It would have been beyond Teddy France to describe clearly his own
feelings as he waited in the Lancasters' drawing-room late on the
following afternoon. His dearest friend was alive; his dearest hope was
dead. Yet how could he be otherwise than glad, if only on Doris's
account? Early in the day he had sent her a note, express, begging her to
be at home at five. This meant questionings and reproaches from Mrs.
Lancaster, for she and her daughter had what she deemed a most important
social engagement; but the girl was firm, and eventually the mother went
off alone in a sullen temper.
In any case, Doris would have revolted from tea and tattle that
afternoon. She had suffered a great shock the previous night. And since
Teddy's note had suggested something most urgent, but told her nothing,
she entered the drawing-room to meet him with foreboding added to a
consuming fear. At the sight of him, so honest and kindly, she could have
gone to his arms out of sheer longing for peace and comforting.
Teddy thought he had himself well in hand for his delicate task, but he
was pale, and she noticed it.
"What is it?" she asked, all apprehension.
"Something good, Doris, but I can't tell you until you sit down."
"Good!" She forced a smile. She would not hurt his feelings, though
apparently he had nothing very important to tell her after all. Poor
Doris! all the big things in her life nowadays were of the evil sort.
"Well, why don't you tell me, Teddy?"
"Because it's so tremendously good.'"
"Oh!" There was no mistaking his earnestness. Her mind turned quickly to
Bullard. Had Teddy found out something?
"Doris, if you were given one wish, what would you wish for? You know,
you can say anything to me."
She did not hesitate. "I'd wish that father were free from a great and
terrible trouble."
"Well, we may hope for that, I'm sure. But if--if the wish would bring
about something that--that you had believed past hoping for--what then?"
He did not wait for her answer. "Doris," he said gently, "somebody has
come home, safe and sound.... I had a letter from Alan Craig this
morning. He is at Grey House now." He paused, puzzled. She was taking it
so much more calmly than he had expected. The room was dusky and the
fire-light deceptive, so he could hardly read her face. But presently he
descried the glint of tears, and next moment she drooped and hid her eyes
in her hands.
He spoke again. "For a reason which I don't yet know, Alan has come home
secretly. He asks me to beg you to trust him for a little while. He must
have a very strong reason for the secrecy. He wants my advice and help,
so I'm leaving for Scotland to-night. If you have any message, please
give me it now, Doris, and I'll leave you. You must want to be alone."
He waited, leaning against the mantel, watching her bowed head, torn
betwixt loyalty and longing. Minutes passed before she uncovered her eyes
and sat up. "Teddy," she said, "please sit down. There are things I must
tell you before you go to Scotland." She wiped her eyes and put away the
handkerchief as if for good. "You must be thinking me a very strange and
heartless girl. You must be asking yourself why I am not overjoyed at the
wonderful news. Don't speak. I suppose I don't properly realise it yet.
Alan is alive and well!--I never was so glad of anything; I'll never
cease to be glad of it. And just for a moment nothing else in the world
seemed to matter. But--but I can't escape--I am like a prisoner told of a
great joy which she can never look upon--"
"Doris, what are you saying? You don't for a moment imagine that
Bullard--"
"Let me go on while I can. It's not easy to make my story coherent, so be
patient... Something most awful happened last night. You know I was at
the Lesters' dance, but I only stayed an hour--I got so worried about
father. I pleaded a headache, and they got a taxi for me. It would be
nearly eleven when I left. The fog was lifting. Just as the cab was
reaching home I looked out and saw a dreadful-looking man coming from our
door. He stared at me so horribly, so suspiciously, that I waited in the
cab till he was well away. I had a latch-key and let myself in quietly. I
went into the drawing-room. The lights were on, but the fire was low and
no one was there. Mother had spoken of going early to bed, and I thought
she must have done so. I went along to the library. There was no sound,
but as I opened the door I heard a hoarse voice, though what it said I
did not catch. It was followed by a smash. I drew back the curtain--you
know how it hangs across the corner--and I saw--"
"Doris," the young man cried, "you're distressing yourself--"
"I must tell you, or go mad. Mr. Bullard was sitting at the table with
his back to me. Father and mother were standing on the other side. They
were just ghastly. On the table was a dark green roundish box, open, and
some trays of diamonds. There were diamonds on the floor, too." Doris
paused and wet her lips. "When I was a young girl," she continued,
"before we came home, you know, Christopher Craig took me into his house
one afternoon to give me some sweets, as he often did, and after bidding
me not tell anybody, he showed me a dark green box, and in it were trays
of diamonds. I never forgot it."
"But my dear girl--"
"Almost at once mother ordered me to go away. I went up to my room, and
thought till I began to understand. I asked myself questions. What were
those sudden journeys to Scotland for? Why was father so nervous
afterwards? Who was the dreadful-looking man I saw? What made father and
mother look so--so awful when I found them in the library?"
A heartsick feeling possessed Teddy, while he said: "But, Doris, all
those apparently ugly things may be capable of explanation."
