LADY MAXELL yawned and put down the magazine she was reading. She
looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. At such an hour Paris would be
beginning to wake up. The best people would still be in the midst of
their dinner, and Marie de Montdidier (born Hopkins) would be putting
the final dabs of powder on her nose in her dressing-room at the Folies
Bergères before making her first and her final appearance.
The boulevards would be bright with light, and there would be lines of
twinkling autos in the Bois for the late diners at the Aromonville. She
looked across at the girl sitting under a big lamp in a window recess, a
book on her knees, but her mind and eyes elsewhere.
“Mary,” she said, and the girl, with a start, woke from her reverie.
“Do you want me, Lady Maxell?”
“What is the matter with Sir John? You know him better than I do.”
The girl shook her head.
“I hardly know, Lady Maxell——”
“For heaven’s sake don’t call me ‘Lady Maxell,’” said the other
irritably. “I’ve told you to call me Sadie if you want to.” There was a
silence. “Evidently you don’t want,” snapped the woman. “You’re what I
call a fine, sociable family. You seem to get your manners from your new
friend.”
The girl went red.
“My new friend?” she asked, and Lady Maxell turned her back to her with
some resolution and resumed for a moment the reading of her magazine.
“I don’t mind if you find any pleasure in talking to that kind of
insect,” she said, putting the periodical down again. “Why, the world’s
full of those do-nothing boys. I suppose he knows there’s money coming
to you.”
The girl smiled.
“Very little, Lady Maxell,” she said.
“A little’s a lot to a man like that,” said the other. “You mustn’t
think I am prejudiced because I was—er—annoyed the other day. That is
temperament.”
Again the girl smiled, but it was a different kind of smile, and Lady
Maxell observed it.
“You can marry him as far as I am concerned,” she said. “These sneaking
meetings are not exactly complimentary to Sir John, that’s all.”
The girl closed her book, walked across to the shelf and put it away
before she spoke.
“I suppose you’re speaking of Mr. Anderson,” she said. “Yes, I have met
him, but there has been nothing furtive in the meetings. He stopped me
in the park and apologised for having been responsible for the
scene—for your temperament, you know.”
Lady Maxell looked up sharply, but the girl met her eyes without
wavering.
“I hope you aren’t trying to be sarcastic,” complained the older woman.
“One never knows how deep you are. But I can tell you this, that sarcasm
is wasted on me.”
“I’m sure of that,” said the girl.
Lady Maxell looked again, but apparently the girl was innocent of
offensive design.
“I say I met Mr. Anderson. He was very polite and very nice. Then I met
him again—in fact, I have met him several times,” she said
thoughtfully. “So far from his being a do-nothing, Lady Maxell, I think
you are doing him an injustice. He is working at the Parade Drug Store.”
“He will make a fine match for you,” said the woman. “Sir John will just
love having a shop-walker in the family!”
That ended the conversation for both of them, and they sat reading for a
quarter of an hour before Lady Maxell threw her magazine on the floor
and got up.
“Sir John had a telegram yesterday that worried him,” she said. “Do you
know what it was about?”
“Honestly I do not know, Lady Maxell,” said the girl. “Why don’t you ask
him yourself?”
“Because he would tell me a lie,” said the woman coolly, and the girl
winced.
“He brought all his money and securities from the Dawlish and County
Bank to-day and put them in his safe and he had the chief constable with
him for half an hour this morning.”
This was news to the girl, and she was interested in spite of herself.
“Now, Mary,” said Lady Maxell, “I’m going to be frank with
you—frankness pays sometimes. They called my marriage a romance of the
screen. Every newspaper said as much and I suppose that is true. But the
most romantic part of the marriage was my estate in Honolulu, my big
house in Paris and my bank balance. Ellsberger’s publicity man put all
that stuff about, and I’ve an idea that Sir John was highly disappointed
when he found he’d married me for myself alone. That’s how it strikes
me.”
Here was a marriage which had shocked Society and had upset the smooth
current of the girl’s life, placed in an entirely new light.
“Aren’t you very rich?” she asked slowly, and Sadie laughed.
“Rich! There was a tram fare between me and the workhouse the day I
married Sir John,” she said. “I don’t blame him for being disappointed.
Lots of these cinema stars are worth millions—I wasn’t one of them. I
married because I thought I was going to have a good time—lots of money
and plenty of travel—and I chose with my eyes shut.”
The girl was silent. For once Sadie Maxell’s complaint had
justification. Sir John Maxell was not a spending man. He lived well,
but never outside the circle of necessity.
The girl was about to speak, when there came a dramatic interruption.
There was a “whang!” a splintering of glass and something thudded
against the wall. Lady Maxell stood up as white as death.
