"Caw acted well, if he were acting. And why should he have suspected us at all?"
"Simply because he happened to know what was in the box. Who would trust a fellow creature alone with £600,000 in a portable form? And Caw was probably in the position of guardian. Have you a better theory?"
Lancaster leaned forward, staring at the carpet. "It came into my mind last night," he said in a queerly hushed voice, "that it might have been … Christopher himself."
"Good God, man, positively you must have a change of air! Do you doubt that Christopher is dead?"
A pause.
"Bullard, what you and I, his friends, were doing that night was enough to—to make him rise—oh, no, I don't mean that—though the diamonds were so much to him. It was a crazy thought. I must get rid of it."
"I should say so." Bullard forced a laugh. "Meantime, you may comfort your soul with the assurance that you'll have nothing to do with this fresh attempt, except to share in the spoil. If I were you, I'd go home now and get Doris to join you in a long run into the country. Let the wind blow away those absurd fears and fancies. I'm calling on your wife this afternoon, you know."
The other rose obediently. "Your news has upset me. I don't know what to think. Marvel was always such a liar. I—I suppose nothing I can say or do will move you from your present course?"
"Nothing, Lancaster."
Lancaster sighed and with shoulders bowed went out.
The same night Teddy France started on his quest, wishing with all his heart that it were cleaner work. Still a beginning had to be made. He had not the flimsiest clue to direct him, but the thought occurred to him that it might be worth while to attempt to learn in what manner Bullard spent some of his evenings. Bullard, he was aware, had of late been living at Bright's Hotel, a select and expensive establishment situated within hail of Bond Street.
About eight o'clock Teddy sauntered across the lounge of Bright's, as though looking for a friend, and glanced through the glass doors of the dining-room. To his satisfaction, he saw the man he wanted, seated at a table, alone, and not in his customary evening dress. Teddy retired, left the hotel, and at the opposite pavement engaged a taxicab. He got inside, after instructing the man to be on the alert. He lit a cigarette, telling himself that, by a thousand to one, he had embarked on a futile, idiotic errand. However, within half-an-hour, Bullard appeared in the hotel doorway, and spoke to a braided personage who promptly whistled for a cab. By the time he was on board, the motor of Teddy's cab was running, the chauffeur in his seat. Presently the two cabs rolled away from their respective pavements.
Five minutes later Teddy let out a grunt of disgust. Bullard was evidently making for the City, presumably for his office. "Drop it!" said common sense; "go on!" said instinct … and Teddy went on.
It was nearing nine o'clock when Bullard's cab drew up at the magnificent entrance to Manchester House in New Broad Street, at that hour a well-nigh deserted thoroughfare. As Teddy was driven past he saw Bullard run up the steps. Twenty yards further on he got out, settled with his man, and strolled back. Entering the huge headquarters of several hundred mining and finance companies, and noting that the lift was closed for the night, he proceeded to search the oaken boards which formed a sort of directory of the tenants inscribed in gilt lettering. He learned that Bullard's office was on the fourth of the nine floors; at the same time he memorised the name of a firm on the fifth floor. Then he ascended leisurely. Care-takers and cleaners were about, but apparently they had finished their tasks above the fourth floor. He spoke to one of them, an elderly man.
"Can you tell me if Mr. Stern of Stern & Lynoch has returned?"
"No, sir. I've just left their office on the fifth floor. Nobody there."
Teddy consulted his watch. "I'm a little before my time; guess I'd better go up and wait."
The man nodded as one who didn't care whether the enquirer died or lived, and went about his business.
There was an indifferent light left on the fifth landing and the stair leading to it. Teddy found a point of vantage whence through the wire walls of the shaft he could obtain a view, not of Bullard's office itself, but of the corridor leading thereto. On the way up he had noted that the Aasvogel Syndicate's door was just round the corner and that it was the only one showing a light.
Calling himself a fool for his pains, he settled down to the wretched game of spying. He had not long to wait—much to his combined astonishment and gratification. "This must be my lucky night," he reflected. A man appeared on the landing—a foreign-looking person with a heavy dark moustache under an oddly shaped nose, wearing eyeglasses, and carrying a suit case—and made for the corridor. Ere he turned the corner he cast an anxious glance over his shoulder, which glance was more cheering to Teddy than a pint of champagne would have been just then. And next moment the gentle opening and closing of a door further delighted and excited him. Without a doubt the man had gone into Bullard's office!
Within the minute Teddy was again calling himself names. Ass! Was there anything even mildly extraordinary in the visitor or the visit? After a while he decided that he could not lose much if he transferred his espionage to the outside of Manchester House. Fortunately it was a fine night, for, as it came to pass, he had nearly two hours to kick his heels.
Then the Aasvogel's visitor came forth alone, and in haste, and turned in the direction of Liverpool Street. Shortly afterwards he boarded a King's Cross bus, mounting to the top. Teddy took a seat inside, still calling himself names, yet unable to abandon the absurd chase.
At King's Cross the man, along with a dozen passengers, got out and made for the main-line station. Teddy followed at a discreet distance till within the booking hall, when he put on speed and contrived to be close to his quarry as the latter stopped at a ticket window—first class—to Teddy's amaze. He heard him book "return Glasgow."
Now the Glasgow portion of this particular night train, usually an exceedingly long one, is next to the engine. Perhaps that is why the Great Northern Company has kindly placed a little refreshment saloon towards the extremity of the platform. The traveller, after a glance at the train, entered the saloon. The weary sleuth resisted the desire for a drink and proceeded to stroll up and down the Glasgow portion. Five minutes before the train was due to start the traveller reappeared wiping his mouth, and got into a vacant compartment. He placed his suit case on a seat and went out into the corridor.
"Well," Teddy said to himself, "that jolly well ends it. The old story—suspect a Johnny because he doesn't look a handsome gentleman! Serves me right!" All the same, he lingered, a few paces from the carriage. Four minutes passed and the traveller was still absent. Thirty seconds left … fifteen … five … the starting signal … the first, almost imperceptible movement of the prodigious train.
Just then the traveller reappeared in the compartment, picked up the suit case, sat down and opened at. But—Teddy sprang forward open-mouthed—it wasn't the same man! The train was gathering speed. Teddy ran alongside and stared in. The traveller glanced over his shoulder, just as that man had done on the office landing, then turned away. But again Teddy had caught a glimpse of a profile including an oddly shaped nose. Why, good Lord! itwasthe same man—only the beggar had lost his eyeglasses and moustache! … Our sleuth had made a discovery, indeed, but how on earth was it going to profit him? Disregarding expense—no new failing on his part, to be sure—he took a cab back to Manchester House.
