Four men were discussing the verdict at the adjourned inquest upon Victor Bidlake, at Soto's American Bar about a fortnight later. They were Robert Fairfax, a young actor in musical comedy, Peter Jacks, a cinema producer, Gerald Morse, a dress designer, and Sidney Voss, a musical composer and librettist, all habitues of the place and members of the little circle towards which the dead man had seemed, during the last few weeks of his life, to have become attracted. At a table a short distance away, Francis Ledsam was seated with a cocktail and a dish of almonds before him. He seemed to be studying an evening paper and to be taking but the scantiest notice of the conversation at the bar.
“It just shows,” Peter Jacks declared, “that crime is the easiest game in the world. Given a reasonable amount of intelligence, and a murderer's business is about as simple as a sandwich-man's.”
“The police,” Gerald Morse, a pale-faced, anaemic-looking youth, declared, “rely upon two things, circumstantial evidence and motive. In the present case there is no circumstantial evidence, and as to motive, poor old Victor was too big a fool to have an enemy in the world.”
Sidney Voss, who was up for the Sheridan Club and had once been there, glanced respectfully across at Francis.
“You ought to know something about crime and criminals, Mr. Ledsam,” he said. “Have you any theory about the affair?”
Francis set down the glass from which he had been drinking, and, folding up the evening paper, laid it by the side of him.
“As a matter of fact,” he answered calmly, “I have.”
The few words, simply spoken, yet in their way charged with menace, thrilled through the little room. Fairfax swung round upon his stool, a tall, aggressive-looking youth whose good-looks were half eaten up with dissipation. His eyes were unnaturally bright, the cloudy remains in his glass indicated absinthe.
“Listen, you fellows!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Francis Ledsam, the great criminal barrister, is going to solve the mystery of poor old Victor's death for us!”
The three other young men all turned around from the bar. Their eyes and whole attention seemed rivetted upon Francis. No one seemed to notice the newcomer who passed quietly to a chair in the background, although he was a person of some note and interest to all of them. Imperturbable and immaculate as ever, Sir Timothy Brast smiled amiably upon the little gathering, summoned a waiter and ordered a Dry Martini.
“I can scarcely promise to do that,” Francis said slowly, his eyes resting for a second or two upon each of the four faces. “Exact solutions are a little out of my line. I think I can promise to give you a shock, though, if you're strong enough to stand it.”
There was another of those curiously charged silences. The bartender paused with the cocktail shaker still in his hand. Voss began to beat nervously upon the counter with his knuckles.
“We can stand anything but suspense,” he declared. “Get on with your shock-giving.”
“I believe that the person responsible for the death of Victor Bidlake is in this room at the present moment,” Francis declared.
Again the silence, curious, tense and dramatic. Little Jimmy, the bartender, who had leaned forward to listen, stood with his mouth slightly open and the cocktail-shaker which was in his hand leaked drops upon the counter. The first conscious impulse of everybody seemed to be to glance suspiciously around the room. The four young men at the bar, Jimmy and one waiter, Francis and Sir Timothy Brast, were its only occupants.
“I say, you know, that's a bit thick, isn't it?” Sidney Voss stammered at last. “I wasn't in the place at all, I was in Manchester, but it's a bit rough on these other chaps, Victor's pals.”
“I was dining at the Cafe Royal,” Jacks declared, loudly.
Morse drew a little breath.
“Every one knows that I was at Brighton,” he muttered.
“I went home directly the bar here closed,” Jimmy said, in a still dazed tone. “I heard nothing about it till the next morning.”
“Alibis by the bushel,” Fairfax laughed harshly. “As for me, I was doing my show—every one knows that. I was never in the place at all.”
“The murder was not committed in the place,” Francis commented calmly.
Fairfax slid off his stool. A spot of colour blazed in his pale cheeks, the glass which he was holding snapped in his fingers. He seemed suddenly possessed.
“I say, what the hell are you getting at?” he cried. “Are you accusing me—or any of us Victor's pals?”
“I accuse no one,” Francis replied, unperturbed. “You invited a statement from me and I made it.”
Sir Timothy Brast rose from his place and made his way to the end of the counter, next to Fairfax and nearest Francis. He addressed the former. There was an inscrutable smile upon his lips, his manner was reassuring.
“Young gentleman,” he begged, “pray do not disturb yourself. I will answer for it that neither you nor any of your friends are the objects of Mr. Leadsam's suspicion. Without a doubt, it is I to whom his somewhat bold statement refers.”
They all stared at him, immersed in another crisis, bereft of speech. He tapped a cigarette upon the counter and lit it. Fairfax, whose glass had just been refilled by the bartender, was still ghastly pale, shaking with nervousness and breathing hoarsely. Francis, tense and alert in his chair, watched the speaker but said nothing.
