WHY RUTHVEN SMITH WENT
Never in his life had Ruthven Smith been blessed or cursed by an
anonymous letter. He did not know what to make of it, or how to treat it.
Instead of exciting him, as it might had he been a man of mercurial
temperament, it irritated him intensely.
That was the way when things out of the ordinary happened to Ruthven
Smith: he resented them. He was not--and recognized the fact that he was
not--the type of man to whom things ought to happen. It was only one
strange streak of the artistic in his nature which made him a marvellous
judge of jewels, and attracted adventures to come near him.
He was constitutionally timid. He was conventional, and prim in his
thoughts of life and all he desired it to give. He was a creature of a
past generation; and whenever in time he had chanced to exist he would
always have lagged a generation behind. But there was that one colourful
streak which somehow, as if by a mistake in creation, had shot a narrow
rainbow vein through his drab soul, like a glittering opal in gray-brown
rock.
He loved jewels. He had known all about them by instinct even before he
knew by painstaking research. He could judge jewels and recognize them
under any disguise of cutting. He could do this better than almost any
one in the world, and he could do nothing else well; therefore it was
preordained that he should find his present position with some such firm
as the Van Vrecks; and, being in it, adventures were bound to come.
Many attempts to rob him had doubtless been made. One had lately
succeeded. His nerves were in a wretched state. He was "jumpy" by day as
well as night; and sometimes, when at his worst, he even felt for five
minutes at a time that he had better hand in his resignation to the firm
who had employed him for nearly twenty years, and retire into private
life, like a harried mouse into its hole.
But that was only when he was at his very worst. Deep down within him he
was aware that, while the breath of life and his inscrutable genius were
together in him, he could not, would not, resign.
It was part of Ruthven Smith, an intimate part of him, not to be able
to decide for a long time what to do when he was confronted with one of
those emergencies unsuited to his temperament. He was afraid of doing
the wrong thing, yet was too reserved to consult any one. He generally
counted on blundering through somehow; and so it was in the matter of
the anonymous letter.
He had heard, and dimly believed, that it was morally wrong, and, still
worse, quite bad form, to take notice of anonymous letters. But this one
must be different, it seemed to him, from any other which anybody had
ever received. Duty to his employers and duty to the one thing he really
loved was above any other duty; and for fear of losing forever an
immense, an unhoped-for advantage, which might possibly be gained, he
dared not ignore the letter.
At all events, he had told himself, no matter what he might decide later,
it was just as well that he had accepted the invitation to Valley House.
Perhaps someone--he could not think who--was playing a stupid practical
joke, with the object of getting him there. But he would risk that and
go, and let his conduct shape itself according to developments.
For instance, if his eyes were able to detect the small detail
mysteriously mentioned in the letter, he would feel bound to act as it
suggested; yes, bound to act--but how unpleasant it would be!
And the worst of the whole unpalatable affair was that if he _did_ act in
that suggested way, and if he accomplished what he might, with dreadful
deftness, be supposed to accomplish, it would be the moment when perhaps
he might be fooled.
_If_ the letter were written by a practical joker, he would be made to
look ridiculous in the eyes of all who were in the secret. And that
thought brought him back to the question which over and over he asked
in his mind. Who could have written the anonymous letter?
It must be someone acquainted with him, or with his profession; someone
who knew the Nelson Smiths and the Annesley-Setons well enough to be
aware that there was to be an Easter party at Valley House. The writer
hinted in vague terms that he was a private detective aware of certain
things, yet so placed that he could have no handling of the affair,
except from a distance, and through another person. He pretended a
disinterested desire to serve Ruthven Smith, and signed himself, "A
Well Wisher"; but the nervous recipient of the advice felt that his
correspondent was quite likely to be of the class opposed to detectives.
What if there were some scheme for a robbery on a vast scale at Valley
House, and this letter were part of the scheme? What if the band of
thieves supposed to be "working" lately in London should try to make him
a cat's paw in bringing off their big haul?
This was a terrifying idea, and more feasible than the one suggested by
the anonymous writer, that Mrs. Nelson Smith should--oh, certainly it
seemed the wildest nonsense!
Still, there was his duty to the Van Vrecks. They must be considered
ahead of everything! So Ruthven Smith, nervous as a rabbit who has lost
its warren, travelled down to Devonshire on Saturday afternoon, invited
to stay at Valley House till Tuesday.
