"The devil you did!" Anton was so disturbed by this that he thrust both hands into his mane of black hair and sat silent.
A moment later an electric bell echoed through the house.
"Someone at the front door, some caller," muttered Anton. Then, looking at his watch. "I've got to get out of here. Young Baxter wants the car."
"And I must take this golf bag to Miss Thompson's room," she remembered.
"No hurry about that. Leave it in the library. We don't care what becomes of the old bag now." Anton walked slowly toward the door, biting at his mustache.
"All right, boy."
He stepped out on the lawn, but turned back. "Oh! About Henderson! If it's all the same to you——"
"I know what you want," she anticipated. "I'll talk to you before I telephone him again, and—buck up, boy, I'll give him reports after this that'll boost your game. See?"
"Good girl!" And with a wave of his hand, the chauffeur disappeared.
Hester drew a long sigh of relief. Talk about excitement! And now what should she do with the money? It was out of the question to leave five thousand pounds in the bottom of a flower pot without even a purse to protect it. The golf bag was better than that, but—
She started at the sound of voices and footsteps in the library. Presently there came a rattling at the door and the turning of a key in the lock and a moment later the Reverend Horatio Merle appeared, followed by Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society.
"My dear Mr. Spooner, I'm extremely sorry. I thought they might be in the conservatory," said the curate, peering about. "Ah, my child!" he beamed, as he saw Hester, who, on the instant, had caught up the golf bag.
"Mr. Robert Baxter told me to put this bag away," the girl explained. "It belongs to Miss Thompson."
"Quite so," approved Mr. Merle. "And would you see if you can find the Countess Clendennin and Mr. Fitz-Brown. Say to them that Mr. Spooner has called."
"Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society," put in the latter, puffing out his red cheeks and blowing himself up with stiff self-importance. "You may add that I have called in regard to various articles purchased by Mr. Fitz-Brown and the Countess Clendennin at the recent fair given by the Progressive Mothers. Ah, there is one of the articles!" He pointed to the rose bush. "That beautiful rose bush in the gilt basket. Is it not exquisite, Mr. Merle?"
"Exquisite!" murmured Merle, rubbing his hands devotionally. "Hurry, my child! Tell them Mr. Ferdinand Spooner has called in regard to the rose bush and the other articles."
Hester stared for a moment in dismay and then went slowly from the room.
Never did Horatio Merle show more sweetly the spirit of Christian humility than during this brief encounter with Ferdinand Spooner. The very sight of Spooner was abhorrent to the gentle curate, the name of Spooner he detested, and all memories of Spooner filled the little man with inexpressible pain, for it was Spooner who was chiefly connected in his mind with that lamentable afternoon at St. Timothy's when Horatio had failed to put in an appearance. It was Spooner who had made the opening address on this occasion and it was Spooner who afterward spread through the parish the pitiful story of the peppermint tree. Yet now Horatio showed himself most friendly and listened with a flush of pink interest while Ferdinand dilated on his own successful efforts in furthering the interests of the Progressive Mothers.
"Just to prove my point, Mr. Merle," concluded the pompous visitor, "I will mention a great and perhaps deserved honor that the Progressive Mothers have recently extended to me in recognition of my services in their behalf."
"Horatio!" called a shrill feminine voice at this moment.
"Yes, love," answered Merle, hurrying to the library door. "It is my wife. Will you excuse me, my dear Mr. Spooner? I am sure Mr. Fitz-Brown and the Countess will be here in a moment." And he almost ran from the room so eager was he not to hear about the honor that had been extended to Ferdinand Spooner.
Left to himself, the distinguished representative of the Progressive Mothers walked about the conservatory for some minutes, sniffing at the flowers, and finally, becoming impatient, looked out over the lawn.
"Very singular why no one comes!" he reflected; then his eyes fell on Lionel, who, at this moment, emerged from the shrubbery in a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a watering-pot. His trousers were mud-stained, his hands were red and roughened with toil, but his face radiated the shining brightness of one who is conscious of his own well-doing.
"One moment, please!" called Ferdinand Spooner, with an air of authority.
Lionel came forward slowly, still carrying his watering-pot. "Do you want to see me?" he asked.
"Well—er—not exactly, but—er—I am Mr. Spooner, Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, of the Progressive Mothers."
"Oh, I say, are you one of the Progressive Mothers?"
Spooner stared haughtily at this. "I am the secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society and I desire to see Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown. Will you give him my card, there's a good man?"
"Is it anything important?" drawled Lionel. "I don't think Mr. Fitz-Brown is up yet."
"Not up yet? Why, it's nearly one o'clock."
"I mean to say he's taking his afternoon bawth. He's very particular about his afternoon bawth, Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown is. Can't you tell me your business?" Then, very confidentially, "I'm the gardener, you know."
The newcomer thought a moment. "Could you say that Mr. Ferdinand Spooner has called in regard to certain articles purchased by Mr. Fitz-Brown at the Progressive Mothers' bazaar? It's a small matter, only fourteen pounds, but—tell Mr. Fitz-Brown that we would like very much to have his check."
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Lionel. "Mr. Fitz-Brown's check won't help the Progressive Mothers very much."
"Why not?"
"Because his bank account is always overdrawn."
"Dear, dear!" murmured Spooner.
"In fact, if you want my opinion," here the gardener surprised his listener by a burst of unseemly merriment, "if you really want my opinion, Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown is—haw, haw, he's a regular piker."
At this moment the countess appeared in the conservatory door. Her skirts were pinned up, a handkerchief was tied around her head, and her eyes were dancing with mischief. At the sight of her, Lionel's merriment redoubled.
"I was just telling this gentleman," he chuckled, "that Lionel Fitz-Brown is a regular piker. Isn't he, Kate? Excuse me, this lady is—the cook, Mr. Ferdinand Spooner."
Kate courtesied demurely.
"Thank you, I don't care for the opinion of the cook," replied Spooner with dignity. "And I may add that it is most extraordinary for a gardener to speak in this way of his employer. Will you please tell Mr. Fitz-Brown that I am waiting?"
"Beg pardon, sir," put in Kate, "but I think it was the Countess Clendennin who purchased the articles from the Progressive Mothers. Isn't that so?" She winked at her confederate.
"You're right, it was the countess who bought the articles," agreed Lionel.
Ferdinand frowned in perplexity. "In that case, my girl, you will take a message to the countess."
"Couldn't do it, sir. The countess is having her hair dyed. Besides, you'll never get anything out of her. She never paid a bill in her life. Did she?" with another wink at Lionel.
"Not she," testified the gardener. "She uses her bills for curl papers."
