THE DANCING GIRL
T. B. reached the second floor. The corridor was deserted; he walked
quickly to No. 11. The door yielded to his push. He closed it
behind him and noiselessly locked it. He took a tiny electric lamp
from his pocket and threw the light cautiously round.
He found the table and chair placed ready for him, and blessed
Vellair silently.
The ventilator was a small one; he had located it easily enough when
he had entered the room by the gleam of light that came through it.
Very carefully he mounted the table, stepped lightly into the chair,
and looked down into the next chamber.
It was an ordinary kind of private dining-room. The only light came
from two shaded electric lamps on the table in the centre.
Sir George, with a frown, was regarding his beautiful _vis-à-vis_.
That she was lovely beyond ordinary loveliness T. B. knew from
repute. He had expected the high colourings, the blacks and scarlets
of the Andalusian; but this girl had the creamy complexion of the
well-bred Spaniard, with eyes that might have been hazel or violet in
the uncertain light, but which were decidedly not black. Her lips,
now tightly compressed, were neither too full nor too thin; her nose
straight; her hair, brushed back from her forehead in an unfamiliar
style, was that exact tint between bronze and brown that your
connoisseur so greatly values.
A plain _filet_ of dull gold about her head and the broad collar of
pearls around her neck were the only jewels she displayed. Her dress
was black, unrelieved by any touch of colour. She was talking
rapidly in French, a language with which T. B. was very well
conversant.
"----but, Sir George," she pleaded, "it would be horrible, wicked,
cruel not to see him again!"
"It would be worse if you saw him," said the other drily. "You know,
my dear Miss Dominguez, you would both be miserable in a month. The
title would be no compensation for you; Carleby would bore you;
Carleby House would drive you mad; Carleby's relatives would incite
you to murder."
"You are one!" she blazed.
"Exactly; and do I not exasperate you? Think of me magnified by a
hundred. Come, come, there are better men than Carleby in the world,
and you are young, you are little more than a child."
"But I love him," she sobbed.
"I suppose you do." T. B., from his hiding-place, bestowed an
admiring grin upon the patronage in the baronet's tone. "When did
you meet him first?"
"Three weeks ago." She spoke with a catch in her voice that affected
T. B. strangely.
"That girl is acting," he thought. "But why----?"
"Three weeks?" mused the banker. "Um--when did you discover he was a
relative of mine?"
"A few days since," she said eagerly. "I was in Cornwall, visiting
some friends----"
"Cornwall!" T. B. had hard work to suppress an exclamation.
"----and I learnt from them that you were related. I did not know of
any other relation. My friends told me it would be wicked to marry
without the knowledge of his people. 'Go to Sir George Calliper and
explain,' they said; 'he will help you'; instead of which----"
The banker smiled again.
"Instead of which I pointed out how impossible it was, eh? and
persuaded you to give up all idea of marrying Carleby. Yes, I
suppose you think I am a heartless brute."
She sat with bent head.
"You will give him my message?" she asked suddenly.
[Illustration: "You will give him my message?"]
He nodded.
"And the flowers?"
"And the flowers," he repeated gravely.
("That clears the banker," thought T. B.)
"I shall leave for Spain to-morrow. It was good of you to let me
have this talk."
"It was good of you to come."
"Somehow," she said drearily, "I cannot help feeling that it is for
the best."
Again T. B. thought he detected a note of insincerity.
"When will you see him?"
"Carleby?" he asked.
"To-morrow?"
"Not to-morrow."
"The next day?"
T. B. was alert now; he saw in a flash the significance of this
interview; saw the plot which had lured a foolish relative of
Calliper's to a love affair; and now, the manoeuvring to the crucial
moment of the interview which she had so cleverly planned.
"Nor the next day," smiled Sir George.
"Well, the _next_ day?"
He shook his head. "That is the day of all days I am not likely to
leave London."
"Why?" she asked innocently, her eyes wide open and her lips parted.
"I have some very important business to transact on that day," he
said briefly.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, with a hint of awe in her voice. "You're a
great banker, aren't you?" she smiled. "Oh, yes, Carleby told me----"
"I thought you didn't know about me until your Cornish friends told
you?" he asked.
"Not that you were related to him," she rejoined quickly, "but he
spoke of the great house of Bronte----"
("Neat," approved the hidden T. B.)
"So Thursday will be the day," she mused.
"What day?" The banker's voice was sharp.
"The day you will see Carleby," she said, with a look of surprise.
"I said _not_ Thursday on any account, but possibly the next day,"
said Sir George stiffly.
"She has the information she wants," said T. B. to himself, "and so
have I," he reflected; "I will now retire."
He stepped carefully down, reached the floor, and was feeling his way
to the door when a strange noise attracted his attention. It came,
not from the next room, but from that in which he stood. He stood
stock-still, holding his breath, and the noise he heard was repeated.
Somebody was in the room with him. Somebody was moving stealthily
along the wall at the opposite side of the apartment. T. B. waited
for a moment to locate his man, then leapt noiselessly in the
direction of the sound. His strong hands grasped a man's shoulder;
another instant and his fingers were at the spy's throat. "Utter a
word and I'll knock your head off!" he hissed. No terrible threat
when uttered facetiously, but T. B.'s words were the reverse of
humorous. Retaining a hold of his prisoner, he waited until the
noise of a door closing told him that the diners in the next room had
departed, then he dragged his man to where he judged the
electric-light switch would be. His fingers found the button, turned
it, and the room was instantly flooded with light.
He released the man with a little push, and stood with his back to
the door.
"Now, sir," said T. B. virtuously; "will you kindly explain what you
mean by spying on me?"
The man was tall and thin. He was under thirty and decently dressed;
but it was his face that held the detective's attention. It was the
face of a man in mortal terror--the eyes staring, the lips tremulous,
the cheeks lined and seamed like an old man's. He stood blinking in
the light for a moment, and when he spoke he was incoherent and
hoarse.
"You're T. B. Smith," he croaked. "I know you; I've been wanting to
find you."
"Well, you've found me," said the detective grimly.
"I wasn't looking for you--now. I'm Hyatt."
He said this simply enough. It was the detective's turn to stare.
"I'm Hyatt," the man went on; "and I've a communication to make;
King's evidence; but you've got to hide me!" He came forward and
laid his hand on the other's arm. "I'm not going to be done in like
Moss; it's your responsibility, and you'll be blamed if anything
happens to me," he almost whispered in his fear. "They've had Moss,
and they'll try to have me. They've played me false because they
thought I'd get to know the day the barrage was to be handed over,
and spoil their market. They brought me up to London, because I'd
have found out if I'd been in Cornwall----"
"Steady, steady!" T. B. checked the man. He was talking at express
rate, and between terror and wrath was well-nigh incomprehensible.
"Now, begin at the beginning. Who are 'they'?"
"N.H.C, I told you," snarled the other impatiently. "I knew they
were going to get the date from the banker. That was the scheme of
Catherine Dominguez. She is one of the agents--they've got 'em
everywhere. She was introduced to his nephew so that she might get
at the uncle. But I'm giving King's evidence. I shall get off;
shan't I?"
His anxiety was pitiable.
T. B. thought quickly. Here were two ends to the mystery; which was
the more important? He decided. This man would keep; the urgent
business was to prevent Catherine from communicating her news to her
friends.
"Take this card," he said, and scribbled a few words hastily upon a
visiting-card; "that will admit you to my rooms at the Savoy. Make
yourself comfortable until I return."
He gave the man a few directions, piloted him from the restaurant,
saw him enter a cab, then turned his steps toward Baker Street.