It was as Knight had said: the dull, deaf man was as completely out of
the picture in that house party as an owl among peacocks; for he was an
inarticulate person and could not talk interestingly even on his own
subject, jewels. His idea of conversation with women was a discussion of
the weather, contrasting that of England with that of America, or perhaps
touching upon politics. He was afraid of questions about jewels lest he
should allow himself to be pumped, and the information he might
inadvertently give away be somehow "used."
But he was by birth and education a gentleman; and his relationship to
Archdeacon Smith, whom everybody liked, was a passport to people's
kindness.
Duchesses and countesses were of no particular interest to Ruthven Smith,
but their adornments were fascinating. At Valley House one duchess and
several countesses were assembled for the Easter party, and they were
women whose jewels were famous. Most of these were family heirlooms, but
their present owners had had the things reset, and no queen of fairyland
or musical comedy could have owned more becoming or exquisitely designed
tiaras, crowns, necklaces, earrings, dog-collars, brooches, bracelets,
and rings than these great ladies.
For this reason the ladies themselves were interesting to Ruthven Smith,
and he might have been equally so to them if he would have told them
picturesquely all he knew about the history of their wonderful diamonds,
pearls, emeralds, and rubies. It was too bad that he wouldn't, for there
was not a famous jewel in England or Europe of which Ruthven Smith had
not every ancient scandal in connection with it at his tongue's end.
But on his tongue's end it stayed, even when, for the sake of his own
pleasure if nothing else, his hosts and hostesses tried to draw him out.
Nevertheless, he was not sorry that he had come. There was an element of
joy in seeing, met together, and sparkling together, those exquisite,
historic beauties of which he had read.
It had been a bother to Lady Annesley-Seton and her cousin Anne to decide
how Ruthven Smith should be put at table. In a way, he was an outsider,
the only one among the guests without a title or military rank which
mechanically indicated his place in relation to others. Besides, no woman
would want to have him to scream at.
Fortunately, however, there were two women asked on account of their
husbands, and so--according to Connie's code--of no importance in
themselves. Providence meant them to be pushed here and there like pawns
on a chessboard; and they were pushed to either side of Ruthven Smith at
the dinner-table on Saturday night.
Both had been placated by being told beforehand what a wonderful man he
was, with frightfully exciting things to say, if he could tactfully be
made to say them. But only one of the two had courage or spirit to rise
to the occasion--the woman he was given to take in, a Lady Cartwright,
married to Major Sir Elmer Cartwright, who was always asked to every
house whenever the Duchess of Peebles was invited.
Lady Cartwright was Irish, wrote plays, had a sense of humour, and was
not jealous of the Duchess. Because she wrote plays, she was continually
in search of material, digging it up, even when it looked unpromising.
"I have heard such charming things about you," she began.
"I _beg_ your pardon!" said Ruthven Smith, unable to believe his ears.
And because he was somewhat deaf himself, he could not gauge the
inflections of his own voice. Sometimes he spoke almost in a whisper,
sometimes very loudly. This time he spoke loudly, and several people,
surprised at the sound rising above other sounds like spray from a
flowing river, paused for an instant to listen.
"What a wonderful expert in jewels you are," Lady Cartwright replied in
a higher tone, realizing that she had a deaf man to deal with. "And that
you have been one of the sufferers from that gang of thieves Scotland
Yard can't lay its hands on."
Ruthven Smith was on the point of shrinking into himself, as was his wont
if any personal topic of conversation came up, when it flashed into his
mind that here was an opportunity. If he did not take it, so easy a one
might not occur again. He braced himself for a supreme effort.
"Oh, yes, yes, I was robbed," he admitted. "A serious loss! Some fine
pearls I had been buying--not for myself, but for the Van Vrecks. I
seldom collect valuables for myself. I only wish these things had been
mine. I should not have that sense of being an unfaithful servant--though
I did my best----"
"Of course you did," Lady Cartwright soothed him. "But these thieves--if
it's the same gang, as we all think--are too clever for the cleverest of
us. As for the police, they seem to be nowhere. I haven't suffered yet,
but each morning when I wake up, I'm astonished to find everything as
usual. Not that it wouldn't _seem_ as usual, even if the gang had paid us
a visit and made a clean sweep of our poor possessions. They appear to be
able to leak through keyholes, as nothing in the houses they go to is
ever disturbed."
