MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER
The detective was as good as his word. In a few days Paul was introduced
to the editor of a weekly publication and obtained a commission for a
story to be written in collaboration with Mr. Hurd. It seemed that the
editor was an old acquaintance of Hurd's and had been extricated by him
from some trouble connected with cards. The editor, to show his
gratitude, and because that Hurd's experiences, thrown into the form of
a story, could not fail to interest the public, was only too willing to
make a liberal arrangement. Also Paul was permanently engaged to supply
short stories, to read those that were submitted to the editor, and, in
fact, he permanently became that gentleman's right hand. He was a kind,
beery Bohemian of an editor, Scott by name, and took quite a fancy to
Paul.
"I'll give you three pounds a week," said Scott, beaming through his
large spectacles and raking his long gray beard with tobacco-stained
fingers, "you can live on that, and to earn it you can give me your
opinion on the stories. Then between whiles you can talk to Hurd and
write this yarn which I am sure will be interesting. Hurd has had some
queer experiences."
This was quite true. Hurd had ventured on strange waters, but the
strangest he ever sailed on were those connected with the Gwynne Street
case. These latter experiences he did not tell to Scott, who was
incapable of holding his tongue, and secrecy, as the detective impressed
on Paul, was absolutely necessary to the conduct of the case. "If we
keep matters quiet," argued Hurd, "and let those concerned in the matter
fancy the case has been dropped, we'll be able to throw them off their
guard, and then they may betray themselves."
"I wish you would say if you think there is one person or two," said
Paul, irritably, for his nerves were wearing thin under the strain. "You
first talk of the assassin and then of the assassins."
"Well," drawled Hurd, smiling, "I'm in the dark, you see, and being only
a flesh and blood human being, instead of a creation of one of you
authors, I can only grope in the dark and look in every direction for
the light. One person, two persons, three, even four may be engaged in
this affair for all I know. Don't you be in a hurry, Mr. Beecot. I
believe in that foreign chap's saying, 'Without haste without rest.'"
"Goethe said that."
"Then Goethe is a sensible man, and must have read his Bible. 'Make no
haste in time of trouble,' says the Scriptures."
"Very good," assented Beecot; "take your own time."
"I intend to," said Hurd, coolly. "Bless you, slow and sure is my motto.
There's no hurry. You are fixed up with enough to live on, and a
prospect of making more. Your young lady is happy enough with that
grenadier of a woman in spite of the humbleness of the home. Mrs. Krill
and her daughter are enjoying the five thousand a year, and Mr. Grexon
Hay is fleecing that young ass, Lord George Sandal, as easily as
possible. I stand by and watch everything. When the time comes I'll
pounce down on--"
"Ah," said Paul, "that's the question. On whom?"
"On one or two or a baker's dozen," rejoined Hurd, calmly. "My chickens
ain't hatched yet, so I don't count 'em. By the way, is your old
school-fellow as friendly as ever?"
"Yes. Why, I can't understand; as he certainly will make no money out of
me. He's giving a small dinner to-morrow night at his rooms and has
asked me."
"You go," said the detective, emphatically; "and don't let on you have
anything to do with me."
"See here, Hurd, I won't play the spy, if you mean that."
"I don't mean anything of the sort," replied Hurd, earnestly, "but if
you do chance to meet Mrs. Krill at this dinner, and if she does chance
to drop a few words about her past, you might let me know."
"Oh, I don't mind doing that," said Beecot, with relief. "I am as
anxious to find out the truth about this murder as you are, if not more
so. The truth, I take it, is to be found in Krill's past, before he took
the name of Norman. Mrs. Krill will know of that past, and I'll try and
learn all I can from her. But Hay has nothing to do with the crime, and
I won't spy on him."
"Very good. Do what you like. But as to Hay, having nothing to do with
the matter, I still think Hay stole that opal brooch from you when you
were knocked down."
"In that case Hay must know who killed Norman," cried Paul, excited.