The Aasvogel office was in darkness. The surmise might easily be wrong, Teddy admitted to himself, yet it did look confoundedly as though Bullard had returned to the City that night with the particular object of meeting the quick-change gentleman now on his way to Glasgow. At all events the affair was interesting enough to spoil another night's rest for Teddy France.
Two mornings later Bullard received the following brief note, which was undated and unsigned, in an envelope postmarked Glasgow:
"No one on premises at night. Probably tomorrow night."
Bullard informed the chief clerk and telephoned to Lancaster that he was leaving for Paris by the night train. Apparently he reached there safely, for next morning the office received a telegram relating to some company business, not, perhaps, of the first importance, handed in at the Gare du Nord office and signed Bullard. And Teddy, calling at the Lancasters' house in the evening, just to obtain a glimpse of his beloved, who alas! was with a dinner and theatre party, learned from Mr. Lancaster, who was always glad to see the young man, that Mr. Bullard had run over to Paris. Which was naturally rather astounding news to Teddy, whose own eyes had seen Mr. Bullard enter the Glasgow sleeping car at Euston, about twenty-four hours earlier.
Dr. Handyside was too fond of his easy-going seaside existence to be readily induced to leave home. At the same time, he had not severed all ties with Glasgow, which ties included a select coterie of kindred spirits who dined together once a month during the winter in a somewhat old-fashioned restaurant; and he would have been exceedingly loth to miss one of their cosy gatherings. But he insisted on sleeping in his own bed, and accordingly, there being no steamer connection at so late an hour, it was his custom to return by train to Helensburgh and thence complete the journey in his car which he drove himself, reaching home shortly after midnight.
To-night's dinner, however, had seemed hopelessly beyond his reach, owing to his injured foot, which as yet merely allowed him to hobble a few yards, and which would have been worse than useless in driving. But we are never too old to worry over trifles, and in the course of the morning, while in the garage, he blurted out the difficulty to Caw. It was really an appeal, and at any other time Caw would have been mildly amused. Now he was embarrassed, for while anxious to oblige the doctor, he had no intention of losing all connection with Grey House for several hours in the middle of the night.
He shook his head. "I only wish I could drive you home to-night, sir," he said, "but you see—"
"All right, Caw," said Handyside, looking ashamed of himself, and hobbled off, still hankering, however.
An hour later Caw came to him in the study, and presented an open telegram. "Will you be pleased to look at this, sir?"
The doctor read:—
"Registered letter received. Best policy.
"God bless me, Caw!—the man's in Paris!"
"Quite so, sir. I shall be glad to have your instructions for this evening, sir. Very thoughtful of Mr. Bullard, if I may say so—damn him!"—the last inaudible.
"I've been wondering whether he would acknowledge the notes," said Handyside, brightening up and hobbling to the door. "Marjorie," he called, "for Heaven's sake see if I've got a decent tie for to-night!"
* * * * *
And now it was midnight. The southerly gale which had broken out late in the afternoon was booming up the loch, bombarding the house, and gusts of bitter rain were thrashing the exposed windows.
Marjorie flung a couple of logs on the study fire and returned to her book. She had prepared sundry comforts for her father and was awaiting, not without anxiety, his arrival. She was thankful he had Caw with him. A large portion of the journey was being made in the very teeth of the tempest.
A tap on the door brought her round with a start. It was only Mrs. Butters, the housekeeper, or, to be precise, the head and shoulders of that estimable but slow-witted female, heavily swathed in a couple of grey shawls.
"What on earth is the matter?" exclaimed Marjorie. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"Please, miss, do you think I might do something to stop the alarum clock of that Mr. Caw?" Mrs. Butters was not yet at all sure of Caw. "It's been ringin' for close on an hour, and I can't—"
The girl was up like a shot—her face set, her hands clenched. What was she to do? It would take an age to explain to the housekeeper, who, when she did understand, would in all probability simply howl helplessly.
"Close on an hour," she said to herself. "Oh, Heavens, the thing must have been done long ago!" Still, she could not be absolutely sure. She glanced at the clock. No, her father and Caw were not even due yet…. "Mrs. Butters," she managed to say in a fairly steady voice, "please go back to bed. I—I'll attend to the alarum immediately. Go at once or you'll catch your death of cold."
Left alone, she grew pale, but within the moment she had crossed to a bureau—her own—and was taking out a purchase made in Glasgow the previous day. "Oh, why didn't I practise in the wood this morning, as I said I would?" she sighed, fumbling with a little ivory-handled revolver. She shuddered. "Oh, I can't … I daren't … Imust!" And ran from the room.
Marjorie will never forget that journey through the passage, her light a flickering taper, for the electric illumination was no longer in operation. At the end of it she had literally to force her limbs to mount the narrow stairs. At the top, with her ear to the closed door, she could hear nothing save her pounding heart. There was no keyhole, no crevice whereby she might know whether it was light or dark on the other side. Caw had spoken that morning of making a peep-hole in the door. She would have given much for one now. And the taper was burning fast.
"They must have gone," she thought, "yet how can I be sure? On such a night they might be tempted to stay awhile from the storm." Hand with revolver pressed to breast, she listened again. Not a sound. But the silence might be explained by the presence of a solitary man, she told herself, not necessarily one of the two she had seen that other night. A rough brute, perhaps, who would stick at nothing in that empty house. Yet the very thought pricked her courage even at the moment when the descending flame stung her finger. Unlike Caw she was under no obligation to his late master. If a thief was there, she would shoot before she would let the Green Box go.
She dropped the taper, trod on it, and gasped to find herself in utter darkness. Once more she laid her ear against the panel, and this time, surely, a sound reached the straining nerves—a faint noise of something solid though not ponderous falling upon something less resonant than wood, less dulling than carpet. She felt like collapsing. But her will, her pride, came to the rescue. "If I don't open that door," she said to herself, "I'll be ashamed of myself for the rest of my days."
Her finger fluttered on the spring-button and pressed; her hand pushed. As the door gave she perceived that the roomwaslighted, though not brilliantly; she heard nothing but a howling of wind and a rattling of rain. A whiff of smoky coal met her nostrils. The silent moving door was now half open. She took a couple of steps inwards and halted, her left hand clinging to the door's edge, her right clutching the pretty weapon. And she all but screamed….
Under the lights of two candles on the mantel, in an easy-chair drawn up to the recently kindled fire, reclined a man, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. His legs were outstretched, his boots on the hearth, steaming, one of them in dangerous proximity to a large coal evidently newly fallen. On another chair lay a drenched greatcoat and cap.
The man was young, somewhat slight of build, of fresh and pleasing countenance, clean shaven, of indeterminate colouring. His crisp hair was so trim in spite of its dampness as to suggest the attentions of a barber within the last twelve hours. His hands were rough and bore traces of scars; the fingers, though slender for a man, might have belonged to a labourer's; the first and second of the left hand resting on the chair-arm held a cigarette—unlighted. The expression of his countenance was happy—contentedly so.
"Oh!" thought Marjorie, "hecouldn'tsteal!" and in the same breath perceived that he was not asleep. He moved slightly, with a lazy grunt.
His hand wandered to a pocket, felt within, came out empty, and wandered to another, with like result. "Hang it!" he muttered, and opening his eyes, tried, absurdly enough, to see what might be on the mantel without the trouble of rising.
Neither bold nor fearful now, simply fascinated and wondering whether he would get up or do without matches, Marjorie watched him. And the next thing she knew was that his eyes were staring into hers. Then fear, suspicion and sense of duty returned with a rush. The men who had already attempted to steal the Green Box had been just as well dressed—better, indeed. She was taking no chances. With firm determination, but also with a wavering hand, she raised the revolver.
"Great Heaven!" shouted the young man, "be carefull or you'll hurt yourself!" He wriggled up and sprang to his feet.
"Who—who are you?" Marjorie demanded with a regrettable quaver. "Have you come after the Green Box? Because, if so—"
"Would you mind," he said very gently, "putting down your pistol? Those things are so apt to go off unexpectedly, and at the moment you appear to be aiming at my uncle's best beloved Bone—"
The revolver fell softly on the thick carpet. Marjorie felt like falling after it.
"Thank you," he said gratefully. "You have mentioned a Green Box, but having brought no luggage, I don't seem to grasp—"
"Your uncle!" she whispered.
"Mr. Christopher Craig." He regarded her for a moment and his expression changed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that he is no longer tenant of the house? You see, I arrived late, and deciding not to disturb any one, just proceeded to make myself comfortable for the night, and—"
Marjorie pulled herself together. "You are not—"
At that instant Caw, breathing hard, sprang from the darkness, then stopped as if shot.
"Well, Caw," said the young man, "I'm jolly glad to see you."
"Oh, my good God!" gasped Caw, "it's Mr. Alan!" He began to shake where he stood.
"Confound me!" said the young man under his breath, "I clean forgot I was supposed to be dead a year." He strode over to the servant. "Shake hands, Caw, just to make sure I'm of ordinary flesh and blood. I'm sorry to have upset you like this," He turned to the girl. "And to you I make my apology for having alarmed—"
"You didn't!"
"—for imagining I had alarmed you," he corrected himself with a bow and twinkling eyes.
The latter drew her smile despite her still jangling nerves. "I suppose I have to apologise, too," she said, "for taking you for a—a burglar."
"Not at all, because—I may as well confess it at once—no burglar can be more anxious to avoid discovery than I am—or was."
Caw found his speech. "Mr. Alan, sir, I—I haven't words to express my feelings at seeing you alive and well—I really haven't." He turned away with a heave of his shoulders as Dr. Handyside, limping painfully, appeared in the doorway.
It was his turn to be astounded, but his welcome when it came was of the heartiest. "I take it," he went on, "that Marjorie, my daughter, and you have already made each other's acquaintance."
"If Miss Handyside will have it so," said Alan, repressing a smile as Marjorie, with a decided return of colour, stooped and secured the revolver which had escaped her parent's eye. "Naturally Miss Handyside was a little surprised to find me here until I explained who I was." His gaze travelled to the servant who stood apart in meditative regard of the clock. "Caw, how is my uncle?"
Handyside prevented a pause. "There is so much to tell you, Mr. Craig, that I propose an adjournment to my study where we shall find some refreshment which I fancy you can do with. You are not aware, I believe, that your uncle had a private passage built between our two houses, which not only explains our appearance here, but provides a short route to food and warmth."
"Then my uncle—" began Alan, evidently a little puzzled.
"Your pardon, Mr. Alan," said Caw, coming forward, "but it is necessary to ask you one question. How did you get into the house?"
The young man laughed. "I suppose you don't think it worth while locking doors in these unsophisticated parts. After I had rung twice, and was wondering what was going to happen to me, I found that the outer door was unfastened and that the inner door was not locked. So I came in and made myself at home, unwilling to disturb—What's the matter. Caw? And you, doctor? Why, Miss Handyside, what have I said?"
But none of the gravely concerned faces was looking in his direction.
With a heavy sigh Caw went over to the writing table, stopped and drew out the deep drawer on the right.
For a moment or two there was no sound save that of the storm. Then, with a gesture of hopelessness, Caw slowly raised himself.
"Yes," he said, in a small, bitter voice, "it is gone!"
Alan Craig, as he afterwards stated, had entered Grey House at a quarter before midnight; the clock had attracted his attention as soon as he lit the candles. The candles, he had noticed, had been used not long previously, for the wicks were softish, and he had been aware of an odour of tobacco, not stale, in the atmosphere of the study. These two little discoveries had been sufficient to end the incipient idea induced by the stillness and chilliness that the house might be temporarily uninhabited.
Less than half an hour prior to Alan's arrival, the man Marvel left by unbolting the outer door. He had entered by cutting through a lightly barred window at the back, and would have retired by the same way but for the fact that he had wounded one of his hands rather severely, and could not risk disturbing his rough and hasty bandage.
But though injured and drenched to the skin, and facing a long tramp in the vilest of weather, he turned from the gates of Grey House in a fairly cheerful temper. He had done the job and done it easily. The Green Box reposed in his suit case, and would fetch four hundred pounds on delivery. Only four hundred pounds? Well, Mr. Bullard had named that sum, but perhaps—and Mr. Marvel grinned against the gale—Mr. Bullard was not going to get off quite so cheaply. To Marvel's sort, possession is not just a miserable nine points of the law: it is all the law and as much of the profits as trickery can extract.
No, no!—he stumbled in the almost pitch darkness, and cursed briefly—Mr. Bullard was not going to handle his Green Box for much less than a thousand pounds! If only the key had been available, reflected this choice specimen of humanity, he would have had a look at the contents. Papers, Mr. Bullard had said—more incriminating documents, no doubt! Mr. Bullard was a very nice man, he was, but he could not always have it his own way. Mr. Bullard …
A sound in, but not of, the storm, muttered in Marvel's ears. Peering ahead, he descried a small light. He was passing a wood at the time, and the windy tumult as well as the roaring from the loch made confusion for his hearing; but presently he recognised the intruding sound as the throbbing of a motor. "Some silly fool got a breakdown," he was thinking sympathetically, when a terrific gust caught and fairly staggered him. Ere he fully recovered balance and breath something cold and clammy fell upon his face, was dragged down over his shoulders and arms, blinding, pinioning him. The suit case was rudely wrenched from his hand; he was violently pushed and tripped; and with a stifled yell he fell heavily on the footpath and rolled into the brimming gutter…. By the time he regained footing, the use of eyes and ears, there was no light visible, no sound save that of wrathful nature.