"I am shocked at these statements," grieved Ferdinand Spooner, wiping his brow with a heavily scented handkerchief. "Perhaps, under the circumstances, I had better take back the articles. Ah! An idea!" He searched in his trousers pocket and produced a silver piece. "Don't mention this, but—if you can get the articles for me, quietly, you understand, I shall be glad to compensate you." He offered the coin to Lionel.
"Half a crown?" shrugged the gardener. "That's not much, is it, cook?"
"It's worth ten shillings," declared Kate.
"Very well," agreed Spooner with a pained look. "Get the articles at once."
"I'll get them," said Lionel and he disappeared into the library.
"I am astonished to hear that the Countess Clendennin dyes her hair," reflected Ferdinand.
"That's nothing," giggled Kate. "You ought to hear her swear. And she smokes like a fish."
"Dear me! This is very sad. Did you say she smokes like—a fish?"
"Like a fish," repeated the cook solemnly.
The visitor's reflections were interrupted here by the return of Lionel carrying a pink work basket, a yellow embroidered tea cosey, a green and red sofa pillow and an immense Jack Horner pie covered with white crinkly paper.
"Here are the articles," said the gardener, and he proceeded to load them, as best he could, upon the portly person of Ferdinand Spooner.
"It's fortunate I came in a carriage," puffed the latter.
"You're forgetting the rose bush," said Kate.
Spooner glanced dubiously at the rather dejected flower in its tinsel basket.
"It isn't so very wonderful, is it? Ah! An idea! Will you present this rose bush to the Countess Clendennin with the compliments of Mr. Spooner, Mr. Ferdinand Spooner. Don't forget." He moved awkwardly toward the conservatory door. "Oh, I forgot the ten shillings." He looked down helplessly at his bulky treasures. "It's rather difficult for me to—er——"
But Lionel cut him short with a patronizing wave of the hand.
"Don't bother about that, old top."
"Old top!" snorted Spooner.
By this time the countess was laughing hysterically. "Please present the ten shillings to the Progressive Mothers," she managed to say, "with the compliments of the gardener and the cook."
"The gardener and the cook!" stormed the disgusted visitor.
"Haw, haw, haw!" roared Lionel, as Ferdinand Spooner vanished across the lawn like a disgruntled Santa Claus.
"What an appalling little bounder!" Kate's face was expressive as she fanned the air with her apron.
Lionel shut his eyes and sniffed. "I can smell his handkerchief yet."
"Don't!" she implored. "I'm trying to forget it."
Fitz-Brown turned his attention to the rose bush. The flowers hung their heads dejectedly, as if conscious of their guilty secret.
"How about the 'floral offering'?" he asked.
"I'll make you a present of it," said the countess.
"Thanks, awfully. I say, Kate," Lionel went on, "I don't mind telling you I had all I could do to keep my hands off that half crown. I give you my word if the fellow had brought out a half sovereign I should have snatched it before he knew where he was."
"Don't be too sure," laughed Kate. "I was nearer to him than you were, and I have a good long reach, too! See if I haven't."
She stretched out her arm, bare to the elbow, in bantering challenge. As they faced each other the creamy curve of her forearm lay close along his flanneled biceps, and her slender finger-tips pressed lightly against his neck. Lionel's hand, like a bronze epaulette, closed over her shoulder, and she felt the heat of his palm through the thin muslin, as, with gentle strength, he held her immovable.
Ever since that unforgettable night on the golf links, over a week ago, Lionel had kept his resolution to be no obstacle to Kate Clendennin's prospects. To his idolatrous mind, Kate's ultimatum that she was going to marry Robert Baxter settled the matter. To put her altogether out of his thoughts, out of his dreams, was an impossibility, but he had kept away from her as much as possible; he had even "funked" the morning and evening handshake whenever he could. And now the curve of her warm shoulder in the hollow of his hand, the touch of her finger-tips, the white curve of her wrist so near his lips, stirring a forbidden memory with its subtle fragrance, this was more than Lionel had bargained for. It brought to bear on his resolution a pressure "beyond its guaranteed capacity." And, inasmuch as when a steam boiler explodes it is the engineer and not the boiler that is held to blame, so Lionel must not be censured for what was beyond his control.
Kate, with the supersentience of her sex, felt it coming before Lionel had the least idea of it, and as she waited second by second for the moment when her lover would press his lips passionately to her wrist, all power to draw away left her. She felt his kisses on her bare arm, up and up, and still she did not move, and when at last his lips came to hers, and for a moment he held her unresisting in his arms, Lionel had no disturbing delusion, as on a former occasion, that Kate Clendennin had fainted.
When Kate, by the exercise of that mysterious power of unreasoning possessed only by women, had made Lionel desperately ashamed of having done just what she had wanted him to do, and when Lionel had sufficiently humbled himself, she lifted him to a second best heaven by allowing herself (much against her will) to be persuaded not to renounce him forever. Then, discovering that the air was stifling in the conservatory, she announced her intention of taking a walk. No! On no account would she let Lionel accompany her. He might go anywhere in the world except with her. She was going down by the lake, and she wanted to be alone.
Lionel watched her dejectedly as she crossed the lawn and disappeared through the firs. For ten minutes, fifteen minutes he waited, and then, unable to endure it any longer, and choosing to brave her displeasure rather than remain away from her another minute, Lionel followed the path Kate had taken, and found her sitting in the summer house at the end of the little rustic pier.
"I say, Kate," he plunged right in, "I can't stand this. I'll have to clear out. I thought I could go through with it a week ago, but it's too much for me. When I acted like a brute just now and—and kissed you it was because I was such a beastly ass as to think a chap like me could make you happy on nothing a year, love in a cottage and all that. But that's what I'm going to do, Kate, only without the love—just plain cottage."
"Yes?"
"The fact is," he floundered on, "I've begun to feel differently about things, about money and all that. Old Baxter's right. Work is the only thing, and—I've made up my mind I'm going to take up farming. You know that place I told you of, Kate. I can get it for next to nothing. It belongs to that uncle I told you about at Wormwood Scrubbs—the disgustingly rich one—you know. You see I'm his favorite nephew—I mean to say his only nephew—which comes to the same thing, doesn't it? At all events he's my favorite uncle, and he's bound to leave me his money sometime, as that's the only way I could ever have enough to pay him back."
"Isn't he the aeroplane uncle?" asked Kate. Her voice sounded listless, and her eyes were fixed on the further shore of the little lake.
"That's the one. He goes in for biplanes. I had rather hoped he'd get a monoplane—not that I bear the dear old chap any ill will, don't you know." He paused and then went on more cheerfully: "But, after all, an uncle is an uncle, isn't he, Kate?"
Lionel had a way of stating great truths that carried his hearers off their feet.
"I believe he is, now that you speak of it," Kate assented. There was a slight twinkle in her eye, but she looked away before Lionel caught it, "What will you do on a farm?"