"Anyhow, they have latchkeys," retorted Ruthven Smith, with what for him
might be considered gaiety of manner. "The thief or thieves who relieved
me of my pearls--or rather, my employer's pearls--apparently walked in as
a member of the household might have done."
Among those who had involuntarily suspended talk to hear what Ruthven
Smith was saying about jewels and jewel thieves was Annesley. Though the
party would never have been but for Knight and herself, Dick and
Constance were playing host and hostess with all the outward
responsibility of those parts. Lord Annesley-Seton had a duchess on his
right, a countess on his left; Lady Annesley-Seton was fenced in by the
duke and the count pertaining to these ladies; Mrs. Nelson Smith sat
between two less important men, who liked the dinner provided by the
American millionaire's miraculous new chef, and they could safely be
neglected for a moment.
Annesley felt that Ruthven Smith was, in a way, her special guest, and
she was anxious that he should not be the failure Knight had prophesied.
She wanted him not to regret that he had flung himself on the tender
mercies of this smart house party, and almost equally she wanted his two
neighbours not to be bored by him. Knight would hate that. He attached so
much importance to amusing the people whom he invited!
She listened and thought that Mr. Ruthven Smith and Lady Cartwright
seemed to have begun well. Then, as she turned to Lady Cartwright's
handsome husband (the Duchess of Peebles was talking to Dick
Annesley-Seton just then), she caught the word "latchkey."
It seized her attention. She knew they were speaking of the burglary at
Mrs. Ellsworth's house. She heard Ruthven Smith go on to explain in his
high-pitched voice that the two woman servants had been suspected, but
that their characters had "emerged stainless" from the examination.
"Besides," he continued, "neither of them had a latchkey to give to any
outside person. The two women slept together in one room. At the time of
the robbery there was no butler----"
Annesley heard no more. Suddenly the door of her spirit seemed to close.
She was shut up within herself, listening to some voice there.
"_What became of your latchkey?_" it asked.
The blood streamed to her face and made her ears tingle, as it used to do
when she had been scolded by Mrs. Ellsworth. If any one had looked at her
then, it must have been to wonder what Sir Elmer Cartwright or Lord John
Dormer had said to make Mrs. Nelson Smith blush so furiously.
She was remembering what she had done with her latchkey. She had given it
to Knight to open the front door, and so escape from the two watchers who
had followed them in a taxi to Torrington Square. She had never thought
of it from that moment to this. Could it be possible that some thief had
stolen the latchkey from Knight, and used it when Mrs. Ellsworth's house
was robbed?
Her thoughts concentrated violently upon the key. Had her neighbours
spoken she would not have heard; but they did not speak. She was free to
let her thoughts run where they chose. They ran back to the first night
of her meeting with Nelson Smith, and her arrival with him at the house
in Torrington Square. She recalled, as if it were a moment ago, putting
the key into his hand, which had been warm and steady, despite the danger
he was in, while hers had been trembling and cold. She said to herself
that she must ask Knight, as soon as they were alone together, what he
had done with the key, whether he had left it in the house or flung it
away.
But of course he must have left it in the house, or close by, otherwise
no thief would have known where it belonged. That made her feel guilty
toward Ruthven Smith. She ought not to have been so utterly absorbed in
her own affairs that night. She ought to have asked to have the key back,
and then to have laid it where it could be found by Mrs. Ellsworth in the
morning.
Perhaps, indirectly, _she_ was responsible for the burglary at that
house. And, now she thought of it, what a queer burglary it had been! The
thieves must certainly have known something about Mrs. Ellsworth, or
else, in helping themselves to her valuables, it would not have occurred
to them to scrawl a sarcastic message.
That message had delighted Knight when he heard of it. He had laughed and
said, "I like those chaps! They can have _my_ money when they want it!"
Since then they _had_ had his money, and other possessions. If the theory
of the police were right, that a gang of foreign thieves was "working"
London, Annesley was glad that she and Knight had been robbed. It made
her feel less to blame for her carelessness in the matter of that
latchkey.
At least, she had suffered, too, and so had Knight.
Could it be, she asked herself, that the _watchers_ were somehow mixed
up in the business? Were _they_ members of the supposed gang? That did
not seem likely, for how could a man like Knight have got involved with
thieves? Yet it seemed, from what he had said that night at the
Savoy--and never referred to again--as if he were somehow in their power.
How curiously like one of them Morello had been! She remembered thinking
so, with a shock of fear. Then she had lost the feeling of resemblance,
and told herself that she must have imagined it.