* * * * *
In the doctor's study it was the host who undertook the duty of breaking to Alan the news of his uncle's death; it was Caw who informed him of the old man's thought for him during the last year of life, on the very last day of it.
"You must understand, sir," the servant added, "that from the day after you went away my master was living not in his own house, but in yours. It pleased him to think of it that way, sir. 'I am not leaving my nephew anything,' he used to say to me; 'I have given him what I had to give.' He always believed in your safe return, though to others it seemed so impossible. There are many things to be told—you have already witnessed something that must have puzzled you, sir—but with your permission I will say no more till tomorrow, when I have got my wits together again, as it were."
"I think I can keep my curiosity under till then, Caw," said the young man, "and, to tell the truth, I don't feel equal to talking about my Uncle Christopher's affairs just yet. But if Dr. Handyside isn't too tired, I'd like to explain without delay why I made a secret of my existence, also why I came home—well, like a thief in the night." He glanced a little quizzingly at Marjorie, who blushed and retorted good-humouredly—
"Don't you think you owe me—us—the explanation, Mr. Craig?"
"Mr. Craig owes us nothing," Handyside said; "and I ought to remind him that while we were his uncle's friends—his most intimate friends, I might say, these five years—we are now, in a sense, intruders who have no claim whatever on Mr. Craig's confidence. Further"—the doctor's tone became rueful—"I fear I am greatly to blame—"
Alan interposed, "I want you to accept my confidence. I came home expecting to find myself as poor as when I went to the Arctic, and now I find my good uncle has altered all that, and in my new circumstances I may decide to change certain plans I had made. But I must first put myself right with my uncle's friends as well as his trusted servant. I'll make a short story of it—just the bare facts."
"As you will," said the doctor. "Caw, take a chair."
"If I may say so, sir, I prefer to stand."
"Caw," said Miss Handyside, "take a chair."
"Very good, miss," said Caw, and seated himself near the door.
"As I learned by consulting old newspapers on the other side," said Alan, "the expedition returned home safely at the time appointed; but I was reported lost—lost while out hunting. I'll start from that hunting episode, though trifling incidents had happened before then, which ought, perhaps, to have put me on the alert. One of the best shots, if not the best, in the expedition was a man named Flitch. Like myself, he joined in place of another man, almost at the last moment. He was a rough character, and his position was merely that of an odd-job man, but I must say he did most things well, especially in the mechanical line. He and I had frequently made hunting excursions together, but always with one or two other members of the party. And now, for the first time, we went out from the camp alone."
"Oh!" murmured Marjorie.
"We tramped an unusually long way from the camp—at Flitch's instigation, as I recognised afterwards; but in the end we were rewarded by coming on a fine bear. 'You take first shot,' said Flitch, in his curt, sullen fashion. I did, and was lucky. But the gun was not down from my shoulder when Flitch deliberately shot me in the back—not with his gun, but with a revolver he had never shown before—"
"The dirty hound!" growled Caw.
"I fell, feeling horribly sick, and as I lay I saw him toss the revolver into a seal hole. Then, as he stood staring at me, I must have fainted."
"The beast!" cried Marjorie.
"When I came to myself—how long I remained unconscious, I never learned exactly—I was on a sort of bed, and an aged Eskimo was bending over me. I had been picked up by a couple of his party out after seals. I must have lain there for weeks under the care of that queer old medicine man who, somehow, contrived to doctor or bewitch me back from the grave, for the wound was rather a bad one. The Eskimos treated me very decently, and it was not till I was convalescent that I realised I was their prisoner. I rather think they must have fled with me from the search party mentioned in the newspapers. The tribe, as far as I could gather, had a grudge against white men in general, though not against any person in particular. Well, I practically became one of them for the winter that followed. In time I grew fit and ready for anything, but they had annexed my gun and other belongings, which left me pretty helpless. However, I had the luck to save one of the young men during a tussle with a bear, and he was absurdly grateful. Eventually he planned a way of escape and guided me, after a good many mishaps, to an American whaler that had been compelled to winter in the ice. I told the skipper most of my story, but begged him to keep it quiet from the others, and between us we invented a plausible enough tale for the crew. The ship came out of the ice all right, but was wrecked, by running ashore, on the homeward trip. Some of us got to land and found our way into British Columbia. I had enough money to take me across Canada, but when I got to Montreal I was penniless. I took any jobs that offered until I had scraped together enough for a steerage ticket home—"
"But my master would have sent anything you had asked for!" exclaimed Caw.
"I did not doubt it. Only, you see, I was desperately afraid of my existence getting known, and—"
"But why?"—from the impulsive Marjorie.
"An obsession, if you like," said Alan with a grave smile. "During all the time of my convalescence, and in all the periods of leisure that followed, I kept wondering what on earth had made Flitch want to kill me. We had never had anything like a quarrel, and what had he to gain by my death? He had robbed me of nothing. It's a great big 'Why,' and I've got to find the answer to it. But I'm keeping you from bed."
"Go ahead," said Handyside. "Have you no suspicions?"
"I have; but they seem a bit far-fetched, especially now that I'm home. At any rate, I dare not mention them yet…. I arrived in Glasgow this afternoon, and got made as civilised-looking as was possible in a couple of hours. I had intended coming on here by rail and steamer, but an out-of-date time-table deceived me, and too late I found that the winter service just started gave no train after five. At the hotel they suggested motoring, and after a meal I started on what seemed a first rate car. But we had a breakdown lasting an hour, a dozen miles out of Glasgow, and then, running down Garelochside in the face of the storm, we smashed into the ditch. After making sure that the car was hopeless, I left the man at a wayside cottage and tramped the rest of the way. Hence my late arrival, and you know the rest."
"May I ask," said Caw, "if you met anybody on the road—near home, I mean?"
"I passed a person who seemed to be intoxicated, if judged by his violent language, but in the darkness and the rain we must have been practically invisible to each other."
"If he was using bad language, sir," said Caw, rising, "he was certainly not the party I am thinking of. May I retire, gentlemen?" he inquired, glancing towards Miss Handyside.
"Yes, Caw. You will have much to tell Mr. Craig to-morrow," said the doctor. "I leave it to you to explain why you were absent to-night. I doubt I shall never get over it."
Caw made a stiff little inclination, saying, "My fault alone, sir," and went out.
"There goes a good and faithful servant," remarked Handyside; "and a good chauffeur, too," he added with a heavy sigh.
"Mr. Craig," said Marjorie, breaking a silence, "do you wish us to regard you as non-existent—I mean to say, do you wish your return to be kept a secret?"
"I'm going to sleep on that question, Miss Handyside," he replied.
