After breakfast the next morning, Grewgus inquired if Lydon had any
intention of making a long stay in Paris.
The young man replied in the negative. His business claimed him, his
sweetheart claimed him, although he did not communicate the latter
item to the detective. He had, up to the present, said nothing about
her, or her relationship to Stormont. Naturally, he shrank from doing
so.
“I take it, if I stayed, I could be of little use to you in your
proceedings, Mr. Grewgus?” he queried.
The reply was polite, but quite emphatic. “Well, Mr. Lydon, I think
not. If I detailed you off on the watching business, you might find it
a very difficult job. Shadowing people is an art--of course Simmons
and I are quite used to it.”
“I am sure I understand. If I attempted to follow Miss Mayhew about,
she would soon spot it. You do it in some mysterious way, so that
while observing, you contrive to escape observation.”
Grewgus was pleased to find his client took such a sensible view of
the situation. He bestowed on him a cordial smile.
“Everybody to his job, Mr. Lydon. I may say to you that, speaking from
a professional point of view, this promises to be an exceedingly
interesting case, more especially when we succeed in getting on to the
track of the man Edwards who is no doubt about. I don’t fancy the
young woman is doing it all off her own bat.”
There was a certain air of satisfaction about Grewgus as he spoke
which convinced his client he was engaged in a business after his own
heart. There had been aroused in him those sleuth-like instincts,
lacking which no man makes a good hunter of criminals.
Grewgus was away all the morning, and Lydon took advantage of his
absence to stroll about and renew his rather slight acquaintance with
the beautiful city. They met for _déjeuner_ at the same place where
they had dined the previous evening.
There was news of some importance to communicate. Simmons had seen
Miss Mayhew with a tall, elegant-looking young man in the Bois de
Boulogne. They had separated very soon, and, surmising the man to be
Edwards, he had followed him to his quarters in an hotel in a
different part of the city, close to the Gare du Nord. Discreet
inquiries elicited that the young man was registered under his proper
name; he had not thought it necessary to change it like Miss Mayhew.
“It looks as he if were in charge of the job, and that the girl is
playing her usual rôle of decoy,” remarked Grewgus, when he had
imparted this information. “The two meet while this silly old Calliard
is doing his business in Paris. No doubt Miss Mayhew and her elderly
admirer will spend this evening and other evenings together till it is
time to pluck him. The waiter told Simmons he is a married man. If he
were not, we might give the young woman the benefit of the doubt, and
credit her with the intention of pulling off an advantageous
marriage.”
“In that case, the man Edwards wouldn’t be wanted,” observed Lydon,
who was quite shrewd in his way. “He will probably appear upon the
scene presently as the injured husband, or outraged brother, or
something equally terrifying to this poor enamoured old man.”
Later on, Grewgus saw his client off at the station and wished him
_bon voyage_. “I instructed my man in London to send a report of his
discoveries with regard to Stormont and Whitehouse, not only to me
here, but to you at your private address, as it will save time. I
shall keep you posted at this end. Of course, for a day or two I may
have nothing to communicate, as so far we have found out a good bit in
the short time. We have located Edwards, we have proved beyond the
smallest possibility of doubt that Zillah Mayhew and Elise Makris are
one, by the presence of the mother. And, of course, our friend at
Effington Hall stands revealed by his letter as the prime mover in the
affair.”
Lydon arrived in London the same night, and early on the following
morning sent a wire to Gloria asking her to meet him at the _Savoy_
for luncheon. On his breakfast table had lain an envelope addressed in
an unfamiliar handwriting. It contained a long memorandum
headed--“Copy of a report forwarded to Mr. Grewgus in Paris.”
Obviously the detective’s agent had lost no time, he must have worked
at top speed, as he could only have devoted two days to the inquiries.
The report read as follows: “I could not start as soon as I should
have liked, as I had no personal knowledge of Stormont and had to
travel down to Effington and hang about there till I had spotted the
man, and learned something of his habits. On the next morning I
shadowed him at Waterloo, and followed him to Hornby Square in the
City. He went into a small suite of offices, on the entrance door of
which were marked the names of Robinson & Company, financiers. Further
inquiries elicited that his firm kept no staff, that only two men were
there, sometimes together, sometimes alone, Stormont and a taciturn,
rather unpleasant-looking man whom the porter knew by the name of
Whitehouse.
“I shadowed Whitehouse when he left in the afternoon about four
o’clock and found he occupies a flat Number 18 in Ashstead Mansions,
off Sloane Square. The family consists of himself, his wife and a
niece, Miss Mayhew. Both uncle and niece frequently take journeys
abroad. He is known there as Glenthorne.”
