"There's the folks themselves," replied Murgatroyd. "Suppose Parrawhite turns up?"
"He won't!" exclaimed Pratt.
"You know where he is?" suggested Murgatroyd.
"Not exactly," said Pratt, "But—he's left this country for another—further off than America. That's certain! And—the folks I referred to don't want any inquiry about him here."
"If I am asked questions—later—am I to say he booked in his own name?" inquired Murgatroyd.
"No—name of Parsons," responded Pratt. "Here, I'll write down for you exactly what I want you to say in the telegram to Halstead & Byner, and I'll make a few memoranda for you—to post you up in case they write for further information."
"I haven't said that I'll do it," remarked Murgatroyd. "I don't like the looks of it. It's all a pack of lies."
Pratt paid no heed to this moral reflection. He found some loose paper in his pocket and scribbled on it for a while. Then, as if accidentally, he moved the ash-tray, and the bank-notes beneath it, all new, gave forth a crisp, rustling sound.
"Here you are!" said Pratt, pushing notes and memoranda towards his companion. "Take the brass, man!—you don't get a job like that every day."
And Murgatroyd put the money in his pocket, and presently went home, persuading himself that everything would be all right.
Byner watched Eldrick and Collingwood inquisitively as they bent over Halstead's telegram. He was not surprised when Collingwood merely nodded in silence—nor when Eldrick turned excitedly in his own direction.
"There!—what did I tell you?" he exclaimed. "There's been no murder! The man left the town. Probably, Pratt helped him off. Couldn't have better proof than that wire!"
"What do you take that wire to prove, then, Mr. Eldrick?" asked Byner.
"Take it to prove!" answered Eldrick. "Why, that Parrawhite booked a passage to America with this man Murgatroyd, last November. Clear enough, that!"
"What do you take it to prove, Mr. Collingwood?" continued the inquiry agent, as he turned to the barrister with a smile.
"Before I take it for anything," replied Collingwood, "I want to know who Murgatroyd is."
Byner looked at Eldrick and laughed.
"Precisely!" he said. "Who is Murgatroyd? Perhaps Mr. Eldrick knows."
"I do just know that he's a man who carries on a small watch and clock business in a poorish part of the town, and that he has some sort of a shipping agency," answered Eldrick. "But—do you mean to imply that whatever message it is that he's sent to your partner in London this morning has not been sent in good faith?"
"I don't imply anything," answered Byner. "All I say is—before I attach any value to his message I, like Collingwood, want to know something about the sender. He may have been put up to sending it. He may be in collusion with somebody. Now, Mr. Eldrick, you can come in here—strongly! I don't want to be seen in this affair—yet. Will you go and see Murgatroyd? Tell him his wire to Halstead & Byner in London has been communicated to you here. Ask him for further particulars—and then drop in on me at my hotel and tell me what you've learnt. I'll be found in the smoking-room there any time after two-thirty onward."
Eldrick's intense curiosity in what was rapidly becoming a fascinating mystery to him, led him to accept this embassy. And a little before three o'clock he walked into the smoking-room at theCentral Hoteland discovered Byner in a comfortable corner.
"I've seen Murgatroyd," he whispered, as he took an adjacent chair. "Decent honest enough man—very poor, I should say. He tells a plain enough story. Parrawhite, whom he knew as one of our clerks, told him, last November 23rd——"
"He was exact about dates, then, was he?" interrupted Byner.
"He mentioned them readily enough," replied the solicitor. "But to go on—Parrawhite mentioned to him, November 23rd last, that he wanted to go to America at once, Murgatroyd told him about bookings. Parrawhite called very early next morning, paid for his passage under the name of Parsons, and went off—en route for Liverpool, of course. So—there you are!"
"That's all Murgatroyd could tell?" inquired Byner.
"That's all he knows," answered Eldrick.
"You say Murgatroyd knew Parrawhite as one of your clerks?" asked Byner after a moment's thought.
"We had some process in hand against this man last autumn," repliedEldrick. "I dare say Parrawhite served him with papers."
"Would he—Murgatroyd—be likely to know Pratt?" continued Byner.
"He might—in the same connection," admitted Eldrick.
Byner smoked in silence for a while.
"Do you know what I think, Mr. Eldrick?" he said at last. "I think Pratt put up Murgatroyd to sending that telegram to us in London this morning."
"You do!" exclaimed Eldrick.
"Surely! And now," continued the inquiry agent, "if you will, you can do more—much more—without appearing to do anything. Pratt's office is only a few minutes away. Can you drop in there, making some excuse, and while there, mention, more or less casually, that Parrawhite, or information about him, is wanted; that you and a certain Halstead & Byner are advertising for him; that you've just seen Murgatroyd in respect of a communication which he wired to Halstead's this morning, and that—most important of all—a fortune of twenty thousand pounds is awaiting Parrawhite! Don't forget the last bit of news."
"Why that particularly?" asked Eldrick.
"Because," answered Byner solemnly, "I want Pratt to know that the search for Parrawhite is going to be a thorough one!"
Eldrick went off on his second mission, promising to return in due course. Within a few minutes he was in Pratt's office, talking over some unimportant matter of business which he had invented as he went along. It was not until he was on the point of departure that he referred to the real reason of his visit.
"Did you notice that Parrawhite is being advertised for?" he asked, suddenly turning on his old clerk.
Pratt was ready for this—had been ready ever since Eldrick walked in.He affected a fine surprise.
"Parrawhite!" he exclaimed. "Why—who's advertising for him?"
"Don't you see the newspapers?" asked Eldrick, pointing to some which lay about the room. "It's in there—there's an advertisement of mine, and one of Halstead & Byner's, of London."
Pratt picked up a Barford paper and looked at the advertisements with a clever affectation of having never seen them before.
"I haven't had much time for newspaper reading this last day or two," he remarked. "Advertisements for him—from two quarters!"
"Acting together—acting together, you know!" replied Eldrick. "It's those people who really want him—Halstead & Byner, inquiry agents, working for a firm of City solicitors. I'm only local agent—as it were."
"Had any response, Mr. Eldrick?" asked Pratt, throwing aside the paper."Any one come forward?"
"Yes," answered Eldrick, watching Pratt narrowly without seeming to do so. "This morning, a man named Murgatroyd, in Peel Row, who does a bit of shipping agency, wired to Halstead & Byner to say that he booked Parrawhite to New York last November. Of course, they at once communicated with me, and I've just been to see Murgatroyd. He's that man—watchmaker—we had some proceedings against last year."
"Oh, that man!" said Pratt. "Thought the name was familiar. I remember him. And what does he say?"
