Sir Julian Le Mesurier’s study was an extremely pleasant room, friendly
with books, and comforted by admirable chairs.
A Sabbath peace reigned outside in the deserted street. Within there was
no peace at all. A crocodile hunt was in progress. Piggy, as a large and
very fierce crocodile, was performing a feat described by himself as
“trailing his sinuous length” across the floor, his objective a Persian
carpet island upon which a small fat girl of three in a fluffy Sunday
dress was lifting first one plump foot and then the other, whilst at
regular intervals she uttered small but piercing screams. Upon the
crocodile’s back sat a thin, determined little boy of six who battered
continuously upon the crocodile’s ribs with the heels of a new pair of
boots, whilst he shouted his defiance at the foe. At the far end of the
room sat Lady Le Mesurier with a book. At intervals she looked up from
it to say helplessly, “Piggy, it’s Sunday”—or “Baby’s got a new frock
on, and I expect nurse will give notice if you tear it.”
“Not tear,” said the fat little girl, patting her skirts. Then she
shrieked, for the crocodile made a sudden snap at the nearest ankle.
Upon this scene the door opened.
“Mr. Luttrell,” said an expressionless voice, and Anthony entered.
Lady Le Mesurier gathered her baby and her book, the crocodile unseated
the small boy and arose, dusting its trousers. A well-trained family
vanished, and Sir Julian shook hands and waved his visitor to a chair.
“Come up to report?” said Piggy.
“Not primarily,” began Anthony, but was cut short.
“You followed Molloy. Yes, I think I prefer to have it that way, if you
don’t mind. You followed Molloy to this South Kensington address. How do
you know he’s stopping there?”
“I asked the servant who was cleaning the knocker whether they had a
room, and she said, ‘No’—that the gentleman who had just come in made
them quite full up.”
“Well, I’ve sent a man to watch the place. Now, what have you to report
from Luttrell Marches?”
Anthony looked straight over Sir Julian’s shoulder with a hard, level
gaze, and spoke in a hard, forced voice:
“There are a number of secret passages and chambers under the house at
Luttrell Marches. One of the passages has an exit outside the grounds on
the seashore about a mile and a half from Withstead. The secret has been
very carefully preserved until now. Each successive owner told his heir.
No one else was supposed to know. My father told me. When he thought
that I was dead, he also told my cousin, Henry March. Until I went to
Luttrell Marches the other day I had no idea that any one else had
discovered the secret. I have to report that the passages have not only
been discovered, but made use of in a way which points to something of
an illegal nature. One of the chambers is a fair-sized one: it has been
turned into a laboratory——”
“Any sign that it has been used as such?”
“Every sign. Power has been diverted from the dynamos which were
installed for the Government experiments and the passages have been
wired, and some of the chambers fitted with electric light. The whole
thing has been going on under Sir William’s very nose.”
“M’, I’ve had him here to see me—terribly gone to pieces, quite past his
job, also very much annoyed with me for having sent Henry down. Now the
question is, who’s been wiring the passages and using the laboratory?”
“Oh, Ember; there’s no doubt about that, I think.”
“And the sale of the formula? Ember?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Must have proof. No earthly good my being sure, or your being sure, or
Henry’s being sure. We’ve got to have something so solid that, after Sir
Dash Blank, K.C., has done his best to tear it into shreds, what’s left
of it will convince a jury. Now who else is in it besides Ember and
Molloy? In the household, I mean, down there at Luttrell Marches? Any
one else?”
Anthony continued to look over Sir Julian’s shoulder. He remained
silent. Piggy got up and walked to his writing-table. When he reached it
he swung round, and asked again sharply:
“Any one else, Luttrell?”
There was still silence. Then Piggy said dryly:
“I take it that there is somebody else involved. I don’t wish to
cross-examine you, but I must know one thing. Is it suspicion, moral
certainty, or proof?”
“Moral certainty,” said Anthony Luttrell. He passed his tongue across
his dry lips. Piggy did not look at him.
“Now, look here,” he said, “it seems to me that Luttrell Marches is
about to be the centre of some unpleasant happenings. I think, I rather
think, it would be advisable to induce any ladies who may be there to
leave the place. Lady Heritage is there, is she not, and er, er,
Miss...?”