"I can keep a secret rather well, and I believe father can, too," she said. "Won't you tell us whom you sus—"
"Marjorie," the doctor interposed, "the lateness of the hour is telling on your discretion."
"I'm afraid it is." She got up, went to her bureau, scribbled something on a half sheet of paper, folded it neatly, and presented it to Alan. "Don't look at it till you are in your room," she said softly. "Good night, and sleep well."
Ten minutes later, in the guest's bedroom, Alan opened the paper and read the words—
"Mr. Bullard?"
By ten o'clock next morning Caw, who had risen at five, had Grey House in a fair state of comfort for the reception of its new master, if not its new owner. The producers of warmth and electricity were at work again; the elderly housekeeper, who in Christopher's time had never been upstairs, was recalled from a near village just when she was beginning to wonder whether, after all, perfect happiness was included in retirement with an ample annuity, in the garden a man was already reducing the more apparent ravages of the gale. Caw himself quietly repaired the moderate damage done by the thief of the Green Box. Following the instructions written by his late master, he had sent a telegram to the Glasgow lawyer. He was in the study dusting the thick glass protecting the clock when, about ten thirty, Alan arrived via the passage.
"An odd place for a clock," the young man remarked. "I had a look at it last night. But why 'dangerous,' and what's that green stuff?"
"Mr. Craig intended that the clock should not be interfered with before it stopped—nearly a year hence, sir. I understand the liquid is something stronger than water, but whether explosive or poisonous, I could not say, sir."
"Curious notion!" Alan pointed to the pendulum flashing gloriously in the sunlight now breaking through the racing clouds. "Are they diamonds?"
"Yes, sir. Worth, I have heard, about two thousand pounds."
"Then, of course, they would account for the precautions."
"Very likely, sir. Only I have a feeling that this clock has a meaning which we shall not learn until it stops. The maker constructed it in a locked room in this house, of which my master had the key, and I think my master knew even more about it than Monsoor Guidet did. Is the temperature here agreeable to you, sir?"
"A trifle warm, don't you think?"
"It shall be regulated to suit you, sir. Mr. Craig was sensitive to a degree, one way or the other."
Alan turned abruptly from the clock which, somehow, he was finding fascinating. "Well, now, Caw," he said, dropping into an easy chair by the fire, "hadn't you better begin to explain things?"
"At once, if you wish it, sir. But I'm hoping that Mr. Craig's lawyer from Glasgow, Mr. Harvie, will be here at noon, and as he may have fuller information than I can give, I was wondering if you would not care to hear him first. Indeed, Mr. Alan, I think it would be worth your while to wait, I could tell you a good deal, but my master did not tell me everything, though I have sometimes thought he meant to tell me more—"
"Very well, Caw. I'll ask only one question for the present. Did my uncle see anything of Mr. Bullard within the last few months of his life?"
Caw let fall the duster and recovered it before he answered: "Yes, sir. On the afternoon of the day of his death Mr. Bullard and Mr. Lancaster sat in this room with him."
"Mr. Lancaster, too!"
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks; that will do for the present. Now I have a letter to write. By the bye, do you remember my friend, Mr. France, being here once? I am going to send for him."
"I remember Mr. France very well indeed, sir, and I will do my best to make him comfortable. I think you will find everything here," Caw moved the chair at the desk.
Alan got up, then hesitated. "Do you know, Caw, I can hardly bring myself to take possession in this cool fashion right away."
"My master would have wished for nothing better. You will remember, sir, that all has been yours for the last eighteen months." Caw made the stiff little bow that betokened retiral.
"A moment. Caw," said the young man. "I take it that you would have done anything for my uncle."
"That is so," was the quiet reply, "and, if I may say so, Mr. Alan, I am here to do anything for you."
He was gone, leaving Alan perplexed and not a little touched, for he could not doubt the man's sincerity. Presently he sat down and wrote to Teddy France, disguising his writing as much as possible.
"My dear Teddy:
"Before you go further, get a grip on yourself, then turn the page very slowly and look at the signature. Have you done so? You see, I want firstly to avoid giving you a sudden scare, and I hope it has been at least modified, old man; secondly, though I'm very much alive, I'm not advertising the fact at present and trust you to help me in keeping it dark. My story is too long to put on paper, but you shall have it all as soon as you can come to listen. Is it possible for you to get leave at once and come here for a couple of days? I badly want to see you again and ask your help and advice. Wire me on receipt of this. Relying on your secrecy,
"Yours as ever,
"P.S.: I'd like Doris to know, but only if you can find a way to tell her secretly. Ask her to trust me for a little while."
The visit of Mr. Harvie, the lawyer, who arrived at noon, meant little but disappointment for Alan. After a few polite words of congratulation, the lawyer dived into business, explaining Alan's position as the result of his uncle's deed of gift, and reciting a short list of securities mixed up with money figures.
"All very simple and satisfactory so far as it goes, Mr. Craig," he said, "and, of course, I am always at your service should you think I can be of the slightest help. Your uncle's will provided only for a legacy and an annuity to the male and female servants, also a thousand pounds to Dr. Handyside, the residue, about four thousand pounds, falling to yourself. My duty for the present ends with the delivery of this"—he handed an envelope to Alan—"though my responsibilities do not cease until the clock stops."
"I wish you would explain the clock, Mr. Harvie."
Mr. Harvie wagged his head. "My knowledge concerning the clock is confined to written instructions of my late client, whereby I shall be present when it stops, but my duties then will depend on circumstances. The significance of the clock itself I do not yet comprehend. All I know is that the clock will run a year from the date of my client's death, and that, at least twenty-four hours prior to the stoppage, I shall be warned and informed of the hour at which I must be present." He paused to purse his lips and continued: "I do not think you will resent my remarking, Mr. Craig, that for as sane a business man as ever I met, your uncle had some of the oddest ideas—which, nevertheless, you and I are bound to respect. Possibly a chat with Mr. Caw may dispel some of the fog you have stepped into on your otherwise fortunate and happy return home. I feel that Mr. Caw knows a great deal more than I, but in this case, at any rate"—Mr. Harvie permitted himself to smile—"what I do not know is none of my business."
"You can assure me that absolutely everything in this house belongs to me?" said Alan after a short silence. "You know of nothing which my uncle intended to make over to friends?"
"Nothing whatever. Mr. Craig was absolutely clear on that point when I drew up the Deed of Gift. Still, as I have said, in any new difficulty I am at your service. I liked your uncle, Mr. Craig. I once mentioned a sad case of unmerited poverty to him, and his generosity astonished, nay, shamed me. You have a good man's place to fill."