“You see,” Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four young men at the bar, “I happen to have two special aversions in life. One is sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives—their stories, their methods and everything about them. I chanced to sit upstairs in the restaurant, within hearing of Mr. Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore, the novelist, the other night, and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will allow me to say so,”—with a courteous bow to Francis—“attained considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten, flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes. I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of—I think you young men call it—pulling his leg.”
Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near Francis.
“I moved my place, therefore,” Sir Timothy continued, “and I whispered in Mr. Ledsam's ear some rodomontade to the effect that if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world, I was by ambition the arch-criminal—or words to that effect. And to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours.”
“A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,” Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and drawing them towards him.
Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
“I will confess,” he admitted, “that I had not in my mind an affair of such dimensions. My harmless remark, however, has produced cataclysmic effects. The conversation to which I refer took place on the night of young Bidlake's murder, and Mr. Ledsam, with my somewhat, I confess, bombastic words in his memory, has pitched upon me as the bloodthirsty murderer.”
“Hold on for a moment, sir,” Peter Jacks begged, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “We've got to have another drink quick. Poor old Bobby here looks knocked all of a heap, and I'm kind of jumpy myself. You'll join us, sir?”
“I thank you,” was the courteous reply. “I do not as a rule indulge to the extent of more than one cocktail, but I will recognise the present as an exceptional occasion. To continue, then,” he went on, after the glasses had been filled, “I have during the last few weeks experienced the ceaseless and lynx-eyed watch of Mr. Ledsam and presumably his myrmidons. I do not know whether you are all acquainted with my name, but in case you are not, let me introduce myself. I am Sir Timothy Brast, Chairman, as I dare say you know, of the United Transvaal Gold Mines, Chairman, also, of two of the principal hospitals in London, Vice President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a patron of sport in many forms, a traveller in many countries, and a recipient of the honour of knighthood from His Majesty, in recognition of my services for various philanthropic works. These facts, however, have availed me nothing now that the bungling amateur investigator into crime has pointed the finger of suspicion towards me. My servants and neighbours have alike been plagued to death with cunning questions as to my life and habits. I have been watched in the streets and watched in my harmless amusements. My simple life has been peered into from every perspective and direction. In short, I am suspect. Mr. Ledsam's terrifying statement a few minutes ago was directed towards me and me only.”
There were murmurs of sympathy from the four young men, who each in his own fashion appeared to derive consolation from Sir Timothy's frank and somewhat caustic statement. Francis, who had listened unmoved to this flow of words, glanced towards the door behind which dark figures seemed to be looming.
“That is all you have to say, Sir Timothy?” he asked politely.
“For the present, yes,” was the guarded reply. “I trust that I have succeeded in setting these young gentlemen's minds at ease.”
“There is one of them,” Francis said gravely, “whose mind not even your soothing words could lighten.”
Shopland had risen unobtrusively to his feet. He laid his hand suddenly on Fairfax's shoulder and whispered in his ear. Fairfax, after his first start, seemed cool enough. He stretched out his hand towards the glass which as yet he had not touched; covered it with his fingers for a moment and drained its contents. The gently sarcastic smile left Sir Timothy's lips. His eyebrows met in a quick frown, his eyes glittered.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded sharply.
A policeman in plain clothes had advanced from the door. The manager hovered in the background. Shopland saw that all was well.
“It means,” he announced, “that I have just arrested Mr. Robert Fairfax here on a charge of wilful murder. There is a way out through the kitchens, I believe. Take his other arm, Holmes. Now, gentlemen, if you please.”
There were a few bewildered exclamations—then a dramatic hush. Fairfax had fallen forward on his stool. He seemed to have relapsed into a comatose state. Every scrap of colour was drained from his sallow cheeks, his eyes were covered with a film and he was breathing heavily. The detective snatched up the glass from which the young man had been drinking, and smelt it.
“I saw him drop a tablet in just now,” Jimmy faltered. “I thought it was one of the digestion pills he uses sometimes.”
Shopland and the policeman placed their hands underneath the armpits of the unconscious man.
“He's done, sir,” the former whispered to Francis. “We'll try and get him to the station if we can.”
The greatest tragedies in the world, provided they happen to other people, have singularly little effect upon the externals of our own lives. There was certainly not a soul in Soto's that night who did not know that Bobby Fairfax had been arrested in the bar below for the murder of Victor Bidlake, had taken poison and died on the way to the police station. Yet the same number of dinners were ordered and eaten, the same quantity of wine drunk. The management considered that they had shown marvellous delicacy of feeling by restraining the orchestra from their usual musical gymnastics until after the service of dinner. Conversation, in consequence, buzzed louder than ever. One speculation in particular absorbed the attention of every single person in the room—why had Bobby Fairfax, at the zenith of a very successful career, risked the gallows and actually accepted death for the sake of killing Victor Bidlake, a young man with whom, so far as anybody knew, he had no cause of quarrel whatever? There were many theories, many people who knew the real facts and whispered them into a neighbour's ear, only to have them contradicted a few moments later. Yet, curiously enough, the two men who knew most about it were the two most silent men in the room, for each was dining alone. Francis, who had remained only in the hope that something of the sort might happen, was conscious of a queer sense of excitement when, with the service of coffee, Sir Timothy, glass in hand, moved up from a table lower down and with a word of apology took the vacant place by his side. It was what he had desired, and yet he felt a thrill almost of fear at Sir Timothy's murmured words. He felt that he was in the company of one who, if not an enemy, at any rate had no friendly feeling towards him.