"Oh, I'm going in for vegetables, potatoes, you know, and all that sort of thing. You get the names out of a catalogue. I'm told the catalogues are free—that's one of the things that decided me—and they contain photographs of all the vegetables—regular family album, don't you know." Lionel laughed for the first time since his downfall. "All you have to do is to compare the photographs with the things, as soon as they come up, and that's how you know which is which. It sounds hard, but really it's perfectly simple when you get the hang of it."
"What if you failed to recognize a vegetable from its photograph?" questioned Kate in a serious voice. "Photographs are sometimes very flattering, you know, especially in catalogues. Suppose you mistook a lettuce for a cabbage?"
"Ah, there you have me. I believe it's almost impossible to tell them apart, that is, until they are ripe, but there's no use burning your bridge—I mean spoiling your cabbage until you come to it—is there, Kate? Of course," he continued, "I shall begin with potatoes. I shall feel perfectly at home with a potato."
Kate turned her head away quickly.
"Did you see that swan?" she cried. "He turned a perfect somersault in the water."
Lionel adjusted his monocle and stared at the unruffled surface of the lake. "He must have dived and come up on the other side of the island," he suggested.
"Please go on," she said. "What will be your attitude toward a—toward a—po—po——" She was afraid to trust her voice.
"A potato? My dear girl, it's the simplest thing in the world. Once plant the seeds and put the sticks in——"
"The sticks?" interrupted Kate.
Lionel permitted himself the smile of superior knowledge. "Of course, for the little beggars to climb up. I say, Kate, didn't you know that the potato is a creeper? Some of the catalogues call it a vine, but that's confusing, because a vine, don't you know, bears grapes, and a potato only bears potatoes. A chap might easily go wrong on that, mightn't he? Gardening is full of pitfalls, but so is every other profession when it comes to that, and I fancy I'll muddle through somehow, and if I don't, well, there you are!"
Lionel leaned back in the rustic seat and blew out a triumphant cloud of smoke. Kate watched him in silence.
Presently, in response to a pair of lifted eyebrows and an outstretched palm, Lionel fumbled for his cigarette case. Kate selected one, and, poising it delicately between her lips, tipped her face toward his for a light. Lionel hastily removed his cigarette and handed it to her. She took it silently, with a look that missed its mark.
After lighting her cigarette the countess tossed Lionel's into the lake with an exclamation that caused him to look round.
"How stupid of me!" she said. "Take mine."
He was feeling for the case. Kate wondered if he had heard. She watched him with a curious expression as he took a fresh one, then as he was feeling for a match she quickly leaned her face toward his, steadying her cigarette with her slender fingers. There was no evading it this time. To complicate matters, her hand shook ever so slightly, but enough to necessitate Lionel's holding it close against his.
"Thanks, awfully," said Lionel, puffing vigorously as he withdrew from the danger zone.
Kate watched the struggling spark with a look of half-amused suspense.
"Thanks! I have it," he added, a moment later, as he leaned back and exhaled an immense cloud of smoke.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "I must be getting back to my 'chores,' as old Baxter calls them."
Kate remained seated. "How soon do you go?" she asked in a tone of elaborate unconcern, made perfect by the preoccupation of dusting an imaginary cigarette ash from her knee.
"Go?" queried Lionel.
"To the farm?"
"Oh, yes, of course, the farm. I shall write to Uncle Cyril to-night. By Jove, won't he be surprised to hear I'm going in for farming and all that sort of thing? I'm afraid the old boy'll think I'm pulling his leg, but I'm not, Kate, upon my word, I'm in dead earnest. This working game has made another man of me. I never felt fitter in my life. I feel better every way, physically and," he hesitated, "yes, by Jove, morally." He paused breathless on this pinnacle of thought.
"And how about me?" She had turned away and was looking out over the lake, her chin resting on her hand. "I suppose you think it has made no difference to me. You don't think I'm worth making over. If I get up every morning at six and go to bed at nine, after working all day in the kitchen, it's just a joke. And as for my morals—whatever you mean by morals——"
Lionel had tried several times to get in a word, but Kate, never once taking her eyes off the lake, had kept on in a low voice, as if no one were there. It sounded to Lionel like some one talking in sleep. Now, as she paused and turned toward him, he broke in.
"Kate!" he cried. "For God's sake don't talk like that. How can you say those things? You know better. You know I don't mean that you—that you——" he stopped for want of words and went on disjointedly. "There's not another woman on earth to compare with you—physically or morally or any other way. If I thought I was such a beastly ass as not to think so I'd kick myself into that lake there and lie down. The beastly lake isn't deep enough to drown standing up in. There isn't another woman like you anywhere—I don't care who she is. You're the best pal a chap ever had, and I'd back your say so on a polo pony against anyone I know." He had reached another thought pinnacle, and again he paused for breath.
Kate got up and came to him. "It's all right, Lionel. I know you didn't mean to hurt me, but I want to tell you something. It has made a difference to me—every way, just as it has to you, Lionel—and I stand for every word Cousin Hiram said—I didn't at the time, I admit." She smiled at the recollection. "A week ago yesterday I went up to my room and packed my boxes, all by myself, too. I just threw things in anyhow, higglety pigglety. You never saw such a job as I made of it."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Lionel. "I did the same identical thing."
"I made up my mind," continued Kate, "I would go right out of that house and never come back."
"So did I," said Lionel; "upon my word I did. I say, Kate," he went on, "what made you change your mind?"
"The best reason in the world. I didn't know where to go."
"No more did I," admitted Lionel.
They both laughed, and the countess went on in a serious tone.
"I've learned a lot of things this last week, Lionel," she said, "and I didn't get them all out of Mrs. Beeton's Family Cookery Book. One is that the best imitation of happiness consists in——"
"Oh, come, I say," interrupted Lionel.
"In self-forgetfulness," continued Kate. "And the best receipt for forgetfulness is good, hard work."
Lionel gave her a stare of glassy bewilderment. "I may be a silly ass, I've been told so often enough by chaps who ought to know, but I'm dashed if I see what you want with imitation happiness. There's no imitation about you, Kate." He looked down. There was something he had to say and every meeting of their eyes made it harder. "Either you'll be happy or you won't be happy," he went on. "Whichever it is, it won't be an imitation. It will be the real thing and I hope—I hope——" He took a long breath, as if to pull himself together, and hurried on, still without looking at her. "It may sound a bit thick from a chap feeling the way I do, but I mean it, upon my word, I do. I hope you'll be happy, Kate, I hope to God he'll make you happy."
The countess was leaning back against the rustic doorway and her two bare arms made a glowing worshipful "V" as they flowed downward, with the gentle undulation of her body, to the slender link of her drooping hands.
