THE GIRL IN THE PARK
On the same night the oily quality departed from the swell. It came on
to blow, and blew hard until the _Gigantic_ crossed the Mersey's turgid
bar.
It was sufficiently rough to justify a great number of persons
remaining in their cabins, but it was hardly sufficiently rough to
excuse a two-days' absence of Captain Melun from the poker table.
There were some who were fools enough to grumble at Melun's absence,
alleging against him that he sought to rob them of that revenge which
they desired to make.
But while the rough weather kept Captain Melun below it brought Sir
Paul Westerham on deck. And those maidens whose beauty was weatherproof
rejoiced in the fact that the hitherto unattainable baronet now seemed
to court friendly advances.
But they, poor little dears, did not know what Captain Melun did—their
dreams of endless millions were unspoiled by any knowledge of the
little paper which Westerham carried in his breast-pocket.
On the third day, however, there came a complete right-about-face in
the conduct of the two men whose personalities had most impressed
themselves on the ship's company, for while Melun came on deck looking
sullen and morose, the baronet pleaded a slight attack of fever and hid
himself in his state-room. Nor indeed, until with all that serenity on
the bridge and all that shouting on the quay which goes to the berthing
of a great liner, did any of the maidens, clamorous for his presence,
look upon Westerham's face again.
The gangway lashed securely to the _Gigantic's_ side, the first to step
aboard were the reporters, anxious and eager-eyed, keen on finding
the miner who was now a baronet and a millionaire. They proposed to
wire his life-story up to London for the benefit of readers beyond
number. Hard upon the reporters came the fussy relatives and friends of
passengers, and amid the general kissings and hand-shakings on deck no
one had much thought for any particular individual beyond himself.
So, without arousing any comment, there stepped from the main entrance
to the saloon a tall, spare, clean-shaven man dressed in clerical garb.
Even the fact that his face was exceedingly ruddy and that his eyes
were of a peculiar sea-green shade aroused no comment.
Carrying a little bag in his hand, the apparently athletic curate swept
his way to the head of the gangway, where his fresh and smiling face
invited confidence from the reporters who hovered there, nervous lest
the baronet should escape them.
One of them lifted his hat, and stepping forward, asked the tall,
youthful parson if he had seen Sir Paul Westerham.
The parson smiled and said gravely:
“Yes, I saw him two minutes ago in his state-room.”
There was a stampede on the part of the journalists, and, smiling
blandly to himself, Westerham settled his clerical hat firmly on his
head and sped down the gangway.
In the days he had spent below decks Westerham had mapped out for
himself a sufficiently daring and ingenious plan of campaign to satisfy
the most exacting of romantic minds. It was, indeed, with almost boyish
zest that he entered on the adventure, and with all the enthusiasm of
an amateur detective had paved the way for slipping up to London, there
to become a lost nonentity.
He knew better than to take the boat-train. Instead, he went up to
the Adelphi Hotel, where fewer of his fellow-passengers were likely
to congregate than at the North-Western, deposited his bag, and
thereafter sauntered out to enjoy a stroll through the crowded streets
of Liverpool.
At the Adelphi he slept that night, proceeding up to London on the
following day.
He arrived at Euston about one o'clock, and drove straight to Walter's,
a small yet comfortable hotel on the north side of the Strand.
Before going there, however, he had taken the precaution to buy some
passable, if ready-made, clothes, together with a tweed cap, so that
there was left about him no trace of the clerical disguise which he had
assumed on arriving at Liverpool.
His presence, indeed, was sufficiently honest and prosperous to warrant
not the slightest inquiry as to his _bona fides_ at the hotel. In an
hour he had comfortably settled himself in his new and temporary home,
taking a small bedroom and a small sitting-room on the second floor.
Immediately on taking the room he had written a note to his friend,
Lord Dunton, who was practically the only man in the whole of London
whom he considered he could trust.
Dunton called at about five o'clock, and the two men spent a couple
of hours in a quiet corner chuckling over the vivid accounts in the
various newspapers which told of the mysterious disappearance of the
miner baronet from the _Gigantic_.
Every theory which could be advanced was exploited to the full—murder,
suicide, lapse of memory, and accidents of every sort and description
were set forth to account for Sir Paul Westerham's vanishment. There
were interviews with the captain and purser of the _Gigantic_;
interviews with a score of passengers, and, much to Westerham's
amusement, numerous bearded portraits of himself in a miner's guise.