Leonard smiled as he read this part. It was evident that the
hall-porter at Ashstead Mansions had again been a source of
information.
“There seems little or no business doing at Hornby Square, so far as I
could gather. There are a very few occasional callers, and a fair
amount of correspondence. Taking the aspect of things in a general
conjunction, and remembering the suspicious circumstance that the man
Whitehouse calls himself Glenthorne in private life, I should say the
office in Hornby Square is used as a blind, and that no legitimate
business is carried on there.”
There was a letter to Lydon accompanying the report signed John Ross,
in which the writer stated that he was forwarding it in compliance
with the instructions of his principal, Mr. Grewgus.
Lydon laid the report down, thinking that it fully confirmed his
suspicions, and marvelling what an immense amount had come to light in
consequence of his sudden determination to open the letter to Zillah
Mayhew. If Stormont only knew, how he would curse his sister’s
officiousness in getting those letters posted.
As he expected might be the case, he found Gloria very hurt that her
sweetheart had not written to her during his brief absence. It was
very unkind, she told him: if the positions had been reversed, she
would have sent him a long letter every day.
He hated lying to the charming girl, she was always so frank and open
herself. But what was he to do under the circumstances? He could not
admit that the journey to Glasgow was a myth, that he had really gone
to Paris to get evidence against her uncle.
The day might come when he would have to open her eyes as to
Stormont’s real character, but it had not arrived yet. He must have
stronger evidence than he possessed at the moment.
“My darling, you can’t imagine how busy I was,” he pleaded in excuse
of his neglect. “I was rushing about from place to place; when I had a
spare second I was ’phoning somebody or writing telegrams.”
Being a very sweet-tempered girl, she was soon placated, and made no
further allusion to the distasteful subject. Nothing of any moment had
happened at Effington; there had been one dinner party during his
absence, and there was to be another one on his next weekly visit, on
the Saturday.
“I think uncle is drawing in his horns a bit,” she observed. “He seems
to be cutting it down to one dinner party a week instead of two or
three. He has been up to London a good deal more lately; he says he
has a great deal of business on. So that I daresay consoles him for
the comparative lack of gaiety. But, of course, he’s never really
happy unless he is entertaining.”
“And I suppose he doesn’t really care twopence for the people on whom
he lavishes so much of his money?” queried Lydon.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” was the answer. “It’s just a form of
excitement. That’s the pity of it. I am fond enough of company in a
reasonable sort of way, but then I would choose people I really liked
for themselves, for their qualities, not because they lived in a big
house and were important people in the neighbourhood.”
He rather looked forward with distaste to his next visit to Effington.
It would be so difficult to avoid showing a change of manner to
Stormont. He knew that a dozen times in the day an almost irresistible
impulse would overtake him, prompting him to tell the rubicund
hypocrite that he knew him for what he was, the friend and abettor of
Elise Makris, the decoy of a gang of blackmailers. The day would come
when he must tell him, but for the present he must practise patience.
He must wait till his case was strengthened, so as to leave Stormont
no loophole for plausible explanation. If confronted now, how easy for
him to say that he knew nothing of the girl’s criminal activities,
that he could not be supposed to be aware she was leading a double
life. He could hear him rolling out in an unctuous voice some such
words as these:
“My dear Leonard, do be reasonable. I made her acquaintance through
Whitehouse, a most respectable man with whom I have been associated in
business for years. I found she had great aptitude. She is useful to
me, with her charm of manner, in many delicate and difficult financial
negotiations with important people. The man Edwards is one of my
trusted agents. I often send him when I cannot go myself, confident
that he will look after my interests faithfully. Your suspicions are
the merest moonshine.”
He might even be able to wriggle his way out, with regard to the man
John Whitehouse. He would say that he carried on two businesses under
two different names for the sake of distinguishing them. That at
Hornby Court he was Whitehouse, at his other offices Glenthorne.
No, he must not yet show in his manner that he was on his track. But
he would avoid him as much as possible, see as little of him as he
could, take long walks and drives with Gloria. To do him justice, the
so-called financier did leave the lovers pretty much to themselves; so
did Mrs. Barnard, who might or might not be in the secret of her
brother’s double life.
Still, he would have to sit through a good many meals with his host,
and he would find it trying. He was not very fond of those lavish
dinner parties which gave Stormont such keen pleasure, but he felt
rather grateful for this particular one which would keep them very
much apart for that evening.
On that same Saturday afternoon, a very strange thing occurred. Mrs.
Barnard had gone out to luncheon that day, and the three sat chatting
together for some little time after the meal was concluded, Lydon
being the most silent member of the party.
Presently they went out into the hall together, the young man having
suggested to his sweetheart that they should take a stroll in the
grounds. A peculiar spectacle met their view.
