“Jack? Oh--well, Jack’s Jack; he’s the one that Lucille is really in
love with, and every one approves of. They are engaged, and were to be
married this year; but now, of course, it’s impossible to say.
Sometimes Lucille is rather trying; it can’t be expected that Jack is
to put up with everything; so when he told her, as far as I can make
out, quite politely, that he really couldn’t, Lucille declared that
she would never speak to him again--and that’s how the trouble began.
She started encouraging George Ratton, who may be fond of her, but I’m
nearly sure is fonder still of her money--she’s got some now and will
have a great deal more. Everybody says how frightfully hard up George
is, and anyhow he’s not a very nice person, or he would not induce her
to gamble and bet as he does--but when I told her so, she quarrelled
with me, so that I had half a mind to wire to Mrs. Cotterill to come
back again. She has always been mad to go to one of these palmist
people, but both mamma and papa have forbidden her. Of course, every
one is full of Isolda; we know lots of people who have been to him,
and George Ratton so cracked him up, that nothing would satisfy her
but that she should go. Just as she was starting there came your
telephone message. How did you find out those things you told her?”
I explained. The excitable child broke into rhapsodies, as if I were
some extraordinary person.
“Oh, how wonderful! Oh, how I should like to be you! How lovely it
must be to be able to tell what people are saying.”
I cut her short. “There are one or two matters which require my
attention; would you mind telling me what has happened to Lucille?”
“I was getting to it. When she came back from Isolda she was as mad as
a hatter; she can fire up when she likes, and there must have been
quite a scene. This is Thursday. On Tuesday morning she had a wire
from Jack Upcott, telling her he had been frightfully unhappy, begging
her to forgive him, entreating her to meet him, of all places of the
world, in Richmond Park. ‘Why Richmond Park?’ I said when she showed
me the telegram. ‘How can I tell?’ she answered. ‘Perhaps because it’s
the loneliest place round London. I think it’s quite a good idea of
his. We can spend the day in the park, have dinner somewhere, and then
drive back to London in the moonlight.’ ‘There doesn’t happen to be a
moon just now,’ I said. ‘Oh, of course you are frightfully literal,’
she snapped, and off she bounced.”
“There may be a very simple explanation; she may be staying with Mr.
Upcott’s friends; there must be lots of persons who would be willing
to have her as a guest.”
“Of course there are--that’s just what I thought she was doing, though
I thought it jolly mean of her to leave me all alone in the house
after the plans we had made; but last night there came a letter for
her in Jack Upcott’s handwriting, postmarked Nice. It seemed queer
that he should be writing to her from Nice on the same day on which he
had been telegraphing in town asking her to meet him in Richmond Park.
I hesitated, and hesitated, and hesitated; then at last I opened the
envelope; then I saw at once that somewhere there must be something
wrong. It was just a short note to say that since she didn’t want him
in London, he thought he had better try Nice for a change, and that
when she did want him she had only to send a wire and he would return
at once; I expect that if Lucille had opened the envelope herself
she’d have first of all been madder than ever, and then afterwards
sent him a wire. One thing was clear--he couldn’t be in two places at
once; I didn’t sleep a wink all night, wondering where Lucille was,
and what it all meant. This morning, while I was having breakfast in
bed, some one came with one of Lucille’s visiting-cards, and said that
she had sent him for the desk which stood on her writing-table, her
jewel-case, and her dressing-bag. I said I would be down as soon as I
could to see the messenger, but when I did get down, he was gone.
Tomkins says that he was quite a respectable-looking person, in a
light overcoat and a grey felt hat; but evidently he had not courage
enough to wait and see me. Here is the visiting-card he brought.”
As I looked at the card she handed me I saw that there were three
lines pencilled on the back in very minute writing. “Desk on
writing-table. Jewel-case in drawer. Dressing-bag in wardrobe.”
“Is this your sister’s handwriting?”
