"Good!" said Purdie. "Now, here's another matter. You've mentioned Mr. Spencer Levendale and this book which was so strangely left at the pledge-office. I happen to know Mr. Levendale—pretty well."
"You do, mister!" exclaimed Melky. "Small world, ain't it, now?"
"I met Mr. Spencer Levendale last September—two months ago," continued Purdie. "He was staying at an hotel in the Highlands, with his children and their governess: I was at the same hotel, for a month—he and I used to go fishing together. We got pretty friendly, and he asked me to call on him next time I was in town. Here I am—and when we've been to the police, I'm going to Sussex Square—to tell him I'm a friend of Lauriston's, that Lauriston is in some danger over this business, and to ask him if he can tell me more about—that book!"
Melky jumped up and wrung his visitor's hand.
"Mister!—you're one o' the right sort," he said fervently. "That there book has something to do with it! My idea is that the man what carried that book into the shop is the man what scragged my poor old relative—fact, mister! Levendale, he wouldn't tell us anything much this morning—maybe he'll tell you more. Stand by Lauriston, mister!—we'll pull him through."
"You seem very well disposed towards him," remarked Purdie. "He's evidently taken your fancy."
"And my cousin Zillah's," answered Melky, with a confidential grin. "Zillah—loveliest girl in all Paddington, mister—she's clear gone on the young fellow! And—a word in your ear, mister!—Zillah's been educated like a lady, and now that the old man's gone, Zillah'll have—ah! a fortune that 'ud make a nigger turn white! And no error about it! See it through, mister!"
"I'll see it through," said Purdie. "Now, then—these police. Look here—is there a good hotel in this neighbourhood?—I've all my traps in that taxi-cab downstairs—I drove straight here from the station, because I wanted to see Andie Lauriston at once."
"Money's no object to you, I reckon, mister?" asked Melky, with a shrewd glance at the young Scotsman's evident signs of prosperity.
"Not in reason," answered Purdie.
"Then there's the Great Western Hotel, at the end o' Praed Street," said Melky. "That'll suit a young gentleman like you, mister, down to the ground. And you'll be right on the spot!"
"Come with me, then," said Purdie. "And then to the police."
Half-an-hour's private conversation with the police authorities enabled Purdie to put some different ideas into the official heads. They began to look at matters in a new light. Here was a wealthy young Scottish manufacturer, a person of standing and position, who was able to vouch for Andrew Lauriston in more ways than one, who had known him from boyhood, had full faith in him and in his word, and was certain that all that Lauriston had said about the rings and about his finding of Daniel Multenius would be found to be absolutely true. They willingly agreed to move no further in the matter until Lauriston's return—and Purdie noticed, not without a smile, that they pointedly refrained from asking where he had gone to. He came out from that interview with Ayscough in attendance upon him—and Melky, waiting without, saw that things had gone all right.
"You might let me have your London address, sir," said Ayscough. "I might want to let you know something."
"Great Western Hotel," answered Purdie. "I shall stay there until Lauriston's return, and until this matter's entirely cleared up, as far as he's concerned. Come there, if you want me. All right," he continued, as he and Melky walked away from the police-station. "They took my word for it!—they'll do nothing until Lauriston comes back. Now then, you know this neighbourhood, and I don't—show me the way to Sussex Square—I'm going to call on Mr. Levendale at once."
John Purdie had a double object in calling on Mr. Spencer Levendale. He had mentioned to Melky that when he met Levendale in the Highlands, Levendale, who was a widower, had his children and their governess with him. But he had not mentioned that he, Purdie, had fallen in love with the governess, and that one of his objects in coming to London just then was to renew his acquaintance with her. It was chiefly of the governess that he was thinking as he stood on the steps of the big house in Sussex Square—perhaps, in a few minutes, he would see her again.
But Purdie was doomed to see neither Mr. Spencer Levendale nor the pretty governess that day. Mr. Levendale, said the butler, was on business in the city and was to dine out that evening: Miss Bennett had taken the two children to see a relative of theirs at Hounslow, and would not return until late. So Purdie, having pencilled his London address on them, left cards for Mr. Levendale and Miss Bennett, and, going back to his hotel, settled himself in his quarters to await developments. He spent the evening in reading the accounts of the inquest on Daniel Multenius—in more than one of the newspapers they were full and circumstantial, and it needed little of his shrewd perception to convince him that his old schoolmate stood in considerable danger if he failed to establish his ownership of the rings.
He had finished breakfast next morning and was thinking of strolling round to Melky Rubinstein's lodgings, to hear if any news had come from Lauriston, when a waiter brought him Ayscough's card, saying that its presenter was waiting for him in the smoking-room. Purdie went there at once: the detective, who looked unusually grave and thoughtful, drew him aside into a quiet part of the room.
"There's a strange affair occurred during the night, Mr. Purdie," said Ayscough, when they were alone. "And it's my opinion it's connected with this Multenius affair."
"What is it?" asked Purdie.
"This," replied Ayscough. "A Praed Street tradesman—in a small way—was picked up, dying, in a quiet street off Maida Vale, at twelve o'clock last night, and he died soon afterwards. And—he'd been poisoned!—but how, the doctors can't yet tell."
Purdie, whose temperament inclined him to slowness and deliberation in face of any grave crisis, motioned the detective to take a seat in the quiet corner of the smoking-room, into which they had retreated, and sat down close by him.
"Now, to begin with," he said, "why do you think this affair is connected with the affair of the old pawn-broker? There must be some link."
"There is a link, sir," answered Ayscough. "The man was old Daniel Multenius's next door neighbour: name of Parslett—James Parslett, fruit and vegetable dealer. Smallish way of business, but well known enough in that quarter. Now, I'll explain something to you. I'm no hand at drawing," continued the detective, "but I think I can do a bit of a rough sketch on this scrap of paper which will make clear to you the lie of the land. These two lines represent Praed Street. Here, where I make this cross, is Daniel Multenius's pawnshop. The front part of it—the jeweller's shop—looks out on Praed Street. At the side is a narrow passage or entry: from that you get access to the pledge-office. Now then, Multenius's premises run down one side of this passage: Parslett's run down the other. Parslett's house has a side-door into it, exactly opposite the door into Multenius's pledge office. Is that clear, Mr. Purdie?"
"Quite!" answered Purdie. "I understand it exactly."
"Then my theory is, that Parslett saw the real murderer of Daniel Multenius come out of Multenius's side-door, while he, Parslett, was standing at his own; that he recognized him, that he tried to blackmail him yesterday, and that the man contrived to poison him, in such a fashion that Parslett died shortly after leaving him," said Ayscough, confidently. "It's but a theory—but I'll lay anything I'm not far out in it!"
"What reason have you for thinking that Parslett blackmailed the murderer?" asked Purdie.
