About four o'clock Bullard came into his private office full of
ill-suppressed wrath. Lancaster, who had been waiting for him in fear and
trembling, looked a mute enquiry.
"Yes," said Bullard harshly, "I found the beast after losing all those
precious hours, and I may tell you at once, he had nothing whatever to do
with the disappearance of the Green Box from your cabinet. He accounted
for all his doings after leaving Earl's Gate, and I was able to verify
his story. He went straight to a filthy gambling hell, lost a lot of
money and got dead drunk. He's not decently sober yet."
"Then who could have done it?" Lancaster forced himself to say.
"Spare me idiotic questions! What I want to know is why on earth you did
not take better care of the box."
"I daresay I ought to have put it in my safe," the other stammered, "but
you left it with me as if it was nothing to you, and it--it really had
become of so little value--comparatively--"
"Of little value! Why, its value to us might have been immense. The
stones are paste, but what does that prove? Simply that Christopher's
real stones are elsewhere. Christopher wasn't such a fool after all, and
Caw has not tricked us wittingly. Caw imagines we've got the real stones
right enough. At first I thought it might be otherwise, but my new theory
is the one to hold water. The stones we saw that afternoon in Grey House
were the stones we looked on last night--"
"Then--oh, my God!--Christopher was suspecting us, playing with us, all
the time!"
"Keep calm. Remember, Christopher told us we should have our reward--"
"And this is it!" Lancaster groaned.
For the moment Bullard's self-confidence was shaken--but only for the
moment. "Listen, Lancaster," he said steadily. "Christopher trusted no
man absolutely--and who would, with half a million involved? He may even
have doubted Caw. But Christopher was as friendly as ever, and he did not
tell us, without meaning something, that the diamonds would be divided
into three portions when his cursed clock had stopped. And so I believe
that we shall yet get our shares--on a certain condition.--Are you
following me?"
Lancaster nodded in vague fashion. "But the condition ..."
"Oh, Lord! hasn't it dawned? Why, the shares shall be ours when the clock
stops, provided the Green Box, its contents intact, is then in its place
in Christopher's study. Doesn't that hold water up to the brim?"
Lancaster turned away his face. He could have cried out.
"And now," said Bullard bitterly, "you've let the Green Box slip through
your fingers!"
"Why didn't you tell me all that last night?" cried the ill-starred
Lancaster. He dared not tell Bullard that the Green Box was safe in his
house. Bullard would never, however great the compensation, forgive
trickery against himself; and Bullard's theory remained to be proved.
Lancaster's soul now seized on its last hope: that Doris would be able to
carry out her plan of conveying the box to Grey House. "Why didn't you
tell me last night?" he repeated.
"Is that all you've got to say?" Bullard asked, a sort of snarl in his
voice: "And I suppose you still expect me to put you right over that
twenty-five thousand pounds!"
"My God, Bullard, but you _promised_! Oh, surely, you don't mean
to fail me!"
Bullard threw himself into the chair at his desk. While he chose a cigar
he regained something of his customary control. "I beg your pardon,
Lancaster," he said presently. "I ought not to have said that, seeing
that I have your daughter's promise, and do not doubt it. But the thing
has hit me--both of us--hard.... Now don't you think you had better go
home? Don't work yourself into an illness again. The Green Box is
gone--for good, I fear. We can't call in the police, you know. But there
are still things to be done--for instance, find out whether the real
diamonds are in Grey House--and, mark you, I think they are! If I were
only certain, I'd act on the will at once. That beast Flitch has been
restless lately. Wants to leave the country. His evidence might be
necessary in proving the loss of Craig. But we'll talk it out to-morrow.
Are you going?"
Without a word Lancaster went out; but he sat in his own private office
for several hours.
"What prevents me," asked Bullard of himself, "from throwing the
worthless fool overboard and letting him sink?" And the only answer was
"Doris. I believe he'd sell his rights in the will for--"
The telephone on his desk buzzed. Next moment he was listening to the
voice of Mrs. Lancaster.
"I'm just going out," it said, "and I thought I ought to let you know
about Doris. She had an express letter from young France this morning,
and insists on staying at home now to receive him. You asked me to keep
an eye on him. Any news? ... Why don't you answer?"
"Pardon, my dear lady. No; there is no news, except that I've been on the
wrong track and have small hope of getting upon the right one. Thank you
for letting me know; at the same time, I must keep to my bargain with
Doris--no interference, you understand. By the way, has Doris referred to
last night?"
"Not with a single word."