On the third finger of her left hand Lionel now saw for the first time, what at first he took for a plain gold ring, but a second look discovered a widening at one side that betrayed a setting of some sort turned inward for concealment. As he looked up, Lionel knew by the quick tightening of her mouth that Kate had been smiling, yet, in her eyes, there was something very far from laughter.
"Why didn't you tell me, Kate?"
She put her hands behind her.
"Tell you what?"
"That it was all settled—your engagement, I mean."
"My engagement? But I'm not engaged—that is, I mean I haven't accepted him."
"You haven't accepted him?"
There was a tremendous knocking of Hope at the door of Lionel's heart.
"Not yet," she answered. "It is ten days since he asked me and I have given him no answer."
Lionel stared at her in blank amazement. Ten days ago! That was the day when he had met Kate on the golf course and had held her in his arms and thought she had fainted.
"That day? Kate, you don't mean it? You can't mean—do you know what day that was?"
Suddenly she caught both of his hands in hers. "Yes, of course I know, Lionel. It was there on the golf links—under the chestnut tree—in the dark—that he asked me to marry him—the man I love and—and I'm waiting to answer him here—now—this very minute! Now do you understand?"
For a moment Lionel was quite dazed. It was as if he had bumped his head against a rainbow.
"I say, Kate," he faltered, "this isn't a joke, is it? Do you know what you're saying? Are you going to be my wife?"
Kate pulled the ring off her third finger, the one and only ring she had on, and placed it on Lionel's little finger. It was a signet ring with a small engraved seal of chrysophrase.
"It belonged to my grandmother, dear! Look," she said, pointing to the pale green stone. And there, cut in minute script were the words, "Qui me négligé, me perde."
Following the adventure with the rose bush in its tinsel basket, there came three days of tortured conflict for Hester Storm, conflict with red-lipped, sinister-eyed Anton, who pursued her ceaselessly; conflict also with herself, for now the imps of greed seemed to dance about her day and night, urging her to take this hidden treasure and escape with it. In the zeal of her first repentant impulse it would have been easy for the girl to give back the money to Miss Thompson and then go; she was equal to that single act of renunciation, but to stay here wearily through days of useless waiting, unable to do anything or confide in anyone, and all the time to have, burning in her breast, the knowledge of those wonderful banknotes there in the bottom of the flower-pot, all unsuspected, and hers for the easy taking—this was too much for Hester Storm.
Through sleepless night hours she sought some way of deliverance. Should she take the money and carry it to Miss Thompson in Brighton? No, no! She dared not trust herself, she dared not touch the money, not even to hide it in a securer place. The very sight of that fortune might be too strong a temptation for her; indeed, whenever her duties required her to pass through the conservatory, the troubled girl found herself hurrying away with hands clenched and face averted from that beckoning rose bush. Once she stopped and almost yielded; she was actually reaching toward the basket when the words that Merle had taught her sounded in her ears. "To be honest, to be kind. To ask God every day to give me strength against temptation. For Jesus' sake. Amen." And she staggered on out of the room.
To banish these wicked thoughts Hester threw herself with feverish zeal into her household duties. She helped the countess in the kitchen, she helped Lionel in the garden, she helped Merle in the dining room. She made the beds, she scrubbed the floors, she welcomed the humblest drudgery, anything to fill her mind and fight back the devils that were tempting her.
On the evening of the third day she realized that the situation was intolerable. Not only was she doubtful of her own strength, but she lived in growing terror of Anton, whose looks and whispered words made it all too clear what his intentions were. Thus far she had avoided being alone with him, but she saw that he would not be put off any longer.
"See here, kid," he had threatened that afternoon as Hester passed him on the drive, "if you think you can play tag with me any longer you've got another guess coming. Either you come to the garage to-night after supper, or——" The leer on his evil face was so full of menace that she shrank away trembling.
"I'll come to the garage," she said.
"At nine o'clock?"
She nodded slowly. "At nine o'clock."
Then she hurried to her room to think. She must leave this place at once, that was certain. She could hardly bear to wait another day. And as Betty Thompson was the only person to whom she could give this money, the only person she could trust—yes, that was it, as she could not go to Betty, Betty must come to her, Betty must come back from Brighton, she must come back immediately. And straightway Hester sat down and wrote the following letter:
"MY DEAR MISS THOMPSON:
"Please start for Bainbridge Manor as soon as you get this letter, which will be to-morrow morning. Take the first train and don't let anything stop you from coming. And don't tell anyone why you are coming. Say you must get some clothes or make up any excuse. I am only a poor girl, but take my word that there will be big trouble if you don't come and nobody else will do. I never gave you the right reason why I came here, but you will be glad to hear this secret and it will do a lot of good if you come at once. I'm absolutely on the level now, but I don't know if I can hold out another day, and then it will be too late.
"Respectfully yours,"HESTER STORM."
Having addressed this urgent summons to the Grand Hotel in Brighton, where the Baxters were stopping, Hester carefully stamped the envelope and gave it personally to the postman when he passed. Then, with a long sigh, she came down to her supper, confident that relief would be there within twenty-four hours. Alas, how many things may happen within twenty-four hours!
At nine o'clock the girl went to the garage to keep her appointment with Anton. She longed to stay away, but dared not, feeling that he was capable of some desperate act if she trifled with him further. Besides, she had managed this man before and now she trusted to her wits to manage him again.
When Hester entered the garage she found the chauffeur bending over a table absorbed in something that seemed to require close attention. As he heard her step he rose and came forward with a sort of mock politeness that frightened her more than his usual rough aggressiveness.
"Ah, Miss Storm! It's good of you to keep your little date with me—for a change. If you'll make yourself comfortable, Miss Storm, I'll tell you a few things that may interest you."
Keenly watchful, the girl sat down. On the table before Anton were a pair of shears, a paste pot and a sheet of paper on which he had, apparently, been pasting words and letters cut from a newspaper. She noticed also a bottle of whiskey and a thick glass.
"Go on," she said quietly.
"I have been attending to my correspondence, Miss Storm," he continued in the same facetious way. "Here is something that may amuse you." He handed her an envelope on which she read, in large, black letters of uneven size, cut from a printed page, the name in all the world that she dreaded most:
SCotLAnd yARdLOnDoN
"Not such a wonderful job of pasting, Miss Storm, but I guess it will get there."
With a great effort she fought back her weakness, her terror, and asked quietly. "What is it you—you want?"
"Ah!" he smiled, and his gold tooth gleamed. "You have a logical mind. You came straight to the point. What do I want?" He poured some whiskey into the glass and gulped it down. "What do you think I want? If you'll run your beautiful dark eyes over the letter inside that envelope you may get an idea of what I want, friend Hester."
