The last impression left upon Gerard Buckland’s mind as he went down
the drive with Arthur Aldington after they had taken leave of the
American family at the Priory, was that of a party of good-humored,
unpretending, easy-mannered people, anxious to enjoy life and to make
those around them enjoy it also.
The group on the door step of the old Elizabethan mansion, as seen
partly in the moonlight and partly in the electric light which streamed
through the open door of the house, was a striking and a charming one.
In the foreground stood the two brothers, Harry, tall, thin, solemn,
and perhaps rather unprepossessing but not at all behind the rest of
the family in the warmth of his invitation to the departing guests to
come again.
Denver, the younger, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced, the embodiment
of good humor, perhaps rather addicted to his national vice of
boastfulness, but on the whole too unaffected and straightforward in
manner to be other than pleasing.
Mrs. Van Santen, the picture of gentle good nature and simplicity,
was just behind her sons, with a hand on the shoulder of the younger,
who stood on the step below her. Her gentle voice could be heard but
faintly as she wished her guests good-bye; but the gracious, homely
figure was good to look upon, forming as it did a strong amusing
contrast to the elegance of her daughters, and to the luxury of the
house in which they lived.
The daughters were, perhaps, the figures that remained the longest in
the minds of the departing guests. After the manner of young American
women, they were so amusing, so vivacious, and withal so quiet in their
manners, making their mark rather by quickness of intellect than by
loudness of voice, that it was impossible to think of them without
recalling the pleasure their accomplishments and graces had given.
Delia, the elder, was the perfection of grace, and wore her plainly
made but well-chosen clothes with a distinction which a princess might
have envied. Without being very handsome, she was so lively, so full of
repartee and resource in argument, and so active and alert in passing
from group to group among her mother’s guests, assuring herself that
all were enjoying themselves, and that they were in congenial society,
that she might have been called the leading spirit of the family, and
was undoubtedly the pivot on which their social scheme turned.
She it was who knew when to take a guest, sore over his losses at
poker, into the garden to enjoy conversation under the trees in the
soothing society of the old lady, or into the music-room to be coaxed
back into good humor by the sweet singing of her sister Cora.
As for Cora, her musical gifts never failed to evoke the remark that it
was a pity she was not a professional singer, for such rare sweetness
of voice as she possessed ought to have been given to a wider circle
than any amateur can appeal to.
But when anyone said this, the brothers would look rather offended,
and would say shortly that it might have been all very well for Cora
if she had been poor, to earn her living on the concert platform, but
that they could never think of allowing their sister, who had and
would always have, every luxury she could wish for provided for her,
to appear in public. If her voice was charming, let her use it for the
pleasure of her friends.
Personally, then, Gerard had no fault to find with any of the family.
He might like some members of it better than the others, he might
disapprove of the tastes and habits which seemed to him to indicate
both want of consideration for their visitors and lack of those
qualities which make men lifelong friends. To spend so many hours at
cards was revolting to the young Englishman, and his principles and
prejudices alike made the spending of Sunday in this manner distasteful
to him.
But this alone would have roused in him no suspicion that there was
anything wrong about these hospitable strangers. Many an English
household that he knew of spent Sunday in much the same way, and
incurred no suspicion of there being anything worse than a tendency to
dissipation on the part of its members.
Racing ladies like Lady Sylvia and the Marchioness were known to play
bridge on most days, and yet they were not “cut” by their acquaintances
and friends.
It was the fact that he had met Rachel Davison at the Priory which
filled Gerard with disquietude. For, whatever might be the truth about
her, it was undeniable that he had so far never failed to find her
connected in some more or less close way with things that had been
better undone.
The incident in the crowd on the night of the ball; the affair at the
stores; her deceit towards her mother and Lady Jennings; all these
things combined to make it impossible to see in this fresh phase of
Rachel’s existence anything but some new form of trickery or ugly
mystery.
To have seen her sit down to play cards with these Americans,
therefore, would alone have made him curious concerning them; but,
coupled with the fact that both she and the Van Santens had pretended
not to know the man Jones, her playing became at once suggestive to
Gerard’s unwilling mind of something being wrong with the play.
What he would have passed without remark at any other time, therefore,
now became a source of disturbance and uneasiness to him; and instead
of taking for granted that Denver’s estimate of his gains that day was
correct, he made a little sum for himself, based on what he had heard,
in answer to his inquiries, concerning the luck of the rest of the
card-players.