"He just does," rejoined Hurd, calmly; "and now you can understand
another reason why I take such an interest in that gentleman."
"But you can't be certain?"
"Quite so. I am in the dark, as I said before. But Hay is a dangerous
man and would do anything to rake in the dollars. He has something to do
with the disappearance of that brooch I am sure, and if so, he knows
more than he says. Besides"--here Hurd hesitated--"No! I'll tell you
that later."
"Tell me what?"
"Something about Hay that will astonish you and make you think he has
something to do with the crime. Meanwhile, learn all you can from Mrs.
Krill."
"If I meet her," said Paul, with a shrug.
Undoubtedly Hurd knew more than he was prepared to admit, and not even
to Paul, staunch as he knew him to be, would he speak confidentially.
When the time came the detective would speak out. At present he held his
tongue and moved in clouds like a Homeric deity. But his eyes were on
all those connected with the late Aaron Norman, indirectly or directly,
although each and every one of them were unaware of the scrutiny.
Paul had no scruples in learning all he could from Mrs. Krill. He did
not think that she had killed her husband, and probably might be
ignorant of the person or persons who had slain the poor wretch in so
cruel a manner. But the motive of the crime was to be found in Norman's
past, and Mrs. Krill knew all about this. Therefore, Paul was very
pleased when he found that Mrs. Krill and her daughter were the guests
at the little dinner.
Hay's rooms were large and luxuriously furnished. In effect, he occupied
a small flat in the house of an ex-butler, and had furnished the place
himself in a Sybarite fashion. The ex-butler and his wife and servants
looked after Hay, and in addition, that languid gentleman possessed a
slim valet, with a sly face, who looked as though he knew more than was
good for him. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of the rooms was shady and
fast, and Paul, simple young fellow as he was, felt the bad influence
the moment he stepped into the tiny drawing-room.
This was furnished daintily and with great taste in color and
furnishing. It was more like a woman's room, and Mr. Hay had spared no
cost in making it pleasing to the eye and comfortable to the body. The
prevailing tone was pale yellow, and the electric light suffused itself
through lemon-shaded globes. The Louis Quinze furniture was upholstered
in primrose, and there were many Persian praying mats and Eastern
draperies about the place. Water-color pictures decked the walls, and
numerous mirrors reflected the dainty, pretty apartment. A brisk fire
was burning, although the evening was not cold, and everything looked
delightfully pleasant. Paul could not help contrasting all this luxury
and taste with his bare garret. But with Sylvia's love to warm his
heart, he would not have changed places with Grexon Hay for all his
splendor.
Two ladies were seated by the fire. Mrs. Krill in black, majestic and
calm as usual. She wore diamonds on her breast and jewelled stars in her
gray hair. Although not young, she was a wonderfully well-preserved
woman, and her arms and neck were white, gleaming and beautifully
shaped. From the top of her head to the sole of her rather large but
well-shod foot, she was dressed to perfection, and waved a languid fan
as she welcomed Paul, who was presented to her by the host. "I am glad
to see you, Mr. Beecot," she said in her deep voice; "we had rather an
unhappy interview when last we met. How is Miss Norman?"
"She is quite well," replied Paul, in as cordial a tone as he could
command. For the sake of learning what he could, he wished to be
amiable, but it was difficult when he reflected that this large, suave,
smiling woman had robbed Sylvia of a fortune and had spoken of her in a
contemptuous way. But Beecot, swallowing down his pride, held his little
candle to the devil without revealing his repugnance too openly. And
apparently Mrs. Krill believed that his composure was genuine enough,
for she was quite at her ease in his presence.
The daughter was dressed like the mother, save that she wore pearls in
place of diamonds. She talked but little, as usual, and sat smiling, the
young image of the older woman. Hay also introduced Paul to a handsome
young fellow of twenty-one with rather a feeble face. This was Lord
George Sandal, the pigeon Hay was plucking, and although he had charming
manners and an assumption of worldly wisdom, he was evidently one of
those who had come into the world saddled and bridled for other folk's
riding.
