only wanted to hear you beg, that was all. I hadn’t the slightest intention of letting you off.’
Simon Lock got up.
‘It is as well,’ he said, ‘that this farce should end. In asking your mercy I was only using a form of words in order to pacify you. I recognised that you were suffering, as you yourself have admitted, from a sort of mania, and I took what I thought was the easiest course with you. As to the past, we will not go into that. Your version of it is ridiculously overstated. I shall now leave. In twenty-four hours you will be in prison. You say that the fact of your being in prison will not affect the Princesse contracts. I think it will. I think that when I inform the Stock Exchange Committee that the real mover of those contracts is awaiting his trial as a coiner, the Committee will do something drastic. I might have told you this before, but I wished, if possible, to arrive at an amicable settlement. In offering you two hundred and fifty thousand pounds I fancy I was meeting you more than half-way. Good-day, Mr. Craig; good-day, Mr. Redgrave. And, Mr. Redgrave, have a care how you mix yourself up with this Craig, and, above all, do not take for gospel everything that he says as to my past history.’
Simon Lock made his exit from the room with immense dignity.
‘He is bluffing,’ said Raphael Craig. ‘He is at the end of his tether, and he knows it; but he has bluffed it out very well. The old man smiled happily. ‘You are still prepared to marry Teresa?’ he asked.
Richard took Mr. Craig’s hand.
Would our mother have wished it?
These words, uttered in a tone of grave, sad questioning, were followed by a hush among the group which sat under the trees in the orchard that same afternoon. The two mares belonging to Mr. Craig, and Juana’s strawberry roan, were feeding close by, the summer flies their sole trouble. The group consisted of Raphael Craig, the two girls who, as he had said, were his daughters by right of all he had done for them, and Richard. Old Craig had, without any reservation, told Juana and Teresa the history of their mother, and the history of his vengeance on the man who had so cruelly wronged their mother. He explained to them, with a satisfaction which he took no trouble to hide, how Simon Lock, after a career of splendour, was now inevitably doomed to ruin. He told them how for twenty years he had lived solely for the achievement of that moment, and that, now it had come, he was content.
But Juana had said, ‘Would our mother have wished it?’ And her phrase reminded Richard of the old man’s phrase to Simon Lock in the morning—‘Hers was a gentle heart.’ The sisters looked at each other, unquiet, irresolute.
‘This Simon Lock is our real father, then?’ said Teresa.
‘Have I not just told you so?’ said the old man.
‘Let him off, father,’ Juana murmured; and Teresa’s eyes, though she said nothing, supported her sister.
‘Why?’ asked Raphael Craig.
‘Surely you despise him too much to notice him. Is not the best punishment for him his own conscience and your silent contempt?’
‘No,’ cried the old man, suddenly starting up. ‘No, I will never let him go free! After all these years of labour and sleepless watching, shall I take my hands! off his throat now? You don’t know what you ask, Juana. But you were always against me, Juana, ever since you were a little child—you who bear your mother’s name, too!’
‘Nay, father,’ said Juana; ‘I admire your defence of my mother. I love you for it. I think you are the noblest man alive. But you will be nobler if you let this man go free. He is beneath your notice.’
‘Never!’ repeated the old man, and walked quickly out of the orchard.
The three young people, left together, scarcely knew what to say to each other. The girls were, very naturally, excited and perturbed by the recital to which they had just listened. As for Richard, he was still in a state of suspense, of apprehension, almost of fear. To him the very atmosphere of Queen’s Farm seemed to be charged with the messages of fate. Raphael Craig’s profound self-satisfaction struck Richard as quite child-like. Did this man, so experienced in the world, really think that Simon Lock would quietly allow himself to be ruined? Did he really think that the struggle was over? And if, on the other hand, he thought that Simon Lock would procure his arrest, was he actually prepared to go to prison, and to die there? Richard pictured Simon Lock as planning all sorts of deep-laid schemes against Raphael Craig. He felt that Simon Lock would never be ‘at the end of his tether,’ as the old man had termed it, until Simon Lock was dead. He felt just a little bit for Simon Lock on account of the humiliations which that proud personage had been made to suffer that morning, and he felt so, despite his detestation of Lock’s past career and of his general methods. He found it impossible to get very angry about a sin committed twenty years ago.