Mr. Harvie stayed to lunch—Caw performed wonders in the circumstances—and caught the two o'clock steamer. As soon as he was gone, Alan opened the envelope. If he had looked for revelations within, he was bound to be once more disappointed. The enclosure consisted simply of a letter, and not a lengthy one at that.
"26th October, 1913.
"My dear Alan:
"It is written that we shall not meet again. My malady grows daily worse, and the end may come at any moment. But I am of good cheer because of my faith in your ultimate return. Whence comes that faith I cannot tell—but whence comes any great and steadfast faith? When you come into this house and the little fortune that has been yours since you left for the Arctic, you may meet with some puzzling things; you may even be tempted to say, or think, that the old man must have been a little 'cracked.' But one must amuse oneself, especially when thought gnaws and time hangs heavy; and if there happens to be a way of attaining one's chief desires which is not altogether a tiresome and conventional way, why not choose it, as I have done? Should my whims cost you trouble or annoyance, forgive me. Let things take their course, if at all possible, till the Clock stops. Trust Caw, who knows as much as I care for any one to know; Lawyer Harvie, who knows next to nothing; Handyside and his daughter who may, or may not, know anything. In my latter days my trust in human nature has been shaken, though not destroyed; yet I say to you: Rather a host of declared enemies than one doubtful friend. Farewell, Alan, and may God send you happiness. A man can make pleasure for himself.
"Your affectionate uncle,
* * * * *
After a little while Alan rang for Caw.
The servant's eyes held a glimmer of anticipation induced by the lawyer's visit. Surely Mr. Harvie had been able to divulge something that would render his coming task a little easier, for Caw had still to tell of the Green Box and at the same time conceal the fact that Christopher Craig had died at bitter enmity with his two old friends—or at all events, the grounds of that enmity. As though Christopher had wished to lay particular stress on his desire for such concealment, Caw had found among his written instructions the following words: "At all costs, my nephew is to be spared the tragedy of his parents' ruin."
At Alan's first remark the glimmer went out.
"No, Caw, I'm no wiser than I was this morning. Mr. Harvie knows nothing except that he is to be present when the clock stops, and a letter written to me by my uncle, which he gave me, leaves me as much in the dark as ever. My uncle's letter says, however, that I am to trust you, and that you know more than any one."
Caw made a slight inclination. "May I ask if the letter makes mention ofDr. Handyside and Miss Handyside, sir?"
"I am to trust them also," Alan replied, with a smile, "as well asMr. Harvie."
"Thank you, sir. As you have seen, sir, I have ventured to trust Dr. Handyside and Miss Handyside a bit of my own; in fact I was forced into so doing; and, though I had my master's word for it, if necessary, I am glad to hear it again from you, sir. As for Mr. Harvie, I take leave to hope we shall not require to trust him."
"Why on earth—?"
"Well, sir, he's a lawyer—"
"Good lord, Caw! What are you driving at? My uncle trusted him, and his letter—"
"If you'll excuse me, sir, you have just been telling me that Mr. Harvie knows next to nothing. Mr. Harvie, I beg to say, is a very nice gentleman, and as honest as any lawyer need hope for to be; but a lawyer is the last sort of human being we want to have in this business, sir."
"I'm afraid I don't quite grasp—" began Alan, amused by the other's earnestness.
"Well, sir, did you ever go to a lawyer to ask a question?"
"I can't say I have, that I remember."
"Then, sir, I have. I once asked a lawyer one question, and before he could, or would, answer it, sir, he asked me fifty, and then his answer was rot—beg pardon, sir—unsatisfactory. But what I mean is just this, sir. With all due deference to Mr. Harvie, we don't want outsiders asking questions. My master himself would have been against it, and I'm hoping you will understand why before very long, sir."
Alan sat up. "Before we go any further," he said, "will you tell me what you were looking for last night when you opened a drawer in that writing-table and—well, go ahead."
Caw took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. "A green box, sir, that had been there a few hours earlier."
"The contents?"
"Diamonds, sir."
"What?"
"Diamonds, sir."
"I didn't know there were diamonds—except in that pendulum."
The other gave a faint sigh.
"Were those in the box of any great value?"
Caw moistened his lips. "Six hundred thousand pounds—"
"Oh, nonsense!"
"My master's words, sir."
"Then—why should they have been left lying there?"
"My master's orders, sir."
Alan opened his mouth, but found no speech. Said Caw: "You find it difficult to believe, sir, but there are other things just as difficult. For instance, I was forbidden to use any violence to prevent the box being taken away—that is, taken away by certain parties. A horrid position for me, sir."
"Yes," assented Alan, absently. Presently he went on: "Don't imagine that I doubt anything you have said, Caw—except that the diamonds, whose value there must surely be some extraordinary mistake about, were in the box."
"But, Mr. Alan, I can swear they were! It was I who closed and put the box in the drawer for the last time, at my master's request. He had been admiring them, as he often did—"
"Who were the parties who were to be allowed to take the box?"
After a moment's hesitation,—"Mr. Bullard, sir, and Mr. Lancaster. They were the only persons besides myself who knew about the diamonds. I should tell you that my master showed them the diamonds that afternoon."
"Good God!" said Alan under his breath. Aloud: "Are you telling me that you suspect those two gentlemen of st—taking the box?"
"They came here late on the night after my master's death, with that object, sir."
"But the box was taken last night."
"I can't swear that it was they who were here last night, but I can swear they would have had the box on the night I have named, sir, but for Miss Handyside."
"Miss Handyside! … Sit down, man, and tell your story. I'll try not to interrupt."
"Thank you, sir." Caw drew a chair from the wall; for once he was glad to be seated. He told his story in a crisp, straightforward fashion, avoiding side issues, and his listener heard him out in silence.
There was a pause before the latter spoke.
"You've given me something to think about, Caw," he said gravely. "Meantime I'll ask only three questions. Have you any doubt that the box and its contents belonged entirely to my uncle?"
"None at all, sir. I remember his getting the box made—twelve years ago, I should say. Also, I knew he had made a great deal of money and was putting it into diamonds."
"He hadn't a duplicate box?"
"If he had, sir, I should have seen it. For the last two years of his life, I had to look after everything for him, even open his safe."
"I see. Now tell me: Did my uncle and Messrs. Bullard and Lancaster part on good terms that afternoon?"
Caw could have smiled with relief at the form in which the enquiry was put. "Why, sir," he said, with ill-suppressed eagerness, "they shook hands, and my master bade them a kind farewell. Mr. Lancaster was visibly affected."
"And they were back the next night!"
"Six hundred thousand pounds is a lot of money, sir."
Alan got up, strode to the window, and looked out for a minute's space.
"What would you say, Caw," he asked, turning abruptly, "if I told you that for the last eighteen months I have regarded Mr. Bullard and Mr. Lancaster as my best friends?"
