THE QUEST OF THE BOOK
When Piccadilly Circus, a blaze of light, was thronged with the crowds
that the theaters were discharging, a motor-car came gingerly through
the traffic, passed down Regent Street, and swinging along Pall Mall,
headed southward across Westminster Bridge.
The rain had ceased, but underfoot the roads were sodden, and the car
bespattered its occupants with black mud.
The chauffeur at the wheel turned as the car ran smoothly along the
tramway lines in the Old Kent Road and asked a question, and one of the
two men in the back of the car consulted the other.
“We will go to Cramer’s first,” said the man.
Old Kent Road was a fleeting vision of closed shops, of little knots
of men emerging from public-houses at the potman’s strident command;
Lewisham High Road, as befits that very respectable thoroughfare, was
decorously sleeping; Lea, where the hedges begin, was silent; and
Chislehurst was a place of the dead.
Near the common the car pulled up at a big house standing in black
quietude, and the two occupants of the car descended and passed through
the stiff gate, along the graveled path, and came to a stop at the
broad porch.
“I don’t know what old Mauder will say,” said Angel as he fumbled for
the bell; “he’s a methodical old chap.”
In the silence they could hear the thrill of the electric bell. They
waited a few minutes, and rang again. Then they heard a window opened
and a sleepy voice demand--
“Who is there?”
Angel stepped back from the porch and looked up.
“Hullo, Mauder! I want you. I’m Angel.”
“The devil!” said a surprised voice. “Wait a bit. I’ll be down in a
jiffy.”
The pleasant-faced man who in dressing-gown and pajamas opened the door
to them and conducted them to a cozy library was Mr. Ernest Mauder
himself. It is unnecessary to introduce that world-famous publisher to
the reader, the more particularly in view of the storm of controversy
that burst about his robust figure in regard to the recent publication
of Count Lehoff’s embarrassing “Memoirs.” He made a sign to the two men
to be seated, nodding to Jimmy as to an old friend.
“I am awfully sorry to disturb you at this rotten hour,” Angel
commenced, and the other arrested his apology with a gesture.
“You detective people are so fond of springing surprises on us
unintelligent outsiders,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I
am almost tempted to startle you.”
“It takes a lot to startle me,” said Angel complacently.
“You’ve brought it on your own head,” warned the publisher, wagging
a forefinger at the smiling Angel. “Now let me tell you why you have
motored down from London on this miserable night on a fairly fruitless
errand.”
“Eh?” The smile left Angel’s face.
“Ah, I thought that would startle you! You’ve come about a book?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy wonderingly.
“A book published by our people nine years ago?”
“Yes,” the wonderment deepening on the faces of the two men.
“The title,” said the publisher impressively, “is _A Short Study on the
Origin of the Alphabet_, and the author is a half-mad old don, who was
subsequently turned out of Oxford for drunkenness.”
“Mauder,” said Jimmy, gazing at his host in bewilderment, “you’ve hit
it--but----”
“Ah,” said the publisher, triumphant, “I thought that was it. Well,
your search is fruitless. We only printed five hundred copies; the
book was a failure--the same ground was more effectively covered by
better books. I found a dusty old copy a few years ago, and gave it to
my secretary. So far as I know, that is the only copy in existence.”
“But your secretary?” said Angel eagerly. “What is his name? Where does
he live?”
“It’s not a ‘he,’” said Mauder, “but a ‘she.’”
“Her name?”
“If you had asked that question earlier in the evening I could not
have told you,” said Mauder, obviously enjoying the mystery he had
created, “but since then my memory has been refreshed. The girl--and a
most charming lady too--was my secretary for two years. I do not know
what induced her to work, but I rather think she supported an invalid
father.”
“What is her name?” asked Angel impatiently.
“Kathleen Kent,” replied the publisher, “and her address is----”
“Kathleen Kent!” repeated Jimmy in wide-eyed astonishment. “Angels and
Ministers of Grace defend us!”
“Kathleen Kent!” repeated Angel with a gasp. “Well, that takes the
everlasting biscuit! But,” he added quickly, “how did you come to know
of our errand?”
“Well,” drawled the elder man, wrapping his dressing-gown round him
more snugly, “it was a guess to an extent. You see, Angel, when a man
has been already awakened out of a sound sleep to answer mysterious
inquiries about an out-of-date book----”
“What,” cried Jimmy, jumping up, “somebody has already been here?”
“It is only natural,” the publisher went on, “to connect his errand
with that of the second midnight intruder.”
“Who has been here? For Heaven’s sake, don’t be funny; this is a
serious business.”
“Nobody has been here,” said Mauder, “but an hour ago a man called me
up on the telephone----”
Jimmy looked at Angel, and Angel looked at Jimmy.
“Jimmy,” said Angel penitently, “write me down as a fool. Telephone!
Heavens, I didn’t know you were connected.”
“Nor was I till last week,” said the publisher, “nor will I be after
to-morrow. Sleep is too precious a gift to be dissipated----”
“Who was the man?” demanded Angel.
“I couldn’t quite catch his name. He was very apologetic. I gathered
that he was a newspaper man, and wanted particulars in connection with
the death of the author.”
Angel smiled.
“The author’s alive all right,” he said grimly. “How did the voice
sound--a little pompous, with a clearing of the throat before each
sentence?”
The other nodded.
“Spedding!” said Angel, rising. “We haven’t any time to lose, Jimmy.”
Mauder accompanied them into the hall.
“One question,” said Jimmy, as he fastened the collar of his
motor-coat. “Can you give us any idea of the contents of the book?”