And the result of his calculations was to find that, instead of
Denver’s having won twenty-six pounds, which was his own rough estimate
of his winnings, he must have netted at least two hundred pounds.
From this calculation it was easy to go on to others; and to say that,
if Denver played poker once a week only, and if he were always as lucky
and as skillful as he had shown himself that day, then his annual
income derived from the cards alone must be something approaching ten
thousand pounds.
Of course he had no possible means of knowing whether Denver did play
poker every Sunday; and whether he invariably won at it; but, taking
the facts that he knew in conjunction with Miss Davison’s presence, and
with the singular fact that she and the others pretended not to know
Jones, who was clearly acting as a decoy, it seemed to Gerard terribly
difficult to get away from the conclusion that something was wrong
in the pleasant and hospitable household, and that Rachel Davison was
mixed up in it.
And now she had deliberately told him a lie! He tried in vain to avoid
coming to this conclusion, but in the face of her denial that Cecil
Jones was identical with the man he had seen in her company more than
once, he could not believe her. Although to-day was the first occasion
on which he had seen the young man’s face, Gerard had so carefully made
a mental note of his figure and gait, that he was sure he could not be
mistaken.
Arthur Aldington, who was his own chauffeur, was driving slowly and
carefully down the drive when suddenly he stopped the motor-car, and
looking out into the road towards which he was going, said--
“By Jove! There’s a breakdown, and it’s Sir William Gurdon’s big car in
difficulties, I believe.”
Gerard jumped out and went down the drive to the gate, which had been
left open.
Looking down the road he saw that Arthur was right: the big, handsome
car which had brought the baronet over from his Thames-side villa was
blocking the road, and beside it were three persons: Sir William, his
chauffeur, and Cecil Jones, whom the baronet had offered to take back
to town with him, which he could easily do, as he proposed to spend the
night in the city himself.
Gerard went back to Arthur, told him he was right, and jumping into
the car again, turned and said--
“Sir William’s got that fellow Jones with him.”
Arthur had not yet started the car, and he said in a low voice--
“I don’t like the look of Jones. He’s such an awful ass! I don’t want
to have to take him with us.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose we shall have to do that. We don’t know what’s
wrong. Something very trifling, perhaps.”
Still Arthur hesitated. He was in a very ill humor, on account of his
losses.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter to him how much money he loses,” he said,
in a grumbling tone; “he looks that sort of chap, doesn’t he?”
Gerard hesitated. He had in his mind the notion that Cecil Jones,
simple as he looked and sillily as he spoke, was not quite the innocent
jay he appeared. But yet he did not want to betray a suspicion of these
new friends of Rachel Davison’s until he was quite sure about them.
“Did he lose much?” asked Gerard, instead of replying to his friend’s
question.
“I don’t quite know. I saw a good deal of gold flying about, and he
said, with that sheepish smile of his, that he’d been cleaned out. I
wonder Miss Davison cares to stay with people who play cards all day on
Sunday!”
“Well, it surprised me to see her playing, too,” admitted Gerard.
“Yes. I shan’t say anything about that at home. Mother would be awfully
disgusted. And I can’t say I quite like it myself; and I know I don’t
like losing so much as I did.”
“Why did you go on playing, then?”
“Oh, you know one can’t help oneself. These people are rich, and they
don’t consider that other pockets are not all as deep as their own.”
“Are they really so rich?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I know everybody in America is called a millionaire
if he has a little money put by. But the father, old Van Santen, really
is a very rich man, as I happen to know, and a man with a decent
character, as rich men’s characters go out there. He’s expected over
here every day, and I fancy he’ll be rather surprised, if all I hear
about his rather straight-laced views is correct, at the way in which
his quiet family has transformed itself into a remarkably lively one.
Denver says they’ve all been kept in with too tight a hand, and that
now they have to make up for it.”
“I don’t quite understand that fellow,” said Gerard. “He’s not
consistent. I heard him telling Sir William that he sometimes lost at
poker to beginners at the game. But then, later, he was boasting that
he could beat any poker-player in England.”
“I don’t believe,” said Arthur viciously, “that he plays merely for the
pleasure of the game, as he says. I believe he’s trying to make a pile
for himself, in case his father, when he turns up, should object to the
way they’ve been going on, and cut off supplies.”
This was a good suggestion, and Gerard muttered, “By Jove!”
“Of course I don’t mean to suggest,” went on Arthur hastily, “that
there’s anything fishy about his play. Only that he isn’t indifferent
to what he makes by it.”
“I think that too,” assented Gerard.
“But pray don’t say I made any suggestion of the sort,” added Arthur.
“I shouldn’t like the girls to hear that I had said anything they
wouldn’t like to hear about their brother. And indeed I don’t know
that I have any right to say what I did to you; but I’m rather sore at
having been fool enough to lose more money than I can afford.”
“Of course,” suggested Gerard tentatively, “if you suspect the one you
must suspect the rest, and surely you don’t think the ladies--”
Arthur interrupted quite fiercely.
“I don’t suspect anybody. I never said such a thing,” he said
irritably. “Of course it’s all right. But what I meant was that I don’t
like American men and their ways and habits and tastes, so well as I
like the feminine part of the nation. The daughters are charming,
perfectly charming, and the old lady is quite a treat in her refreshing
innocence. The sight of that quaint New England--it is New England,
isn’t it, that the quaint old figures come from?--New England figure
among all those smart young modern men and women, is something one
can’t forget.”
“You’re quite right,” said Gerard enthusiastically. “She’s an old dear,
with her skimpy little shawl, and what I’m sure she would call her best
taffety petticoat.”
The two young men laughed, and, as there was no sign of a forward
movement in the big car, Arthur started his motor, and soon arrived at
the spot where the group stood round the disabled machine.
“Hallo! A breakdown! Anything we can do?” asked Arthur, as he stopped
and got down.
Sir William was not at all pleased at his mishap, and he answered
rather shortly that there was nothing much the matter, and that if the
small car were to go on, he would soon overtake it.
The artless-looking Cecil Jones was smoking a cigarette with the same
placid smile on his face which had irritated Arthur Aldington at the
card-table. He made weak suggestions as to the cause of the mishap, and
was treated by the others as a person who did not count.
Gerard, however, who had reason to suspect that he was not quite so
simple as he pretended to be, went up to him, and, seizing a moment
when the others were all bending down to look into the machinery of the
disabled car, said--
“I think I’ve met you before, Mr. Jones, and I’m trying to remember
where it was.”
The young man turned, with his sheepish smile on his face.
“Have you?” he said. “I don’t remember you. Where was it we met?”
Gerard felt irritated and angry. He knew that this man was either a
swindler who was working with Miss Davison in the dubious paths he
suspected, or else that he was a man who was desperately in love with
her, and whom she had twisted round her little finger, so that he did
what she told him to without question, if not without suspicion.
To judge by his silly face, this latter was the more likely supposition
of the two.
Gerard tried to take him by surprise.
“Was it outside Lord Chislehurst’s house, on the night of the great
ball he gave a year ago?” he asked sharply.
But there was no sign of confusion or intelligence on Cecil Jones’ face.
“Lord Chislehurst’s!” he echoed stupidly. “A year ago! I don’t know
where Lord Chislehurst’s is. And I don’t think I was in England a year
ago.”
Frustrated, Gerard decided to make a fresh attempt to take him by
surprise.
“I daresay I’m wrong,” he said. “I’m not very good at remembering
faces. But you do remind me of a man I met a few days ago, coming out
of a police-station.”
The words could be taken as insulting, but Cecil Jones was impervious
to insult.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a police-station,” he said simply.
“Not with Miss Davison?”
Cecil Jones turned round so that he could stare blankly into his
questioner’s face.
“Miss Davison!” echoed he. “Do you mean the lady I was introduced to
to-night?”
“Yes,” said Gerard shortly.
A broad stupid smile spread over the young man’s plump face.
“Fancy thinking I should meet a smart lady like that in a
police-station!” he said buoyantly. “It sounds like the game of
consequences. ‘Where they met’--‘In a police-station.’ ‘What they were
doing’--‘Picking pockets!’”
And he burst into such a long and silly laugh that Gerard, irritated
almost beyond endurance, did not dare to go on with his questions, for
fear of drawing down upon them the attention of the others, who turned
round to see what was the matter.
But Gerard was more convinced than ever that this innocent-looking
young man was a person to be watched; and, resolved to see what became
of him that night, he found an opportunity of asking Sir William where
he was going to set his companion down.
The baronet named a well-known sporting club.
Arthur Aldington was calling Gerard to get into his car, and in a few
minutes they were on the road again.
Gerard had made his plans, and, as his friend had offered to take him
back to his chambers in town, he could reckon upon being in time for
what he wanted to do, if only the big car were delayed sufficiently to
give the little one a good start.
