Alas! how I had, in loving Lolita, quaffed the sweet illusions of hope
only to feel the venom of despair more poignant to my soul.
During the journey up to London my thoughts were fully occupied by the
discovery of what that oddly-shaped ring contained. That portrait
undoubtedly linked my love with the victim of the tragedy. But how? I
believed myself acquainted with most, if not with all, of her many
admirers, and if this unknown man were an actual rival then I had
remained in entire and complete ignorance.
As the express rushed southward I sat alone in the compartment calmly
examining my own heart and analysing my own feelings. Hope gilded my
fancy, and I breathed again. I found that I loved, I reverenced woman,
and had sought for a real woman to whom to offer my heart. Inherent in
man is the love of something to protect; his very manhood requires that
his strongest love should be showered on one who needs his strong arm to
shelter her from the world, with all its troubles, all its sorrows, and
all its sins. I wanted a companion, pure, loving, womanly; one who
would complete what was wanting in myself; one whom I could reverence--
and in Lady Lolita I had found my ideal.
Yet the difference of our stations was an insurmountable barrier in the
first place, and in the second, if the young Earl knew that I, his
secretary, had had the audacity to propose to his favourite sister, my
connexion with the Stanchesters would, I knew, be abruptly severed.
Nevertheless, I had with throbbing heart confessed my secret to my love,
and being aware of my deep and honest affection she allowed me to bask
in the sunshine of her beauty, and she was trusting in me to extricate
her from a peril which she had declared might, alas! prove fatal.
Poor Stanchester! I pondered over his position, too--and I pitied him.
Awakened from the temporary aberration which made him take as wife Lady
Marigold Gordon, the racing girl and smart up-to-date maiden; conscious
that the _camaraderie_ of the billiard-room, the stable, and the
shooting-party and the card-room was after all but a poor substitute for
the true companionship of a wife. The young Countess, well-versed in
French novels of doubtful taste, accomplished in manly sports, a good
judge of a dog, capable of talking slang in and out of season, inured to
cigarettes and strong drinks, had been an excellent "chum" for a short
time, but she now preferred the freedom of her pre-matrimonial days, and
drifted about wherever she could find pleasure and excitement. Indeed,
she seemed to have more admirers now that she was the wife of the Earl
of Stanchester than when she had been merely one of "the giddy Gordon
girls."
The smoky sunset haze had settled over the Thames as I crossed
Westminster Bridge in search of the pawnbroker's whose voucher had been
found in the dead man's pocket, and a copy of which I had obtained
before leaving Sibberton. It had been a blazing August day and every
Londoner who could afford to escape from the city's turmoil was absent.
Yet weather or season makes no appreciable difference to those hurrying
millions who cross the bridges each evening to rush to their 'buses,
trams or trains.
At six o'clock that summer's evening the crowd was just as thick on
Westminster Bridge as on any night in winter. The million or so of
absent holidaymakers are unnoticed in that wild desperate fight for the
daily necessaries of life.
Without difficulty I found the shop where a combined business of
jeweller's and pawnbroker's was carried on, and having sought the
proprietor, a fat man in shirt-sleeves, of pronounced Hebrew type, I
requested to be allowed to see the pledge in question.
He called his assistant, and after the lapse of a few minutes the latter
descended the stairs carrying a small well-worn leather jewel-case which
he placed upon the counter. The instant I saw it I held my breath, for
upon it, stamped in gold, was the coronet and cipher of Lady Lolita
Lloyd!
The pawnbroker opened it, and within I saw a necklet of seed pearls and
amethysts which I had seen many times around my love's throat, an old
Delhi necklace which her father had bought for her when in India years
ago. In her youth it had been her favourite ornament, but recently she
had not worn it.
Was it possible that it had been stolen--or had she made gift of it to
him?
I took up the familiar necklet and held it in the hollow of my hand. I
recollected how Lolita, with girlish pride, had shown it to me when she
had received it as a present on her eighteenth birthday, and how, on
occasions at parties and balls at Government House afterwards, it had
adorned her white neck and its rather barbaric splendour had so often
been admired.