“My congratulations, Mr. Ledsam,” Sir Timothy said quietly. “You appear to have started your career with a success.”
“Only a partial one,” Francis acknowledged, “and as a matter of fact I deny that I have started in any new career. It was easy enough to make use of a fluke and direct the intelligence of others towards the right person, but when the real significance of the thing still eludes you, one can scarcely claim a triumph.”
Sir Timothy gently knocked the ash from the very fine cigar which he was smoking.
“Still, your groundwork was good,” he observed.
Francis shrugged his shoulders.
“That,” he admitted, “was due to chance.”
“Shall we exchange notes?” Sir Timothy suggested gently. “It might be interesting.”
“As you will,” Francis assented. “There is no particular secret in the way I stumbled upon the truth. I was dining here that night, as you know, with Andrew Wilmore, and while he was ordering the dinner and talking to some friends, I went down to the American Bar to have a cocktail. Miss Daisy Hyslop and Fairfax were seated there alone and talking confidentially. Fairfax was insisting that Miss Hyslop should do something which puzzled her. She consented reluctantly, and Fairfax then hurried off to the theatre. Later on, Miss Hyslop and the unfortunate young man occupied a table close to ours, and I happened to notice that she made a point of leaving the restaurant at a particular time. While they were waiting in the vestibule she grew very impatient. I was standing behind them and I saw her glance at the clock just before she insisted upon her companion's going out himself to look for a taxicab. Ergo, one enquires at Fairfax's theatre. For that exact three-quarters of an hour he is off the stage. At that point my interest in the matter ceases. Scotland Yard was quite capable of the rest.”
“Disappointing,” Sir Timothy murmured. “I thought at first that you were over-modest. I find that I was mistaken. It was chance alone which set you on the right track.”
“Well, there is my story, at any rate,” Francis declared. “With how much of your knowledge of the affair are you going to indulge me?”
Sir Timothy slowly revolved his brandy glass.
“Well,” he said, “I will tell you this. The two young men concerned, Bidlake and Fairfax, were both guests of mine recently at my country house. They had discovered for one another a very fierce and reasonable antipathy. With that recurrence to primitivism with which I have always been a hearty sympathiser, they agreed, instead of going round their little world making sneering remarks about each other, to fight it out.”
“At your suggestion, I presume?” Francis interposed.
“Precisely,” Sir Timothy assented. “I recommended that course, and I offered them facilities for bringing the matter to a crisis. The fight, indeed, was to have come off the day after the unfortunate episode which anticipâtéd it.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you knew—” Francis began.
Sir Timothy checked him quietly but effectively.
“I knew nothing,” he said, “except this. They were neither of them young men of much stomach, and I knew that the one who was the greater coward would probably try to anticipâté the matter by attacking the other first if he could. I knew that Fairfax was the greater coward—not that there was much to choose between them—and I also knew that he was the injured person. That is really all there is about it. My somewhat theatrical statement to you was based upon probability, and not upon any certain foreknowledge. As you see, it came off.”
“And the cause of their quarrel?” Francis asked.
“There might have been a hundred reasons,” Sir Timothy observed. “As a matter of fact, it was the eternal one. There is no need to mention a woman's name, so we will let it go at that.”
There was a moment's silence—a strange, unforgettable moment for Francis Ledsam, who seemed by some curious trick of the imagination to have been carried away into an impossible and grotesque world. The hum of eager conversation, the popping of corks, the little trills of feminine laughter, all blended into one sensual and not unmusical chorus, seemed to fade from his ears. He fancied himself in some subterranean place of vast dimensions, through the grim galleries of which men and women with evil faces crept like animals. And towering above them, unreal in size, his scornful face an epitome of sin, the knout which he wielded symbolical and ghastly, driving his motley flock with the leer of the evil shepherd, was the man from whom he had already learnt to recoil with horror. The picture came and went in a flash. Francis found himself accepting a courteously offered cigar from his companion.
“You see, the story is very much like many others,” Sir Timothy murmured, as he lit a fresh Cigar himself and leaned back with the obvious enjoyment of the cultivated smoker. “In every country of the world, the animal world as well as the human world, the male resents his female being taken from him. Directly he ceases to resent it, he becomes degenerate. Surely you must agree with me, Mr. Leddam?”
“It comes to this, then,” Francis pronounced deliberately, “that you stage-managed the whole affair.”
Sir Timothy smiled.
“It is my belief, Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “that you grow more and more intelligent every hour.”
Sir Timothy glanced presently at his thin gold watch and put it back in his pocket regretfully.
“Alas!” he sighed, “I fear that I must tear myself away. I particularly want to hear the last act of 'Louise.' The new Frenchwoman sings, and my daughter is alone. You will excuse me.”
Francis nodded silently. His companion's careless words had brought a sudden dazzling vision into his mind. Sir Timothy scrawled his name at the foot of his bill.
“It is one of my axioms in life, Mr. Ledsam,” he continued, “that there is more pleasure to be derived from the society of one's enemies than one's friends. If I thought you sufficiently educated in the outside ways of the world to appreciate this, I would ask if you cared to accompany me?”
Francis did not hesitate for a moment.
“Sir Timothy,” he said, “I have the greatest detestation for you, and I am firmly convinced that you represent all the things in life abhorrent to me. On the other hand, I should very much like to hear the last act of 'Louise,' and it would give me the greatest pleasure to meet your daughter. So long as there is no misunderstanding.”
Sir Timothy laughed.
“Come,” he said, “we will get our hats. I am becoming more and more grateful to you, Mr. Ledsam. You are supplying something in my life which I have lacked. You appeal alike to my sense of humour and my imagination. We will visit the opera together.”
The two men left Soto's together, very much in the fashion of two ordinary acquaintances sallying out to spend the evening together. Sir Timothy's Rolls-Royce limousine was in attendance, and in a few minutes they were threading the purlieus of Covent Garden. It was here that an incident occurred which afforded Francis considerable food for thought during the next few days.
It was a Friday night, and one or two waggons laden with vegetable produce were already threading their way through the difficult thoroughfares. Suddenly Sir Timothy, who was looking out of the window, pressed the button of the car, which was at once brought to a standstill. Before the footman could reach the door Sir Timothy was out in the street. For the first time Francis saw him angry. His eyes were blazing. His voice—Francis had followed him at once into the street—shook with passion. His hand had fallen heavily upon the shoulder of a huge carter, who, with whip in hand, was belabouring a thin scarecrow of a horse.
“What the devil are you doing?” Sir Timothy demanded.
The man stared at his questioner, and the instinctive antagonism of race vibrated in his truculent reply. The carter was a beery-faced, untidy-looking brute, but powerfully built and with huge shoulders. Sir Timothy, straight as a dart, without overcoat or any covering to his thin evening clothes, looked like a stripling in front of him.
“I'm whippin' 'er, if yer want to know,” was the carter's reply. “I've got to get up the 'ill, 'aven't I? Garn and mind yer own business!”
“This is my business,” Sir Timothy declared, laying his hand upon the neck of the horse. “I am an official of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. You are laying yourself open to a fine for your treatment of this poor brute.”
“I'll lay myself open for a fine for the treatment of something else, if you don't quid 'old of my 'oss,” the carter retorted, throwing his whip back into the waggon and coming a step nearer. “D'yer 'ear? I don't want any swells interferin' with my business. You 'op it. Is that strite enough? 'Op it, quick!”
Sir Timothy's anger seemed to have abated. There was even the beginning of a smile upon his lips. All the time his hand caressed the neck of the horse. Francis noticed with amazement that the poor brute had raised his head and seemed to be making some faint effort at reciprocation.
“My good man,” Sir Timothy said, “you seem to be one of those brutal persons unfit to be trusted with an animal. However—”
The carter had heard quite enough. Sir Timothy's tone seemed to madden him. He clenched his fist and rushed in.
“You take that for interferin', you big toff!” he shouted.
The result of the man's effort at pugilism was almost ridiculous. His arms appeared to go round like windmills beating the air. It really seemed as though he had rushed upon the point of Sir Timothy's knuckles, which had suddenly shot out like the piston of an engine. The carter lay on his back for a moment. Then he staggered viciously to his feet.
“Don't,” Sir Timothy begged, as he saw signs of another attack. “I don't want to hurt you. I have been amateur champion of two countries. Not quite fair, is it?”
“Wot d'yer want to come interferin' with a chap's business for?” the man growled, dabbing his cheek with a filthy handkerchief but keeping at a respectful distance.
“It happens to be my business also,” Sir Timothy replied, “to interfere whenever I see animals ill-treated. Now I don't want to be unreasonable. That animal has done all the work it ought to do in this world. How much is she worth to you?”
Through the man's beer-clogged brain a gleam of cunning began to find its way. He looked at the Rolls-Royce, with the two motionless servants on the box, at Francis standing by, at Sir Timothy, even to his thick understanding the very prototype of a “toff.”