Then, over a whisky-and-soda, Westerham briefly outlined to Dunton the
adventure with Melun in his cabin and of his voluntary disappearance.
“The only thing that troubles me,” Westerham concluded, “is whether you
will stand by and see me through. It is practically impossible for me
to achieve what I consider necessary unless I have at least one friend
who will keep his mouth shut tight.”
“My dear fellow,” said Dunton, earnestly, “I assure you that if this
is your whim I see no reason why I should not do my best not only to
humour it but to help it. By Jove!” he added, “but it's a ripping good
idea!”
For Lord Dunton, who was very light-haired, very blue-eyed, and very
vapid, had in his composition a great tendency to what he called “a
ripping good lark.”
And so the two men arranged the matter between them.
They dined together very quietly in a little restaurant in Soho, where
nobody who knew Dunton was likely to meet them, and where the cooking,
if unpretentious, was at least good.
Afterwards Westerham went back to Dunton's rooms in Ryder Street, where
they talked far into the night. They sat together, indeed, until past
two o'clock, so that even the polite porter at Walter's raised his
eyebrows at Westerham with some disapprobation when he finally returned
to his hotel.
Next morning Dunton called early, and together the two men went up to
the baronet's solicitors in Lincoln's Inn. There they had a long and
not wholly placid interview with Mr. Victor Hantell, a somewhat elderly
gentleman with pronounced views on the law and the propriety of abiding
strictly by it.
In answer to all his objections, however, the baronet had one extremely
awkward reply:
Did or did not the lawyer wish to remain entrusted with the care of his
vast estates and fortune?
So after a couple of hours' talk matters were arranged to Westerham's
way of thinking.
A hundred thousand pounds were to be paid into Lord Dunton's account
in order that Westerham might be able to draw such sums of money as
he required without any knowledge in any quarter of the fact that the
baronet himself was dealing with the bank.
Mr. Hantell, moreover, was pledged to complete and absolute secrecy,
so that with the exception of the lawyer and Dunton no one knew of
Westerham's arrival in London.
The only tinge of humour that was introduced into the debate on
Westerham's affairs was when, from time to time, a sleek and
grave-mannered senior clerk entered quietly and placed on Mr. Hantell's
desk a card that bore the name of some great London newspaper; for the
newspapers had discovered quickly enough who Sir Paul's lawyers were.
But they sought information in vain.
The few matters of moment that required to be settled having been
dealt with, Westerham and Dunton went to lunch, and at lunch Westerham
unfolded his further schemes to his friend.
They acted upon them without delay, and that afternoon Westerham
secured more than luxurious rooms in Bruton Street in the name of James
Robinson. It should be mentioned that at Walter's Hotel Westerham was
known by the same simple title.
“In fact,” said Westerham to his friend, laughing, as they afterwards
sat over a whisky-and-soda at Long's, “I seem to be setting out to
lead a double life on a somewhat splendid scale. Where, of course, it
will land me, and into what difficulties it will plunge me, naturally
I cannot tell, but it is really comforting to reflect that, no matter
what caprice I may indulge in, I have at least sufficient money behind
me to provide a complete excuse.
“You see,” he went on a trifle more gravely, “I rely so much upon my
intuition that I feel perfectly justified in regarding Melun with the
very gravest suspicion. If I do my country no other service, I may at
least be able to unmask what I am certain is a gang of international
criminals, and, at the worst, I shall have plenty of fun for my money.”
The main reason for his peculiar mode of disappearing Westerham kept to
himself. He said nothing to Dunton of the girl with the steadfast eyes.
And there he was wrong, for the difficulties—the very serious and
dangerous difficulties—into which he was afterwards plunged would have
been far more easily surmounted had he taken his friend into his full
confidence.
Melun, in obedience to his instructions, had called at Walter's Hotel
on the second day following the arrival of the _Gigantic_, but having
no use for him then, and desiring to see a little of London before he
proceeded to investigate the mysteries of Melun's life, Westerham told
the urbane, if somewhat sinister, captain that he did not require his
presence. Westerham, indeed, informed Melun pretty curtly that he would
send for him when he needed him.