"This!" answered the detective, with something of triumph in his tone. "I've been making some enquiries already this morning, early as it is. When Parslett was picked up and carried to the hospital—this St. Mary's Hospital, close by here—he was found to have fifty pounds in gold in his pocket. Now, according to Parslett's widow, whom I've seen this morning, Parslett was considerably hard up yesterday. Trade hasn't been very good with him of late, and she naturally knows his circumstances. He went out of the house last night about nine o'clock, saying he was going to have a stroll round, and the widow says she's certain he'd no fifty pounds on him when he left her—it would be a wonder, she says, if he'd as much as fifty shillings! Now then, Mr. Purdie, where did a man like that pick up fifty sovereigns between the time he went out, and the time he was picked up, dying?"
"He might have borrowed it from some friend," suggested Purdie.
"I thought of that, sir," said Ayscough. "It seems the natural thing to think of. But Mrs. Parslett says they haven't a friend from whom he could have borrowed such an amount—not one! No, sir!—my belief is that Parslett saw some man enter and leave Multenius's shop; that he knew the man; that he went and plumped him with the affair, and that the man gave him that gold to get rid of him at the moment—and contrived to poison him, too!"
Purdie considered the proposition for awhile in silence.
"Well," he remarked at last, "if that's so, it seems to establish two facts—first, that the murderer is some man who lives in this neighbourhood, and second, that he's an expert in poisons."
"Right, sir!" agreed Ayscough. "Quite right. And it would, of course, establish another—the innocence of your friend, Lauriston."
Purdie smiled.
"I never had any doubt of that," he said.
"Between ourselves, neither had I," remarked Ayscough heartily. "I told our people that I, personally, was convinced of the young fellow's complete innocence from the very first—and it was I who found him in the shop. It's a most unfortunate thing that he was there, and a sad coincidence that those rings of his were much of a muchness with the rings in the tray in the old man's parlour—but I've never doubted him. No, sir!—I believe all this business goes a lot deeper than that! It's no common affair—old Daniel Multenius was attacked by somebody—somebody!—for some special reason—and it's going to take a lot of getting at. And I'm convinced this Parslett affair is a development—Parslett's been poisoned because he knew too much."
"You say you don't know what particular poison was used?" asked Purdie. "It would be something of a clue to know that. Because, if it turned out to be one of a very subtle nature, that would prove that whoever administered it had made a special study of poisons."
"I don't know that—yet," answered Ayscough. "But," he continued, rising from his chair, "if you'd step round with me to the hospital, we might get to know, now. There's one or two of their specialists been making an examination. It's only a mere step along the street."
Purdie followed the detective out and along Praed Street. Before they reached the doors of the hospital, a man came up to Ayscough: a solid, substantial-looking person, of cautious manner and watchful eye, whose glance wandered speculatively from the detective to his companion. Evidently sizing Purdie up as some one in Ayscough's confidence, he spoke—in the fashion of one who has something as mysterious, as important, to communicate.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ayscough," he said. "A word with you sir. You know me, Mr. Ayscough?"
Ayscough looked sharply at his questioner.
"Mr. Goodyer, isn't it?" he asked. "Oh, yes, I remember. What is it?You can speak before this gentleman—it's all right."
"About this affair of last night—Parslett, you know," said Goodyer, drawing the detective aside, and lowering his voice, so that passers-by might not hear. "There's something I can tell you—I've heard all about the matter from Parslett's wife. But I've not told her what I can tell you, Mr. Ayscough."
"And—what's that?" enquired the detective.
"I'm Parslett's landlord, you know," continued Goodyer. "He's had that shop and dwelling-house of me for some years. Now, Parslett's not been doing very well of late, from one cause or another, and to put it in a nutshell, he owed me half a year's rent. I saw him yesterday, and told him I must have the money at once: in fact, I pressed him pretty hard about it.—I'd been at him for two or three weeks, and I could see it was no good going on. He'd been down in the mouth about it, the last week or so, but yesterday afternoon he was confident enough. 'Now, you needn't alarm yourself, Mr. Goodyer,' he said. 'There's a nice bit of money going to be paid to me tonight, and I'll settle up with you before I stick my head on the pillow,' he said. 'Tonight, for certain?' says I. 'Before even I go to bed!' he says. 'I can't fix it to a minute, but you can rely on me calling at your house in St. Mary's Terrace before eleven o'clock—with the money.' And he was so certain about it, Mr. Ayscough, that I said no more than that I should be much obliged, and I'd wait up for him. And," concluded Goodyer, "I did wait up—till half-past twelve—but he never came. So this morning, of course, I walked round here—and then I heard what happened—about him being picked up dying and since being dead—with fifty pounds in gold in his pocket. Of course, Mr. Ayscough, that was the money he referred to."
"You haven't mentioned this to anybody?" asked Ayscough.
"Neither to the widow nor to anybody—but you," replied Goodyer.
"Don't!" said Ayscough. "Keep it to yourself till I give you the word. You didn't hear anything from Parslett as to where the money was coming from?"
"Not one syllable!" answered Goodyer. "But I could see he was dead sure of having it."
"Well—keep quiet about it," continued Ayscough. "There'll be an inquest, you know, and what you have to tell'll come in handy, then. There's some mystery about all this affair, Mr. Goodyer, and it's going to take some unravelling."
"You're right!" said Goodyer. "I believe you!"
He went off along the street, and the detective turned to Purdie and motioned him towards the hospital.
"Queer, all that, sir!" he muttered. "Very queer! But it all tends to showing that my theory's the right one. Now if you'll just stop in the waiting-room a few minutes, I'll find out if these doctors have come to any conclusion about the precise nature of the poison."
Purdie waited for ten minutes, speculating on the curiosities of the mystery into which he had been so strangely plunged: at last the detective came back, shaking his head.
"Can't get a definite word out of 'em, yet," he said, as they went away. "There's two or three of 'em—big experts in—what do you call it—oh, yes, toxology—putting their heads together over the analysing business, and they won't say anything so far—they'll leave that to the inquest. But I gathered this much, Mr. Purdie, from the one I spoke to—this man Parslett was poisoned in some extremely clever fashion, and by some poison that's not generally known, which was administered to him probably half-an-hour before it took effect. What's that argue, sir, but that whoever gave him that poison is something of an expert? Deep game, Mr. Purdie, a very deep game indeed!—and now I don't think there's much need to be anxious about that young friend of yours. I'm certain, anyway, that the man who poisoned Parslett is the man who killed poor old Daniel Multenius. But—we shall see."
Purdie parted from Ayscough outside the hospital and walked along to Mrs. Flitwick's house in Star Street. He met Melky Rubinstein emerging from the door; Melky immediately pulled out a telegram which he thrust into Purdie's hand.
"Just come, mister!" exclaimed Melky. "There's a word for you in it—I was going to your hotel. Read what he says."
Purdie unfolded the pink paper and read.
"On the track all right understand Purdie is in town if he comes toStar Street explain all to him will wire again later in day."
"Good!" said Purdie. He handed back the telegram and looked meditatively at Melky. "Are you busy this morning?" he asked.
