"Go in," said van Heerden, and pushed her ahead.
She found herself in an old-fashioned hall, the walls panelled of oak, the floor made of closely mortised stone flags. She recognized the man who had admitted them as one of those she had seen in her flat that same night. He was a cadaverous man with high cheekbones and short, bristly black hair and a tiny black moustache.
"I won't introduce you," said the doctor, "but you may call this man Gregory. It is not his name, but it is good enough."
The man smiled furtively and eyed her furtively, took up the candle and led the way to a room which opened off the hall at the farther end.
"This is the dining-room," said van Heerden. "It is chiefly interesting to you as the place where the ceremony will be performed. Your room is immediately above. I am sorry I did not engage a maid for you, but I cannot afford to observe the proprieties or consider your reputation. The fact is, I know no woman I could trust toperform that duty, and you will have to look after yourself."
He led the way upstairs, unlocked a door and passed in. There was one window which was heavily curtained. He saw her glance and nodded.
"You will find the windows barred," he said. "This was evidently the nursery and is admirably suited to my purpose. In addition, I might tell you that the house is a very old one and that it is impossible to walk about the room without the door creaking and, as I spend most of my time in the dining-room below, you will find it extremely difficult even to make preparations for escape without my being aware of the fact."
The room was comfortably furnished. A small fire was alight in the tiny grate and a table had been laid, on which were displayed sandwiches, a thermos flask and a small silver basket of confectionery.
There was a door by the big four-poster bed.
"You may consider yourself fortunate in having the only room in the house with a bath-room attached," he said. "You English people are rather particular about that kind of thing."
"And you German people aren't," she said coolly.
"German?" he laughed. "So you guessed that, did you?"
"Guessed it?"—it was her turn to laugh scornfully. "Isn't the fact self-evident? Who but a Hun——"
His face went a dull red.
"That is a word you must not use to me," he said roughly—"hang your arrogance! Huns! We, who gave the world its kultur, who lead in every department of science, art and literature!"
She stared at him in amazement.
"You are joking, of course," she said, forgetting her danger for the moment in face of this extraordinary phenomenon. "If you are a German, and I suppose you are, and an educated German at that, you don't for a moment imagine you gave the world anything. Why, the Germans have never been anything but exploiters of other men's brains."
From dull red, his face had gone white, his lip was trembling with passion and when he spoke he could scarcely control his voice.
"We were of all people ordained by God to save the world through the German spirit."
So far he got when she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. It was so like all the caricatures of German character she had read or seen depicted. He looked at her, his face distorted with rage, and before she had realized what had happened he had raised his hand and struck her across the mouth.
She staggered back, speechless. To her had happened the most incredible thing in the world, more incredible than her abduction, more incredible than all the villainies known or suspected, in this man.
He stood there glowering at her, unrepentant, half-tempted, it seemed, to repeat the blow. He had struck a woman and was not overwhelmed by shame. All her views of men and things, all her conceptions of the codes which govern mankind in their dealings one with the other, crumbled away. If he had fallen on his knees and asked her pardon, if he had shown any contrition, any fear, any shame, she might have gone back to her old standards.
"You swine cat!" he said in German, "Herr Gott, but I will punish you if you laugh at me!"
She was staring at him in intense curiosity. Her lip was bleeding a little, the red mark of his fingers showed against her white face, but she seemed to have forgotten the pain or the shock of the actual blow and was wholly concerned in this new revelation.
"A Hun," she said, but she seemed to be speaking to herself, "of course he's a Hun. They do that sort of thing, but I never believed it before."
He took a step toward her, but she did not flinch, and he turned and walked quickly from the room, locking the door behind him.
When Beale left Krooman Mansions with his two companions he had only the haziest idea as to where he should begin his search. Perhaps the personal interest he had in his client, an interest revealed by the momentary panic into which her disappearance had thrown this usually collected young man, clouded his better judgment.
A vague discomfort possessed him and he paused irresolutely at the corner of the street. There was a chance that she might still be concealed in the building, but a greater chance that if he followed one of the three plans which were rapidly forming in his mind he might save the girl from whatever danger threatened her.
"You are perfectly sure you heard her voice?"
"Certain," replied Beale shortly, "just as I am sure that I smelt the ether."
"She may have been using it for some other purpose. Women put these drugs to all sorts of weird purposes, like cleaning gloves, and——"
"That may be," interrupted Beale, "but I wasn't mistaken about her voice. I am not subject to illusions of that kind."
He whistled. A man who had been lurking in the shadow of a building on the opposite side of the road crossed to him.
"Fenson," said Beale, "watch these flats. If you see a car drive up just go along and stand in front of the door. Don't let anybody enter that car or carry any bundle into that car until you are sure that Miss Cresswell is not one of the party or the bundle. If necessary you can pull a gun—I know it isn't done in law-abiding London," he smiled at Superintendent McNorton, "but I guess you've got to let me do a little law-breaking."
"Go all the way," said the superintendent easily.
"That will do, Fenson. You know Miss Cresswell?"
"Sure, sir," said the man, and melted back into the shadows.
"Where are you going now?" asked Kitson.
"I am going to interview a gentleman who will probably give me a great deal of information about van Heerden's other residences."
"Has he many?" asked Kitson, in surprise.
Beale nodded.
"He has been hiring buildings and houses for the past three months," he said quietly, "and he has been so clever that I will defy you to trace one of them. All his hiring has been done through various lawyers he has employed, and they are all taken in fictitious names."
"Do you know any of them?"
"Not one," said Beale, with a baffled little laugh, "didn't I tell you he's mighty clever? I got track of two of them but they were the only two where the sale didn't go through."
"What does he want houses for?"
"We shall learn one of these days," said Beale cryptically. "I can tell you something else, gentlemen, and this is more of a suspicion than a certainty, that there is not a crank scientist who has ever gone under through drink or crime in the whole of this country, aye, and America and France, too, that isn't working for him. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me——"
"You don't want any assistance?" asked the superintendent.
"I guess not," said Beale, with a smile, "I guess I can manage the Herr Professor."
