To what end was life moving for Luke Maddison? In his rosy dreams he
saw nothing but the smooth path of it. For him there must come, in a
cycle of pleasant inevitability, years that were to be made up of
amusing house parties, Ascots, Deauvilles, Lidos. He would wander at
will from St. Moritz to Cannes, from Cannes to town; there would be a
make-believe of business, with the indispensable Mr. Stiles mumbling
his forebodings, but the bank would go on whether Luke was there or
not.
He had trodden these ways before--but alone. Now he was to have his
heart’s desire. It was almost unthinkable that she would be with
him--all the time, in all the places, in all the seasons. Margaret
Leferre stood for womanhood _in excelsis_. Not the weakling woman that
had been so favoured of the poets; she was to be something more than a
wife. Here was a comrade to be trusted. Toward her he felt a
tenderness more poignant because of the shadow of sorrow in which she
lay. She was definitely a charge now, someone to be protected, to be
shielded.
On the morning of his marriage he went to his office at the earnest
solicitation of his manager. There were certain documents which
demanded his personal attention. He went with the greater alacrity
since his lawyer had called at his flat that morning to protest
hopelessly (since the deed was signed the day before) against the
antenuptial agreement.
“Luke, I’m beginning to think that you’re the biggest kind of fool
that I’ve met in my professional career. Yes, yes, I know that
Margaret is the sweetest girl in the world and the most
trustworthy--all the decency of the Leferres seems to have run to her
side--but don’t you realize what an awful mess you may be making of
things? Suppose she died without making a will--I _know_ it’s a
ghastly suggestion--I tell you I know it is--but suppose----”
“I’ll suppose nothing so horrible, Jack!” said Luke hotly.
They were boyhood friends, he and the keen-faced young lawyer who
overlooked his affairs.
“I believe that a wife should have a share in her husband’s
fortune----”
“A share!” snarled Jack Hulbert. “You dam’ fool, she’s got it all!”
They came as near to quarrelling as they had ever done.
It did not soothe Luke’s irritation that Mr. Stiles was in his most
pessimistic mood.
“We can cut our losses, but it is going to cost you a lot of money,”
he said gloomily; “and after this, Mr. Maddison, I hope you’re going
to leave well enough alone. Speculation is all very well for----”
“I know, I know!” Luke’s nerves were a little on edge. “I quite agree
to cut out speculation--the truth is, I was led rather against my will
to take up these options.”
He could not confess that his amazing lapse had been due directly to
poor Rex. Mr. Stiles would hardly have believed that his shrewd young
employer could have been led into dealings so remote from the normal
business of the firm by a youth with no particular experience in the
markets. Yet this had been the truth.
“What are our losses?” asked Luke.
Mr. Stiles had the exact amount.
“Ninety-seven thousand six hundred and forty pounds,” he said
impressively, and Luke smiled.
“I happen to know that I am worth considerably more than that,” he
laughed. “In fact, Stiles, I am a much richer man than I thought.”
He “happened to know” because, for the purpose of the ante-marriage
bond, it had been necessary to make an equally exact schedule of his
holdings.
“All right, send a check, I will sign it.”
Mr. Stiles went out, and Luke made a rapid examination of the papers
that remained to be signed.
He was meeting Margaret at the registrar’s office at two o’clock.
Danty was to be there--he frowned at the thought, but had not
objected. Danty, in some mysterious way, had ingratiated himself into
Margaret’s confidence; perhaps, thought Luke, it was his close
friendship with Rex which had made this not only possible but almost
inevitable. There was to be no bridesmaid; the second witness was to
be Mr. Stiles.
His hand was on the bell push to summon the manager to remind him of
his duty when the bearded man came in.
“Do you want to see a man named Lewing?” he asked.
“Lewing? Who is he?”
From Mr. Stiles’s expression of disparagement he gathered that Lewing
was not of any great account.
“He’s a queer customer,” said Stiles. “I’d have sent him off, only he
said that he came from Gunner somebody who evidently knows you.”
For a moment Luke was puzzled. Gunner? He knew a man who was in the
artillery…
Then in a flash he remembered Gunner Haynes. He had forgotten all
about the unfortunate hotel thief whom he had tried to save--had not
even read in the newspapers what had been his fate.
