BLACKMAILED!
It was a very rambling statement, but certain plain facts emerged from
it. Sir George had now become a regular habitué of Miss Buckley’s flat,
and they were constantly in each other’s society, lunching and dining
together, going to theatres when her engagements permitted her to have
an evening to herself. Several times he had come across young Graham,
to whom he seemed to take a very great fancy, and was very curious
about him.
On this particular evening he had put some leading questions on the
subject, and Alma in her confused state had thrown her usual caution
to the winds and blurted out the youngster’s real name, and, worst of
all, had let drop the fact that his father, Graham Darcy, had come into
conflict with the law.
Mrs. Morrice was naturally much annoyed at her friend’s indiscretion,
due to her having lost control of herself. But Alma’s contrition was so
genuine, her contempt for herself so bitter, that she did not like to
show her annoyance too plainly.
She rather affected to make light of it. “Of course, it would have been
much better if it had never happened,” she said in her laudable desire
to cheer up the drooping Alma. “But the name of Darcy will convey
nothing to a man in Sir George’s position. It all happened so many
years ago, and it was not a sensational trial, no paper had more than
a few lines about it. At the same time, my dear old friend, you must
forgive me for saying it is a lesson to you to keep a stricter watch
over yourself in certain respects.”
Alma, of course, promised that she would, as much for her own sake as
for that of others, and the two women parted as good friends as ever.
In a few days the incident almost faded from the minds of both.
They did not meet again for a month, and when they did, Miss Buckley’s
manner was very grave and constrained. Her friend, who knew her moods
so well, surmised at once she had got something on her mind.
“Why are you looking so woebegone, Alma?” she questioned at length
when she noticed that her friend’s gloom seemed deepened rather
than lightened in spite of the efforts of both to keep the ball of
conversation rolling.
It was some time before Alma spoke; when she did she rushed out her
words with a sort of nervous impetuosity. “You’ll have to know it
sooner or later, Lettice; I may as well tell you and get it over. It
all arose from my making an idiot of myself on that fatal night, when I
let out the name of Darcy and the truth about Jack’s father. I’ve told
you that Sir George was always very curious about him.”
It was now Mrs. Morrice’s turn to look grave. She felt instinctively
that something portentous had happened.
Alma went on in her quick, nervous way: “Sir George was round at my
place a couple of days ago, and after we had talked a little on casual
subjects, a queer sort of smile came over his face, and he came out
with it all. I hate to tell you, Lettice, but you must know. He has
found out all about you, how I cannot guess; I begin to think, much
as I like him, he is a dangerous man, and that there is about him
something—how shall I describe it—just a little bit sinister. He knows
all about the trial and sentence; that you and Darcy were married in
France; and that you are now the wife of Rupert Morrice. I cannot say
how wretched and miserable I am about it. When he left, I felt as if I
should like to go and drown myself, but that wouldn’t do any good.”
It was a terrible shock to Mrs. Morrice that her carefully-guarded
secret should be known to anybody beyond themselves. She tried to
take an optimistic view of the situation. Sir George had been wild in
his youth like his two brothers, but he was a gentleman by birth and
breeding, he would never take advantage of his knowledge. And yet—and
yet, why had he taken the trouble to find it all out? It must have
required considerable time and patience, and does any man spend the one
and exercise the other without some adequate motive? And how was it
possible that he should get the information after all these years?
When Mrs. Morrice came to this point in her narrative, Lane made
no comment. But, recollecting what he had learned from MacKenzie,
he guessed how easily the baronet had been able to go about his
researches. Sir George was known to be an associate of “crooks” at
the present time, crooks of the high-class variety; no doubt he had
associated with them for many years past. Even if he had not known
Darcy personally, the name would be a familiar one in the criminal
world, and everything about him was known to those who belonged to it.
It was probable that he had at first embarked upon his researches
out of a mere spirit of curiosity, scenting some mystery about
Alma Buckley’s connection with the youngster, and being desirous
of unravelling it. In doing so, he had stumbled upon a secret of
considerable value to an unscrupulous man. Lettice Darcy, the widow
of a criminal, had married a wealthy and eminent financier of high
standing and integrity, absolutely ignorant of his wife’s past, for it
was not to be presumed that any man in his senses would unite himself
to a woman with such a record. Such a secret ought to be worth a good
deal to him.
He was not long in unmasking his batteries. He and Mrs. Morrice had a
few common acquaintances at whose houses they had often been guests
at the same time. But they had never exchanged a word together. She,
knowing who he was, at once identified him as the brother of the man
who had figured in that disagreeable incident at the Brinkstone Arms,
but he had not appeared to recognize her. She had been rather glad of
this, as she was anxious to consign the past, her girlhood included, to
oblivion.