"It's unredeemed, you know," remarked the black-haired Jew. "You shall
have it for twenty pound--dirth cheap."
Ought I to secure it? The police would, no doubt, soon institute
inquiries, and finding the coronet and cipher upon the case would at
once connect my love with the mysterious affair. But I had by good
fortune forestalled them, therefore I saw that at all hazards I must
secure it.
I pretended to examine it in the fading light at the window, lingering
so as to gain time to form some plans. I had not twenty pounds in my
pocket; to give a cheque would be to betray my name, and the banks had
closed long ago.
At last, after some haggling, more in order to conceal my anxiety to
obtain it than anything else, I said, with affected reluctance--
"I haven't the money with me. It's a pretty thing, but a trifle too
dear." And I turned as though to leave.
"Well, now, ninetheen pound won't hurt yer. You shall 'ave it for
ninetheen pound."
"Eighteen ten, if you like," I said. "What time do you close?"
"Nine."
"Then I'll be back before that with the money," I answered, and I saw
the gleam of satisfaction in the Hebrew's eyes, for it had been pawned
for five pounds. He, however, was not aware that it was I who was
getting the best of the bargain.
I drove in a cab back to the Constitutional Club, where I had left my
bag for the night, and the secretary, a friend of mine, at once cashed a
cheque, with the result that within an hour I had the necklet and
deposited it safely in my suit-case, gratified beyond measure to know
that at least I had baffled the police in the possession of this very
suspicious piece of evidence.
From the Jew I had endeavoured to ascertain casually who had pledged the
ornament, but neither he nor his assistant recollected. In that
particularly improvident part of London with its floating population of
struggling actors and music-hall artistes, each pawnbroker has thousands
of chance clients, therefore recollection is well-nigh impossible.
Having successfully negotiated this matter, however, a second and more
difficult problem presented itself, namely, how was I to avoid
delivering the letter to Sir Stephen Layard, the Home Secretary--the
Earl's request that the Criminal Investigation Department should hound
down the woman I adored?
My duty was to go at once to Pont Street and deliver the Earl's note,
but my loyalty to my love demanded that I should find some excuse for
withholding it.
I stood on the club steps in Northumberland Avenue watching the arrivals
and departures from the _Hotel Victoria_ opposite, hesitating in
indecision. If I did not call upon Sir Stephen, then some suspicion
might be aroused, therefore I resolved to see him and during the
interview nullify by some means the urgency of the Earl's request.
The Cabinet Minister, a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with keen eyes and
very pronounced aquiline features, entered the library a few minutes
after I had sent in my card. He was in evening clothes, having, it
appeared, just dined with several guests, but was nevertheless eager to
serve such a powerful supporter of his party as the Earl of Stanchester.
We had met before, therefore I needed no introduction, but instead of
delivering the letter I deemed it best to explain matters in my own way.
"I must apologise for intruding at this hour, Sir Stephen," I commenced,
"but the fact is that a very curious and tragic affair has happened in
the Earl of Stanchester's park down at Sibberton, and he has sent me to
ask your opinion as to the best course to pursue in order to get the
police at Scotland Yard to take up the matter."
"What, is it a mystery or something?" inquired the well-known statesman,
quickly alert.
I described how the body of the unknown man had been discovered, but
added purposely that the inquest had not yet been held, and there that
were several clues furnished by articles discovered in the dead man's
pockets.
"Well, the Northampton police are surely able to take up such a plain,
straightforward case as that!" he remarked. "If not, they are not worth
very much, I should say."
"But his lordship has not much faith in the intelligence of the local
constabulary," I ventured to remark with a smile.
"Local constables are not usually remarkable for shrewdness or
inventiveness," he laughed. "But surely at the headquarters of the
county constabulary they have several very experienced and clever
officers. With such clues there can surely be little difficulty in
establishing the man's identity."
"Then you think it unnecessary to place the matter in the hands of the
Criminal Investigation Department?" I remarked.