That night Nolan, the detective, though better than on the previous day, was suffering from a slight temporary relapse. Richard volunteered to sit up with him, as the man could only sleep at intervals. Both Bridget and Juana were exhausted with the nursing, and Juana would not hear of Teresa sitting up. So it came about that Richard insisted on performing the duty himself.
It was a warm summer night, rather too warm for comfort, and for a little space the two men talked on miscellaneous subjects. Then Nolan asked for something to drink, and having drunk, went off into a sound sleep. So far as Richard could see, the patient was better again. Richard occupied an easy-chair by the window. There was twilight all through the night. For a long time Richard gazed idly out of the window into the western arch of the sky. As hour after hour passed the temperature grew chilly. He closed the window. Nolan still slept peacefully. Richard drew down the blind, and said to himself that he would have a doze in the easy-chair.
The next thing of which he was conscious was a knocking at the door.
‘Yes, yes,’ he answered sleepily, and Mrs. Bridget burst in.
‘Mr. Redgrave!’ she cried, ‘an’ have ye heard nothing? Surely the ould master’s not in his bed, and something’s happened. May the Virgin protect us all this night?’
Richard saw wild terror in the woman’s eyes. He sprang up. He was fully and acutely awake, but the sick man slept on. He went quietly and quickly out of the room. Juana and Teresa stood in the passage, alarmed and dishevelled.
‘He is gone!’ Teresa exclaimed. ‘I wonder you heard nothing, as his was the next room. It was Bridget who heard a sort of shout, she says, outside, and then looked out of her window, and she thinks she heard a motorcar.’
‘Which way was it going?’ asked Richard.
‘Sure and it’s meself that can’t tell ye, sir,’ said Mrs. Bridget.
Richard reflected a moment.
‘Why has he gone off like this in the night?’ questioned Juana.
‘Suppose that he has been captured—abducted—what then?’ said Richard. ‘Teresa,’ he added, ‘put your things on. You and I will go after him. Juana and Bridget must see to the nursing. Let there be no delay.’
His words were authoritative, and both girls departed. Richard proceeded to examine the bedroom of the vanished Raphael Craig. It was in a state of wild confusion. The bed had not been slept in; the bed was, indeed, almost the sole undisturbed article in the room. A writing bureau stood in the corner between the window and the fireplace, and apparently Mr. Craig had been sitting at this. The ink-bottle was overturned, the rows of small drawers had all been forced open, and papers, blown by the wind from the open window, were scattered round the room. The window was wide open from the bottom, and on the sill Richard noticed a minute streak of blood, quite wet. The wall-paper beneath the window was damaged, as though by feet. The window-curtains were torn. Richard judged that Raphael Craig must have been surprised while writing, gagged, and removed forcibly from the room by the window. He turned again within the room, but he observed nothing further of interest except that the drawers and cupboards of a large mahogany wardrobe had been forced, and their contents flung on the floor.
Richard went downstairs and out of the house by the front-door. He travelled round the house by the garden-path, till he came under the window of Raphael’s bedroom, and there he found the soil trodden down and some flowers broken off their stalks; but there were no traces of footsteps on the hard gravelled path. He returned to the house.
‘Mr. Craig has certainly been carried off,’ he said to Teresa, who was just coming down the stairs, candle in hand.
She wore over her dress a coat, and a small hat was on her head.
‘Carried off!’ she exclaimed, and the candle shook. ‘By whom?’
‘Need we ask? Your father thought he had done with Simon Lock, but Simon Lock is not so easily done with.’
‘But what can Simon Lock do with father?’
‘Anything that a villain dares,’ said Richard.
‘Come along; don’t wait. We will take one of the motor-cars and follow.’
They ran forth from the house to the sheds. The Décauville car stood in the first shed.
‘Is it ready for action, do you know?’ asked Richard.
‘Perfectly. I had it out the day before yesterday.’
But when they came to start it they discovered that the pipe which led the petrol to the cylinder had been neatly severed. It was the simplest operation, but quite effective to disable the car. Nothing could be done without a new pipe.
‘Where is the electric car?’ Richard demanded, almost gruffly. ‘They may have missed that.’