"Doing no business whatever, mister," lisped Melky, solemnly. "Not until this business is settled—not me!"
"Come to the hotel with me," continued Purdie. "I want to talk to you about something."
But when they reached the hotel, all thought of conversation was driven out of Purdie's mind for the moment. The hall-porter handed him a note, remarking that it had just come. Purdie's face flushed as he recognized the handwriting: he turned sharply away and tore open the envelope. Inside, on a half-sheet of notepaper, were a few lines—from the pretty governess at Mr. Spencer Levendale's.
"Can you come here at once and ask for me? There is something seriously wrong: I am much troubled and have no one in London I can consult."
With a hasty excuse to Melky, Purdie ran out of the hotel, and set off in quick response to the note.
As he turned down Spring Street towards Sussex Square, Purdie hastily reviewed his knowledge of Mr. Spencer Levendale and his family. He had met them, only two months previously, at a remote and out-of-the-way place in the Highlands, in a hotel where he and they were almost the only guests. Under such circumstances, strangers are soon drawn together, and as Levendale and Purdie had a common interest in fishing they were quickly on good terms. But Purdie was thinking now as he made his way towards Levendale's London house that he really knew very little of this man who was evidently mixed up in some way with the mystery into which young Andie Lauriston had so unfortunately also become intermingled. He knew that Levendale was undoubtedly a very wealthy man: there were all the signs of wealth about him; he had brought several servants down to the Highlands with him: money appeared to be plentiful with him as pebbles are on a beach. Purdie learnt bit by bit that Levendale had made a great fortune in South Africa, that he had come home to England and gone into Parliament; that he was a widower and the father of two little girls—he learnt, too, that the children's governess, Miss Elsie Bennett, a pretty and taking girl of twenty-two or three, had come with them from Cape Town. But of Levendale's real character and self he knew no more than could be gained from holiday acquaintance. Certain circumstances told him by Melky about the rare book left in old Multenius's parlour inclined Purdie to be somewhat suspicious that Levendale was concealing something which he knew about that affair—and now here was Miss Bennett writing what, on the face of it, looked like an appealing letter to him, as if something had happened.
Purdie knew something had happened as soon as he was admitted to the house. Levendale's butler, who had accompanied his master to the Highlands, and had recognized Purdie on his calling the previous day, came hurrying to him in the hall, as soon as the footman opened the door.
"You haven't seen Mr. Levendale since you were here yesterday, sir?" he asked, in a low, anxious voice.
"Seen Mr. Levendale? No!" answered Purdie. "Why—what do you mean?"
The butler looked round at a couple of footmen who hung about the door.
"Don't want to make any fuss about it, Mr. Purdie," he whispered, "though it's pretty well known in the house already. The fact is, sir, Mr. Levendale's missing!"
"Missing?" exclaimed Purdie. "Since when?"
"Only since last night, sir," replied the butler, "but the circumstances are queer. He dined out with some City gentlemen, somewhere, last night, and he came home about ten o'clock. He wasn't in the house long. He went into his laboratory—he spends a lot of time in experimenting in chemistry, you know, sir—and he called me in there. 'I'm going out again for an hour, Grayson,' he says. 'I shall be in at eleven: don't go to bed, for I want to see you for a minute or two.' Of course, there was nothing in that, Mr. Purdie, and I waited for him. But he never came home—and no message came. He never came home at all—and this morning I've telephoned to his two clubs, and to one or two other places in the City—nobody's seen or heard anything of him. And I can't think what's happened—it's all so unlike his habits."
"He didn't tell you where he was going?" asked Purdie.
"No, sir, but he went on foot," answered the butler. "I let him out—he turned up Paddington way."
"You didn't notice anything out of the common about him?" suggestedPurdie.
The butler hesitated for a moment.
"Well, sir," he said at last, "I did notice something. Come this way,Mr. Purdie."
Turning away from the hall, he led Purdie through the library in which Levendale had received Ayscough and his companions into a small room that opened out of it.
Purdie, looking round him, found that he was standing in a laboratory, furnished with chemical apparatus of the latest descriptions. Implements and appliances were on all sides; there were rows of bottles on the shelves; a library of technical books filled a large book-case; everything in the place betokened the pursuit of a scientific investigator. And Purdie's keen sense of smell immediately noted the prevalent atmosphere of drugs and chemicals.
"It was here that I saw Mr. Levendale last night, sir," said the butler. "He called me in. He was measuring something from one of those bottles into a small phial, Mr. Purdie—he put the phial in his waistcoat pocket. Look at those bottles, sir—you'll see they all contain poison!—you can tell that by the make of 'em."
Purdie glanced at the shelf which the butler indicated. The bottles ranged on it were all of blue glass, and all triangular in shape, and each bore a red label with the wordPoisonprominently displayed.
"Odd!" he said. "You've some idea?" he went on, looking closely at the butler. "Something on your mind about this? What is it?"
The butler shook his head.
"Well, sir," he answered, "when you see a gentleman measuring poison into a phial, which he carefully puts in his pocket, and when he goes out, and when he never comes back, and when you can't hear of him, anywhere! why, what are you to think? Looks strange, now, doesn't it, Mr. Purdie?"
"I don't know Mr. Levendale well enough to say," replied Purdie. "There may be some quite good reason for Mr. Levendale's absence. He'd no trouble of any sort, had he?"
"He seemed a bit upset, once or twice, yesterday—and the night before," said the butler. "I noticed it—in little things. Well!—I can't make it out, sir. You see, I've been with him ever since he came back to England—some years now—and I know his habits, thoroughly. However, we can only wait—I believe Miss Bennett sent for you, Mr. Purdie?"
"Yes," said Purdie. "She did."
"This way, sir," said the butler. "Miss Bennett's alone, now—the children have just gone out with their nurses."
He led Purdie through the house to a sitting-room looking out on the garden of the Square, and ushered him into the governess's presence.
"I've told Mr. Purdie all about it, miss," he said, confidentially. "Perhaps you'll talk it over with him! I can't think of anything more to do—until we hear something."
Left alone, Purdie and Elsie Bennett looked at each other as they shook hands. She was a fair, slender girl, naturally shy and retiring; she was manifestly shy at renewing her acquaintance with Purdie, and Purdie himself, conscious of his own feelings towards her, felt a certain embarrassment and awkwardness.
"You sent for me," he said brusquely. "I came the instant I got your note. Grayson kept me talking downstairs. You're bothered—about Mr. Levendale?"
"Yes," she answered. Then she pointed to a chair. "Won't you sit down?" she said, and took a chair close by. "I sent for you, because—it may seem strange, but it's a fact!—I couldn't think of anybody else! It seemed so fortunate that you were in London—and close by. I felt that—that I could depend on you."
"Thank you," said Purdie. "Well—you can! And what is it?"
"Grayson's told you about Mr. Levendale's going out last night, and never coming back, nor sending any message?" she continued. "As Grayson says, considering Mr. Levendale's habits, that is certainly very strange! But—I want to tell you something beyond that—I must tell somebody! And I know that if I tell you you'll keep it secret—until, or unless you think you ought to tell it to—the police!"
