JUNE felt a wild excitement, as she stood waiting for the
answer to her ring. The stress of events had buoyed her up, but
with Elbert no longer at her side and the door of a strange house
confronting her, trolls were loose once more in her brain. A fresh wave
of panic surged through her, and again she feared that she was going to
faint.
The prompt opening of the door by a gravely dignified manservant acted
as a strong restorative. June mustered the force of will to ask if she
could see Miss Babraham. Such a request, made in a nervous and excited
manner, gave pause to the footman, who at first could not bring himself
to invite her into the large dimly lighted hall. Finally he did so;
closed the door against the fog, and then asked her name with an air of
profound disapproval, which at any other time must have proved highly
embarrassing.
“I’m Miss Gedge,” said June. “From the second-hand shop in New Cross
Street. Miss Babraham’ll remember me.”
The servant slowly repeated the fragmentary words in a low voice of
cutting emphasis. “I’m afraid,” he said, while his eye descended to
June’s shoes and up again, “Miss Babraham will not be able to see you
to-night. However, I’ll inquire.”
Superciliously the footman crossed the hall, to discuss the matter
with an unseen presence in its farthest shadows. The conference was
brief but unsatisfactory, for a moment later the unseen presence slowly
materialized into the august shape of a butler, who seemed at once to
diminish the footman into a relative nothingness.
“Perhaps you’ll let me know your business,” said the butler, in a tone
which implied that she could have no business, at any rate with Miss
Babraham, at such an hour.
June, alas, could not explain the nature of her errand. These two men
were so imposing, so unsympathetic, so harsh, so frightening that had
life itself depended upon her answers, and in quite a special degree
she now felt that it did, she was yet unequal to the task of making
them effective.
“Miss Babraham cannot see you now,” said the slow-voiced butler, with
an air of terrible finality.
“But I must see her. I simply must,” wildly persisted June.
“It’s impossible to see her now,” said the butler.
The words caused June to stagger back against the wall. In answer to
her tragic eyes, the butler said reluctantly: “You had better call
again some time to-morrow, and I’ll send in your name.”
“I--I must see her now,” June gasped wildly.
The butler was adamant. “You can’t possibly see her to-night.”
“Why can’t I?” said June, desperately.
“She is going to a ball.”
The words were like a blow. A vista of the fog outside and of
herself wandering with her precious burden all night long in it
homeless, penniless, desolate, came upon her with unnerving force.
“But--please!--I must see her to-night,” she said, with a shudder of
misery.
Faced by the butler’s pitiless air, June felt her slender hope to be
ebbing away. She would be turned adrift in the night. And what would
happen to her then? She could not walk the streets till daybreak with
the Van Roon under her arm. Already she had reached the limit of
endurance. The dark haze before her eyes bore witness to the fact that
her strength was almost gone. No matter what the attitude of the butler
towards her she must not think of quitting this place of refuge unless
she was flung out bodily, for her trials here were nought by comparison
with those awaiting her outside.
June’s defiance was very puzzling to the stern functionary who quite
plainly was at a loss how to deal with it. But in the midst of these
uncertainties the problem was unexpectedly solved for him. A glamour
of white satin, jewels and fur appeared on the broad staircase. Miss
Babraham descended slowly.
Once more was June upheld by a sense of Providence. Hope flickered
again, a painful, fluctuating gleam. She sprang forward to intercept
this vision of pure beauty, wildly calling the name “Miss Babraham!
Miss Babraham!”
The dazzling creature was startled out of her glowing self-possession:
“Why, who _are_ you?” she cried.
In a gush of strange words, June strove to make clear that she was the
girl from the antique shop in New Cross Street, and that her uncle,
its proprietor, was a very wicked old man who was trying to steal a
valuable picture that had been given to her. She pressed the Van Roon
upon the astonished Miss Babraham and besought her to take care of it.
After that, June had only a very dim idea of what happened. She found
herself in a sort of anteroom without knowing how she got there, with
faces of a surprised curiosity around her. Foremost of these was the
lovely Miss Babraham, a thing of sheer beauty in her ball-dress, who
asked questions to which June could only give confused replies, and
issued orders that she was not able to follow.
Everything began to grow more and more like a wild and terrible dream.
Other people appeared on the scene, among whom June was just able to
recognize the tall form of Sir Arthur Babraham. By then, however she no
longer knew what she was doing or saying, for deep blanks were invading
her consciousness; even the treasure in which her very soul was merged
had somehow slipped from her mental grasp, and like everything else had
ceased to have significance.
L
AT eleven o’clock the next morning, Sir Arthur Babraham,
looking worried and distrait, was pretending to read the “Times.” If
ever a man could be said to have “been born with a silver spoon in his
mouth” it was this soft-voiced, easy-mannered, kindly gentleman. The
rubs of a hard world had hardly touched his unflawed surfaces. He sat
on committees, it was true, and played Providence at third or fourth
hand to less happily situated mortals; yet scarcely, if at all, had he
been brought face to face with the stark realities of life.
It is never too late, however, for some new thing to occur. The
previous evening an experience had happened to this worthy man; and
he could not rid his mind of the fact that it was disconcerting. On a
table at his elbow was a picture without a frame, and more than once
his eyes strayed from the newspaper to this object, which at a first
glance was so insignificant, and yet as if cursed with an “obi” it had
the power to dominate him completely.
In the midst of this preoccupation, Laura Babraham entered the room.