“That 'oss,” he said, “ain't what she was, it's true, but there's a lot of work in 'er yet. She may not be much to look at but she's worth forty quid to me—ay, and one to spit on!”
Sir Timothy counted out some notes from the pocketbook which he had produced, and handed them to the man.
“Here are fifty pounds,” he said. “The mare is mine. Johnson!”
The second man sprang from his seat and came round.
“Unharness that mare,” his master ordered, “help the man push his trolley back out of the way, then lead the animal to the mews in Curzon Street. See that she is well bedded down and has a good feed of corn. To-morrow I shall send her down to the country, but I will come and have a look at her first.”
The man touched his hat and hastened to commence his task. The carter, who had been busy counting the notes, thrust them into his pocket with a grin.
“Good luck to yer, guvnor!” he shouted out, in valedictory fashion. “'Ope I meets yer again when I've an old crock on the go.”
Sir Timothy turned his head.
“If ever I happen to meet you, my good man,” he threatened, “using your whip upon a poor beast who's doing his best, I promise you you won't get up in two minutes, or twenty.... We might walk the last few yards, Mr. Ledsam.”
The latter acquiesced at once, and in a moment or two they were underneath the portico of the Opera House. Sir Timothy had begun to talk about the opera but Francis was a little distrait. His companion glanced at him curiously.
“You are puzzled, Mr. Ledsam?” he remarked.
“Very,” was the prompt response.
Sir Timothy smiled.
“You are one of these primitive Anglo-Saxons,” he said, “who can see the simple things with big eyes, but who are terribly worried at an unfamiliar constituent. You have summed me up in your mind as a hardened brute, a criminal by predilection, a patron of murderers. Ergo, you ask yourself why should I trouble to save a poor beast of a horse from being chastised, and go out of my way to provide her with a safe asylum for the rest of her life? Shall I help you, Mr. Ledsam?”
“I wish you would,” Francis confessed.
They had passed now through the entrance to the Opera House and were in the corridor leading to the grand tier boxes. On every side Sir Timothy had been received with marks of deep respect. Two bowing attendants were preceding them. Sir Timothy leaned towards his companion.
“Because,” he whispered, “I like animals better than human beings.”
Margaret Hilditch, her chair pushed back into the recesses of the box, scarcely turned her head at her father's entrance.
“I have brought an acquaintance of yours, Margaret,” the latter announced, as he hung up his hat. “You remember Mr. Ledsam?”
Francis drew a little breath of relief as he bowed over her hand. For the second time her inordinate composure had been assailed. She was her usual calm and indifferent self almost immediately, but the gleam of surprise, and he fancied not unpleasant surprise, had been unmistakable.
“Are you a devotee, Mr. Ledsam?” she asked.
“I am fond of music,” Francis answered, “especially this opera.”
She motioned to the chair in the front of the box, facing the stage.
“You must sit there,” she insisted. “I prefer always to remain here, and my father always likes to face the audience. I really believe,” she went on, “that he likes to catch the eye of the journalist who writes little gossipy items, and to see his name in print.”
“But you yourself?” Francis ventured.
“I fancy that my reasons for preferring seclusion should be obvious enough,” she replied, a little bitterly.
“My daughter is inclined, I fear, to be a little morbid,” Sir Timothy said, settling down in his place.
Francis made no reply. A triangular conversation of this sort was almost impossible. The members of the orchestra were already climbing up to their places, in preparation for the overture to the last act. Sir Timothy rose to his feet.
“You will excuse me for a moment,” he begged. “I see a lady to whom I must pay my respects.”
Francis drew a sigh of relief at his departure. He turned at once to his companion.
“Did you mind my coming?” he asked.
“Mind it?” she repeated, with almost insolent nonchalance. “Why should it affect me in any way? My father's friends come and go. I have no interest in any of them.”
“But,” he protested, “I want you to be interested in me.”
She moved a little uneasily in her place. Her tone, nevertheless, remained icy.
“Could you possibly manage to avoid personalities in your conversation, Mr. Ledsam?” she begged.
“I have tried already to tell you how I feel about such things.”
She was certainly difficult. Francis realised that with a little sigh.
“Were you surprised to see me with your father?” he asked, a little inanely.
“I cannot conceive what you two have found in common,” she admitted.
“Perhaps our interest in you,” he replied. “By-the-bye, I have just seen him perform a quixotic but a very fine action,” Francis said. “He stopped a carter from thrashing his horse; knocked him down, bought the horse from him and sent it home.”
She was mildly interested.
“An amiable side of my father's character which no one would suspect,” she remarked. “The entire park of his country house at Hatch End is given over to broken-down animals.”
“I am one of those,” he confessed, “who find this trait amazing.”
“And I am another,” she remarked coolly. “If any one settled down seriously to try and understand my father, he would need the spectacles of a De Quincey, the outlook of a Voltaire, and the callousness of a Borgia. You see, he doesn't lend himself to any of the recognised standards.”