The next five days were spent by Westerham very quietly. The best
of tailors that Dunton could recommend were hard at work building
innumerable suits for Mr. James Robinson, whose magnificent motor car
was at least a guarantee of the soundness of his banking account.
When he had possessed himself of such clothes as he required in order
to live as James Robinson, Esq., of Bruton Street, plain Mr. Robinson,
of Walter's Hotel, informed the proprietor there that he was going
into the country, and for two days Westerham lived in his new quarters.
Then he made excuses to the correct, soft-footed, and soft-spoken valet
with whom Dunton had provided him, and went back to live at Walter's.
As a matter of fact he rather preferred the existence which he was able
to follow when he wore cheaper clothes and walked a humbler path of
life.
It was not without distinctly good reason that he set himself
systematically to explore London—not the London commonly known to the
average sight-seer, but the London of the obscure Londoner,—the London
of distant suburbs, the London of mean streets, the London of the docks
and slums and of wastes of respectable spaces.
In the course of his peregrinations Westerham found himself one night
at about the hour of ten wandering in a particularly ill-lit and remote
corner of Hyde Park.
He was walking lightly over the wet grass with almost silent feet.
Indeed, as he swung gently forward, his mind was far away on the soft
prairie land that he seemed to have left years and years before. So
occupied was he with his thoughts that he came near to walking into a
couple engaged in a heated controversy beneath a tree.
When, however, he beheld them, he came to a sudden standstill, all his
senses alive, his quick intuition telling him he was in the presence of
some matter of moment.
He did not like the look of the thick-set greasy man who faced the
girl. Westerham could read a man's character as easily from his back
as he could from his face, and he had instantly a great distrust of the
fat man's aspect.
The girl he could not see, but it was with some unaccountable notion of
doing her a service, and not with the remotest idea of eavesdropping,
that he stepped softly and silently to the further side of a tree trunk.
Then he heard the girl's voice saying in low, quiet, earnest accents:
“Why will you not let us rest? Why do you pursue us in this way? Surely
it is inhuman to adopt these methods. You know what you want, and you
have practically the power of obtaining it. Is it fair to drag me to a
place like this and insult me in this way?”
The man mumbled something which Westerham could not catch.
Then he heard the girl utter a little cry.
“Look!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Look! I will make you an offer. Free
us from this horrible nightmare, give me your word that you will not
persecute us further, and I will give you these.”
Westerham heard the rustle of draperies, and was conscious that the
girl reached out her hands. The man took something from her. His head
was bent over the object, whatever it might be, long and earnestly.
Then he heard a thick voice, with a distinctly Semitic lisp, say,
“They are beautiful, very beautiful. But what are they to us? You think
they are worth a hundred thousand pounds, eh? Suppose they are—what of
that? Do you think a hundred thousand pounds can close our lips? Do you
think a hundred thousand pounds can save your father? Bah!”
The man chuckled thickly.
“But they are very pretty baubles,” he went on, “and seeing you offer
them to me, I see no reason why I should not keep them.”
“Ah!” cried the girl. “Then you will be silent?”
“Silent!” exclaimed the man, “Silent, for this much! Not us! Why, it's
ridiculous.”
“Then give them back to me,” said the girl, quietly, with a quaver in
her voice. “Give them back to me. Would you rob me?”
“I am not robbing you,” answered the man, sullenly. “I am taking what
you offered me. I shall not give them back. It is impossible for you
to make me. You would cry out, would you? What good would that do? Cry
out, call a policeman—do what you like—what will it mean for you
except exposure? What will it mean for your father except ruin? Give
them back? Not I! I——”
But his speech ended suddenly at this point, for Westerham, always
quick to action, took quick action now.
Moving round the trunk of the tree, he caught the man deftly by the
collar of his coat, kicked his heels from under him, and brought him
with a heavy crash to the ground.
The man lay still.
In a second Westerham was on his knees beside the prostrate figure.
With swift fingers he searched the man's clothing and found a mass of
jewels in the breast-pocket of the man's outer coat.
In a twinkling he had them out, and, rising to his feet, he held a
heavy string of diamonds towards the girl.
“Madam,” he cried, “permit me to befriend you. I do not know who you
are, but—”
His voice trailed away into a little gasp. For the frightened face
that stared at him with starting eyes was the face of the girl in the
picture.
In this strange manner did Westerham meet Lady Kathleen Carfax.