“Not the least bit like it--she writes a great, big, sprawly hand.
I’ve never seen that writing before; I’m sure I should remember if I
had, it is so very tiny. Who can that man have been who brought the
card? Where can he have got it? What did he want those things of hers
for? Why didn’t he wait for them?”
“I fancy that the answer to your two last questions is pretty obvious.
What was she wearing when she went out on Tuesday?” The girl gave me a
long and minute description. “How did she propose to get to Richmond,
and whereabout in the park was the meeting to take place?”
“They were to meet at the gate on Richmond Hill, and she dashed off
without giving me the faintest notion of how she was going to get
there.”
“When do you say your parents are returning?”
“To-morrow; if Lucille isn’t back before they arrive there will not
only be a frightful rumpus, but they will probably find out all sorts
of things that will put us into their black books for ages to come; I
tell you we’ve behaved like a pair of perfect idiots.”
That at least was clear enough; I only hoped that nothing worse would
come of their folly than what she called a “frightful rumpus.” I went
up to a large photograph of a very pretty girl which stood on the
mantelshelf.
“That’s Lucille,” the girl informed me. “How odd that you should know
so much about her and yet have never seen her. She’s tremendously
pretty--very, very fair; her hair is almost white--and shines. When
it’s parted in the middle she looks a perfect saint, as if butter
would never melt in her mouth--but it does. She says that she’s as
full of life as a kitten; and I tell her, and also of mischief; then
she tries to scratch me. But, truly, she’s a real good sort, and if
you only stroke her the right way there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for
anyone.”
The girl was perhaps a trifle incoherent; but she gave me a pretty
clear idea of the person in the photograph.
“Obviously, the first thing we have to do is to find out where your
sister is,” I told her as I went. “I promise nothing, but I think it’s
possible that I may be able to do that before very long--in time to
permit of her reappearance before Mr. and Mrs. Godwin return
to-morrow; though, mind you, I don’t hesitate in saying that I think
it’s quite possible that you both deserve that ‘frightful rumpus’ of
which you spoke.”
She put her head on one side, like some dainty bird, and gleamed at
me--as a bird might have done.
“Are you quite sure that you never did anything that you oughtn’t to
have done, and that you never felt how lovely it was to do it? I
believe that the very best and wisest people sometimes feel that
they’ve got to do what they ought not; I know that Lucille and I do.
Don’t you?”
I left her question unanswered--and I went to lunch at the King’s
Restaurant. I gathered, from certain trifles, which I had noticed on
the preceding Friday, that this was the place at which Mr. George
Ratton, the short, square, red-cheeked, blue-eyed young man, made it
his custom to lunch; not only had he seemed familiar with the staff,
but he had not paid his bill--as though he kept a running account. I
thought it just possible that he might lunch there again on that
Thursday morning. I had not been seated five minutes before he came
in--going straight to a table which was evidently reserved for him,
and which was not quite so well in my line of sight as I might have
wished. Other tables were in the way, so that I could only see him
clearly when he was in certain positions. It struck me that he looked
worried, and that it was with an effort he smiled as he nodded to
various acquaintances who were possibly, like himself, habitués.
Nothing happened, except that food and drink were brought to him,
which he seemed to enjoy. As both his meal and my own drew towards a
conclusion, I was considering what steps I ought to take to obtain
from him certain information which I required. Should I accost him
there? or should I allow him to leave and address him in the street? I
had still not made up my mind upon the point, when a person whom I had
already noticed moved towards the table at which he was seated.
This person looked as if he might be an actor--a comedian for choice.
He was of barrel-like proportions; a small, almost bald head, shaped
like a Gouda cheese, and nearly of the same colour, was set on a
short, thick neck, as a climax to his enormous body. His attire was
striking. The ends of a bright blue necktie, tied in one of those
flamboyant bows which are dear to a certain type of French student,
flowed loosely over an extensive shirt front, which was of another
shade of blue. He carried a wide-brimmed straw hat in his hand, and as
he approached Mr. Ratton he waved it at him as a sort of salute. He
stood where I could see him clearly--there was no mistaking what he
said.
“Excuse me, sir, but might I have a word with you? I believe you are
Mr. Ratton--George Ratton.”
There was something flamboyant in the words he chose, in the way he
pronounced them; if he was not an actor, he ought to have been. Mr.
Ratton seemed to eye him rather askance.
“My name is Ratton, sir; but I have not the pleasure, I think, of
knowing you.”
“No, sir--yet I know you; more persons know Tom Fool than Tom Fool
knows; no personal allusion intended.” Mr. Ratton coloured up as if he
thought the allusion very personal indeed. The stranger, resting both
hands on the end of the table, addressed him in what I presume he
meant to be a confidential whisper. “I came here, Mr. Ratton, in the
express hope of seeing you; I have something to say to you which, I
venture to assert, you will not only find interesting and important,
but also to your advantage--possibly, very much to your advantage.”
“What may that something be? May I ask your name?”
“My name does not matter, sir--no, it does not matter.” The speaker
made a movement with his hat as if to signify how little it did
matter. “With your permission, sir, I will take a seat.”
When he did sit down, without, so far as I could judge, having
permission accorded him, I had to move my seat in order to get
anything like a satisfactory sight both of Mr. Ratton and of him. This
took some seconds, and I had to pick up the conversation at a point
which necessitated my guessing at what had been already said. The
stranger was leaning right over the table, and Mr. Ratton was still
very red, as if he resented his words and manner and his appearance
altogether. The barrel-like man was saying, with what, no doubt, were
bland, unctuous, softened tones:
“He was naturally hurt by the feeling that you had sold him.”
I fancy Mr. Ratton’s tones were considerably louder, and were
certainly less bland.
“I told him, and I tell you, that I won’t have it said that I sold
him; I’ll allow no one to say it.”
“You tell him what to say to the young lady, then you tell the young
lady what you said to him--what is the inference one draws? In
consequence he is placed in an extremely unprofessional position--by
you.”
Mr. Ratton seemed to be growing momentarily redder in the face.
“What he meant, and what you mean by saying that I said a single word
to the young lady is beyond me altogether; I told him it was a lie--I
don’t know who you are, but I tell you the same.”
The stranger gave a little movement of his hand, as if deprecating the
other’s warmth; he seemed calm enough.
“However that may be, he was placed in an unprofessional position--by
some one--the fact remains. The young lady as good as told him he was
a humbug. No man in his position cares to be spoken to like that,
especially by a client on whom he had every reason to believe he was
about to make a profound impression. No one, I am sure, can exaggerate
the pain the whole affair has caused him--it touched him on his
tenderest spot. He vowed he would be even with you both--for his
reputation’s sake. The consequence is that the young lady has
disappeared.”
“Disappeared? What the devil do you mean?”
Mr. Ratton not only raised his voice, he half rose from his chair; the
lunchers looked round at him. The stranger was the soul of suavity.
“Gently, Mr. Ratton, gently. If your feelings are likely to be too
much for you, had we not better continue our conversation outside?”
Mr. Ratton sat down, apparently conscious that he had allowed his
feelings too much play.
“What do you mean by telling me that the young lady has disappeared?”
The big man, touching the tips of his fingers together, moved them
softly to and fro.
“The young lady has disappeared. That, Mr. Ratton, is what I mean.”
“If he has been playing any of his hanky-panky tricks with her I’ll
wring his long-drawn-out neck; that to begin with.”
“I cannot, of course, say if her disappearance has any connection with
the injury which was done to his feelings, but--it is at least a
coincidence.”
“If you don’t tell me what you mean in plain English----”
“Now you’re getting warm again. Had we not better continue our talk
outside, where there is no risk of your making a scene?”
