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_THE DATCHET DIAMONDS_
[Illustration: "Shall I shoot all three of you?" Page 265.
_Frontispiece_.]
THE
DATCHET DIAMONDS
BY
RICHARD MARSH
AUTHOR OF "THE CRIME AND THE CRIMINAL," "PHILIP BENNION'S
DEATH," "THE BEETLE," ETC., ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD_
LONDON
WARD, LOCK & CO., Limited
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
TWO MEN AND A MAID.
CHAPTER II.
OVERHEARD IN THE TRAIN.
CHAPTER III.
THE DIAMONDS.
CHAPTER IV.
MISS WENTWORTH'S RUDENESS.
CHAPTER V.
IN THE BODEGA.
CHAPTER VI.
THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DATCHET DIAMONDS ARE PLACED IN SAFE CUSTODY.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE MOMENT OF HIS SUCCESS.
CHAPTER IX.
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER X.
CYRIL'S FRIEND.
CHAPTER XI.
JOHN IRELAND'S WARRANT.
CHAPTER XII.
A WOMAN ROUSED.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DETECTIVE AND THE LADY.
CHAPTER XIV.
AMONG THIEVES.
CHAPTER XV.
PUT TO THE QUESTION.
CHAPTER XVI.
A MODERN INSTANCE OF AN ANCIENT PRACTICE.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MOST DANGEROUS FOE OF ALL.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LAST OF THE DATCHET DIAMONDS.
CHAPTER XIX.
A WOMAN'S LOGIC.
CHAPTER I
TWO MEN AND A MAID
The band struck up a waltz. It chanced to be the one which they had
last danced together at the Dome. How well he had danced, and how
guilty she had felt! Conscious of what almost amounted to a sense of
impropriety! Charlie had taken her; it was Charlie who had made her
go--but then, in some eyes, Miss Wentworth might not have been
regarded as the most unimpeachable of chaperons. That Cyril, for
instance, would have had strong opinions of his own upon that point,
Miss Strong was well aware.
While Miss Strong listened, thinking of the last time she had heard
that waltz, the man with whom she had danced it stood, all at once, in
front of her. She had half expected that it would be so--half had
feared it. It was not the first time they had encountered each other
on the pier; Miss Strong had already begun to more than suspect that
the chance of encountering her was the magnet which drew Mr. Lawrence
through the turnstiles. She did not wish to meet him; she assured
herself that she did not wish to meet him. But, on the other hand, she
did not wish to go out of her way so as to seem to run away from him.
The acquaintance had begun on the top of the Devil's Dyke in the
middle of a shower of rain. Miss Strong, feeling in want of
occupation, and, to speak the truth, a little in the blues, had gone,
on an unpromising afternoon in April, on the spur of the moment, and
in something like a temper, on a solitary excursion to the Devil's
Dyke. On the Downs the wind blew great guns. She could hardly stand
against it. Yet it did her good, for it suited her mood. She struggled
on over the slopes, past Poynings, when, suddenly--she, in her
abstraction, having paid no heed to the weather, and expecting nothing
of the kind--it came down a perfect deluge of rain. She had a
walking-stick, but neither mackintosh nor umbrella. There seemed every
likelihood of her having to return like a drowned rat to Brighton,
when, with the appropriateness of a fairy tale, some one came rushing
to her with an umbrella in his hand. She could hardly refuse the
proffered shelter, and the consequence was that the owner of the
umbrella escorted her first to the hotel, then to the station, and
afterwards to Brighton. Nor, after such services had been rendered,
when they parted at the station did she think it necessary to inform
him that, not under any circumstances, was he to notice her again;
besides, from what she had seen of him, she rather liked the man. So,
when, two days afterwards, he stopped her on the pier to ask if she
had suffered any ill-effects from her exposure, it took her some
five-and-twenty minutes to explain that she had not. There were other
meetings, mostly on the pier; and then, as a climax, that Masonic Ball
at the Dome. She danced with him five times! She felt all the time
that she ought not; she knew that she would not have done it if Cyril
had been there. Miss Wentworth, introduced by Miss Strong, danced with
him twice, and when asked by Miss Strong if she thought that she--Miss
Strong--ought to have three dances with him Miss Wentworth declared
that she did not see why, if she liked, she should not have thirty. So
Miss Strong had five--which shows that Miss Wentworth's notions of the
duties of a chaperon were vague.
