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A WOMAN’S DEBT
SUCCESSFUL NOVELS
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Published by
WARD, LOCK & CO., Limited,
in various editions.
THE LITTLE BLUE GODDESS
AS WE FORGIVE THEM
THE DAY OF TEMPTATION
AN EYE FOR AN EYE
GUILTY BONDS
THE IDOL OF THE TOWN
IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE
IN WHITE RAIMENT
THE LURE OF LOVE
THE MYSTERIOUS THREE
NO GREATER LOVE
THE PLACE OF DRAGONS
THE SIGN OF SILENCE
THE TEMPTRESS
THE WILES OF THE WICKED
THE HOTEL X
THE HEART OF A PRINCESS
THREE KNOTS
THE YOUNG ARCHDUCHESS
No. 7 SAVILLE SQUARE
THE LADY-IN-WAITING
SCRIBES AND PHARISEES
THE BRONZE FACE
A WOMAN’S DEBT
THE SIGN OF THE STRANGER
THE BOND OF BLACK
THE BROKEN THREAD
THE COURT OF HONOUR
SINS OF THE CITY
THE MARKED MAN
WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE
A MAKER OF SECRETS
THE VALROSE MYSTERY
THE BLACK OWL
THE SCARLET SIGN
THE HOUSE OF EVIL
A WOMAN’S
DEBT
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_Author of “The Temptress,” “The Way of Temptation,”
“The Hotel X,” “The Bronze Face,” etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
To
RUBY GRAYSON
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW! 9
II THE RIFLED SAFE 18
III RICHARD IS DISMISSED 25
IV GIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND 34
V ROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER 47
VI LANE ENGAGES AN ASSISTANT 54
VII THE HEAD WAITER 63
VIII MRS. MORRICE’S GIRLHOOD 73
IX IMPORTANT INFORMATION 80
X THE SAFE IS ROBBED AGAIN 89
XI A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS 96
XII SIR GEORGE’S VALET 103
XIII AUNT AND “NEPHEW”! 113
XIV AN ALARMING INTERRUPTION 120
XV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 130
XVI AT SCOTLAND YARD 141
XVII LANE VISITS RICHARD 146
XVIII MRS. MORRICE’S DRESS 153
XIX MISS ALMA BUCKLEY 161
XX RUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE 169
XXI ROSABELLE HAS A GRIEVANCE 176
XXII HUSBAND AND WIFE 185
XXIII RICHARD IS CLEARED 194
XXIV LANE MAKES A CALL 205
XXV MRS. MORRICE’S CONFESSION 210
XXVI THE STORY CONTINUED 219
XXVII IN VINO VERITAS 228
XXVIII BLACKMAILED! 235
XXIX SIR GEORGE IS ARRESTED 244
XXX RUPERT MORRICE MAKES AMENDS 252
A WOMAN’S DEBT
CHAPTER I
A LUCKY YOUNG FELLOW!
“You’re a lucky chap, Croxton, to have got the measure of the old man
so well. I don’t suppose it will be long before you blossom into a
partner.”
The speaker, Archie Brookes, a slim elegant young fellow, very
good-looking but with a somewhat effeminate expression, cast a sidelong
glance at his companion as he uttered the remark, to observe covertly
what impression it made upon him.
There was no love lost between these two young men, although they were
thrown constantly into each other’s society. Richard Croxton was the
confidential secretary of Rupert Morrice, the well-known foreign banker
and financier, whose firm had colossal dealings abroad. Brookes was a
nephew and great favourite of the financier’s wife, the son of a dearly
beloved sister who had died many years ago. In consequence of that
relationship, and the partiality of his aunt, he was a frequent, almost
a daily, visitor to the big house in Deanery Street, Park Lane, where
the Morrices entertained largely and dispensed lavish hospitality.
Croxton’s voice was very cold, as he replied to the other’s suggestion.
“Those are the sort of things one does not permit oneself to speculate
about, much less to discuss.”
For a second an angry gleam showed in the light blue eyes of Brookes.
Not troubled with very refined feelings himself, he thought it was
rank hypocrisy on the part of Richard to refuse to talk to a man of
his own age about prospects upon which he must often have meditated.
But the angry gleam passed away quickly. Archie Brookes was a very
self-contained young man. He seldom allowed his temper to get the
better of him, and he never indulged in sarcastic remarks.
