Chapter Twenty Two.By Stroke of the Pen.Next day the news of the sudden death of Sir Charles Hornton at his country house in Suffolk caused a great sensation in the City. But as the truth was never guessed, the greatest sympathy was felt on every hand for his close friend and partner Purcell Sandys. The fact that Sir Charles had committed suicide had not leaked out. He had been found dead under very mysterious circumstances. That was all.Almost the first person to call at Park Lane and express his sorrow was the well-dressed, soft-speaking and refined Mr Rex Rutherford. It was about eleven o’clock. Elma heard a ring at the door, and afterwards asked Hughes who was the caller.“Mr Rutherford, miss,” was the old man’s reply.The girl said nothing, but she wondered why he should call upon her father so early in the morning.Two days later the white-bearded old Moorish Minister Mohammed ben Mussa was seated with his secretary, a young Frenchman, in his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, when a waiter entered, saying:“Madame Crisp has called, Your Excellency.”In an instant the old man’s face became illuminated, and he gave orders to show the lady in.“It is the lady I met on the boat between Dover and Calais. Her necklet had been stolen, and she was naturally in tears. We travelled together from Calais to Paris,” he explained. “She is a very intelligent English society woman, and I asked her to call.”The French secretary, who had been engaged at the Ministry in Fez for some years, bowed as his new master spoke.In a few moments Freda Crisp, elegantly-dressed, swept into the luxurious room.“Ah! So here you are!” she cried in French, which she spoke extremely well. “I promised I would call. Do you know, the French police are so much cleverer than the English! They have already arrested the thief and returned my necklet to me!”His Excellency, after inviting his guest to be seated, expressed pleasure at the news, and then the secretary rose discreetly and left.“I hope you are enjoying Paris,” Freda said in her low musical voice, which always charmed her dupes. “Now that the autumn is coming on everyone is returning from Deauville. I am giving a little party to-night at the Ritz. I wonder if you would honour me with your presence? I have a friend, an Englishman, who wishes very particularly to make Your Excellency’s acquaintance.”The old Minister expressed himself as being delighted, whereupon she suggested that he should dine with her and her English friend at the hotel. The old Moor with his Eastern admiration of feminine beauty found her charming, and at eight o’clock that night when he entered the hotel, his striking figure in the ample white burnous (upon which was the glittering star of the Order of the Tower and the Sword), and turban, caused all heads to be turned in his direction.“This is my friend, Mr Arthur Porter,” Freda said. “Will Your Excellency allow me to present him?”The old Moor took Porter’s hand and, with an expression of pleasure, the trio sat down to dinner at a corner table in the great restaurant.The Moorish Minister spent a most enjoyable evening, for though he touched no wine, he was after dinner introduced to several very elegant and charming women, both English and French, for in a certain circle in Paris Freda was well known. Porter took good care to ingratiate himself with the patriarchal-looking old fellow, declaring that he knew Morocco, was delighted with the life there, and intended in a few weeks’ time to visit Fez again. The truth, however, was that he had never been there in his life and had no intention of ever going. Freda had followed the old Minister from London and had managed to become acquainted with him with the sole object of introducing Arthur Porter, alias Bertram Harrison. To them both the death of Sir Charles was known, and Porter guessed that Mr Sandys’ financial position would be greatly affected. He had seen Sir Charles at several gaming-tables, and knew that he had been a reckless gambler. So cleverly did the pair play their cards that Mohammed ben Mussa invited Porter to call and see him next day—which he did.As the two men sat together smoking cigarettes, Porter suddenly said in French:“I heard the other day that the ancient emerald mines in the Wad Sus are about to be worked again.”“That is so. I granted the concession in London only a few days ago.”“Ah! How very unfortunate!” remarked his visitor. “I have a big financial backing, and could have exploited those mines with huge profits to all of us. Of course, I do not know how much gratification Your Excellency has received for the concession, but my friends would, I believe, have paid Your Excellency fifty thousand francs down and one-quarter of the profits of the undertaking.” The old Moor pursed his lips and pricked up his ears. From Barclay he had received nothing on account, and only one-eighth share. Porter could see that the old fellow was filled with regret and chagrin that he had granted the concession with such little gain to himself.“His Majesty the Sultan demands a share in the profits,” old Mohammed remarked. “He has been allotted an eighth share—similar to myself.”“I could have arranged a quarter share for you and an eighth for His Majesty,” said the crafty Englishman quickly. “But I suppose it is unfortunately too late, now that you have given the concession into another quarter.”Mohammed ben Mussa remained silent, slowly stroking his long beard with his brown claw-like hand.The Englishman’s offer was extremely tempting. He was reflecting.At last he said very slowly:“Perhaps if seventy-five thousand francs were offered me and the shares you suggest, I might find some way out,” and he smiled craftily.“Well,” said Porter with affected hesitation, “I’m inclined to think that my friends would pay that sum—and at once if they received an unassailable concession. I mean a concession given to Mr Rex Rutherford under your hand and seal as Minister which would cancel the previous one.” Porter knew well the one power in Oriental countries was that of backsheesh, and wrote down the name Rex Rutherford.“I will consider it,” said the old man. “There is no hurry till to-morrow. I may find it necessary to telegraph to Fez. I—I have to think it over, M’sieur Porter.”“Of course. Then I will come here to-morrow—shall we say at eleven? And you will afterwards lunch with me at Voisin’s—eh?”“It is agreed,” said the representative of the Moorish Sultan, and then, after another cigarette, Porter rose and left, walking back to the Place Vendôme to tell Freda the result of his morning’s negotiations.Next day, at noon when the tall Englishman entered Mohammed’s room he saw by the expression on the old man’s face that he had triumphed.“I have been reflecting,” His Excellency said when his visitor was seated, “and I have prepared a copy of the concession which I gave in London, with the name and terms altered as we discussed yesterday, and with the payment of seventy-five thousand francs to me direct at latest to-morrow as being the consideration. You see, it is all in order—a concession in perpetuity granted to your nominee, Mr Rutherford, and sealed by my Ministerial seal, which I hold from His Majesty, and signed by myself. Please examine it.”Arthur Porter took the document, which was almost a replica of that handed to Barclay in London. The date was, however, different, as well as the terms.“Yes,” he said, after carefully reading the French translation. “It all seems in order. It rescinds the previous concession granted in London.”“Most certainly. No one will have any authority to enter the Wad Sus except yourself and those you appoint.”With satisfaction Porter drew from his inner pocket an envelope containing seventy-five one-thousand-franc notes, which he counted out upon the table one by one.The old Moor’s thin yellow fingers handled them gleefully, and placing them together he drew them beneath his ample burnous, saying quite coolly:“I trust, Monsieur Porter, that you are satisfied.”“Perfectly,” was the Englishman’s reply. “My friend will at once form a syndicate and work the mines. Of course, we may have trouble with that Mr Barclay in London.”“He paid no consideration. Therefore you need not trouble about him. The concession you have is the only valid one, for it is dated after the one I gave in London. If they attempt to enforce it we shall instantly prevent their entering the district, or arrest them if they attempt to do so.”And the old man chuckled to himself at the easy manner in which he had obtained seventy-five thousand francs.
Next day the news of the sudden death of Sir Charles Hornton at his country house in Suffolk caused a great sensation in the City. But as the truth was never guessed, the greatest sympathy was felt on every hand for his close friend and partner Purcell Sandys. The fact that Sir Charles had committed suicide had not leaked out. He had been found dead under very mysterious circumstances. That was all.
Almost the first person to call at Park Lane and express his sorrow was the well-dressed, soft-speaking and refined Mr Rex Rutherford. It was about eleven o’clock. Elma heard a ring at the door, and afterwards asked Hughes who was the caller.
“Mr Rutherford, miss,” was the old man’s reply.
The girl said nothing, but she wondered why he should call upon her father so early in the morning.
Two days later the white-bearded old Moorish Minister Mohammed ben Mussa was seated with his secretary, a young Frenchman, in his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, when a waiter entered, saying:
“Madame Crisp has called, Your Excellency.”
In an instant the old man’s face became illuminated, and he gave orders to show the lady in.
“It is the lady I met on the boat between Dover and Calais. Her necklet had been stolen, and she was naturally in tears. We travelled together from Calais to Paris,” he explained. “She is a very intelligent English society woman, and I asked her to call.”
The French secretary, who had been engaged at the Ministry in Fez for some years, bowed as his new master spoke.
In a few moments Freda Crisp, elegantly-dressed, swept into the luxurious room.
“Ah! So here you are!” she cried in French, which she spoke extremely well. “I promised I would call. Do you know, the French police are so much cleverer than the English! They have already arrested the thief and returned my necklet to me!”
His Excellency, after inviting his guest to be seated, expressed pleasure at the news, and then the secretary rose discreetly and left.
“I hope you are enjoying Paris,” Freda said in her low musical voice, which always charmed her dupes. “Now that the autumn is coming on everyone is returning from Deauville. I am giving a little party to-night at the Ritz. I wonder if you would honour me with your presence? I have a friend, an Englishman, who wishes very particularly to make Your Excellency’s acquaintance.”
The old Minister expressed himself as being delighted, whereupon she suggested that he should dine with her and her English friend at the hotel. The old Moor with his Eastern admiration of feminine beauty found her charming, and at eight o’clock that night when he entered the hotel, his striking figure in the ample white burnous (upon which was the glittering star of the Order of the Tower and the Sword), and turban, caused all heads to be turned in his direction.
“This is my friend, Mr Arthur Porter,” Freda said. “Will Your Excellency allow me to present him?”
The old Moor took Porter’s hand and, with an expression of pleasure, the trio sat down to dinner at a corner table in the great restaurant.
The Moorish Minister spent a most enjoyable evening, for though he touched no wine, he was after dinner introduced to several very elegant and charming women, both English and French, for in a certain circle in Paris Freda was well known. Porter took good care to ingratiate himself with the patriarchal-looking old fellow, declaring that he knew Morocco, was delighted with the life there, and intended in a few weeks’ time to visit Fez again. The truth, however, was that he had never been there in his life and had no intention of ever going. Freda had followed the old Minister from London and had managed to become acquainted with him with the sole object of introducing Arthur Porter, alias Bertram Harrison. To them both the death of Sir Charles was known, and Porter guessed that Mr Sandys’ financial position would be greatly affected. He had seen Sir Charles at several gaming-tables, and knew that he had been a reckless gambler. So cleverly did the pair play their cards that Mohammed ben Mussa invited Porter to call and see him next day—which he did.
As the two men sat together smoking cigarettes, Porter suddenly said in French:
“I heard the other day that the ancient emerald mines in the Wad Sus are about to be worked again.”
“That is so. I granted the concession in London only a few days ago.”