Purdie started.
"The police!" he exclaimed. "What is it?"
Elsie Bennett turned to a table, and picked up a couple of newspapers.
"Have you read this Praed Street mystery affair?" she asked. "I mean the account of the inquest?"
"Every word—and heard more, besides," answered Purdie. "That young fellow, Andie Lauriston, is an old schoolmate and friend of mine. I came here yesterday to see him, and found him plunged into this business. Of course, he's absolutely innocent."
"Has he been arrested?" asked Elsie, almost eagerly.
"No!" replied Purdie. "He's gone away—to get evidence that those rings which are such a feature of the case are really his and were his mother's."
"Have you noticed these particulars, at the end of the inquest, about the book which was found in the pawnbroker's parlour?" she went on. "The Spanish manuscript?"
"Said to have been lost by Mr. Levendale in an omnibus," answeredPurdie. "Yes! What of it?"
The girl bent nearer to him.
"It seems a dreadful thing to say," she whispered, "but I must tell somebody—I can't, I daren't keep it to myself any longer! Mr. Levendale isn't telling the truth about that book!"
Purdie involuntarily glanced at the door—and drew his chair nearer toElsie's.
"You're sure of that?" he whispered. "Just so! Now—in what way?"
"It says here," answered Elsie, tapping the newspapers with her finger, "that Mr. Levendale lost this book in a 'bus, which he left at the corner of Chapel Street, and that he was so concerned about the loss that he immediately sent advertisements off to every morning newspaper in London. The last part of that is true—the first part is not true! Mr. Levendale did not lose his book—he did not leave it in the 'bus! I'm sorry to have to say it—but all that is invention on his part—why, I don't know."
Purdie had listened to this with a growing feeling of uneasiness and suspicion. The clouds centring round Levendale were certainly thickening.
"Now, just tell me—how do you know all this?" he asked. "Rely on me—to the full!"
"I'll tell you," replied Elsie, readily. "Because, about four o'clock on the afternoon of the old man's death, I happened to be at the corner of Chapel Street. I saw Mr. Levendale get out of the 'bus. He did not see me. He crossed Edgware Road and walked rapidly down Praed Street. And—he was carrying that book in his hand!"
"You're sure it was that book?" asked Purdie.
"According to the description given in this account and in the advertisement—yes," she answered. "I noticed the fine binding. Although Mr. Levendale didn't see me—there were a lot of people about—I was close to him. I am sure it was the book described here."
"And—he went in the direction of the pawnshop?" said Purdie. "What on earth does it all mean? What did he mean by advertising for the book, when—"
Before he could say more, a knock came at the door, and the butler entered, bearing an open telegram in his hand. His face wore an expression of relief.
"Here's a wire from Mr. Levendale, Miss Bennett," he said. "It's addressed to me. He says, 'Shall be away from home, on business, for a few days. Let all go on as usual.' That's better, miss! But," continued Grayson, glancing at Purdie, "it's still odd—for do you see, sir, where that wire has been sent from? Spring Street—close by!"
Purdie was already sufficiently acquainted with the geography of the Paddington district to be aware of the significance of Grayson's remark. The Spring Street Post Office, at which Levendale's wire had been handed in, was only a few minutes' walk from the house. It stood, in fact, between Purdie's hotel and Sussex Square, and he had passed it on his way to Levendale's. It was certainly odd that a man who was within five minutes' walk of his own house should send a telegram there, when he had nothing to do but walk down one street and turn the corner of another to give his message in person.
"Sent off, do you see, sir, twenty minutes ago," observed the butler, pointing to some figures in the telegram form. "So—Mr. Levendale must have been close by—then!"
"Not necessarily," remarked Purdie. "He may have sent a messenger with that wire—perhaps he himself was catching a train at Paddington."
Grayson shook his head knowingly.
"There's a telegraph office on the platform there, sir," he answered."However—there it is, and I suppose there's no more to be done."
He left the room again, and Purdie looked at the governess. She, too, looked at him: there was a question in the eyes of both.
"What do you make of that?" asked Purdie after a pause.
"What do you make of it?" she asked in her turn.
"It looks odd—but there may be a reason for it," he answered. "Look here!—I'm going to ask you a question. What do you know of Mr. Levendale? You've been governess to his children for some time, haven't you?"
"For six months before he left Cape Town, and ever since we all came to England, three years ago," she answered. "I know that he's very rich, and a very busy man, and a member of Parliament, and that he goes to the City a great deal—and that's all! He's a very reserved man, too—of course, he never tells me anything. I've never had any conversation with him excepting about the children."
"You're upset about this book affair?" suggested Purdie.
"Why should Mr. Levendale say that he left that book in the omnibus, when I myself saw him leave the 'bus with it in his hand, and go down Praed Street with it?" she asked. "Doesn't it look as if he were the person who left it in that room—where the old man was found lying dead?"
"That, perhaps, is the very reason why he doesn't want people to know that he did leave it there," remarked Purdie, quietly. "There's more in all this than lies on the surface. You wanted my advice? Very well don't say anything to anybody till you see me again. I must go now—there's a man waiting for me at my hotel. I may call again, mayn't I?"
"Do!" she said, giving him her hand. "I am bothered about this—it's useless to deny it—and I've no one to talk to about it. Come—any time."
Purdie repressed a strong desire to stay longer, and to turn the conversation to more personal matters. But he was essentially a business man, and the matters of the moment seemed to be critical. So he promised to return, and then hurried back to his hotel—to find Melky Rubinstein pacing up and down outside the entrance.
Purdie tapped Melky's shoulder and motioned him to walk along PraedStreet.
"Look here!" he said. "I want you to take me to see your cousin—and the pawnshop. We must have a talk—you said your cousin's a good business woman. She's the sort we can discuss business with, eh?"
"My cousin Zillah Wildrose, mister," answered Melky, solemnly, "is one of the best! She's a better headpiece on her than what I have—and that's saying a good deal. I was going to suggest you should come there. Talk!—s'elp me, Mr. Purdie, it strikes me there'll be a lot of that before we've done. What about this here affair of last night?—I've just seen Mr. Ayscough, passing along—he's told me all about it. Do you think it's anything to do with our business?"
"Can't say," answered Purdie. "Wait till we can discuss matters with your cousin."
Melky led the way to the side-door of the pawnshop. Since the old man's death, the whole establishment had been closed—Zillah had refused to do any business until her grandfather's funeral was over. She received her visitors in the parlour where old Daniel had been found dead: after a moment's inspection of her, and the exchange of a few remarks about Lauriston, Purdie suggested that they should all sit down and talk matters over.
"Half-a-mo!" said Melky. "If we're going to have a cabinet council, mister, there's a lady that I want to bring into it—Mrs. Goldmark. I know something that Mrs. Goldmark can speak to—I've just been considering matters while I was waiting for you, Mr. Purdie, and I'm going to tell you and Zillah, and Mrs. Goldmark, of a curious fact that I know of. I'll fetch her—and while I'm away Zillah'll show you that there book what was found there."