"Quite--at least for the present," was his reply, which instantly lifted
a great weight from my mind. "We must allow the coroner's jury to give
their verdict, and, at any rate, give the local police an opportunity of
making proper inquiries before we take the matter out of their hands. I
much regret being unable to assist the Earl of Stanchester in the
matter, but at present I am really unable to order Scotland Yard to take
the matter up. If, however, the local police fail, then perhaps you
will kindly tell him that I shall be very pleased to reconsider the
request, and, if possible, grant it." This was exactly the reply I
desired. Indeed, I had put my case lamely on purpose, and had gradually
led him to this decision.
"Of course," I said, "I will explain to his lordship the exact position
and your readiness to order expert assistance as soon as such becomes
absolutely imperative. By the way," I added, "he gave me a note to
you." And I then produced it, as though an after-thought.
He glanced over it and laid it upon his table, repeating his readiness
to render the Earl all the assistance he could when the proper time
came--the usual evasive reply of the Cabinet Minister.
Then he shook hands with me, and I left him, reassured that I had at
least prevented the introduction of any of those clever experts in
criminal investigation. The suspicions against Lolita grew darker every
hour, yet even though they were well-grounded I was determined to save
her.
That broad-shouldered man with whom I had seen her strolling in the
early morning after the tragedy puzzled me greatly. Had I only obtained
sight of him, I should, perhaps, have learnt the truth. Yet when I
reviewed the whole of the mysterious circumstances my brain became
awhirl. They were bewildering, for the mystery had become even more
inscrutable than it at first appeared.
That my love had some connexion with the affair, I could not for a
moment disguise. Her manner, her very admissions in themselves
convicted her. Therefore I felt that with the facts of which I was
already in possession I had greater chance than the most expert
detective of pursuing my own inquiries to a successful issue.
On leaving Sir Stephen Layard's about nine o'clock, I resolved to
ascertain what kind of house was number ninety-eight in Britten Street,
Chelsea, the place where lived the Frenchwoman, Lejeune. I recollected
the desperate words of my love on the previous night and wondered
whether the death of the unknown man might not have altered the
circumstances. Somehow I had a distinct suspicion that it might, hence
I resolved not to reveal my presence at the place until I had again
consulted Lolita.
The darkness was complete when I alighted from the cab in the King's
Road, Chelsea, and turned down the rather dark but respectable street of
even two-storied, deep-basemented houses that ran down towards the
Embankment. It was one of those thoroughfares like Walpole Street and
Wellington Square, where that rapacious genus, the London landlady,
flourishes and grows sleek upon the tea, sugar and bottled beer of
lodgers. In the night the houses seemed most grimy and depressing, some
of them half-covered by sickly creepers, and others putting forward an
attempt at colour with their stunted geraniums in window-boxes.
The double rap of the postman on his last round sounded time after time,
by which I knew he was approaching me, therefore I retraced my steps
into the King's Road and awaited him.
He had, I noticed, finished his round, therefore a cheery word and an
invitation to have a drink at the flaring public-house opposite soon
rendered us friendly, and without many preliminaries I explained my
reason for stopping him.
"Oh!" laughed the man, "we're often stopped by people who make inquiries
about those who live on our walks. Number ninety-eight Britten Street--
a Frenchwoman? Oh, yes. Name of Lejeune. She doesn't have many
letters, but they're mostly foreign ones."
"What kind of people live there?" I inquired, whereupon he eyed me
rather strangely, I thought, and asked--
"You're not a friend of theirs, I suppose?"
"Not at all. I don't know them."
"Well, I'll tell you in confidence. Mind, however, you don't let it out
to a single soul--but the fact is that the house is under the
observation of the police, and has been for some time. Sergeant Bullen,
the detective, is on duty up there at the end of the road," and he
jerked his thumb in that direction. "He said good-night to me only a
minute ago."
"The place is being watched, then?" I gasped in surprise.
"Yes. They've been keeping it under observation night and day for a
week or more. Bullen told me one day that they expect to make an arrest
which will cause a great sensation."
"For whom are they lying in wait?"
"Oh, that I'm sure I can't tell you! The 'tecs, although I know 'em
well, don't talk very much, you know." And then, after some further
questions to which I received entirely unsatisfactory answers, we
parted.