“Ah, you’ve got a very wise head upon your shoulders, Dick,” he said
in a genial tone, and accentuating his air of good-fellowship by the
unfamiliar use of the Christian name. “You’ll never let your tongue
give you away. But I am sure it will be as I say. Uncle Rupert thinks
the world of you, and he has no near relative of his own. What more
natural than that you should succeed?”
To his emphatic reiteration of his previous remarks, Richard made no
reply. While always perfectly civil to this elegant-mannered young man
for whom he felt a vague dislike, he never encouraged intimacy. He was
just a little resentful that he had been addressed as “Dick.” Nothing
in the world would have induced him to accost the other as “Archie,”
although they met nearly every day, and the one was the favourite
nephew of the mistress of the house, and the other was as good as the
adopted son of the master.
There was a certain element of romance about the introduction of
Richard Croxton into the Morrice _ménage_. The great financier, hard
as iron in his business dealings, was in private life a man of the
greatest sentiment and sensibility. Some years before he met the lady
who was now his wife, he had been desperately in love with a charming
girl, who had been one of the fashionable beauties of the day.
The fate of this lovely girl had been a sad and tragic one. With the
world at her feet, she had bestowed her affections upon a man utterly
unworthy—a rake, a gambler—and a spendthrift, and alienated her friends
and her family by marrying him. On her death-bed she had sent for her
old lover and confided her only child to his care. Rupert Morrice had
accepted the trust, his heart warming to the son, as he grew to know
him, not only for his own qualities, but for the sake of the mother
whom he had so fondly loved with the passionate ardour of a strong,
intense nature.
He had taken the young fellow into his own house and made him his
confidential secretary. Some women might have resented such a sudden
intrusion, but Mrs. Morrice was not of a petty or jealous nature. She
grew in time to be very fond of Richard Croxton, and did not in the
least begrudge him his place in her husband’s affections.
There sauntered up to the two young fellows a very
distinguished-looking man of about fifty years of age. Aristocrat
was written all over him—in his tall, elegant figure, his aquiline
features, his long, shapely, well-manicured hands, his cultivated and
well-bred voice. This was Sir George Clayton-Brookes, the paternal
uncle of Archie, a well-known personage in London society, a member of
some of the most exclusive clubs, and, report said, the possessor of
considerable wealth. He had added the name of Clayton on inheriting a
fortune from a distant relative.
He greeted Croxton with an air of great cordiality. His manners were
very polished, some people thought they were just a trifle too suave
for perfect sincerity.
“Well, my dear Richard, how goes the world with you?” Using the
privilege of seniority, he always addressed the young man by his
Christian name. For his part, Croxton did not always feel anything like
the same antagonism towards the uncle that he felt for the nephew, but
he did not really like him. There was something too oily about the man
for his taste.
Some commonplace reply was made to this inquiry, and Sir George went on
in his smooth, well-bred tones.
“A charming gathering, everything perfect and in good taste, as usual.
I really think this is almost the most pleasing house in London; luxury
without ostentation, wealth without oppressive magnificence. But then
who can wonder at it when you have host and hostess who pull together
so splendidly?”
He was a great hand at compliments, this elegant-mannered man of the
world, well-known on every race-course in England, well-known in Paris
and at Monte Carlo, where he played with varying fortune, sometimes
winning, more frequently losing. For he was an inveterate gambler.
And in paying his flowery compliments, either directly, or as in this
case, obliquely through the medium of a third party, he generally
laid it on with a trowel, so to speak. But to-night, in praising the
Morrices as he did, he was not speaking much more than the truth.
For wealthy as they were, both Morrice and his wife loathed anything in
the shape of ostentation. They left that to the _nouveau riche_. The
man had been used to riches from a boy, they were no novelty to him,
for his grandfather had founded the great business of which he had for
so many years been the head. His wife, though poor for her position,
was said to be descended from a very old family. Such people as these
were not likely to shock their friends and acquaintances with vulgar
display.
The house in Deanery Street looked very charming with its softly shaded
lights, its profusion of flowers, its crowd of beautifully dressed
women and well-groomed men. It wanted about three weeks to Christmas.