“Neither do you,” he said boldly.
She looked away from him across the House, to where Sir Timothy was talking to a man and woman in one of the ground-floor boxes. Francis recognised them with some surprise—an agricultural Duke and his daughter, Lady Cynthia Milton, one of the most, beautiful and famous young women in London.
“Your father goes far afield for his friends,” Francis remarked.
“My father has no friends,” she replied. “He has many acquaintances. I doubt whether he has a single confidant. I expect Cynthia is trying to persuade him to invite her to his next party at The Walled House.”
“I should think she would fail, won't she?” he asked.
“Why should you think that?”
Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Your father's entertainments have the reputation of being somewhat unique,” he remarked. “You do not, by-the-bye, attend them yourself.”
“You must remember that I have had very few opportunities so far,” she observed. “Besides, Cynthia has tastes which I do not share.”
“As, for instance?”
“She goes to the National Sporting Club. She once travelled, I know, over a hundred miles to go to a bull fight.”
“On the whole,” Francis said, “I am glad that you do not share her tastes.”
“You know her?” Margaret enquired.
“Indifferently well,” Francis replied. “I knew her when she was a child, and we seem to come together every now and then at long intervals. As a debutante she was charming. Lately it seems to me that she has got into the wrong set.”
“What do you call the wrong set?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“Please don't think that I am laying down the law,” he said. “I have been out so little, the last few years, that I ought not, perhaps, to criticise. Lady Cynthia, however, seems to me to belong to the extreme section of the younger generation, the section who have a sort of craze for the unusual, whose taste in art and living is distorted and bizarre. You know what I mean, don't you—black drawing-rooms, futurist wall-papers, opium dens and a cocaine box! It's to some extent affectation, of course, but it's a folly that claims its victims.”
She studied him for a moment attentively. His leanness was the leanness of muscular strength and condition, his face was full of vigour and determination.
“You at least have escaped the abnormal,” she remarked. “I am not quite sure how the entertainments at The Walled House would appeal to you, but if my father should invite you there, I should advise you not to go.”
“Why not?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment.
“I really don't know why I should trouble to give you advice,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I don't care whether you go or not. In any case, you are scarcely likely to be asked.”
“I am not sure that I agree with you,” he protested. “Your father seems to have taken quite a fancy to me.”
“And you?” she murmured.
“Well, I like the way he bought that horse,” Francis admitted. “And I am beginning to realise that there may be something in the theory which he advanced when he invited me to accompany him here this evening—that there is a certain piquancy in one's intercourse with an enemy, which friendship lacks. There may be complexities in his character which as yet I have not appreciated.”
The curtain had gone up and the last act of the opera had commenced. She leaned back in her chair. Without a word or even a gesture, he understood that a curtain had been let down between them. He obeyed her unspoken wish and relapsed into silence. Her very absorption, after all, was a hopeful sign. She would have him believe that she felt nothing, that she was living outside all the passion and sentiment of life. Yet she was absorbed in the music.... Sir Timothy came back and seated himself silently. It was not until the tumult of applause which broke out after the great song of the French ouvrier, that a word passed between them.
“Cavalisti is better,” Sir Timothy commented. “This man has not the breadth of passion. At times he is merely peevish.”
She shook her head.
“Cavalisti would be too egotistical for the part,” she said quietly. “It is difficult.”
Not another word was spoken until the curtain fell. Francis lingered for a moment over the arrangement of her cloak. Sir Timothy was already outside, talking to some acquaintances.
“It has been a great pleasure to see you like this unexpectedly,” he said, a little wistfully.
“I cannot imagine why,” she answered, with an undernote of trouble in her tone. “Remember the advice I gave you before. No good can come of any friendship between my father and you.”
“There is this much of good in it, at any rate,” he answered, as he held open the door for her. “It might give me the chance of seeing you sometimes.”
“That is not a matter worth considering,” she replied.
“I find it very much worth considering,” he whispered, losing his head for a moment as they stood close together in the dim light of the box, and a sudden sense of the sweetness of her thrilled his pulses. “There isn't anything in the world I want so much as to see you oftener—to have my chance.”
There was a momentary glow in her eyes. Her lips quivered. The few words which he saw framed there—he fancied of reproof—remained unspoken. Sir Timothy was waiting for them at the entrance.
“I have been asking Mrs. Hilditch's permission to call in Curzon Street,” Francis said boldly.
“I am sure my daughter will be delighted,” was the cold but courteous reply.
Margaret herself made no comment. The car drew up and she stepped into it—a tall, slim figure, wonderfully graceful in her unrelieved black, her hair gleaming as though with some sort of burnish, as she passed underneath the electric light. She looked back at him with a smile of farewell as he stood bareheaded upon the steps, a smile which reminded him somehow of her father, a little sardonic, a little tender, having in it some faintly challenging quality. The car rolled away. People around were gossiping—rather freely.