"Just about as much as—and little more than—he said in his wire to London," replied Eldrick. "Booked Parrawhite to America November 24th last, and believes he left for Liverpool there and then."
"Ah!" remarked Pratt, "That explains it, then?"
"Explains—what?" asked Eldrick.
Pratt gave his old employer a look—confidential and significant.
"Explains why he took that money out of your desk," he said. "You remember—forty odd pounds. He'd use some of that for his passage-money. America eh? Now—I suppose he's vanished for good, then—it's not very likely he'll ever be heard of from across there."
Eldrick laughed—meaningly, of set purpose.
"We don't know that he's gone there," he observed. "He mightn't get beyond Liverpool, you know. Anyhow, we're going to make a very good search for him here in Barford, first. We've nothing but Murgatroyd's word for his having set out for Liverpool."
"What's he wanted for?" asked Pratt as unconcernedly as possible. "Been up to something?"
"No," answered Eldrick, as he turned on his heel. "A relation has left him twenty thousand pounds. That's what he's wanted for—and why he must be found—or his death proved."
He gave Pratt another quick glance and went off—to return to the hotel and Byner, to whom he at once gave a faithful account of what had just taken place.
"And he didn't turn a hair," he remarked. "Cool as a cucumber, all through! If your theory is correct, Pratt's a cleverer hand than I ever took him for—and I've always said he was clever."
"Didn't show anything when you mentioned Murgatroyd?" asked Byner.
"Not a shred of a thing!" replied Eldrick.
"Nor when you spoke of the twenty thousand pounds?"
"No more than what you might call polite and interested surprise!"
Byner laughed, threw away the end of a cigar, and rose out of his lounging posture.
"Now, Mr. Eldrick," he said, leaning close to the solicitor, "between ourselves, do you know what I'm going to do—next—which means at once?"
"No," replied Eldrick.
"The police!" whispered Byner. "That's my next move. Just now! Within a few minutes. So—will you give me a couple of notes—one to the principal man here—chief constable, or police superintendent, or whatever he is; and another to the best detective there is here—in your opinion. They'll save me a lot of trouble."
"Of course—if you wish it," answered Eldrick. "But you don't mean to say you're going to have Pratt arrested—on what you know up to now?"
"Not at all!" replied Byner. "Much too soon! All I want is—detective help of the strictly professional kind. No—we'll give Mr. Pratt a little more rope yet—for another four-and-twenty-hours, say. But—it'll come! Now, who is the best local detective—a quiet, steady fellow who knows how to do his work unobtrusively?"
"Prydale's the man!" said Eldrick "Detective-Sergeant Prydale—I've had reason to employ him, more than once. I'll give you a note to him, and one to Superintendent Waterson."
He went over to a writing-table and scribbled a few lines on half-sheets of notepaper which he enclosed in envelopes and handed to Byner.
"I don't know what line you're taking," he said, "nor where it's going to end—exactly. But I do know this—Pratt never turned a hair when I let out all that to him."
But if Eldrick went away from his old clerk's fine new offices thinking that Pratt was quite unperturbed and unmoved by the news he had just acquired, he was utterly mistaken. Pratt was very much perturbed, deeply moved, not a little frightened. He had so schooled himself to keep a straight and ever blank expression of countenance in any sudden change of events that he had shown nothing to Eldrick—but he was none the less upset by the solicitor's last announcement. Twenty thousand pounds was lying to be picked up by Parrawhite—or by Parrawhite's next-of-kin! What an unhappy turn of fortune! For the next-of-kin would never rest until either Parrawhite came to light, or it was satisfactorily established that he was dead—and if search begun to be made in Barford, where might not that search end? Unmoved?—cool?—if Eldrick had turned back, he would have found that Pratt had suddenly given way to a fit of nerves.
But that soon passed, and Pratt began to think. He left his office early, and betook himself to his favourite gymnasium. Exercise did him good—he thought a lot while he was exercising. And once more, instead of going home to dinner, he dined in town, and he sat late over his dinner in a snug corner of the restaurant, and he thought and planned and schemed—and after twilight had fallen on Barford, he went out and made his way to Peel Row. He must see Murgatroyd again—at once.
Half-way along Peel Row, Pratt stopped, suddenly—and with sudden fear. Out of a side street emerged a man, a quiet ordinary-looking man whom he knew very well indeed—Detective-Sergeant Prydale. He was accompanied by a smart-looking, much younger man, whom Pratt remembered to have seen in Beck Street that afternoon—a stranger to him and to Barford. And as he watched, these two covered the narrow roadway, and walked into Murgatroyd's shop.
Under the warming influence of two glasses of rum and water, and lulled by Pratt's assurance that all would be well, Murgatroyd had carried home his hundred pounds with pretty much the same feeling which permeates a man who, having been within measurable distance of drowning, suddenly finds a substantial piece of timber drifting his way, and takes a firm grip on it. After all, a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. He would be able to pay his rent, and his rates, and give something to the grocer and the butcher and the baker and the milkman; the children should have some much-needed new clothes and boots—when all this was done, there would be a nice balance left over. And it was Pratt's affair, when all was said and done, and if any trouble arose, why, Pratt would have to settle it. So he ate his supper with the better appetite which Pratt had prophesied, and he slept more satisfactorily than usual, and next morning he went to the nearest telegraph office and sent off the stipulated telegram to Halstead & Byner in London, and hoped that there was the end of the matter as far as he was concerned. And then, shortly after noon, in walked Mr. Eldrick, one of the tribe which Murgatroyd dreaded, having had various dealings with solicitors, in the way of writs and summonses, and began to ask questions.
Murgatroyd emerged from that ordeal very satisfactorily. Eldrick's questions were few, elementary, and easily answered. There were no signs of suspicion about him, and Murgatroyd breathed more freely when he was gone. It seemed to him that the solicitor's visit would certainly wind things up—for him. Eldrick asked all that could be asked, as far as he could see, and he had replied: now, he would probably be bothered no more. His spirits had assumed quite a cheerful tone by evening—but they received a rude shock when, summoned from his little workshop to the front premises, he found himself confronting one man whom he certainly knew to be a detective, and another who might be one. Do what he would he could not conceal some agitation, and Detective-Sergeant Prydale, a shrewdly observant man, noticed it—and affected not to.
"Evening, Mr. Murgatroyd," he said cheerily. "We've come to see if you can give us a bit of information. You've had Mr. Eldrick, the lawyer, here today on the same business. You know—this affair of an old clerk of his—Parrawhite?"
"I told Mr. Eldrick all I know," muttered Murgatroyd.
"Very likely," replied Prydale, "but there's a few questions this gentleman and myself would like to ask. Can we come in?"