A week after that disturbing interview with Miss Buckley, she was a
guest at an evening function at a well-known house in Piccadilly, with
Rosabelle Sheldon; her husband had not accompanied them, he was dining
at the club with a brother financier to discuss one of his big schemes.
She had just finished chatting with an old acquaintance, and at the
moment was standing alone in a corner of one of the big salons, when
she saw Sir George approaching her. She felt a slight shiver pass
through her as she realized he was seeking her. She remembered that
Alma Buckley, who had been frankly in love with him, had spoken of him
as a dangerous man, and suggested there was something rather sinister
about him.
He bowed in his usual courtly way, he always infused a subtle air of
deference in his manner towards women which impressed most of them
greatly in his favour.
He addressed her in his pleasant, cultivated voice. She was to find
out later that he was one of the most unscrupulous blackguards who
ever preyed upon a helpless woman, but certainly nothing in the man’s
exterior gave any indication of the blackness of the soul beneath.
“We have met for many years at various houses, Mrs. Morrice, it is
strange that I should only just now recognize you as the young lady I
used to encounter in her walks in that quaint village of Brinkstone,
when you were Miss Larchester.”
She was very agitated inwardly, she knew at once that in recalling
himself to her recollection, he was actuated by a sinister motive
which would presently be revealed. If he were the gentleman the world
supposed him to be, he would have kept locked in his breast the secret
which he had acquired through Alma Buckley’s indiscretion.
A little strained conversation followed, then he plainly showed his
hand.
“I should very much like a little private conversation with you, Mrs.
Morrice. I wonder where we could have it? For the present, it might not
be very prudent for me to call at Deanery Street.”
She felt sick and faint as she listened to those words. It was
impossible to ignore the threat that underlay them. Should she refuse
to grant him this interview and present a bold front? Alas, if he
had made up his mind to use her secret to his own advantage, she was
helpless, she dare not defy him.
She made an appointment to meet him at Miss Buckley’s flat. Alma,
burning with indignation against the man whom she had taken for a
gentleman, on whom she had set her affections, was present. He was
polite and suave as ever, but behind that suavity and politeness lay
an inexorable purpose, to victimize this unfortunate woman to the
fullest extent.
He turned first to Alma with a bland smile. “I do not think you
are aware that for some little time I have been cultivating the
acquaintance of that very charming boy, Jack Graham; he has been in my
company several times unknown to you. I have taken a great interest in
him; he is a sharp, intelligent young fellow, and I may say without
vanity that he has evinced a strong liking for me. I have made up my
mind to relieve you of any further concern regarding his welfare, by
adopting him myself.”
The two women were struck speechless by this bold declaration; they
waited for further disclosures. One thing they were both sure of, that
whatever his course of conduct might be, it would not be dictated by
philanthropic motives.
He turned to the unhappy mother. “While making every allowance for the
unfortunate circumstances in which you found yourself placed, Mrs.
Morrice, I cannot acquit you of having proved a very unnatural parent.
I find this bright intelligent young fellow condemned to an obscure
existence with but little chance of bettering himself, while you, his
mother, are a wealthy woman and living in the midst of refinement
and luxury. I propose to remedy this, to place him in a position
more suitable to him”—he paused for a second and added with deadly
emphasis—“and in this laudable object I shall insist on his mother’s
help.”
There was no mistaking what he meant. Alma, giving way to her naturally
fiery temper, flashed out indignantly, “And supposing we refuse to abet
this scheme of yours, what then?”
At this question, he no longer made a pretence of keeping on the mask.
“In that case it will be my painful duty to inform Mr. Morrice that
this lady, whom he honours so highly, is the widow of a criminal and
the mother of John Graham, that criminal’s son.”
They knew him now for what he really was, a thorough-paced, plausible
and ruthless blackguard, who would use any means to further his vile
ends. But they were helpless and in his toils. Indignation failed to
arouse his cold and pitiless nature, he met it with indifference. Any
appeal to his better instincts only provoked a sardonic smile, and
taunting allusions to “an unnatural mother.”
He forced his project through. His brother Archibald had recently died
in Australia, nobody in England knew whether he was married or not. He
would pass the young fellow off as that dead brother’s son. It was only
fair that the young man should have the _entrée_ to his mother’s house,
should see something of refined life. What had Mrs. Morrice told her
husband about her family? she must have told him something.