“The wife of that man Oliver Hilditch,” he heard a woman say, “the man who was tried for murder, and committed suicide the night after his acquittal. Why, that can't be much more than three months ago.”
“If you are the daughter of a millionaire,” her escort observed, “you can defy convention.”
“Yes, that was Sir Timothy Brast,” another man was saying. “He's supposed to be worth a cool five millions.”
“If the truth about him were known,” his companion confided, dropping his voice, “it would cost him all that to keep out of the Old Bailey. They say that his orgies at Hatch End—Our taxi. Come on, Sharpe.”
Francis strolled thoughtfully homewards.
Francis Ledsam was himself again, the lightest-hearted and most popular member of his club, still a brilliant figure in the courts, although his appearances there were less frequent, still devoting the greater portion of his time, to his profession, although his work in connection with it had become less spectacular. One morning, at the corner of Clarges Street and Curzon Street, about three weeks after his visit to the Opera, he came face to face with Sir Timothy Brast.
“Well, my altruistic peerer into other people's affairs, how goes it?” the latter enquired pleasantly.
“How does it seem, my arch-criminal, to be still breathing God's fresh air?” Francis retorted in the same vein. “Make the most of it. It may not last for ever.”
Sir Timothy smiled. He was looking exceedingly well that morning, the very prototype of a man contented with life and his part in it. He was wearing a morning coat and silk hat, his pâtént boots were faultlessly polished, his trousers pressed to perfection, his grey silk tie neat and fashionable. Notwithstanding his waxenlike pallor, his slim figure and lithe, athletic walk seemed to speak of good health.
“You may catch the minnow,” he murmured. “The big fish swim on. By-the-bye,” he added, “I do not notice that your sledge-hammer blows at crime are having much effect. Two undetected murders last week, and one the week before. What are you about, my astute friend?”
“Those are matters for Scotland Yard,” Francis replied, with an indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette. “Details are for the professional. I seek that corner in Hell where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed. In other words, I seek for the brains of crime.”
“Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young friend,” Sir Timothy said earnestly. “You interest me more and more every time we meet. I like your allegories, I like your confidence, which in any one except a genius would seem blatant. When can we dine together and talk about crime?”
“The sooner the better,” Francis replied promptly. “Invite me, and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have.”
Sir Timothy considered for a moment. The June sunshine was streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little oppressive.
“Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?” he asked. “My daughter and I will be alone.”
“I should be delighted,” Francis replied promptly. “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home.”
Sir Timothy was politely apologetic.
“I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid,” he confessed. “Society is good for her. I will undertake that you are a welcome guest.”
“At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?” Francis enquired.
“You motor down, I suppose?” Sir Timothy observed. “Good! In Hatch End any one will direct you. We dine at eight. You had better come down as soon as you have finished your day's work. Bring a suitcase and spend the night.”
“I shall be delighted,” Francis replied.
“Do not,” Sir Timothy continued, “court disappointment by over-anticipation. You have without doubt heard of my little gatherings at Hatch End. They are viewed, I am told, with grave suspicion, alike by the moralists of the City and, I fear, the police. I am not inviting you to one of those gatherings. They are for people with other tastes. My daughter and I have been spending a few days alone in the little bungalow by the side of my larger house. That is where you will find us—The Sanctuary, we call it.”
“Some day,” Francis ventured, “I shall hope to be asked to one of your more notorious gatherings. For the present occasion I much prefer the entertainment you offer.”
“Then we are both content,” Sir Timothy said, smiling. “Au revoir!”
Francis walked across Green Park, along the Mall, down Horse Guards Parade, along the Embankment to his rooms on the fringe of the Temple. Here he found his clerk awaiting his arrival in some disturbance of spirit.
“There is a young gentleman here to see you, sir,” he announced. “Mr. Reginald Wilmore his name is, I think.”
“Wilmore?” Francis repeated. “What have you done with him?”
“He is in your room, sir. He seems very impatient. He has been out two or three times to know how long I thought you would be.”
Francis passed down the stone passage and entered his room, a large, shady apartment at the back of the building. To his surprise it was empty. He was on the point of calling to his clerk when he saw that the writing-paper on his desk had been disturbed. He went over and read a few lines written in a boy's hasty writing:
DEAR Mr. LEDSAM:
I am in a very strange predicament and I have come to ask your advice. You know my brother Andrew well, and you may remember playing tennis with me last year. I am compelled—
At that point the letter terminated abruptly. There was a blot and a smudge. The pen lay where it seemed to have rolled—on the floor. The ink was not yet dry. Francis called to his clerk.
“Angrave,” he said, “Mr. Wilmore is not here.”
The clerk looked around in obvious surprise.
“It isn't five minutes since he came out to my office, sir!” he exclaimed. “I heard him go back again afterwards.”