Murgatroyd fetched his wife to mind the shop, and took the callers into the parlour which she had unwillingly vacated. He knew Prydale by sight and reputation; about Byner he wondered. Finally he set him down as a detective from London—and was all the more afraid of him.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, when the three men were alone. "I don't think there's anything that I didn't tell Mr. Eldrick."
"Oh, there's a great deal that Mr. Eldrick didn't ask," said Prydale. "Mr. Eldrick sort of just skirted round things, like. We want to know a bit more. This Parrawhite's got to be found, d'ye see, Mr. Murgatroyd, and as you seem to be the last man who had aught to do with him in Barford, why, naturally, we come to you. Now, to start with, you say he came to you about getting a passage to America? Just so—now, when would that be?"
"Day before he did get it," answered Murgatroyd, rapidly thinking over the memoranda which Pratt had jotted down for his benefit.
"That," said Prydale, "would be on the 23rd?"
"Yes," replied Murgatroyd, "23rd November, of course."
"What time, now, on the 23rd?" asked the detective.
"Time?" said Murgatroyd. "Oh—in the evening."
"Bit vague," remarked Prydale. "What time in the evening?"
"As near as I can recollect," replied Murgatroyd, "it 'ud be just about half-past eight. I was thinking of closing."
"Ah!" said Prydale, with a glance at Byner, who had already told him of Parrawhite's presence at theGreen Manon the other side of the town, a good two miles away, at the hour which Murgatroyd mentioned. "Ah!—he was here in your shop at half-past eight on the evening of November 23rd last? Asking about a ticket to America?"
"New York," muttered Murgatroyd.
"And he came next morning and bought one?" asked the detective.
"I told Mr. Eldrick that," said Murgatroyd, a little sullenly.
"How much did it cost?" inquired Byner.
"Eight pound ten," replied Murgatroyd. "Usual price."
"What did he pay for it in?" continued Prydale.
"He gave me a ten-pound note and I gave him thirty shillings change," answered Murgatroyd.
"Just so," assented Prydale. "Now what line might that be by?"
Murgatroyd was becoming uneasy under all these questions, and his uneasiness was deepened by the way in which both his visitors watched him. He was a man who would have been a bad witness in any case—nervous, ill at ease, suspicious, inclined to boggle—and in this instance he was being forced to invent answers.
"It was—oh, the Royal Atlantic!" he answered at last. "I've an agency for them."
"So I noticed from the bills and placards in your window," observed the detective. "And of course you issue these tickets on their paper—I've seen 'em before. You fill up particulars on a form and a counterfoil, don't you? And you send a copy of those particulars to the Royal Atlantic offices at Liverpool?"
Murgatroyd nodded silently—this was much more than he bargained for, and he did not know how much further it was going. And Prydale gave him a sudden searching look.
"Can you show us the counterfoil in this instance?" he asked.
Murgatroyd flushed. But he managed to get out a fairly quick reply. "No,I can't," he answered, "I sent that book back at the end of the year."
"Oh, well—they'll have it at Liverpool," observed Prydale. "We can get at it there. Of course, they'll have your record of the entire transaction. He'd be down on their passenger list—under the name of Parsons, I think, Mr. Murgatroyd?"
"He gave me that name," said Murgatroyd.
Prydale gave Byner a look and both rose.
"I think that's about all," said the detective. "Of course, our next inquiry will be at Liverpool—-at the Royal Atlantic. Thank you, Mr. Murgatroyd—much obliged."
Before the watchmaker could collect himself sufficiently to say or ask more, Prydale and his companion had walked out of the shop and gone away. And then Murgatroyd realized that he was in for—but he did not know what he was in for. What he did know was that if Prydale went or sent over to Liverpool the whole thing would burst like a bubble. For the Royal Atlantic people would tell the detectives at once that no passenger named Parsons had sailed under their auspices on November 24th last, and that he, Murgatroyd, had been telling a pack of lies.
Mrs. Murgatroyd, a sharp-featured woman whose wits had been sharpened by a ten years' daily acquaintance with poverty, came out of the shop into the parlour and looked searchingly at her husband.
"What did them fellows want?" she demanded. "I knew one of 'em—Prydale, the detective. Now what's up, Reuben? More trouble?"
Murgatroyd hesitated a moment. Then he told his wife the whole story concealing nothing.
"If they go to the Royal Atlantic, it'll all come out," he groaned. "I couldn't make any excuse or explanation—anyhow! What's to be done?"
"You should ha' had naught to do wi' that Pratt!" exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd. "A scoundrelly fellow, to come and tempt poor folk to do his dirty work! Where's the money?"
"Locked up!" answered Murgatroyd. "I haven't touched a penny of it. I thought I'd wait a bit and see if aught happened. But he assured me it was all right, and you know as well as I do that a hundred pound doesn't come our way every day. We want money!"
"Not at that price!" said his wife. "You can pay too much for money, my lad! I wish you'd told me what that Pratt was after—he should have heard a bit o' my tongue! If I'd only known——"
Just then the shop door opened, and Pratt walked in. He at once saw Murgatroyd and his wife standing between shop and parlour, and realized at a glance that his secret in this instance was his no longer.
"Well?" he said, walking up to the watchmaker. "You've had Prydale here—and you'd Eldrick this morning. Of course, you knew what to say to both?"
"I wish we'd never had you here last night, young man!" exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd fiercely. "What right have you to come here, making trouble for folk that's got plenty already? But at any rate, ours was honest trouble. Yours is like to land my husband in dishonesty—if it hasn't done so already! And if my husband had only spoken to me——"
"Just let your husband speak a bit now," interrupted Pratt, almost insolently. "It's you that's making all the trouble or noise, anyhow! There's naught to fuss about, missis. What's upset you, Murgatroyd?"
"They're going to the Royal Atlantic people," muttered the watchmaker."Of course, it'll all come out, then. They know that I never booked anyParsons—nor anybody else for that matter—last November. You should ha'thought o' that!"
Pratt realized that the man was right. He had never thought of that—never anticipated that inquiry would go beyond Murgatroyd. But his keen wits at once set to work.
"What's the system?" he asked quickly. "Tell me—what's done when you book anybody like that? Come on!—explain, quick!"
Murgatroyd turned to a drawer and pulled out a book and some papers. "It's simple enough," he said. "I've this book of forms, d'ye see? I fill up this form—sort of ticket or pass for the passenger, and hand it to him—it's a receipt as well, to him. Then I enter the same particulars on that counterfoil. Then I fill up one of these papers, giving just the same particulars, and post it at once to the Company with the passage money, less my commission. When one of these books is finished, I return the counterfoils to Liverpool—they check 'em. Prydale's up to all that. He asked to see the counterfoil in this case. I had to say I hadn't got it—I'd sent it to the Company. Of course, he'll find out that I didn't."
