They walked in silence down the drive, with that sinking of the heart
inevitable when a pleasant time comes suddenly to an end. But there
was more than this to trouble them both. The thoughts of the young men
were with the girls who had enchanted them. Arthur was pondering, with
the deepest pain, the terrible awakening he had had only a short time
before, from the dream that he had found a pearl among women, a very
queen of girls.
He had made up his mind to take courage, and to ask Cora to be his
wife, although he was afraid that his own prospects, good as they were,
might not seem golden enough to tempt the parents of the sweet-voiced
Cora to yield their consent to his wooing.
But of Cora herself he had entertained no doubts. And to find that
the charms which had fascinated him, the bright wit which had amused
him, had been merely part of the stock-in-trade of one of a party of
adventurers, bent on making a good thing out of British credulity while
their time of prosperity lasted, was such a shock that it left him
dazed, unable to think or to understand.
Gerard, on his side, though he was not suffering, like his friend, from
a great disillusion, was in a state of terrible anxiety.
Where was Rachel? Had she compromised herself with these adventurers?
And had she alone of them all had the cleverness to escape the net laid
for their feet by the police?
Or was she, as he thought much more probable, the accomplice of Cecil
Jones, and his assistant in bringing the Americans to justice?
Neither possibility was pleasant to contemplate. If she were one of the
friends of these Americans, even though she might extricate herself
from all suspicion of being concerned in their misdoings, she could not
fail to be dragged into a most unpleasant case, the publicity of which
might perhaps offend, if not alienate, her best friends.
If, on the other hand, as seemed much more probable, she should prove
to have been the accomplice of Cecil Jones, it was distasteful to
contemplate her having assisted in exposing the people who passed as
her friends and who gave her the shelter of their roof.
On the whole, therefore, it was in a state of considerable perplexity
and distress that Gerard accompanied his friend down the drive, and
turned into the road.
Both young men had come down by train, and it was towards the station
that they were wending their way, when they saw a little way in front
of them the bright lights of a motor-car.
Expecting to find that it and its occupants had some connection with
the police surprise at the Priory, Gerard and Arthur walked quickly up
to it and perceived that the man in a big overcoat, who was standing
beside it, was no other than Cecil Jones.
“Ah!” said he, making a gesture with his hand to stop them, “here he
comes!”
The young men, rather disconcerted, stopped and looked at him
aggressively. They felt that upon his shoulders lay the burden of the
brusque manner in which the crisis at the Priory had taken place.
“You are from Scotland Yard, I suppose?” said Gerard stiffly.
Jones nodded with a genial smile. But it was strange how that smile
of his, which used to seem so imbecile and irritating when they had
taken him for a fool, or an amiable decoy, seemed to have grown astute
and intelligent now that they knew him for what he was, a detective of
remarkably well developed histrionic powers and the keenest of keen
eyes.
Jones nodded.
Gerard glanced at the car, and Jones stepped back.
“There’s someone you know inside,” he said with a dry smile.
He was gently, mildly triumphant, satisfied with having brought off a
coup which would redound greatly to his credit.
Gerard guessed whom he should see as he stepped up to the side of the
car. And, just as he had expected, he saw Miss Davison inside, leaning
back in one corner, with her eyes closed, and a look of weariness that
was almost pain upon her handsome, pale face.
But it was the sight of the man seated beside her which caused Gerard
to utter an exclamation, and to look in stupefaction from Rachel to him
and from him to Cecil Jones.
For, sitting in the car beside Miss Davison, wrapped in a fur-lined
motor-coat and with a cap drawn well down over his eyes, was the
distinguished-looking man with the white mustache whom Gerard had been
accustomed to look upon as her evil genius.
“Let me introduce Mr. Buckland, Colonel,” said Cecil Jones, as he came
up to the side of the car and leaned upon the door.
But at the name Miss Davison sat up, and leaning towards the man by her
side, whispered loud enough for Gerard to hear--
“Oh, uncle, I may tell him now, may I not?”