Very shortly the host and hostess were leaving for a month’s sojourn at
Mürren, to enjoy the ski-ing. Richard Croxton and Rosabelle Sheldon, a
niece and ward of the financier, were to accompany them.
Sir George, who was a great talker, proceeded with his complimentary
remarks.
“Yes, certainly, one of the most charming houses in London, if not
actually _the_ most charming. Astonishing how a place takes its
atmosphere and tone from the people who run it! Dear old Rupert is one
of the best, and his wife is so tactful and refined.” He gave a little
involuntary sigh. “Ah, it is wonderful what wealth can do, combined
with tact and manners.”
Young Croxton looked at him wonderingly. That sigh seemed very
heartfelt. Sir George was reputed to be wealthy, he surely could not be
envious of another man’s riches. He could not be envious either of the
tact and manners of his hosts, for he was credited with the possession
of both in great abundance.
He caught the young man’s puzzled look, and hastened to explain. “I am
not a pauper myself, and I can make a bit of a show when I want to—but
of course nothing to compare with this. Rupert is wealthy beyond the
dreams of avarice. He thinks in millions, where we little men think
only in thousands.”
Richard thought he understood. Sir George’s habits were pretty
well-known. He betted on every race; cards and all forms of gambling
had for him a fatal allurement. With such weaknesses, a rich man might
often find himself temporarily poor.
“You are a lucky young fellow, my dear Richard, to have been brought up
under the careful guidance of such a wise mentor as Rupert Morrice. The
man is sound to the core; no weaknesses, no failings. He has told me
that he has never touched a card in his life, nor made a bet. And yet,
withal, he is not a bit of a Puritan.”
Richard was quite aware of the fact that he was a very lucky person;
that, thanks perhaps mostly to that old love-affair, he had won the
favour of the wealthy financier. But he was not over-pleased to have
the fact rubbed into him so very persistently by this smooth-mannered
man of the world, whose attitude towards himself, he fancied, always
showed a trace of bland superiority.
He wished that he could get away from the too close proximity of the
uncle and nephew, and was meditating how best to accomplish his object,
when Providence intervened in the shape of Rosabelle Sheldon, who
fluttered up to them.
She was a very charming person, this good-looking girl over whose fair
head some twenty-two summers had passed. Her blue eyes looked at you
with a full unwavering glance that told you there was no meanness or
pettiness in her composition, that she was open and frank. She had a
fine figure, a splendid complexion, an exquisite mouth, which, when she
smiled, revealed perfect teeth. She was a merry-hearted girl, fond of
dancing, fond of sport, loving an outdoor life, and of a most equable
temper. But sunny as was her normal disposition, she was capable of
grave moods when occasion called them forth, and could be very serious
when she was deeply moved.
“I am dying for an ice. Please take me and get me one, Dick, that is if
I am not interrupting an important conversation,” she said, addressing
the young man.
Sir George regarded her with that benign smile of his which, when he
bestowed it upon women, suggested a subtle flattery and appreciation of
their charm.
“You’ve been enjoying yourself very much, I can see, my dear Rosabelle,
from the happy light on your expressive face. But I wager you will
enjoy yourself more at Mürren, delightful as this evening has been, and
is.”
The girl laughed gaily. “Oh, Sir George, how well you understand me. I
enjoy nearly everything, you know; I am made that way. But above all
things, I am an out-of-door girl, and I prefer to take my pleasures in
the open air when possible.”
She went away on Richard’s arm, leaving uncle and nephew standing
together side by side.
“Two types of people born with silver spoons in their mouths,” remarked
the elder man in his smooth, even voice. “She is the apple of old
Rupert’s eyes, and young Croxton is as dear to him as a son. They will
ultimately get the millions the old man has piled up. And unless I
am very much mistaken, there is already a pretty good understanding
between the young couple, and the millions will be united.”
The nephew had not spoken up to the present. Truth to tell, when Sir
George was there with his ceaseless flow of urbane small talk, it was
not very easy for another person to get a hearing, but now he found
voice.
“I have not the slightest doubt of that. The old boy seems to approve,
apparently has no wish that she should look higher, and my aunt doesn’t
disapprove, although I don’t think it would greatly affect matters if
she did. Miss Rosabelle, good-tempered as she is, has a very strong
will of her own in things that affect her strongly, and the old man,
being so fond of them both, would take their part against his wife.”