"Lies!" said Mrs. Murgatroyd, vindictively. "And they didn't start wi' us neither!"
"Who was that other man with Prydale?" asked Pratt.
"London detective, I should say," answered the watchmaker. "And judging by the way he watched me, a sharp 'un, too!"
"What impression did you get—altogether?" demanded Pratt.
"Why!—that they're going to sift this affair—whatever it is—right down to the bottom!" exclaimed Murgatroyd. "They're either going to find Parrawhite or get to know what became of him. That's my impression. And what am I going to do, now! This'll lose me what bit of business I've done with yon shipping firm."
"Nothing of the sort!" answered Pratt scornfully. "Don't be a fool! You're all right. You listen to me. You write—straight off—to the Royal Atlantic. Tell 'em you had some inquiry made about a man named Parsons, who booked a passage with you for New York last November. Say that on looking up your books you found that you unaccountably forgot to send them the forms for him and his passage money. Make out a form for that date, and crumple it up—as if it had been left lying in a drawer. Enclose the money in it—here, I'll give you ten pounds to cover it," he went on, drawing a bank-note from his purse. "Get it off at once—you've time now—plenty—to catch the night-mail at the General. And then, d'ye see, you're all right. It's only a case then—as far as you're concerned—of forgetfulness. What's that?—we all forget something in business, now and then. They'll overlook that—when they get the money."
"Aye, but you're forgetting something now!" remarked Murgatroyd. "You're forgetting this—no such passenger ever went! They'll know that by their passenger lists."
"What the devil has that to do with it?" snarled Pratt impatiently. "What the devil do we care whether any such passenger went or not? All that you're concerned about is to prove that you issued a ticket to Parrawhite, under the name of Parsons. What's it matter to you where Parrawhite,aliasParsons, went, when he'd once left your shop? You naturally thought he'd go straight to the Lancashire and Yorkshire Station, on his way to Liverpool and New York! But, for aught you know, he may have fallen down a drain pipe in the next street! Don't you see, man? There's nothing, there's nobody, not all the detectives in London and Barford, can prove that you didn't issue a ticket to Parrawhite on that date? It isn't up to you to prove that you did!—it's up to them to prove that you didn't! And—they can't. It's impossible. You get that letter off—at once—to Liverpool, with that money inside it, and you're as safe as houses—and your hundred pounds as well. Get it done! And if those chaps come asking any more questions, tell 'em you're not going to answer a single one! Mind you!—do what I tell you, and you're safe!"
With that Pratt walked out of the shop and went off towards the centre of the town, inwardly raging and disturbed. It was very evident that these people meant to find Parrawhite, alive or dead; evident, too, that they had called in the aid of the Barford police. And in spite of all his assurances to the watchmaker and his suggestion for the next move, Pratt was far from easy about the whole matter. He would have been easier if he had known who Prydale's companion was—probably he was, as Murgatroyd had suggested, a London detective who might have been making inquiries in the town for some time and knew much more than he, Pratt, could surmise. That was the devil of the whole thing!—in Pratt's opinion. Adept himself in working underground, he feared people who adopted the same tactics. What was this stranger chap after? What did he know? What was he doing? Had he let Eldrick know anything? Was there a web of detectives already being spun around himself? Was that silly, unfortunate affair with Parrawhite being slowly brought to light—to wreck him on the very beginning of what he meant to be a brilliant career? He cursed Parrawhite again and again as he left Peel Row behind him.
The events of the day had made Pratt cautious as well as anxious. He decided to keep away from his lodgings that night, and when he reached the centre of the town he took a room at a quiet hotel. He was up early next morning; he had breakfasted by eight o'clock; by half-past eight he was at his office. And in his letter-box he found one letter—a thickish package which had not come by post, but had been dropped in by hand, and was merely addressed to Mr. Pratt.
Pratt tore that package open with a conviction of imminent disaster. He pulled out a sheet of cheap note-paper—and a wad of bank-notes. His face worked curiously as he read a few lines, scrawled in illiterate, female handwriting.
"MR PRATT,—My husband and me don't want any more to do with either you or your money which it is enclosed. Been honest up to now though poor, and intending to remain so our purpose is to make a clean breast of everything to the police first thing tomorrow morning for which you have nobody but yourself to blame for wickedness in tempting poor people to do wrong.
"Yours, MRS. MURGATROYD."
Pratt wasted no time in cursing Mrs. Murgatroyd. There would be plenty of opportunity for such relief to his feelings later on. Just then he had other matters to occupy him—fully. He tore the indignant letter to shreds; he hastily thrust the bank-notes into one pocket and drew his keys from another. Within five minutes he had taken from his safe a sealed packet, which he placed in an inside pocket of his coat, and had left his office—for the last time, as he knew very well. That part of the game was up—and it was necessary to be smart in entering on another phase of it.
Since Eldrick's visit of the previous day, Pratt had been prepared for all eventuality. He had made ready for flight. And he was not going empty-handed. He had a considerable amount of Mrs. Mallathorpe's money in his possession; by obtaining her signature to one or two documents he could easily obtain much more in London, at an hour's notice. Those documents were all ready, and in the sealed packet which he had just taken from the safe; in it, too, were some other documents—John Mallathorpe's will; the letter which Mrs. Mallathorpe had written to him on the evening previous to her son's fatal accident; and the power of attorney which Pratt had obtained from her at his first interview after that occurrence. All was ready—and now there was nothing to do but to get to Normandale Grange, see Mrs. Mallathorpe, and—vanish. He had planned it all out, carefully, when he perceived the first danger signals, and knew that his other plans and schemes were doomed to failure. Half an hour at Normandale Grange—a journey to London—a couple of hours in the City—and then the next train to the Continent, on his way to regions much further off. Here, things had turned out badly, unexpectedly badly—but he would carry away considerable, easily transported wealth, to a new career in a new country.
Pratt began his flight in methodical fashion. He locked up his office, and left the building by a back entrance which took him into a network of courts and alleys at the rear of the business part of Barford. He made his way in and out of these places until he reached a bicycle-dealer's shop in an obscure street, whereat he had left a machine of his own on the previous evening under the excuse of having it thoroughly cleaned and oiled. It was all ready for him on his arrival, and he presently mounted it and rode away through the outskirts of the town, carefully choosing the less frequented streets and roads. He rode on until he was clear of Barford: until, in fact, he was some miles from it, and had reached a village which was certainly not on the way to Normandale. And then, at the post-office he dismounted, and going inside, wrote out and dispatched a telegram. It was a brief message containing but three words—"One as usual"—and it was addressed Esther Mawson, The Grange, Normandale. This done, he remounted his bicycle, rode out of the village, and turned across country in quite a different direction. It was not yet ten o'clock—he had three hours to spare before the time came for keeping the appointment which he had just made.