‘I don’t know. It ought to be here,’ Teresa replied.
‘They have taken him off in his own car,’ was Richard’s comment ‘We can do nothing.’
‘The horses,’ said Teresa.
‘No horses that were ever bred could overtake that car, or even keep up with it for a couple of miles.’
They walked back to the house, and met Bridget.
‘Is it the illictric car ye’re wanting?’ she asked, with the intuition of an Irishwoman.
‘It’s in the far shed.’
With one accord Richard and Teresa ran back to the far end of the range of buildings. There stood the car, in what had once been the famous silver shed.
‘I saw the master put it there this very morning as ever is,’ said Mrs. Bridget, who had followed them, as Richard jumped on to the driving-seat.
In two minutes they were off, sped by the whispered blessing of Mrs. Bridget. At the end of the boreen Richard stopped the car.
‘Which way?’ he murmured, half to himself and half to Teresa, as if seeking inspiration.
‘To London or to the North?’
‘To London, of course,’ said Teresa promptly.
He hesitated.
‘I wonder——’ he said.
‘What is that?’ Teresa asked sharply, pointing to something which glinted on the road. She sprang down and picked it up. ‘Father’s spectacles,’ she said—‘cracked.’ The spectacles had lain about a yard south of the boreen; they therefore pointed to London. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Teresa.
Richard shot the car forward in silence.
‘Do you think dad threw out these specs, to guide us?’ questioned Teresa.
‘Perhaps,’ answered Richard absently.
In this mysterious nocturnal disappearance of Raphael Craig he saw the hand of the real Simon Lock. During the whole of that strange interview which had taken place in the morning it had seemed to Richard that Simon Lock had been acting a part—had, at any rate, not conducted himself with that overbearing and arrogant masterfulness and unscrupulousness for which he had a reputation. Richard decided in his own mind that Simon Lock had arranged for this abduction, in case of necessity, before his visit to Raphael Craig. It was more than possible that he might have urged his visit chiefly as a visit of observation, to enable him to complete his plans for exercising force to compel Raphael Craig to agree to his wishes. With painful clearness Richard now perceived that Simon Lock was, in fact, fighting for all that he held most dear—perhaps for his very life and liberty, in addition to the whole of his fortune, for Richard knew that when these colossal financiers do happen to topple over into ruin the subsequent investigation of their affairs often leads to criminal prosecution, a process disagreeable to the financier, but pleasant enough to the public. A man such as Simon Lock had, therefore, a double, or, at least, a highly intensified, motive in avoiding financial failure. Yes, thought Richard, Simon Lock would stop at nothing to compel Raphael Craig to give way. His mind wandered curiously to tales of the Spanish Inquisition, and to the great torture scene in Balzac’s ‘Catherine de Medici.’ He involuntarily shuddered, and then with an effort he drew his mind back again to the management of the car. This vehicle, new and in beautiful order, and charged for a journey of a hundred and twenty miles, travelled in the most unexceptionable manner. The two and a half miles to the North-Western station at Dunstable were traversed in precisely five minutes, in spite of the fact that the distance included a full mile of climbing.
The electric lights flashed along the deserted main streets of ancient Dunstable, which is only a little more sleepy at night than in the daytime. As they passed the Old Sugar-Loaf Inn a man jumped out of the stable archway and hailed them frantically. His voice echoed strangely in the wide thoroughfare.
‘What is it?’ demanded Richard, unwillingly drawing up.
‘You after a motor-car?’ the man inquired. He looked like an ostler.
‘Yes,’ said Richard.
‘Mr. Craig?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard.
‘They stopped here,’ said the man, ‘and they told me to tell you if you came by that they’d gone to Luton, and was a-going on to Hitchin.’
‘They! Who?’ asked Teresa.
‘The gents in the car.’
‘Who was in the car?’
‘Four gents.’
‘How long since?’
‘About half an hour, or hardly.’
‘And was it Mr. Craig who told you they’d gone to Luton and Hitchin?’
‘How do I know his blooming name as told me?’ exclaimed the man. ‘They gave me a shilling to stop here and tell ye, and I’ve told ye, and so good-night.’
