MR. GRIP FINDS A "SKELETON".
This sudden appearance of Mr. Grip was not precisely to Alan Warburton's
taste, and he eyed his visitor with a somewhat haughty air, while he
said:
"Mr. Grip is prompt, to say the least. I believe that the hour--"
"Hour appointed, between three and four--precisely, sir; _pre_cisely.
But my time's valuable, Mr. Warburton; _valuable_, sir! And it's better
too early than too late. Everything's cut and dried, and nothing else on
hand for this hour; couldn't afford to waste it."
Mr. Grip's words fell from his lips like hailstones from a November
sky--rap, rap, rap; patter, patter; swift, sharp, decisive. And Alan was
not slow to realize that all the combined dignity of all the combined
Warburtons, would be utterly lost upon this plebeian.
Plebeian, Mr. Grip evidently was, from the crown of his head to the
tips of his too highly polished, creaking boots. Vulgarity reveled in
the plaid of his jaunty business suit, flaunted in the links of his
glittering watch guard, and gleamed in the folds of his gorgeous neck
gear. You smelled it in his ambrosial locks; you saw it in his
self-satisfied face, and heard it in his inharmonious voice.
And this was Augustus Grip, of Scotland Yards! Well, one might be a good
detective and yet not be a gentleman. So mused Alan; and then, seeing
that Mr. Grip, while waiting for him to speak, was utilizing the seconds
by making a survey of the premises, he said:
"Will you be seated, Mr. Grip?"
Mr. Grip dropped comfortably into the nearest lounging-chair, crossed
one knee over the other, and resting a hand on either arm of the chair,
began to talk rapidly.
"I've got your business down fine, sir; _fine_," emphasizing with both
hands upon the chair arms. "Saves time; always do it when possible.
Posted at Agency--less to learn here." And Mr. Grip begins to fumble in
the breast-pocket of his startling plaid coat. "Was informed
by--um--um--" producing a packet of folded papers and running them over
rapidly; "oh, here we are."
He restores the packet to his pocket, having selected the proper
memoranda, and then without rising, but with a jerking movement of the
knees and elbows, he propels his chair toward the table near which Alan
is still standing. Putting the memoranda on the table before him, he
unfolds them rapidly, and looks up at his host.
"Sit down, Warburton."
A look of displeasure flits across Alan's face. He remains standing,
seeming to grow more haughtily erect.
"My instructions," continues Mr. Grip, who has not lifted his eyes from
the documents before him, "are, take entire charge of case; investigate
in own way. That's what I like."
If Alan had ventured a comment just then, it would have been, "_you_ are
not what _I_ like." But he did not speak; and Mr. Grip, having paused
for a remark and hearing none, now glanced up.
"Is that your pleasure, Mr. Warburton?"
A certain touch of acidity in the tone, recalls Alan to a sense of his
position. This man before him is a man of business, a detective highly
recommended by the Chief of Police, and he needs his services. He moves
a step nearer the table and begins.
"That is what I--"
"Precisely," breaks in Mr. Grip. "Now, then," referring to papers,
"first--sit down, won't you? it's more sociable."
And Alan puts his aristocracy in his pocket and sits down opposite the
dazzling necktie.
"Now then," recommences Mr. Grip, "I've got the _facts_ in the case."
"You have?"
"Facts in case; yes." And he takes up the memoranda, reading therefrom:
"Lost child; daughter of Archibald Warburton; only daughter." Then,
turning his eyes upon Alan: "Father killed by shock, I'm told;
sad--very."
And he resumes his reading. "Relatives: Alan Warburton, uncle; fond of
niece, eh--ahem; step-mother--um--a little mysterious; _little_ under
suspicion."
"Stop!" interrupts Alan sternly. "On what authority dare you make such
assertions?"
Mr. Grip permits the hand which holds the papers to rest upon one knee,
and lifts his eyes to the face of his interrogator.
"I've reconnoitred," he says tersely. "It's a detective's business to
reconnoitre. I'm familiar with the facts in the case."
Alan feels the perspiration start upon his brow, while he utters a
mental, "Heaven forbid!"
"Now then," resumes Mr. Grip, throwing himself back in his chair and
stretching his legs underneath the table; "now then, _here_ we go. Daisy
Warburton is her father's heiress. Remove her, the bulk of property
probably goes to second wife--_step mother_, d'ye see? Remove _her_,
property comes down to _you_."
"Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!" And Alan Warburton pushes back
his chair and rises, an angry flush upon his face.
Mr. Grip rises also. Stepping nimbly out from between the big chair and
the table before it, he inserts his two hands underneath his two coat
tails, bends his head forward, raising himself from time to time on the
tips of his toes as he talks, and replies suavely:
"Ta ta; I'm _reasoning_. They have _not_ both disappeared, have they?
The lady in question is in the house at this present moment, is she
not?"
"She is," replied Alan, beginning to feel most uncomfortable.
"She is. Well, now, if _she_ should disappear, _then_ suspicion might
point to you. As it is--ahem--" Here Alan fancies that Mr. Grip is
watching him furtively. "As it is--we will begin to investigate."
[Illustration: "Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!"--page 274.]
Mr. Grip reseats himself, folds away his memoranda, and, reclining once
more at his ease, looks up at Alan coolly.
"First, Mr. Warburton, I must see your sister-in-law."
Alan cannot restrain his start of surprise, nor the look of anxiety that
crosses his face.
"Not at present," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "She is ill; it
would--"
"So much the better," interrupts the detective. "Worn out, no doubt;
nervous. May surprise something. _I must see her_, and every other
member of this household, myself unseen."
"Ah!" thinks Alan, his hands clenching themselves involuntarily, "if I
dared throw you out of the window!"
And then, with a shade more of haughtiness than he had as yet used in
addressing this man, who was fast becoming his tormentor, he asks:
"Mr. Grip, is this so very necessary?"
Slowly the detective leans forward; slowly he raises a warning
forefinger.
"My _dear_ sir," he says impressively, "if you want to catch a thief
will you say, 'come here, my dear, and be arrested?' _No, sir_; you
catch her _unawares_. Tell that fine lady that she is to be interviewed
by a detective, and, presto! she shuts her secrets up behind a mantle of
smiles or sneers. Call her in, and lead her to talk; I'll employ my eyes
and ears. Use the cues set down here--" he extends to Alan a folded slip
of paper. "Put her at her ease, and leave the rest to me. Now then--"
Again he rises, and this time he begins a slow survey of the room.
Alan, thoroughly alarmed for Leslie's safety as well as for his own,
begins to wonder how this strange interview is to end. Even if he should
summon Leslie, would she come at his call? Yes; he feels sure that she
would, remembering her message of the morning. And what may she not say?
If he could give her a word, a sign of warning. But those eyes, that are
even now bestowing questioning glances upon him, are too keen. He would
only bungle. He will try again.
"Mr. Grip," he says, "my sister-in-law is already ill from excitement.
If we could spare her this interview--"
"Sir!" Augustus Grip wheels suddenly, and looks straight into his face
while he continues sharply: "My _good_ sir; for your _own_ sake, don't!
_You_ should have no reason for keeping a witness in the background."
The hot angry Warburton blood surges up to Alan's brow. Realizing his
danger more than ever, and recognizing in the man before him a force
that might, perhaps, be bought or baffled, but never evaded, he lets his
eyes rest for a moment, in haughty defiance, upon the detective's face.
And then he turns and walks to the door.
"Where do you purpose to conceal yourself?" he asks coldly, as he lays
his hand upon the bell-rope.
Again Grip looks about him, and then steps toward the cabinet near the
window.
"What's this," he asks, with his hand upon the closed door. "Will it
hold me?"
"Yes," replies Alan; "that will hold you." And he pulls the bell.
"There's no resisting Fate," he mutters to himself. "At least that
fellow shall not see me flinch again, let Leslie entangle me as she may,
and as she doubtless will."
And then there tingled in his veins a new sensation--a burning desire
to seize that most impertinent, vulgar trail-hunter, who was now tugging
away at his cabinet door, and send him crashing headlong through the
window into the street below.
"Ask Mrs. Warburton if she will grant me a few moments of her time," he
said to the servant who appeared at the door, which Alan did not permit
him to open more than half way. And then he turned his attention to Mr.
Grip.
That individual, still tugging unsuccessfully at the door of the
cabinet, has grown impatient.
"It's locked!" he says, with an angry snap.
"No,"--Alan strides toward him--"it is not locked." And he adds his
strength to that of Mr. Grip.
A moment the door hesitates; then it yields with a suddenness which
causes Alan to reel, and flies open.
In another instant, Grip has pounced upon the luckless organ-grinder,
and dragged him into the centre of the room, where he crouches at Alan's
feet, the very image of terrified misery, limp and unresisting.
"That's a pretty thing to keep hid away!" snarled the now thoroughly
angry detective. "I've heard of skeletons in closets, but this thing
looks more like a monkey."
"More like a sneak thief, I should say," remarks Alan, with aggravating
coolness. "And a very cowardly one at that."