At an early stage of his operations, Pratt had found that even the cleverest of schemers cannot work unaided. It had been absolutely necessary to have some tool close at hand to Normandale Grange and its inhabitants; to have some person there upon whom he could depend for news. He had found that person, that tool, in Esther Mawson, who, as Mrs. Mallathorpe's maid, had opportunities which he at once recognized as being likely to be of the greatest value to him. The circumstances of Harper Mallathorpe's death had thrown Pratt and the maid together, and he had quickly discovered that she was to be bought, and would do anything for money. He had soon come to an understanding with her; soon bargained with her, and made her a willing accomplice in certain of his schemes, without letting her know their full meaning and extent: all, indeed, that she had learned from Pratt was that he had some considerable hold on her mistress.
But it is dangerous work to play with edged tools, and if Pratt had only known it, he was running great risks in using Esther Mawson as a semi-accomplice. Esther Mawson was in constant touch with her mistress, and Mrs. Mallathorpe, afraid of her daughter, and not greatly in sympathy with her, badly needed a confidante. Little by little the mistress began to confide in the maid, and before long Esther Mawson knew the secret—and thenceforward she played a double game. Pratt found her useful in arranging meetings with Mrs. Mallathorpe unknown to Nesta, and he believed her to be devoted to him. But the truth was that Esther Mawson had only one object of devotion—herself—and she was waiting and watching for an opportunity to benefit that object—at Pratt's expense.
Pratt knew nothing of this as he slowly made his way to Normandale that morning. Having plenty of time he went by devious and lonely roads and by-lanes. Eventually he came to the boundary of Normandale Park at a point far away from the Grange. There he dismounted, hid his bicycle in a coppice wherein he had often left it before, and went on towards the house through the woods and plantations. He knew every yard of the ground he traversed, and was skilled in taking cover if he saw any sign of woodman or gamekeeper. And in the end, just as one o'clock chimed from the clock over the stables, he came to a quiet spot in the shrubberies behind the Grange, and found Esther Mawson waiting for him in an old summer-house in which they had met on previous and similar occasions.
Esther Mawson immediately realized that something unusual was in the air. Clever as Pratt was at concealing his feelings, she was cleverer in seeing small signs, and she saw that this was no ordinary visit.
"Anything wrong?" she asked at once.
"Bit of bother—nothing much—it'll blow over," answered Pratt, who knew that a certain amount of candour was necessary in dealing with this woman. "But—I shall have to be away for a bit—week or two, perhaps."
"You want to see her?" inquired Esther.
"Of course! I've some papers for her to sign," replied Pratt. "How do things stand? Coast clear?"
"Miss Mallathorpe's going into Barford after lunch," answered Esther. "She'll be driving in about half-past two. I can manage it then. How long shall you want to be with her?"
"Oh, a quarter of an hour'll do," said Pratt. "Ten minutes, if it comes to that."
"And after that?" asked Esther.
"Then I want to get a train at Scaleby," replied Pratt, mentioning a railway junction which lay ten miles across country in another direction. "So make it as soon after two-thirty as you can."
"You can see her as soon as Miss Mallathorpe's gone," said Esther. "You'd better come into the house—I've got the key of the turret door, and all's clear—the servants are all at dinner."
"I could do with something myself," observed Pratt, who, in his anxiety, had only made a light breakfast that morning. "Can it be managed?"
"I'll manage it," she answered. "Come on—now."
Behind the summer-house in which they had met a narrow path led through the shrubberies to an old part of the Grange which was never used, and was, in fact, partly ruinous. Esther Mawson led the way along this until she and Pratt came to a turret in the grey walls, in the lower story of which a massive oaken door, heavily clamped with iron, gave entrance to a winding stair, locked it from inside when she and Pratt had entered, and preceded her companion up the stair, and across one or two empty and dust-covered chambers to a small room in which a few pieces of ancient furniture were slowly dropping to decay. Pratt had taken refuge in this room before, and he sat down in one of the old chairs and mopped his forehead.
"I want something to drink, above everything," he remarked. "What can you get?"
"Nothing but wine," answered Esther Mawson. "As much as you like of that, because I've a stock that's kept up in Mrs. Mallathorpe's room. I couldn't get any ale without going to the butler. I can get wine and sandwiches without anybody knowing."
"That'll do," said Pratt. "What sort of wine?"
"Port, sherry, claret," she replied. "Whichever you like."
"Sherry, then," answered Pratt. "Bring a bottle if you can get it—I want a good drink."
The woman went away—through the disused part of the old house into the modern portion. She went straight to a certain store closet and took from it a bottle of old dry sherry which had been brought there from a bin in the cellars—it was part of a quantity of fine wine laid down by John Mallathorpe, years before, and its original owner would have been disgusted to think that it should ever be used for the mere purpose of quenching thirst. But Esther Mawson had another purpose in view, with respect to that bottle. Carrying it to her own sitting-room, she carefully cut off the thick mass of sealing-wax at its neck, drew the cork, and poured a little of the wine away. And that done, she unlocked a small box which stood on a corner of her dressing table, and took from it a glass phial, half full of a colourless liquid. With steady hands and sure fingers, she dropped some of that liquid into the wine, carefully counting the drops. Then she restored the phial to its hiding-place and re-locked the box—after which, taking up a spoon which lay on her table, she poured out a little of the sherry and smelled and tasted it. No smell—other than that which ought to be there; no taste—other than was proper. Pratt would suspect nothing even if he drunk the whole bottle.
Esther Mawson had anticipated Pratt's desires in the way of refreshment, and she now went to a cupboard and took from it a plate of sandwiches, carefully swathed in a napkin. Carrying these in one hand, and the bottle of sherry and a glass in the other, she stole quietly back to the disused part of the house, and set her provender before its expectant consumer. Pratt poured out a glassful of the sherry, and drank it eagerly.
"Good stuff that!" he remarked, smacking his lips. "Some of old JohnMallathorpe's—no doubt."
"It was here when we came, anyhow," replied Esther. "Well—I shall have to go. You'll be all right until I come back."
"What time do you think it'll be?" asked Pratt. "Make it as soon as the coast's clear—I want to be off."
"As soon as ever she's gone," agreed Esther. "I heard her order the carriage for half-past two."
"And no fear of anybody else being about?" asked Pratt. "That butler man, for instance? Or servants?"
