ALAN BEGINS HIS GAME.
Baffled in this first attempt to obtain the desired information, Alan
sets his lips firmly, and plans a new mode of attack. And in the morning
he made a second effort.
Going down to his lately-deserted study, shuddering with a little
fastidious chill as he made his way across the darkened room and noted
the stale atmosphere; frowning, too, when he drew back a heavy curtain
and observed that there was dust upon his cabinets, and that motes were
swimming in the streak of light that came through the parted curtains he
rang his bell and sent for Millie.
She came promptly, courtesying demurely, and seemingly keeping in her
mind Leslie's instructions, "to listen, to obey, and to keep silence."
"Millie," said Alan, with just a shade of patronage in his tone, "go to
Mrs. Warburton, and ask her if she will receive me for a few moments
this morning. Tell her that it is a matter of business."
Millie dropped another courtesy, and silently departed with her message,
proudly conscious that she had, on this occasion at least, deported
herself like a proper servant. And Alan returned to the window, where
the light streamed in, and the motes drifted lazily up and down in its
rays.
This study was situated at the end of a wing, the front windows opening
upon a well-kept lawn, but the side window, at which Alan stood,
directly overlooking a by-street, quite narrow and lined with rows of
shade trees.
For a few moments Alan stood looking down into this quiet street. Then
with an impatient movement, he turned his gaze inward. It fell first
upon a tall cabinet which stood near the window, and was partially
lighted up by it.
Again he noted the dust upon its panels with a frown of discontent, and
then he moved toward it, opening one of the doors with a sort of aimless
restlessness peculiar to people who wait impatiently, yet delude
themselves with the belief that they are models of calm deliberation.
It was a deep cabinet, richly lined with embossed velvet of a glowing
crimson hue, and studded with hooks and brazen brackets, which supported
a splendid collection of arms that gleamed at you in cold, cruel,
brilliant relief from their gorgeous background.
There were highly polished, elegantly finished modern rifles, rare
pieces of home and foreign workmanship; there were blood-thirsty
duelling pistols; Damascus blades; light, jaunty French foils; Italian
stillettoes; German student-swords; and a heavy, piratical-looking
cutlass. In the midst of them all, a group of splendid Toledo swords,
beautiful in design and workmanship, were suspended.
As his eye rested upon this group, Alan's face lost its frown of
annoyance and took on a look of profound sorrow, while a heavy sigh
escaped his lips. They had been gifts from Archibald, years before, when
the two had made a foreign tour--Alan's first and Archibald's
last--together.
Gazing upon these _souvenirs_, his mind went back to the old days of his
student-life, and his brother's companionship. At the sound of
approaching footsteps, he recalled himself with a start, pushed the door
of the cabinet from him with a hasty movement which left it half
unclosed, and turned toward Millie, who entered as demurely as before,
closely followed by a footman, who presented to Alan an official-looking
letter.
Taking the missive from the salver, Alan dismissed the man and then
turned to the girl.
"Well, Millie?"
"Mrs. Warburton says, sir, that she can not leave her room this morning,
but hopes to be able to do so this afternoon."
"Very well, Millie;"--the frown returning to his face--"you may go." And
he muttered: "I suppose that means that she will condescend to receive
me this afternoon. Well, I must bide my time."
He returned to the window, and standing near it, looked curiously at the
envelope in his hand. It was addressed in bold, scrawling characters
that were, spite of their boldness, almost illegible. Slowly he opened
it, and slowly removed the sheet it enclosed.
"What a wretched scrawl!" he muttered. And then, with a glance at the
printed letter-head, "Office of the Chief of Police:" "That's legible,
at all events. It's from--from--hum, strange that a man can't write his
own name--B--B--C--of course, it's from the Chief of Police."
Slowly and laboriously, he deciphered the letter.
A. WARBURTON. etc.
Dear Sir:--We have just secured, for your case, a very valuable
man, Mr. Augustus Grip, late of Scotland Yards. He is an able and
most successful detective; we hope much from him. Have already
instructed him to extent of our ability, and he will wait upon
you personally this P. M., between, say, three and four o'clock.
You will do well to give Mr. G--full latitude in the case.
Very respectfully, etc.
This much Alan slowly deciphered, and this gave the key to the
unreadable signature. It was from the Chief of Police, evidently.
Alan reperused the letter, and slowly returned it to its envelope.
"This comes at the right moment," he soliloquized. "If this Grip is what
he is said to be, he may save me in more ways than one."
And once more he summoned a servant, and gave these instructions:
"See that this room is thoroughly aired and set in order before three
o'clock;" adding, as the servant was turning away: "Show a person who
will call here after that hour, into this room, and then bring me his
name."
In the arrival of such a message, at that precise moment, there was, to
Alan Warburton, no occasion for surprise. From the first he had
communicated with the officers of the law by letter, or by quiet
interviews held in his own apartments.
He was fully alive to the fact that, in dealing with the police, he was
himself in momentary danger. But having resolved, from the beginning, to
make his own safety and welfare secondary to that of little Daisy, he
had been strengthened and confirmed in this resolve by his recent
interview with Leslie. And now, in his dogged determination to find the
Francoises, he vowed to sacrifice, if need be, his entire fortune, and
accept any attendant danger, in prosecuting a vigorous search for these
old wretches, and the missing child.
His brother's illness and death had furnished him with a sufficient
reason for living secluded, and for receiving such business callers as
he chose to admit, in his own apartments. Only this morning he had
dispatched a missive to police headquarters, desiring the Chief to
secure the services of the best detectives at any cost, and to send to
him for instructions or consultation, representing himself as confined
to the house by slight indisposition.
He hated a falsehood, but, as he penned this fabrication, he had thrown
the moral responsibility of the act upon the already heavily burdened
shoulders of his sister-in-law.
And now, as he went slowly from the study, he looked forward anxiously,
but not apprehensively, to the two coming interviews: the first, with
Leslie; the second, with Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards.