ENTER GRIMES
In this crisis, as in many another, the deciding influence was a pale
yellow liquid poured out of a dark brown bottle--whiskey, in
short--without which (several stiff drinks of it) Anton would never
have posted that letter to Scotland Yard. He would have realized
that such an act could only destroy his chances with Hester, while it
might easily react dangerously against himself, for, after all, so
far as intention went, he was as deeply involved in the crime as she
was. If a detective should come to Ippingford and discover the truth
it might be difficult for the chauffeur to explain how he happened to
be the person who removed Miss Thompson's golf bag from the country
club.
"I have done a crazy thing," he muttered as he strode away from the
postoffice through the darkness, breathing deep the cool night air
that calmed his passion and cleared his brain. "I have done a fool
thing and it's too late to change it."
Meantime Hester, tingling with wrath after this hard encounter, had
gone back to her room with a new problem that held her anxious
thoughts far into the night. Had she made a mistake in defying this
man? Should she have controlled her anger and somehow gained a
little time? Perhaps a day would have been enough. If Miss Thompson
came at once by the morning train she would be at Ipping House soon
after luncheon, and an hour later Hester Storm might have been free,
speeding toward London and New York, with all this trouble left
behind.
Whereas, now what would happen? Suppose Anton had carried out his
threat and posted the letter to Scotland Yard? He was just fool
enough and drunk enough to do it--perhaps. And perhaps not. It
might have been all a bluff, the letter and his talk. Anyway, she
was glad she had called him down. He was a beast, all right.
But suppose he had posted the letter? Suppose a detective came
prowling around? Suppose it was Grimes, who had seen her in Charing
Cross station that day of the robbery, and who knew all about the
Storm girl's record? Then what?
In snatches of tortured sleep Hester dreamed that she was trying to
escape from a room with two doors, at one of which she met the cold
gray eyes of Grimes, and at the other the twisted smile of Anton.
She rose soon after daybreak, unrefreshed, and, having dressed, she
spent an hour packing her things, so that if the chance came she
could leave at a moment's notice. Then she knelt down at her bedside
and said the prayer that Merle had taught her.
A few minutes later Hester's attention was caught by sounds from
below, the unbolting of heavy doors, then an echo of footsteps and
low voices. She looked at her watch and saw that it was a quarter
past six. Anton was opening the house. It was Friday morning. The
great day, with its promise of momentous happenings, had begun. And
the sun was shining.
Lightly the Storm girl descended the stairs, and pausing at the first
landing, listened to the chauffeur, who was talking to a telegraph
boy.
"Yes, this is Mr. Baxter's house. Let me have it," he was saying.
Whereupon the boy searched in his cap and produced the familiar
yellow envelope of a telegram or a cablegram.
"There!" grumbled the chauffeur as he signed the boy's book. "Here's
a sixpence for you."
"Thanks, guv'nor," and the youth went off whistling, while Anton
stared at the sealed message.
Hester leaned over the railing and watched her adversary, who
evidently thought himself quite alone. With a few careful movements
he opened the envelope and drew forth a yellow sheet.
"In cipher!" she heard him mutter. Then he moved into the library,
while she, cautious and silent, followed him.
Anton went directly to Betty Thompson's desk, and, taking from his
pocket a bunch of keys, he proceeded to unlock the upper left-hand
drawer and drew out a small, red, leather-covered book, in which he
searched eagerly, consulting the cablegram from time to time as he
did so. It was Hiram Baxter's private cable code book.
With absorbed interest the chauffeur continued his work of
translation, writing down the words hastily as he deciphered them.
And, presently, Hester saw by his face that the cablegram must
contain news of the utmost importance.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, frowning and looking about him doubtfully.
He glanced at his watch, took a few steps toward the door, and
listened intently, then he went quickly to the telephone.
"Hello! Give me the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, London. In a great
hurry--please." He spoke in a low tone and drummed nervously on the
desk while he waited.
"Hello! The Ritz-Carlton? I want Mr. Henderson, room 147. Yes,
Henderson. Quick, please."
And presently, with a sort of unconscious cringing, "Hello! Is that
you, Mr. Henderson? This is Anton Busch. I'm sorry to disturb you,
sir, but it's urgent. A cablegram has just come for Mr. B. It will
pretty well spoil everything if he gets it. I know he's in Brighton,
sir, but Mr. Robert is here. Yes, it came in cipher. I've just
translated it. Shall I read it, sir?"
