The morning of Doris Gray's wedding dawned fair and bright, and she sat
by the window which overlooked the gardens in Brakely Square, her hands
clasped across her knees, her mind in a very tangle of confusion. It was
happy for her (she argued) that there were so many considerations
attached to this wedding that she had not an opportunity of thinking
out, logically and to its proper end, the consequence of this act of
hers.
She had had a wire from Frank on the night previous, and to her surprise
it had been dated from Great Bradley. For some reason which she could
not define she was annoyed that he could leave London, and be so
absorbed in his work on the eve of his wedding. She gathered that his
presence in that town had to do with his investigations in the
Tollington case. She thought that at least he might have spent one day
near her in case she wished to consult him. He took much for granted,
she thought petulantly. Poltavo, on the contrary, had been most
assiduous in his attention. He had had tea with her the previous
afternoon, and with singular delicacy had avoided any reference to the
forthcoming marriage or to his own views on the subject. But all that he
did not speak, he looked. He conveyed the misery in which he stood with
subtle suggestion. She felt sorry for him, had no doubt of the
genuineness of his affection, or his disinterestedness. A profitable day
for Poltavo in ordinary circumstances.
A maid brought her from her reverie to the practical realities of life.
"Mr. Debenham has called, miss," said the girl. "I have shown him into
the drawing-room."
"Mr. Debenham?" repeated Doris, with a puzzled frown. "Oh, yes, the
lawyer; I will come down to him."
She found the staid solicitor walking up and down the drawing-room
abstractedly.
"I suppose you know that I shall be a necessary guest at your wedding,"
he said, as he shook hands. "I have to deliver to you the keys of your
uncle's safe at the London Safe Deposit. I have a memorandum here of the
exact amount of money which should be in that safe."
He laid the paper on the table.
"You can look at the items at your leisure, but roughly it amounts to
eight hundred thousand pounds, which was left you by your late father,
who, I understand, died when you were a child."
She nodded.
"That sum is in gilt-edged securities, and you will probably find that a
number of dividends are due to you. The late Mr. Farrington, when he
made his arrangements for your future, chose this somewhat unusual and
bizarre method of protecting your money, much against my will. I might
tell you," he went on, "that he consulted me about six years ago on the
subject, and I strongly advised him against it. As it happened, I was
wrong, for immediately afterwards, as his books show, he must have
suffered enormous losses, and although I make no suggestion against his
character,"--he raised his hand deprecatingly,--"yet I do say that the
situation which was created by the slump in Canadian Pacifics of which
he was a large holder, might very easily have tempted a man not so
strong-willed as Mr. Farrington. At the present moment," he went on, "I
have no more to do than discharge my duty, and I have called beforehand
to see you and to ask whether your uncle spoke of the great Tollington
fortune of which he was one of the trustees, though as I believe--as I
know, in fact--he never handled the money."
She looked surprised.
"It is curious that you should ask that," she said. "Mr. Doughton is
engaged in searching for the heir to that fortune."
Debenham nodded.
"So I understand," he said. "I ask because I received a communication
from the other trustees in America, and I am afraid your future
husband's search will be unavailing unless he can produce the heir
within the next forty-eight hours."
"Why is that?" she asked in surprise.
"The terms of the will are peculiar," said Mr. Debenham, walking up and
down as he spoke. "The Tollington fortune, as you may know----"
"I know nothing about it," she interrupted.
"Then I will tell you." He smiled. "The fortune descends to the heir and
to his wife in equal proportions."
"Suppose he is not blessed with a wife?" She smiled with something like
her old gaiety.
"In that case the money automatically goes to the woman the heir
eventually marries. But the terms of the will are that the heir shall be
discovered within twenty years of the date of Tollington's death. The
time of grace expires to-morrow."
"Poor Frank," she said, shaking her head, "and he is working so hard
with his clues! I suppose if he does not produce that mysterious
individual by to-morrow there will be no reward for him?"
The lawyer shook his head.
"I should hardly think it likely," he said, "because the reward is for
the man who complies with the conditions of the will within a stipulated
time. It was because I knew Mr. Doughton had some interest in it, and
because also"--he hesitated--"I thought that your uncle might have taken
you into his confidence."
"That he might have told me who this missing person was, and that he
himself knew; and for some reason suppressed the fact?" she asked,
quickly. "Is that what you suggest, Mr. Debenham?"
"Please do not be angry with me," said the lawyer, quickly; "I do not
wish to say anything against Mr. Farrington; but I know he was a very
shrewd and calculating man, and I thought possibly that he might have
taken you that much into his confidence, and that you might be able to
help your future husband a part of the way to a very large sum of
money."
She shook her head again.
"I have absolutely no knowledge of the subject. My uncle never took me
into his confidence," she said; "he was very uncommunicative where
business was concerned--although I am sure he was fond of me." Her eyes
filled with tears, not at the recollection of his kindness, but at the
humiliation she experienced at playing a part in which she had no heart.
It made her feel inexpressibly mean and small.
"That is all," said Mr. Debenham. "I shall see you at the registrar's
office."
She nodded.
"May I express the hope," he said, in his heavy manner, "that your life
will be a very happy one, and that your marriage will prove all you hope
it will be?"
"I hardly know what I hope it will be," she said wearily, as she
accompanied him to the door.
That good man shook his head sadly as he made his way back to his
office.
Was there ever so unromantic and prosaic affair as this marriage,
thought Doris, as she stepped into the taxicab which was to convey her
to the registrar's office? She had had her dreams, as other girls had
had, of that wonderful day when with pealing of the organ she would walk
up the aisle perhaps upon the arm of Gregory Farrington, to a marriage
which would bring nothing but delight and happiness. And here was the
end of her dreams, a great heiress and a beautiful girl rocking across
London in a hired cab to a furtive marriage.
Frank was waiting for her on the pavement outside the grimy little
office. Mr. Debenham was there, and a clerk he had brought with him as
witness. The ceremony was brief and uninteresting; she became Mrs.
Doughton before she quite realized what was happening.
"There is only one thing to do now," said the lawyer as they stood
outside again on the sunlit pavement.
He looked at his watch.
"We had best go straight away to the London Safe Deposit, and, if you
will give me the authority, I will take formal possession of your
fortune and place it in the hands of my bankers. I think these things
had better be done regularly."
The girl acquiesced.
Frank was singularly silent during the drive; save to make some comment
upon the amount of traffic in the streets, he did not speak to her and
she was grateful for his forbearance. Her mind was in a turmoil; she was
married--that was all she knew--married to somebody she liked but did
not love. Married to a man who had been chosen for her partly against
her will. She glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes; if she was
joyless, no less was he. It was an inauspicious beginning to a married
life which would end who knew how? Before the depressing granite facade
of the London Safe Deposit the party descended, Mr. Debenham paid the
cabman, and they went down the stone steps into the vaults of the
repository.
There was a brief check whilst Mr. Debenham explained his authority for
the visit, and it was when the officials were making reference to their
books that the party was augmented by the arrival of Poltavo.
He bowed over the girl's hand, holding it a little longer than Frank
could have liked, murmured colourless congratulations and nodded to
Debenham.
"Count Poltavo is here, I may say," explained the lawyer, "by your late
uncle's wishes. They were contained in a letter he wrote to me a few
days before he disappeared."
Frank nodded grudgingly; still he was generous enough to realize
something of this man's feelings if he loved Doris, and he made an
especial effort to be gracious to the new-comer.
A uniformed attendant led them through innumerable corridors till they
came to a private vault guarded by stout bars. The attendant opened
these and they walked into a little stone chamber, illuminated by
overhead lights.
The only article of furniture in the room was a small safe which stood
in one corner. A very small safe indeed, thought Frank, to contain so
large a fortune. The lawyer turned the key in the lock methodically, and
the steel door swung back. The back of Mr. Debenham obscured their view
of the safe's interior. Then he turned with an expression of wonder.
"There is nothing here," he said.
"Nothing!" gasped Doris.
"Save this," said the lawyer.
He took a small envelope and handed it to the girl. She opened it
mechanically and read:
"I have, unfortunately, found it necessary to utilize your fortune for
the furtherance of my plans. You must try and forgive me for this; but I
have given you a greater one than you have lost, a husband."
She looked up.
"What does this mean?" she whispered.
Frank took the letter from her hand and concluded the reading.
"A husband in Frank Doughton...."
The words swam before his eyes.
"And Frank Doughton is the heir to the Tollington millions, as his
father was before him. All the necessary proofs to establish his
identity will be discovered in the sealed envelope which the lawyer
holds, and which is inscribed 'C.'"
The letter was signed "Gregory Farrington."
The lawyer was the first to recover his self-possession; his practical
mind went straight to the business at hand.
"There is such an envelope in my office," he said, "given to me by Mr.
Farrington with strict instructions that it was not to be handed to his
executors or to any person until definite instructions
arrived--instructions which would be accompanied by unmistakable proof
as to the necessity for its being handed over. I congratulate you, Mr.
Doughton."
He turned and shook hands with the bewildered Frank, who had been
listening like a man in a dream; the heir to the Tollington millions;
he, the son of George Doughton, and all the time he had been looking
for--what? For his own grandmother!
It came on him all of a rush. He knew now that all his efforts, all his
search might have been saved, if he had only realized the Christian name
of his father's mother.
He had only the dimmest recollection of the placid-faced lady who had
died whilst he was at school; he had never associated in his mind this
serene old lady, who had passed away only a few hours before her
beloved husband, with the Annie for whom he had searched. It made him
gasp--then he came to earth quickly as he realized that his success had
come with the knowledge of his wife's financial ruin. He looked at her
as she stood there--it was too vast a shock for her to realize at once.
He put his arm about her shoulder, and Poltavo, twirling his little
moustache, looked at the two through his lowered lids with an ugly smile
playing at the corner of his mouth.
"It is all right, dear," said Frank soothingly; "your money is
secure--it was only a temporary use he made of it."
"It is not that," she said, with a catch in her throat; "it is the
feeling that my uncle trapped you into this marriage. I did not mind his
dissipating my own fortune; the money is nothing to me. But he has
caught you by a trick, and he has used me as a bait." She covered her
face with her hands.
In a few moments she had composed herself; she spoke no other word, but
suffered herself to be led out of the building into the waiting cab.
Poltavo watched them drive off with that fierce little smile of his, and
turned to the lawyer.
"A clever man, Mr. Farrington," he said, in a bitter tone of reluctant
admiration.
The lawyer looked at him steadily.
"His Majesty's prisons are filled with men who specialize in that kind
of cleverness," he said, drily, and left Poltavo without another word.