“The other night,” said Westerham, “I was sufficiently honest to save you from an awkward situation.”
Lady Kathleen was about to speak, but he would not allow it.
“No, no!” he urged, “I did not mention it to be thanked again. I have been more than thanked already. I only did what any ordinary decent man would do. I have no desire to dwell on that. Indeed, I simply mentioned it in order that I might convince you that I wish you well.”
“But you knew that man,” she cried; “you must have known him.”
Westerham stared at Lady Kathleen with some astonishment.
“I give you my word that I did not know him then,” he said, “even if I know him now.”
“Ah!” she darted a look of suspicion at him.
“Yes, I know Bagley, and I know Melun, and I know a man called Crow.”
Lady Kathleen's face blanched.
“And what else?” she asked.
He threw out his arms. “Nothing! I swear to you I know absolutely nothing else, except—and that, of course, is obvious—that you and your father go in deadly fear of all the three. Why, I cannot tell. If you will only enlighten me a little I may do much to help you.”
“No, no!” she cried, “it is simply out of the question. The secret is not mine, but my father's.”
“Then let me go to Lord Penshurst,” urged Westerham.
The girl started and thought for a few minutes before she answered. “No,” she said at last, slowly, “you must not do that. He would not understand.”
“You mean,” said Westerham, “he would merely regard me as one who might be termed ‘one of the gang.’”
The girl nodded.
“But I assure you,” Westerham laughed, “that I am not.”
To his surprise the girl looked him straight in the face. “I wish I felt quite sure,” she said.
Westerham flushed with almost a flush of anger.
“This,” he cried,“is an intolerable situation. If you would only confide in me I would confide in you.
“I am not what I seem. I am no mere man-about-town. I am not one of Melun's dupes. I am not of a certainty one of his friends—even though I may appear to be associated with him.
“I am a very different man indeed from what I fancy you take me for. My resources are practically limitless, and without boasting I may say that I hold Melun in the hollow of my hand.”
Again, to his surprise, Kathleen gave him the same keen look of suspicion.
“I fear no consequence as the result of what I will tell you,” she said quietly, “but Melun declares that you are merely an American confederate.”
“Good Heavens!” cried Westerham, and so great was the sincerity of his tones that Lady Kathleen's face softened.
“But perhaps you are not. I wish I knew.”
She buried her face in her hands and rocked to and fro in her distress.
“If I tell you who I am,” cried Westerham, stung to desperation, “am I not right in thinking that you would tell your father?”
Kathleen nodded her assent.
“And then we should be worse off than ever,” he rejoined gloomily. “Far from being regarded as a friend, I should be regarded as an interloper, possibly a danger, because I knew of your father's difficulty. Yet what the nature of that trouble is I have not the least idea. Why not tell me?”
The girl leapt to her feet and looked at him with wild eyes. “If you do know,” she cried,“you are as great a fiend as Melun to persecute me in this way, and if you do not know—then Heaven forbid that you ever should.
“I cannot tell you because if I did I should be a murderess.”
“A murderess!” Westerham drew a step back in horror.
“A murderess of whom?”
“Don't ask,” cried Kathleen; “I should be a murderess of not one, but many. As it is I can at least be silent, and if needs be make the sacrifice.”
“What sacrifice?”
“What sacrifice? Ah, that I cannot tell you now, though I cannot hide it from you always. I fear that there is no hope. That you will have to know in time unless—unless——”
“Unless what?”
“Unless——” cried the girl, and her voice trailed away.
Westerham took her hands gently and with great deference.
“Unless,” he said softly, “you allow me to help you.”
She tore her hands away from his and almost screamed at him.
“Go! Go!” she cried.
Her whole air was so distraught, she was so obviously on the verge of a complete breakdown, that Westerham realised it would be mere folly to remain. His offers could only exasperate her the more.
So he turned away sorrowfully. It cut him to the heart to see her huddled there upon the steps crying as if her heart would break. But he could do nothing. It was with a blind rage against Melun that he stumbled back along the avenue to his car and curtly ordered the man to return to London.
And at every yard of the way he repeated to himself the words: “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!”
On a sudden he resolved to call on Mme. Estelle.
Possibly she could help to solve all this sickening mystery.
The words “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” fitted with a horrible nicety the throbbing of the engine, and he was still muttering to himself “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!” when he reached the narrow door in the wall of the house of Mme. Estelle.
Mme. Estelle was at home, and Westerham was immediately shown into a long, low, pretty drawing-room, which gave on to a garden at the back of the house.
Judged, indeed, from Madame's pose, and from the gown she wore, she might have been expecting visitors.
The lights were shaded so that the hard lines on her face were softened, and in the dimness of the pretty room she looked the really beautiful woman she once must have been.
In his generous spirit—though he knew nothing of Madame's past, and practically nothing of her present—his heart was touched by a certain air of loneliness the woman wore, and by the very pleasant smile of greeting which she gave him.
Sir Paul was conscious that Mme. Estelle surveyed him with a certain amount of quiet wonderment. And it came home to him that for the first time for many years he had been shaken out of himself—so badly shaken out of himself that evidently his countenance bore some traces of his unquiet mind.
Madame's words of welcome were, however, quite conventional, and bore no evidence of surprise. “This is a most unexpected pleasure,” she said.
“The pleasure, I assure you,” answered Westerham in the same conventional strain, “is entirely mine. I do not wish in the least to be discourteous, but I have to tell you that I have called on business.”
Madame nodded as if she understood. “Suppose,” she said, in a pleasant voice, “that while we discuss business we drink tea.”
“I shall be more than delighted,” returned Westerham, though he was anxious to get the matter over and go back to the quiet of his room, where he could think without interruption.
So Madame rang the bell, gave her orders, and the tea came in.
It was not till they were alone again and fairly certain of not being interrupted that Westerham went straight to the point.
“Madame,” he said, and his tone was formal—so formal that he paused for a moment to be amused at himself; he might have been a family solicitor about to talk business with a difficult client.
“Whatever they may have been to you,” he continued, “the last few days have meant much to me. Possibly you are aware of how I made Captain Melun's acquaintance.”
Madame pursed up her mouth and smiled. “I can guess,” she said; “but, of course, versions differ.”
Westerham's heart gave a little bound of triumph. After all, this woman was not wholly sunk in admiration of the gallant captain.
“Never mind about the versions,” he said;“we met. Without attempting to make anex-partestatement, I may say that I practically foisted myself upon Melun. I think I may even go so far as to say that I compelled him to reveal himself to me in his most unpleasant light, and also to introduce to me various of his friends. You will, of course, pardon my including you in that number.”
Making a bow that was half a mock, Madame smiled—not altogether a pleasant smile.
“Les affaires sont les affaires,” said Madame. “Let us be strictly businesslike. Allow me to put the matter as I think you should have put it had you been entirely plain. Do you”—her face grew a little hard again—“blackmail the blackmailer?”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Westerham, “I do.”
Madame nodded her head up and down several times as though she completely understood.
“Now the first of my discoveries,” Westerham continued, “was that Melun had some sort of hold over the Prime Minister, Lord Penshurst.”
Madame started.
“I also discovered that whatever that hold might be, the secret involved his daughter. Then I think by a perfectly reasonable and logical course of argument I came to the conclusion that the secret, however closely it might be guarded, did not reflect one particular kind of dishonour upon Lord Penshurst.”
Madame nodded again. “I presume you mean,” she said—“I am speaking, of course, as a woman of the world—that whatever Lord Penshurst had to be afraid of, he was at least not terrified of any exposure of his morals.”
“Quite so,” agreed Westerham.“More than that; both from his reputation and the little I have seen of him I am sure that he is so honourable a man that he is not guarding any secret that might imperil his family's standing. Indeed, I am convinced that whatever he has to keep to himself it does not include any of the ordinary crimes and offences of men.”
Again Madame nodded.
“Now, Mme. Estelle,” Westerham continued, speaking more sharply than before, “you may or may not be aware that I purchased an insight into Melun's mode of life at the price of a hundred thousand pounds.”
Madame's face went first white and then red.
“That's the first I have heard of it,” she said, and there was an angry quietude in her voice.
“None the less, it is so,” said Westerham. “You know who I am; you know therefore what my resources are. Such a sum is nothing to me.
“Now,” and he raised his voice so that it became loud and very clear, “I will double that sum if you will tell me what the secret is.”
Lying back on her cushions, Madame stared at him with open mouth; then she sat forward and spoke slowly.
“Will you allow me to speak,” she said, “as it were, man to man? Two hundred thousand pounds cannot buy for me that which I desire.”
She laughed harshly.
Mme. Estelle, as though she were far away, said dreamily, and a little wistfully. “Still, I will try.”
She roused herself from her momentary abstraction and shook her head almost fiercely.“I cannot help you because I do not know what the secret is,” she cried.
Westerham looked at her with his cold, bright eyes, and saw that she spoke the truth, and he was amazed.
If she did not know what the secret was, then she could not know the price of it.
Should he tell her the price?
Melun had said nothing to him on that point, but he could clearly see where matters were trending. Money, he understood, would be of little value to Melun compared to a marriage with Kathleen.
He started, and started to such a degree that Madame surveyed him with open suspicion. “Sacrifice,” he said to himself. “Sacrifice.”
“Was that what she meant?”
And then he added to himself: “Oh, Heaven! If that's the sacrifice, then it shall never be.”
Outwardly, however, he only straightened his back and made a formal little bow to the astonished woman on the sofa.
“I believe you, Madame,” he said, “when you declare that you do not know.”
For a few moments he lapsed into silence, debating with himself whether he should drop the bombshell into Madame's camp now, or whether he should keep what, to this woman, would be the coping-stone of Melun's villainy—his intention to marry Kathleen—until such a moment when its dramatic force would turn the scales in his favour.
It required almost superhuman resolution on Westerham's part to hold this second secret to himself. But with an effort he held his lips in silence.
With the silence, too, he suddenly recognised that he had come into possession of a fact that would prove a mighty weapon with which to deal both with Mme. Estelle and with Melun.
Here in truth were wheels within wheels.
He felt strangely softened to this unhappy woman, who was evidently trusting much and being trusted little; and with his pity came a speculation as to what extent Melun was playing fair and square with his other confederates in blackmail.
He realised now that the captain was in a position to play for his own hand, and that neither the financing of Bagley nor the ambitions of Mme. Estelle, nor yet the brutal violence of Crow and his subsidiary hooligans in Limehouse were necessary to his object.
With this conclusion came more complete puzzlement than before.
It was the word “murderess” employed by Kathleen which distressed him most. Facile and swift as his imagination was, he had as yet been unable to build up any theory which could possibly account for the obstinate and desperate manner in which Lord Penshurst and his daughter were guarding their extraordinary secret.
So long, indeed, did Westerham stand in silence, lost in his own thoughts, that it was with a start he realised that Mme. Estelle was gazing at him with wide-open, fearful eyes. He was quick to grasp the necessity of breaking the silence.
And he deliberately chose to bring matters back to a businesslike method by being excessively brutal.
“You will pardon me,” he said,“but I came here expecting to find a liar. I have been agreeably disappointed.”
In the pause which followed the words he coldly watched the woman wince. But the anger which stole across her face convinced him that she had now been speaking the truth.
He held out his hand. Madame rose and took it.
“I am sorry to ask you again,” he said, “but will you once more give me your word of honour as a woman that you do not know what all this mystery is about?”
“I know,” said Mme. Estelle, “that Melun hopes to obtain some advantage from Lord Penshurst; beyond that I know nothing.”
Then suddenly she cast aside her reserve and drew a little closer to him.
“Forgive plain speaking on my part,” she said, “but I am perfectly certain that you are being dragged into some horrible disaster. I will be frank and honest with you. I have been given to understand that the cultivation of your acquaintance will free us—I am speaking now for Captain Melun and myself—from those embarrassments which trouble us so much, but I think—I cannot tell why—that it is unfair you should be drawn into this business.
“You don't know, I am afraid, quite what Melun is capable of. I have seen”—here she shuddered a little and broke off.
“Why will you not listen to me,” she continued presently, “and get clear while there is yet time? There is no reason why your good name should be besmirched; there is no reason”—and she falteredin her speech—“there is no reason why you should lose——”
“No reason,” said Westerham, in an even voice, “why I should lose my life?”
Mme. Estelle gave a little gasping sigh and drew away from him.
“Oh!” she cried, turning away her face, “you are pitilessly logical.”
They were standing thus, Westerham looking at Mme. Estelle with his searching gaze while her face was turned towards the window, when the door opened behind them.
The prim voice of the trim maid said, “Captain Melun.”
Westerham gathered himself together with a laugh. It was rather like the star situation of a highly-coloured melodrama.
“If Mme. Estelle will pardon the phrase,” he said. “Speak of the devil——” He stopped short, shrugged his shoulders, and made a little bow towards Melun.
For his part, the captain was entirely without embarrassment, having been warned by the maid that Westerham was with Madame.
“Quite so,” he said. His look, however, was so vicious that Westerham had some inclination to stay and see that Mme. Estelle did not suffer physically as the result of his call. He reflected, however, that Mme. Estelle was evidently a brave woman and Melun a cowardly man.
It was, therefore, with an easy mind on this score that he stepped forward and held out his hand to Madame.
“Thank you very much,” he said,“for an exceedingly pleasant, agreeable hour. I hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure of calling again.”
Madame bowed and took his hand. Her own was clammy and wet.
To Melun, Westerham only nodded. The more he dealt with this man the more he regarded him as a lackey to be ordered here and there.
“I trust,” he said, and there was an undertone of command in his voice, “that I shall see you at the hotel to-night.”
When he gained the street, Westerham told his chauffeur to go home; he had been cramped by travelling in the car, and had a wish to walk. He stepped out briskly towards St. John's Wood Road.
At the corner between the Red Lion Hotel and the underground station he saw a news-boy yelling for dear life and waving about him a fiery-coloured placard. The wind caught it, and blowing it flat against the lad's knees enabled Westerham to read the contents' bill:—
“Extraordinary Gagging Outrage in the West End.”
“Extraordinary Gagging Outrage in the West End.”
There were times when Westerham suffered from the quick intuition of a woman, and at this moment it came home to him that this contents' bill affected himself.
His second thoughts were that his first impression was nonsense, but his third thoughts were that it was foolish to distrust his intuition; crossing the road, he bought a copy of the paper from the news-boy.
So certain was he that he was in some way connected with the gagging outrage, of which he as yet knew nothing, that he opened the paper perfectly prepared for a shock. It was well that he had braced himself, for in heavy type on the main page he read the following:—
“An extraordinary gagging outrage was discovered at about four o'clock this afternoon at No. 17BBruton Street, Bond Street. The scene was the flat of a Mr. James Robinson, a gentleman who took a suite of these fashionable chambers less than a week ago.
“Mr. Robinson, who, it is understood, has only been in London a short time, and has since his arrival purchased a magnificent motor car, has not been sleeping regularly at his chambers. As a matter of fact, our representative was given to understand that he has been away visiting friends in the country.
“He returned, however, to London at about one o'clock to-day, and having lunched, told his valet to send round for the car which he had not hitherto used. He was heard to instruct the chauffeur to drive along the Hertfordshire Road, upon which it was concluded that he did not intend to return till late. Up to the time of going to press nothing has been heard of him.
“About four o'clock the doorkeeper, having some message to give to Mr. Robinson's valet, went up to the chambers and knocked at the door. Receiving no reply, the man entered by a pass-key, and was astonished to find the whole place in a state of great disorder. Rushing into the dining-room, he discovered that everything had been turnedupside down. He then proceeded to the bedroom, where he found Mr. Robinson's valet securely bound hand and foot and his mouth gagged.
“Before summoning the police, the doorkeeper took the gag out of the mouth of Charles Blyth, the valet, and then released his hands and feet.
“Upon the police being summoned, the man, who was suffering considerably from shock, stated that shortly after Mr. Robinson had left there had come a knock at the door. On opening it, he was confronted by a very tall and powerful-looking man, who, he is quite certain, was a gentleman. He was well dressed in a lounge suit and black bowler hat, but, to the valet's surprise and dismay, wore a mask over his face.
“Continuing, the valet says that in less time than it took him to make the statement, the stranger had rushed into the flat and seized his throat in a vice-like grip.
“His assailant then pushed a gag—which apparently consists of a torn pillowcase—into his mouth, and, throwing him to the floor, partially stunned him.
“After this the stranger bound him hand and foot, subsequently lifting him bodily on to the bed, where he left him while he ransacked the rooms from top to bottom.
“As far as can be judged at present, theft was not the motive of the stranger's extraordinary proceedings, for not a single thing is missing from Mr. Robinson's rooms, though every piece of paper has been turned over and every article of clothing evidently searched.
“Presumably the mysterious assailant was lookingfor some particular object which he expected to be there. Whether he found it or not is open to question, and no further light can be thrown on the matter until Mr. Robinson returns.”
“Mr. Robinson,” said Westerham to himself, “will return at once,” and, hailing a hansom, he directed the man to drive as fast as he could to Bruton Street.
On the way he was rather troubled over the fact that he had called on Mme. Estelle, as it was quite possible that by this time the police had discovered where he had been during the afternoon, unless his chauffeur had been more discreet than usual.
At Bruton Street Westerham found his rooms in much the same condition as the newspaper had described.
The valet, pale and troubled-looking, was seated on a chair in the dining-room, evidently fending off question after question which was being put to him by a couple of men whom, without much effort of imagination, Westerham instantly recognised as detectives.
As he stood on the threshold, the elder and taller of the two men left the valet and approached him.
“You are Mr. Robinson?” he asked.
Westerham nodded.
“My name, sir,” said the big man, “is Inspector Rookley, from Scotland Yard. We were, of course, called in by the police in Vine Street. This is a most mysterious affair.”
“Apparently,” said Westerham, easily. “I have been reading about it in the evening papers.”
“I think it will be better,” said Mr. Rookley,gravely, “if my colleague takes your valet away while I make a few inquiries.”
“I am not at all sure that I desire any inquiries to be made.”
Mr. Rookley was first astounded and then suspicious.
“But, sir,” he protested, “this is a most peculiar case.”
“I agree with you,” said Westerham, “a most peculiar case, a most puzzling case. But, at the same time, I cannot see, in the least, how it concerns you.”
“I am sure, sir,” said Mr. Rookley, with meaning, “that the sooner I remove your valet the better.”
“Just as you please. As I find you in my flat, and as apparently you want to talk, and as, moreover, I have nothing on earth to do, I suppose I had better talk with you. May I offer you a whisky-and-soda?”
“Not now, sir,” said Mr. Rookley severely, and he beckoned to his colleague to take the astonished valet away.
When they were alone, Mr. Rookley turned sharply on Westerham and demanded in a dictatorial voice: “What does it all mean?”
“Now really,” Westerham laughed,“I should have supposed that that was the question I should have asked you. You, Mr. Rookley, of Scotland Yard, as detective, should be more versed in the wicked ways of this life than I am.
“I have my rooms entered by a stranger, who gags my valet, and who subsequently turns all my effects topsy-turvy. You are summoned by the police to catch the offender. When are you going to catch him?”
Mr. Rookley was used to what he himself called “cool hands,” but, as he said afterwards, this was the coolest hand he had ever met.
However, he was equal to the occasion.
“How do you suppose, sir,” he asked, “we are to make an arrest if you don't provide us with some data to go on?”
“Data!” exclaimed Westerham. “Surely there is plenty of data here, and I can tell you nothing more.”
“Now come, sir,” urged the detective, “you must admit that you yourself are rather a peculiar person, and, mind you, sir, we of the Yard are no respecters of persons. You came here a week ago. You apparently dropped from the skies. No one knows who you are, and yet you have plenty of money. You buy a big motor car, you order a lot of new clothes, and then you disappear.”
Westerham nodded. “Quite true,” he said. “Go on.”
“And then,” continued the detective, “you reappear. You order out the car, and scarcely is your back turned before this business happens.
“Now, my opinion is—and probably you know more about it than I do—that the gentleman who went through your things was looking for some special thing. I say a ‘gentleman’ advisedly, for valets of the description that you have got do not make mistakes on that score.
“Of course,” Mr. Rookley droned on,“gentlemen sometimes do wild things. I have known a few in my time. Maybe there was some quarrel about some lady. Maybe you have taken something belonging to some lady which the other gentleman thought you should not have taken. For the moment we really do not suspect anything more serious, though naturally we are making inquiries.”
“I trust they will prove satisfactory,” said Westerham.
“You may rest assured they will, sir,” snapped Mr. Rookley. “We seldom fail. Of course, it is open to us to put what construction we like upon this matter if you do not choose to explain.
“There is the beginning of many big affairs in such a comparative trifle as this. Why not, for your own sake, and for our sakes, tell us all about it?
“I have to warn you that as things stand your position is very awkward. If you refuse to give an explanation of your movements you must expect to be regarded with suspicion—and I assure you that with us it is not a far cry from suspicion to action. In fact, the consequences may be exceedingly serious for you. There is such a thing, you know,” added the detective, adopting a more bullying tone, “as being arrested on suspicion. Come, tell me, where did you sleep last night?”
“My dear man,” said Westerham, suavely, “I have not the slightest intention of telling you.”
Mr. Rookley swung his heavy body to and fro on his heels and toes, and pursed up his official mouth.
“Mr. Robinson,” he said, “I must warn you that you are playing an exceedingly dangerous game.”
“May I suggest,” Westerham remarked, more bluntly than before, “that you are doing precisely the same?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that you are not keeping strictly to your duty. You seem to be taking upon yourself a great many things which it is not your business to do—certainly you are assuming a great many prerogatives that you have no right to.”
“What do you mean, sir?” reiterated the detective.
“Tut, tut, my dear sir,” said Westerham, “sit down and try to compose yourself, while I endeavour to explain the precise situation.
“First,” Westerham continued, emphasising the “first” by touching his left forefinger with his right,“although I am not very much acquainted, thank goodness, with criminal procedure in this country, I am at least aware of this—that the law of England regards every man as innocent until he has been proved guilty. But you, under some misapprehension of your duties, appear to assume that I am guilty until I have proved myself innocent.
“Now, of what am I guilty? Nothing except of absenting myself from my rooms, which it is my innocent privilege and pleasure to do. You inquire of my antecedents. What do they matter to you? They are my business alone.
“However,” he went on, eyeing the now disconcerted Mr. Rookley,“in order that you may not be too harsh in your judgments I will enlighten your ignorance to a certain extent. I came here on the introduction of Lord Dunton, who is a most intimate friend. I paid six months' rent in advance. I furnished these rooms at no small expense, and I purchased one of the best motor cars on the market.
“Now I wish particularly to draw your attention to the fact that I did not offer to pay for any of these things by cheque. I paid for them all out of hand by bank-note. In fact, you will see for yourself that since I took up my abode here I must have spent perhaps a couple of thousand pounds; all of which I have paid out in hard cash.
“Were these bank-notes stolen? Certainly not. Had they been, the fact must inevitably have been discovered. No, strange as it may seem to you, I came by those notes quite honestly.
“It is not your business to do so, but if you care to take the trouble you are at perfect liberty to trace them. However, to save you unnecessary labour, I may as well tell you that those notes were paid over to me by Lord Dunton, in return for a cheque which I gave him. Why I chose to conduct my business on those lines is my own affair.
“More than this I have no intention of revealing. You are, of course, at perfect liberty to make every inquiry you please of Lord Dunton, but I fancy you will obtain very small satisfaction from him.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Rookley, desirous of putting on an appearance which would suggest that he was not entirely baffled—“of course Lord Dunton may refuse to give any information, for the simple reason that such an explanation may be inconvenient to himself.”
“I do not quite follow you,” remarked Westerham.
“What I intended to imply,” said Mr. Rookley, “is that your friendship may not be so welcome to Lord Dunton as Lord Dunton's friendship is to you.”
“I think you are very insolent, Mr. Rookley,” said Westerham.
“Possibly,” answered the man from Scotland Yard; “but I think I have some justification for being rude. Now, although it is true that I cannot ascertain where you slept last night, I am at any rate acquainted with some of your movements.”
Westerham started. This was growing a little more awkward than he had bargained for. It even occurred to him that it might be foolish to withhold too much information from Mr. Rookley. But, on the other hand, if he revealed his identity his troubles would be greatly increased, for it would inevitably lead to a break with Melun and that would double his difficulties in probing the mystery of the Premier's secret.
“Yes,” Mr. Rookley went on, with a return to his old superiority and ease of manner; “you attended the Premier's reception last night”—hepaused that his words might have more dramatic force—“and you went under the auspices of Captain Melun.”
“Indeed,” said Westerham, “you seem to be remarkably well informed.”
“I am,” agreed Mr. Rookley, shutting his mouth with a snap.
“I am,” he continued, “and I know this—that either you must be a very foolish, a very ignorant, or a very bad young man to have had the audacity to attend Lord Penshurst's reception under such a guardianship.”
“It is really very kind of you to make such distinctions,” laughed Westerham. “Only, as it happens, there is another alternative which you have not suggested. It is not my business to point it out to you, but I will give you the opportunity of discovering it for yourself. I know quite enough of Captain Melun to prevent my pleading ignorance or folly in the cultivation of his acquaintance; on the other hand, if you suggest that I am apparently enjoying his friendship because my ideas of life are the same as his, then you are wrong again. Can you think of any other reason for my being with Captain Melun?”
“None,” said the detective, with what was meant to be a most significant air.
“Then,” said Westerham,“suppose we adjourn this conversationsine die. It affords me very little pleasure, and apparently gives you uncommonly little satisfaction. Before you go, however, I am afraid I must add to your troubles. I assure you that I have not the faintest notion who broke into my rooms and who gagged my valet, any more than I have the remotest idea what the motive could possibly be. There were a good many things, scarf-pins and the like, lying about all over the place, but nothing has been stolen.”
“Oh,” said the detective with deep meaning, “but suppose they were looking for something else quite other than articles of value—I should say of intrinsic value. Suppose that someone had a notion that he would like to recover something you had no right to be possessed of; or suppose that the person who broke in imagined that he might find something among your papers which would be of use to him?”
“Now, my dear sir,” said Westerham, “I do not wish to insult you, but really you are a very poor judge of human character. Do you suppose I should not know if whatever I had no right to be possessed of had gone? Do you think that if some paper or papers which might give someone else a hold over me had been taken I should not also by this time be acquainted with the fact? And in either of those cases, should I be so entirely indifferent to the matter as I am now? No, I assure you I think that there has been some mistake.”
“Now look here, Mr. Robinson,” said the detective, with a more friendly air, “let me ask a straight question. Do you suspect that Captain Melun has had a hand in this?”
“No,” replied Westerham, with emphasis, “I do not. I feel certain that he has had nothing to do with it.”
“Is there no one else, then, whom you can possibly conceive guilty of such an outrage?”
Westerham gave himself up to a few minutes of genuine hard thinking.
“No,” he said at last slowly; “I can think of no one in the world who would have any object in treating my rooms in this way.”
“Then surely,” cried the detective, “if it is a mystery to you, you would like the matter cleared up?”
“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a smile, “cleared up with the assistance of Mr. Rookley. No, thank you very much for your kind offer, but I will clear the matter up for myself. In the meantime, as I see no reason why you should detain me, I will not detain you. Allow me to wish you good-day.”
Without another word he walked into his bedroom and shut the door sharply.
When Westerham told Rookley that he had no conception of the identity of his mysterious visitor he spoke the truth; nor, cudgel his brains as he might, could he advance any theory which satisfied him. It seemed that the best thing he could do was to send for Melun. The captain, he reflected, was more acquainted with this sort of dealing than he was, and might possibly throw some light on the matter. So for Melun he sent.
The captain came with a bad grace at about eight o'clock. He had already seen in the evening papers various accounts of the ransacking of Westerham's rooms.
Westerham began by detailing to him the conversation with the detective, to every word of which the captain listened with a great attention, here and there putting in a question which quiteconvinced Sir Paul that Melun knew nothing of the affair.
However, he was determined to see what Melun would say if he asked him point blank whether he had been playing the burglar.
Upon the question being put to him, Melun laughed quite easily and shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “once bitten, twice shy. My attempt to burgle you on theGiganticwas not so successful as to tempt me to repeat the performance. Besides, I am a fairly good judge of my fellow-men, and I have given up all hope of discovering anything in your past or your present which would lead me to the delectable state of being able to dictate to you.”
“Thank you,” said Westerham, “that is at least frank.”
“I am learning,” returned Melun, “that it is scarcely worth while to be anything else with you.”
“Thank you again,” said Westerham. “And now suppose I ask you whether you can throw any light on the subject?”
“Now,” said Melun, “you are asking a really sensible question. I can. What is more, I think I can completely clear up the mystery for you.”
“So you did have a hand in it, after all?” cried Westerham.
“Well, yes, I had a hand in it; but I took no part in the actual burgling.”
Sir Paul stared at him in amazement. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“First of all,” said Melun,“what was the description of the mysterious stranger given by your valet?”
“Very tall, very thin, with reddish hair and reddish moustache, and, so far as he could see through the mask on his face, grey eyes. His hands, as Blyth had good reason to notice, were very large and sunburnt, with uncommonly well-kept nails.”
Melun nodded his head. “Good,” he said, “the description tallies exactly with the gentleman I suspected of having been here this afternoon.
“You may have noticed,” he continued, “that one of the men most in evidence at Downing Street last night was the Premier's private secretary, the Hon. Claude Hilden.”
“Yes,” said Westerham, eagerly, “what of him?”
“He burgled your rooms,” said Melun, calmly.
“What!” Westerham jumped out of his chair and stood over Melun. “What do you mean? Why, it is impossible. If he did that it must have been by Lord Penshurst's orders, and what, in the name of Heaven, could they have expected to find here?”
“Exactly what Hilden came to find—what he did find, and what he took away with him.”
“In the name of Heaven, what?” asked Westerham, to whom things were becoming a little too complicated for him to follow.
“What Hilden found,” said Melun, slowly and precisely, “were Lady Kathleen's diamonds.”
“Lady Kathleen's diamonds!”
“Yes,” answered Melun, smiling as though with intense relish of an infinitely fine jest,“Lady Kathleen's diamonds.
“They were missed shortly after your departure, and you were at once suspected of being the author of the theft. And therefore Lord Penshurst, knowing that Bagley had made one attempt before, and that I was connected with Bagley, at first suspected me.
“In fact, at about two in the morning, Hilden came around to my rooms with the Premier. They roused me from sleep and taxed me with the theft, Lord Penshurst threatening that if I did not give them up he would certainly not accede to the other terms which I am asking of him.
“I told him quite frankly that I did not take them but that I strongly suspected you.”
“You scoundrel!” cried Westerham.
In his sudden rage he would have seized Melun by the throat; but Melun, whom Westerham had never seen more calm and self-possessed, pushed his hand aside and said, “Softly, softly! you had better hear me out.”
“Go on!”
“I told them,” continued Melun, “that it would be folly to rouse you as they had aroused me. In fact, I told them that you were a strong man armed—that any attack made on you or your rooms in the small hours would inevitably lead to one of them being damaged, which would only result in awkward police-court proceedings and painful revelations.”
“You scoundrel! You scoundrel!” cried Westerham again.
“Wait a minute, my dear fellow; hear me out,” pleaded Melun.“You may consider that you have played the game with me, but that is not my own view of things. It was necessary to teach you a lesson. In your nice, strong, masterful way you were under the impression that you had to deal with a pack of cowards and curs.”
“So I have,” said Westerham, grimly.
“Perhaps; but one of them is not quite so impotent as you judged him, and if you reflect a moment you will see, at any rate, that you are at present in a rather awkward predicament. However, to get on with my tale.
“I had you watched this morning, and as soon as you left your rooms I slipped in here with the diamonds.”
“But you said you had not taken them,” said Westerham.
“So I did, but I took them none the less. I got rid of your man for a minute on some pretext, and just jammed them into the pocket of the coat you had worn the night before. Then I at once communicated with Downing Street. I could not tell them where the diamonds actually were, for that would have given me away, but I knew that Lord Penshurst and Hilden were sufficiently desperate to turn your place upside down to find them. They did find them, for Hilden telephoned the fact to me half an hour before you sent for me.”
“Good Lord!” said Westerham, and held up his hand for silence. He wished to think. Matters were becoming more and more difficult to understand. Lord Penshurst went in dread of Melun—so great a dread that he even had to confide in his nephew and his private secretary when Melun pressed him too hard. It was evident, too, that Melun's grip of the Premier must be of the most remorseless kind, or such a man as Lord Penshurstwould never stoop to countenance such deeds on Melun's part.
This was bad enough, but the whole affair assumed a far more sinister aspect when Westerham reflected that Lady Kathleen must of necessity be acquainted with Lord Penshurst's expedition in the small hours, and of her cousin's burglarious exploits in the afternoon.
“No wonder,” groaned Westerham to himself, “she did not trust me. No wonder! No wonder! Oh, the shame of it! This is the hardest part of all—to be suspected, and to be suspected of such a mean and dastardly thing as this.”
“Good Heavens!” he cried aloud, “but for the fact that I should be hung for it, which would unfortunately spoil my chances in certain directions, I think I could shoot you on the spot.”
“Just so,” said Melun, “but I feel safe in the knowledge that you won't.”
“I'll tell you what I will do,” said Westerham, “and I have every justification for doing it—I will go back on my agreement with you here and now. In half an hour I will be in Downing Street and expose the whole thing. Yes, by Heavens! And if Lord Penshurst won't move in the matter himself, then I will see to it that you are prosecuted.”
“No, you won't,” said Melun. “The question really involved is a matter of many men's lives, and one man's life, even yours, will not stand in the way of this secret being kept.”
“Lord Penshurst is no murderer, even though you may be,” cried Westerham, indignantly.
“Perhaps not, my dear sir, perhaps not; but, at the same time, the situation is such that he cannot possible prosecute.”
“What do you mean?” thundered Westerham, again laying his hand roughly on Melun's shoulder.
“Pardon me,” Melun answered, shaking himself free, “but that is my business—and Lord Penshurst's business.”
Poor little Lady Kathleen sobbed till she could sob no more. Then she lifted her head wearily, mopped her swollen eyes, and, gathering herself together, walked slowly back to the Hall.
She went at once to her father's room, to find the Premier in a scarcely less pitiable frame of mind than she was in herself.
The old man was sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands, though the table was littered with papers requiring urgent attention.
Kathleen walked up behind him, and, placing one of her hands on his head, stroked his hair gently.
“Poor father!” she said.
“Heaven help us, my dear!” said Lord Penshurst, and he stood up and took his daughter in his arms, holding her almost as though he were afraid she might be taken from him.
After a little while he became calmer, and began to speak of the dreadful thing which weighed so upon both their spirits.
But even while he spoke of it he looked cautiously about, as though he were fearful that other ears might be listening.
“So you see, little girl,” he said,“that your very kindly estimate of the red-headed man Robinson was entirely wrong. He didn't look like a scoundrel, but he is one. He is not even a scoundrel of Melun's description. Upon my soul, I think I prefer the blackmailer to the mere thief.”
“Do you think,” asked Kathleen, searching her father's face, “that, after all, this is not some of Melun's work?”
“Why should it be?” returned her father.
“I don't know, I am sure,” said Kathleen, doubtfully, “except that I have a sort of feeling that it is.”
“Why?” asked her father.
Then, for the first time, Lady Kathleen told him of her meeting with Bagley in Hyde Park.