She lifted the flap of the envelope and was about to draw forth the letter when he leaned forward and added, with a queer, twisted smile, "and please get one thing into your head, little lady: it ain't a question of what I want, but of what I'm going to have. Now read it."
With a sickening sense of helplessness Hester opened the sheet and read the following message, also made up of ill-assorted words and letters cut from a newspaper:
"SCOTLAND YARD,"LONDON.
"If you want a line on the party who stole five thousand pounds from the bishop of Bunchester, you can get it by sending a man to Ipping House, Ippingford, Surrey."
As the Storm girl read these words her cheeks blanched like the paper before her.
"You—you're going to send that?"
He nodded. "I'm going to send it to-night unless you deliver the goods. Mind this, it isn't a case of 'perhaps' or 'meet me to-morrow in the summer house' or any other fool fake excuse. I've had enough of that and I've waited all I'm going to. Either you deliver the goods right now or——" He pointed in grim menace to the letter.
"What goods are you talking about? What is it you want delivered?" she asked.
"My share of that money, my half. Don't say you didn't get it. I know you did. I've found out things, little Hester, since you played me for a sucker the other day."
She faced him steadily now. If she could only draw him into an argument. She didn't believe the man was born that she couldn't get the best of in a talking match.
"What have you found out? Go on, tell me."
"About Henderson, for one thing. You said you reported to him every day over the telephone."
"Well?"
"It was a lie. You never reported to Henderson. And you said there was a little man in a brown derby hat—who stuttered. Remember?"
"What of it?"
"You said he employed you to spy on me. That was another lie. There wasn't any little man."
Hester's mind worked quickly. It was likely Anton had discovered her deception, but she mustn't acknowledge it.
"I suppose they told you that at Henderson's office?" she laughed. "Of course they wouldn't spy on you. Oh, no! Say, you're easy, boy."
"It wasn't at Henderson's they told me. It was at the Ippingford telephone office. There are no records of any calls for 724 Chelsea except my calls."
The girl started to speak, but he cut her short. "Wait! If you'll let me finish you can get up a better lie. Just take a look at this—Exhibit B." He opened the table drawer and produced the false arm that Hester had hidden on the high shelf of the conservatory. "I found this where you threw it on that very busy day. Ha! Now, then, what has the dear, innocent child got to say?"
Hester sat silent for a moment, looking him straight in the eyes; then, slowly, a smile began to play about her mouth and presently she burst into a half mischievous, half impudent laugh.
"I tried to do you up, Anton," she acknowledged, "but I didn't get away with it."
"You went through the purse while I was kissing you in the car?"
"Sure I did, but the purse was empty."
"Was, eh? We'll see if it was. And you lied about Henderson?"
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Oh, I was stringing you about Henderson!"
Anton looked at her almost admiringly. "You're a wonder, kid; but—you're in awful bad with me. It don't make any difference what you say—after this. I'll believe what I see. And I'm going to have what I told you, I'm going to have the goods—right now—the goods or the girl—do you get me?"
The Storm girl sprang to her feet, eyes blazing, hands clenched.
"If you dare——" she defied him, but he waved aside her immediate alarm with a reassuring gesture.
"You can cork up the sky rockets, kid. I'm not going to touch you or—kiss you or—anything, unless you want me to."
"Want you to?" she stared at him. "Well, of all the conceited——"
"No, no," he interrupted, "I don't mean that you're stuck on me, girlie. I know how you feel, but if it's a question between going to jail and—er——" now he leered at her disgustingly, "giving me a sort of—er—half interest in your tender young beauty——"
"You beast! You coward!" she cried, her cheeks flaming.
He rose slowly and faced her with hard, narrowing eyes, but he kept his distance.
"It's that or the money," he answered, "you can take your choice."
"I tell you I haven't got the money."
"What you tell me doesn't cut any ice, kid; it's what I tell you, and that is—now listen—this is your last chance—either you give me what I want—you understand—or I walk straight out of here and put that letter in the postoffice. Now, then."
He stood before her, insolent, pitiless, holding the letter addressed to Scotland Yard.
Hester moistened her lips and began to speak in a low voice. She realized that the crisis had come. This was, perhaps, the most important moment of her life.
"I admit I've done wrong, Anton," she said. "I didn't play fair with you, but—I had a reason that——" she looked at his cruel mouth and cynical eyes and turned away in despair. "I guess you wouldn't understand the reason."
"I understand the reason, all right," he sneered; "you thought you could get away with my share of the coin and you fell down."
"No, that wasn't the reason. I meant to keep straight, Anton. When I got on that train from Paris I had cut out crooked work, I swear I had. I was going back to New York to see my sister Rosalie. She's sick and——"
"Never mind your sister Rosalie. You stole that purse." He poured out another drink of whiskey and tossed it down, while she pleaded dumbly with her beautiful dark eyes. "And you've lied to me all along." He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're a smooth article, Hester. You say you didn't land that money. Maybe you didn't. The chances are you did, but suppose you didn't? Then where do I come in? I get the grand laugh all around, is that it? No, no, girlie, if I don't get my half of that five thousand pounds, then, as sure as you're standing there, I get you."
"You'll never get me." She shrank away in disgust and defiance.
Anton walked slowly to the wall and took down his cap from a nail.
"Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," she flung back.
With a look of grim purpose he moved to the door, opened it and turned, holding the letter.
"Is that your last word, kid?"
For a second she hesitated, then all the strength of her nature, all the pride of her outraged young womanhood rose in fierce revolt.
"Yes," she cried. "You can post your letter; you can do what you please. You're a coward and a beast. A coward and a beast. Now, go! Go!"
In this crisis, as in many another, the deciding influence was a pale yellow liquid poured out of a dark brown bottle—whiskey, in short—without which (several stiff drinks of it) Anton would never have posted that letter to Scotland Yard. He would have realized that such an act could only destroy his chances with Hester, while it might easily react dangerously against himself, for, after all, so far as intention went, he was as deeply involved in the crime as she was. If a detective should come to Ippingford and discover the truth it might be difficult for the chauffeur to explain how he happened to be the person who removed Miss Thompson's golf bag from the country club.
"I have done a crazy thing," he muttered as he strode away from the postoffice through the darkness, breathing deep the cool night air that calmed his passion and cleared his brain. "I have done a fool thing and it's too late to change it."
Meantime Hester, tingling with wrath after this hard encounter, had gone back to her room with a new problem that held her anxious thoughts far into the night. Had she made a mistake in defying this man? Should she have controlled her anger and somehow gained a little time? Perhaps a day would have been enough. If Miss Thompson came at once by the morning train she would be at Ipping House soon after luncheon, and an hour later Hester Storm might have been free, speeding toward London and New York, with all this trouble left behind.