‘Thanks,’ said Richard, and he started the car. In another moment they were at the crossing of the two great Roman high-roads, Watling Street and the Icknield Way. The route to Luton and Hitchin lay to the left; the route to London was straight ahead.
‘Now, was that a fake of Lock’s, or are we all wrong about Lock? and has your father got still another mystery up his sleeve?’
He gazed intently at the macadam, but the hard road showed no traces of wheels anywhere, not even their own.
‘We will go straight ahead,’ said Teresa earnestly.
Richard obeyed her instinct and his. Everything pointed to the probability that Simon Lock, anticipating pursuit, had laid a trap at the Old Sugar-Loaf to divert such pursuit. Then Raphael Craig must surely have been drugged, or he would have protested to the ostler.
Before they had got quite clear of the last houses of Dunstable they picked up Mr. Craig’s gold watch, which lay battered in their track. If Craig had been drugged he must have quickly recovered! Teresa was now extremely excited, anxious, and nervous. Previously she had talked, but she fell into silence, and there was no sound save the monotonous, rather high-pitched drone of the motor-car. They passed through Markyate, four miles, and through Redbourne, another four miles, in quick succession. The road lies absolutely straight, and the gradients are few and easy.
‘Surely,’ said Teresa at length, ‘if they are on this road we should soon overtake them at this speed?’
‘Fifty miles an hour,’ he said.
They were descending the last part of the hill half-way down which lies Redbourne. It was a terrible, perilous speed for night travelling, but happily the night was far from being quite dark. Though there was no moon, there were innumerable multitudes of stars, and the dusty road showed white and clear.
‘Some cars can do up to seventy an hour. And if Simon Lock got a car he would be certain to get the best.’
As he spoke they both simultaneously descried a moving light at the bottom of the hill. In a few seconds the car was within a hundred yards of the light, and they could see the forms of men moving and hear voices.
‘It is the other car broken down,’ exclaimed Teresa. ‘Put out our lights, quick!’
Richard realized in a flash that he ought to have taken that simple precaution before, and to have approached with every circumspection. The men in front had perceived the second car, and Richard’s extinction of his lights came too late. He heard a sharp word of command, and then three men left the disabled car and ran in a body to the other one. Their forms were distinctly visible.
‘Three to one!’ Richard said softly. ‘It looks like being a bit stiff.’
‘No! Three to two,’ Teresa corrected him. ‘Here! Take this.’ She handed him a revolver which she had carried under her coat. ‘I just thought of it as I was leaving the house, and took it out of the clock in the drawing-room.’
His appreciation of her thoughtfulness was unspoken, but nevertheless sincere.
The three men were within fifty yards.
‘Slip off behind and into the hedge,’ he ordered. ‘We shall do better from that shelter if there is to be a row.’
She obeyed, and they cowered under the hedge side by side.
‘Get further away from me,’ he said imperatively. ‘You may be in danger just here.’
But she would not move.
‘Whose car is this?’ cried a voice out of the gloom—a rough, bullying voice that Richard did not recognise.
‘Never mind whose car it is!’ Richard sang out. ‘Keep away from it. That’s my advice to you, whoever you are. I can see you perfectly well, and I will shoot the first man that advances another step.’
‘Why?’ returned the same voice. ‘What’s all this bluster for? We only want a bit of indiarubber for a ripped tyre.’
‘It doesn’t take three of you to fetch a bit of indiarubber. Let two of you get back, and then I’ll talk to the third.’
‘Get on, my lads,’ another voice cried, and this time Richard knew the voice.
It was Simon Lock’s; the financier was covered with a long overcoat; he was the rearmost of the three.
Richard, without the least hesitation, aimed at Simon’s legs and fired. He missed. At the same instant the middle figure of the three flung some object sharply towards the hedge in the direction whence the revolver-shot had proceeded, and Richard felt a smashing blow on the head, after which he felt nothing else whatever. He had vague visions, and then there was a blank, an absolute and complete blank.
The next thing of which he was conscious was a sense of moisture on his head. He opened his eyes and saw in the sky the earliest inkling of dawn. He also saw Teresa bending over him with a handkerchief.
‘You are better,’ she said to him softly.
‘You’ll soon be all right.’
Richard shook his head feebly, as he felt a lump over his eye. He had a dizzy sensation.