“Ah! How very unfortunate!” remarked his visitor. “I have a big financial backing, and could have exploited those mines with huge profits to all of us. Of course, I do not know how much gratification Your Excellency has received for the concession, but my friends would, I believe, have paid Your Excellency fifty thousand francs down and one-quarter of the profits of the undertaking.” The old Moor pursed his lips and pricked up his ears. From Barclay he had received nothing on account, and only one-eighth share. Porter could see that the old fellow was filled with regret and chagrin that he had granted the concession with such little gain to himself.
“His Majesty the Sultan demands a share in the profits,” old Mohammed remarked. “He has been allotted an eighth share—similar to myself.”
“I could have arranged a quarter share for you and an eighth for His Majesty,” said the crafty Englishman quickly. “But I suppose it is unfortunately too late, now that you have given the concession into another quarter.”
Mohammed ben Mussa remained silent, slowly stroking his long beard with his brown claw-like hand.
The Englishman’s offer was extremely tempting. He was reflecting.
At last he said very slowly:
“Perhaps if seventy-five thousand francs were offered me and the shares you suggest, I might find some way out,” and he smiled craftily.
“Well,” said Porter with affected hesitation, “I’m inclined to think that my friends would pay that sum—and at once if they received an unassailable concession. I mean a concession given to Mr Rex Rutherford under your hand and seal as Minister which would cancel the previous one.” Porter knew well the one power in Oriental countries was that of backsheesh, and wrote down the name Rex Rutherford.
“I will consider it,” said the old man. “There is no hurry till to-morrow. I may find it necessary to telegraph to Fez. I—I have to think it over, M’sieur Porter.”
“Of course. Then I will come here to-morrow—shall we say at eleven? And you will afterwards lunch with me at Voisin’s—eh?”
“It is agreed,” said the representative of the Moorish Sultan, and then, after another cigarette, Porter rose and left, walking back to the Place Vendôme to tell Freda the result of his morning’s negotiations.
Next day, at noon when the tall Englishman entered Mohammed’s room he saw by the expression on the old man’s face that he had triumphed.
“I have been reflecting,” His Excellency said when his visitor was seated, “and I have prepared a copy of the concession which I gave in London, with the name and terms altered as we discussed yesterday, and with the payment of seventy-five thousand francs to me direct at latest to-morrow as being the consideration. You see, it is all in order—a concession in perpetuity granted to your nominee, Mr Rutherford, and sealed by my Ministerial seal, which I hold from His Majesty, and signed by myself. Please examine it.”
Arthur Porter took the document, which was almost a replica of that handed to Barclay in London. The date was, however, different, as well as the terms.
“Yes,” he said, after carefully reading the French translation. “It all seems in order. It rescinds the previous concession granted in London.”
“Most certainly. No one will have any authority to enter the Wad Sus except yourself and those you appoint.”
With satisfaction Porter drew from his inner pocket an envelope containing seventy-five one-thousand-franc notes, which he counted out upon the table one by one.
The old Moor’s thin yellow fingers handled them gleefully, and placing them together he drew them beneath his ample burnous, saying quite coolly:
“I trust, Monsieur Porter, that you are satisfied.”
“Perfectly,” was the Englishman’s reply. “My friend will at once form a syndicate and work the mines. Of course, we may have trouble with that Mr Barclay in London.”
“He paid no consideration. Therefore you need not trouble about him. The concession you have is the only valid one, for it is dated after the one I gave in London. If they attempt to enforce it we shall instantly prevent their entering the district, or arrest them if they attempt to do so.”
And the old man chuckled to himself at the easy manner in which he had obtained seventy-five thousand francs.
Chapter Twenty Three.A Caller at the Rectory.That morning Gordon Gray, dapper and well-dressed as ever, had scanned the papers and read the report of the inquiry into the death of Sir Charles Hornton. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “death through misadventure,” it having been proved that Sir Charles had mistaken a bottle of poison for a prescription for indigestion which the local doctor had sent him on the previous day. In fact, it was a not too rare way of hushing-up the suicide of a well-known man. In many cases where persons of means commit wilful suicide the twelve local tradesmen are lenient, and declare it to be pure accident, or “misadventure”—unless, of course, the suicide leaves a letter, in which case the truth cannot be circumvented. For a suicide to leave a letter is a criminal act towards his family.Early in the afternoon the telephone-bell rang in the pleasant sitting-room of the cosy West End chambers Gray was occupying, and on taking off the receiver he heard Freda speaking from Paris.“All O.K.,” she said. “Guinness has got the concession and is bringing it over this afternoon. He’ll be with you to-night.”“When does the old Moor leave?” asked Gray.“The day after to-morrow. He goes straight back to Tangier.”“Right. Keep in touch with him till he’s safely away, then get back here,” were the great crook’s orders.Meanwhile events were following close upon each other in those crowded autumn days.Roddy, checkmated by his failure to find the girl Manners who had written to his dead father from Bayeux, made, in company with the shoe-repairer Nicole, a number of inquiries of the commissary of police and in other quarters, but in vain.From the worthy pair he learnt how they had received the young lady at St. Malo from an Englishman and a woman, apparently his wife. From the description of the woman he felt convinced that it was Freda Crisp. The girl, under the influence of the same drug that had been administered to him, had been smitten by temporary blindness, in addition to her mind being deranged. Here was still more evidence of the dastardly machinations of Gray and his unscrupulous associates. It was now plain that the girl Manners had not died, after all, but had lapsed into a kind of cataleptic state, just as he had done.The problem of her whereabouts, however, was an all-important one. With her as witness against Gray and the woman Crisp the unmasking of the malefactors would be an easy matter. Besides, had not Mr Sandys told him that it was most important to him that the young lady’s fate should be ascertained?What had been her fate? The description of the mysterious man who called himself a doctor and who had recently visited the poor girl conveyed nothing to Roddy. It seemed, however, as though after she had written the letter to his father she had suddenly disappeared. Had she left Bayeux of her own accord, or had she been enticed away?The police suspected foul play, and frankly told him so.It was during those eager, anxious days in Bayeux that Roddy, on glancing atLe Nouvelliste, the daily paper published in Rennes, saw to his astonishment news of the tragic death of Mr Sandys’ partner, and hastened to telegraph his condolences. Hence it was with great surprise that Elma and her father were aware that the young man was in France, for the telegram simply bore the place of origin as Bayeux.Little did he dream of the clever devil’s work which Freda and her associate Porter had accomplished with old Mohammed ben Mussa, but remained in Normandy following a slender clue, namely, a statement made by a white-capped peasant woman hailing from the neighbouring village of Le Molay-Littry, who declared that she had, on the day of the young English mademoiselle’s disappearance, seen her on the railway platform at Lison entering a train for Cherbourg. She was alone. To Cherbourg Roddy travelled, accompanied by a police-officer from Bayeux and Monsieur Nicole, but though they made every inquiry, no trace of her could be found. At the office of the Southampton boats nobody recollected her taking a passage on the day in question. Therefore, saddened and disappointed, he was compelled to relinquish his search and cross back to England.While on board the boat he paced the deck much puzzled how to act. He wondered how Elma was faring. Mr Sandys was, no doubt, too full of his partner’s tragic end to attend to any fresh business proposal. Therefore he decided not to approach him at present with the concession, which was in the vaults of the Safe Deposit Company.On arrival at Victoria he, however, drove to Park Lane to call, see Elma, and express to her father his regret at the tragedy. The footman who opened the door answered that neither his master nor Miss Elma was at home.“Are they at Farncombe?” asked Roddy, much disappointed.“No, sir. They are in town. But I do not think they will be back till very late.”Roddy, who was a shrewd observer, could tell that the man had received orders to say “not at home.”“Not at home” to him? Why? He stood upon the wide doorstep filled with wonder and chagrin. He wanted to tell Mr Sandys of the second disappearance of Edna Manners, and most of all to see the girl he so fondly loved.But she was “not at home.” What could be the reason of such an attitude?He took the last train home from Waterloo, and on arrival at the Rectory—which he still occupied until the new incumbent should require it—old Mrs Bentley came down to let him in.“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “I’m glad you’ve come back. There’s been a young lady here this evening inquiring for your poor father. I told her I expected you home every day, and she’s coming again to-morrow evening at five o’clock. After she went I saw her wandering about Welling Wood, as though searching for something. She told me to say that her name is Miss Manners.”Roddy stood staggered—too amazed to utter a word for the moment. Edna Manners had returned, and to-morrow he would know the truth.Too puzzled and excited to sleep, he threw off his coat, and entering his wireless-room took up his cigar-box receiver with the newly invented and super-sensitive crystal detector. Placing the ’phones over his ears he switched on the little portable aerial wire which he used with it and attached another wire to earth, whereupon he heard loud and strong telephony—somebody in Rotterdam testing with a station in London and speaking in Dutch. It proved beyond all doubt that the new crystal was the most sensitive type known, and that, for a portable set, was of far greater utility than vacuum valves. The quality of the telephony, indeed, astounded him.He had been listening in for nearly an hour when suddenly he heard the voice of a fellow-experimenter, a man named Overton, in Liverpool, with whom he often exchanged tests.At once he threw over his transmission switch, the generator hummed with gathering speed, and taking up the telephone, he said:“Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, Liverpool! This is Homfray 3.X.Q. calling. Your signals are very good. Modulation excellent 3.B.L. I am just back from France, and will test with you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Did you get that 3.B.L., Liverpool? 3.X.Q. over.” And he threw over the switch, the humming of the generator dying down.In a few seconds came Overton’s familiar voice, saying:“Hulloa 3.X.Q.! This is 3.B.L. answering! Thanks very much for your report. I will call you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Thanks again. Somebody was calling you half an hour ago on one thousand metres. You did not get him. Better try now. G.N.O.M. (Good-night, old man.) 3.B.L. switching off.”Roddy, interested as to who, in the wonderful modern world of wireless where men and women only meet through the ether, could have called him, raised his receiving wavelength to a thousand metres and listened.Beyond some “harmonics” there was nothing. Suddenly, however, an unknown voice, so clear and high-pitched that it startled him, said:“Hulloa, 3.X.Q.! Hulloa, Farncombe! I have called you several times to-night; the last time an hour ago. I’m speaking for Mr Barclay. He did not know that you were back. He is coming on urgent business to Guildford to-morrow. Can you meet him at the station at eleven o’clock in the morning. He has asked me to give you that message. This is 3.T.M. at Kingston-on-Thames speaking. 3.T.M. over.”Roddy was not surprised. He frequently—in contravention of the Post-Office regulations, be it said—received such relayed messages. He could be with Barclay at eleven and meet Edna Manners at five.So putting in his transmission switch, which caused the big vacuum globes to light up and the generator to hum again, he took up the microphone transmitter, and replied in a sharp clear voice:“Hulloa, 3.T.M.! This is 3.X.Q. answering. Thank you very much for the message from Barclay—I will keep the appointment to-morrow. 3.X.Q. switching off.”Why did Barclay wish to see him so urgently? Perhaps the urgency had not occurred until the post-office had closed, hence he had been unable to send a telegram. And at the Rectory there was no telephone, save that splendidly equipped radio-phone.Little did Roddy Homfray suspect that Mr Purcell Sandys was faced with ruin, that Elma knew of the impending disaster, and that there was a reason—a very clear and distinct reason—why she and her father were neither of them “at home” when he had called.Black ruin had fallen upon the great financial house of Sandys and Hornton, a fact of which, though Roddy was in ignorance, Gordon Gray, alias Rex Rutherford, and his accomplices were well aware, and were about to turn to their own advantage.