Whereas, now what would happen? Suppose Anton had carried out his threat and posted the letter to Scotland Yard? He was just fool enough and drunk enough to do it—perhaps. And perhaps not. It might have been all a bluff, the letter and his talk. Anyway, she was glad she had called him down. He was a beast, all right.
But suppose he had posted the letter? Suppose a detective came prowling around? Suppose it was Grimes, who had seen her in Charing Cross station that day of the robbery, and who knew all about the Storm girl's record? Then what?
In snatches of tortured sleep Hester dreamed that she was trying to escape from a room with two doors, at one of which she met the cold gray eyes of Grimes, and at the other the twisted smile of Anton. She rose soon after daybreak, unrefreshed, and, having dressed, she spent an hour packing her things, so that if the chance came she could leave at a moment's notice. Then she knelt down at her bedside and said the prayer that Merle had taught her.
A few minutes later Hester's attention was caught by sounds from below, the unbolting of heavy doors, then an echo of footsteps and low voices. She looked at her watch and saw that it was a quarter past six. Anton was opening the house. It was Friday morning. The great day, with its promise of momentous happenings, had begun. And the sun was shining.
Lightly the Storm girl descended the stairs, and pausing at the first landing, listened to the chauffeur, who was talking to a telegraph boy.
"Yes, this is Mr. Baxter's house. Let me have it," he was saying.
Whereupon the boy searched in his cap and produced the familiar yellow envelope of a telegram or a cablegram.
"There!" grumbled the chauffeur as he signed the boy's book. "Here's a sixpence for you."
"Thanks, guv'nor," and the youth went off whistling, while Anton stared at the sealed message.
Hester leaned over the railing and watched her adversary, who evidently thought himself quite alone. With a few careful movements he opened the envelope and drew forth a yellow sheet.
"In cipher!" she heard him mutter. Then he moved into the library, while she, cautious and silent, followed him.
Anton went directly to Betty Thompson's desk, and, taking from his pocket a bunch of keys, he proceeded to unlock the upper left-hand drawer and drew out a small, red, leather-covered book, in which he searched eagerly, consulting the cablegram from time to time as he did so. It was Hiram Baxter's private cable code book.
With absorbed interest the chauffeur continued his work of translation, writing down the words hastily as he deciphered them. And, presently, Hester saw by his face that the cablegram must contain news of the utmost importance.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, frowning and looking about him doubtfully. He glanced at his watch, took a few steps toward the door, and listened intently, then he went quickly to the telephone.
"Hello! Give me the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, London. In a great hurry—please." He spoke in a low tone and drummed nervously on the desk while he waited.
"Hello! The Ritz-Carlton? I want Mr. Henderson, room 147. Yes, Henderson. Quick, please."
And presently, with a sort of unconscious cringing, "Hello! Is that you, Mr. Henderson? This is Anton Busch. I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's urgent. A cablegram has just come for Mr. B. It will pretty well spoil everything if he gets it. I know he's in Brighton, sir, but Mr. Robert is here. Yes, it came in cipher. I've just translated it. Shall I read it, sir?"
He held before him the paper on which he had written, and was about to repeat it when the creaking of Hester's shoe, as she leaned forward near the door, caused him to turn suspiciously. "I'll have to be quick, Mr. Henderson. I'm in the library. Yes, I'm using the house telephone. If I'm interrupted, sir, you'll understand. Don't ring up. I'll call you later. All right, sir, here's the cablegram."
Slowly and distinctly he read into the telephone from the sheet before him:
"HIRAM BAXTER, Ippingford, Surrey: Have advance news highest authority that Supreme Court decision copper suit will be announced to-morrow, Friday, and will be unfavorable. Prices sure to break violently as soon as decision is known. This is our one chance to save everything and close out with a profit. Ask your authority to sell fifty thousand shares Independent Copper. Vital importance to act before exchange opens this morning.
"GRAMERCY.
"Did you get that, sir?"
There was a long pause while the chauffeur listened, nodding respectfully and occasionally murmuring, "Yes, sir." Then he answered: "I understand, sir. Five hours will do the trick. If Baxter hasn't acted by twelve it's all off." He looked at his watch. "It isn't seven yet. I'll see that Mr. Robert doesn't get this cablegram until after luncheon. Good-by, sir."
With a gesture of relief he hung up the receiver, and, folding together the cablegram and the code translation, he put these carefully in his breast pocket.
Meantime Hester had been doing some quick thinking. Here was the haughty Anton caught in a piece of crooked work. He was betraying his employer, he was keeping back a message that evidently involved a fortune and that must be acted upon before twelve o'clock. There was no need of understanding Wall Street operations or Supreme Court decisions to see the importance of getting hold of this cablegram that Anton had just stuffed into his pocket. That was in her line, getting things out of people's pockets, and—perhaps this piece of yellow paper might help her play her own game. Anyhow, she was going after it.
Thus resolved, Hester flew back silently up the stairs, one flight, two flights, and, turning, came clattering down again with deliberate noisiness, as if for her first appearance, and, entering the library, greeted the chauffeur with a look of well-acted surprise.
"Oh!" she said coldly.
Anton thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared at her, biting his mustache nervously. Then, without speaking, he moved toward her slowly, until he stood about a yard away. She faced him steadily.
"You little devil!" he said hoarsely. "I've got a notion to—to——" He began to breathe quickly through dilating nostrils, while his beady eyes burned on her.
"To what?" she challenged him.
He reached forward quickly and caught her by the arm.
"See here, now, I'm going to talk to you—straight." He drew her close to him, so close that he could feel every line of her lithe, slim figure. "You know what I said last night, kid. Well, I meant it. I'm crazy about you, and, by God, I'm going to get something out of this." He held her, struggling against him, and pressed his mouth down upon her unwilling lips.
"Wait!" she panted. "Did you—did you post that letter to Scotland Yard?"
"Why—er—no," he answered, and she knew that he was lying by the way his eyes shifted.
Once more, mad with desire, the chauffeur tried to kiss her, but with a sudden effort Hester freed herself and darted toward the door.
"I guess you've made trouble enough for one day, Mr. Anton," she laughed mockingly. "And remember, boy, if a Scotland Yard detective shows up here to-day it's you he'll take away, not me."
It was an empty threat, but she made it bravely as she tripped away, and, somehow, her words filled Anton with a vague foreboding.
"Damn that girl!" he muttered as he strode toward the garage. And presently his anger changed to black rage when, on searching his pocket for Baxter's important cablegram, he found that it was gone. Little liar! She had tricked him again. She had let him kiss her with the deliberate purpose of stealing those papers, and then she had laughed at him. Very well; he would show her. He was glad now he had notified Scotland Yard. He hoped they did send a man, and he swore this Storm girl should pay for what she had done. He would certainly make her pay.