She had returned late from the dance, and this was her first appearance
that morning. Hardly had she saluted her father when her eye also fell
on the picture, and a look of deep anxiety came into her eyes.
“Have you heard anything from the hospital?” she asked eagerly.
“I rang them up half an hour ago,” said Sir Arthur. “The girl is very
ill indeed. I gather from the tone of the person with whom I talked
that the case is pretty serious.”
“Yes,” said Laura Babraham, in a low voice. “One felt sure of that.
Never again do I want to see a human creature in the state that poor
thing was in last night. I’ve been haunted by her ever since.”
“Pretty bad, I must say.” Sir Arthur plucked sharply at his moustache.
“According to the Hospital, she’s been knocked about and generally
ill-used. There are marks on her throat, and they want my opinion as to
whether they should communicate with the police.”
“What do you advise, papa?” said Laura, with a growing concern.
“One doesn’t know what to advise.” Sir Arthur’s moustache continued to
receive harsh treatment. “We are faced with rather a problem, it seems
to me.”
“You mean that it will be a matter for the police if she doesn’t get
better?”
“Yes, certainly that. And it may be a matter for the police if she does
get better.”
Laura Babraham agreed; yet even then she did not see the problem in
its full complexity. Sir Arthur, taking the first step towards her
enlightenment, pointed to the Van Roon: “My dear, beyond any doubt
that is a most precious thing. And, ignoring for the moment the state
in which this young woman turned up last night, the question we have
to ask ourselves is: What is she doing with it at all? And why was she
ranging the streets alone, in the fog, at that hour?”
“From what one gathered,” said Laura, “the picture is hers, and her
uncle, the old curio man in New Cross Street, with whom she lives, is
determined to steal it.”
“Quite. That’s her story, as far as one can get at it. But I put it to
you, isn’t it far more likely--prima facie at any rate--that the girl
is trying to steal it from the old dealer?”
“I believe the poor thing is speaking the truth,” said Woman in the
person of Miss Laura Babraham.
“You mean, my dear,” said her logical parent, with a sad little smile,
“that you _hope_ she is speaking the truth. With all my heart I
hope so, too, even if it proves this old man--Gedge you say his name
is--to be a terrible scoundrel. One of them certainly is not playing
straight--but prima facie, as I say--if we call in the police, it is
almost certain that it is this wretched girl who will find herself in
prison.”
“There I don’t agree, papa,” said Woman staunchly. “The poor thing
says that William the assistant gave her the picture; and in all the
dealings I have had with William in the course of the past year, he has
been honesty itself.”
Her father shook his head gently. “All very well, but Master William is
the part of the story I like least. Is it probable, in the first place,
that a young man who almost certainly has no money of his own, would
be able to get possession of such a thing; and, again, assuming him to
be clever enough to do so, is he going to be such a fool as to give it
away to this girl? Let us look all the facts in the face. To my mind,
the more one thinks of it the more inevitable the plain solution is.”
“I’m absolutely convinced that William, at any rate, is honest.”
Sir Arthur frowned and opened his cigar case. “And I for my part am
convinced,” he said, with a sigh as he cut off the end of a Corona,
“that our friend William is a cunning scoundrel, who has been deep
enough to get this young woman to do the dirty work and run all the
risks, because he must know as well as anybody that a great deal of
money is at stake.”
Laura Babraham had a considerable respect for her father’s judgment,
yet she knew the value of her own. She did not think it was possible to
be so deceived; her dealings with William had left her with the highest
regard for his straightforwardness; if he proved to be the despicable
creature Sir Arthur’s fancy painted him, never again would she be able
to hold an opinion about anyone. Yet her father’s analysis of the case,
as it presented itself to her clear mind, left her on the horns of a
dilemma. Either this young man was a fool, or he was a rogue. Beset by
two evils, she chose without hesitation that which to the feminine mind
appeared the less.
“He’s always struck one as rather simple in some ways and too much
under the thumb of the old dealer, yet he’s really very clever.”
Sir Arthur drew mental energy from his Corona. “Not clever enough to
keep honest, my dear.”
“Please don’t prejudge him. That wicked old man is at the back of all.”
“Well, that is just what we have now to find out.”
Laura assented; yet then arose the question as to the means by which
the truth could be won. It was likely to resolve itself into an affair
of William’s word against the word of his master. Whoever could tell
the more plausible tale would be believed; and William’s friend saw
from the outset that Circumstance had already weighted the scales
heavily against him. On the face of it, the story as disclosed by the
poor girl who was now in the Hospital, was frankly incredible.
Recollection of the pitiful scene of the previous night brought to
Laura Babraham’s mind her own urgent duty in the matter. The girl had
begged her not on any account to give up the picture. So long as sense
and coherence remained the unlucky creature had declared it to be her
own lawful property. Laura had solemnly promised to see justice done,
and it behooved her now to be as good as her word.
“I suppose, papa, you have telephoned already to Mr. Gedge?”
“The Hospital has, I believe,” said Sir Arthur. “I particularly asked
them to do so. The old fellow must be very anxious about the girl, and
perhaps even more anxious about his Van Roon.”
“Please don’t say ‘his Van Roon’ before he’s proved the ownership.”
“That won’t be difficult, I fear.”
“We must make it as difficult for him as we can,” said the tenacious
Laura.
Sir Arthur shook his head. As a man of the world, he had but scant hope
that the mystery would be cleared up in the way Laura desired.