That morning Gordon Gray, dapper and well-dressed as ever, had scanned the papers and read the report of the inquiry into the death of Sir Charles Hornton. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “death through misadventure,” it having been proved that Sir Charles had mistaken a bottle of poison for a prescription for indigestion which the local doctor had sent him on the previous day. In fact, it was a not too rare way of hushing-up the suicide of a well-known man. In many cases where persons of means commit wilful suicide the twelve local tradesmen are lenient, and declare it to be pure accident, or “misadventure”—unless, of course, the suicide leaves a letter, in which case the truth cannot be circumvented. For a suicide to leave a letter is a criminal act towards his family.
Early in the afternoon the telephone-bell rang in the pleasant sitting-room of the cosy West End chambers Gray was occupying, and on taking off the receiver he heard Freda speaking from Paris.
“All O.K.,” she said. “Guinness has got the concession and is bringing it over this afternoon. He’ll be with you to-night.”
“When does the old Moor leave?” asked Gray.
“The day after to-morrow. He goes straight back to Tangier.”
“Right. Keep in touch with him till he’s safely away, then get back here,” were the great crook’s orders.
Meanwhile events were following close upon each other in those crowded autumn days.
Roddy, checkmated by his failure to find the girl Manners who had written to his dead father from Bayeux, made, in company with the shoe-repairer Nicole, a number of inquiries of the commissary of police and in other quarters, but in vain.
From the worthy pair he learnt how they had received the young lady at St. Malo from an Englishman and a woman, apparently his wife. From the description of the woman he felt convinced that it was Freda Crisp. The girl, under the influence of the same drug that had been administered to him, had been smitten by temporary blindness, in addition to her mind being deranged. Here was still more evidence of the dastardly machinations of Gray and his unscrupulous associates. It was now plain that the girl Manners had not died, after all, but had lapsed into a kind of cataleptic state, just as he had done.
The problem of her whereabouts, however, was an all-important one. With her as witness against Gray and the woman Crisp the unmasking of the malefactors would be an easy matter. Besides, had not Mr Sandys told him that it was most important to him that the young lady’s fate should be ascertained?
What had been her fate? The description of the mysterious man who called himself a doctor and who had recently visited the poor girl conveyed nothing to Roddy. It seemed, however, as though after she had written the letter to his father she had suddenly disappeared. Had she left Bayeux of her own accord, or had she been enticed away?
The police suspected foul play, and frankly told him so.
It was during those eager, anxious days in Bayeux that Roddy, on glancing atLe Nouvelliste, the daily paper published in Rennes, saw to his astonishment news of the tragic death of Mr Sandys’ partner, and hastened to telegraph his condolences. Hence it was with great surprise that Elma and her father were aware that the young man was in France, for the telegram simply bore the place of origin as Bayeux.
Little did he dream of the clever devil’s work which Freda and her associate Porter had accomplished with old Mohammed ben Mussa, but remained in Normandy following a slender clue, namely, a statement made by a white-capped peasant woman hailing from the neighbouring village of Le Molay-Littry, who declared that she had, on the day of the young English mademoiselle’s disappearance, seen her on the railway platform at Lison entering a train for Cherbourg. She was alone. To Cherbourg Roddy travelled, accompanied by a police-officer from Bayeux and Monsieur Nicole, but though they made every inquiry, no trace of her could be found. At the office of the Southampton boats nobody recollected her taking a passage on the day in question. Therefore, saddened and disappointed, he was compelled to relinquish his search and cross back to England.
While on board the boat he paced the deck much puzzled how to act. He wondered how Elma was faring. Mr Sandys was, no doubt, too full of his partner’s tragic end to attend to any fresh business proposal. Therefore he decided not to approach him at present with the concession, which was in the vaults of the Safe Deposit Company.
On arrival at Victoria he, however, drove to Park Lane to call, see Elma, and express to her father his regret at the tragedy. The footman who opened the door answered that neither his master nor Miss Elma was at home.
“Are they at Farncombe?” asked Roddy, much disappointed.
“No, sir. They are in town. But I do not think they will be back till very late.”
Roddy, who was a shrewd observer, could tell that the man had received orders to say “not at home.”
“Not at home” to him? Why? He stood upon the wide doorstep filled with wonder and chagrin. He wanted to tell Mr Sandys of the second disappearance of Edna Manners, and most of all to see the girl he so fondly loved.
But she was “not at home.” What could be the reason of such an attitude?
He took the last train home from Waterloo, and on arrival at the Rectory—which he still occupied until the new incumbent should require it—old Mrs Bentley came down to let him in.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “I’m glad you’ve come back. There’s been a young lady here this evening inquiring for your poor father. I told her I expected you home every day, and she’s coming again to-morrow evening at five o’clock. After she went I saw her wandering about Welling Wood, as though searching for something. She told me to say that her name is Miss Manners.”
Roddy stood staggered—too amazed to utter a word for the moment. Edna Manners had returned, and to-morrow he would know the truth.
Too puzzled and excited to sleep, he threw off his coat, and entering his wireless-room took up his cigar-box receiver with the newly invented and super-sensitive crystal detector. Placing the ’phones over his ears he switched on the little portable aerial wire which he used with it and attached another wire to earth, whereupon he heard loud and strong telephony—somebody in Rotterdam testing with a station in London and speaking in Dutch. It proved beyond all doubt that the new crystal was the most sensitive type known, and that, for a portable set, was of far greater utility than vacuum valves. The quality of the telephony, indeed, astounded him.
He had been listening in for nearly an hour when suddenly he heard the voice of a fellow-experimenter, a man named Overton, in Liverpool, with whom he often exchanged tests.
At once he threw over his transmission switch, the generator hummed with gathering speed, and taking up the telephone, he said:
“Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, 3.B.L.! Hulloa, Liverpool! This is Homfray 3.X.Q. calling. Your signals are very good. Modulation excellent 3.B.L. I am just back from France, and will test with you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Did you get that 3.B.L., Liverpool? 3.X.Q. over.” And he threw over the switch, the humming of the generator dying down.
In a few seconds came Overton’s familiar voice, saying:
“Hulloa 3.X.Q.! This is 3.B.L. answering! Thanks very much for your report. I will call you to-morrow night at 22:00 G.M.T. Thanks again. Somebody was calling you half an hour ago on one thousand metres. You did not get him. Better try now. G.N.O.M. (Good-night, old man.) 3.B.L. switching off.”
Roddy, interested as to who, in the wonderful modern world of wireless where men and women only meet through the ether, could have called him, raised his receiving wavelength to a thousand metres and listened.
Beyond some “harmonics” there was nothing. Suddenly, however, an unknown voice, so clear and high-pitched that it startled him, said:
“Hulloa, 3.X.Q.! Hulloa, Farncombe! I have called you several times to-night; the last time an hour ago. I’m speaking for Mr Barclay. He did not know that you were back. He is coming on urgent business to Guildford to-morrow. Can you meet him at the station at eleven o’clock in the morning. He has asked me to give you that message. This is 3.T.M. at Kingston-on-Thames speaking. 3.T.M. over.”
Roddy was not surprised. He frequently—in contravention of the Post-Office regulations, be it said—received such relayed messages. He could be with Barclay at eleven and meet Edna Manners at five.
So putting in his transmission switch, which caused the big vacuum globes to light up and the generator to hum again, he took up the microphone transmitter, and replied in a sharp clear voice:
“Hulloa, 3.T.M.! This is 3.X.Q. answering. Thank you very much for the message from Barclay—I will keep the appointment to-morrow. 3.X.Q. switching off.”
Why did Barclay wish to see him so urgently? Perhaps the urgency had not occurred until the post-office had closed, hence he had been unable to send a telegram. And at the Rectory there was no telephone, save that splendidly equipped radio-phone.
Little did Roddy Homfray suspect that Mr Purcell Sandys was faced with ruin, that Elma knew of the impending disaster, and that there was a reason—a very clear and distinct reason—why she and her father were neither of them “at home” when he had called.
Black ruin had fallen upon the great financial house of Sandys and Hornton, a fact of which, though Roddy was in ignorance, Gordon Gray, alias Rex Rutherford, and his accomplices were well aware, and were about to turn to their own advantage.
Chapter Twenty Four.Rutherford Makes a Proposition.On that evening when Roddy was told that neither Mr Sandys nor Elma was at home both father and daughter were, as a matter of fact, seated together in the library. Mr Sandys had by that time been able to ascertain pretty nearly the extent of his firm’s liabilities, and was in complete despair.Elma was kneeling beside her father with her arm lovingly around his neck, nobly trying to comfort him.She had confessed her affection for Roddy, and had spoken of the young man’s high hopes and aspirations, and shown her father a hasty letter she had received from him announcing the fact that the concession for emerald mining had actually been granted to him by the Moorish Minister, Mohammed ben Mussa.A new thought arose in Mr Sandys’ mind. If Roddy had really been granted the concession for the mines known to exist there—and he had made some searching inquiries during the past week or so—then by dealing with it he might, after all, be able to raise sufficient money to discharge part of the immense liabilities of the firm, and thus stem the tide which must otherwise rise in the course of the next few days and overwhelm him.Elma’s father spoke quite openly concerning the situation.“In that case Roddy could marry me, dad,” she said. “And further, even if he had no concession, I am poor enough now to marry a poor man,” she added.“Yes, my child,” was his reply. “If what young Homfray says is true then he can be the saviour of our firm and of our family. I confess I have taken a great liking to the young fellow. I have liked him all along.”Then Elma flung herself into her father’s arms and kissed him again and again, with tears of joy. Strangely enough her father’s ruin had brought about her own happiness.It was at that moment when the footman entered, and said:“Mr Homfray has called, sir, and I told him that you were not at home, as you ordered.”Elma looked at her father dismayed.“Has he gone?” she gasped, her face falling.“Yes, miss. He called about five minutes ago.”And then the man bowed and retired, while the girl, turning to her father, remarked:“How very unfortunate, dad! I wanted to tell him the good news. But now it must wait until to-morrow. Good-night, dad. Cheer up now, won’t you, dearest? This is a black cloud, but it will pass, as all clouds pass sooner or later, and the sun shines out again.” And kissing him the girl ran off joyously to her own room.Roddy rose early, as was his wont, and went into his wireless-room, as was his habit each morning to listen to the transatlantic messages, and those from Moscow, Nantes and the rest. His eye rested upon the sensitive little set in the cigar-box, and it occurred to him to test it that day as a portable set in the train and elsewhere.His train arrived at Guildford from Haslemere soon after ten o’clock, therefore he left the station, and climbing the old disused coach-road known as the Mount, reached the long range of hills called the Hog’s Back. There, upon the wide grass-grown road which has not been used for nearly a century, he threw up his aerial wire into a high elm and placing in position his ground wire soldered to a long steel skewer he put on the telephones, holding the box in his left hand while he turned the condensers with his right.At once he heard the voice of the radio-telephone operator at Croydon, the shrewd, alert expert with the rolling r’s, calling Le Bourget. Signals were excellent. He listened for ten minutes or so and then, drawing down his temporary aerial and withdrawing the skewer from the wet earth, put the cigar-box into the pocket of his raincoat and descended the hill to the station.Upon the platform he awaited the incoming train from Waterloo, and was determined to be at home at five o’clock to meet Edna Manners. The train arrived but without Barclay, so he strolled out into the yard to await the next.In the meantime, however, another striking incident was happening at Park Lane.Old Hughes, summoned to the door, opened it to the smiling, well-dressed Mr Rex Rutherford.“Will you tell Mr Sandys I’m here. And apologise for my early call. I have come on rather pressing business,” he said briskly.“Very well, sir,” replied Lord Farncombe’s old butler rather stiffly, taking his hat and umbrella, and asking him into the library.A couple of minutes later the bearded old financier entered with outstretched hand, and smiling.“I really must apologise, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “It’s awfully early, I know, but between business men the hour, early or late, doesn’t really count—does it? At least, we say so in New York.”“I agree,” said Mr Sandys with a smile, and then when both were seated, Rutherford said:“I’ve come to you, Mr Sandys, with a very important proposition—one in which you will at once see big money—the concession for some ancient emerald mines in Morocco.”“Do you mean the Wad Sus mines?” asked Sandys, much surprised.“Yes. I have arranged with my friend, His Excellency Mohammed ben Mussa, the Moorish Minister of the Interior, for a concession in perpetuity over the whole region, subject to a payment on results to His Majesty the Sultan.”“I really don’t understand you,” exclaimed Elma’s father, looking straight in his face. “A concession has already been granted to a young man of my acquaintance, Mr Homfray.”“Not of the same mines—ancient ones, from which one big dark-coloured emerald has quite recently been taken? That can’t be?”“But it is.”“Have you seen this concession given to your friend, Mr Homfray? I don’t know who he is, but I fear it is not worth the paper it is written upon, because here I have a concession which revokes all previous ones, and which will make it penal for anyone who attempts to trespass as a prospector in any part of the Wad Sus region! Here it is! Look for yourself,” he said, taking the sealed document from his pocket and handing it to the astonished financier. “Of course,” he added, “if the affair is too small for your attention, Mr Sandys, I can easily negotiate it elsewhere. But as we are friends, I thought I would let you have its refusal.”Purcell Sandys was utterly staggered. He knew French well, and at a glance he convinced himself that the document was genuine.“And not only have we the concession, but here also is a plan of the exact situation of the mines, together with a statement from one of the Touareg tribesmen, Ben Chaib Benuis, with its French translation. The man, a trusted messenger of the Moorish Government, has quite recently been upon the spot, and has brought back a very large and valuable emerald which is in the possession of an ex-Moorish official at Tangier, and can be seen any day.”Mr Sandys scanned the French translation and sat back in wonder.It was quite evident that the concession granted to young Homfray—if there had ever been one—was worthless, for there was the sealed document dated only a few days before which rescinded every other grant made by the Moorish Government.“I, of course, know nothing of your friend Mr Homfray,” remarked Rutherford. “But I fear that if he attempts to prospect in the Wad Sus he will be at once arrested. I alone hold the only concession in that district,” and slowly picking up both the formidable-looking documents, he carefully refolded them and replaced them in his pocket.“Well, Mr Rutherford,” said the pale, thoughtful old financier at last. “I confess I am very much puzzled, and before entering upon this affair as a matter of business I would first like to look into young Homfray’s claims.”“Very naturally,” laughed the easy-going Rutherford. “I should do so myself in the circumstances. I fear, however, that the young man, whoever he is, has somewhat misled you. I’ll look in and see you to-morrow morning—about this time—eh?” he added as he rose and left, while Mr Sandys sat speechless and puzzled.When Rutherford had gone he called Elma and told her of his visit.“What? That man here again?” cried the girl. “He can’t have any valid concession. Roddy has it. He would never write a lie tome!”“My child, we can do nothing until we see and question young Homfray.”“You are right, dad. I’ll try at once to get hold of him. He is probably at Farncombe. I’ll telephone to the Towers and tell Bowyer to go to the Rectory at once.”This she did, but half an hour later the reply came back. The maid Bowyer had been to the Rectory, but Mr Homfray was out and would not return till five o’clock. She had left a message from Elma asking him to go to London at once.At five o’clock Mrs Bentley at the Rectory opened the door to Edna Manners, but Roddy had not returned. For an hour she waited, idling most of the time in the garden. Then at last she asked leave to write him a note, which she did in the dead rector’s study, and then reluctantly left.The evening passed until at half-past nine a man from the Towers called to ask again for Roddy, but Mrs Bentley repeated that her young master had gone out that morning and had not yet returned. This report was later repeated to Elma over the telephone from the Towers to Park Lane.Meanwhile Mr Sandys telegraphed to the Minister Mohammed ben Mussa in Tangier, asking for confirmation of Mr Rutherford’s concession, and just before midnight came a reply that the concession had been granted to Mr Rex Rutherford.Elma’s father showed her the reply. All Roddy’s assertions were false! All her hopes were crushed. She burst into tears and fled to her room.Mr Sandys, left alone, faced the situation calmly. The only way to stave off ruin would be to deal with Rutherford.Meanwhile the master criminal was playing a clever double game.When he called next morning he asked to see Elma, pleading that he had something very important to say to her. When Hughes brought the message she was at first reluctant to accede to his wish, but in a few moments she steeled herself and walked to the morning-room into which he had been shown.As usual, he was smartly-groomed and the essence of politeness. As he took her hand, he said:“Miss Elma, I want to tell you that I sympathise very much with your father in his great misfortune, the secret of which I happen to know—though as yet the world suspects nothing. But I fear it soon will, unless your father can come forward with some big and lucrative scheme. I have it in my power to help him with the mining concession in Morocco. I will do so on one condition.”“And what is that, Mr Rutherford?” she asked quite calmly.He looked straight into her big, wide-open eyes and, after a second’s pause, replied:“That I may be permitted to pay my attentions to you—for I confess that I love you.”The girl’s cheeks coloured slightly and the expression in her eyes altered.“That cannot be,” she said. “I am already engaged.”“To that young fellow Homfray, I believe?” he laughed. “Has he not already misled you and your father into believing that he is a rich man, inasmuch that he pretends to have been granted some worthless concession also in Morocco? Surely such a man is not suited to you as a husband, Miss Elma? Could you ever trust him?”“I will not have Mr Homfray’s character besmirched in my presence, Mr Rutherford,” she said haughtily. “And if this is the matter upon which you wished to speak with me I should prefer that you said nothing further.”“Elma! I love you!” he cried, with openly sensual admiration.The girl was horrified and revolted. She told him so, but he treated with a conqueror’s contempt her frightened attempts to evade him. She was to be his toy, his plaything—or he would not lift a finger to save her father.On her part she pleaded her love for Roddy, but he told her brutally that the young fellow was a liar. Why had he not produced the concession he alleged he had?A last Elma, compelled to listen to his specious arguments, almost gave up hope, but before leaving the room she declared that she would starve rather than marry him. And then she closed the door after her.Ten minutes later Rutherford was shown into the library, and in his most oleaginous manner greeted the ruined financier.“I have called to keep my appointment, Mr Sandys,” he said. “But since I saw you circumstances have altered somewhat, which makes it incumbent upon me to place the concession elsewhere.”“Why?” asked Sandys, his face falling. “Well, it is a private matter. I—I really don’t care to discuss it, Mr Sandys. Indeed, I think it is best for me to say that our negotiations must conclude here, even though I regret it very deeply. It is not my fault, but the—well, the barrier—lies in another direction.”“In what direction?” asked the grey-bearded man who had been clutching at the straw offered him on the previous day.“Well—if you ask Miss Elma, your daughter, she will explain.”“My daughter? What has she to do with our propositions?”“I simply repeat my reply, Mr Sandys. I can’t say more. To tell the truth, I don’t feel capable. I must go now. If you want to see me later you know my telephone number.”And taking his hat, he stalked out of the fine library, well knowing himself to be the conqueror. To those who are patient and painstaking the fruits of the world will arrive. But there are exceptions, even though the devil controls his own.When Elma’s father sought her he found her in a paroxysm of tears and tried to comfort her. She had thrown herself on a couch at the foot of her bed and was sobbing out her heart.The ruined man told his daughter of Rutherford’s visit, and asked her for the explanation which he had said that she alone could give.In a few halting sentences she related what had happened.For some time the old man remained silent, standing at the great window past which the motor-’buses were passing up and down London’s street of the wealthy.“Ah! my dear!” he sighed. “I am sorry that you have so unfortunately fallen in love with young Homfray. At first I liked him, I confess. But he seems to have sadly misled you, and is now afraid to face the truth.”“I agree, father. But I love him. There is some explanation, I feel sure.”“There can be none regarding the emerald concession. Rutherford has it, as well as the plan showing the whereabouts of the mine. I could float a big company to-morrow, even upon the concession and the official plan furnished by the Moorish Minister of the Interior. But he has, alas! now withdrawn his offer.”“Because I have refused him,” said Elma bitterly. “I love Roddy. How could I possibly become that man’s wife?”Her father drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders. He stood with his back towards her, looking idly out upon the traffic in Park Lane and the Park beyond.“Yes, darling,” he said at last. “But you must not sacrifice yourself for me. It would be grossly unfair. I am ruined through no fault of my own, I trust—ruined by a gambling partner who cared for nothing save his obsession with regard to games of chance. Let us say no more about it. Rutherford may take his concession elsewhere, and I will face the music. I have my comfort in my Yogi teaching—in those two words ‘I am.’ I have done my best in life, and to my knowledge have never injured anyone. I have tried to act up to my Yogi teachers, with their magnificent philosophy of the East. Therefore I will face disaster unflinchingly.”And seeing his daughter in tears, his further words were choked by emotion. He merely patted her upon the shoulder and, unable to bear the interview longer, withdrew.For a fortnight past Rex Rutherford, like many crooks of his calibre, had actually engaged a “Press agent”—one of those parasites who fasten themselves upon the ambitious and put forward lies and photographs to the Press at so many guineas a time. The crook, in the financial Press, read of his own wonderful financial operations in Paris and in New York, reports which were calculated to raise him in the estimation of the great house of Sandys and Hornton. The City had read of Rex Rutherford day after day, and there were rumours of a great scheme he had for a new electric tube rail system for the outer suburbs of Paris, for which he was negotiating with the French Government.Purcell Sandys had read all this—a Press campaign which had cost the master criminal a mere three hundred pounds. With that sum he had established a reputation in the financial papers. Editors of newspapers cannot always exclude the “puff paragraphs” when they are cleverly concealed by a master of that craft. And it often takes even a shrewd sub-editor to detect the gentle art of self-advertisement.That afternoon the old financier walked alone through the Park as far as Kensington Gardens and back. He knew that the crash must come at latest in a day or two, and Sandys and Hornton must suspend payment.There was no way out.
