HOW THE TRAP WAS SET.
As Martin Dimsdale had spent the greater part of his sixty years in
Burmah, he naturally retained an affectionate remembrance of that most
fantastic country. This he showed by calling his house "Rangoon;" and,
as a further concession to what might almost be termed his native
land, the house was built after the fashion, more or less accurate, of
a bungalow. On arriving some ten years previously in England, Mr.
Dimsdale had purchased an ancient Grange with its few remaining acres,
situated on the verge of Hampstead Heath. In spite of the fact that
the mansion was historic and famous, this Vandal pulled it down,
amidst the protests and to the grief of various antiquarians. On the
cleared ground he erected the rambling one-storey building which
reminded him of the Far East. It was not an entirely Indian house, nor
a wholly Burmese house, nor an absolutely English house, but a bastard
mixture of all three, as the chilly northern climate had to be taken
into consideration. But Dimsdale looked upon it as a genuine
reconstruction of the bungalows to which he had been accustomed, and
would hear no argument to the contrary. This was just as well for
those who differed from his views, as he was a peppery little man,
voluble in speech.
From the wide road, which flanked this corner of the Heath, the
grounds were divided by a tall and thick-set laurel hedge, which must
have taken years to attain its present stately beauty. At right angles
to this, red-brick walls, old and mellow, ran back for a considerable
distance to terminate in another hedge of mingled holly and oak
saplings and sweetbriar and hawthorn. A gate in the centre of this
gave admittance to a well-cultivated kitchen-garden of two acres.
Beyond, and divided from the garden by a low stone wall, stretched the
meadows, encircled by aggressive barbed-wire fences. The whole,
consisting of eight acres, belonged to the man who had built the
bungalow, and was a very desirable freehold for a well-to-do
middle-class gentleman.
In the first square between the hedges and brick walls stood the
house, looking quite dazzling in the sunshine by reason of its
white-tiled walls and the raw hue of its red-tiled roof. Round three
sides ran a deep verandah, and the fourth side--at the back--bordered
the cobble-stone yard, at the sides of which were the stables and
outhouses. Everything here was neat and trim and sweet-smelling, as
Mr. Dimsdale would tolerate no litter, and was fidgety about the
drainage. This was just as well, seeing that the stables were
over-near the dwelling. Some judicious person had earlier pointed out
to Mr. Dimsdale that it would be advisable to erect them beyond the
kitchen-gardens and in the meadows, but the little man, out of sheer
obstinacy, refused to entertain the idea, and built them cheek by jowl
with the house.
On either side of the bungalow, trellis work covered with creepers
shut off the yard from the front garden. This last, consisting of
smooth lawns bordered by brilliantly coloured flowerbeds, stretched
to a rustic-looking, white-painted gate set in the laurel hedge. To
this, a broad walk, sanded to a deep yellow tint, ran from the shallow
steps leading up to the front verandah. Two noble elms--the sole
survivors of a once well-wooded park--sprang one on each side of the
path, from the trim lawns.
The building itself looked most unsuitable to the chilly English
climate, with its spotless walls and French windows. These, of which
there were many, opened directly on to the verandah, which was paved
warmly with red bricks, rectangular and thin. Each window was provided
with green shutters, fastened back during the day and tightly closed
every night at dusk. On entering the front door Mr. Dimsdale's
visitors beheld a square hall, and the first object which struck the
eye was a large gong, held shoulder high by two fierce-looking Burmese
warriors carved in unpainted wood. Darkly blue Eastern draperies,
glittering with tiny round looking-glasses, veiled the left door,
which led into the library, and the right door, through which the
dining-room was entered. Passing between curtains of similar texture
and style, hanging straightly from the ceiling, the visitor came into
a spacious room with a slippery polished floor and a high glass roof,
which lighted the apartment, since, occupying the centre of the
bungalow, there could be no side windows. Folding valves of carved
sandalwood on either side gave entrance into two long narrow passages,
broken by many bedroom doors. The bedrooms themselves looked on to the
side verandahs through French windows, as has been described.
At the end of the middle apartment--which, like the Athenian Club
antrium, was the general meeting place of those in the house, and
served the purpose of a drawing-room--was another draped portal,
admitting Mr. Dimsdale's male guests into a large billiard-room and a
comfortable smoking-room; also his lady guests into a boudoir and a
music-room. Beyond these, and shut off by another narrow passage at
right angles to those at the sides, were the kitchen, the servants'
quarters, and the domestic offices. As the stables, in the opinion of
many people, were too near the house, the kitchen was too far distant
from the dining-room. But Mr. Dimsdale, who was fond of delicate fare,
prevented the cooling of the food in transit by having it brought to
the table in hot-water dishes. He secretly acknowledged to himself
that he was wrong as regards both stables and kitchen, but would never
admit any oversight to his friends. As he had been his own architect,
he believed "Rangoon" to be almost perfect in construction, design,
beauty, and in its blending of Indian charm and English comfort. And
in the main he was not far wrong.
The house was filled with quaint Eastern curios, and draperies and
contrivances and furniture, although of this last there was
comparatively little, since Mr. Dimsdale did not care to overcrowd his
rooms, as is the English fashion; perhaps it was this sparseness which
gave the house its foreign look. The library was furnished with tables
and couches and chairs and bookcases of black teak, elaborately
carved, while the central apartment contained nothing but bamboo
chairs and tiny bamboo tables, all of which were covered with
brightly-hued draperies. The dining-room was the most English-looking
part of the house, as it was decorated and furnished in the Jacobean
manner, and looked massively British. But the French windows--three in
the front and three at the side--uncurtained and pronouncedly bare,
admitted too great a glare into an apartment sacred to eating, which,
for some traditional reason, is always supposed to have rather a
twilight atmosphere. But Mr. Dimsdale loved plenty of light and fresh
air and all the sunshine he could get, hence the many windows of the
bungalow. It would have been easier to have removed the walls dividing
the rooms from the verandah, and to have given them the full publicity
of Eastern shops. And perhaps only the climate prevented Mr. Dimsdale
from going this length. He was a fanatic in many ways, and had the
full courage of his cranky convictions.
As a police commissioner, Mr. Dimsdale had been secretly in
partnership with a Chinese merchant, who traded from Singapore to
Yokohama, and from Canton to Thursday Island; that is, he supplied the
capital and Quong Lee managed the investments. Thus the astute
Englishman was enabled to return to England with an ample income, and
proposed to spend the rest of his earthly life in enjoying it. The
bungalow was his hobby, and he never grew weary of improving its
beauties or of showing them to admiring friends. As he was a
widower--Mrs. Dimsdale occupied a lonely grave in the Shan States--he
had no one to coerce him into spending his money in any other way. It
is true that Ida, his only child, was handsome and marriageable and
light-hearted; but, having comparatively simple tastes, she did not
yearn over-much for a fashionable life. Certainly she knew many in the
great world, and sought society to some extent during the season,
created by man; but, for the most part, she preferred the home-life of
"Rangoon," which was assuredly lively enough and not wanting in
interest even to the insatiable appetite of the young for pleasure.
Her father, like many Anglo-Indians, had been accustomed, save when he
had been stationed in lonely places, to much society, and was also
gregarious by instinct. He invited Far East friends to sit at his
hospitable board in the Jacobean dining-room, and made many new ones,
who were ready enough to welcome an amusing, experienced old traveller
for the sake of his society if not of his money. Dimsdale knew many
people in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, and also a considerable
number in the West End. His sister, Lady Corsoon, and her husband, Sir
Julius, were his sponsors as regards this last locality. Besides, Mr.
Dimsdale belonged to several clubs, took an interest in politics and
the doings of the younger generation, which had matured during his
exile, spent his money freely, and was always an amusing, chatty
companion. With such qualifications it was no wonder that he possessed
a large circle of friends, and was everywhere welcome. It must be
admitted, however, that some frivolous people thought he was rather a
bore, especially when he held forth about Rangoon.