Some inkling of the truth, the whole truth, was already beginning to
glimmer in Gerard’s brain, but he was not to know all just yet.
The man with the white mustache shook his head, whispered something
back, and then said aloud, holding out his hand to Gerard--
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Buckland. I’ve heard a great deal
about you from my niece. But I ought to introduce myself. My name is
Ormsby, Colonel Ormsby.”
Gerard could scarcely refrain from uttering a cry. For he had suddenly
remembered that the face of the man with the white mustache, which had
roused faint recollections which he could not fix in his mind, was that
of a certain gallant officer who had been made chief constable of one
of the large provincial towns, and who had distinguished himself not
many years before in an important criminal case which was still in the
public mind.
Further glimmerings as to Miss Davison’s position began to appear in
Gerard’s mind.
Meanwhile Cecil Jones had said a few words in a low voice to the
colonel, and raising his hat to the lady, had walked back towards the
Priory at a brisk pace, accompanied by another man who had remained
quietly in the background during the few minutes that this introduction
lasted.
The colonel asked the two young men whether they would go back to town,
and on receiving their thanks, he made way for them to enter the car,
which immediately started on its journey.
Very little was said by anybody until town was reached.
Miss Davison, who seemed thoroughly exhausted, scarcely opened her
eyes, but sat back in her corner, from time to time inhaling the
contents of a bottle of lavender salts which she held in her hand.
The colonel sat next to her, and Gerard on the outer side, while Arthur
Aldington occupied the seat beside the driver.
It was a very long time before Colonel Ormsby said anything about
the affair at the Priory. But just as they were driving through the
outskirts of London, and Miss Davison was rousing herself and putting
up her hands to rearrange her hat, he whispered in the young man’s ear--
“You’ve been present to-day at the capture of one of the most dangerous
card-sharping and blackmailing gangs in Europe. They’ll each get seven
years.”
“Blackmailing?” echoed Gerard, horrorstruck.
The colonel nodded.
“They hadn’t begun that game over here yet, but they wouldn’t have been
long in starting, if they hadn’t been laid by the heels. That old woman
is the author of more mischief than would suffice to keep half a dozen
criminal courts busy.”
Gerard uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“But the name--isn’t she Mrs. Van Santen?” he asked appalled.
“No. There is a Mrs. Van Santen, who lives in an out-of-the-way town
in the States, and whose husband has made his pile in railway stocks;
but she has nothing to do with them, nor have the other members of the
gang. Each has a different surname or, rather, a dozen.”
“And the women--the others?”
“I don’t know anything of the one who calls herself Delia; but there is
probably a history behind her good-looking mask. The other is a public
singer--married--”
“Married?” echoed Gerard.
“Yes--husband in America, or was. She may now be the wife of the man
who calls himself Harry Van Santen. He’s a precious scoundrel, the
worse of the two, if anything.”
Gerard was appalled. The thought that Miss Davison had been living
under the same roof with these dangerous criminals was terrible, and he
stammered out something of his thoughts.
The colonel glanced at him quickly, and nodded.
“Only a woman of the finest pluck and the most indomitable spirit could
have done it. The strain must have been tremendous,” he said. “However,
we couldn’t have brought things to a head without her help.”
“To play the spy--on the people who thought she was their friend!”
stammered Gerard.
“That’s not exactly the case,” returned the colonel in a voice too low
for his niece to hear. “She helped to keep the house going. I know, for
we supplied the money.”
Gerard uttered an exclamation.
Then he sat back as if stunned.
“Then she is--a detective!” he almost gasped.
“Well, she has been acting in that capacity,” admitted Colonel Ormsby.
“I wish she would go on with the career. She began it at my suggestion,
on my fervent advice. She has been a great success, an unparalleled
success. If you were wise, you, as I understand, have great influence
with her, would advise her to keep on with it.”
Gerard said nothing. He did not see the look of keen anxiety on the
face of Rachel, who had gathered some part of their conversation, and
who knew what the subject was that they were discussing.