The servant, who had risen also, replied respectfully: "I would say I was very sorry, sir."
"Indeed!—And if I told you that they had helped me with a large sum of money—what then?"
"I should take the liberty, sir, of wondering what you gave them for it."
"Good Heavens!" the young man exclaimed, "the thing is impossible!" Controlling himself—"Thanks, Caw, I'll not trouble you more for the present."
"Very good, sir. When will you take tea?"
"I'm taking tea with Dr. Handyside."
"Very good, sir. I had better show you how the door works from this side."
* * * * *
It was a much worried young man whom Caw presently left alone. Until last night, when he had looked at Marjorie Handyside's note, it had never occurred to him to connect the crime in the Arctic wastes with the will he had signed in the Aasvogel Syndicate office, on that fine spring morning, eighteen months ago. His only suspicion, which in nine thoughts out of ten he had almost rejected for its absurdity, was against the man Garnet whose place he had filled in the Expedition. Garnet, who was an author and a vile-tempered fellow even in good health, had gone half crazy because the Expedition was not postponed for a year on his account. He had cursed Alan as a scheming interloper, and so forth, and had actually expressed the wish that he might leave his bones "up there." And last night, the girl's note had given his mind nothing more than a nasty jar. Bullard?—why, that idea, he had thought, was still more absurd than the other!
But now what was he to believe? Caw's revelation seemed to leave him no choice. And yet the thing appeared preposterous. Bullard and Lancaster were rich men, and while his acquaintance with the former had been comparatively slight, memories of the latter's frequent kindnesses and hospitality had warmed his heart many a time during his exile in the Arctic. Lancaster a trafficker in murder?—Lancaster the delicate, gentle father of the girl who had promised to wait for him? No, by Heaven, he would not believe it! As for Bullard—
The sinking sun shot a ray against the clock, and the glitter of diamonds roused him from his brooding. It was the Handysides' tea hour. He must try to get a quiet word with his hostess. He had met her at breakfast, but the doctor had been present. There were several things he wanted to say—must say—to her. She was brave—much braver than he had given her credit for a few hours ago—as well as bonny. As he descended to the passage he thought of how she had outwitted Bullard. Fortune was with him; he found her alone in the drawing-room.
"I always give father ten minutes grace when he's cleaning his car, and it's pretty messy after last night, while he has got to be careful with his foot," she explained. "By the way, Mr. Craig, I have to apologise for my curiosity of last night, but I'm not used to stories like yours."
"My apology is about a more serious matter," he replied. "I've just been hearing from Caw of how you rescued the Green Box at the first attempt to remove it. It was the pluckiest thing I ever heard of, and I'm under a tremendous obligation to you."
"Oh, please don't!" she said, with a laugh and a blush. "You must understand that I hadn't a pistol that night. The pistol was an awful failure, wasn't it? You weren't a bit afraid—for yourself, anyway—and I was terrified. I'd have been far more effective if I'd just opened the door an inch and called 'boo!'"
"I fancy that would have finished me, Miss Handyside! But do you want to learn to shoot? If so, and you'd allow me, I'd give you a lesson or two, with pleasure."
"Would you?—But you mustn't tell father. Luckily he didn't notice the horrid thing last night. Now, I think I'd better give him a hail to come to tea."
"One moment, please," said Allan. "Would you mind telling me why you wrote down that name last night?"
She became grave at once. "Was it the wrong one, Mr. Craig?"
"I can only hope so. But what made you think it a possible one? Had you ever seen the man before that night?"
"No." She paused, then said slowly: "Mr. Craig, if he wanted your uncle's diamonds that night, it is likely that he wanted them long before then, and it must have occurred to him that your life stood in his way of ever getting them as a gift or legacy." She halted, and then asked: "Well?"
"This is for your ears alone, Miss Handyside," he said on an impulse. "When I wanted very much to go to the Arctic and could not find the necessary money, Mr. Bullard and—and another man advanced it, and I made a will in their favour."
"Oh, how horrible!"
"And yet all that proves nothing with regard to the man Flitch."
"No more does this," she quickly rejoined. "But when I saw that Bullard man's face as he laid the Green Box on the table, I felt that there was a being who would stick at nothing. I'll never forget his expression. It was as if the humanness had fallen from a face. It was—devilish…. That was what made me write down his name last night." She held up her hand. "Hush!"
Dr. Handyside hobbled in, looking far from happy. "Has Caw told you how he came to be absent from his charge last night, Mr. Craig?" he asked.
"In the same circumstances I'd have been absent myself," said Alan.
Marjorie gave him a grateful glance. "Poor father feels as if he owed you over half a million," she said.
The guest laughed. "Well, he can easily feel that he has paid the debt—by taking the Green Box as seriously as I do!"
"In other words as a joke?" said Handyside sadly. "That's very generous of you, Alan, if I may say so,—to quote Caw—but the Green Box is too hard and cold a fact to jest about."
"Then let us ignore it, if you please. My uncle's letter, which his lawyer handed me to-day, requests me to let things take their course, if at all possible, until the Clock stops; and that's what I'm going to do so far, at least, as that blessed Green Box is concerned. As a matter of fact, the Clock interests me far more than the box."
"Why?" said Marjorie.
"I don't know, but there it is!"
"Have you any hope," asked Handyside, "that there is any chance of recovering the box or, rather, its contents? Forgive my harping on the subject?"
"No," answered Alan, thinking of Doris Lancaster. "And pray believe me, doctor, when I say that I care as little as I hope."
For which saying Marjorie could have kissed him.
The unspeakable Marvel reached London shortly after seven p.m.,—nearly an hour late. A sleet storm had descended on the Metropolis. He took a four-wheeler to the City. It crawled, but he was glad of the time to rehearse once more the part he had decided to play, during the latter hours of the railway journey. Here was a desperate idea inspired by a desperate situation. A hundred other ideas had offered themselves only to be rejected. He shivered with more than cold, fingered the flask in his pocket, but refrained from seeking its perfidious comfort. There must be no slackening wits in view of what was coming.
At last the cab stopped at his destination. With stiffened limbs he ascended the weary flights of stairs, paused on the fourth landing to blow into his hands and flap his arms. Then, after a glance round, he turned into the corridor on the left. The door of the Aasvogel Syndicate offices was still unlocked, by arrangement. He opened it quietly, stepped in, and as quietly closed it, turning the key. With a fairly firm and confident step he advanced to the lighted room at the end of the passage. His old foolish, ingratiating smile was on his face when he entered.
Bullard swung round from his desk.
"Hullo!" he cried genially. "Got back! Beastly weather, isn't it? Just returned from Paris an hour ago. Sit down and warm yourself."
"Thanks, Mr. Bullard." Marvel took a chair at the fire and proceeded to chafe his hands. "Paris, did you say? Coldish there, I suppose?"