“Oh, my dear! my dear!” cried her father, taking her in his arms again.“How many more sacrifices are you prepared to make for me? If I had not confided in you I do not know what I should have done. I assure you that it is only because I dread the awful consequences that would come if my secret were discovered that has prevented me from taking my life. But, as you know, the shedding of my blood would mean the shedding of blood all over the world. Sometimes I think the dread of it is driving me out of my mind.
“And there does not seem to be any hope of getting the thing back—no hope of it at all. By George! I wish we were back in the good old days. Then I could put that Melun on the rack. I'd get the secret out of him somehow.
“But he is too slippery. I even made arrangements to have him watched, but he beats our men all the time. He is here to-day and gone to-morrow. He appears and he vanishes—Heaven only knows how.
“And now, to add to our perplexities, we have got this red-haired giant, who seems to be even more unscrupulous than Melun. Certainly he is more bold. To my way of thinking, it was only a bold stroke to win your confidence that he dealt with Bagley as he did.”
“Oh, father!” cried Kathleen, “I cannot believe that.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Do you suppose that a man who is hand in glove with Melun comes across you and Bagley in the Park by accident? Why, it is one chance against a hundred million.”
“But still it is a chance,” urged Kathleen.
“My dear little girl,” said the Premier, gently, while he patted her cheek, “I am afraid that you are of a very trusting disposition, though that has certainly been to the advantage of your poor old father.
“No, no!” he went on. “Depend on it, he was there by arrangement.
“Besides, how otherwise should he know who you were? And you say he suggested that he should drive you back to Downing Street?
“Gad! it almost makes one admire the man to think of his cool cheek. To drive you back to Downing Street indeed!”
“And yet, father, in spite of it all, I really believe the man's honest. You see, you cut me short. I have something else to tell you yet.”
Lord Penshurst eyed Kathleen uneasily.
“What is it now?” he asked, with a sad little laugh.
“Why,” said Lady Kathleen, and for a moment she felt unaccountably nervous and shy, “he was here this afternoon.”
“What!” roared the Premier; “he was here this afternoon? Why did you not tell me? I would have had the fellow flogged out of the place.”
“Gently, father, gently,” urged Lady Kathleen, “aren't you speaking rather loud?”
“I suppose I am,” said Lord Penshurst, bitterly. “But tell me about it.”
In a very few words Lady Kathleen outlined her interview with Westerham in the Deer Park.
“You know, father,” she concluded, “I almost believe he was speaking the truth when he said that he was quite different from the man we believed him to be.”
“Rubbish, my dear,” snapped the Premier, “he is only a gentlemanly scoundrel—that is all.
“I wonder how long we shall be able to keep Hilden in ignorance of what is really the matter,” he continued. “The dear chap has behaved splendidly—did everything I asked him without a murmur, even to the extent of burglary this afternoon. By the way, he has got your diamonds back. He has just 'phoned me from Downing Street.”
“Oh, let them go! Let them go!” cried Lady Kathleen, with intense weariness. “Their presence seems only to make matters worse.”
Suddenly she threw herself into her father's arms.
“Oh, father, father!” she cried.“Let us do everything we can. Don't let us give up hope. We have still got a fortnight left in which to get that dreadful secret back. Don't let us give up hope. I would rather disguise myself and go out and search for it than have to endure what it means if we fail.”
“Don't cry, my dear. Don't cry. Believe me, I am doing everything I possibly can without giving anything away. But already it seems to me—perhaps I only imagine things—that the servants and people suspect that something is wrong.
“That is why we have got to be brave and look cheerful. I know it will be dreadful for you to have to look after the house party—and the people come to-morrow. Still, it cannot be helped. We have got to go through with it, but after the dance we will go back at once, and then I assure you that if it costs me my life I will make that Melun disgorge.”
Kathleen smiled at her father through her tears.
“You dear old fire-eater,” she said. “I really believe you would.”
“My daughter,” the Premier said, “there has never been a murderer in this family to my knowledge; but I swear to you that if I have to settle the scoundrel myself you shall not marry Melun. Heavens! The price of silence is too big altogether.”
It was all very well for Melun to tell Westerham that he was a strong man armed. But was he?
Westerham pondered over this problem with a puzzled frown. In spite of the checks he had met with, he still felt himself to be, as Melun had said, a strong man. And when he came to a tight corner he was armed for the struggle, and had less fear of things than had Melun.
At times also it seemed as if his ingenuity was greater than the captain's. But, for all that, did he really hold the upper hand? As he impartially summed the matter up for himself it seemed to him that he did not.
On theGigantiche had laughed that Melun should hope to find in his possession anything to make him an easy prey to blackmail. Yet here he was, a prey to the worst blackmail of all—a species of blackmail of the heart. On every hand, and at every turn, no matter in what direction he might strike out, he was more than met and baffled by the one dominant fact that the faintest breath of publicity would inevitably lose him Lady Kathleen.
So great, however, and so entirely unselfish was his love for the Premier's daughter, that he would have faced even that loss bravely could it have brought any peace to the hunted girl's mind. But he realised that to relinquish his claims would beimmediately to throw her into the arms of Melun. Westerham shuddered when he thought of that.
No, crippled and cramped though he was, he must certainly go on—go on in the blind hope that he could find something which would enable him to deal Melun a blow from which he could not recover.
This, however, on further thought, seemed a ratherlaissez fairepolicy to follow. It was ridiculous to think that, in spite of his handicap, he should be beaten and bested at every turn by such a man as Melun.
For fully an hour, therefore, after the captain had left him, Westerham sat, pencil in hand, mapping out plan after plan of campaign. But all of them, as he pored over their possibilities, seemed to avail him nothing, and at last, when well nigh in despair, he tore up into minute fragments the various propositions he had formulated.
Then it suddenly dawned on him that if he could only prove, as he strongly suspected, that Melun was by no means dealing honestly with his fellow criminals, he would be able by a little astute management to turn all the organisation which Melun had at his disposal against the captain himself.
Westerham's bright gaze brightened and his smile broadened. With an almost boyish delight he immediately set to work to devise a scheme whereby he could turn the tables on his enemy.
There was very little time to be lost, and to his joy Westerham remembered that the day was Thursday, the day on the evening of which Melun's various friends met at the pseudo working-man's club at Limehouse.