“Show him in.”
The man who followed Stiles into the room was tall and spare of build.
His deep-set eyes had in them a furtiveness that was almost animal. He
glanced quickly round the room, and it almost seemed to Luke that he
was pricing every article within view against the night when he might
enter and take away such movables as would show him a profit.
“Mornin’, sir.”
He held his head downwards and sideways, looking up from under his
heavy and untidy eyebrows.
“Like to speak to you private, sir,” he said in his husky voice.
Luke glanced at the manager and signalled him to leave the room. Mr.
Stiles left with the greatest reluctance.
“Sit down, will you?”
Not taking his eyes from Luke’s face, the visitor stretched out a hand
and drew a chair to him.
“Well?”
The visitor sat down.
“Gunner’s got three moon for bein’ a suspected,” he said in a low,
hoarse voice. “The Sparrer spoke up for him, but the beak handed out
the three moon. The Gunner’s appealin’ to the sessions.”
Luke nodded.
“He has got three months’ hard labour and is appealing? I hope he gets
off. Did he send you to me?”
Lewing nodded slowly. He had the appearance of a man who was lying and
expected to be found out at any moment.
“Yes. A few quid would do him a bit of good. He wants a mouthpiece.
The Sparrer says he’ll get off--an’ the Sparrer knows.”
“Who is the Sparrow?”
A slow smile dawned on Mr. Lewing’s face.
“He’s a busy--a detective. Bird by name----”
Luke nodded. He remembered Mr. Sparrow, whose activities were
apparently not wholly confined to inquests.
“I was inside meself--for breakin’ an’ enterin’,” confided Lewing,
“but they couldn’t prove nothin’ so I got out. But me an’ the Gunner’s
like brothers. He was in the next cell to me at Brixton an’ he told me
to pop up an’ have a talk with you--a few quid would help him.”
Luke was puzzled. His acquaintance with the redoubtable gunman who
called himself Haynes was a slight one, but it had struck him, during
their brief interview in the Carlton, that the Gunner had the manners
and certainly the vocabulary of a gentleman, and that this mean
sneak-thief who was looking at him stealthily from the other side of
the table was hardly the type of man in whom the Gunner would confide
his commissions.
Luke felt in his pocket and took out a few pound notes.
“I suppose you know Mr. Bird very well?” he asked as he counted the
money.
The man grinned.
“The Sparrer? I should say so! He’s always goin’ on about the children
of the poor--but he’s always laggin’ ’em! He pretends there’s a lot of
poor people who are sufferin’ because of the likes of--” he was about
to say “me” but changed his mind--“of fellers who go on the crook.
That’s silly. If you can’t do work you’ve got to do something: you
can’t starve. The last time the Sparrer started talkin’ to me about it
I says: ‘Look here, Mr. Bird, why don’t you go after the children of
the rich an’ make ’em pay their whack to these children of the poor?’
He couldn’t answer me. He was dumbfounded. I’m always beatin’ people
in arguments.”
He seemed rather proud of this accomplishment; was not without his
vanities, even if he had to lie about his triumphs.
“Here is ten pounds. Give that to your friend. I can’t help him much
more. I’d like to know what happens to him, and he can write to me
here.”
A dirty hand like the talon of a bird shot out and clutched the money
into a ball.
“If you see the Dicky, don’t tell him I called--the Sparrer, I mean.
Some calls him one thing an’ some another. An’, governor, if you ever
want to see life or bring any other swells to see it, you might pop
down to Rotherhithe one night. Ask for Harry Sidler--I got it writ
down somewhere.”
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a dirty-looking card.
Amused, Luke took it and read:
Harry Sidler,
next door The Cap and Bells.
Beneath was the inscription:
Best prices given for old iron.
Lewing was staring at him, his teeth showing in a mirthless grin.
“Old iron!” he chuckled hoarsely. “That’s not bad! If you want to see
the children of the pore--that’s the place to see ’em!”
He rose from his chair and with a nod stole across the room and
vanished through the half-opened doorway. Vanished from life, thought
Luke, but in this he was mistaken.