* * * * *
On the south side of the River Thames is a congested and thickly populated area lying between the Waterloo and the Blackfriars Roads. Here old houses, which are gauntly picturesque because of their age, stand cheek-by-jowl with great blocks of model dwellings, which make up in utility all that they lack in beauty. Such dwelling-places have a double advantage. Their rent is low and they are close to the centre of London. Few of the housesare occupied by one family, and indeed it is the exception that one family rents in its entirety so much as a floor.
In a basement room in one of those houses sat two men as unlike one another as it is possible to conceive. The room itself was strangely tidy and bare of anything but the necessary furniture. A camp bed was under the window in such a position as to give its occupant a view of the ankles of those people who trod the pavement of the little street.
A faded cretonne curtain hid an inner and probably a smaller room where the elder of the men slept. They sat on either side of a table, a kerosene lamp placed exactly in the centre supplying light for their various occupations.
The elder of the two was bent forward over a microscope, his big hands adjusting the focus screw. Presently he would break off his work of observation and jot down a few notes in crabbed German characters. His big head, his squat body, his long ungainly arms, his pale face with its little wisp of beard, would have been recognized by Oliva Cresswell, for this was Professor Heyler—"the Herr Professor," as Beale called him.
The man sitting opposite was cast in a different mould. He was tall, spare, almost æsthetic. The clean-shaven face, the well-moulded nose and chin hinted at a refinement which his shabby threadbare suit and his collarless shirt freakishly accentuated. Now and again he would raise his deep-set eyes from the book he was reading, survey the absorbed professor with a speculative glance and then return to his reading.
They had sat in silence for the greater part of an hour, when Beale's tap on the door brought the reader round with narrow eyes.
"Expecting a visitor, professor?" he asked in German.
"Nein, nein," rambled the old man, "who shall visit me? Ah yes"—he tapped his fat forefinger—"I remember, the Fräulein was to call."
He got up and, shuffling to the door, slipped back the bolt and turned it. His face fell when he saw Beale, and the man at the table rose.
"Hope I am not disturbing you," said the detective. "I thought you lived alone."
He, too, spoke in the language which the professor understood best.
"That is a friend of mine," said old Heyler uncomfortably, "we live together. I did not think you knew my address."
"Introduce me," said the man at the table coolly.
The old professor looked dubiously from one to the other.
"It is my friend, Herr Homo."
"Herr Homo," repeated Beale, offering his hand, "my name is Beale."
Homo shot a keen glance at him.
"A split! or my criminal instincts fail me," he said, pleasantly enough.
"Split?" repeated Beale, puzzled.
"American I gather from your accent," said Mr. Homo; "pray sit down. 'Split' is the phrase employed by the criminal classes to describe a gentleman who in your country is known as a 'fly cop'!"
"Oh, a detective," smiled Beale. "No, in the sense you mean I am not a detective. At any rate, I have not come on business."
"So I gather," said the other, seating himself, "or you would have brought one of the 'busy fellows' with you. Here again you must pardon the slang but we call the detective the 'busy fellow' to distinguish him from the 'flattie,' who is the regular cop. Unless you should be under any misapprehension, Mr. Beale, it is my duty to tell you that I am a representative of the criminal classes, a fact which our learned friend," he nodded toward the distressed professor, "never ceases to deplore," and he smiled blandly.
They had dropped into English and the professor after waiting uncomfortably for the visitor to explain his business had dropped back to his work with a grunt.
"I am Parson Homo and this is mypied-à-terre. We professional criminals must have somewhere to go when we are not in prison, you know."
The voice was that of an educated man, its modulation, the confidence and the perfect poise of the speaker suggested the college man.
"So that you shall not be shocked by revelations I must tell you that I have just come out of prison. I am by way of being a professional burglar."
"I am not easily shocked," said Beale.
He glanced at the professor.
"I see," said Parson Homo, rising, "that I amde trop. Unfortunately I cannot go into the street without risking arrest. In this country, you know, there is a law which is called the Prevention of Crimes Act, which empowers the unemployed members of the constabulary who find time hanging on their hands to arrest known criminals on suspicion if they are seen out in questionable circumstances. And as all circumstances are questionable to the unimaginative 'flattie,' and his no less obtuse friend the 'split,' I will retire to the bedroom and stuff my ears with cotton-wool."
"You needn't," smiled Beale, "I guess the professor hasn't many secrets from you."
"Go on guessing, my ingenious friend," said the parson, smiling with his eyes, "my own secrets I am willing to reveal but—adios!"
He waved his hand and passed behind the cretonne curtain and the old man looked up from his instrument.
"It is the Donovan Leichmann body that I search for," he said solemnly; "there was a case of sleeping-sickness at the docks, and the Herr Professor of the Tropical School so kindly let me have a little blood for testing."
"Professor," said Beale, sitting down in the place which Parson Homo had vacated and leaning across the table, "are you still working for van Heerden?"
The old man rolled his big head from side to side in an agony of protest.
"Of the learned doctor I do not want to speak," he said, "to me he has been most kind. Consider, Herr Peale, I was starving in this country which hates Germans and regard as a mad old fool and an ugly old devil, and none helped me until the learned doctor discovered me. Iam a German, yes. Yet I have no nationality, being absorbed in the larger brotherhood of science. As for me I am indifferent whether the Kaiser or the Socialists live in Potsdam, but I am loyal, Herr Peale, to all who help me. To you, also," he said hastily, "for you have been most kind, and once when in foolishness I went into a room where I ought not to have been you saved me from the police." He shrugged his massive shoulders again. "I am grateful, but must I not also be grateful to the learned doctor?"
"Tell me this, professor," said Beale, "where can I find the learned doctor to-night?"
"At his so-well-known laboratory, where else?" asked the professor.
"Where else?" repeated Beale.
The old man was silent.
"It is forbidden that I should speak," he said; "the Herr Doctor is engaged in a great experiment which will bring him fortune. If I betray his secrets he may be ruined. Such ingratitude, Herr Peale!"
There was a silence, the old professor, obviously distressed and ill at ease, looking anxiously at the younger man.
"Suppose I tell you that the Herr Doctor is engaged in a dangerous conspiracy," said Beale, "and that you yourself are running a considerable risk by assisting him?"
The big hands were outspread in despair.
"The Herr Doctor has many enemies," mumbled Heyler. "I can tell you nothing, Herr Peale."
"Tell me this," said Beale: "is there any place you know of where the doctor may have taken a lady—the young lady into whose room you went the night I found you?"
"A young lady?" The old man was obviously surprised. "No, no, Herr Peale, there is no place where a young lady could go. Ach! No!"
"Well," said Beale, after a pause, "I guess I can do no more with you, professor." He glanced round at the cretonne recess: "I won't inconvenience you any longer, Mr. Homo."
The curtains were pushed aside and the æsthetic-looking man stepped out, the half-smile on his thin lips.
"I fear you have had a disappointing visit," he said pleasantly, "and it is on the tip of your tongue to ask me if I can help you. I will save you the trouble of asking—I can't."
Beale laughed.
"You are a bad thought-reader," he said. "I had no intention of asking you."
He nodded to the old man, and with another nod to his companion was turning when a rap came at the door. He saw the two men exchange glances and noted in the face of the professor a look of blank dismay. The knock was repeated impatiently.
"Permit me," said Beale, and stepped to the door.
"Wait, wait," stammered the professor, "if Mr. Peale will permit——"
He shuffled forward, but Beale had turned the latch and opened the door wide. Standing in the entrance was a girl whom he had no difficulty in recognizing as Hilda Glaum, sometime desk companion of Oliva Cresswell. His back was to the light and she did not recognize him.
"Why did you not open more quickly?" she asked in German, and swung the heavy bag she carried into the room, "every moment I thought I should be intercepted. Here is the bag. It will be called for to-morrow——"
It was then that she saw Beale for the first time and her face went white.
"Who—who are you?" she asked; then quickly, "I know you. You are the man Beale. The drunken man——"
She looked from him to the bag at her feet and to him again, then before he could divine her intention she had stooped and grasped the handle of the bag. Instantly all his attention was riveted upon that leather case and its secret. His hand shot out and gripped her arm, but she wrenched herself free. In doing so the bag was carried by the momentum of its release and was driven heavily against the wall. He heard a shivering crash as though a hundred little glasses had broken simultaneously.
Before he could reach the bag she snatched it up, leapt through the open door and slammed it to behind her. His hand was on the latch——
"Put 'em up, Mr. Beale, put 'em up," said a voice behind him. "Right above your head, Mr. Beale, where we can see them."
He turned slowly, his hands rising mechanically to face Parson Homo, who still sat at the table, but he had discarded his Greek book and was handling a business-like revolver, the muzzle of which covered the detective.
"Smells rotten, doesn't it?" said Homo pleasantly.
Beale, too, had sniffed the musty odour, and knew that it came from the bag the girl had wrenched from his grasp. It was the sickly scent of the Green Rust!
With her elbows resting on the broad window-ledge and her cheeks against the cold steel bars which covered the window, Oliva Cresswell watched the mists slowly dissipate in the gentle warmth of the morning sun. She had spent the night dozing in a rocking-chair and at the first light of day she had bathed and redressed ready for any emergency. She had not heard any sound during the night and she guessed that van Heerden had returned to London.
The room in which she was imprisoned was on the first floor at the back of the house and the view she had of the grounds was restricted to a glimpse between two big lilac bushes which were planted almost on a level with her room.
The house had been built on the slope of a gentle rise so that you might walk from the first-floor window on to the grassy lawn at the back of the house but for twoimportant obstacles, the first being represented by the bars which protected the window and the second by a deep area, concrete-lined, which formed a trench too wide to jump.
She could see, however, that the grounds were extensive. The high wall which, apparently, separated the garden from the road was a hundred yards away. She knew it must be the road because of a little brown gate which from time to time she saw between the swaying bushes. She turned wearily from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. She was not afraid—irritated would be a better word to describe her emotion. She was mystified, too, and that was an added irritation.
Why should this man, van Heerden, who admittedly did not love her, who indeed loved her so little that he could strike her and show no signs of remorse—why did this man want to marry her? If he wanted to marry her, why did he kidnap her?
There was another question, too, which she had debated that night. Why did his reference to the American detective, Beale, so greatly embarrass her?
She had reached the point where even such tremendous subjects of debate had become less interesting than the answer to that question which was furnished, when a knock came to her door and a gruff voice said:
"Breakfast!"
She unlocked the door and pulled it open. The man called Gregory was standing on the landing. He jerked his thumb to the room opposite.
"You can use both these rooms," he said, "but you can't come downstairs. I have put your breakfast in there."
She followed the thumb across the landing and found herself in a plainly furnished sitting-room. The table had been laid with a respectable breakfast, and until she had appeased her healthy young appetite she took very little stock of her surroundings.
The man came up in half an hour to clear away the table.
"Will you be kind enough to tell me where I am?" asked Oliva.
"I am not going to tell you anything," said Gregory.
"I suppose you know that by detaining me here you are committing a very serious crime?"
"Tell it to the doctor," said the man, with a queer little smile.
She followed him out to the landing. She wanted to see what sort of guard was kept and what possibilities there were of escape. Somehow it seemed easier to make a reconnaissance now under his very eyes than it had been in the night, when in every shadow had lurked a menace.
She did not follow him far, however. He put down the tray at the head of the stairs and reaching out both his hands drew two sliding doors from the wall and snapped them in her face. She heard the click of a door and knew that any chance of escape from this direction was hopeless. The doors had slid noiselessly on their oiled runners and had formed for her a little lobby of the landing. She guessed that the sliding doors had been closed after van Heerden's departure. She had exhausted all the possibilities of her bedroom and now began an inspection of the other.
Like its fellow, the windows were barred. There was a bookshelf, crowded with old volumes, mostly on matters ecclesiastical or theological. She looked at it thoughtfully.
"Now, if I were clever like Mr. Beale," she said aloud, "I could deduce quite a lot from this room."
A distant church bell began to clang and she realized with a start that the day was Sunday. She looked at her watch and was amazed to see it was nearly eleven. She must have slept longer than she had thought.
This window afforded her no better view than did that of the bedroom, except that she could see the gate more plainly and what looked to be the end of a low-roofed brick building which had been erected against the wall. She craned her neck, looking left and right, but the bushes had been carefully planted to give the previous occupants of these two rooms greater privacy.
Presently the bell stopped and she addressed herself again to an examination of the room. In an old-fashionedsloping desk she found a few sheets of paper, a pen and a bottle half-filled with thick ink. There were also two telegraph forms, and these gave her an idea. She went back to the table in the middle of the room. With paper before her she began to note the contents of the apartment.
"I am trying to be Bealish," she admitted.
She might also have confessed that she was trying to keep her mind off her possibly perilous position and that though she was not afraid she had a fear of fear.
"A case full of very dull good books. That means that the person who lived here before was very serious-minded."
She walked over and examined the titles, pulled out a few books and looked at their title pages. They all bore the same name, "L. T. B. Stringer." She uttered an exclamation. Wasn't there some directory of clergymen's names?—she was sure this was a clergyman, nobody else would have a library of such weighty volumes.
Her fingers ran along the shelves and presently she found what she wanted—Crocker's Clergy List of 1879. She opened the book and presently found, "Stringer, Laurence Thomas Benjamin, Vicar of Upper Staines, Deans Folly, Upper Reach Village, near Staines."
Her eyes sparkled. Instinctively she knew that she had located her prison. Van Heerden had certainly hired the house furnished, probably from the clergyman or his widow. She began to search the room with feverish haste. Near the window was a cupboard built out. She opened it and found that it was a small service lift, apparently communicating with the kitchen. In a corner of the room was an invalid chair on wheels.
She sat down at the table and reconstructed the character of its occupant. She saw an invalid clergyman who had lived permanently in this part of the house. He was probably wheeled from his bedroom to his sitting-room, and in this cheerless chamber had spent the last years of his life. And this place was Deans Folly? She took up the telegraph form and after a few minutes' deliberation wrote:
"To Beale, Krooman Mansions."
She scratched that out, remembering that he had a telegraphic address and substituted:
"Belocity, London." She thought a moment, then wrote: "Am imprisoned at Deans Folly, Upper Reach Village, near Staines. Oliva." That looked too bold, and she added "Cresswell."
She took a florin from her bag and wrapped it up in the telegraph form. She had no exact idea as to how she should get the message sent to the telegraph office, and it was Sunday, when all telegraph offices would be closed. Nor was there any immediate prospect of her finding a messenger. She supposed that tradesmen came to the house and that the kitchen door was somewhere under her window, but tradesmen do not call on Sundays. She held the little package irresolutely in her hand. She must take her chance to-day. To-morrow would be Monday and it was certain somebody would call.
With this assurance she tucked the message into her blouse. She was in no mood to continue her inspection of the room, and it was only because in looking again from the window she pulled it from its hook that she saw the strange-looking instrument which hung between the window and the service lift. She picked it up, a dusty-looking thing. It consisted of a short vulcanite handle, from which extended two flat steel supports, terminating in vulcanite ear-plates. The handle was connected by a green cord with a plug in the wall.
Oliva recognized it. It was an electrophone. One of those instruments by which stay-at-home people can listen to an opera, a theatrical entertainment or—a sermon. Of course it was a church. It was a very common practice for invalids to be connected up with their favourite pulpit, and doubtless the Rev. Mr. Stringer had derived considerable comfort from this invention.
She dusted the receiver and put them to her ears. She heard nothing. Beneath the plug was a little switch. She turned this over and instantly her ears were filled with a strange hollow sound—the sound which a bad gramophone record makes.
Then she realized that she was listening to acongregation singing. This ceased after awhile and she heard a cough, so surprisingly near and loud that she started. Of course, the transmitter would be in the pulpit, she thought. Then a voice spoke, clear and distinct, yet with that drawl which is the peculiar property of ministers of the Established Church. She smiled as the first words came to her.
"I publish the banns of marriage between Henry Colebrook, and Jane Maria Smith both of this parish. This is the second time of asking." A pause, then: "Also between Henry Victor Vanden and Oliva Cresswell Prédeaux, both of this parish. This is the third time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it."
She dropped the instrument with a crash and stood staring down at it. She had been listening to the publication of her own wedding-notice.
"Vanden" was van Heerden. "Oliva Cresswell Prédeaux" was herself. The strangeness of the names meant nothing. She guessed rather than knew that the false name would not be any insuperable bar to the ceremony. She must get away. For the first time she had a horrible sense of being trapped, and for a few seconds she must have lost her head, for she tugged at the iron bars, dashed wildly out and hammered at the sliding door. Presently her reason took charge. She heard the heavy step of Gregory on the stairs and recovered her calm by the time he had unlocked the bar and pulled the doors apart.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want you to let me out of here."
"Oh, is that all?" he said sarcastically, and for the second time that day slammed the door in her face.
She waited until he was out of hearing, then she went back noiselessly to the sitting-room. She pushed open the door of the service lift and tested the ropes. There were two, one which supported the lift and one by which it was hauled up, and she gathered that these with the lift itself formed an endless chain.
Gripping both ropes firmly she crept into the confinedspace of the cupboard and let herself down hand over hand. She had about twelve feet to descend before she reached the kitchen entrance of the elevator. She squeezed through the narrow opening and found herself in a stone-flagged kitchen. It was empty. A small fire glowed in the grate. Her own tray with all the crockery unwashed was on the dresser, and there were the remnants of a meal at one end of the plain table. She tiptoed across the kitchen to the door. It was bolted top and bottom and locked. Fortunately the key was in the lock, and in two minutes she was outside in a small courtyard beneath the level of the ground.
One end of the courtyard led past another window, and that she could not risk. To her right was a flight of stone steps, and that was obviously the safer way. She found herself in a little park which fortunately for her was plentifully sprinkled with clumps of rhododendrons, and she crept from bush to bush, taking care to keep out of sight of the house. She had the telegram and the money in her hand, and her first object was to get this outside. It took her twenty minutes to reach the wall. It was too high to scale and there was no sign of a ladder. The only way out was the little brown door she had seen from her bedroom window, and cautiously she made her way back, flitting from bush to bush until she came to the place where a clear view of the door and the building to its left could be obtained.
The low-roofed shed she had seen was much longer than she had expected and evidently had recently been built. Its black face was punctured at intervals with square windows, and a roughly painted door to the left of the brown garden gate was the only entrance she could see. She looked for a key but without hope of finding one. She must take her chance, she thought, and a quick run brought her from the cover of the bushes to the brown portal which stood between her and liberty.
With trembling hands she slid back the bolts and turned the handle. Her heart leapt as it gave a little. Evidently it had not been used for years and she found it was only held fast by the gravel which had accumulated beneath it.
Eagerly she scraped the gravel aside with her foot and her hand was on the knob when she heard a muffled voice behind her. She turned and then with a gasp of horror fell back. Standing in the doorway of the shed was a thing which was neither man nor beast. It was covered in a wrap which had once been white but was now dappled with green. The face and head were covered with rubber, two green staring eyes surveyed her, and a great snout-like nose was uplifted as in amazement. She was paralysed for a moment. For the beastliness of the figure was appalling.
Then realizing that it was merely a man whose face was hidden by a hideous mask, she sprang again for the door, but a hand gripped her arm and pulled her back. She heard a cheerful whistle from the road without and remembering the package in her hand she flung it high over the wall and heard its soft thud, and the whistle stop.
Then as the hideous figure slipped his arm about her and pressed a musty hand over her mouth she fainted.
"Held up by a gunman?" asked James Kitson incredulously, "why, what do you mean?"
"It doesn't sound right, does it?" smiled Beale, "especially after McNorton telling us the other day that there was no such thing as a gunman in England. Do you remember his long dissertation on the law-abiding criminals of this little old country?" he laughed.
"But a gunman," protested Mr. Kitson—"by the way, have you had breakfast?"
"Hours ago," replied Beale, "but don't let me interrupt you."
Mr. James Kitson pulled his chair to the table and unfolded his napkin. It was almost at this hour that Oliva Cresswell had performed a similar act.
"You are not interrupting me," said Kitson, "go on."
Beale was frowning down at deserted Piccadilly which Mr. Kitson's palatial suite at the Ritz-Carlton overlooked.
"Eh?" he said absently, "oh yes, the gunman—a sure enough gunman."
He related in a few words his experience of the previous night.
"This man Homo," said Kitson, "is he one of the gang?"
Beale shook his head.
"I don't think so. He may be one of van Heerden's ambassadors."
"Ambassadors?"
"I will explain van Heerden's game one of these days and you will understand what I mean," said Beale. "No, I don't think that Parson Homo is being any more than a gentle knight succouring a distressed lady, whether for love of the lady, out of respect for the professor or from a general sense of antagonism to all detectives, I can only speculate. Anyway, he held me until the lady was out of hearing and presumably out of sight. And then there was no need for me to go. I just sat down and talked, and a more amiable and cultured gentleman it would be impossible to meet."
Kitson looked at his companion through narrowed lids.
"Why, that's not like you, Beale," he said. "I thought you were too hot on the scent to waste time."
"So I am," said the other, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, "that's just what I am." He turned suddenly to the older man. "Mr. Kitson, I've got to know a little more about John Millinborn's will than I know at present."
The lawyer looked up, fixed his glasses and regarded the younger man with a troubled look.
"I'm sorry to jump in on you like this, but I'm rattled.I don't understand much about the English law though I know that marriages aren't as easy to make here in London as they are in our country. But here as everywhere else it is fairly difficult to force a girl into marriage against her will, and the marriage of course is not good in law."
He sat down on the arm of a couch, dangling his hat between his legs, and ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous little laugh.
"Here I'm telling you all that I came to ask you."
"Have a cup of tea," said Kitson, with a smile, "everybody in England rushes to tea and I hope I shall get you in the habit."
Beale shook his head.
"You are right about the marriage," Kitson went on, "but I'll give you the law on the subject. A marriage can only be solemnized if due notice is given by the parties who must be resident in the district where it is to take place—three weeks is the period of notice."
"Is there no other way?"
"Yes. By paying special fees and offering a good and sufficient reason a faculty can be secured from the Archbishop of Canterbury, or rather from his officials, authorizing a marriage without notice. It is called a special licence, and the marriage may occur at any hour and at any place."
"Is there a register of applications?" asked Beale quickly.
"I've thought of that," nodded the lawyer, "yes, I'm keeping that side under observation. It is difficult because officialdom isn't as obliging as it might be. My own view is that van Heerden will be married in the ordinary way, that is to say by giving notice. To secure his special licence he would be obliged to give his own name and be vouched for; he can be married in the ordinary way even if he gives a false name, which in all probability he will."
"Would the marriage be legal if it was in a false name?"
"Absolutely. In English law you may commit anoffence by marrying in a wrong name, but it would not invalidate the marriage."
Stanford Beale sat studying the pattern of the carpet.
"Is there any chance of two special licences being issued to marry the same girl?" he asked.
"None—why do you ask?"
Beale did not reply immediately.
"Something Homo said last night when I told him frankly that I was searching for Miss Cresswell. 'Oh,' said he, 'that's the lady that's marrying the doctor.' He wouldn't tell me more. But he gave me an idea to make sure that no special licence is issued to van Heerden. I shall apply for one myself."
The lawyer stared at him.
"To marry the girl?" he gasped. "But——"
Stanford Beale laughed a little bitterly.
"Say, don't get up in the air, Mr. Kitson—I'm only thinking of Miss Cresswell. A special licence in my name would stop one of van Heerden's paths to easy money. Tell me, and this is what I came to ask you, under Millinborn's will, does the husband benefit directly by the marriage, or is he dependent upon what his wife gives him?'
"He benefits directly," said Kitson after a pause, "on his marriage he receives exactly one-half of the girl's fortune. That was Millinborn's idea. 'Make the husband independent,' he said, 'do not put him in the humiliating position of dependence on his wife's generosity, and there will be a chance of happiness for them both.'"
"I see—of course, van Heerden knows that. He has only to produce a marriage certificate to scoop in two and a half million dollars—that is half a million in English money. This is the secret of it all. He wants money immediately, and under the terms of the will——?"