"I'll see to it," replied Esther reassuringly. "I'll lock this door and take the key until I come back—make yourself comfortable."
She locked Pratt in the old room and went off, and the willing prisoner ate his sandwiches and drank his sherry, and looked out of a mullioned window on the wide stretches of park and coppice and the breezy moorlands beyond. He indulged in some reflections—not wholly devoid of sentiment. He had cherished dreams of becoming the virtual owner of Normandale. Always confident in his own powers, he had believed that with time and patience he could have persuaded Nesta Mallathorpe to marry him—why not? Now—all owing to that cursed and unfortunate contretemps with Parrawhite, that seemed utterly impossible—all he could do now was to save himself—and to take as much as he could get. More than once that morning, as he made his way across country, he had remembered Parrawhite's advice to take cash and be done with it—perhaps, he reflected, it might have been better. Still—when he presently began his final retreat, he would carry away with him a lot of the Mallathorpe money.
But before long Pratt indulged in no more reflections—sentiment or practical. He had eaten all his sandwiches; he had drunk three-quarters of the bottle of sherry. And suddenly he felt unusually drowsy, and he laid his head back in his big chair, and fell soundly asleep.
If Pratt had only known what was going on in the old quarries at Whitcliffe, about the very time that he was riding slowly out to Barford on his bicycle, he would not only have accelerated his pace, but would have taken good care to have chosen another route: he would also have made haste to exchange bicycle for railway train as quickly as possible, and to have got himself far away before anybody could begin looking for him in his usual haunts, or at places wherein there was a possibility of his being found. But Pratt knew nothing of what Byner had done. He was conscious of Byner's visit to theGreen Man. He did not know what Pickard had been told by Bill Thomson. He was unaware of anything which Pickard had told to Byner. If he had known that Byner, guided by Pickard, had been to the old quarries, had fixed his inquiring eye on the shaft which was filled to its brim with water, and had got certain ideas from the mere sight of it, Pratt would have hastened to put hundreds of miles between himself and Barford as quickly as possible. But all that Pratt knew was that there was a possibility of suspicion—which might materialize eventually, but not immediately.
On the previous evening, Pratt—had he but known it—made a great mistake. Instead of going into Murgatroyd's shop after he had watched Byner and Prydale away from it—he should have followed those two astute and crafty persons, and have ascertained something of their movements. Had he done so, he would certainly not have troubled to return to Peel Row, nor to remain in Barford an hour longer than was absolutely necessary. For Pratt was sharp-witted enough when it came to a question of putting one and two together, and if he had tracked Prydale and the unknown man who was with him to a certain house whereto they repaired as soon as they quitted Murgatroyd's shop, he would have drawn an inference from the mere fact of their visit which would have thrown him into a cold sweat of fear. But Pratt, after all, was only one man, one brain, one body, and could not be in two places, nor go in two ways, at the same time. He took his own way—ignorant of his destruction.
Byner also took a way of his own. As soon as he and Prydale left Murgatroyd's shop, they chartered the first cab they met with, and ordered its driver to go to Whitcliffe Moor.
"It's the quickest thing to do—if my theory's correct," observed Byner, as they drove along, "Of course, it is all theory—mere theory! But I've grounds for it. The place—the time—mere lonely situation—that scrap iron lying about, which would be so useful in weighting a dead body!—I tell you, I shall be surprised if we don't find Parrawhite at the bottom of that water!"
"I shouldn't wonder," agreed Prydale. "One thing's very certain, as we shall prove before we're through with it—Pratt's put that poor devil Murgatroyd up to this passage-to-America business. And a bit clumsily, too—fancy Murgatroyd being no better posted up than to tell me that Parrawhite called on him at a certain hour that night!"
"But you've got to remember that Pratt didn't know of Parrawhite's affairs with Pickard, nor that he was at theGreen Manat that hour," rejoined Byner. "My belief is that Pratt thinks himself safe—that he fancies he's provided for all contingencies. If things turn out as I think they will, I believe we shall find Pratt calmly seated at his desk tomorrow morning."
"Well—if things do turn out as you expect, we'll lose no time in seeking him there!" observed Prydale dryly. "We'd better arrange to get the job done first thing."
"This Mr. Shepherd'll make no objection, I suppose?" asked Byner.
"Objection! Lor' bless you—he'll love it!" exclaimed Prydale. "It'll be a bit of welcome diversion to a man like him that's naught to do. He'll object none, not he!"
Shepherd, a retired quarry-owner, who lived in a picturesque old stone house in the middle of Whitcliffe Moor, with nothing to occupy his attention but the growing of roses and vegetables, and an occasional glance at the local newspapers, listened to Prydale's request with gradually rising curiosity. Byner had at once seen that this call was welcome to this bluff and hearty Yorkshireman, who, without any question as to their business, had immediately welcomed them to his hearth and pressed liquor and cigars on them: he sized up Shepherd as a man to whom any sort of break in the placid course of retired life was a delightful event.
"A dead man i' that old shaft i' one o' my worked out quarries!" he exclaimed. "Ye don't mean to say so! An' how long d'yer think he might ha' been there, now, Prydale?"
"Some months, Mr. Shepherd," replied the detective.
"Why, then it's high time he were taken out," said Shepherd. "When might you be thinkin' o' doin' t' job, like?"
"As soon as possible," said Prydale. "Tomorrow morning, early, if that's convenient to you."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," observed the retired quarry-owner. "You leave t' job to me. I'll get two or three men first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll do it reight. You be up there by half-past eight o'clock, and we'll soon satisfy you as to whether there's owt i' t' shape of a dead man or not i' t' pit. You hev' grounds for believin' 'at theer is——what?"
"Strong grounds!" replied the detective, "and equally strong ones for believing the man came there by foul play, too."
"Say no more!" said Shepherd. "T' mystery shall be cleared up. Deary me! An' to think 'at I've walked past yon theer pit many a dozen times within this last few o' months, and nivver dreamed 'at theer wor owt in it but watter! Howivver, gentlemen, ye can put yer minds at ease—we'll investigate the circumstances, as the sayin' goes, before noon tomorrow."
"One other matter," remarked Prydale. "We want things kept quiet. We don't want all the folk of the neighbourhood round about, you know."
"Leave it to me," answered Shepherd. "There'll be me, and these men, and yourselves—and a pair of grapplin' irons. We'll do it quiet and comfortable—and we'll do it reight."
"Odd character!" remarked Byner, when he and Prydale went away.
"Useful man—for a job of that sort," said the detective laconically."Now then—are we going to let anybody else know what we're after—Mr.Eldrick or Mr. Collingwood, for instance? Do you want them, or either ofthem, to be present?"