On that evening when Roddy was told that neither Mr Sandys nor Elma was at home both father and daughter were, as a matter of fact, seated together in the library. Mr Sandys had by that time been able to ascertain pretty nearly the extent of his firm’s liabilities, and was in complete despair.
Elma was kneeling beside her father with her arm lovingly around his neck, nobly trying to comfort him.
She had confessed her affection for Roddy, and had spoken of the young man’s high hopes and aspirations, and shown her father a hasty letter she had received from him announcing the fact that the concession for emerald mining had actually been granted to him by the Moorish Minister, Mohammed ben Mussa.
A new thought arose in Mr Sandys’ mind. If Roddy had really been granted the concession for the mines known to exist there—and he had made some searching inquiries during the past week or so—then by dealing with it he might, after all, be able to raise sufficient money to discharge part of the immense liabilities of the firm, and thus stem the tide which must otherwise rise in the course of the next few days and overwhelm him.
Elma’s father spoke quite openly concerning the situation.
“In that case Roddy could marry me, dad,” she said. “And further, even if he had no concession, I am poor enough now to marry a poor man,” she added.
“Yes, my child,” was his reply. “If what young Homfray says is true then he can be the saviour of our firm and of our family. I confess I have taken a great liking to the young fellow. I have liked him all along.”
Then Elma flung herself into her father’s arms and kissed him again and again, with tears of joy. Strangely enough her father’s ruin had brought about her own happiness.
It was at that moment when the footman entered, and said:
“Mr Homfray has called, sir, and I told him that you were not at home, as you ordered.”
Elma looked at her father dismayed.
“Has he gone?” she gasped, her face falling.
“Yes, miss. He called about five minutes ago.”
And then the man bowed and retired, while the girl, turning to her father, remarked:
“How very unfortunate, dad! I wanted to tell him the good news. But now it must wait until to-morrow. Good-night, dad. Cheer up now, won’t you, dearest? This is a black cloud, but it will pass, as all clouds pass sooner or later, and the sun shines out again.” And kissing him the girl ran off joyously to her own room.
Roddy rose early, as was his wont, and went into his wireless-room, as was his habit each morning to listen to the transatlantic messages, and those from Moscow, Nantes and the rest. His eye rested upon the sensitive little set in the cigar-box, and it occurred to him to test it that day as a portable set in the train and elsewhere.
His train arrived at Guildford from Haslemere soon after ten o’clock, therefore he left the station, and climbing the old disused coach-road known as the Mount, reached the long range of hills called the Hog’s Back. There, upon the wide grass-grown road which has not been used for nearly a century, he threw up his aerial wire into a high elm and placing in position his ground wire soldered to a long steel skewer he put on the telephones, holding the box in his left hand while he turned the condensers with his right.
At once he heard the voice of the radio-telephone operator at Croydon, the shrewd, alert expert with the rolling r’s, calling Le Bourget. Signals were excellent. He listened for ten minutes or so and then, drawing down his temporary aerial and withdrawing the skewer from the wet earth, put the cigar-box into the pocket of his raincoat and descended the hill to the station.
Upon the platform he awaited the incoming train from Waterloo, and was determined to be at home at five o’clock to meet Edna Manners. The train arrived but without Barclay, so he strolled out into the yard to await the next.
In the meantime, however, another striking incident was happening at Park Lane.
Old Hughes, summoned to the door, opened it to the smiling, well-dressed Mr Rex Rutherford.
“Will you tell Mr Sandys I’m here. And apologise for my early call. I have come on rather pressing business,” he said briskly.
“Very well, sir,” replied Lord Farncombe’s old butler rather stiffly, taking his hat and umbrella, and asking him into the library.
A couple of minutes later the bearded old financier entered with outstretched hand, and smiling.
“I really must apologise, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “It’s awfully early, I know, but between business men the hour, early or late, doesn’t really count—does it? At least, we say so in New York.”
“I agree,” said Mr Sandys with a smile, and then when both were seated, Rutherford said:
“I’ve come to you, Mr Sandys, with a very important proposition—one in which you will at once see big money—the concession for some ancient emerald mines in Morocco.”
“Do you mean the Wad Sus mines?” asked Sandys, much surprised.
“Yes. I have arranged with my friend, His Excellency Mohammed ben Mussa, the Moorish Minister of the Interior, for a concession in perpetuity over the whole region, subject to a payment on results to His Majesty the Sultan.”
“I really don’t understand you,” exclaimed Elma’s father, looking straight in his face. “A concession has already been granted to a young man of my acquaintance, Mr Homfray.”
“Not of the same mines—ancient ones, from which one big dark-coloured emerald has quite recently been taken? That can’t be?”
“But it is.”
“Have you seen this concession given to your friend, Mr Homfray? I don’t know who he is, but I fear it is not worth the paper it is written upon, because here I have a concession which revokes all previous ones, and which will make it penal for anyone who attempts to trespass as a prospector in any part of the Wad Sus region! Here it is! Look for yourself,” he said, taking the sealed document from his pocket and handing it to the astonished financier. “Of course,” he added, “if the affair is too small for your attention, Mr Sandys, I can easily negotiate it elsewhere. But as we are friends, I thought I would let you have its refusal.”
Purcell Sandys was utterly staggered. He knew French well, and at a glance he convinced himself that the document was genuine.
“And not only have we the concession, but here also is a plan of the exact situation of the mines, together with a statement from one of the Touareg tribesmen, Ben Chaib Benuis, with its French translation. The man, a trusted messenger of the Moorish Government, has quite recently been upon the spot, and has brought back a very large and valuable emerald which is in the possession of an ex-Moorish official at Tangier, and can be seen any day.”
Mr Sandys scanned the French translation and sat back in wonder.
It was quite evident that the concession granted to young Homfray—if there had ever been one—was worthless, for there was the sealed document dated only a few days before which rescinded every other grant made by the Moorish Government.
“I, of course, know nothing of your friend Mr Homfray,” remarked Rutherford. “But I fear that if he attempts to prospect in the Wad Sus he will be at once arrested. I alone hold the only concession in that district,” and slowly picking up both the formidable-looking documents, he carefully refolded them and replaced them in his pocket.
“Well, Mr Rutherford,” said the pale, thoughtful old financier at last. “I confess I am very much puzzled, and before entering upon this affair as a matter of business I would first like to look into young Homfray’s claims.”
“Very naturally,” laughed the easy-going Rutherford. “I should do so myself in the circumstances. I fear, however, that the young man, whoever he is, has somewhat misled you. I’ll look in and see you to-morrow morning—about this time—eh?” he added as he rose and left, while Mr Sandys sat speechless and puzzled.
When Rutherford had gone he called Elma and told her of his visit.
“What? That man here again?” cried the girl. “He can’t have any valid concession. Roddy has it. He would never write a lie tome!”
“My child, we can do nothing until we see and question young Homfray.”
“You are right, dad. I’ll try at once to get hold of him. He is probably at Farncombe. I’ll telephone to the Towers and tell Bowyer to go to the Rectory at once.”
This she did, but half an hour later the reply came back. The maid Bowyer had been to the Rectory, but Mr Homfray was out and would not return till five o’clock. She had left a message from Elma asking him to go to London at once.
At five o’clock Mrs Bentley at the Rectory opened the door to Edna Manners, but Roddy had not returned. For an hour she waited, idling most of the time in the garden. Then at last she asked leave to write him a note, which she did in the dead rector’s study, and then reluctantly left.
The evening passed until at half-past nine a man from the Towers called to ask again for Roddy, but Mrs Bentley repeated that her young master had gone out that morning and had not yet returned. This report was later repeated to Elma over the telephone from the Towers to Park Lane.
Meanwhile Mr Sandys telegraphed to the Minister Mohammed ben Mussa in Tangier, asking for confirmation of Mr Rutherford’s concession, and just before midnight came a reply that the concession had been granted to Mr Rex Rutherford.
Elma’s father showed her the reply. All Roddy’s assertions were false! All her hopes were crushed. She burst into tears and fled to her room.
Mr Sandys, left alone, faced the situation calmly. The only way to stave off ruin would be to deal with Rutherford.
Meanwhile the master criminal was playing a clever double game.
When he called next morning he asked to see Elma, pleading that he had something very important to say to her. When Hughes brought the message she was at first reluctant to accede to his wish, but in a few moments she steeled herself and walked to the morning-room into which he had been shown.
As usual, he was smartly-groomed and the essence of politeness. As he took her hand, he said:
“Miss Elma, I want to tell you that I sympathise very much with your father in his great misfortune, the secret of which I happen to know—though as yet the world suspects nothing. But I fear it soon will, unless your father can come forward with some big and lucrative scheme. I have it in my power to help him with the mining concession in Morocco. I will do so on one condition.”
“And what is that, Mr Rutherford?” she asked quite calmly.
He looked straight into her big, wide-open eyes and, after a second’s pause, replied:
“That I may be permitted to pay my attentions to you—for I confess that I love you.”
The girl’s cheeks coloured slightly and the expression in her eyes altered.
“That cannot be,” she said. “I am already engaged.”
“To that young fellow Homfray, I believe?” he laughed. “Has he not already misled you and your father into believing that he is a rich man, inasmuch that he pretends to have been granted some worthless concession also in Morocco? Surely such a man is not suited to you as a husband, Miss Elma? Could you ever trust him?”
“I will not have Mr Homfray’s character besmirched in my presence, Mr Rutherford,” she said haughtily. “And if this is the matter upon which you wished to speak with me I should prefer that you said nothing further.”
“Elma! I love you!” he cried, with openly sensual admiration.
The girl was horrified and revolted. She told him so, but he treated with a conqueror’s contempt her frightened attempts to evade him. She was to be his toy, his plaything—or he would not lift a finger to save her father.