And now the band was striking up that identical waltz; and there was
Mr. Lawrence standing in front of the lady with whom he had danced it.
"I believe that that was ours, Miss Strong," he said.
"I think it was."
He was holding her hand in his, and looking at her with something in
his eyes which there and then she told herself would never do. They
threaded their way through the crowd of people towards the head of the
pier, saying little, which was worse than saying much. Although
Charlie had been working, Miss Strong wished she had stayed at home
with her; it would have been better than this. A sense of pending
peril made her positively nervous; she wanted to get away from her
companion, and yet for the moment she did not see her way to do it.
Beyond doubt Mr. Lawrence was not a man in whose favour nothing could
be said. He was of medium height, had a good figure, and held himself
well. He was very fair, with a slight moustache, and a mouth which was
firm and resolute. His eyes were blue--a light, bright blue--beautiful
eyes they were, but scarcely of the kind which could correctly be
described as sympathetic. His complexion was almost like a girl's, it
was so pink and white; he seemed the picture of health. His manners
were peculiarly gentle. He moved noiselessly, without any appearance
of exertion. His voice, though soft, was of so penetrating a quality
and so completely under control that, without betraying by any
movement of his lips the fact that he was speaking, he could make his
faintest whisper audible in a way which was quite uncanny. Whatever
his dress might be, on him it always seemed unobtrusive; indeed, the
strangest thing about the man was that, while he always seemed to be
the most retiring of human beings, in reality he was one of the most
difficult to be rid of, as Miss Strong was finding now. More than
once, just as she was about to give him his dismissal, he managed to
prevent her doing so in a manner which, while she found it impossible
to resent it, was not by any means to her taste. Finally, finding it
difficult to be rid of him in any other way, and being, for some
reason which she would herself have found it difficult to put into
words, unusually anxious to be freed from his companionship, she
resolved, in desperation, to leave the pier. She acquainted him with
her determination to be off, and then, immediately afterwards, not a
little to her surprise and a good deal to her disgust, she found
herself walking towards the pier-gates with him at her side. Miss
Strong's wish had been to part from him there and then; but again he
had managed to prevent the actual expression of her wish, and it
seemed plain that she was still to be saddled with his society, at any
rate, as far as the gates.
Before they had gone half-way down the pier Miss Strong had cause to
regret that she had not shown a trifle more firmness, for she saw
advancing towards her a figure which, at the instant, she almost felt
that she knew too well. It was Cyril Paxton. The worst of it was that
she was not clear in her own mind as to what it would be best for her
to do--the relations between herself and Mr. Paxton were of so curious
a character. She saw that Mr. Paxton's recognition of her had not been
so rapid as hers had been of him; at first she thought that she was
going to pass him unperceived. In that case she would go a few steps
farther with Mr. Lawrence, dismiss him, return, and discover herself
to Cyril at her leisure. But it was not to be. Mr. Paxton, glancing
about him from side to side of the pier, observed her on a sudden--and
he observed Mr. Lawrence too; on which trivial accident hinges the
whole of this strange history.
Miss Strong knew that she was seen. She saw that Mr. Paxton was coming
to her. Her heart began to beat. In another second or two he was
standing in front of her with uplifted hat, wearing a not very
promising expression of countenance.
"Where's Charlie?" was his greeting.
The lady was aware that the question in itself conveyed a reproach,
though she endeavoured to feign innocence.