Not only the people who were lunching, but the staff of the
restaurant, were taking rather marked interest in the proceedings of
that little table. Mr. Ratton’s agitation was obvious; one felt that
it was as much as he could do to keep himself from throwing a bottle
at the big man’s head. He had realized that that was not the place in
which to indulge in amusements of that kind. He got up from his chair.
“You’re quite right; we had better have this talk outside; so perhaps
you’ll be so good as to come outside at once.”
The other seemed less eager.
“If you’ll be so good as to sit down again.”
“I prefer that we should go outside. We don’t want to have a row in
here.”
“Why should there be what you describe as a ‘row’? My dear sir, I come
with an olive branch, not a sword. I believe that the dearest wish of
your life is to marry this young lady. Very well, I’m as good as
authorized to say that opportunity can be afforded you to marry her at
once.”
Mr. Ratton eyed the speaker in a very curious way, as if he heard what
he said with emotions which were too strong for expression. He
declined the other’s invitation to resume his seat, but stood with his
hands on the back of a chair, as if he might be moved at any moment to
use it as a weapon of defence.
“I can’t talk about that sort of thing in here. I don’t know who you
are; but whoever you are, you will be so good as to come to my rooms
and I’ll talk to you there.”
“Nothing could give me greater pleasure, Mr. Ratton, than to come to
your rooms. There we shall be able to arrive at an understanding of
the most cordial kind, in a very brief space of time.--After you, Mr.
Ratton, after you.”
Mr. Ratton led the way across the restaurant, looking like a very
excited country gentleman; the barrel-shaped man followed, apparently
enjoying to the full a delicious piece of comedy. I watched them go in
a rather uncertain frame of mind; their precipitance was unexpected.
I hardly knew whether to remain where I was or to follow them. A
moment’s consideration--and I remained. Instead of hurrying away, I
took my time over what remained of my luncheon. I was putting two and
two together after a fashion of my own; the more I reflected, the less
hazy the situation became. If my inferences were right, I ought to be
able to treat these gentlemen to another act in the comedy which the
barrel-shaped man seemed to be enjoying.
To begin with, I sent a telegram to Miss May Godwin as follows: “I am
coming to dine with your sister and you to-night. Trust that eight
o’clock will be convenient.--Judith Lee.” Then I summoned the head
waiter.
“Do you know a palmist who calls himself Isolda?”
The man smiled benignantly; I fancy he thought he saw something in my
words which was not there.
“Very well indeed, madam; he’s one of our regular customers.”
“Do you know where he lives? I thought you might be able to tell me.”
“As to where he lives, that I do not know; but the address at which he
receives clients, that I do know; I will write it down for madam.”
He wrote it down. Isolda’s studio, as he called it--there are studios
of so many different kinds--was in Bond Street; that popular resort of
curious characters. At a quarter to four I paid him a call. His
“studio” was, it seemed, on the first floor; at the top of a rather
steep flight of stairs was a door painted black; near the top, on the
right-hand corner, in small red letters, was the word “Isolda.” I
knocked. The door was almost instantly opened by a youngish man. I
entered without waiting for the invitation which something in his
manner suggested that I might not have received. He eyed me askance.
“What is your business, madam?”
I did not answer; I was looking about me. I was in a sort of
ante-room, apparently the young man’s own quarters. On some pegs in a
corner were a grey felt hat and a light grey overcoat; their presence
gave me the clue I wanted. He repeated his question, it struck me,
rather surlily.
“I asked, madam, what your business was.”
“I wish to see Mr. Isolda.”
“Has madam an appointment?”
“I have not.”
“Then it is impossible that madam can see him. Mr. Isolda only sees
clients by appointment made several days ahead.”
“Is that so? I rather fancy that he will make an exception in my case.
I am going to see Mr. Isolda now.”
The man seemed doubtful, as if he did not know what to make of me.
“I assure madam that it is impossible. Mr. Isolda only sees clients
who have no appointment under very special circumstances for a very
special fee.”