They went on in silence until Piccadilly was reached. Then the colonel
turned to his niece.
“My dear, where are you going to stay to-night? Will you put up at my
hotel?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve kept on the lodgings in Duke Street,” said she. “I think I’ll
go there. And you can come and see me in the morning, and take me to
Lady Jennings’. I can’t feel happy till I’ve told the dear old thing
everything.”
“Very well, my dear. Then I’ll tell Marks to drive to Duke Street.”
They drove on, and Miss Davison was helped out by the gentlemen, and
Gerard thanked the colonel for having brought him so far on his way,
and let the car drive away without him.
For Miss Davison had given him a look which he took for permission to
speak to her. And as the car drove down the street, they walked up it,
side by side, in the quiet night.
“Now,” said she, with a weary air of being glad to get rid of a
burden, “you know everything. You can see why it was impossible for
me to tell you anything. I was under promise--oath--not to let any
creature on earth know what I was and what my work was. I was fully
sheltered by the fact that it was my uncle who had started me on this
most distasteful but most remunerative career, and though I have often
asked him to release me, he has always refused until I could assist in
carrying out some sensational feat, to justify, as he said, his choice
of me for this career.”
“And he has released you now?”
“Of course. If he had not, you would have known nothing, you would have
been told nothing.”
“You might have trusted me,” said Gerard reproachfully.
She turned upon him quickly.
“I could trust no one,” she said. “A word, nay, a look, while I was
living under the same roof with a gang of dangerous criminals, might
have been death to me. I knew that, while I was staying with them, I
carried my life in my hand. It was by far the worst experience I have
ever had, and I could not have gone through with it, could not have
stood the strain of being always on the watch for the proofs which
I had to hoard up to communicate to the police, but for my uncle’s
promise that it should be the last, the very last thing he would call
upon me to do.”
Gerard involuntarily heaved a deep sigh of thankfulness.
“And you have done with it?” he said.
“Yes.”
His tone grew harder.
“For the time, that is, of course. You will probably find your way
back when you are asked by the friends you have formed. It was Cecil
Jones who accompanied you everywhere, wasn’t it? When you detected
pickpockets in a crowd, and handed him the stolen property? When you
accompanied him to the police-station to give evidence against the
shop-lifter at the stores--”
“You thought _I_ was the shop-lifter!” said Miss Davison demurely.
“Well, I know better now. As I say, you always had this Jones--”
“Whose name is not Jones at all.”
“Well, you had this fellow who calls himself Jones to help you and to
stand by you.”
“Yes. My uncle, who gives advice to the police in important cases
still, though he has practically retired, picked out this man as one
he could rely upon to help me.”
“And now I suppose you will marry him?” said Gerard fiercely.
Miss Davison looked demurely down on the pavement.
“He has a wife,” she said, “and three, if not four, children.”
“Thank God!”
Miss Davison suddenly stopped and held out her hand.
“Good-night,” said she, “Mr. Buckland, and--good-bye.”
He took her hand and held it in his own, which was trembling.
“Must it be good-bye, Rachel?” he said hoarsely.
“Surely,” said she, with a little forced, weary laugh, “you don’t want
to remain a friend of an ex-detective!”
Gerard burst into a tirade of which the salient features were that he
would have remained her friend if she had actually been one of the
gang themselves, if she had been a card-sharper, if she had been a
shop-lifter, if she had been a pickpocket. He loved her, and he knew
that, whatever she might have done, she would never have been anything
at heart but the noble and good woman whom he loved as he had always
done.
He behaved indeed so irrationally, he expressed his love and devotion
in so many impassioned and absurd speeches, he looked so earnest and
he spoke so tenderly, that Miss Davison, if she could in any case have
held out till morning, was softened, and gave way there and then. Gave
way, that is to say, to the extent of telling him that he was an absurd
boy, and that he might, if he liked, and if he had nothing better to
do, take her to see Lady Jennings on the following day.
And, as there was no one in the street, she let him kiss her when he
said good-night.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.