The two faces came back to her now, and again she saw them alike. She was
glad that Knight had never invited Morello to call, and glad that when
grudgingly she had asked one day after the two men who had witnessed
their marriage, Knight had said, "Gone out of England. We just caught
them in time."
As for the watchers, she had heard no more of them. Knight ignored the
episode, or the part of it connected with those men. The memory of them
was shut up in the locked box of his past, and he never left the key
lying about, as apparently he had left the key of Mrs. Ellsworth's house.
Suddenly, while Annesley listened to Ruthven Smith, she became conscious
that, as he talked to Lady Cartwright, his eyes had turned to her.
"This proves," the fancy ran through her head, "that if you look at or
even think of people, you attract their attention."
She glanced away, and at her neighbours. They were both absorbed for the
moment; she need not worry lest they should find her neglectful. She took
some asparagus which was offered to her, and began to eat it; but she
still had the impression that Ruthven Smith was looking at her. She
wondered why.
"He can't be expecting me to scream at him across the table," she
thought.
"Yes," he was saying to Lady Cartwright, "it was a misfortune to lose
those pearls. Two I had selected to make a pair of earrings can scarcely
be duplicated. But none of the things stolen from me compared in value to
those our agent lost on board the _Monarchic_. I suppose you read of that
affair?"
"Oh, yes," said Lady Cartwright, her voice raised in deference to her
neighbour's deafness. "It was most interesting. Especially about the
clairvoyant woman on board who saw a vision of the thief in her crystal,
throwing things into the sea attached to a life-belt with a light on it,
or something of the sort, to be picked up by a yacht. One would have
supposed, with that information to go upon, the police might have
recovered the jewels, but they didn't, and probably they never will now."
"I'm not sure the police pinned their faith to the clairvoyante's
visions," replied Ruthven Smith, with his dry chuckle.
"Really? But I've understood--though the name wasn't mentioned then, I
believe--that the woman was that wonderful Countess de Santiago we're so
excited about. She is certainly extraordinary. Nobody seems to doubt
_her_ powers! I rather thought she might be here."
Ruthven Smith showed no interest in the Countess de Santiago. Once on the
subject of jewels, it was difficult to shunt him off on another at short
notice. Or possibly he had something to say which he particularly wished
not to leave unsaid at that stage of the conversation.
"The newspapers did not publish a description of the jewels stolen on the
_Monarchic_," he went on, brushing the Countess de Santiago aside. "It
was thought best at the time not to give the reporters a list. To me,
that seemed a mistake. Who knows, for instance, through how many hands
the Malindore diamond may have passed? If some honest person, recognizing
it from a description in the papers, for instance----"
"The Malindore diamond!" exclaimed Lady Cartwright, forgetting politeness
in her interest, and cutting short a sentence which began dully. "Isn't
that the wonderful blue diamond that the British Museum refused to buy
three years ago, because it hadn't enough money to spend, or something?"
"Quite so," replied Ruthven Smith, adding with pride: "But the Van Vrecks
had enough money. They always have when a unique thing is for sale; and
they are rich enough to wait for years, with their money locked up, till
somebody comes along who wants the thing. That happened in the case of
the Malindore diamond. The Van Vrecks hoped to sell it to Mr. Pierpont
Morgan. But he died, and it was left on their hands till this last
autumn."
"Ah, then that lovely blue diamond was sold with the other things the Van
Vreck agent lost on the _Monarchic_?"
"_Was_ to be sold if the prospective buyer liked it. He had married a
white wife, you know, and----"
"Oh, yes, of course. It was Lady Eve Cassenden. That marriage made a big
sensation among us. _Horrid_, I call it! But she hadn't a penny, and they
say he's the richest Maharajah in India."
"The Malindore diamond was once in his family, I understand, about five
hundred years ago, when we first begin to get at its history," Ruthven
Smith went on, ignoring the Maharajah as he had ignored the Countess de
Santiago. "It was then the central jewel of a crown. But later, Louis
XIV, on obtaining possession of it, had it set in a ring, and surrounded
with small white brilliants. It still remains in that form, or did so
remain until it was stolen from our agent on the _Monarchic_. What form
it is in and where it is now, only those who know can say."
So strong was the call from Ruthven Smith's eyes to Annesley's eyes that
she was forced to look up. She had been sure that she would meet his gaze
fixed upon her, and so it was. He was staring across the table at her,
with a curious expression on his long, hatchet face.