A third lady was also present, who called herself Aurora Qian, and Hay
informed his friend in a whisper that she was an actress. Paul then
remembered that he had seen her name in the papers as famous in light
comedy. She was pretty and kittenish, with fluffy hair and an eternal
smile. It was impossible to imagine a greater contrast to the massive
firmness of Mrs. Krill than the lively, girlish demeanor of the little
woman, yet Paul had an instinct that Miss Qian, in spite of her
profession and odd name and childish giggle, was a more shrewd person
than she looked. Everyone was bright and merry and chatty: all save Maud
Krill who smiled and fanned herself in a statuesque way. Hay paid her
great attention, and Paul knew very well that he intended to marry the
silent woman for her money. It would be hardly earned he thought, with
such a firm-looking mother-in-law as Mrs. Krill would certainly prove to
be.
The dinner was delightful, well cooked, daintily served, and leisurely
eaten. A red-shaded lamp threw a rosy light on the white cloth, the
glittering crystal and bright silver. The number of diners was less than
the Muses, and more than the Graces, and everyone laid himself or
herself out to make things bright. And again Maud Krill may be
mentioned as an exception. She ate well and held her tongue, merely
smiling heavily when addressed. Paul, glancing at her serene face across
the rosy-hued table, wondered if she really was as calm as she looked,
and if she really lacked the brain power her mother seemed to possess.
"I am glad to see you here, Beecot," said Hay, smiling.
"I am very glad to be here," said Paul, adapting himself to
circumstances, "especially in such pleasant company."
"You don't go out much," said Lord George.
"No, I am a poor author who has yet to win his spurs."
"I thought of being an author myself," said the young man, "but it was
such a fag to think about things."
"You want your material supplied to you perhaps," put in Mrs. Krill in a
calm, contemptuous way.
"Oh, no! If I wrote stories like the author johnnies I'd rake up my
family history. There's lots of fun there."
"Your family mightn't like it," giggled Miss Qian. "I know lots of
things about my own people which would read delightfully if Mr. Beecot
set them down, but then--" she shrugged her dainty shoulders, "oh, dear
me, what a row there would be!"
"I suppose there is a skeleton in every cupboard," said Hay, suavely,
and quite ignoring the shady tenant in his own.
"There's a whole dozen cupboards with skeletons to match in my family,"
said the young lord. "Why, I had an aunt, Lady Rachel Sandal, who was
murdered over twenty years ago. Now," he said, looking triumphantly
round the table, "which of you can say there's a murder in your
family--eh, ladies and gentlemen?"
Paul glanced sideways at Mrs. Krill, wondering what she would say, and
wondering also how it was that Lord George did not know she was the
widow of the murdered Lemuel Krill, whose name had been so widely
advertised. But Hay spoke before anyone could make a remark. "What an
unpleasant subject," he said, with a pretended shudder, "let us talk of
less melodramatic things."
"Oh, why," said Mrs. Krill, using her fan. "I rather like to hear about
murders."
Lord George looked oddly at her, and seemed about to speak. Paul thought
for the moment that he did know about the Gwynne Street crime and
intended to remark thereon. But if so his good taste told him that he
would be ill-advised to speak and he turned to ask for another glass of
wine. Miss Aurora Qian looked in her pretty shrewd way from one to the
other. "I just love the Newgate Calendar," she said, clasping her hands.
"There's lovely plots for dramas to be found there. Don't you think so,
Mr. Beecot?"
"I don't read that sort of literature, Miss Qian."
"Ah, then you don't know what people are capable of in the way of
cruelty, Mr. Beecot."
"I don't want to know," retorted Paul, finding the subject distasteful
and wondering why the actress pressed it, as she undoubtedly did. "I
prefer to write stories to elevate the mind."