Through the morning hours that followed Hester busied herself, as usual, with the housework and the kitchen work, trying to be diligent and good tempered, and putting from her resolutely the temptation to flee from this place that might soon be full of peril for her. But as noon approached she eyed the clock anxiously, and at every sound of wheels hurried to the window. There was a train from London at twenty minutes to twelve. Would Betty Thompson be on it? Would a man from Scotland Yard be on it? Would one of these two arrive before the other, and, if so, which one?
Then she wondered what would happen if a detective did come. After all, Anton's letter gave only a vague clue. No name was signed and no names were mentioned. Robert Baxter could tell nothing about the robbery, because he knew nothing. And the Reverend Merle could tell nothing for the same reason. There was only Anton to be feared, and Anton wasn't going to put himself under the cold, investigating eye of an officer of the law, not if the Storm girl sized him up right, and she thought she did. On the whole, the situation might be worse, still——
Twelve o'clock! Half past twelve! And no arrival! Perhaps Miss Thompson wasn't coming. Perhaps she didn't believe the thing was important. And straight-way the imps of darkness whispered that this was fate. Hester had done her best, she had written the letter to Miss Thompson, and now, if no one would help her, if no one would take the money when she was trying to give it up—why she had better—she had better——
At this perilous moment a carriage came crunching up the drive, and, glancing out, Hester recognized Betty Thompson on the back seat.
Well, that settled it. The hour had come for the testing of Hester Storm. She must go to Miss Thompson now and make her confession. She must tell this sweet young woman who had trusted her and befriended her that she was a thief, that she had stolen the bishop's purse. She had better go quickly, while she had the courage.
It was twenty minutes later when the Storm girl, white-lipped, entered the library where the secretary was arranging in a dull green vase some yellow roses that she had just picked in the conservatory. She looked up brightly and came forward with extended hand.
"Well, Hester," she smiled, "you see that I believe in you. Your letter came this morning at half-past eight, and at half-past nine I was on the train. Poor child, you look—why, you look ill?"
"Do I? Well, I—I am not feeling any too good."
"What is it? What has happened? Come over here." With kind concern Betty led her troubled friend to the davenport. "You know I'll be glad to do whatever I can to help you. Now then?"
Hester sighed wearily. "You can't help me, lady, except to—believe what I say—wish me luck when I've gone."
"You're going away?"
The girl nodded. "Just as soon as I can—this afternoon."
"Oh! I'm sorry to hear that. I take a great interest in you. I—I like you, Hester."
The genuine friendliness of her tone went straight to the heart of this poor wanderer. The Storm girl fixed her dark eyes yearningly on Betty.
"I'm in trouble, lady, and—say, on the level, do you—like me?"
"Indeed I do. I liked you the first time I saw you."
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated Betty, disconcerted by the girl's strange earnestness. "Oh, I liked you because you are—different and—you're pretty and—I thought it was a shame when they accused you of stealing that purse."
There was a moment's silence while Hester braced herself for the great ordeal.
"There's one thing about that purse that you don't know," she began in a low tone. But at that moment the door opened and Horatio entered, carrying a card on a tray. He wore a long, blue apron.
"A gentleman to see Mr. Robert Baxter," he said quietly.
Betty looked at Horatio in surprise. "Why, Mr. Merle! How queer you look! Are you taking Parker's place?"
Horatio bowed respectfully. "Yes, Miss Thompson, I am."
Betty laughed. It never occurred to her that Merle was speaking seriously. She picked up the card and glanced at it. "Mr. Grimes," she read, and Hester's face went white. "From Scotland Yard," she continued, studying the card. "Scotland Yard? Isn't that the place where they——"
"I think he's a detective," murmured Horatio, the brilliance of his eyes revealing his intense interest in the matter.
"A detective! Indeed! Is Mr. Robert Baxter out?"
Horatio inclined his head gravely. "Mr. Robert Baxter is out with the car. I told Mr. Grimes and he asked to see Mr. Baxter's secretary. He says it's important."
Miss Thompson frowned impatiently. "It's most annoying. I'm engaged in a serious matter, and—— Oh! Very well! Show him in."
But now the tortured penitent broke out in an agonized cry: "No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you—alone."
"'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you--alone.'""'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to you—alone.'"
At the sight of Hester's pallid face and entreating eyes Betty's heart softened.
"Please ask Mr. Grimes to wait," she said to Merle, as he withdrew discreetly, and then to the trembling girl: "My poor friend! You're all unstrung. Now tell me, why don't you want me to see this detective?"
"Because I—I lied to you that day—about the purse."
"Lied to me?"
"Yes, I—I did steal the purse."
At Hester's startling avowal, Betty shrank away in involuntary aversion.
"Oh!" she cried, and her truthful eyes judged the girl sternly.
The culprit faced her in pleading appeal. She had played her last card recklessly, impulsively, risking everything. She never understood afterward what had impelled her to this dangerous unnecessary confession. Was it fear or calculation? She knew that if Betty betrayed her it was all up with little Hester, and she had no reason to believe that Miss Thompson would condone or tolerate an act of flagrant wickedness. Yet she had told her.
"A thief!" shivered Betty.
"Yes, a thief," flung out the other, in half defiance. "You don't think I'm good enough to touch, do ye? Maybe I'm not, but—say, do you want to know what made me steal—the first time? Do you want to know?" The words tumbled out in a fierce tumult, and Betty, fascinated, watched this strange girl as her dark eyes blazed and her nostrils quivered.
"Tell me," said Betty gently, "sit here—tell me everything." And, leading the way to the davenport, she placed Hester beside her. "Now!"
"I was only a kid—about twelve," panted the penitent. "We lived on Orchard street."
"New York?"
"Yes. In a rotten tenement and—my sister Rosalie—she was seventeen—she took care of us, me and my little brother."
"Wait!" interposed Betty. "Is this true? You mustn't try to work on my feelings. You must tell me the truth. You know you haven't—Hester—at other times."
The Storm girl sat biting her red lips and twisting her fingers nervously. "I've been crooked," she said, speaking low, "but, lady, I hope God will strike me dead if——"
"Hush! Don't say that."
"I do say it. I mean it. I want you to believe me. Nobody's ever believed me or—been kind to me—except you and——" she was sobbing now, "if you're going back on me—I don't care—for anything." She sprang up suddenly with a fierce gesture, and pointed to the door. "Go on! Call in Grimes! Give me up!"
"I don't want to give you up," soothed Betty; "but—I must do what is right. Sit down! Tell me the rest. What about Rosalie?"
At the mention of her sister, Hester's face softened.
"Say, she was the finest girl, the prettiest girl, you ever saw. That's why I liked you, because you—honest you did—you made me think of Rosalie."