“I can’t,” was the reply. “I have a dim recollection that much of it
was purely conventional, that there were some rough drawings, and the
earlier forms of the alphabet were illustrated--the sort of thing you
find in encyclopædias or in the back pages of teachers’ Bibles.”
The two men took their seats in the car as it swung round and turned
its bright head-lamps toward London.
“‘I found this puzzle in a book
From which some mighty truths were took,’”
murmured Angel in his companion’s ear, and Jimmy nodded. He was at
that moment utterly oblivious and careless of the fortune that awaited
them in the great safe at Lombard Street. His mind was filled with
anxiety concerning the girl who unconsciously held the book which
might to-morrow make her an heiress. Spedding had moved promptly, and
he would be aided, he did not doubt, by Connor and the ruffians of the
“Borough Lot.” If the book was still in the girl’s possession they
would have it, and they would make their attempt at once.
His mind was full of dark forebodings, and although the car bounded
through the night at full speed, and the rain which had commenced to
fall again cut his face, and the momentum of the powerful machine took
his breath away, it went all too slowly for his mood.
One incident relieved the monotony of the journey. As the car flew
round a corner in an exceptionally narrow lane it almost crashed
into another car, which, driven at breakneck speed, was coming in
the opposite direction. A fleeting exchange of curses between the
chauffeurs, and the cars passed.
By common consent, they had headed for Kathleen’s home. Streatham was
deserted. As they turned the corner of the quiet road in which the
girl lived, Angel stopped the car and alighted. He lifted one of the
huge lamps from the socket and examined the road.
“There has been a car here less than half an hour ago,” he said,
pointing to the unmistakable track of wheels. They led to the door of
the house.
He rang the bell, and it was almost immediately answered by an elderly
lady, who, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, bade him enter.
“Nobody seems to be surprised to see us to-night,” thought Angel with
bitter humor.
“I am Detective Angel from Scotland Yard,” he announced himself, and
the elderly lady seemed unimpressed.
“Kathleen has gone,” she informed him cheerfully.
Jimmy heard her with a sinking at his heart.
“Yes,” said the old lady, “Mr. Spedding, the eminent solicitor, called
for her an hour ago, and”--she grew confidential--“as I know you
gentlemen are very much interested in the case, I may say that there is
every hope that before to-morrow my niece will be in possession of her
fortune.”
Jimmy groaned.
“Please, go on,” said Angel.
“It came about over a book which Kathleen had given her some years ago,
and which most assuredly would have been lost but for my carefulness.”
Jimmy cursed her “carefulness” under his breath.
“When we moved here after the death of Kathleen’s poor father I had
a great number of things stored. There were amongst these an immense
quantity of books, which Kathleen would have sold, but which I
thought----”
“Where are these stored?” asked Angel quickly.
“At an old property of ours--the only property that my poor brother
had remaining,” she replied sadly, “and that because it was in too
dilapidated a condition to attract buyers.”
“Where, where?” Angel realized the rudeness of his impatience. “Forgive
me, madam,” he said, “but it is absolutely necessary that I should
follow your niece at once.”
“It is on the Tonbridge Road,” she answered stiffly. “So far as I can
remember, it is somewhere between Crawley and Tonbridge, but I am not
sure. Kathleen knows the place well; that is why she has gone.”
“Somewhere on the Tonbridge Road!” repeated Angel helplessly.
“We could follow the car’s tracks,” said Jimmy.
Angel shook his head.
“If this rain is general, they will be obliterated,” he replied.
They stood a minute, Jimmy biting the sodden finger of his glove, and
Angel staring into vacancy. Then Jimmy demanded unexpectedly--
“Have you a Bible?”
The old lady allowed the astonishment she felt at the question to be
apparent.
“I have several.”
“A teacher’s Bible, with notes?” he asked.
She thought.
“Yes, there is such an one in the house. Will you wait?”
She left the room.
“We should have told the girl about Spedding--we should have told her,”
said Angel in despair.
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said Jimmy quietly. “The thing to
do now is to frustrate Spedding and rescue the girl.”
“Will he dare----?”
“He’ll dare. Oh, yes, he’ll dare,” said Jimmy. “He’s worse than you
think, Angel.”
“But he is already a ruined man.”
“The more reason why he should go a step further. He’s been on the
verge of ruin for months, I’ve found that out. I made inquiries
the other day, and discovered he’s in a hole that the dome of St.
Paul’s wouldn’t fill. He’s a trustee or something of the sort for an
association that has been pressing him for money. Spedding will dare
anything”--he paused then--“but if he dares to harm that girl he’s a
dead man.”
The old lady came in at that moment with the book, and Jimmy hastily
turned over the pages.
Near the end he came upon something that brought a gleam to his eye.
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a notebook. He did not
wait to pull up a chair, but sank on his knees by the side of the table
and wrote rapidly, comparing the text with the drawings in the book.
Angel, leaning over, followed the work breathlessly.
“There--and there--and there!” cried Angel exultantly. “What fools we
were, Jimmy, what fools we were.”
Jimmy turned to the lady.
“May I borrow this book?” he asked. “It will be returned. Thank you.
Now, Angel,” he looked at his watch and made a move for the door, “we
have two hours. We will take the Tonbridge Road by daybreak.”
Only one other person did they disturb on that eventful night, and that
was a peppery old Colonel of Marines, who lived at Blackheath.
There, before the hastily-attired old officer, as the dawn broke, Angel
explained his mission, and writing with feverish haste, subscribed
to the written statement by oath. Whereupon the Justice of the Peace
issued a warrant for the arrest of Joseph James Spedding, Solicitor, on
a charge of felony.