"Wait! ... Of course I could not sleep. I didn't know what to do with
myself. At three in the morning I went down to the library for a book,
though I knew I should never read it.... And before the cold fire
he--father was sitting alone, like a--a broken man. Oh, Teddy, you always
liked father, didn't you?" Ere he could reply she proceeded: "He was so
lonely, poor father! I loved him better than ever I had done.... And
after a while he told me things--things I can't tell even to you. But the
box of diamonds was Christopher Craig's--now Alan's. Father would not
blame Mr. Bullard more than himself--but _I_ know.... And now here is a
strange thing: all those diamonds are false, and of little value compared
with the real. And, do you know, father was glad of that, though it means
ruin. Father supposes it was a trick of Caw's--Caw was Mr. Craig's
servant--I used to like him--and he was really very fond of me when I was
a little girl--and so I thought of a plan." She sighed.
"Am I to hear your plan, Doris?"
"Oh, it can never be carried out now. It was just this: I would make
a journey to Scotland, with the box in my dressing-case--it's there
now; but let me go on. Then I would hire a car for a day's run round
the coast, and I would call at Mr. Craig's house--quite casually, of
course--just to see how my old acquaintance, Caw, was getting on.
That would be--or would have been--the most natural thing in the
world. Of course Caw would ask me into the house, and would offer to
get me tea. And while he was getting it--well, I know where the box
used to be kept--"
"You brave little soul!"
"Oh, I'd risk anything for father," she said simply. "Once the box was
back in its place, he would be safe from one horror, at any rate. The
stones, though they are imitation, are worth several thousand pounds.
Even if Caw found me out, I don't think he'd do anything terrible."
"But why should Caw suspect your--"
"He doesn't suspect--he _knows_! There are things about it I can't
understand, but this morning my plan seemed the best possible. Before we
went to bed father and I got slips of wood and jammed the box so tightly
shut that you would have said it was locked--there was no key, you
understand. Then--it was my idea--I got a little earth from a plant in
the dining-room and made a few dirty marks on the carpet and window-sill.
And I took the decanter and poured a lot of the whiskey out of the
window, which I left open; and I put a soiled tumbler on the floor. And
we broke the door of the cabinet where the box had been, and then we went
up to bed, and I took the box with me."
Teddy stood up. "You perfect brick!" he cried; "I feel like cheering!"
She smiled the ghost of a smile. "And now you've guessed that there was a
fuss about burglars in the morning, and Father 'phoned Mr. Bullard that
the box was gone--which was not quite true, but as true as Mr. Bullard
deserved--and Mr. Bullard came furious to the house, and left vowing
vengeance on the dreadful-looking man who had unlocked the box the night
before. So you see my poor little plan worked so far--only so far."
"What you mean," said the young man softly, "is that Alan must not
know--"
"Caw is bound to tell Alan, has probably told him already. Don't you see
how hideous the situation has become for father--and Alan, too?"
"I do see it. But now--you know there's not a bigger-hearted chap in the
world than Alan Craig--suppose your father were simply to tell him
everything--"
"Oh, never!" she exclaimed. "That would mean betraying Mr. Bullard, and
father is--no, I can't tell you more. And I'm terrified that Mr. Bullard
may yet discover that the box was not stolen last night after all--he's
so horribly clever."
Teddy considered for a moment. "If the box were back in its old place,"
he said slowly, "that would end the matter in one way--"
"In every way, for Alan and I would never meet again--"
"You know Alan better than that, Doris. It is possible that Alan is
not yet aware of the--the loss; even possible that Caw has not
discovered it."
"Oh! if I could only hope for that!--not that I could ever face Alan
again. But, Teddy--"
"Well," he said deliberately, "it might be worth while to act on the
possibility. If you think so, I'm your man, Doris."
"You--you would take the box?" Her suddenly shining eyes gazed up at his
face in such gratitude and admiration that he turned slightly away. "You
would risk your friendship with Alan--"
"Nonsense! Don't put it that way, Doris; and don't talk of never facing
Alan again. All this will pass. The thing we want to do now is to make it
pass as quickly as possible. Give me the box and the necessary
directions, and I'll do my best."
"Oh, you are good! I confess I thought of your doing it, but the idea
came all of a sudden and I hated it. I still hate it. It's making you do
an underhand thing; it's cheating Alan in a way."
"It's returning his property, anyway," said Teddy, not too easily. "But
the more I think of it, the more necessary it seems. For we do not know
that the box belongs to Alan alone; and supposing others were interested
in the diamonds, false though they are, Alan might be forced to--to act.
So let me have it now, and I'll clear out, for I can tell you I'm pretty
funky about meeting Mrs. Lancaster with it in my hand. And, Doris, it's
plain to me that your father is somehow bound to Mr. Bullard. If you can,
find out how much--excuse my bluntness--it would take to free him. I'm a
poor devil, yet I might be able to do something in some way--"
"Oh, Teddy, Teddy, what am I to say to you?"
"Not another word, Doris, or we'll be caught!" He laughed shortly, strode
to a switch and flooded the room with light. There was a limit even to
his loyalty.
Five minutes later he left the house with a tidy brown-paper parcel
under his arm.
In her room Doris fell on her knees, and when thanksgiving and petitions
were ended remained in that position, thinking. And one of her thoughts
was rather a strange question: "Why am I not more glad--madly glad--that
Alan is alive?" And she remembered that she had sent no message.