A bronzed-looking, elderly man, with a shaggy beard and moustache,
rather shabbily dressed, was standing inside close by the door. A
smart-looking young footman stood near to him, with rather the air of
mounting guard. Duncan, the butler, was advancing in the direction of
the dining-room, but halted when he saw the party approaching.
He spoke in his grave, respectful voice, in which there seemed just a
tinge of surprise. “A--a--person wishes to see you, sir. He declines
to give his name, says he wants to surprise you.”
Stormont started for a second, then advanced towards the new-comer
whom he could not see very distinctly, as he was afflicted with
short-sight. Then, when he got close to him, his face went pale under
its tan, and the words dropped from his lips slowly, as if they were
forced from him. “Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful.”
The shabby-looking man burst into a loud laugh and extended a hand.
Lydon noticed it was not over-clean, and the other took it with
evident embarrassment.
“Tom Newcombe it is, your old pal. Glad to see you again, Howard, and
to find things are so well with you. That gentleman is quite right, I
wouldn’t give my name, I wanted to give you a surprise.” He glanced at
the footman. “I think this young fellow has got an idea I’m a burglar
or something of the sort; he’s been looking at me suspiciously ever
since I came in.”
There was an awkward pause. Stormont’s agitated countenance showed
that he was very much upset by this unexpected arrival of his “old
pal.” The footman disappeared rapidly. Duncan retreated with his slow,
majestic step, his grave face looking graver than ever. Before he came
to Effington, he had lived all his life in refined and aristocratic
families. Never had he known, in his respectable experience, such an
occurrence as this--a shabby-looking stranger entering the house and
greeting the owner as “your old pal.” There is no doubt the dignified
butler was thoroughly shaken.
Lydon was very generous-hearted, and in spite of the altered feelings
with which he now regarded Stormont, he could not but feel a wave of
pity for the man, subjected to such a rude shock in the very midst of
his splendour, before the eyes of his astonished servants. Thinking
the most tactful course was to withdraw, he touched Gloria lightly on
the arm.
“Let us go for our stroll,” he said, and she, understanding his
object, nodded her head. They went out and left the agitated Stormont
to deal with Mr. Tom Newcombe.
When they were in the grounds, she turned to him, a look of surprise,
Lydon fancied a faint hint of trouble, in her clear, candid blue eyes.
“What can it mean, Leonard? Such a common fellow too, his way of
talking! Not a broken-down gentleman. You heard him speak of uncle as
his ‘old pal.’ Where in the name of wonder could he have known him?”
“Do you know anything of your uncle’s past, of his life as a young
man?” As her sweetheart put the question, his thought was that she
probably knew as little of the past as she did of the present.
The girl answered him with her usual frankness. “Nothing. From some
little things father dropped, I gathered that he was rather wild in
his youth. I don’t fancy they had ever been very good friends as young
men. I am sure you have noticed how little Uncle Howard ever talks
about himself, about his business or his past. I know nothing about
these things. Auntie may know more about them than I do, but I don’t
fancy very much. He is so strangely reticent. He certainly told her he
was going to borrow money from you, but I expect he did so because he
thought you might let it out to one of us. If he had been sure of your
silence, she would never have heard a word about it, I am convinced.”
After a short pause, she resumed the subject. “I cannot understand it,
the man is obviously of such a common class. The Stormonts come from
very homely stock, I know, but they are miles above this. I don’t
think I have ever told you much about the family history, which I
learned from my father, not my uncle. I don’t think I have ever heard
him allude to his family. He is as reticent about them as he is about
himself.”
She proceeded to tell him about the past Stormonts. Her grandfather
was a small tradesman in a Midland town, his family consisted of two
sons, Howard and Jasper. Although not ambitious for himself, he was
for his children, and he stinted and screwed to give them a good
education to enable them to do better in the world than their father.
That education had stood them in good stead and developed their native
brains. Jasper, the elder of the two, was a very clever fellow,
although he had made nothing like the money his brother had done.
This, in Gloria’s opinion, was simply due to lack of opportunity, to
that absence of luck which plays such a large part in human affairs.
And what money Jasper did make he took good care of.
“But although he has never tried to make any show, father’s career has
been one of steady success,” she concluded with an air of pardonable
pride. “And he is one of the most upright men, with high ideals of
duty. He has not got Uncle Howard’s robust geniality, but he has most
lovable qualities. I should be so pleased for you to meet him.”
They strolled about for a long time before they returned to the house.
Before they went in, Gloria had confided to her lover her perplexity
as to what Stormont would do with his unwelcome guest. Mr. Newcombe
certainly could not join the ultra-respectable dinner party that would
assemble in the evening.