On her part she pleaded her love for Roddy, but he told her brutally that the young fellow was a liar. Why had he not produced the concession he alleged he had?
A last Elma, compelled to listen to his specious arguments, almost gave up hope, but before leaving the room she declared that she would starve rather than marry him. And then she closed the door after her.
Ten minutes later Rutherford was shown into the library, and in his most oleaginous manner greeted the ruined financier.
“I have called to keep my appointment, Mr Sandys,” he said. “But since I saw you circumstances have altered somewhat, which makes it incumbent upon me to place the concession elsewhere.”
“Why?” asked Sandys, his face falling. “Well, it is a private matter. I—I really don’t care to discuss it, Mr Sandys. Indeed, I think it is best for me to say that our negotiations must conclude here, even though I regret it very deeply. It is not my fault, but the—well, the barrier—lies in another direction.”
“In what direction?” asked the grey-bearded man who had been clutching at the straw offered him on the previous day.
“Well—if you ask Miss Elma, your daughter, she will explain.”
“My daughter? What has she to do with our propositions?”
“I simply repeat my reply, Mr Sandys. I can’t say more. To tell the truth, I don’t feel capable. I must go now. If you want to see me later you know my telephone number.”
And taking his hat, he stalked out of the fine library, well knowing himself to be the conqueror. To those who are patient and painstaking the fruits of the world will arrive. But there are exceptions, even though the devil controls his own.
When Elma’s father sought her he found her in a paroxysm of tears and tried to comfort her. She had thrown herself on a couch at the foot of her bed and was sobbing out her heart.
The ruined man told his daughter of Rutherford’s visit, and asked her for the explanation which he had said that she alone could give.
In a few halting sentences she related what had happened.
For some time the old man remained silent, standing at the great window past which the motor-’buses were passing up and down London’s street of the wealthy.
“Ah! my dear!” he sighed. “I am sorry that you have so unfortunately fallen in love with young Homfray. At first I liked him, I confess. But he seems to have sadly misled you, and is now afraid to face the truth.”
“I agree, father. But I love him. There is some explanation, I feel sure.”
“There can be none regarding the emerald concession. Rutherford has it, as well as the plan showing the whereabouts of the mine. I could float a big company to-morrow, even upon the concession and the official plan furnished by the Moorish Minister of the Interior. But he has, alas! now withdrawn his offer.”
“Because I have refused him,” said Elma bitterly. “I love Roddy. How could I possibly become that man’s wife?”
Her father drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders. He stood with his back towards her, looking idly out upon the traffic in Park Lane and the Park beyond.
“Yes, darling,” he said at last. “But you must not sacrifice yourself for me. It would be grossly unfair. I am ruined through no fault of my own, I trust—ruined by a gambling partner who cared for nothing save his obsession with regard to games of chance. Let us say no more about it. Rutherford may take his concession elsewhere, and I will face the music. I have my comfort in my Yogi teaching—in those two words ‘I am.’ I have done my best in life, and to my knowledge have never injured anyone. I have tried to act up to my Yogi teachers, with their magnificent philosophy of the East. Therefore I will face disaster unflinchingly.”
And seeing his daughter in tears, his further words were choked by emotion. He merely patted her upon the shoulder and, unable to bear the interview longer, withdrew.
For a fortnight past Rex Rutherford, like many crooks of his calibre, had actually engaged a “Press agent”—one of those parasites who fasten themselves upon the ambitious and put forward lies and photographs to the Press at so many guineas a time. The crook, in the financial Press, read of his own wonderful financial operations in Paris and in New York, reports which were calculated to raise him in the estimation of the great house of Sandys and Hornton. The City had read of Rex Rutherford day after day, and there were rumours of a great scheme he had for a new electric tube rail system for the outer suburbs of Paris, for which he was negotiating with the French Government.
Purcell Sandys had read all this—a Press campaign which had cost the master criminal a mere three hundred pounds. With that sum he had established a reputation in the financial papers. Editors of newspapers cannot always exclude the “puff paragraphs” when they are cleverly concealed by a master of that craft. And it often takes even a shrewd sub-editor to detect the gentle art of self-advertisement.
That afternoon the old financier walked alone through the Park as far as Kensington Gardens and back. He knew that the crash must come at latest in a day or two, and Sandys and Hornton must suspend payment.
There was no way out.
Chapter Twenty Five.The Sacrifice.For Elma the world held no future. Though surrounded by every luxury in that magnificent Park Lane mansion, the millionaire home that was the most notable in all London’s modern houses, her only thoughts were of her father and of her lover Roddy.She hated that fat, beady-eyed but elegantly-dressed man whom Mr Harrison had introduced to her father, and who was now so openly making love to her. His words and his manner were alike artificial. The feminine mind is always astute, and she knew that whatever he said was mere empty compliment. She saw upon his lips the sign of sensuousness, a sign that no woman fails to note. Sensuousness and real love are things apart, and every woman can discriminate them. Men are deceivers. Women may, on the other hand, allure, and be it said that the vampire woman like Freda Crisp is ever with us.In the life of London, of Paris, or of New York, the vampire woman in society plays a part which is seldom suspected.They are in a class by themselves, as was Freda Crisp. The vampire woman is the popular term for a woman who lives by preying upon others; men usually, but upon her own sex if occasion demands.Freda Crisp, though few of the characters in this human drama of love and cupidity had suspected her, was a case in point. She was a type that was interesting. As a girl of eighteen everyone admired her for her charm of manner, her conversational gifts and her bright intellect, which was marred only by a rather too lively imagination, and a tendency to romance so ingeniously that no one ever knew if she told the truth or not.Her career was abnormal, and yet not stranger than that of some others in these post-war days.At nineteen she had been to prison for swindling. Physically she was wonderfully fascinating, but her chief characteristic was an absence of all real affection and moral feeling. Even as a girl she could profess passionate love for those from whom she expected profit and gain; but misfortune and death, even of those nearest her, would leave her quite unmoved.She was a perfect type of the modern adventuress. She could act well, and at times would shed tears profusely if she thought it the right thing at the moment.As she grew older her unrestrained coquetry threw her into the vicious adventurous circle of which Gordon Gray was the master and moving spirit. She threw in her lot with him. On board a transatlantic liner on which she went for a trip to New York an officer fell a victim to her charms, and supplied her with money that was not his. His defalcations were discovered, and he committed suicide to escape disgrace.That was the first unpleasant incident in her career after meeting Gray. There were many afterwards. She was a woman whose sole aim was to see and enjoy life. Without heart and without feeling, active, not passive in her love-making, she, like many another woman before her, aspired to power and influence over men, and many an honourable career was wrecked by her, and much gain had gone into the joint pockets of Gordon Gray and herself.Purcell Sandys had been ruined. She knew it, and laughed.She sat in Gray’s rooms in St. James’s smoking a cigarette before going to dine at a restaurant, and was discussing the situation.“Really, my dear Gordon,” she said, puffing the smoke from her lips, “you are wonderful! You have the whole affair in your hands. We shall both make a fortune over this concession. The whole thing is as easy as falling off a log, thanks to you.”“It hasn’t been so easy as you think, my dear Freda, that I can assure you,” he replied. “But I think we are now on a fair way towards bringing off our coup. The one great thing in our favour is old Homfray’s death. He knew far too much. At any moment he might have given us away. He was the one person in the whole world whom I feared.”“And you were a fool to defy him by selling that petty bit of property at Totnes,” said the handsome woman.“No, Freda, I wasn’t. I did it to prove that I defied him. When one man defies another it causes the defied to think. That is why I did it. I knew his secret—a secret that no parson could face in his own parish. And if he dared to say a word against me I should have told what I knew to the bishop.”“Would the bishop have believed you?”“Of course. He had only to look up the date of the criminal trial, then old Homfray, who knew so much of our little business, would have had to face the music. No, Freda, the old sky-pilot was too cute for us. He dared not face the music.”“But the girl, Elma Sandys? She’s a good sort and—well, Gordon, I tell you, I’m a bit sorry for her.”“I’m not. You and I will part for a bit, and I’ll marry her. By so doing I’ll gain a fortune, and then after a time I’ll come back to you, old girl. I won’t desert you—I promise that!”“But would you really come back?” asked the woman, after a pause.The stout man put his big hand upon hers and, looking into her eyes, said, “I swear it. We’ve been in tight corners before, Freda. Surely you can trust me in this—eh? It means big money for both of us, and no further worry for you.”“I don’t know that I can trust you, Gordon,” the woman said, looking him straight in the face.“Bah! you’re jealous of the girl!” And he laughed. “She’s only a slip of a thing who doesn’t count.”“But you’ve taken a fancy to her.”“I have, and I mean to marry her. Nothing can prevent that.”“I could,” snapped the woman.“Yes. But you won’t, my dear Freda. If you did—well, you’d forgo all the money that will very soon be yours.”“Arthur stands in with us.”“Well, I suppose we shall have to give him a little bit. But he’ll have to be satisfied with a few hundreds.”“He expects a quarter share.”“He’ll have to go on expecting,” laughed her companion. ”‘Guinness’ always expects more than he’s entitled to. It is a complaint of his.”“And if you married this girl, do you think you would be happy, Gordon?”“Happy? I’m not seeking happiness, my dear girl. I’m after money.”“But can’t it be managed without your marriage to Elma?”“No, it can’t,” he declared. “That’s one of my conditions to old Sandys. Naturally the girl is thinking of her lover. But she’ll soon see that he’s deceived her, and then she’ll learn to forget him.”“I doubt it. I know the temperament of young girls of Elma’s stamp.”“You’re jealous. I repeat!” he said with sarcasm. “Fancy! Your being jealous of Elma! Am I so good-looking and such an Adonis—eh?”“You’re anything but that,” she replied sharply. “But you see, Gordon, you’ve taught me never to trust a soul, not even yourself. And I don’t. Once you marry that girl you will become a rich man and try to shake me off. But,”—and a fierce expression showed in the woman’s eyes—“but I’ll watch that you don’t. I can say a lot, remember.”“And I can also,” the man laughed, with a careless air, “but I won’t, and neither will you, my dear girl. Silence is best for both of us.”“You can carry out the business without marrying Elma,” Freda urged. “You have taken every precaution against accident, and the ruin of Sandys has made everything possible. What would Mr Sandys say if he knew that the amiable Mr Rex Rutherford was one of the men to whom Sir Charles Hornton lost that big sum at cards three nights before he killed himself?”Gray drew a long breath.“Well,” he said with a bitter smile, “I don’t suppose he’d feel very friendly towards me. But the driving of Sir Charles into a corner was, I foresaw, one of the chief points in our game. Sandys is ruined, and I’m the good Samaritan who comes forward at the opportune moment and brings salvation.”“Clever,” declared the woman, “devilish clever! But you always are, Gordon. You are wonderful.”