Sir George shrugged his shoulders. “What must be will be. It is a pity
though that this young Croxton has fascinated her. But for him, you
might have had a chance, and of course you would have had your aunt’s
backing.”
“I’m not the sort that finds favour in the eyes of men like Morrice,”
said the nephew curtly. “He leads too strenuous a life himself to take
very kindly to an idler like me. And Croxton might be his own son from
certain aspects of his character. He’s a tremendous worker, like the
old man, and I fancy Rosabelle prefers the strenuous type herself, and
that she has no great liking for people who just saunter through life.”
“Strange that Morrice should work so hard at his time of life, although
of course fifty-five is not a very great age. You’d think he had
millions enough without slaving to pile up a few more for the young
people to spend. And he has no vices, no weaknesses to run away with
his money.” And again Sir George indulged in that rather melancholy
sigh as he gave utterance to these sage remarks.
“He’ll die in harness as his father and grandfather died before him,”
said the young man decidedly. “It’s ingrained in them. But it does seem
a pity that there’s nobody of his own blood to take the reins, I mean
of course in the male line. But see, my aunt is beckoning me. We shall
meet as usual to-morrow, if I don’t come across you again to-night.”
Sir George made his exit; evening parties did not appeal to him
greatly. He went to one of his clubs where he was sure to find some
eager gambling spirits like himself, and Archie Brookes made his
way through the crowded rooms to his aunt, with whom he held a long
conversation.
Mrs. Morrice was a handsome, charming mannered woman, some five years
younger than her husband. Rupert Morrice had remained a bachelor till
he was thirty-five, faithful to the memory of the beautiful girl who
had made such a tragic wreck of her life, and then he had put the past
away from him as far as it was possible, and married his present wife.
His father had died young, and he had been at the head of affairs
for some six years and was a man of very considerable wealth, for
he had been the only son and inherited a large fortune as well as
the lucrative and old-established business. It would not have been
difficult for him, in such a position, to have made a brilliant
marriage; had he so chosen, he might have entered the ranks of the
aristocracy, for more than one dowerless Belgravian maiden would have
welcomed him as a suitor.
But although he had plenty of business ambitions, he was not very
ambitious socially, considering his vast wealth. He had no desire
to enter a proud and impoverished family who might think they were
condescending when they allowed him to mate with their blue-blooded
daughter. For rich as he was, he had come of homely stock, the founder
of the great business having been a poor man of humble origin who had
begun on the lowest rung of the ladder.
So he followed his own inclinations. He went abroad for a long holiday
and returned with a wife, much to the astonishment of his friends and
acquaintances. And not very much was vouchsafed about the antecedents
of the lady who had become the wife of the much-sought-after banker.
The world was given to understand that she was a woman of good family,
but no very full details were given until the arrival of Sir George
Clayton-Brookes upon the scene, when it was announced that a younger
brother of his had married her sister.
The long conversation between Archie Brookes and his aunt came to an
end presently, and then the young man took his departure. Like Sir
George, he was not greatly interested in this kind of function. He
did not belong to the exclusive clubs which opened their doors to his
fashionable uncle, but there were less pretentious establishments which
welcomed him. Like his relative, he was addicted to cards and betting,
and was only really happy when in the society of kindred spirits.
Rosabelle and young Croxton spent some time together, while the uncle
and nephew had been discussing them, and Archie Brookes had held that
long conversation with his aunt. When young people have got much to say
to each other, it takes a long time to consume an ice.
As they came back to the crowded rooms, the first person they met
was Rupert Morrice himself. He was a fine-looking, grey-bearded man,
carrying his fifty-five years well. The face was a little hard,
perhaps, the clear blue eyes were very keen, but the tones of his voice
showed that there was a very tender strain in his composition. He gave
a kindly glance to his niece, and addressed the young man.
“I hope we shan’t be kept up too late, Dick; we have to be astir
betimes to-morrow, to open that safe.”
Rosabelle smiled her sunny smile. “That wonderful safe, uncle, of which
nobody but you and Dick knows the secret.”
The great financier indulged in a satisfied chuckle. “Yes, young lady,
you may smile, but I am very proud of it. It is ‘some’ safe, as the
Yankees would say, I can tell you.”