"Charlie's at home; I couldn't induce her to come out. Her 'copy' for
_Fashion_ has to be ready by the morning; she says she's behind, so
she stayed at home to finish it."
"Oh!"
That was all that Mr. Paxton said, but the look with which he favoured
Mr. Lawrence conveyed a very vivid note of interrogation.
"Cyril," explained Miss Strong, "this is Mr. Lawrence. Mr. Lawrence,
this is Mr. Paxton; and I am afraid you must excuse me."
Mr. Lawrence did excuse her. She and Mr Paxton returned together up
the pier; he, directly Mr. Lawrence was out of hearing, putting to her
the question which, though she dreaded, she knew was inevitable.
"Who's that?"
"That is Mr. Lawrence."
"Yes, you told me so much already; who is Mr. Lawrence?"
As she walked Miss Strong, looking down, tapped with the ferrule of
her umbrella on the boards.
"Oh! he's a sort of acquaintance."
"You have not been long in Brighton, then, without making
acquaintance?"
"Cyril! I have been here more than a month. Surely a girl can make an
acquaintance in that time?"
"It depends, I fancy, on the girl, and on the circumstances in which
she is placed. What is Mr. Lawrence?"
"I have not the faintest notion. I have a sort of general idea that,
like yourself, he is something in the City. It seems to me that
nowadays most men are."
"Who introduced him?"
"A shower of rain."
"An excellent guarantor of the man's eligibility, though, even for the
average girl, one would scarcely have supposed that that would have
been a sufficient introduction."
Miss Strong flushed.
"You have no right to talk to me like that. I did not know that you
were coming to Brighton, or I would have met you at the station."
"I knew that I should meet you on the pier."
The lady stood still.
"What do you mean by that?"
The gentleman, confronting her, returned her glance for glance.
"I mean what I say. I knew that I should meet you on the pier--and I
have."
The lady walked on again; whatever she might think of Mr. Paxton's
inference, his actual statement was undeniable.
"You don't seem in the best of tempera, Cyril. How is Mr. Franklyn?"
"He was all right when I saw him last--a good deal better than I was
or than I am."
"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"
"Matter!" Mr. Paxton's tone was bitter. "What is likely to be the
matter with the man who, after having had the luck which I have been
having lately, to crown it all finds the woman he loves philandering
with a stranger--the acquaintance of a shower of rain--on Brighton
pier."
"You have no right to speak to me like that--not the slightest! I am
perfectly free to do as I please, as you are. And, without
condescending to dispute your inferences--though, as you very well
know, they are quite unjust!--any attempt at criticism on your part
will be resented by me in a manner which you may find unpleasant."
A pause followed the lady's words, which the gentleman did not seem
altogether to relish.
"Still the fact remains that I do love you better than anything else
in the world."
"Surely if that were so, Cyril, at this time of day you and I would
not be situated as we are."
"By which you mean?"
"If you felt for me what you are always protesting that you feel,
surely sometimes you would have done as I wished."
"Which being interpreted is equivalent to saying that I should have
put my money into Goschens, and entered an office at a salary of a
pound a week."
"If you had done so you would at any rate still have your money, and
also, possibly, the prospect of a career."
They had reached the end of the pier, and were leaning over the side,
looking towards the Worthing lights. Miss Strong's words were followed
by an interval of silence. When the gentleman spoke again, in his
voice there was the suspicion of a tremor.
"Daisy, don't be hard on me."
"I don't wish to be hard. It was you who began by being hard on me."
He seemed to pay no heed to her speech, continuing on a line of his
own--
"Especially just now!"
She glanced at him.
"Why especially just now?"
"Well----" He stopped. The tremor in his voice became more pronounced.
"Because I'm going for the gloves."
If the light had been clearer he might have seen that her face assumed
a sudden tinge of pallor.
"What do you mean by you're going for the gloves?"
"I mean that probably by this time tomorrow I shall have either won
you or lost you for ever."