Purdie looked with interest at the Spanish manuscript which seemed to be a factor of such importance.
"I suppose you never saw this before?" he asked, as Zillah laid it on the table before him. "And you're certain it wasn't in the place when you went out that afternoon, leaving your grandfather alone?"
"That I'm positive of," answered Zillah. "I never saw it in my life until my attention was drawn to it after he was dead. That book was brought in here during my absence, and it was neither bought nor pawned—that's absolutely certain! Of course, you know whose book it is?"
"Mr. Spencer Levendale's," answered Purdie. "Yes I know all thoseparticulars—and about his advertisements for it, and a little more.And I want to discuss all that with you and your cousin. This Mrs.Goldmark—she's to be fully trusted?"
Zillah replied that Mrs. Goldmark was worthy of entire confidence, and an old friend, and Melky presently returning with her, Purdie suggested they should all sit down and talk—informally and in strict privacy.
"You know why I'm concerning myself in this?" he said, looking round at his three companions. "I'm anxious that Andie Lauriston should be fully and entirely cleared! I've great faith in him—he's beginning what I believe will be a successful career, and it would be a terrible thing if any suspicion rested on him. So I want, for his sake, to thoroughly clear up this mystery about your relative's death."
"Mister!" said Melky, in his most solemn tones. "Speaking for my cousin there, and myself, there ain't nothing what we wouldn't do to clear Mr. Lauriston! We ain't never had one moment's suspicion of him from the first, knowing the young fellow as we do. So we're with you in that matter, ain't we, Zillah?"
"Mr. Purdie feels sure of that," agreed Zillah, with a glance atLauriston's old schoolmate. "There's no need to answer him, Melky."
"I am sure!" said Purdie. "So—let's put our wits together—we'll consider the question of approaching the police when we've talked amongst ourselves. Now—I want to ask you some very private questions. They spring out of that rare book there. There's no doubt that book belongs to Mr. Levendale. Do either of you know if Mr. Levendale had any business relations with the late Mr. Rubinstein?"
Zillah shook her head.
"None!—that I know of," she answered. "I've helped my grandfather in this business for some time. I never heard him mention Mr. Levendale. Mr. Levendale never came here, certainly."
Melky shook his head, too.
"When Mr. Ayscough, and Mr. Lauriston, and me went round to Sussex Square, to see Mr. Levendale about that advertisement for his book," he remarked, "he said he'd never heard of Daniel Multenius. That's a fact, mister!"
"Had Mr. Multenius any private business relations of which he didn't tell you?" asked Purdie, turning to Zillah.
"He might have had," admitted Zillah. "He was out a good deal. I don't know what he might do when he went out. He was—close. We—it's no use denying it—we don't know all about it. His solicitor's making some enquiries—I expect him here, any time, today."
"It comes to this," observed Purdie. "Your grandfather met his death by violence, the man who attacked him came in here during your absence. The question I want to get solved is—was the man who undoubtedly left that book here the guilty man? If so—who is he?"
Melky suddenly broke the silence which followed upon this question.
"I'm going to tell something that I ain't told to nobody as yet!" he said. "Not even to Zillah. After this here parlour had been cleared, I took a look round. I've very sharp eyes, Mr. Purdie. I found this here—half-hidden under the rug there, where the poor old man had been lying." He pulled out the platinum solitaire, laid it on the palm of one hand, and extended the hand to Mrs. Goldmark. "You've seen the like of that before, ain't you?" asked Melky.
"Mercy be upon us!" gasped Mrs. Goldmark, starting in her seat. "I've the fellow to it lying in my desk!"
"And it was left on a table in your restaurant," continued Melky, "by a man what looked like a Colonial party—I know!—I saw it by accident in your place the other night, and one o' your girls told me. Now then, Mr. Purdie, here's a bit more of puzzlement—and perhaps a clue. These here platinum solitaire cuff-links are valuable—they're worth—well, I'd give a good few pounds for the pair. Now who's the man who lost one in this here parlour—right there!—and the other in Mrs. Goldmark's restaurant? For—it's a pair! There's no doubt about that, mister!—there's that same curious and unusual device on each. Mister!—them studs has at some time or other been made to special order!"
Purdie turned the solitaire over, and looked at Zillah.
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" he asked.
"Never!" said Zillah. "It's as Melky says—specially made."
"And you have its fellow—lost in your restaurant?" continued Purdie, turning to Mrs. Goldmark.
"Its very marrow," assented Mrs. Goldmark, fervently, "is in my desk! It was dropped on one of our tables a few afternoons ago by a man who, as Mr. Rubinstein says, looked like one of those Colonials. Leastways, my waitress, Rosa, she picked it up exactly where he'd been sitting. So I put it away till he comes in again, you see. Oh, yes!"
"Has he been in again?" asked Purdie.
"Never was he inside my door before!" answered Mrs. Goldmark dramatically. "Never has he been inside it since! But—I keep his property, just so. In my desk it is!"
Purdie considered this new evidence in silence for a moment.
"The question now is—this," he said presently. "Is the man who seems undoubtedly to have dropped those studs the same man who brought that book in here? Or, had Mr. Multenius two callers here during your absence, Miss Wildrose? And—who is this mysterious man who dropped the studs—valuable things, with a special device on them? He'll have to be traced! Mrs. Goldmark—can you describe him, particularly?"
Before Mrs. Goldmark could reply, a knock came at the side-door, and Zillah, going to answer it, returned presently with a middle-aged, quiet-looking, gold-spectacled gentleman whom she introduced to Purdie as Mr. Penniket, solicitor to the late Daniel Multenius.
Mr. Penniket, to whom the two cousins and Mrs. Goldmark were evidently very well known, looked a polite enquiry at the stranger as he took the chair which Melky drew forward for him.
"As Mr. Purdie is presumably discussing this affair with you," he observed, "I take it that you intend him to hear anything I have to tell?"
"That's so, Mr. Penniket," answered Melky. "Mr. Purdie's one of us, so to speak—you can tell us anything you like, before him. We were going into details when you come—there's some strange business on, Mr. Penniket! And we want to get a bit clear about it before we tell the police what we know."
"You know something that they don't know?" asked Mr. Penniket.
"More than a bit!" replied Melky, laconically. "This here affair's revolving itself into a network, mister, out of which somebody's going to find it hard work to break through!"
The solicitor, who had been quietly inspecting Purdie, gave him a sly smile.
"Then before I tell you what I have just found out," he said, turning to Melky, "I think you had better tell me all you know, and what you have been discussing. Possibly, I may have something to tell which bears on our knowledge. Let us be clear!"