"Felt like snow this morning. By the way, I didn't get your note till my arrival here to-night."
Marvel began to feel that things were shaping nicely. "I sent it as soon as I could, Mr. Bullard. Awful weather up there last night—something ghastly. Wouldn't take on the job again for ten, times the money."
"Well, it's over, and I take it that you were quite successful."
"Oh, that part of it was easy, Mr. Bullard."
"Good!" With that Mr. Bullard's geniality vanished. "I say, where's theGreen Box?"
Mr. Marvel grinned pleasantly. "Always in such a hurry, Mr. Bullard! But don't be alarmed; the Green Box is all right—very much all right."
"Look here, Marvel. I'm not in the humour for any humbug. I want that box—now!"
"And I want that four hundred pounds before I produce the box—"
"Well, the money's ready."
"—and another five hundred when you touch the box—"
"You impudent swine!" cried Bullard viciously. "So that's your game!"
"Well, Mr. Bullard, when I came to think it over in that ghastly blizzard, I saw you had inadvertently underestimated the value of my services, and considering that I had already parted with those valuable papers of mine for one—"
"Oh, shut it, man! Do you take me for a fool?"
"On the contrary, Mr. Bullard! You want that box badly, and an extra five hundred is neither here nor there to you."
Bullard's expression was so ugly then that the pretender wavered. "Where is the Green Box? Answer!"
"Give me the four hundred, and I'll take you to it."
"Take me to it? I think not!"
"Oh, Mr. Bullard, surely you don't distrust me."
Bullard appeared to reflect, and said harshly: "One more chance. Bring the box here at ten to-morrow morning, and I'll give you two hundred extra, you dirty little thief!"
"Five hundred, Mr. Bullard," said Marvel gently. He could have hugged himself.
Again Bullard appeared to be lost in thought, his fingers toyed with the nugget on his chain. At last he said sullenly: "I might have known you would try it on, you scoundrel. But I must have the box first thing in the morning. It's awkward enough not to have it tonight." He turned to his desk and picked up an envelope with a typewritten address. He sat staring at it as though he had forgotten Marvel's presence.
Suddenly he wheeled and spoke. "You shall have five hundred in the morning—"
"And four hundred to-night, Mr. Bullard."
"Yes—an hour hence. Do you know the Victoria Docks?—Of course you do. Well, the street named here"—he tapped the envelope—"is close to them. Deliver this letter and bring me back an answer—and the four hundred are yours. Hold your tongue! The thing is too private for an ordinary messenger. It's entirely owing to your vile behaviour that this letter must be delivered to-night. Will you take it, or must I take it myself? Mind, if I do, you can go to the devil for your four hundred, ay, and the five hundred to boot. I've stood the limit from you, Marvel, and I'm quite equal to locking you up in our strong-room here till you're ready and eager to give up the box for nothing!"
"Come, come, Mr. Bullard," said Marvel, rising, "there's no need for all this—this roughness. I'll take the letter with pleasure if you'll give me a couple of hundred to go on with."
Bullard tossed the letter back on the desk, and proceeded to light a cigar.
Marvel took a step forward. "I was only joking, Mr. Bullard. I'll take your message, and trust you."
"Very well," growled the other, handing it over. "Take care of it. You ought to be back in an hour. You'll find me here."
"Right you are!" said Marvel, and went jauntily from the room.
Bullard sank back in his chair. "The blind fool!" he murmured, and grinned.
An hour later he was dining in the Savoy restaurant.
About ten o'clock he was shown into Lancaster's library. He was in evening dress. He carried a suit case bearing, in the midst of many old labels, his own initials. The moment the door was shut he said—
"Where's Mrs. Lancaster? Didn't she get my note?"
Lancaster, his weary eyes blinking in the sudden rousing from a troubled nap, replied: "Yes, it caught her as she was about to leave the house with Doris. Is anything the matter?"
"Did Doris go alone?"
"Yes, but—"
"I wish you would tell Mrs. Lancaster—"
At that moment the lady entered, gloriously attired, her eyes smouldering.
"What's the matter, Mr. Bullard?"
"Thanks for staying at home in response to my request," he said suavely. "I have hopes that you won't find it a wasted evening. By the way, can you get rid of the attentions of your servants at so early an hour?"
Her sullen eyes brightened with curiosity. "I daresay I can, Mr. Bullard, but may I ask—"
"Please add the favour to the one already granted, and rejoin us here as soon as possible."
When she had gone, Bullard laid the suitcase on a chair, opened it, and took out the Green Box which he placed on the table. Then deliberately, and with a steady hand, he helped himself to a cigarette from his host's silver box, and lit it carefully.
"Well, Lancaster," he said, after exhaling a long whiff, "how's that?"
"Great Heavens!" Lancaster stopped staring and sat down feebly. "How did you get it? Where? Surely not in the same place as before!"
"That I can't tell you. The point that interests me is that it is here now. My story will keep—it's quite good enough for that. By the bye, where are your congratulations?"
Lancaster stretched out a shaking hand. "Take it away, for God's sake," he said. "Don't—don't let my wife see those stones. I tell you again, Bullard—I swear it—I don't want one more than will clear me of that one debt."
"Don't talk rot," was the light retort. "Mrs. Lancaster is going to choose one or two for luck. Between ourselves, as her prospective son-in-law I naturally desire to win her favour, as well as her entire confidence in my ability to provide suitably for her daughter. Besides, you must see that for your own sake it is better that she should be invol—pardon—interested. Why groan, my friend? Your troubles are over."
Mrs. Lancaster came in, gazed, and pounced. "What is it? What's wrong with Robert? What is all the mystery about?"
"This little box," said Bullard, patting it, "contains what I may call the Christopher Collection. No more questions now, if you please. Pray be seated. Are the servants—?"
"Yes, yes! Open it! I must see—"
"Unfortunately we lack the key. However, my expert tin-opener ought now to be waiting outside. I'll fetch him in, apologising for his uncouthness, which he can't help. He might like a little whisky, Lancaster. Ah, I see it is already provided. Better have some yourself, old man."
With these words, Bullard left the room to return a minute later with a rough-looking man in garb that might have been termed semi-sea-faring. There was nothing particularly sinister about his reddish-bearded face, but his eyes were full of fears and suspicions, and the ordinary person would have shrunk from his contact. His conductor having locked the door, said—
"This is Mr. Flitch, who—"
"Damn ye!" muttered the man with a start and a scowl.
"Or, rather, Mr. Dunning, who is going to open the box for us. But you will please excuse me while I first ask him one or two personal questions. Well, Dunning, you got my note?"
"Ain't I here?"
"You attended to the messenger?"
A mere grunt of assent.