This problem was presently solved by Stormont himself, who later on
came into the billiard-room to find them.
He had recovered a good deal from the shock, but it was easy to see by
his nervous, jerky manner, that he was still very ill at ease over
this disconcerting experience, and the necessity of furnishing some
explanation of it.
He tried to carry it off in his usual hearty bluff way, but Lydon knew
that he would have given a big sum of money for it not to have
happened.
“Strange after all these years, very strange! Poor old Tom Newcombe to
have come down so; he was fairly prosperous at one time. A rough
diamond, but one of the best, one of the very best.” It was obvious to
both there was no real heartiness in his voice as he pronounced these
warm eulogies on the shabby-looking man.
He went on in the same jerky, unconvincing manner, addressing himself
rather more directly to his niece. “I suppose you are wondering how I
came to know him?”
“I think we are,” said Gloria, speaking with her usual directness. “He
spoke as if you had been on very intimate terms.”
“So we were, so we were,” was the reply. “I must reveal a little bit
of my life that I have said nothing to you about before. Even your
aunt and father know very little of it. When I was quite a youngster,
I was a bit inclined to kick over the traces. And, in one of my wild
moods, I went out to Australia in the hope of making my fortune
quickly. It was there I met Tom Newcombe, who had been lucky and made
quite a respectable pile. In that land of democratic equality we
chummed up together. After a few years I left, having made no headway.
But during that trying time Newcombe was a splendid pal to me, let me
share with him when I was wanting a meal. I have never set eyes on him
since. And now poor old Tom has turned up, broke to the world. One of
the saddest things I know.”
Lydon was firmly convinced the man was lying, that he had invented
this explanation of his acquaintance with the rough-looking stranger.
Even Gloria looked somewhat doubtful.
“What are you going to do with him, uncle? Will he stay here?” she
asked quickly.
“Of course. Could I turn out a man who befriended me as he did?”
answered Stormont with a fine show of virtuous rectitude. “A pity we
have got that party on to-night. I should have been proud to have such
a fine fellow at my table, in spite of the fact that he is not quite
of our--er--class. But he is a sensible chap and sees things clearly.
He has no evening clothes, and none of mine would fit him. He will
have his dinner in my study, and I shall instruct the servants to show
him the greatest respect. There will be nobody here to-morrow, and he
can then join us.”
He was carrying it out very bravely, as well as anybody could, turning
the rough Tom Newcombe into almost a hero. But Lydon disbelieved every
word he said, as he naturally would, and Gloria did not seem very
convinced.
“You are going to help him, of course?” she said in the same quiet
tone.
A generous glow seemed to animate Stormont’s whole manner as he
replied to her. And Lydon was more than ever convinced that the man
was acting for all he was worth.
“I should think so. I have heaps of faults, but want of humanity,
thank Heaven, is not one of them. I shall help poor old Tom as long as
he wants help, as he helped me when I was in need.”
With the utterance of these noble sentiments, the conversation ended.
Stormont went away to shut up with his guest till dinner-time. The
respectable people of the neighbourhood came to the banquet and did
full justice to it, in ignorance that not far from them, in the host’s
study, a shabby-looking man, waited upon by a rather supercilious
footman, was partaking in solitude of the same rich viands and choice
wines.
When the last carriage had rolled away, Mrs. Barnard went to bed,
explaining that she was tired with her long day. Was it because she
wished to avoid any conversation with her niece about the unexpected
guest?
Stormont went to look after Newcombe. He promised to join them shortly
in the billiard-room, as the night was still young.
He came in looking rather relieved, and proposed a three-handed game.
“I’ve set the poor chap in front of a bottle of whisky; it will do him
good after his privations,” he said genially. “I hope, though, he
won’t take too much; he has a little weakness in that direction.”
They had not played more than half an hour when the door opened, and
the shabby figure of Mr. Newcombe appeared. His face was very flushed,
there was no doubt about his condition. His gait was uncertain, and
his voice was decidedly thick.
Advancing towards the billiard-table, he looked at his host with a
very unfriendly expression, in which Lydon saw, or perhaps fancied he
saw, a hint of menace.
“Look here, Stormont, my boy. Old pal as you may have been, I’m not
going to stand much more of this sort of thing. I’m being treated in a
way I don’t like. It’s devilish unhandsome, to say the least of it.”
The more than half-drunken man was meditating a scene in revenge for
some real or fancied grievance. Gloria paled and reddened by turns and
looked apprehensively at her uncle.
Lydon waited developments. Would this fellow in his cups, and without
the least control over his faculties, blurt out something that would
give the lie to Stormont’s hastily concocted story?