"He gets it," said Kitson. "If he came to me to-morrow with proof of his marriage, even if I knew that he had coerced the girl into marriage, I must give him his share—van Heerden was pretty thorough when he put my dying friend through his examination." His facehardened. "Heavens, I'd give every penny I had in the world to bring that fiend to the gallows, Beale!"
His voice shook, and rising abruptly he walked to the window. Presently he turned. "I think there is something in your idea. Get the licence."
"I will—and marry her," said Beale quickly.
"Marry her—I don't quite understand you?"
For the first time there was suspicion in his voice.
"Mr. Kitson, I'm going to put all my cards on the table," said Beale quietly, "will you sit down a moment? There are certain facts which we cannot ignore. Fact one is that Oliva Cresswell is in the hands of a man who is absolutely unscrupulous, but has no other object in view than marriage. Her beauty, her charm, all the attractive qualities which appeal to most men and to all brutes have no appeal for him—to him she is just a money proposition. If he can't marry her, she has no further interest for him."
"I see that," agreed the lawyer, "but——"
"Wait, please. If we knew where she was we could stop the marriage and indict van Heerden—but I've an idea that we shan't locate her until it is too late or nearly too late. I can't go hunting with a pack of policemen. I must play a lone hand, or nearly a lone hand. When I find her I must be in a position to marry her without losing a moment."
"You mean to marry her to foil van Heerden, and after—to dissolve the marriage?" asked the lawyer, shaking his head. "I don't like that solution, Beale—I tell you frankly, I don't like it. You're a good man and I have every faith in you, but if I consented, even though I were confident that you would play fair, which I am, I should feel that I had betrayed John Millinborn's trust. It isn't because it is you, my son," he said kindly enough, "but if you were the Archangel Gabriel I'd kick at that plan. Marriage is a difficult business to get out of once you are in it, especially in this country."
Beale did not interrupt the older man.
"Right, and now if you've finished I'll tell you my scheme," he said, "as I see it there's only a ghost of achance of our saving this girl from marriage. I've done my best and we—McNorton and I—have taken all the facts before a judge this morning. We got a special interview with the idea of securing a warrant for van Heerden's arrest. But there is no evidence to convict him on any single charge. We cannot connect him with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, and although I pointed out that van Heerden admits that he knows where the girl is, the judge said, fairly I thought, that there was no law which compelled a man to divulge the address of his fiancée to one who was a possible rival. The girl is of an age when she can do as she wishes, and as I understand the matter you have no legal status as a guardian."
"None," said James Kitson, "that is our weak point. I am merely the custodian of her money. Officially I am supposed to be ignorant of the fact that Oliva Cresswell is Oliva Prédeaux, the heiress."
"Therefore our hands are tied," concluded Beale quietly. "Don't you see that my plan is the only one—but I haven't told you what it is. There's a man, a criminal, this Parson Homo who can help; I am satisfied that he does not know where the girl is—but he'll help for a consideration. As a matter of fact, he was pulled again. I am seeing him this afternoon."
Mr. Kitson frowned.
"The gunman—how can he help you?"
"I will tell you. This man, as I say, is known to the police as Parson Homo. Apparently he is an unfrocked priest, one who has gone under. He still preserves the resemblance to a gentleman"—he spoke slowly and deliberately; "in decent clothes he would look like a parson. I propose that he shall marry me to Miss Cresswell. The marriage will be a fake, but neither the girl nor van Heerden will know this. If my surmise is right, when van Heerden finds she is married he will take no further steps—except, perhaps," he smiled, "to make her a widow. Sooner or later we are bound to get him under lock and key, and then we can tell Miss Cresswell the truth."
"In other words, you intend breaking the law and committing a serious offence," said Kitson, shaking hishead. "I can't be a party to that—besides, she may not marry you."
"I see that danger—van Heerden is a mighty clever fellow. He may be married before I trace them."
"You say that Homo doesn't know about the girl, what does he know?"
"He has heard of van Heerden. He has heard probably from the girl Hilda Glaum that van Heerden is getting married—the underworld do not get their news out of special editions—he probably knows too that van Heerden is engaged in some swindle which is outside the parson's line of business."
"Will he help you?"
"Sure," Beale said with quiet confidence, "the man is broke and desperate. The police watch him like a cat, and would get him sooner or later. McNorton told me that much. I have offered him passage to Australia and £500, and he is ready to jump at it."
"You have explained the scheme?"
"I had to," confessed Beale, "there was no time to be lost. To my surprise he didn't like it. It appears that even a double-dyed crook has scruples, and even when I told him the whole of my plan he still didn't like it, but eventually agreed. He has gone to Whitechapel to get the necessary kit. I am putting him up in my flat. Of course, it may not be necessary," he went on, "but somehow I think it will be."
Kitson spread out his hands in despair.
"I shall have to consent," he said, "the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. I trust you, Stanford," he went on, looking the other in the eye, "you have no feeling beyond an ordinary professional interest in this young lady?"
Beale dropped his eyes.
"If I said that, Mr. Kitson, I should be telling a lie," he said quietly. "I have a very deep interest in Miss Cresswell, but that is not going to make any difference to me and she will never know."
He left soon after this and went back to his rooms. At four o'clock he received a visitor. Parson Homo,cleanly shaved and attired in a well-fitting black coat and white choker, seemed more real to the detective than the Parson Homo he had met on the previous night.
"You look the part all right," said Beale.
"I suppose I do," said the other shortly; "what am I to do next?"
"You stay here. I have made up a bed for you in my study," said Beale.
"I would like to know a little more of this before I go any further," Homo said, "there are many reasons why I want information."
"I have told you the story," said Beale patiently, "and I am going to say right here that I do not intend telling you any more. You carry this thing through and I'll pay you what I agreed. Nobody will be injured by your deception, that I promise you."
"That doesn't worry me so much," said the other coolly, "as——"
There came a knock at the door, an agitated hurried knock, and Beale immediately answered it. It was McNorton, and from force of habit Parson Homo drew back into the shadows.
"All right, Parson," said McNorton, "I knew you were here. What do you make of this?"
He turned to Beale and laid on the table a piece of paper which had been badly crumpled and which he now smoothed out. It was the top half of a telegraph form, the lower half had been torn away.
"'To Belocity, London,'" Beale read aloud.