"No!" answered Byner, after a moment's reflection. "Let us see what results. We can let them know, soon enough, if we've anything to tell. But—what about Pratt?"
"Keeping an eye on him—you mean?" said Prydale. "You said just now that in your opinion we should find him at his desk."
"Just so—but that's no reason why he shouldn't be looked after tomorrow morning," answered Byner.
"All right—I'll put a man on to shadow him, from the time he leaves his lodgings until—until we want him," said the detective. "That is—if we do want him."
"It will be one of the biggest surprises I ever had in my life if we don't!" asserted Byner. "I never felt more certain of anything than I do of finding Parrawhite's body in that pit!"
It was this certainty which made Byner appear extraordinarily cool and collected, when next day, about noon, he walked into Eldrick's private room, where Collingwood was at that moment asking the solicitor what was being done. The certainty was now established, and it seemed to Byner that it would have been a queer thing if he had not always had it. He closed the door and gave the two men an informing glance.
"Parrawhite's body has been found," he said quietly.
Eldrick started in his chair, and Collingwood looked a sharp inquiry.
"Little doubt about his having been murdered, just as I conjectured," continued Byner. "And his murderer had pretty cleverly weighted his body with scrap iron, before dropping it into a pit full of water, where it might have remained for a long time undiscovered. However—that's settled!"
Eldrick got out the first question.
"Pratt?"
"Prydale's after him," answered Byner. "I expect we shall hear something in a few minutes—if he's in town. But I confess I'm a bit doubtful and anxious now, on that score. Because, when Prydale and I got down from Whitcliffe half an hour ago—where the body's now lying, at theGreen Man, awaiting the inquest—we found Murgatroyd hanging about the police station. He'd come to make a clean breast of it—about Pratt. And it unfortunately turns out that Pratt saw Prydale and me go to Murgatroyd's shop last night, and afterwards went in there himself, and of course pumped Murgatroyd dry as to why we'd been."
"Why unfortunately?" asked Collingwood.
"Because that would warn Pratt that something was afoot," said Byner."And—he may have disappeared during the night. He——"
But just then Prydale came in, shaking his head.
"I'm afraid he's off!" he announced. "I'd a man watching for him outside his lodgings from an early hour this morning, but he never came out, and finally my man made an excuse and asked for him there, and then he heard that he'd never been home last night. And his office is closed."
"What steps are you taking?" asked Byner.
"I've got men all over the place already," replied Prydale. "But—if he got off in the night, as I'm afraid he did, we shan't find him in Barford. It's a most unlucky thing that he saw us go to Murgatroyd's last evening! That, of course, would set him off: he'd know things were reaching a crisis."
Eldrick and Collingwood had arranged to lunch together that day, and they presently went off, asking the detective to keep them informed of events. But up to half-past three o 'clock they heard no more—then, as they were returning along the street Byner came running up to them.
"Prydale's just had a telephone message from the butler at Normandale!" he exclaimed. "Pratt is there!—and something extraordinary is going on: the butler wants the police. We're off at once—there's Prydale in a motor, waiting for me. Will you follow?"
He darted away again, and Eldrick looking round for a car, suddenly recognized the Mallathorpe livery.
"Great Scott!" he said. "There's Miss Mallathorpe—just driving in.Better tell her!"
A moment later, he and Collingwood had joined Nesta in her carriage, and the horses' heads were turned in the direction towards which Byner and Prydale were already hastening.
Esther Mawson, leaving Pratt to enjoy his sherry and sandwiches at his leisure, went away through the house, out into the gardens, and across the shrubbery to the stables. The coachman and grooms were at dinner—with the exception of one man who lived in a cottage at the entrance to the stable-yard. This was the very man she wanted to see, and she found him in the saddle-room, and beckoned him to its door.
"Mrs. Mallathorpe wants me to go over to Scaleby on an errand for her this afternoon," she said. "Can you have the dog-cart ready, at the South Garden gate at three o'clock sharp? And—without saying anything to the coachman? It's a private errand."
Of late this particular groom had received several commissions of this sort, and being a sharp fellow he had observed that they were generally given to him when Miss Mallathorpe was out.
"All right," he answered. "The young missis is going out in the carriage at half-past two. South Garden gate—three sharp. Anybody but you?"
"Only me," replied Esther. "Don't say anything to anybody about where we're going. Get the dog-cart ready after the carriage has gone."
The groom nodded in comprehension, and Esther went back to the house and to her own room. She ought at that time of day to have been eating her dinner with the rest of the upper servants, but she had work to do which was of much more importance than the consumption of food and drink. There was going to be a flight that afternoon—but it would not be Pratt who would undertake it. Esther Mawson had carefully calculated all her chances as soon as Pratt told her that he was going to be away for a while. She knew that Pratt would not have left Barford for any indefinite period unless something had gone seriously wrong. But she knew more—by inference and intuition. If Pratt was going away—rather, since he was going away, he would have on his person things of value—documents, money. She meant to gain possession of everything that he had; she meant to have a brief interview with Mrs. Mallathorpe; then she meant to drive to Scaleby—and to leave that part of the country just as thoroughly and completely as Pratt had meant to leave it. And now in her own room she was completing her preparations. There was little to do. She knew that if her venture came off successfully, she could easily afford to leave her personal possessions behind her, and that she would be all the more free and unrestricted in her movements if she departed without as much as a change of clothes and linen. And so by two o'clock she had arrayed herself in a neat and unobtrusive tailor-made travelling costume, had put on an equally neat and plain hat, had rolled her umbrella, and laid it, her gloves, and a cloak where they could be readily picked up, and had attached to her slim waist a hand-bag—by means of a steel chain which she secured by a small padlock as soon as she had arranged it to her satisfaction. She was not the sort of woman to leave a hand-bag lying about in a railway carriage at any time, but in this particular instance she was not going to run any risk of even a moment's forgetfulness.
Everything was in readiness by twenty minutes past two, and she took up her position in a window from which she could see the front door of the house. At half-past two the carriage and its two fine bay horses came round from the stables; a minute or two later Nesta Mallathorpe emerged from the hall; yet another minute and the carriage was whirling down the park in the direction of Barford. And then Esther moved from the window, picked up the umbrella, the cloak, the gloves, and went off in the direction of the room wherein she had left Pratt.