"Yes?"
"But she wasn't strong. She worked thirteen hours a day at a sewing machine, a damned heavy thing that'd break your back and—she never went to the country and—she never had a pretty dress."
"What a wicked shame!"
"Every cent she made she spent on us. Then she got sick and—she coughed a lot and—she couldn't work the machine. There she'd lie on the bed, in a little back room, with her face all flushed and I'd hear her say, 'Please, God, take care of Hester and Jamie, and let me see the green fields—just once.' Say, lady, what would you have done, if you'd been me?"
"I—I don't know," murmured Betty, wiping her eyes.
"S'pose ye didn't have a dollar in the world?" pursued Hester eagerly, "and the agent came for the rent, a red-faced devil with a big diamond pin, and s'pose he tried to kiss ye and ye knew that pin might save Rosalie, say, would ye have pinched the pin?"
"You mustn't ask a—question like that," replied the other, trying vainly to keep back her tears.
"Yer cryin'! Then—then ye don't despise me?"
"I'm sorry for you, so sorry, but—Hester, you must make amends for what you've done, you must give back the purse."
"I will."
"Where is it?"
"You'll stand by me? You won't let them take me?"
"I'll do the best I can for you. Where is it?"
"You won't tell Grimes that you were in the railway carriage?"
"I must tell him, if he asks me. I can't remain in a false position."
Hester's eyes filled with tears. "Then that settles me. He'll get the truth out of you; he'll twist you around his fingers. My God! They'll send me away for ten years!"
"Be quiet. Let me think."
Distressed and perplexed, Miss Thompson walked back and forth trying to decide what she should do. And Hester in wide-eyed supplication watched her, knowing well that her fate was trembling in the balance. If she could only think of something—something that would influence this fine, high-toned girl, whose soul could not be reached by any base appeal, she realized that.
At this moment there sounded beyond the conservatory the sharp call of a whistle, low and sinister.
"What's that?" started Betty.
Hester listened in tense alarm. "It's Grimes. He's got a man outside. Say," she quivered, "what are ye goin' to do with me?"
"What can I do?"
"Hide me somewhere until Grimes has gone. Will ye?" she begged.
As Miss Thompson studied the wretched girl she felt like an avenging angel who, without quite understanding how, had been changing into a benevolent fairy. Here, cowering before her, was a fugitive from justice who should, no doubt, be given up, but somehow, Betty could not do it.
"Hester," she said. "I'm doing wrong, but I can't help believing there is good in you and—I can't send you to prison. You can stay in my little room—there!" She pointed to the mezzanine door.
"Oh, lady, ye'll do that for me?" Hester seized Betty's two hands and pressed them to her lips.
"Wait! It's understood that you give back the money—the stolen money."
"Sure! I'll tell ye where it is and you can give it back yourself."
"I'll give it to the bishop. He's on his way here now."
"The bishop? He don't know I'm here?"
"He knows nothing. I'll tell him that—I'll say that the person who took the money is sorry and—I'll save you somehow."
"You give me your promise—your promise true?"
"I give you my promise—true," repeated Betty firmly. "Where is it—the money?"
Now, briefly and humbly, Hester told the truth about the bishop's purse, acknowledging her own wrongdoing, and tracing the treasure from her capture of it on the train up to the moment of its hiding under the rose bush.
"I see," said Betty. "You dropped the purse in my golf bag when they came to search you on the train?"
"Yes," confessed the other.
"And—and—oh, it's all clear! It was to get the money out of my golf bag that you came here. Was it?" she demanded.
"Yes."
"And now this five thousand pounds is there in the conservatory—hidden in a flower pot?"
"Yes. You'll find it there. I wouldn't touch it. I hate it. But, lady," she pleaded, "don't take the money out until Grimes has gone. He's watching everywhere, and—he's liable to see you and—that would queer me. Promise ye won't take the money until Grimes has gone?"
This seemed reasonable. "Very well, I won't take the money until Grimes has gone," agreed Miss Thompson. "Now come! I'll show you the way."
Betty started for the winding stair, but Hester caught her arm with an eager movement.
"See here!" she said and her eyes were warm with gratitude. "You've been good to me and—I know something that'll make a lot of difference to Mr. Baxter. A cablegram came for him this morning."
"A cablegram?"
"Yes. And if he don't get it before twelve o'clock, it's all up with him."
"Before twelve o'clock? How do you know that?"
"I stood at that door while Anton was on the phone talking to a man named Henderson."
"Mr. Baxter's enemy!"
"That's what. Anton's a crook in Henderson's pay. He got this cablegram and held it back. If you don't believe me"—swiftly she drew the paper from her dress—"there!"
"Heavens! When did this come?"
Hester studied the yellow form. "Must have left New York at ten o'clock last night. See? Must have got here before anybody was up—except Anton."
"The scoundrel!" Betty hurried to her desk and rapidly deciphered the message. "This is terrible! There isn't a moment to lose. If something isn't done before twelve o'clock, Mr. Baxter will be ruined. I must think. Come to my room."
A moment later the two women disappeared into Betty's chamber, and, scarcely had the door closed softly after them, when Grimes entered. He had a round, red face, a stubbly, reddish mustache, and small, peering eyes. He wore a checked suit and was smoking a large black cigar. Altogether he looked the typical American detective familiar in farce; but Grimes was not a farcical person; on the contrary, he was one of the most formidable men connected with Scotland Yard, a silent man, and it was considered bad business for the criminal who had Grimes on his track.
The detective glanced carelessly about the big room, moved here and there, picked up the red-covered code book that Betty had left on her desk and was frowning at its mysteries when Betty herself appeared on the landing above the winding stair.
"I beg your pardon," she said with challenging directness. "May I ask what you are doing there?"
"I was going to ask you the same question," answered Grimes quietly. "What are you doing—there?"
"I'm attending to my duties as Mr. Baxter's secretary," she said coming down the stair and trying not to seem ruffled.
"I see. That's an interesting little door." He pointed to the mezzanine chamber.
"Yes. Are you an architect?"
"No. I'm an officer from Scotland Yard—Mr. Grimes. Just looking around a little while I wait for Mr. Baxter. Don't let me disturb you."
He strolled off toward the conservatory, but turned at one of the French windows. "Oh! May I ask your name?"
Betty glanced up from the code book which she was consulting in nervous haste.
"I told you I am Mr. Baxter's secretary."
"Yes, but—your name?"
The girl drew herself up to her full height and, looking the man straight in the eyes, said simply, "Miss Thompson. Really, Mr. Grimes, you must excuse me now."
The detective gave her a keen glance that seemed to take in every detail of her face and person. "Certainly," he said, then, bowing politely, "I'll see you later, Miss Thompson."