“Mr. Isolda will see me without any fee at all.”
The young man sought in another direction for an explanation for what
clearly struck him as my peculiar manner.
“Perhaps madam is a friend of Mr. Isolda?”
“I am not--thank goodness! I am very much the other way. Young man!”
He started at the tone in which I said “Young man.” He was probably
older than I was. “Madam!” he exclaimed, as if about to remonstrate
with my inclination towards over-familiarity. I allowed him to go no
further.
“This morning,” I told him, “you called at a house in Hyde Park Gate,
and you endeavoured to obtain, by false pretences, a writing-desk, a
jewel-case, and a dressing-bag. Is there any reason why I should not
at once give you into the custody of the police?”
The change which took place in that young man’s manner; all at once he
seemed to go at the knees, as if a couple of inches had gone from his
stature.
“I--I--I think you are making a mistake,” he stammered. Apparently he
was under the impression that he had to say something, and as he did
not know what to say he said that.
“Oh no, I’m not, as you’re perfectly well aware. Let me give you a
piece of information; it is not impossible that the police will be
here in a few minutes, on business with which you are not immediately
concerned. If you are on the premises when they arrive you will
certainly be arrested with your principal, and unpleasantness will
probably follow. If you prefer not to be found on the premises you can
take yourself off. You are the best judge of which course you prefer.”
He looked about him like a rat which seeks a way out of a trap;
glanced towards the door at the other side of the room. “No, you can’t
give Mr. Isolda warning. If you don’t want to be found, you’ll make
yourself scarce inside of thirty seconds, by my watch.”
When he saw how I regarded it, he went straight to those pegs, took
down the grey felt hat and the grey overcoat; put the hat on his head,
the coat over his arm, and, without even so much as a word, went
hurriedly out of the door through which he had admitted me; still
another illustration of how conscience can make a coward of a man.
Within ten seconds of his going through one door I crossed the room
and passed through another. It opened into a sort of passage way, on
either side of which were what I can only describe as cubicles,
screened by heavy curtains. I presume that in them expectant clients
waited until it pleased the great man to admit them to his presence.
At the farther end of this passage way a corridor branched off to the
right and left; there were doors in both directions. I stood still and
listened; voices were coming from a door on the left. I walked up to
it; turned the handle; ushered myself in.
I found myself in what Isolda probably intended to be a really
remarkable room; it struck me as rather worse than tawdry. What
appeared to be black velvet screened both the walls and ceiling; a
green carpet covered the floor; in the centre was a table covered with
a scarlet tablecloth; on this table was what seemed to be a large
solid glass sphere--I believe that in Isolda’s trade an article of
that kind is known as a “crystal.” There were odds and ends about the
room which were perhaps meant to be awe-inspiring, but which were
merely silly. There seemed to be no window to the room, which reeked
of what, perhaps, was some variety of incense; although it was broad
day outside, and the sun was shining, a single electric light flamed
in the ceiling.
Three men were the occupants of what seemed to me to be this stuffy
and extremely undesirable apartment--and as I stood there in the
doorway facing them, an excessively surprised three men they seemed to
be. One was the great Isolda himself, another was Mr. George Ratton,
and the third was the man with the barrel body and the cheese-shaped
head. They had, apparently, up to the moment of my entrance, been
engaged in an animated discussion, which my unlooked-for appearance,
in the middle of it, brought to a very awkward close. The great Isolda
was the first to speak.
“Who are you? and what do you want in here?”
He struck a bell which was on the scarlet-covered table.
“It’s no use your ringing that bell,” I informed him; “the tool whom
you sent to Hyde Park Gate this morning on a felonious errand has
deemed it discreet to fly from the wrath which is coming.”
My words seemed not only to add to their surprise but to confuse them.
The long man and the round man eyed each other as if in doubt what
this thing might be. Mr. Ratton said:
“Isolda, who is this young lady?”