No one ever went near those old rooms except on some special errand or business, and there was a dead silence all around her as she turned the key in the lock and slipped inside the door—to lock it again as soon as she had entered. There was an equally deep silence within the room—and for a moment she glanced a little fearfully at the recumbent figure in the old, deep-backed chair. Pratt had stretched himself fully in his easy quarters—-his legs lay extended across the moth-eaten hearth-rug; his head and shoulders were thrown far back against the faded tapestry, and he was so still that he might have been supposed to be dead. But Esther Mawson had tried the effect of that particular drug on a good many people, and she knew that the victim in this instance was merely plunged in a sleep from which nothing whatever could wake him yet awhile. And after one searching glance at him, and one lifting of an eyelid by a practised finger, she went rapidly and thoroughly through Pratt's pockets, and within a few minutes of entering the room had cleared them of everything they contained. The sealed packet which he had taken from his safe that morning; the bank-notes which Mrs. Murgatroyd had returned in her indignant letter; another roll of notes, of considerable value, in a note-case; a purse containing notes and gold to a large amount—all those she laid one by one on a dust-covered table. And finally—and as calmly as if she were sorting linen—she swept bank-notes, gold, and purse into her steel-chained bag, and tore open the sealed envelope.
There were five documents in that envelope—Esther examined each with meticulous care. The first was an authority to Linford Pratt to sell certain shares standing in the name of Ann Mallathorpe. The second was a similar document relating to other shares: each was complete, save for Ann Mallathorpe's signature. The third document was the power of attorney which Ann Mallathorpe had given to Linford Pratt: the fourth, the letter which she had written to him on the evening before the fatal accident to Harper. And the fifth was John Mallathorpe's will.
At last she held in her hand the half-sheet of foolscap paper of which Mrs. Mallathorpe, driven to distraction, and knowing that she would get no sympathy from her own daughter, had told her. She was a woman of a quick and an understanding mind, and she had read the will through and grasped its significance as swiftly as her eyes ran over it. And those eyes turned to the unconscious Pratt with a flash of contempt—she, at any rate, would not follow his foolish example, and play for too high a stake—no, she would make hay while the sun shone its hottest! She was of the Parrawhite persuasion—better, far better one good bird in the hand than a score of possible birds in the bush.
She presently restored the five documents to the stout envelope, picked up her other belongings, and without so much as a glance at Pratt, left the room. She turned the key in the door and took it away with her. And now she went straight to a certain sitting-room which Mrs. Mallathorpe had tenanted by day ever since her illness. The final and most important stage of Esther's venture was at hand.
Mrs. Mallathorpe sat at an open window, wearily gazing out on the park. Ever since her son's death she had remained in a more or less torpid condition, rarely talking to any person except Esther Mawson: it had been manifest from the first that her daughter's presence distressed and irritated her, and by the doctor's advice Nesta had gone to her as little as possible, while taking every care to guard her and see to her comfort. All day long she sat brooding—and only Esther Mawson, now for some time in her full confidence, knew that her brooding was rapidly developing into a monomania. Mrs. Mallathorpe, indeed, had but one thought in her mind—the eventual circumventing of Pratt, and the destruction of John Mallathorpe's will.
She turned slowly as the maid came in and carefully closed the door behind her, and her voice was irritable and querulous as she at once began to complain.
"You've never been near me for two hours!" she said. "Your dinner time was over long since! I might have been wanting all sorts of things for aught you cared!"
"I've had something else to do—for you!" retorted Esther, coming close to her mistress. "Listen, now!—I've got it!"
Mrs. Mallathorpe's attitude and manner suddenly changed. She caught sight of the packet of papers in the woman's hand, and at once sprang to her feet, white and trembling. Instinctively she held out her own hands and moved a little nearer to the maid. And Esther quickly put the table between them, and shook her head.
"No—no!" she exclaimed. "No handling of anything—yet! You keep your hands off! You were ready enough to bargain with Pratt—now you'll have to bargain with me. But I'm not such a fool as he was—I'll take cash down, and be done with it."
Mrs. Mallathorpe rested her trembling hands on the table and bent forward across it.
"Is it—is it—really—the will?" she whispered hoarsely.
Instead of replying in words, Esther, taking care to keep at a safe distance behind the table, and with the door only a yard or two in her rear, drew out the documents one by one and held them up.
"The will!" she said. "Your letter to Pratt. The power of attorney. Two papers that he brought for you to sign. That's the lot! And now, as I said, we'll bargain."
"Where is—he?" asked Mrs. Mallathorpe. "How—how did you get them? Does he know—did he give them up?"
"If you want to know, he's safe and sound asleep in one of the rooms in the old part of the house," answered Esther. "I drugged him. There's something afoot—something gone wrong with his schemes—at Barford, and he came here on his way—elsewhere. And so—I took the chance. Now then—what are you going to give me?"
Mrs. Mallathorpe, whose nervous agitation was becoming more and more marked, wrung her hands.
"I've nothing to give!" she cried. "You know very well he's had the management of everything—I don't know how things are——"
"Stuff!" exclaimed Esther. "I know better than that. You've a lot of ready money in that desk there—you know you drew a lot out of the bank some time ago, and it's there now. You kept it for a contingency—the contingency's here. And—you've your rings—the diamond and ruby rings—I know what they're worth! Come on, now—I mean to have the whole lot, so it's no use hesitating."
Mrs. Mallathorpe looked at the maid's bold and resolute eyes—and then at the papers. And she glanced from eyes and papers to a bright fire which burned in the grate close by.
"You'll give everything up?" she asked nervously.
"Put those bank-notes that you've got in your desk, and those rings that are in your jewel-case, on the table between us," answered Esther, "and I'll hand over these papers on the instant! I'm not going to be such a fool as to keep them—not I! Come on, now!—isn't this the chance you've wanted?"
Mrs. Mallathorpe drew a small bunch of keys from her gown, and went over to the desk which Esther had pointed to. Within a minute she was back again at the table, a roll of bank notes in one hand, half a dozen magnificent rings in the other. She put both hands halfway across and unclasped them. And Esther Mawson, with a light laugh, threw the papers over the table, and hastily swept their price into her handbag.
Mrs. Mallathorpe's nerves suddenly became steady. With a deep sigh she caught up the various documents and looked them quickly and thoroughly over. Then she tore them into fragments and flung the fragments in the fire—and as they blazed up, she turned and looked at Esther Mawson in a way which made Esther shrink a little. But she was already at the door—and she opened it and walked out and down the stair.
She was half-way across the hall beneath, where the butler and one of the footmen were idly talking, when a sharp cry from above made her then look up. Mrs. Mallathorpe, suddenly restored to life and energy, was leaning over the balustrade.
"Stop that woman, you men!" she said. "Seize her! Fasten her up!—lock the door wherever you put her! She's stolen my rings, and a lot of money out of my desk! And telephone instantly to Barford, and tell them to send the police here—at once!"