Then there was Miss Hest--Frances Hest--who was so frequently staying
in the bungalow, and was so sisterly with Ida that she might almost be
regarded as another daughter of the jolly ex-police-commissioner. Her
brother, Francis Hest, of Gerby Hall, Bowderstyke, Yorkshire, was a
comparatively rich and superlatively far-descended north-country
squire, who was quite a rural king in his own parochial way. But as
his sister found the rustic life somewhat dull, she had come to
London, after quarrelling with her brother, who did not approve of her
leaving home. To force her to return he allowed her next to nothing to
live on, and, not having a private income, she had earlier been in
great straits. But being a clever girl of twenty-five, and gifted with
the dramatic instinct, she had turned her talents to account very
speedily. A retired actor with the odd name of Garrick Gail, who
termed himself a professor, had polished her elocutionary powers, and
she had obtained engagements to recite at various "At Homes." During
the three years she had been in London, she had improved her chances
so much that she made quite a good income. She was seen everywhere
and knew everyone, and being a handsome, well-dressed girl of
good family--no one could deny that--she made the most of her
opportunities. Of course, Francis Hest resented her behaviour; but,
always mindful that she was his sister, he extended a grudging
hospitality to her for six months of the year, if she chose to accept
it. Miss Hest did, but not in its entirety, and simply ran down to
Gerby Hall when she felt inclined. She also had a flat in Westminster,
but for the most part spent her days and nights at "Rangoon" in the
company of Ida Dimsdale. The two girls, who had met by chance at a
fashionable "At Home" two years previously, had struck up a sincere
friendship, and saw as much of each other as possible.
Some few days after the conversation between Vernon and Dimsdale in
Colonel Towton's chambers, the two girls were together on the verandah
of the bungalow, busily engaged in sending out invitations for a ball.
In honour of her birthday--she was now twenty-three--Ida had prevailed
upon her father to allow her to give a masquerade in the central
apartment. That was to be cleared for dancing--not that it needed much
clearing, so sparsely was it furnished--and all those expected were
told to wear masks and dominoes. At midnight all the guests were to
unmask, and supper was to take place. Ida limited her guests to the
number of one hundred, and, with the assistance of Miss Hest, she was
weeding out undesirable people. With a bamboo table between them and a
screen to keep off the hot sunshine--it was now the end of June and
extremely sultry--the young ladies were too intent on their agreeable
work to notice that a stranger was advancing up the yellow-sanded
path. And yet, as the newcomer was Arthur Vernon, he could scarcely be
called a stranger, seeing that he was a friend of the house and a
weekly visitor.
On this special occasion he had called to resume with Mr. Dimsdale
the conversation about The Spider, and, in his anxiety to
complete the business--which included the setting of a trap for the
blackmailer--would have passed by the girls in order to interview his
old friend. But Frances, who seemed to have eyes at the back of her
head--as Vernon had noticed on several occasions--drew Ida's attention
to him at once. "Here is Mr. Vernon, dear," she said, pushing back her
chair and straightening her tall, imperial form. "Let us ask him to
suggest someone."
"Good-day, Miss Hest; good-day, Ida," said Vernon advancing easily,
and looking very smart in his Bond Street kit. "Someone for what?"
Ida shook hands in her friendly, sisterly way and explained. "In a
week we are giving a masked ball in honour of my birthday, and just
now Frances and I are making out the invitations. Only a hundred
people, Arthur, as the house won't hold any more comfortably. Here is
the list--ninety-five names, as you see. So we thought----"
"That you might suggest a few other people," finished Miss Hest,
leaning gracefully on the back of her chair. "We want gentlemen more
than ladies."
"Isn't a week's notice rather a short one to give for an entertainment
of this sort?" asked Vernon, running his eyes over the submitted list.
"Why should it be?" demanded Ida, opening her eyes. "There is no fancy
dress to get ready, and I don't expect that everyone will be engaged
on that particular night."
"It's the mid-season, you know, Ida."
Miss Hest nodded her approval. "I told Ida that. Everyone may be
engaged."
"Well, I can't change the date of my birthday, dear, and I didn't
think of a masked ball until yesterday. If we send out invitations for
one hundred and fifty guests, that number will be sufficient. Everyone
can't have other engagements on that especial night."
"I don't know so much about that," said Frances in her deep voice,
which was of the contralto species. "People work desperately hard
during the season."
Vernon laughed and handed back the list. "Who was it said that life
would be endurable if it were not for its festivals?" he remarked,
smiling. "I never see the weary faces of pleasure-seekers during the
season but what I think of that saying."
"Well, never mind." Ida tapped her white teeth with the pencil she was
using, and cast her eyes over the list of guests. "Can you suggest
four gentlemen, Arthur?"
"There are two who would certainly come, and whose names you have
unaccountably omitted."
Miss Hest raised her strongly marked eyebrows. "Why unaccountably?"
"I am thinking of Colonel Towton and Mr. Maunders."
"There," said Frances, turning gravely to her friend, "I told you
everyone would notice that you had left them out."
"Am I supposed to be everyone?" asked Vernon, smiling again. "But why
have you left Maunders and Towton out, may I ask? I thought they were
such friends."