He listened carefully while Purdie, at Zillah's request, told him briefly what had been said before his arrival, and Purdie saw at once that none of the facts surprised him. He asked Mrs. Goldmark one or two questions about the man who was believed to have dropped one of his cuff-links in her restaurant; he asked Melky a question as to his discovery of the other; he made no comment on the answers which they gave him. Finally, he drew his chair nearer to the table at which they were sitting, and invited their attention with a glance.
"There is no doubt," he said, "that the circumstances centring round the death of my late client are remarkably mysterious! What we want to get at, put into a nut-shell, is just this—what happened in this parlour between half-past four and half-past five on Monday afternoon? We might even narrow that down to—what happened between ten minutes to five and ten minutes past five? Daniel Multenius was left alone—we know that. Some person undoubtedly came in here—perhaps more than one person came. Who was the person? Were there two persons? If there were two, did they come together—or singly, separately? All that will have to be solved before we find out who it was that assaulted my late client, and so injured him that he died under the shock. Now, Miss Wildrose, and Mr. Rubinstein, there's one fact which you may as well get into your minds at once. Your deceased relative had his secrets!"
Neither Zillah nor Purdie made any comment on this, and the solicitor, with a meaning look at Purdie, went on. "Not that Daniel Multenius revealed any of them to me!" he continued. "I have acted for him in legal matters for some years, but only in quite an ordinary way. He was a well-to-do man, Mr. Purdie—a rich man, in fact, and a considerable property owner—I did all his work of that sort. But as regards his secrets, I know nothing—except that since yesterday, I have discovered that he certainly had them. I have, as Miss Wildrose knows—and by her instructions—been making some enquiries at the bank where Mr. Multenius kept his account—the Empire and Universal, in Lombard Street—and I have made some curious unearthings in the course of them. Now then, between ourselves—Mr. Purdie being represented to me as in your entire confidence—I may as well tell you that Daniel Multenius most certainly had dealings of a business nature completely outside his business as jeweller and pawnbroker in this shop. That's positively certain. And what is also certain is that in some of those dealings he was, in some way or another, intimately associated with the man whose name has already come up a good deal since Monday—Mr. Spencer Levendale!"
"S'elp me!" muttered Melky. "I heard Levendale, with my own two ears, say that he didn't know the poor old fellow!"
"Very likely," said Mr. Penniket, drily. "It was not convenient to him—we will assume—to admit that he did, just then. But I have discovered—from the bankers—that precisely two years ago, Mr. Spencer Levendale paid to Daniel Multenius a sum of ten thousand pounds. That's a fact!"
"For what, mister?" demanded Melky.
"Can't say—nobody can say," answered the solicitor. "All the same, he did—paid it in, himself, to Daniel Multenius's credit, at the Empire and Universal. It went into the ordinary account, in the ordinary way, and was used by Mr. Multenius as part of his own effects—as no doubt it was. Now," continued Mr. Penniket, turning to Zillah, "I want to ask you a particular question. I know you had assisted your grandfather a great deal of late years. Had you anything to do with his banking account?"
"No!" replied Zillah, promptly. "That's the one thing I never had anything to do with. I never saw his pass-book, nor his deposit-book, nor even his cheque-book. He kept all that to himself."
"Just so," said Mr. Penniket. "Then, of course, you don't know that he dealt with considerable sums—evidently quite outside this business. He made large—sometimes very heavy—payments. And—this, I am convinced, is of great importance to the question we are trying to solve—most of these payments were sent to South Africa."
The solicitor glanced round his audience as if anxious to see that its various members grasped the significance of this announcement. And Melky at once voiced the first impression of, at any rate, three of them.
"Levendale comes from those parts!" he muttered. "Came here some two or three years ago—by all I can gather."
"Just so," said Mr. Penniket. "Therefore, possibly this South African business, in which my late client was undoubtedly engaged, is connected with Mr. Levendale. That can be found out. But I have still more to tell you—perhaps, considering everything, the most important matter of the whole lot. On Monday morning last—that would be a few hours before his death—Mr. Multenius called at the bank and took from it a small packet which he had entrusted to his banker's keeping only a fortnight previously. The bankers do not know what was in that packet—he had more than once got them to take care of similar packets at one time or another. But they described it to me just now. A packet, evidently enclosing a small, hard box, some four or five inches square in all directions, wrapped in strong cartridge paper, and heavily sealed with red wax. It bore Mr. Multenius's name and address—written by himself. Now, then, Miss Wildrose—he took that packet away from the bank at about twelve-thirty on Monday noon. Have you seen anything of it?"
"Nothing!" answered Zillah with certainty. "There's no such packet here, Mr. Penniket. I've been through everything—safes, drawers, chests, since my grandfather died, and I've not found anything that I didn't know of. I remember that he went out last Monday morning—he was away two hours, and came in again about a quarter past one, but I never saw such a packet in his possession as that you describe. I know nothing of it."
"Well," said the solicitor, after a pause, "there are the facts. And the question now is—ought we not to tell all this to the police, at once? This connection of Levendale with my late client—as undoubted as it seems to have been secret—needs investigation. According to Mr. Purdie here—Levendale has suddenly disappeared—or, at any rate, left home under mysterious circumstances. Has that disappearance anything to do with Multenius's death? Has it anything to do with the death of this next door man, Parslett, last night? And has Levendale any connections with the strange man who dropped one platinum solitaire stud in Mrs. Goldmark's restaurant, and another in this parlour?"
No one attempted to answer these questions for a moment; then, Melky, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, smote the table and leaned over it towards the solicitor.
"Mr. Penniket!" he said, glancing around him as if to invite approval of what he was about to say. "You're a lawyer, mister!—you can put things in order and present 'em as if they was in a catalogue! Take the whole business to New Scotland Yard, sir!—let the big men at headquarters have a go at it. That's what I say! There's some queer mystery at the bottom of all this, Mr. Penniket, and it ain't a one-man job. Go to the Yard, mister—let 'em try their brains on it!"
Zillah made a murmured remark which seemed to second her cousin's proposal, and Mr. Penniket turned to Purdie.
"I understand you to be a business man," he remarked. "What do you say?"
"As far as I can put things together," answered Purdie, "I fully agree that there is some extraordinary mystery round and about Mr. Multenius's death. And as the detective force at New Scotland Yard exists for the solution of such problems—why, I should certainly tell the authorities there everything that is known. Why not?"
"Very good," said Mr. Penniket. "Then it will be well if you two come with me. The more information we can give to the heads of the Criminal Investigation Department, the better. We'll go there at once."
In a few moments, the three men had gone, and Zillah and Mrs. Goldmark, left alone, looked at each other.
"Mrs. Goldmark!" said Zillah, after a long silence. "Did you see that man, yourself, who's supposed to have dropped that platinum solitaire in your restaurant?"
"Did I see him?" exclaimed Mrs. Goldmark. "Do I see you, Zillah? See him I did!—though never before, and never since! And ain't I the good memory for faces—and won't I know him again if he comes my way? Do you know what?—I ain't never forgotten a face what I've once looked at! Comes from keeping an eye on customers who looks as if they might have forgot to bring their moneys with 'em!"