“What was that?” she gasped.
The girl was pale, but she did not lose her nerve.
“Somebody fired a shot. Look!”
She pulled aside the curtain. “The bullet went through the window.”
“Keep away from the window, you fool!” screamed the woman. “Turn out the
light! Ring the bell!”
Mary moved across the room and turned the switch. They waited in
silence, but no other shot was fired. Perhaps it was an accident.
Somebody had been firing at a target. . . .
“Go and tell my husband!” said Sadie. “Quickly!”
The girl passed through the lighted hall upstairs and knocked at Sir
John’s door. There was no answer. She tried the door, but found it
locked. This was not unusual. He had a separate entrance to his study,
communicating by a balcony and a flight of stairs with the garden. A
wild fear seized her. Possibly Sir John had been in the garden when the
shot was fired; it may have been intended for him. She knocked again
louder, and this time she heard his step and the door was opened.
“Did you knock before?” he asked. “I was writing——”
Then he saw her face.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
The girl told him, and he made his way downstairs slowly, as was his
wont. He entered the drawing-room, switched on the lights, and without a
glance at his wife walked to the window and examined the shattered pane.
“I imagined I heard a noise, but thought somebody had dropped something.
When did this happen? Just before you came up?”
The girl nodded.
Maxell looked from one to the other. His wife was almost speechless with
terror, and Mary Maxell alone was calm.
“It has come already,” he said musingly. “I did not think that this
would happen so soon.”
He walked down to the hall where the telephone hung and rang through to
the police station, and the girl heard all he said.
“Yes, it is Sir John Maxell speaking. A shot has just been fired through
my window. No, not at me—I was in my study. Apparently a rifle shot.
Yes, I was right——”
Presently he came back.
“The police will be here in a few moments to make a search of the
grounds,” he said, “but I doubt whether they will catch the miscreant.”
“Is it possible that it was an accident?” asked the girl.
“Accident?” He smiled. “I think not,” he said dryly. “That kind of
accident is liable to happen again. You had better come up to my study,
both of you, till the police arrive,” he said and led the way up the
stairs.
He did not attempt to support his wife, though her nerve was obviously
shaken. Possibly he did not observe this fact until they were in the
room, for after a glance at her face he pushed a chair forward.
“Sit down,” he said.
The study was the one room to which his wife was seldom admitted.
Dominated as he was by her in other matters, he was firm on this point.
It was perhaps something of a novelty for her—a novelty which will
still the whimper of the crying child has something of the same effect
upon a nervous woman.
The door of the safe was open and the big table was piled high with
sealed packages. The only money she saw was a thick pad of bank-notes
fastened about with a paper bandage, on which something was written. On
this she fixed her eyes. She had never seen so much money in her life,
and he must have noticed the attention this display of wealth had
created, for he took up the money and slipped it into a large envelope.
“This is your money, Mary,” he beamed over his glasses at the girl.
She was feeling the reaction of her experience now and was trembling in
every limb. Yet she thought she recognised in this diversion an attempt
on his part to soothe her, and she smiled and tried hard to respond.
They had been daily companions since she was a mite of four, and between
him and his dead brother’s child there was a whole lot of understanding
and sympathy which other people never knew.
“My money, uncle?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I realised your investments last week,” he said. “I happened to know
that the Corporation in which the money stood had incurred very heavy
losses through some error in insurance. It isn’t a great deal, but I
couldn’t afford to let you take any further risks.
“There was, of course, a possibility of this shot having been fired by
accident,” he went on, reverting to the matter which would naturally be
at the back of his mind. Then he fell into thought, pacing the room in
silence.
“I thought you were out,” he said, stopping suddenly in front of the
girl. “You told me you were going to a concert.”
Before she could explain why she changed her mind they heard the sound
of voices in the hall.
“Stay here,” said Sir John. “It is the police. I will go down and tell
them all there is to know.”
When her husband had gone, Lady Maxell rose from her chair. The table,
with its sealed packages, drew her like a magnet. She fingered them one
by one, and came at last to the envelope containing Mary’s patrimony.
This she lifted in her hands, weighing it. Then, with a deep sigh, she
replaced the package on the table.
“There’s money there,” she said, and Mary smiled.
“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. Father was comparatively poor when he
died.”
“There’s money,” said Lady Maxell thoughtfully; “more than I have ever
seen since I have been in this house, believe me.”
She returned, as though fascinated, and lifted the envelope again and
peered inside.
“Poor, was he?” she said. “I think you people don’t know what poverty
is. Do you know what all this means?”
She held the envelope up and there was a look in her face which the girl
had never seen before.
“It means comfort, it means freedom from worry, it means that you don’t
have to pretend and make love to men whom you loathe.”