He held before him the paper on which he had written, and was about
to repeat it when the creaking of Hester's shoe, as she leaned
forward near the door, caused him to turn suspiciously. "I'll have
to be quick, Mr. Henderson. I'm in the library. Yes, I'm using the
house telephone. If I'm interrupted, sir, you'll understand. Don't
ring up. I'll call you later. All right, sir, here's the cablegram."
Slowly and distinctly he read into the telephone from the sheet
before him:
"HIRAM BAXTER, Ippingford, Surrey: Have advance news highest
authority that Supreme Court decision copper suit will be announced
to-morrow, Friday, and will be unfavorable. Prices sure to break
violently as soon as decision is known. This is our one chance to
save everything and close out with a profit. Ask your authority to
sell fifty thousand shares Independent Copper. Vital importance to
act before exchange opens this morning.
"GRAMERCY.
"Did you get that, sir?"
There was a long pause while the chauffeur listened, nodding
respectfully and occasionally murmuring, "Yes, sir." Then he
answered: "I understand, sir. Five hours will do the trick. If
Baxter hasn't acted by twelve it's all off." He looked at his watch.
"It isn't seven yet. I'll see that Mr. Robert doesn't get this
cablegram until after luncheon. Good-by, sir."
With a gesture of relief he hung up the receiver, and, folding
together the cablegram and the code translation, he put these
carefully in his breast pocket.
Meantime Hester had been doing some quick thinking. Here was the
haughty Anton caught in a piece of crooked work. He was betraying
his employer, he was keeping back a message that evidently involved a
fortune and that must be acted upon before twelve o'clock. There was
no need of understanding Wall Street operations or Supreme Court
decisions to see the importance of getting hold of this cablegram
that Anton had just stuffed into his pocket. That was in her line,
getting things out of people's pockets, and--perhaps this piece of
yellow paper might help her play her own game. Anyhow, she was going
after it.
Thus resolved, Hester flew back silently up the stairs, one flight,
two flights, and, turning, came clattering down again with deliberate
noisiness, as if for her first appearance, and, entering the library,
greeted the chauffeur with a look of well-acted surprise.
"Oh!" she said coldly.
Anton thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared at her,
biting his mustache nervously. Then, without speaking, he moved
toward her slowly, until he stood about a yard away. She faced him
steadily.
"You little devil!" he said hoarsely. "I've got a notion to--to----"
He began to breathe quickly through dilating nostrils, while his
beady eyes burned on her.
"To what?" she challenged him.
He reached forward quickly and caught her by the arm.
"See here, now, I'm going to talk to you--straight." He drew her
close to him, so close that he could feel every line of her lithe,
slim figure. "You know what I said last night, kid. Well, I meant
it. I'm crazy about you, and, by God, I'm going to get something out
of this." He held her, struggling against him, and pressed his mouth
down upon her unwilling lips.
"Wait!" she panted. "Did you--did you post that letter to Scotland
Yard?"
"Why--er--no," he answered, and she knew that he was lying by the way
his eyes shifted.
Once more, mad with desire, the chauffeur tried to kiss her, but with
a sudden effort Hester freed herself and darted toward the door.
"I guess you've made trouble enough for one day, Mr. Anton," she
laughed mockingly. "And remember, boy, if a Scotland Yard detective
shows up here to-day it's you he'll take away, not me."
It was an empty threat, but she made it bravely as she tripped away,
and, somehow, her words filled Anton with a vague foreboding.
"Damn that girl!" he muttered as he strode toward the garage. And
presently his anger changed to black rage when, on searching his
pocket for Baxter's important cablegram, he found that it was gone.
Little liar! She had tricked him again. She had let him kiss her
with the deliberate purpose of stealing those papers, and then she
had laughed at him. Very well; he would show her. He was glad now
he had notified Scotland Yard. He hoped they did send a man, and he
swore this Storm girl should pay for what she had done. He would
certainly make her pay.
Through the morning hours that followed Hester busied herself, as
usual, with the housework and the kitchen work, trying to be diligent
and good tempered, and putting from her resolutely the temptation to
flee from this place that might soon be full of peril for her. But
as noon approached she eyed the clock anxiously, and at every sound
of wheels hurried to the window. There was a train from London at
twenty minutes to twelve. Would Betty Thompson be on it? Would a
man from Scotland Yard be on it? Would one of these two arrive
before the other, and, if so, which one?