"Well, I hope you'll see this man again," remarked Zillah. "I'd give a lot to get all the mystery cleared up."
Mrs. Goldmark observed that mysteries were not cleared up in a day, and presently went away to see that her business was being conducted properly. She was devoting herself to Zillah in very neighbourly fashion just then, but she had to keep running into the restaurant every hour or two to keep an eye on things. And during one of her absences, later in the early evening of that day, Zillah, alone in the house, answered a knock at the door, and opening it found Ayscough outside. His look betokened news, and Zillah led him into the parlour.
"Alone?" asked Ayscough. "Aye, well, I've something to tell you that I want you to keep to yourself—for a bit, anyway. Those rings, you know, that the young fellow, Lauriston, says are his, and had been his mother's?"
"Well?" said Zillah, faintly, and half-conscious of some coming bad news. "What of them?"
"Our people," continued the detective, "have had some expert chap—jeweller, or something of that sort, examining those rings, and comparing them with the rings that are in your tray. And in that tray there are several rings which have a private mark inside them. Now, then!—those two rings which Lauriston claims are marked in exactly the same fashion!"
Zillah leaned suddenly back against the table by which she was standing, and Ayscough, who was narrowly watching the effect of his news, saw her turn very pale. She stood staring at him during a moment's silence; then she let a sharp exclamation escape her lips, and in the same instant her colour came back—heightened from surprise and indignation.
"Impossible!" she said. "I can't believe it; There may be marks inside our rings—that's likely enough. But how could those marks correspond with the marks in his rings?"
"I tell you it is so!" answered Ayscough. "I've seen the marks in both—with my own eyes. It occurred to one of our bosses this evening to have all the rings carefully examined by an expert—he got a man from one of the jeweller's shops in Edgware Road. This chap very soon pointed out that inside the two rings which young Lauriston says are his, and come to him from his mother, are certain private marks—jewellers' marks, this man called 'em—which are absolutely identical with similar marks which are inside some of the rings in the tray which was found on this table. That's a fact!—I tell you I've seen 'em—all! And—you see the significance of it! Of course, our people are now dead certain that young Lauriston's story is false, and that he grabbed those two rings out of that tray. See?"
"Are you certain of it—yourself?" demanded Zillah.
Ayscough hesitated and finally shook his head.
"Well, between ourselves, I'm not!" he answered. "I've a feeling from the first, that the lad's innocent enough. But it's a queer thing—and it's terribly against him. And—what possible explanation can there be?"
"You say you've seen those marks," said Zillah. "Would you know them again—on other goods?"
"I should!" replied Ayscough. "I can tell you what they are. There's the letter M. and then two crosses—one on each side of the letter. Very small, you know, and worn, too—this man I'm talking of used some sort of a magnifying glass."
Zillah turned away and went into the shop, which was all in darkness. Ayscough, waiting, heard the sound of a key being turned, then of a metallic tinkling; presently the girl came back, carrying a velvet-lined tray in one hand, and a jeweller's magnifying glass in the other.
"The rings in that tray you're talking about—the one you took away—are all very old stock," she remarked. "I've heard my grandfather say he'd had some of them thirty years or more. Here are some similar ones—we'll see if they're marked in the same fashion."
Five minutes later, Zillah had laid aside several rings marked in the way Ayscough had indicated, and she turned from them to him with a look of alarm.
"I can't understand it!" she exclaimed. "I know that these rings, and those in that tray at the police-station, are part of old stock that my grandfather had when he came here. He used to have a shop, years ago, in the City—I'm not quite sure where, exactly—and this is part of the stock he brought from it. But, how could Mr. Lauriston's rings bear those marks? Because, from what I know of the trade, those are private marks—my grandfather's private marks!"
"Well, just so—and you can imagine what our people are inclined to say about it," said the detective. "They say now that the two rings which Lauriston claims never were his nor his mother's, but that he stole them out of your grandfather's tray. They're fixed on that, now."
"What will they do?" asked Zillah, anxiously. "Is he in danger?"
Ayscough gave her a knowing look.
"Between you and me," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I came around here privately—on my own hook, you know. I should be sorry if this really is fixed on the young fellow—there's a mystery, but it may be cleared up. Now, he's gone off to find somebody who can prove that those rings really were his mother's. You, no doubt, know where he's gone?"
"Yes—but I'm not going to tell," said Zillah firmly. "Don't ask me!"
"Quite right—I don't want to know myself," answered Ayscough. "And you'll probably have an idea when he's coming back? All right—take a tip from me. Keep him out of the way a bit—stop him from coming into this district. Let him know all about those marks—and if he can clear that up, well and good. You understand?—and of course, all this is between you and me."
"You're very good, Mr. Ayscough," replied Zillah, warmly. "I won't forget your kindness. And I'm certain this about the marks can be cleared up—but I don't know how!"
"Well—do as I say," said the detective. "Just give the tip to your cousin Melky, and to that young Scotch gentleman—let 'em keep Lauriston out of the way for a few days. In the meantime—this is a very queer case!—something may happen that'll fix the guilt on somebody else—conclusively. I've my own ideas and opinions—but we shall see. Maybe we shall see a lot—and everybody'll be more astonished than they're thinking for."
With this dark and sinister hint, Ayscough went away, and Zillah took the rings back to the shop, and locked them up again. And then she sat down to wait for Mrs. Goldmark—and to think. She had never doubted Lauriston's story for one moment, and she did not doubt it now. But she was quick to see the serious significance of what the detective had just told her and she realized that action must be taken on the lines he had suggested. And so, having made herself ready for going out, she excused herself to Mrs. Goldmark when that good lady returned, and without saying anything to her as to the nature of her errand, hurried round to Star Street, to find Melky Rubinstein and tell him of the new development.
Mrs. Flitwick herself opened the door to Zillah and led her into the narrow passage. But at the mention of Melky she shook her head.
"I ain't set eyes on Mr. Rubinstein not since this morning, miss," said she. "He went out with that young Scotch gentleman what come here yesterday asking for Mr. Lauriston, and he's never been in again—not even to put his nose inside the door. And at twelve o'clock there come a telegram for him—which it was the second that come this morning. The first, of course, he got before he went out; the one that come at noon's awaiting him. No—I ain't seen him all day!"
Zillah's quick wits were instantly at work as soon as she heard of the telegram.
"Oh, I know all about that wire, Mrs. Flitwick!" she exclaimed. "It's as much for me as for my cousin. Give it to me—and if Mr. Rubinstein comes in soon—or when he comes—tell him I've got it, and ask him to come round to me immediately—it's important."
Mrs. Flitwick produced the telegram at once, and Zillah, repeating her commands about Melky, hurried away with it. But at the first street lamp she paused, and tore open the envelope, and pulled out the message. As she supposed, it was from Lauriston, and had been handed in at Peebles at eleven o'clock that morning.
"Got necessary information returning at once meet me at King's Cross at nine-twenty this evening. L."