"Cyril!" There was a catching in her breath. "I hope you are going to
do nothing--wild."
"It depends upon the point of view." He turned to her with sudden
passion. "I'm sick of things as they are--sick to death! I've made up
my mind to know either the best or the worst."
"How do you propose to arrive at that state of knowledge?"
"I've gone a bull on Eries--a big bull. So big a bull that if they
fall one I'm done."
"How done?"
"I shall be done, because it will be for reasons, good, strong, solid
reasons, the last deal I shall ever make on the London Stock
Exchange."
There was silence. Then she spoke again--
"You will lose. You always do lose!"
"Thanks."
"It will be almost better for you that you should lose. I am beginning
to believe, Cyril, that you never will do any good till you have
touched bottom, till you have lost all that you possibly can lose."
"Thank you, again."
She drew herself up, drawing herself away from the railing against
which she had been leaning. She gave a gesture which was suggestive of
weariness.
"I too am tired. This uncertainty is more than I can stand; you are so
unstable, Cyril. Your ideas and mine on some points are wide apart. It
seems to me that if a girl is worth winning, she is worth working for.
As a profession for a man, I don't think that what you call 'punting'
on the Stock Exchange is much better than pitch-and-toss."
"Well?"
The word was an interrogation. She had paused.
"It appears to me that the girl who marries a man who does nothing
else but 'punt' is preparing for herself a long line of
disappointments. Think how many times you have disappointed me. Think
of the fortunes you were to have made. Think, Cyril, of the Trumpit
Gold Mine--what great things were to come of that!"
"I am quite aware that I did invest every penny I could beg, borrow,
or steal in the Trumpit Gold Mine, and that at present I am the
fortunate possessor of a trunkful of shares which are not worth a
shilling a-piece. The reminder is a pleasant one. Proceed--you seem
wound up to go."
Her voice assumed a new touch of sharpness.
"The long and the short of it is, Cyril--it is better that we should
understand each other!--if your present speculation turns out as
disastrously as all your others have done, and it leaves you worse off
than ever, the relations, such as they are, which exist between us
must cease. We must be as strangers!"
"Which means that you don't care for me the value of a brass-headed
pin."
"It means nothing of the kind, as you are well aware. It simply means
that I decline to link my life with a man who appears incapable of
keeping his own head above water. Because he insists on drowning
himself, why should I allow him to drown me too?"
"I observe that you take the commercial, up-to-date view of marriage."
"What view do you take? Are you nearer to being able to marry me
than ever you were? Are you not farther off? You have no regular
income--and how many entanglements? What do you propose that we should
live on--on the hundred and twenty pounds a year which mother left
me?"
There came a considerable silence. He had not moved from the position
he had taken up against the railing, and still looked across the
waveless sea towards the glimmering lights of Worthing. When he did
speak his tones were cold, and clear, and measured--perhaps the
coldness was assumed to hide a warmer something underneath.
"Your methods are a little rough, but perhaps they are none the worse
on that account. As you say so shall it be. Win or lose, to-morrow
evening I will meet you again upon the pier--that is, if you will
come."
"You know I'll come!"
"If I lose it will be to say goodbye. Next week I emigrate."
She was still, so he went on--
"Now, if you don't mind, I'll see you to the end of the pier, and say
goodbye until tomorrow. I'll get something to eat and hurry back to
town."
"Won't you come and see Charlie?"
"Thank you, I don't think I will. Miss Wentworth has not a
sufficiently good opinion of me to care if I do or don't. Make her my
excuses."
Another pause. Then she said, in a tone which was hardly above a
whisper--
"Cyril, I do hope you'll win."
He stood, and turned, and faced her.
"Do you really mean that, Daisy?"
"You know that I do."
"Then, if you really hope that I shall win--the double event!--as an
earnest of your hopes--there is no one looking!--kiss me."
She did as he bade her.