"That's you," interrupted McNorton, and the other nodded.
"'To Belocity, London,'" he read slowly. "'Am imprisoned at Deans——'"
At this point the remainder of the message had been torn off.
"Where is the rest?" said Beale.
"That's the lot," replied McNorton grimly. "It's the only information you will get from this source for twenty-four hours."
"But I don't understand, it is undoubtedly Miss Cresswell's handwriting."
"And 'Belocity' is as undoubtedly your telegraphic address. This paper," he went on, "was taken from a drunken tramp—'hobo' you call 'em, don't you?"
"Where?"
"At Kingston-on-Thames," said McNorton—"the man was picked up in the street, fighting drunk, and taken to the police station, where he developed delirium tremens. Apparently he has been on the jag all the week, and to-day's booze finished him off. The local inspector in searching him found this piece of paper in his pocket and connected it with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, the matter being fresh in his mind, as only this morning we had circulated a new description throughout the home counties. He got me on the 'phone and sent a constable up to town with the paper this afternoon."
"H'm," said Beale, biting his lips thoughtfully, "she evidently gave the man the telegram, telling him to dispatch it. She probably gave him money, too, which was the explanation of his final drunk."
"I don't think that is the case," said McNorton, "he had one lucid moment at the station when he was cross-examined as to where he got the money to get drunk, and he affirmed that he found it wrapped up in a piece of paper. That sounds true to me. She either dropped it from a car or threw it from a house."
"Is the man very ill?"
"Pretty bad," said the other, "you will get nothing out of him before the morning. The doctors had to dope him to get him quiet, and he will be some time before he is right."
He looked up at the other occupant of the room.
"Well, Parson, you are helping Mr. Beale, I understand?"
"Yes," said the other easily.
"Returning to your old profession, I see," said McNorton.
Parson Homo drew himself up a little stiffly.
"If you have anything against me you can pull me for it," he said insolently: "that's your business. As to the profession I followed before I started on that career of crime which brought me into contact with the crude representatives of what is amusingly called 'the law,' is entirely my affair."
"Don't get your wool off, Parson," said the other good-humouredly. "You have lost your sense of humour."
"That's where you are wrong," said Homo coolly: "I have merely lost my sense of decency."
McNorton turned to the other.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"'I am imprisoned at Deans,'" repeated Beale. "What 'Deans' have you in this country?"
"There are a dozen of them," replied the police chief: "there's Deansgate in Manchester, Deanston in Perth, Deansboro', Deans Abbey—I've been looking them up, there is a whole crowd of them."
"Are there any 'Deans' near Kingston?"
"None," replied the other.
"Then it is obviously the name of a house," said Beale. "I have noticed that in England you are in the habit of naming rather than numbering your houses, especially in the suburbs." He looked across to Parson Homo, "Can you help?"
The man shook his head.
"If I were a vulgar burglar I might assist you," he said, "but my branch of the profession does not take me to the suburbs."
"We will get a Kingston Directory and go through it," said McNorton; "we have one on the file at Scotland Yard. If——"
Beale suddenly raised his hand to enjoin silence: he had heard a familiar step in the corridor outside.
"That's van Heerden," he said in a low voice, "he has been out all the morning."
"Has he been shadowed?" asked McNorton in the same tone.
"My man lost him," he said.
He tiptoed along the passage and stood listening behind the door. Presently he heard the doctor's door close and came back.
"I have had the best sleuth in America trailing him," he said, "and he has slipped him every time."
"Anyway," said McNorton, "this telegram disposes of the idea that she has gone to Liverpool. It also settles the question as to whether she went of her own free will. If his name were on that telegram," he said thoughtfully, "I would take a risk and pull him in."
"I will give you something bigger to pull him for," Beale said, "once I have placed Miss Cresswell in safety."
"The Green Rust?" smiled the police chief.
"The Green Rust," said Beale, but he did not smile, "that's van Heerden's big game. The abduction of Miss Cresswell is merely a means to an end. He wants her money and may want it very badly. The more urgent is his need the sooner that marriage takes place."
"But there is no clergyman in England who would marry them"—it was Homo who interrupted. "My dear friend, that sort of thing is not done except in story books. If the woman refuses her consent the marriage cannot possibly occur. As I understand, the lady is not likely to be cowed."
"That is what I am afraid of," said Beale, "she is all pluck——"
He stopped, for he had heard the doctor's door close. In three strides he had crossed the hallway and was in the corridor, confronting his suave neighbour. Dr. van Heerden, carefully attired, was pulling on his gloves and smiled into the stern face of his rival.
"Well," he asked pleasantly, "any news of Miss Cresswell?"
"If I had any news of Miss Cresswell you would not be here," said Beale.
"But how interesting," drawled the doctor. "Where should I be?"
"You would be under lock and key, my friend," said Beale.
The doctor threw back his head and laughed softly.
"What a lover!" he said, "and how reluctant to accept his dismissal! It may ease your mind to know that Miss Cresswell, whom I hope very soon to call Mrs. van Heerden, is perfectly happy, and is very annoyed at your persistence. I had a telegram from her this morning, begging me to come to Liverpool at the earliest opportunity."
"That's a lie," said Beale quietly, "but one lie more or less, I suppose, doesn't count."
"A thoroughly immoral view to take," said the doctor with much severity, "but I see there is nothing to be gained by arguing with you, and I can only make one request."
Beale said nothing but stood waiting.
"It is this," said the doctor, choosing his words with great care: "that you call off the gentleman who has been dogging my footsteps to-day. It was amusing at first but now it is becoming annoying. Some of my patients have complained of this man watching their houses."
"You've not seen a patient to-day, van Heerden," said Beale, "and, anyway, I guess you had better get used to being shadowed. It isn't your first experience."
The doctor looked at him under lowered lids and smiled again.
"I could save your man a great deal of trouble," he said, "and myself considerable exertion by giving him a list of the places where I intend calling."
"He will find that out for himself," said Beale.
"I wish him greater success than he has had," replied the other, and passed on, descending the stairs slowly.
Beale went back to his flat, passed to his bedroom and looked down into the street. He made a signal to a man at the corner and received an almost imperceptible answer. Then he returned to the two men.