‘Yes, you will,’ Teresa insisted. ‘It was very unfortunate, your being hit with that stone. You gave an awful groan, and those men thought you were dead; they certainly thought you were alone. I would have shot them, every one, but you dropped the revolver in the grass by this bit of a gutter here, and I couldn’t find it till they’d gone. D’you know, they’ve gone off with our car? There was a man among them who seemed to understand it perfectly. I’m awfully glad now I didn’t show myself, because I couldn’t have done anything, and I can do something now. Oh, Dick! I saw them pull father out of their car—it’s a big Panhard—and put him into ours. He was all tied with ropes. It will be a heavy load for that little car, and they can’t go so very fast. We must mend their car, Dick, and go on as quickly as possible.’
‘Can we mend it?’ Richard asked, amazed at this coolness, courage, and enterprise.
‘Yes, of course. Look, you can see from here; it’s only a puncture.’
‘But didn’t one of them say they’d got no indiarubber?’
Teresa laughed.
‘You aren’t yourself yet,’ she said. ‘You’re only a goose yet. That was only an excuse for attacking us.’
Richard got up, and speedily discovered that he could walk. They proceeded to the abandoned car. It was a 40 h.-p. concern, fully equipped and stored. The travellers by it had already begun to mend their puncture when the pursuing car surprised them. They had evidently judged it easier to change cars than to finish the mending. Speed was their sole object, and in the carrying out of the schemes of a man like Simon Lock a 40 h.-p. Panhard left by the roadside was a trifle.
In twenty minutes the puncture was successfully mended, both Richard and Teresa being experts at the operation. The effect of the blow on Richard’s head had by this time quite passed away, save for a bruise.
‘And now for Manchester Square,’ said Teresa, as they moved off.
‘Why Manchester Square?’ Richard asked.
‘That is where they were going; I heard them talking.’
‘It will be Simon Lock’s house,’ said Richard. ‘I must go there alone.’
From Redbourne to London, with a clear road and a 40 h.-p. Panhard beneath you, is not a far cry. In a shade under the hour the motor-car was running down Edgware Road to the Marble Arch. Richard kept straight on to Adelphi Terrace, put up the car at a stable-yard close by without leave, and, having aroused his landlady, gave Teresa into her charge until breakfast-time. It was just turned four o’clock, and a beautiful morning.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Teresa.
‘I don’t exactly know. I’ll take a cab and the revolver to Manchester Square, and see what happens. You can rely upon me to take care of myself.’
He could see that she wished to accompany him, and without more words he vanished. In ten minutes, having discovered a cab, he was in the vast silence of Manchester Square. He stopped the cab at the corner, and walked to Simon Lock’s house, whose number he knew. A policeman stood at the other side of the square, evidently curious as to the strange proceedings within the well-known residence of the financier. The double outer doors were slightly ajar. Richard walked nonchalantly up the broad marble steps and pushed these doors open and went in. A second pair of doors, glazed, now fronted him. Behind these stood a man in evening dress, but whether or not he was a servant Richard could not determine.
‘Open,’ said Richard. The man seemed not to hear him.
He lifted up the revolver. The man perceived it, and opened the doors.
‘Where is Mr. Lock?’ Richard demanded in a firm, cold voice. ‘I am a detective. I don’t want you to come with me. Stay where you are. Simply tell me where he is.’
The man hesitated.
‘Quick,’ said Richard, fingering the revolver..
‘He was in the library, sir,’ the man faltered.
‘Anyone with him?’
‘Yes, sir; some gentlemen.’
‘How long have they been here?’
‘Not long. They came unexpected, sir.’
‘Well, see that you don’t mix yourself up in anything that may occur. Which is the library door?’
The man pointed to a mahogany door at the end of the long, lofty hall. Richard opened it, and found himself, not in a library, but in a small rectangular windowless apartment, clearly intended for the reception of hats and coats. Suspecting a ruse, he stepped quickly into the hall.
‘Not that door, the next one,’ said the man, quietly enough. Richard followed the man’s instructions, and very silently opened the next door. A large room disclosed itself, with a long table down the centre of it. The place did not bear much resemblance to a library. It was, in fact, the breakfast-room, and the library lay beyond it. At the furthest corner, opposite another door, a man was seated on a chair. His eyes seemed to be glued on to the door which he watched.