If Mrs. Morrice had kept her head just at this juncture, she could have
told him that her husband knew her to be an only child, and that it was
therefore impossible for her to have a nephew. But she was so confused
that she blurted out the actual information she had given Mr. Morrice,
that she was one of a family of three, herself, a brother and a married
sister, both dead. She was never quite sure what reasons had prompted
her to tell this lie to him—at the time it might have struck her that
the introduction of these fictitious relatives gave a greater air of
verisimilitude to her history.
But even if she had put a temporary check on Sir George’s schemes in
this direction, he would soon have invented some other means of forcing
himself and the young man into Deanery Street.
But now it was all very easy. Morrice, the most unsuspicious person in
private life, had accepted his wife’s statements, and had hardly ever
made the briefest allusion to these dead relatives or in fact to her
family history at all.
She would now tell him that her sister had married Archibald Brookes,
that the marriage had been a very unhappy one of which she did not care
to speak, that her dislike of Archibald had extended to Sir George, for
no particular reason, and that for years they had met as strangers;
that learning he was about to adopt her sister’s child, she had agreed
to bury the hatchet and take an interest in the young man’s welfare.
This scheme was carried out in spite of spasmodic opposition on the
part of both Mrs. Morrice and her friend. When they dared to object,
they were met by the stereotyped threat: “Very well. Then your husband
shall be told the secret of your past. The choice lies with you.”
Sir George took young Darcy—to call him by his real name—to live with
him at the beginning, and he found the young man an apt pupil. He
experienced no difficulty in instilling into him a deep resentment
against a mother who had practically cast him out of her life. The
young man had no scruples in helping his supposed uncle to extract as
much money as they could out of the helpless woman.
Their demands grew by leaps and bounds. At first they were content to
take a part of her income—the generous allowance which her husband made
her. Then, in obedience to their insatiable exactions, she was forced
to realize her own small capital. Then came the sale, piece by piece,
of her valuable jewellery, and its replacement by cleverly-executed
imitations.
The unhappy woman was now so completely under their domination, so
broken down by the threat of instant exposure to her husband with which
they met the least show of hesitation or demur on her part, that she
was finally driven into stealing from Morrice’s safe, when she had
exhausted all her other resources.
The way of doing this was made easy by the fact that she had one day,
while her husband was away on a business visit to America, discovered
amongst a loose packet of his papers a cryptic memorandum which aroused
her curiosity. After puzzling over it for some time she came to the
conclusion that it must be the calculations for the time lock which the
makers of the safe had handed to Mr. Morrice after its construction.
She had locked it up, intending to give it to her husband on his
return. But as Mr. Morrice had never alluded to its loss, the incident
had slipped her memory. It was revived when Sir George one day jokingly
alluded to the financier’s wonderful safe—for Morrice was very proud
of this invention and spoke about it to everybody—and wished that he
could put his hands inside it for five minutes. Very foolishly, she
had admitted that she knew the secret of its mechanism as well as her
husband and young Croxton.
Sir George seized upon this indiscreet admission as soon as it suited
his purpose. She did not know how the two exactly apportioned the
money they wrung from her, but she had an idea that the greater part
of it went to the elder man, who lost it at the gaming-table almost as
quickly as it came into his hands.
The five thousand pounds handed over to her by her first husband’s
instructions, together with the few hundreds left her by her father,
had gone to satisfy the insatiable demands of this pair of miscreants.
There were still a few pieces of jewellery which had not yet been
realized, amongst them the “birthday” necklace. Soon these would have
to go the way of the others.
It was necessary to find some other sources of supply; to Sir George’s
acute mind the safe presented an obvious solution, there was always
something of value inside it.
For a long time she fought obstinately against their efforts to
make her a criminal, but in the end—cowed by that terrible threat
of exposure, her will-power weakened by these long years of secret
suffering—she gave in. Fully conversant with the safe’s mechanism,
fully acquainted with the movements of her husband and his secretary,
having free access to his room during the absence of both, it was for
her a comparatively easy task.
She carried out the first robbery, a most fruitful one for those who
engineered it, and this resulted in the disgrace of Croxton and his
banishment from his benefactor’s house.
She carried out the second, although she vehemently warned the two
scoundrels that as Richard was no longer a member of the household,
suspicion might easily be diverted into other quarters. Her arguments
had no influence on them. Morrice, while sure of the guilt of his
secretary, had spared him. If discovery did ensue, he would be equally
sure to keep silence about his own wife.
The third time she opened the safe on her own initiative, driven to do
so by a fit of remorse. The second robbery, it will be remembered, had
produced poor results, the booty being inconsiderable and a portion of
it valueless to the persons into whose hands it fell. It struck the
distraught woman that in putting back the Swiss notes and the packet of
private papers, she was making an act of reparation.