“In combination with yourself, my dear Freda. I’m no good without you,” he declared. “So don’t exhibit these foolish fits of jealousy. I’ve made up my mind to marry Sandys’ daughter, for it will improve my prestige. When I’ve had enough of her, I shall simply leave her and we will rejoin forces again,” he added callously. And then together they went out to dine at the Ritz.That same evening Elma sat in her room, with the hazy London sunset fading over the Park, confused and wondering.Surely Roddy would not tell her a lie! She took out his scribbled note and re-read it, as she had done a dozen times before. It was a plain and straightforward assertion, and yet the man Rutherford had produced the concession granted to him, properly authenticated and officially sealed.Where was Roddy? Was it really possible, as Rutherford had suggested, that he was in hiding, not daring to come forward now that his lie was proved? She could not bring herself to believe it. And yet why had he so suddenly gone to Farncombe for one night and then taken train to Guildford and disappeared?On the previous day she had been down to Guildford by train from Waterloo, and had made inquiries of the porters and in the booking-office and elsewhere regarding Roddy, whom one or two of the railway servants—knew, but without avail. Roddy had been seen waiting out in the station yard by a clerk in the parcel office. That was all the information she could gather. Therefore, after a cup of coffee at the tea-shop in the old-fashioned High Street, she had returned to London.That evening as she sat pondering, pale and nervous, her maid came into her room and she roused herself wearily. Then she put on a plain little black dinner-frock and went downstairs to the dining-room, where her father, pale-faced and rather morose, awaited her.Hughes, surprised at his master’s sudden gravity, served the meal with his usual stateliness, begotten of long service with the Earl.With the footman and Hughes present father and daughter could exchange no confidences. So they hurried over their meal, and found relief when they were back in the library and alone.“I’m utterly puzzled, dad,” declared the girl; “I can get no news of Roddy. I’m certain that he would never write that letter and deceive me about the concession. It is his—I’m positive.”“But, my dear child, how can it be? I have read the translation of Rutherford’s concession. All is in order. It revokes any other permit that has ever been given. It is a firm and unassailable contract.”“I don’t care what it is,” declared the girl. “Roddy would never deceive me. I know his father’s death has greatly upset him, but he is still in possession of all his faculties.”“But his mental condition was bad, you will remember,” remarked her father.“It was. But he is quite well again. I know he would never mislead me, dad!” And she fondled Tweedles, who, barking for recognition, had placed his front paws upon her knees.“Of course,” said Mr Sandys, humouring her, “you love Roddy and, of course, believe in him. It is after all but natural, my child.”“Yes, dad. You know that I love him. He is so honest, so upright, so true, that I feel confident, though the evidence seems against him, that he has not told a lie. He is the victim of circumstances,” the slim girl said, as she stood before the fire with the little dog in her arms.“But unfortunately, dear, he does not come forward,” her father said. “Is it not his place to be here after writing you that letter concerning the concession? If he had been granted it, surely he would have come direct to me with it! Homfray is no fool. He knows that I could develop the scheme in the City within a few hours. Therefore why is he not here?”“He is prevented.”“How do we know that? He may be prevented—or he may fear to come.”“You are not generous towards him, dad,” the girl protested.“I’m generous, my dear—most generous,” replied the ruined man. “I like Roddy Homfray. His poor father’s sudden death was, I fear, a great blow to him, and especially so as he has scarcely entirely recovered from that very strange adventure of his which narrowly cost him his life. But in the present circumstances we must face hard facts. He has written to you making an assertion which he has not substantiated, and which is disproved by the official document which Rex Rutherford has placed in my hands.”The girl, still confident in her lover’sbona fides, shook her head.“There will be ample explanation one day, dad. I’m certain of it,” she declared. “I am indeed confident that Roddy has not written to me a deliberate lie.”Next day passed, but young Homfray made no sign. Again Elma telephoned to Farncombe, and yet again came the reply that her lover had not returned. His silence puzzled her greatly. Could it be really true that his concession only existed in his own imagination? She loved him too well to think ill of him. Now that she was as poor as he was there could be no barrier to their marriage. Her magnificent home would be swept away, the Towers would be sold again, and her father made bankrupt.She was again standing alone at the window of her room looking across the Park, where the trees were clearly showing the autumn tints.Her face was pale and haggard, her clenched hands trembling.“No, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “I alone can save dad from ruin and bankruptcy. I alone! And I must do it!”That evening, just after Hughes had brought in the tea, her father being in the City, the old man reappeared saying that Mr Rutherford had called.She held her breath, then, with an effort, she gave permission for him to be shown in.The stout, beady-eyed man, in perfect-fitting clothes and a dangling monocle, crossed the carpet, smiling, with hand outstretched. The girl asked him to be seated, and poured him out a cup of tea. Her thoughts were of Roddy, but she strove to crush them down. Her brain was awhirl, for she knew that only by her own sacrifice could her beloved father be saved.Presently, when they had chatted about other things, Rutherford returned to the point and bluntly asked whether she had reconsidered her decision.“Yes, Mr Rutherford, I have,” she replied very slowly in a deep, tense voice. “You are prepared to assist my father under a certain condition. That I accept.”“Then you will marry me!” he cried, with triumph in his eyes, as he jumped up and seized her hand. Then she felt his hot breath upon her cheek and shrank from his embrace.When he left she went to her room and, locking the door, gave way to another paroxysm of grief.At nine o’clock that night Rutherford called again and told Mr Sandys of Elma’s acceptance.The old man stood staggered.“Elma has done this for your sake, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “And, after all, it is a marriage of convenience, as so many are. Both our positions will be improved by it, yours and mine, for this concession will mean big money to both of us.”Mr Sandys could not reply. His thoughts held him speechless. Elma had sacrificed herself to save him from ruin!But where was Roddy Homfray? That was a problem which neither father nor daughter could solve.Two days later Elma and her father went down to Farncombe Towers, Mr Sandys having already taken preliminary steps for the purpose of floating the Emerald Mines of Morocco. There were rumours in the City concerning it, and a great deal of interest was being taken in the scheme in very influential quarters.Rex Rutherford had not before been to Farncombe, therefore he was now invited. Now that old Norton Homfray was dead he accepted, and spent most of the time rambling with Elma either in the gardens, the park, or the surrounding woods, though she did all in her power to avoid his loathsome caresses.Elma, unknown to Rutherford, managed to call at the Rectory. On inquiring of Mrs Bentley regarding Roddy, the old woman explained that he had returned from abroad, slept one night there, and had gone out next day and had not come back. She knew that he had gone to Guildford, but that was all.“And there’s been a young lady here wanting to see him, miss.”“A young lady! Who?”“She’s a Miss Manners.”“Miss Manners!” Elma echoed. “Describe her.”The woman did so, and Elma stood open-mouthed.“She was here again three days ago,” Mrs Bentley added. “And she seems so eager to see Mr Roddy.”“I must see Miss Manners,” Elma shouted to the deaf old woman. “You have no idea where she lives, I suppose?”“No. I think she comes from London.”“Well, next time she comes let me know at once. Or better, bring her up to the Towers to see me. It is most important that I should see her.”Mrs Bentley promised, and Elma, returning to the Towers, told her father of Edna’s reappearance. Old Mr Sandys was equally surprised and equally eager to meet her. Where, they wondered, had she been all those months. He telephoned at once to the boarding-house in Powis Square, Bayswater, at which she had lived before her sudden disappearance, but could obtain no news of her whereabouts.
For Elma the world held no future. Though surrounded by every luxury in that magnificent Park Lane mansion, the millionaire home that was the most notable in all London’s modern houses, her only thoughts were of her father and of her lover Roddy.
She hated that fat, beady-eyed but elegantly-dressed man whom Mr Harrison had introduced to her father, and who was now so openly making love to her. His words and his manner were alike artificial. The feminine mind is always astute, and she knew that whatever he said was mere empty compliment. She saw upon his lips the sign of sensuousness, a sign that no woman fails to note. Sensuousness and real love are things apart, and every woman can discriminate them. Men are deceivers. Women may, on the other hand, allure, and be it said that the vampire woman like Freda Crisp is ever with us.
In the life of London, of Paris, or of New York, the vampire woman in society plays a part which is seldom suspected.
They are in a class by themselves, as was Freda Crisp. The vampire woman is the popular term for a woman who lives by preying upon others; men usually, but upon her own sex if occasion demands.
Freda Crisp, though few of the characters in this human drama of love and cupidity had suspected her, was a case in point. She was a type that was interesting. As a girl of eighteen everyone admired her for her charm of manner, her conversational gifts and her bright intellect, which was marred only by a rather too lively imagination, and a tendency to romance so ingeniously that no one ever knew if she told the truth or not.
Her career was abnormal, and yet not stranger than that of some others in these post-war days.
At nineteen she had been to prison for swindling. Physically she was wonderfully fascinating, but her chief characteristic was an absence of all real affection and moral feeling. Even as a girl she could profess passionate love for those from whom she expected profit and gain; but misfortune and death, even of those nearest her, would leave her quite unmoved.
She was a perfect type of the modern adventuress. She could act well, and at times would shed tears profusely if she thought it the right thing at the moment.
As she grew older her unrestrained coquetry threw her into the vicious adventurous circle of which Gordon Gray was the master and moving spirit. She threw in her lot with him. On board a transatlantic liner on which she went for a trip to New York an officer fell a victim to her charms, and supplied her with money that was not his. His defalcations were discovered, and he committed suicide to escape disgrace.
That was the first unpleasant incident in her career after meeting Gray. There were many afterwards. She was a woman whose sole aim was to see and enjoy life. Without heart and without feeling, active, not passive in her love-making, she, like many another woman before her, aspired to power and influence over men, and many an honourable career was wrecked by her, and much gain had gone into the joint pockets of Gordon Gray and herself.
Purcell Sandys had been ruined. She knew it, and laughed.
She sat in Gray’s rooms in St. James’s smoking a cigarette before going to dine at a restaurant, and was discussing the situation.
“Really, my dear Gordon,” she said, puffing the smoke from her lips, “you are wonderful! You have the whole affair in your hands. We shall both make a fortune over this concession. The whole thing is as easy as falling off a log, thanks to you.”
“It hasn’t been so easy as you think, my dear Freda, that I can assure you,” he replied. “But I think we are now on a fair way towards bringing off our coup. The one great thing in our favour is old Homfray’s death. He knew far too much. At any moment he might have given us away. He was the one person in the whole world whom I feared.”
“And you were a fool to defy him by selling that petty bit of property at Totnes,” said the handsome woman.
“No, Freda, I wasn’t. I did it to prove that I defied him. When one man defies another it causes the defied to think. That is why I did it. I knew his secret—a secret that no parson could face in his own parish. And if he dared to say a word against me I should have told what I knew to the bishop.”