“Miss Molloy.”
“Exactly. Miss—er, Molloy. Now I consider that these two ladies should
leave at once. When I say at once I mean to-day. I should like you to go
down—by car, of course, there won’t be any Sunday trains—and er, fetch
them away, using such inducements and persuasions as you may think
expedient. Only they must leave. You understand, they must leave
to-day.”
Anthony rose stiffly.
“I’m afraid, sir,” he said, “that I must decline the responsibility. The
reasons which made me leave Luttrell Marches make it impossible for me
to return there.”
“I see,” said Piggy. He picked up a piece of indiarubber, and occupied
himself for about a minute and a half in endeavouring to balance it upon
the edge of a handsome brass inkstand with an inscription on it. When
the indiarubber fell into the ink with a splash he fished it out, using
a pen with a sharp nib as a gaff, dried it carefully on a new sheet of
white blotting-paper, and turned again to Anthony.
“I’d like just to put a hypothetical case to you,” he said. “Government
puts a certain very important and confidential piece of work into the
hands of an eminent man, a man of European reputation and unblemished
probity. Evidence comes to hand of things entirely incompatible with the
secrecy and other conditions which were an honourable obligation. Worse
suspicions of illegality and conspiracy. Cumulative evidence. Arrests. A
public trial. Now, my dear Luttrell, can you tell me what would happen
to the Government which had displayed such incompetence as, first, to
commit a vital undertaking to a person capable of betraying it; and
second, of permitting the consequent scandal to become public property
in such a manner as to make this country a laughing-stock in the eyes of
the world? It’s not a question that requires a great deal of answering,
is it?”
“Sir William is not involved,” said Anthony harshly.
“My dear Luttrell, I was putting a hypothetical case. But if you wish to
talk without camouflage I will do so—for five minutes. I will do so
because I consider that the situation is one of the most serious which I
have ever had to deal with. Sir William is not involved, but Sir William
has become incompetent to control his household and incapable of
perceiving that a dangerous conspiracy is being carried on under his
roof. It’s not only the matter of the stolen formula. Your report of a
hidden laboratory certainly tends to corroborate the very grave
allegations made by Miss Molloy. A situation so entirely serious
justifies me in demanding the sacrifice of your personal feelings and
inclinations. I repeat, Lady Heritage and Miss Molloy must leave
Luttrell Marches to-day. I don’t care what inducements you use. They
must leave. I believe you can get them to leave. I don’t believe any one
else can. I am detaining Sir William in town—it was not difficult to do
so. What more natural than that his daughter should join him. My wife is
expecting Miss Smith to pay us a visit. There must be no delay of any
kind. You understand, Luttrell?”
There was a short tense pause.
Anthony stood as he had been standing during all the time that Sir
Julian talked. He looked moodily out of the window. Now and then his
face twitched, now and then he moved his hands with a sort of jerk. At
last he said in a constrained voice:
“I—understand.”
“Very well,” said Piggy briskly. “Then you’d better be off. From the
fact that you have shaved and returned to civilised raiment, I imagine
that George Patterson is now obsolete, and that Mr. Luttrell has ceased
to be a corpse in some unknown grave?”
“Yes, I’ve come back.” A pause—then, “Sir Julian—this—this duty is
particularly unwelcome. If I undertake it, will you send me abroad again
as soon as possible? England is distasteful, impossible—but, of course,
I realise that I couldn’t go on being dead—there are too many legal
complications, and it wasn’t fair on Henry.”
“Henry,” observed Piggy, “was becoming the object of most particular
attentions from matchmaking mammas. My wife informs me that his stock
has been very high for some months past. Gilt-edged, in fact. I’m afraid
there will be a slump as soon as your resurrection is established.
Henry, I think, will bear up. Well now, about sending you abroad—I can’t
say for certain, but I rather think it could be managed, if you still
wish it, you know. I wouldn’t be in a hurry, if I were you, Luttrell,
about going abroad, but as to the matter in hand—well, hurry is the
word. You’ll find a car outside with Inspector Davison. Take him along.
I hope he won’t be needed, but—well—take him along.”