"This fellow is too clever for us, I am afraid, and Londonwith its tubes, its underground stations and taxi-cabs is a pretty difficult proposition."
"I suppose your man lost him in the tube," said McNorton.
"There are two ways down, the elevator and the stairs, and it is mighty difficult to follow a man unless you know which way he is going."
"But you were interrupted at an interesting moment. What are you going to tell us about the Green Rust?"
"I can only tell you this," said Beale, "that the Green Rust is the greatest conspiracy against the civilized world that has ever been hatched."
He looked sharply at Homo.
"Don't look at me," said the Parson, "I know nothing about it, unless——" He stopped and frowned. "The Green Rust," he repeated, "is that old man Heyler's secret?"
"He's in it," said Beale shortly.
"Is it a swindle of some kind?" asked the Parson curiously. "It never struck me that Heyler was that kind of man."
"There is no swindle in it so far as Heyler's concerned," said Beale, "it is something bigger than a swindle."
A telephone bell rang and he took up the receiver and listened, only interjecting a query or two. Then he hung up the instrument.
"It is as I thought," he said: "the doctor's slipped again. Had a car waiting for him in Oxford Street and when he saw there were no taxi-cabs about, jumped in and was driven eastward."
"Did you get the number of the car?" asked McNorton.
Beale smiled.
"That's not much use," he said, "he's probably got two or three number-plates."
He looked at his watch.
"I'll go along to Kingston," he said.
"I shan't be able to come with you," said McNorton, "I have a meeting with the commissioner at five."
"Before you go," remarked Beale, "you might put your signature to this declaration of mybona fides."
He laid on the table a blue foolscap blank.
"What's this?" asked the surprised McNorton, "an application for a special licence—are you going to be married?"
"I hope so," said the other cautiously.
"You don't seem very cheerful about it. I presume you want me to testify to the urgency of the case. I am probably perjuring myself." He signed his name with a flourish. "When are you getting the licence and what's the hurry?"
"I am getting the licence to-morrow," said Beale.
"And the lady's name is——?"
"I thought you had noticed it," smiled the other, deftly blotting and folding the form.
"Not Miss Cresswell?" demanded the police chief in surprise.
"Miss Cresswell it is."
"But I thought——"
"There are circumstances which may be brought to your official notice, McNorton," said the detective, "for the present it is necessary to keep my plan a secret."
"Has it anything to do with the Green Rust?" asked the other jokingly.
"A great deal to do with the Green Rust."
"Well, I'll get along," said McNorton. "I will telephone the Kingston police to give you all the assistance possible, but I am afraid you will learn nothing from the tramp till the morning, and perhaps not then."
He took his leave soon after.
"Now, Homo, it is up to you and me," said Beale. "You will have to keep close to me after to-morrow. Make yourself at home here until I come back."
"One moment," said Homo, as Beale rose and gathered up his hat and gloves to depart. "Before you go I want you to understand clearly that I am taking on this job because it offers me a chance that I haven't had since I fell from grace, if you will excuse thecliché."
"That I understand," said Beale.
"I may be doing you a very bad turn."
"I'll take that risk," said Beale.
"On your own head be it," said Homo, his hard face creased in a fleeting smile.
Beale's car was waiting, but his departure was unexpectedly delayed. As he passed down the stairs into the vestibule he saw a stranger standing near the door reading the enamelled name-plates affixed to the wall. Something in his appearance arrested Beale. The man was well dressed in the sense that his clothes were new and well cut, but the pattern of the cloth, no less than the startling yellowness of the boots and that unmistakable sign-manual of the foreigner, the shape and colour of the cravat, stamped him as being neither American nor British.
"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Beale. "Are you looking for somebody?"
The visitor turned a pink face to him.
"You are very good," he said with the faint trace of an accent. "I understand that Doctor van Heerden lives here?"
"Yes, he lives here," said Beale, "but I am afraid he is not at home."
He thought it might be a patient or a summons to a patient.
"Not at home?" The man's face fell. "But how unfortunate! Could you tell me where I can find him, my business is immediate and I have come a long way."
From Germany, guessed Beale. The mail train was due at Charing Cross half an hour before.
"I am a friend of Doctor van Heerden and possibly I can assist you. Is the business very important? Does it concern," he hesitated, "the Green Rust?"
He spoke the last sentence in German and the man started and looked at him with mingled suspicion and uncertainty.
"It is a matter of the greatest importance," he repeated, "it is of vital importance."
He spoke in German.
"About the Green Rust?" asked Beale, in the same language.
"I do not know anything of the Green Rust," said the man hurriedly. "I am merely the bearer of acommunication which is of the greatest importance." He repeated the words—"the greatest importance."
"If you give me the letter," said Beale, "I will see that it is sent on to him," and he held out his hand with the assurance of one who shared the dearest secrets of the doctor. The stranger's hand wandered to his breast pocket, but came back empty.
"No, it must be given—I must see the doctor himself," he said. "He does not expect me and I will wait."
Beale thought quickly.
"Well, perhaps you will come upstairs to my flat and wait," he said genially, and led the way, and the man, still showing evidence of uneasiness, was ushered into his room, where the sight of the Rev. Parson Homo tended to reassure him.
Would he have tea? He would not have tea. Would he take coffee? He would not take coffee. A glass of wine perhaps? No, he did not drink wine nor beer, nor would he take any refreshment whatever.
"My man," thought the desperate Beale, "I either chloroform you or hit you on the head with the poker, but I am going to see that letter."
As if divining his thought, but placing thereon a wrong construction, the man said:
"I should avail myself of your kindness to deliver my letter to Doctor van Heerden, but of what service would it be since it is only a letter introducing me to the good doctor?"
"Oh, is that all?" said Beale, disappointed, and somehow he knew the man spoke the truth.
"That is all," he said, "except of course my message, which is verbal. My name is Stardt, you may have heard the doctor speak of me. We have had some correspondence."
"Yes, yes, I remember," lied Beale.
"The message is for him alone, of course, as you will understand, and if I deliver it to you," smiled Herr Stardt, "you should not understand it, because it is one word."
"One word?" said Beale blankly. "A code—hang!"