Zillah looked at her watch. It was then ten minutes to nine. There was just half an hour before Lauriston's train was due. Without a moment's hesitation, she turned back along Star Street, hurried into Edgware Road and hailing the first taxi-cab she saw, bade its driver to get to the Great Northern as fast as possible. Whatever else happened, Lauriston must be met and warned.
The taxi-cab made good headway along the Marylebone and Euston Roads, and the hands of the clock over the entrance to King's Cross had not yet indicated a quarter past nine when Zillah was set down close by. She hurried into the station, and to the arrival platform. All the way along in the cab she had been wondering what to do when she met Lauriston—not as to what she should tell him, for that was already settled, but as to what to advise him to do about following Ayscough's suggestion and keeping out of the way, for awhile. She had already seen enough of him to know that he was naturally of high spirit and courage, and that he would hate the very idea of hiding, or of seeming to run away. Yet, what other course was open if he wished to avoid arrest? Zillah, during her short business experience had been brought in contact with the police authorities and their methods more than once, and she knew that there is nothing the professional detective likes so much as to follow the obvious—as the easiest and safest. She had been quick to appreciate all that Ayscough told her—she knew how the police mind would reason about it: it would be quite enough for it to know that on the rings which Andy Lauriston said were his there were marks which were certainly identical with those on her grandfather's property: now that the police authorities were in possession of that fact, they would go for Lauriston without demur or hesitation, leaving all the other mysteries and ramifications of the Multenius affair to be sorted, or to sort themselves, at leisure. One thing was certain—Andie Lauriston was in greater danger now than at any moment since Ayscough found him leaving the shop, and she must save him—against his own inclinations if need be.
But before the train from the North was due, Zillah was fated to have yet another experience. She had taken up a position directly beneath a powerful lamp at the end of the arrival platform, so that Lauriston, who would be obliged to pass that way, could not fail to see her. Suddenly turning, to glance at the clock in the roof behind her, she was aware of a man, young, tall, athletic, deeply bronzed, as from long contact with the Southern sun, who stood just behind a knot of loungers, his heavy overcoat and the jacket beneath it thrown open, feeling in his waistcoat pockets as if for his match-box—an unlighted cigar protruded from the corner of his rather grim, determined lips. But it was not at lips, nor at the cigar, nor at the searching fingers that Zillah looked, after that first comprehensive glance—her eyes went straight to an object which shone in the full glare of the lamp above her head. The man wore an old-fashioned, double-breasted fancy waistcoat, but so low as to reveal a good deal of his shirt-front. And in that space, beneath his bird's-eye blue tie, loosely knotted in a bow, Zillah saw a stud, which her experienced eyes knew to be of platinum, and on it was engraved the same curious device which she had seen once before that day—on the solitaire exhibited by Melky.
The girl was instantly certain that here was the man who had visited Mrs. Goldmark's eating-house. Her first instinct was to challenge him with the fact—but as she half moved towards him, he found his match-box, struck a match, and began to light his cigar. And just then came the great engine of the express, panting its way to a halt beside them, and with it the folk on the platform began to stir, and Zillah was elbowed aside. Her situation was perplexing—was she to watch the man and perhaps lose Lauriston in the crowd already passing from the train, or—
The man was still leisurely busy with his cigar, and Zillah turned and went a few steps up the platform. She suddenly caught sight of Lauriston, and running towards him gripped his arm, and drew him to the lamp. But in that moment of indecision, the man had vanished.
Lauriston, surprised beyond a little at seeing Zillah, found his surprise turned into amazement as she seized his arm and forced him along the platform, careless of the groups of passengers and the porters, crowding about the baggage vans.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Has something happened? Where are we going?"
But Zillah held on determinedly, her eyes fixed ahead.
"Quick!" she said, pantingly. "A man I saw just now! He was there—he's gone—while I looked for you. We must find him! He must have gone this way. Andie!—look for him! A tall, clean-shaven man in a slouched hat and a heavy travelling coat—a foreigner of some sort. Oh, look!"
It was the first time she had called Lauriston by his name, and he gave her arm an involuntary pressure as they hastened along.
"But why?" he asked. "Who is he—what do you want with him? What's it all about?"
"Oh, find him!" she exclaimed. "You don't know how important it is! If I lose sight of him now, I'll very likely never see him again. And he must be found—and stopped—for your sake!"
They had come to the end of the platform, by that time, and Lauriston looked left and right in search of the man described. Suddenly he twisted Zillah round.
"Is that he—that fellow talking to another man?" he asked. "See him—there?"
"Yes!" said Zillah. She saw the man of the platinum stud again, and on seeing him, stopped dead where she was, holding Lauriston back. The man, leisurely smoking his cigar, was chatting to another man, who, from the fact that he was carrying a small suit-case in one hand and a rug over the other arm, had evidently come in by the just-arrived express. "Yes!" she continued. "That's the man! And—we've just got to follow him wherever he goes!"
"What on earth for?" asked Lauriston. "What mystery's this? Who is he?"
At that moment the two men parted, with a cordial handshake; the man of the suit-case and the rug turned towards the stairs which led to the underground railway; the other man walked slowly away through the front of the station in the direction of the Great Northern Hotel. And Zillah immediately dragged Lauriston after him, keeping a few yards' distance, but going persistently forward. The man in front crossed the road, and strode towards the portico of the hotel—and Zillah suddenly made up her mind.
"We've got to speak to that man!" she said. "Don't ask why, now—you'll know in a few minutes. Ask him if he'll speak to me?"
Lauriston caught up the stranger as he set foot on the steps leading to the hotel door. He felt uncomfortable and foolish—but Zillah's tone left him no option but to obey.
"I beg your pardon," said Lauriston, as politely as possible, "but—this lady is very anxious to speak to you."
The man turned, glanced at Zillah, who had hurried up, and lifted his slouched hat with a touch of old-fashioned courtesy. There was a strong light burning just above them: in its glare all three looked at each other. The stranger smiled—a little wonderingly.
"Why, sure!" he said in accents that left no doubt of his American origin. "I'd be most happy. You're not mistaking me for somebody else?"
Zillah was already flushed with embarrassment. Now that she had run her quarry to earth, and so easily, she scarcely knew what to do with it.
"You'll think this very strange," she said, stammeringly, "but if you don't mind telling me something?—you see, I saw you just now in the station, when you were feeling for your match-box, and I noticed that you wore a platinum stud—with an unusual device on it."
The American laughed—a good-natured, genial laugh—and threw open his coat. At the same moment he thrust his wrists forward.
"This stud!" he said. "That's so!—it is platinum, and the device is curious. And the device is right there, too, see—on those solitaire cuff-studs! But—"
He paused looking at Zillah, whose eyes were now fastened on the cuff-studs, and who was obviously so astonished as to have lost her tongue.
"You seemed mighty amazed at my studs!" said the stranger, with another laugh. "Now, you'll just excuse me if I ask—why?"
Zillah regained her wits with an effort, and became as business-like as usual.