‘Come along, Terrell,’ this man whispered, without moving his head, as Richard entered.
Richard accordingly came along, and was upon the man in the chair before the latter had perceived that another than Terrell—whoever Terrell might be—had thrust himself into the plot.
‘Silence!’ said Richard; ‘I am a detective. Come out.’
The revolver and Richard’s unflinching eye did the rest. Richard led the astonished and unresisting man into the hall, and then locked him up in the hat and coat room, and put the key of the door in his pocket. He returned to the other room, locked its door on the inside, so as to preclude the approach of the expected Terrell, and took the empty chair in front of the far door. He guessed that Simon Lock, and perhaps Raphael Craig, were on the other side of that door.
‘Up to now,’ he reflected, ‘it’s been fairly simple.’
There was absolute silence. It was as though the great house had hushed itself in anticipation of a great climax.
Then Richard heard a voice in the room beyond. It was Simon Lock’s voice. Richard instantly tried the door, turning the handle very softly and slowly. It was latched, but not locked. Using infinite precautions, he contrived to leave the door open about half an inch. Through this half-inch of space he peered into the library. He saw part of a large square desk and an armchair. In this armchair sat Raphael Craig, and Raphael Craig was tied firmly to the chair with ropes. He could not see Simon Lock, and he dared not yet push the door further open.
‘Now, Craig,’ the voice of Simon Lock was saying, ‘don’t drive me to extreme measures.’
For answer Raphael Craig closed his eyes, as if bored. His face had a disgusted, haughty expression.
‘You’ve got no chance,’ said Simon Lock.
‘Redgrave is caught, and won’t be let loose in a hurry. These two girls of yours are also in safe hands. Nothing has been omitted. I have here a list of the firms who have been acting for you in the Princesse shares. I have also written out certain instructions to them which you will sign. I have also prepared a power of attorney, authorizing me to act in your name in the matter of these shares. You will sign these documents. I will have them sent to the City and put into operation this morning, and as soon as I have satisfied myself that all has been done that might be done you will be set free—perhaps in a couple of days.’
Richard saw that Raphael Craig made no sign of any sort.
Simon Lock continued: ‘You did not expect that I should proceed to extreme measures of this kind. You thought that the law of England would be sufficient to protect you from physical compulsion. You thought I should never dare. How foolish of you! As if I should permit myself to be ruined by an old man with a bee in his bonnet; an old man whose desire is not to make money—I could have excused that—but to work a melodramatic revenge. If you want melodrama you shall have it, Craig, and more of it than you think for.’
‘Why don’t you give me up to the police?’ said Raphael Craig, opening his eyes and yawning. ‘You’ve got Featherstone’s confession, as you call it. Surely that would be simpler than all this rigmarole.’
The manager’s voice was pregnant with sarcasm.
‘I will tell you,’ said Lock frankly; ‘there is no reason why I should not: I have lost the confounded thing, or it has been stolen.’ He laughed harshly. ‘However, that’s no matter. I can dispense with that—now.’
‘You can’t do anything,’ returned Craig. ‘You’ve got me here—you and your gang between you. But you can’t do anything. In three days your ruin will be complete.’
‘Not do anything!’ said Simon Lock; ‘there are ways and means of compulsion. There are worse things than death, Craig. You decline to sign?’
Raphael closed his eyes again, coldly smiling.
‘Terrell,’ called Simon Lock sharply, ‘bring the——’
But what horrible, unmentionable things Terrell was to bring in will never be known, for at that instant Richard rushed madly into the room. He saw a revolver lying on the desk in front of Simon Lock. He frantically snatched it up, and stood fronting Simon Lock.
‘Well done, Redgrave!’ said the old man.
Simon’s face went like white paper.
‘So “Redgrave is caught,” is he?’ said Richard to Lock. Without taking his eye off the financier, he stepped backwards and secured the door. ‘Now, Mr. Lock, we are together once more, we three. Don’t utter a word, but go and cut those ropes from Mr. Craig’s arms. Go, I say.’ Richard had a revolver in each hand. He put one down, and took a penknife from his pocket. ‘Stay; here is a knife,’ he added. ‘Now cut.’