Things turned out as he wished. He and Arthur got to town before Sir
William; and Gerard went straight to the neighborhood of the club where
Cecil Jones was to be set down, and was able to conceal himself in the
entrance of a block of flats on the opposite side of the road.
Here he waited for nearly half an hour, afraid he had missed his man.
At last, however, he saw Sir William Gurdon’s big motor-car coming up
the street, and a few moments later it stopped at the door of the club,
and Cecil Jones got out, shook hands with Sir William, and went into
the building.
The motor-car drove away, and Gerard remained on the watch. Not for
more than half an hour, for at the end of that time Cecil Jones came
out of the club building, and hailing a hansom, got in and drove off,
giving a direction to the cabman which Gerard could not hear.
But he was far too much interested in what became of Jones to let the
matter rest like that. So he hailed a hansom in his turn, told the
driver to follow the vehicle before him, and continued the chase until
Jones’ hansom stopped in one of the streets off Charing Cross Road.
Here Cecil Jones got out, paid the cabman, and disappeared from sight
most mysteriously.
Although Gerard was watching keenly, he was unable to tell exactly
at what point his quarry had disappeared. The street was rather dark
at this point, and there was a court, as well as the openings into
doorways, to be examined.
Cecil Jones’ hansom drove away, and Gerard paid his own cabman and
got down to continue his pursuit on foot, but in vain. Jones had
disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.
Gerard looked upon this circumstance as not merely suspicious, but as
confirming his own belief that Jones, instead of being the innocent and
mild-eyed victim of expert gamesters that he had pretended to be, was
really a confederate of these Americans, if they were swindlers, or a
swindler who intended, in the future, to make money out of the boastful
Denver, and who began by posing as a harmless dupe or beginner, in
order to take the American off his guard.
Gerard did not think the Van Santens were cheats; their father being a
man of good repute, as well as of great wealth, it was scarcely likely,
even if his sons had turned out loose-principled, that they would take
to dubious courses which would endanger their position in society. The
sons of such a woman as the gentle Mrs. Van Santen, too, were scarcely
the sort of persons to be accused of deliberate fraud.
But that the younger made money by his card-playing, and that he
boasted of the fact was obvious; and Gerard thought that such a man
might very easily become the prey of a clever card-sharper, who might
begin by passing himself off as a bungling novice, and end by making
considerable sums out of the swaggering American.
This was the view he was most inclined to take. Not for one moment
did he believe that the mild-eyed Jones was really a victim: he was
confident that he had been with Miss Davison on the occasion of the
shop-lifting, and he began now to ask himself whether he were not the
very man to whom he had seen her handing the flashing ornament on the
night of Lord Chislehurst’s ball.
Perhaps they were both under the influence of the man in the white
mustache. Or perhaps--but this he scarcely believed possible--Cecil
Jones was no other than the military-looking man under a disguise.
As this last suggestion came into his mind, Gerard tried to recall the
voice of the white-haired man, whom he had heard utter a few words to
Miss Davison before parting with her at the station.
But on that occasion it was Rachel who had spoken clearly enough to be
heard, while the man had so subdued his voice that Gerard could just
hear him speaking, without being able to make out what he said. Such
a remembrance as he retained therefore of the sound of the elderly
gentleman’s voice Gerard could not rely upon as a help in his present
difficulty.
One thing, and one thing only he was quite sure of, Cecil Jones,
instead of being the dupe he pretended to be, was a swindler, and a
very artful one. Nothing else would explain his conduct adequately.
Only a swindler, or a man used to the arts of concealment, would have
contrived so often to be seen without being well seen. Only a man who
had something to conceal would have affected not to know Miss Davison,
when, as a matter of fact, he must be on terms of old acquaintance
with her. And only a very clever man could have succeeded so well in
feigning absolute stupidity over the cards as he had done.
Last and most important thing of all, Gerard was convinced that,
carefully as he had concealed himself while watching Jones, that astute
person must have seen him and must have laid his plans well in order to
throw his pursuer off the track.
Sick at heart, and not knowing whether he now hated Miss Davison for
her duplicity and her obvious association with undesirable persons,
or whether he retained his old longing to believe in her in spite of
everything, Gerard went back to his rooms.
He went to sleep that night upon a firm resolve to have no more to do
with Rachel Davison if he could help it; not to put himself in her way
again, and not to visit Lady Jennings until that lady had forgotten her
late friend and protégée, and interested herself in someone else.