Francis shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps he decided not to wait and you didn't hear him go by.”
Angrave shook his head.
“I do not see how he could have left the place without my hearing him, sir,” he declared. “The door of my office has been open all the time, and I sit opposite to it. Besides, on these stone floors one can hear any one so distinctly.”
“Then what,” Francis asked, “has become of him?”
The clerk shook his head.
“I haven't any idea, sir,” he confessed.
Francis plunged into his work and forgot all about the matter. He was reminded of it, however, at luncheon-time, when, on entering the dining-room of the club, he saw Andrew Wilmore seated alone at one of the small tables near the wall. He went over to him at once.
“Hullo, Andrew,” he greeted him, “what are you doing here by yourself?”
“Bit hipped, old fellow,” was the depressed reply. “Sit down, will you?”
Francis sat down and ordered his lunch.
“By-the-bye,” he said, “I had rather a mysterious visit this morning from your brother Reggie.”
Wilmore stared at him for a moment, half in relief, half in amazement.
“Good God, Francis, you don't say so!” he exclaimed. “How was he? What did he want? Tell me about it at once? We've been worried to death about the boy.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't see him,” Francis explained. “He arrived before I reached my rooms—as you know, I don't live there—waited some time, began to write me this note,”—drawing the sheet of paper from his pocket—“and when I got there had disappeared without leaving a message or anything.”
Wilmore adjusted his pince nez with trembling fingers. Then he read the few lines through.
“Francis,” he said, when he had finished them, “do you know that this is the first word we've heard of him for three days?”
“Great heavens!” Francis exclaimed. “He was living with his mother, wasn't he?”
“Down at Kensington, but he hasn't been there since Monday,” Andrew replied. “His mother is in a terrible state. And now this, I don't understand it at all.”
“Was the boy hard up?”
“Not more than most young fellows are,” was the puzzled reply. “His allowance was due in a few days, too. He had money in the bank, I feel sure. He was saving up for a motorcar.”
“Haven't I seen him once or twice at restaurants lately?” Francis enquired. “Soto's, for instance?”
“Very likely,” his brother assented. “Why not? He's fond of dancing, and we none of us ever encouraged him to be a stay-at-home.”
“Any particular girl was he interested in?”
“Not that we know of. Like most young fellows of his age, he was rather keen on young women with some connection with the stage, but I don't believe there was any one in particular. Reggie was too fond of games to waste much time that way. He's at the gymnasium three evenings a week.”
“I wish I'd been at the office a few minutes earlier this morning,” Francis observed. “I tell you what, Andrew. I have some pals down at Scotland Yard, and I'll go down and see them this afternoon. They'll want a photograph, and to ask a few questions, I dare say, but I shouldn't talk about the matter too much.”
“You're very kind, Francis,” his friend replied, “but it isn't so easy to sit tight. I was going to the police myself this afternoon.”
“Take my advice and leave it to me,” Francis begged. “I have a particular pal down at Scotland Yard who I know will be interested, and I want him to take up the case.”
“You haven't any theory, I suppose?” Wilmore asked, a little wistfully.
Francis shook his head.
“Not the ghost of one,” he admitted. “The reason I am advising you to keep as quiet as possible, though, is just this. If you create a lot of interest in a disappearance, you have to satisfy the public curiosity when the mystery is solved.”
“I see,” Wilmore murmured. “All the same, I can't imagine Reggie getting mixed up in anything discreditable.”
“Neither can I, from what I remember of the boy,” Francis agreed. “Let me see, what was he doing in the City?”
“He was with Jameson & Scott, the stockbrokers,” Wilmore replied. “He was only learning the business and he had no responsibilities. Curiously enough, though, when I went to see Mr. Jameson he pointed out one or two little matters that Reggie had attended to, which looked as though he were clearing up, somehow or other.”
“He left no message there, I suppose?”
“Not a line or a word. He gave the porter five shillings, though, on the afternoon before he disappeared—a man who has done some odd jobs for him.”
“Well, a voluntary disappearance is better than an involuntary one,” Francis remarked. “What was his usual programme when he left the office?”
“He either went to Queen's and played racquets, or he went straight to his gymnasium in the Holborn. I telephoned to Queen's. He didn't call there on the Wednesday night, anyhow.”
“Where's the gymnasium?”
“At 147 a Holborn. A lot of city young men go there late in the evening, but Reggie got off earlier than most of them and used to have the place pretty well to himself. I think that's why he stuck to it.”
Francis made a note of the address.
“I'll get Shopland to step down there some time,” he said. “Or better still, finish your lunch and we'll take a taxi there ourselves. I'm going to the country later on, but I've half-an-hour to spare. We can go without our coffee and be there in ten minutes.”
“A great idea,” Wilmore acquiesced. “It's probably the last place Reggie visited, anyway.”