Miss Qian made a grimace and shot a meaning look at him. "It doesn't
pay," she said, tittering, "and money is what we all want."
"I fear I don't care for money overmuch."
"No," said Mrs. Krill to him in an undertone, "I know that from the way
you spoke in Mr. Pash's office."
"I was standing up for the rights of another."
"You will be rewarded," she replied meaningly, but what she did mean
Paul could not understand.
The rest of the dinner passed off well enough, as the subject was
changed. Lord George began to talk of racing, and Hay responded. Mrs.
Krill alone seemed shocked. "I don't believe in gambling," she said
icily.
"I hope you are not very down on it," said Hay. "Lord George and I
propose to play bridge with you ladies in the next room."
"Maud can play and Miss Qian," said the widow. "I'll talk to Mr. Beecot,
unless he prefers the fascination of the green cloth."
"I would rather talk to you," replied Paul, bowing.
Mrs. Krill nodded, and then went out of the room with the younger
ladies. The three gentlemen filled their glasses with port, and Hay
passed round a box of cigars. Soon they were smoking and chatting, in a
most amicable fashion. Lord George talked a great deal about racing and
cards, and his bad luck with both. Hay said very little and every now
and then cast a glance at Paul, to see how he was taking the
conversation. At length, when Sandal became a trifle vehement on the
subject of his losses, Hay abruptly changed the subject, by refilling
his glass and those of his companions. "I want you to drink to the
health of my future bride," he said.
"What," cried Paul, staring, "Miss Krill?"
"The same," responded Hay, coldly. "You see I have taken your advice and
intend to settle. Pash presented me to the ladies when next they came to
his office, and since then I have been almost constantly with them. Miss
Krill's affections were disengaged, and she, therefore, with her
mother's consent, became my promised wife."
"I wish you joy," said Lord George, draining his glass and filling
another, "and, by Jove! for your sake, I hope she's got money."
"Oh, yes, she's well off," said Hay, calmly, "and you, Paul?"
"I congratulate you, of course," stammered Beecot, dazed; "but it's so
sudden. You haven't known her above a month."
"Five weeks or so," said Hay, smiling, and sinking his voice lower, he
added, "I can't afford to let grass grow under my feet. This young ass
here might snap her up, and Mrs. Krill would only be too glad to secure
a title for Maud."
"I say," said Lord George suddenly, and waking from a brown study, "who
is Mrs. Krill? I've heard the name."
"It's not an uncommon name," said Hay, untruthfully and quickly. "She is
a rich widow who has lately come to London."
"Where did she come from?"
"I can't tell you that. From the wilds of Yorkshire I believe. You had
better ask her."
"Oh, by Jove, no, I wouldn't be so rude. But I seem to know the name."
Paul privately thought that if he read the papers, he ought certainly to
know the name, and he was on the point of making, perhaps an injudicious
remark, but Hay pointedly looked at him in such a meaning way, that he
held his tongue. More, when they left their wine for the society of the
ladies, Hay squeezed his friend's arm in the passage.
"Don't mention the death," he said, using a politer word by preference.
"Sandal doesn't connect Mrs. Krill with the dead man. She wants to live
the matter down."
"In that case she ought to leave London for a time."
"She intends to. When I make Maud my wife, we will travel with her
mother for a year or two, until the scandal of the murder blows over.
Luckily the name of Lemuel Krill was not mentioned often in the papers,
and Sandal hasn't seen a hand-bill that I know of. I suppose you agree
with me that silence is judicious?"
"Yes," assented Paul, "I think it is."
"And you congratulate me on my approaching marriage?"
"Certainly. Now, perhaps, you will live like Falstaff when he was made a
knight."
Hay did not understand the allusion and looked puzzled. However, he had
no time to say more, as they entered the drawing-room. Almost as soon as
they did, Mrs. Krill summoned Paul to her side.
"And now," she said, "let us talk of Miss Norman."