Immediately he resolved that he would go there that very night.
Rough men had no terrors for him; during his life in the West he had dealt with rougher men than Melun had ever been called on to handle. He laughed as he thought of the possibilities of dominating such a collection of scoundrels as he had seen on his first visit to “The Club.”
Then he bethought him of Mr. Rookley, and he reflected that if the mills of Scotland Yard, like the mills of God, ground exceedingly slowly, they ground uncommonly fine.
It may be an easy thing to detect that one is shadowed by a large man with large boots. But, none the less, it is sufficiently disconcerting to find that the large boots follow one's footsteps persistently and doggedly. Scotland Yard wears down a man by sheer weight.
Westerham knew, too, that he had so aroused the interest of the authorities that they would do their best to watch his every movement. Nor was he wrong.
He realised, therefore, that it would be folly for him to proceed straight from Bruton Street to the East End. Never in his life had he feared any man, nor had he ever before been compelled to face the contingency of throwing off pursuers—and those pursuers the representatives of law and order.
However, the prospect of for once being the pursued rather than the pursuer to some extent tickled his fancy; he resolved to try his 'prentice hand at evasion by secretly making his way from Bruton Street to Walter's Hotel.
Walter's, he imagined, would be probably safe from observation for that night at least. Rookley had practically told Sir Paul that he did not know where he went when he was not in Bruton Street.
First Westerham called in Blyth and questioned him pretty closely; he satisfied himself, however, that whatever the man might think of his master's methods of life he was at least faithful.
Westerham, indeed, resolved to trust him a great deal more than he had done up to then, and told him, without any disguise, that he strongly suspected that Bruton Street was at that moment being watched. Casually, and without the slightest demonstration of surprise, the valet thereupon suggested that it would be just as well for Westerham to change his dress before he left the flat.
This he did, and afterwards sent the porter for a taxicab. Into this he jumped as soon as it arrived, telling the man to drive to Turnham Green.
And long before they reached that distant part of London, Westerham convinced himself that even had he been pursued at all he had certainly outdistanced the pursuers.
From Turnham Green he took the District Railway to Earl's Court. Alighting there, he walked to South Kensington, where he again took the train, on this occasion booking straight through to Whitechapel.
From St. Mary's, Whitechapel, he turned south, and plunging through a maze of little streets came on foot to Limehouse at about nine o'clock.
He had little difficulty in finding the “Cut,” and walking briskly down it, came to the little spacewhere the tall, four-storeyed building was set back from the roadway.
Always quick to observe detail, he had not only noticed but he recollected Melun's peculiar rap. So three times he knocked slowly, and again three times slowly, and then three times in quick succession.
As on the former occasion, the door swung open at once, and the hideous face of the negro he had treated so cavalierly before peered at him from the darkness.
The nigger peered eagerly about as though seeking for Melun, and when he saw that Westerham stood there alone, made as though to slam the door on him.
But Westerham was too quick for him, and thrust his heavy-booted foot into the opening and laughed in the negro's face.
The negro cursed him roundly and demanded what he wanted.
“Let me in,” said Westerham, quietly, “and I will explain.”
Most unwillingly the negro opened the door, and Westerham, entering the passage, looked the black squarely in the eyes.
“I fancy that it is none of your business to inquire what I want?” he said. “I was brought here by Captain Melun and properly introduced, if such is the term you use. And my affairs at the present moment are with the gentlemen of the club. I will thank you to take me there at once.”
The negro gave him an ugly look.
“Did Captain Melun send you?” he asked.
“Mind your own business,” retorted Westerham, sharply. “Lead the way. I shall say what I have to say to my friends.
“Don't play the fool,” he added as the man still looked doubtful. “What do you take me for? A ‘tec’? If I were, do you think I should be ass enough to come here alone and ask to be shown into that crowd?”
The negro grinned as much as to say that he thought him an ass in any case, but he led the way down the passage none the less.
They passed through the opium den as before, and then it seemed that the negro purposely made no disturbance in order that Westerham's entrance might have a proper dramatic effect.
He was right in his estimation of the confusion it would cause.
If one may so term it, the parliament of scoundrels was in full session. The long trestle table was in the centre of the room, and at one end of it sat the bullet-headed man, while at the other was the young ruffian whom Westerham knew by the name of Crow.
It was evidently Crow, too, who was in supreme command.
The bullet-headed man rose up and stared at Westerham with starting eyes. The other men followed his gaze and leapt to their feet with cries and oaths.
Crow, of the vicious eyes and the hawk-like nose and the large, brutal hands, alone seemed undismayed.
The negro, having waited just sufficiently long to watch the sensation caused by Westerham's entrance,had slipped out of the club-room on silent feet.
Crow, in a quick, hard voice, cried, “The door!”
Instantly, as though their stations had by previous arrangements been allotted them—as was indeed the case—two men jumped from their seats and put their backs against the door. As they stood there they drew their knives, and on taking a step forward Westerham found himself cut off from retreat and facing the angry eyes of quite a score of men.
Two of them had pulled out revolvers, but Crow caught their action with quick and angry eyes.
“Don't be fools,” he said; “put those barkers away. We want no noise down here.”
Sullenly the men obeyed.
“Come to the table, Mr. Robinson,” said Crow, in a manner which suggested he had no doubt that his instructions would be followed, “and explain what this intrusion means.”
Westerham laughed and drew away from the men with the knives. He walked easily down to the table to the place which had been vacated by the bullet-headed man, and without so much as a word of apology took that plump and furious person's seat.
He looked easily and almost lazily along the lines of vicious faces until his gaze finally rested on Crow.
“I understood,” he said, in a pleasant voice, “that after my introduction the other night I was at liberty to come here when I pleased.”
“Unfortunately,” said Crow,“you have made a mistake. We had no desire to see you then, much less had we any wish to set eyes on you again.”
“I should think not!” blared the bullet-headed man.
From the rest of the men came murmurs and angry words.
“My visit,” said Westerham, “should be of considerable interest to you all. It is also of considerable interest to myself, as it proves that you act independently of Melun. I understood from him that you held no council unless he was with you.”