“Would the bishop have believed you?”
“Of course. He had only to look up the date of the criminal trial, then old Homfray, who knew so much of our little business, would have had to face the music. No, Freda, the old sky-pilot was too cute for us. He dared not face the music.”
“But the girl, Elma Sandys? She’s a good sort and—well, Gordon, I tell you, I’m a bit sorry for her.”
“I’m not. You and I will part for a bit, and I’ll marry her. By so doing I’ll gain a fortune, and then after a time I’ll come back to you, old girl. I won’t desert you—I promise that!”
“But would you really come back?” asked the woman, after a pause.
The stout man put his big hand upon hers and, looking into her eyes, said, “I swear it. We’ve been in tight corners before, Freda. Surely you can trust me in this—eh? It means big money for both of us, and no further worry for you.”
“I don’t know that I can trust you, Gordon,” the woman said, looking him straight in the face.
“Bah! you’re jealous of the girl!” And he laughed. “She’s only a slip of a thing who doesn’t count.”
“But you’ve taken a fancy to her.”
“I have, and I mean to marry her. Nothing can prevent that.”
“I could,” snapped the woman.
“Yes. But you won’t, my dear Freda. If you did—well, you’d forgo all the money that will very soon be yours.”
“Arthur stands in with us.”
“Well, I suppose we shall have to give him a little bit. But he’ll have to be satisfied with a few hundreds.”
“He expects a quarter share.”
“He’ll have to go on expecting,” laughed her companion. ”‘Guinness’ always expects more than he’s entitled to. It is a complaint of his.”
“And if you married this girl, do you think you would be happy, Gordon?”
“Happy? I’m not seeking happiness, my dear girl. I’m after money.”
“But can’t it be managed without your marriage to Elma?”
“No, it can’t,” he declared. “That’s one of my conditions to old Sandys. Naturally the girl is thinking of her lover. But she’ll soon see that he’s deceived her, and then she’ll learn to forget him.”
“I doubt it. I know the temperament of young girls of Elma’s stamp.”
“You’re jealous. I repeat!” he said with sarcasm. “Fancy! Your being jealous of Elma! Am I so good-looking and such an Adonis—eh?”
“You’re anything but that,” she replied sharply. “But you see, Gordon, you’ve taught me never to trust a soul, not even yourself. And I don’t. Once you marry that girl you will become a rich man and try to shake me off. But,”—and a fierce expression showed in the woman’s eyes—“but I’ll watch that you don’t. I can say a lot, remember.”
“And I can also,” the man laughed, with a careless air, “but I won’t, and neither will you, my dear girl. Silence is best for both of us.”
“You can carry out the business without marrying Elma,” Freda urged. “You have taken every precaution against accident, and the ruin of Sandys has made everything possible. What would Mr Sandys say if he knew that the amiable Mr Rex Rutherford was one of the men to whom Sir Charles Hornton lost that big sum at cards three nights before he killed himself?”
Gray drew a long breath.
“Well,” he said with a bitter smile, “I don’t suppose he’d feel very friendly towards me. But the driving of Sir Charles into a corner was, I foresaw, one of the chief points in our game. Sandys is ruined, and I’m the good Samaritan who comes forward at the opportune moment and brings salvation.”
“Clever,” declared the woman, “devilish clever! But you always are, Gordon. You are wonderful.”
“In combination with yourself, my dear Freda. I’m no good without you,” he declared. “So don’t exhibit these foolish fits of jealousy. I’ve made up my mind to marry Sandys’ daughter, for it will improve my prestige. When I’ve had enough of her, I shall simply leave her and we will rejoin forces again,” he added callously. And then together they went out to dine at the Ritz.
That same evening Elma sat in her room, with the hazy London sunset fading over the Park, confused and wondering.
Surely Roddy would not tell her a lie! She took out his scribbled note and re-read it, as she had done a dozen times before. It was a plain and straightforward assertion, and yet the man Rutherford had produced the concession granted to him, properly authenticated and officially sealed.
Where was Roddy? Was it really possible, as Rutherford had suggested, that he was in hiding, not daring to come forward now that his lie was proved? She could not bring herself to believe it. And yet why had he so suddenly gone to Farncombe for one night and then taken train to Guildford and disappeared?
On the previous day she had been down to Guildford by train from Waterloo, and had made inquiries of the porters and in the booking-office and elsewhere regarding Roddy, whom one or two of the railway servants—knew, but without avail. Roddy had been seen waiting out in the station yard by a clerk in the parcel office. That was all the information she could gather. Therefore, after a cup of coffee at the tea-shop in the old-fashioned High Street, she had returned to London.
That evening as she sat pondering, pale and nervous, her maid came into her room and she roused herself wearily. Then she put on a plain little black dinner-frock and went downstairs to the dining-room, where her father, pale-faced and rather morose, awaited her.
Hughes, surprised at his master’s sudden gravity, served the meal with his usual stateliness, begotten of long service with the Earl.
With the footman and Hughes present father and daughter could exchange no confidences. So they hurried over their meal, and found relief when they were back in the library and alone.
“I’m utterly puzzled, dad,” declared the girl; “I can get no news of Roddy. I’m certain that he would never write that letter and deceive me about the concession. It is his—I’m positive.”
“But, my dear child, how can it be? I have read the translation of Rutherford’s concession. All is in order. It revokes any other permit that has ever been given. It is a firm and unassailable contract.”
“I don’t care what it is,” declared the girl. “Roddy would never deceive me. I know his father’s death has greatly upset him, but he is still in possession of all his faculties.”
“But his mental condition was bad, you will remember,” remarked her father.
“It was. But he is quite well again. I know he would never mislead me, dad!” And she fondled Tweedles, who, barking for recognition, had placed his front paws upon her knees.
“Of course,” said Mr Sandys, humouring her, “you love Roddy and, of course, believe in him. It is after all but natural, my child.”
“Yes, dad. You know that I love him. He is so honest, so upright, so true, that I feel confident, though the evidence seems against him, that he has not told a lie. He is the victim of circumstances,” the slim girl said, as she stood before the fire with the little dog in her arms.
“But unfortunately, dear, he does not come forward,” her father said. “Is it not his place to be here after writing you that letter concerning the concession? If he had been granted it, surely he would have come direct to me with it! Homfray is no fool. He knows that I could develop the scheme in the City within a few hours. Therefore why is he not here?”
“He is prevented.”
“How do we know that? He may be prevented—or he may fear to come.”
“You are not generous towards him, dad,” the girl protested.
“I’m generous, my dear—most generous,” replied the ruined man. “I like Roddy Homfray. His poor father’s sudden death was, I fear, a great blow to him, and especially so as he has scarcely entirely recovered from that very strange adventure of his which narrowly cost him his life. But in the present circumstances we must face hard facts. He has written to you making an assertion which he has not substantiated, and which is disproved by the official document which Rex Rutherford has placed in my hands.”
The girl, still confident in her lover’sbona fides, shook her head.
“There will be ample explanation one day, dad. I’m certain of it,” she declared. “I am indeed confident that Roddy has not written to me a deliberate lie.”
Next day passed, but young Homfray made no sign. Again Elma telephoned to Farncombe, and yet again came the reply that her lover had not returned. His silence puzzled her greatly. Could it be really true that his concession only existed in his own imagination? She loved him too well to think ill of him. Now that she was as poor as he was there could be no barrier to their marriage. Her magnificent home would be swept away, the Towers would be sold again, and her father made bankrupt.
She was again standing alone at the window of her room looking across the Park, where the trees were clearly showing the autumn tints.
Her face was pale and haggard, her clenched hands trembling.
“No, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “I alone can save dad from ruin and bankruptcy. I alone! And I must do it!”
That evening, just after Hughes had brought in the tea, her father being in the City, the old man reappeared saying that Mr Rutherford had called.
She held her breath, then, with an effort, she gave permission for him to be shown in.
The stout, beady-eyed man, in perfect-fitting clothes and a dangling monocle, crossed the carpet, smiling, with hand outstretched. The girl asked him to be seated, and poured him out a cup of tea. Her thoughts were of Roddy, but she strove to crush them down. Her brain was awhirl, for she knew that only by her own sacrifice could her beloved father be saved.
Presently, when they had chatted about other things, Rutherford returned to the point and bluntly asked whether she had reconsidered her decision.
“Yes, Mr Rutherford, I have,” she replied very slowly in a deep, tense voice. “You are prepared to assist my father under a certain condition. That I accept.”
“Then you will marry me!” he cried, with triumph in his eyes, as he jumped up and seized her hand. Then she felt his hot breath upon her cheek and shrank from his embrace.
When he left she went to her room and, locking the door, gave way to another paroxysm of grief.
At nine o’clock that night Rutherford called again and told Mr Sandys of Elma’s acceptance.
The old man stood staggered.
“Elma has done this for your sake, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “And, after all, it is a marriage of convenience, as so many are. Both our positions will be improved by it, yours and mine, for this concession will mean big money to both of us.”
Mr Sandys could not reply. His thoughts held him speechless. Elma had sacrificed herself to save him from ruin!
But where was Roddy Homfray? That was a problem which neither father nor daughter could solve.
Two days later Elma and her father went down to Farncombe Towers, Mr Sandys having already taken preliminary steps for the purpose of floating the Emerald Mines of Morocco. There were rumours in the City concerning it, and a great deal of interest was being taken in the scheme in very influential quarters.
Rex Rutherford had not before been to Farncombe, therefore he was now invited. Now that old Norton Homfray was dead he accepted, and spent most of the time rambling with Elma either in the gardens, the park, or the surrounding woods, though she did all in her power to avoid his loathsome caresses.
Elma, unknown to Rutherford, managed to call at the Rectory. On inquiring of Mrs Bentley regarding Roddy, the old woman explained that he had returned from abroad, slept one night there, and had gone out next day and had not come back. She knew that he had gone to Guildford, but that was all.
“And there’s been a young lady here wanting to see him, miss.”
“A young lady! Who?”
“She’s a Miss Manners.”
“Miss Manners!” Elma echoed. “Describe her.”
The woman did so, and Elma stood open-mouthed.
“She was here again three days ago,” Mrs Bentley added. “And she seems so eager to see Mr Roddy.”
“I must see Miss Manners,” Elma shouted to the deaf old woman. “You have no idea where she lives, I suppose?”
“No. I think she comes from London.”
“Well, next time she comes let me know at once. Or better, bring her up to the Towers to see me. It is most important that I should see her.”
Mrs Bentley promised, and Elma, returning to the Towers, told her father of Edna’s reappearance. Old Mr Sandys was equally surprised and equally eager to meet her. Where, they wondered, had she been all those months. He telephoned at once to the boarding-house in Powis Square, Bayswater, at which she had lived before her sudden disappearance, but could obtain no news of her whereabouts.