The girl had risen and was staring at her.
“Lady Maxell!” she said in a shocked voice. “Why—why—I never think of
money like that.”
“Why should you?” said the woman roughly, as she flung the package on
the table. “I’ve been after money in quantities like that all my life.
It has always been dangling in front of me and eluding me—eluding is
the word, isn’t it?” she asked carelessly.
“What are all those pictures?” she changed the subject abruptly,
pointing to the framed photographs which covered the walls. “They’re
photographs of India, aren’t they?”
“Morocco,” said the girl. “Sir John was born in Morocco and lived there
until he went to school. He speaks Arabic like a native. Did you know
that?”
“Morocco,” said Lady Maxell. “That’s strange. Morocco!”
“Do you know it?” asked the girl.
“I’ve been there—once,” replied the other shortly. “Did Sir John go
often?”
“Before he married, yes,” said Mary. “He had large interests there at
one time, I think.”
Sir John came back at that moment, and Mary noticed that his first
glance was at the table.
“Well, they’ve found nothing,” he said, “neither footprints nor the
empty shell. They’re making a search of the grounds to-morrow. Lebbitter
wanted to post a man to protect the house in view of the other matter.”
“What other matter?” asked his wife quickly.
“It is nothing,” he said, “nothing really which concerns you. Of course,
I would not allow the police to do that. It would make the house more
conspicuous than it is at present.”
He looked at the two.
“Now,” he said bluntly, “I think you had better go off to bed. I have
still a lot of work to do.”
His wife obeyed without a word, and the girl was following her, when he
called her back.
“Mary,” he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder, “I’m afraid I’m not
the best man that ever lived, but I’ve tried to make you happy, my dear,
in my own way. You’ve been as a daughter to me.”
She looked up at him with shining eyes. She could not trust herself to
speak.
“Things haven’t gone as well as they might during the past year,” he
said. “I made a colossal blunder, but I made it with my eyes open. It
hasn’t been pleasant for either of us, but there’s no sense in
regretting what you cannot mend. Mary, they tell me that you’ve been
seeing a lot of this young man Anderson?”
She was annoyed to find herself going red when there was really no
reason for it. She need not ask who “they” were, she could guess.
“I’ve been making inquiries about that boy,” said Sir John slowly, “and
I can tell you this, he is straight. Perhaps he has led an
unconventional life, but all that he told Sadie was true. He’s clean,
and, Mary, that counts for something in this world.”
He seemed at a loss how to proceed.
“Anything might happen,” he went on. “Although I’m not an old man, I
have enemies. . . .”
“You don’t mean——”
“I have many enemies,” he said. “Some of them are hateful, and I want to
tell you this, that if trouble ever comes and that boy is within
call—go to him. I know men, good, bad and indifferent; he’s neither bad
nor indifferent. And now, good night!”
He kissed her on the forehead.
“You needn’t tell your aunt what I’ve been talking about,” he said at
parting and led her to the door, closing and locking it behind her.
He sat down in his chair for a very long time before he made a move,
then he began picking up the packages and carrying them to the safe. He
stopped half-way through and resumed his seat in the chair, waiting for
the hour to pass, by which time he judged the household would be asleep.
At midnight he took a pair of rubber boots from a locker, pulled them
on, and went out through the door leading to the balcony, down the
covered stairway to the garden. Unerringly he walked across the lawn to
a corner of his grounds which his gardeners had never attempted to
cultivate. He stopped once and groped about in the bushes for a spade
which he had carefully planted there a few nights before. His hand
touched the rotting wood of an older spade and he smiled. For six years
the tool had remained where he had put it the last time he had visited
this No-Man’s-Land.
Presently he came to a little hillock and began digging. The soil was
soft, and he had not gone far before the spade struck wood. He cleared a
space two feet square and drew from the earth a small crescent of wood.
It was, in fact, a part of the wooden cover of a well which had long
since gone dry but which had been covered up by its previous owner and
again covered by Maxell.
Lying at full length on the ground, he reached down through the
aperture, and his fingers found a big rusty nail on which was suspended
a length of piano wire. At the end of the wire was attached a small
leather bag and this he drew up and unfastened, and putting the bag on
one side, let the free end of the wire fall into the well.
He replaced the wood, covered it again with earth, all the time
exercising care, for, small as the aperture was, it was big enough for
even a man of his size to slip through.
A cloaked figure which stood in the shadow of the bushes watching him,
which had followed him as noiselessly across the lawn, saw him lift the
bag and take it back to the house and disappear through the covered
stairway. So still a night it was, that the watcher could hear the click
of the lower door as Sir John locked it, and the soft pad of his feet as
they mounted the stairs.