Then she wondered what would happen if a detective did come. After
all, Anton's letter gave only a vague clue. No name was signed and
no names were mentioned. Robert Baxter could tell nothing about the
robbery, because he knew nothing. And the Reverend Merle could tell
nothing for the same reason. There was only Anton to be feared, and
Anton wasn't going to put himself under the cold, investigating eye
of an officer of the law, not if the Storm girl sized him up right,
and she thought she did. On the whole, the situation might be worse,
still----
Twelve o'clock! Half past twelve! And no arrival! Perhaps Miss
Thompson wasn't coming. Perhaps she didn't believe the thing was
important. And straight-way the imps of darkness whispered that this
was fate. Hester had done her best, she had written the letter to
Miss Thompson, and now, if no one would help her, if no one would
take the money when she was trying to give it up--why she had
better--she had better----
At this perilous moment a carriage came crunching up the drive, and,
glancing out, Hester recognized Betty Thompson on the back seat.
Well, that settled it. The hour had come for the testing of Hester
Storm. She must go to Miss Thompson now and make her confession.
She must tell this sweet young woman who had trusted her and
befriended her that she was a thief, that she had stolen the bishop's
purse. She had better go quickly, while she had the courage.
It was twenty minutes later when the Storm girl, white-lipped,
entered the library where the secretary was arranging in a dull green
vase some yellow roses that she had just picked in the conservatory.
She looked up brightly and came forward with extended hand.
"Well, Hester," she smiled, "you see that I believe in you. Your
letter came this morning at half-past eight, and at half-past nine I
was on the train. Poor child, you look--why, you look ill?"
"Do I? Well, I--I am not feeling any too good."
"What is it? What has happened? Come over here." With kind concern
Betty led her troubled friend to the davenport. "You know I'll be
glad to do whatever I can to help you. Now then?"
Hester sighed wearily. "You can't help me, lady, except to--believe
what I say--wish me luck when I've gone."
"You're going away?"
The girl nodded. "Just as soon as I can--this afternoon."
"Oh! I'm sorry to hear that. I take a great interest in you. I--I
like you, Hester."
The genuine friendliness of her tone went straight to the heart of
this poor wanderer. The Storm girl fixed her dark eyes yearningly on
Betty.
"I'm in trouble, lady, and--say, on the level, do you--like me?"
"Indeed I do. I liked you the first time I saw you."
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated Betty, disconcerted by the girl's strange
earnestness. "Oh, I liked you because you are--different and--you're
pretty and--I thought it was a shame when they accused you of
stealing that purse."
There was a moment's silence while Hester braced herself for the
great ordeal.
"There's one thing about that purse that you don't know," she began
in a low tone. But at that moment the door opened and Horatio
entered, carrying a card on a tray. He wore a long, blue apron.
"A gentleman to see Mr. Robert Baxter," he said quietly.
Betty looked at Horatio in surprise. "Why, Mr. Merle! How queer you
look! Are you taking Parker's place?"
Horatio bowed respectfully. "Yes, Miss Thompson, I am."
Betty laughed. It never occurred to her that Merle was speaking
seriously. She picked up the card and glanced at it. "Mr. Grimes,"
she read, and Hester's face went white. "From Scotland Yard," she
continued, studying the card. "Scotland Yard? Isn't that the place
where they----"
"I think he's a detective," murmured Horatio, the brilliance of his
eyes revealing his intense interest in the matter.
"A detective! Indeed! Is Mr. Robert Baxter out?"
Horatio inclined his head gravely. "Mr. Robert Baxter is out with
the car. I told Mr. Grimes and he asked to see Mr. Baxter's
secretary. He says it's important."
Miss Thompson frowned impatiently. "It's most annoying. I'm engaged
in a serious matter, and---- Oh! Very well! Show him in."
But now the tortured penitent broke out in an agonized cry: "No! You
mustn't see him. Let me speak to you--alone."
[Illustration: "'No! You mustn't see him. Let me speak to
you--alone.'"]
At the sight of Hester's pallid face and entreating eyes Betty's
heart softened.
"Please ask Mr. Grimes to wait," she said to Merle, as he withdrew
discreetly, and then to the trembling girl: "My poor friend! You're
all unstrung. Now tell me, why don't you want me to see this
detective?"
"Because I--I lied to you that day--about the purse."
"Lied to me?"
"Yes, I--I did steal the purse."