"Ah! ... I may call to-morrow. When does Mr. France arrive?"
"Five. But what's to be done about--?"
"To-morrow, please, to-morrow. Look after your husband, will you?
Good-bye."
The woman's soul was still seething with resentment against the man on
account of the diamond fiasco, as she called it; at the same time, she
was acutely sensible of the fact that now more than ever his friendship
was essential to her interests.
Bullard lay back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. Odd that Doris had
made no reference to her glimpse of the scene in the library last night.
Odd, too, that she should be receiving France at such an hour. And there
were other things that struck him as odd. Lancaster's manner during their
recent talk, for instance.... Francis Bullard had made the bulk of his
fortune through unlikely happenings; it had become a habit with him to
deal, as it were, in "off chances." At all events, he felt he would like
to secure a sight of young France's face as the latter came from the
house. It might tell him something. Before long he left the office and
the City. Rain was beginning to fall.
It was falling heavily when Teddy came down the steps of 13 Earl's Gate.
He was wondering which way would take him the more speedily to a cab,
when a taxi appeared moving slowly towards him out of the streaming
gloom. He whistled, and the chauffeur replied, "Right, sir," steering
towards the pavement. The cab came to rest midway between two lamps. The
man reached back and threw the door open. Teddy gave his address, and got
in. At the same moment the opposite door was torn open; the parcel was
snatched from his possession; the door banged. The cab started. Teddy had
a mere glimpse of some one muffled to the mouth, hat brim drawn low. He
turned and sprang out, staggered badly, almost fell, recovered his
balance, and beheld a figure leaving the step for the interior of the
retreating cab. He ran after it with a shout,--and remembered the dangers
in publicity. Still, he continued to run, seeking to make out the number
which had got plastered with mud. Hopeless! Travelling now at a high
speed the cab disappeared round a corner, and Mr. Bullard had secured
considerably more than he had come for.
At that moment the most wretched young man in London was Teddy France.
What was he to do? He could not go North without informing Doris of the
calamity. He could not trust the information to a letter. There he stood
in the rain, cursing himself and imagining the cruel blow it would be to
the girl. Suddenly he realised that no time must be lost. To wait until
later in the evening would doom his chances of seeing Doris alone. He
must return to the house at once--and as he took the first step, a car
purred softly up to No. 13, and deposited Mrs. Lancaster. It was all up!
To call now for the second time would rouse all manner of suspicions.
An hour later, drenched and in despair, he entered a post office and
telegraphed to Alan, postponing his visit for twenty-four hours. Then he
went home, and after worrying his mother by making a miserable dinner,
went forth again, and, having changed his mind, returned to Earl's Gate.
Mrs. and Miss Lancaster, the servant informed him, had gone out for the
evening. Thereupon he determined to resume his shadowing of Bullard, whom
he could not help connecting, directly or indirectly, with his late
assailant. On this occasion he went about the business with some
boldness. At Bright's Hotel he made enquiry at the office, after assuring
himself that Bullard was not in the lounge or its vicinity.
"Mr. Bullard has gone to Paris for a couple of days," the clerk told him.
"Left here twenty minutes ago."
Teddy had his doubts. He visited a number of stations and spent a good
deal of money on cab fares, but failed to obtain the smallest
satisfaction. He finished up at the midnight train from King's Cross. Had
he been able to be in two places at the same time, he would have got what
he wanted at St. Pancras.
In another part of the Midland train that carried Bullard North, sat the
man Flitch, alias Dunning. Once more Bullard had need of his skill. He
was decently clothed in ready-mades and almost recovered, roughly
speaking, from his bout of the previous night. But he was full of
melancholy. Bullard's fee for the opening of the Green Box, not to
mention the small fortune annexed from Mr. Marvel, was all gone. What he
had not lost over the cards had been stolen while he lay fuddled. Thus he
had been ready enough for another job from his patron. The hapless
Marvel, by the way, had been left secure in a dungeon-like cellar, with
enough bread and water to keep body and soul together for a couple of
days. Bullard had not had time to decide what to do with the creature.
In the seclusion of his sleeping berth Bullard examined the Green Box,
forcing it open with a bright little tool. He would get a new key for it
in Glasgow on the morrow. He cursed his luck and Lancaster. It would have
gone hard indeed with Lancaster but for the existence of Doris. But
Bullard was an optimist in his way. He was far from being beaten. Before
the train was twenty miles on its journey his head was on the pillow; two
minutes later the busy, plotting brain was at rest--recovering energy and
keenness for the next act.