Ida sat down and coloured through her fair skin. "I wished to ask
Conny Maunders, but my father won't hear of it. Why, I don't know."
Vernon reflected that he knew very well, since Dimsdale objected to
Maunders paying undue attentions to his daughter. But he kept this
knowledge to himself, and inquired about Colonel Towton. "Your father
and he are such great friends."
"Of course," said Ida petulantly, "and as they've both been in the
East and are both of an age, they should be friends."
"There's a difference between forty-five and sixty odd, dear," said
Frances mildly.
"And between twenty-three and forty-five," retorted Miss Dimsdale,
whose cheeks were growing even more scarlet. "And Colonel Towton is
such a nuisance. He's always--don't laugh, Arthur."
"I beg your pardon, but I guessed what you were about to say," said
Vernon with mock gravity. "But why do you object to Colonel Towton,
who does not look more than thirty and who is a distinguished soldier,
to say nothing of his being well-off and handsome."
"I don't know that he is so very well off," retorted Ida, defending
herself; "he has only that old place in Yorkshire."
"I know," nodded Frances wisely, "it's a Grange at Bowderstyke, three
miles from my brother's place. Colonel Towton is of a very old family,
and I know for a fact that he has at least one thousand a year. You
might do worse, Ida."
"I don't wish to marry money," said Ida in vexed tones; "and I don't
love Colonel Towton, who is old enough to be my father."
"He is worth a dozen of Maunders," put in Vernon pointedly.
Ida stamped. "You take the privilege of our friendship to be rude and
presuming," she said angrily. "My private affairs have nothing to do
with you."
"Ida! Ida!" reproved Miss Hest, "don't----"
"I will," said the young lady crossly; "and I shan't ask Colonel
Towton to the ball, when father won't let me ask Conny."
"You call him that?" asked Arthur, with a shrug. Ida looked at him
indignantly, evidently with a conscience ill at ease. "I shall never
speak to you again," she said in an offended tone.
"Not if I get your father to let Maunders come to the ball?"
"Oh, can you; can you?" she asked, in a girlish, delighted tone on
this occasion. "I wish you would. Father likes you so much. And you
can tell him," she added handsomely, "that if he will let me ask Conny
I shall invite Colonel Towton. There--that's fair."
"You are playing with fire," warned Frances gravely. "Better not
invite Mr. Maunders. You can never marry him."
"It's indelicate to speak of my marriage in the presence of a
stranger," said Ida with some heat.
"I am not a stranger, I hope," remarked Vernon quickly.
"Yes, you are, when you are horrid," and with a rosy face of sheer
annoyance she flitted to the end of the verandah. Ida was rather like
Titania, being sylph-like, golden-haired, and blue-eyed, whereas Miss
Hest resembled Judith with her strongly-marked handsome face and black
eyebrows.
"Who is horrid?" asked a voice at this juncture, and Mr. Dimsdale
appeared on the threshold of the French window, which was behind the
table. "Ah, Arthur, is that you? I have been expecting to see you.
Come into the library."
Vernon obeyed at once, as Frances had hurried after the petulant girl
to pacify her. Miss Hest treated Ida as a wilful child, and by
scolding and coaxing and cajoling managed to get her to behave like a
reasonable being. It must be confessed that Dimsdale had spoiled his
golden-haired darling, and even the boarding-school she had attended
could not supply the place of the mother, who was dead. The old man
turned to Vernon when they entered the drawing-room through the French
window. "Who is horrid?" he asked again.
Vernon laughed and slipped into a chair. "It's a storm in a tea-cup,"
he explained easily, and accepting a cigar. "Miss Hest advised Ida to
give up Maunders, and I supported her. Then Ida----"
"I know, I know," broke in Dimsdale sadly. "She is wilful and is quite
infatuated with the scamp. Arthur, Arthur, I should have married
again, so that Ida could be trained by a good woman. I can't manage
her."
"I think Miss Hest can," said Vernon significantly; "and she has sense
enough for two. A most masculine young person. But do you think you
are wise forbidding Maunders to come to this masked ball?"
"Yes, I do. Ida is crazy about him."
"Opposition will only make her more crazy," warned Vernon, shaking his
sleek head. "It would be better to let them come together, and then
she would get sick of him. Maunders is so shallow that she would find
him out sooner or later, for Ida has plenty of common sense if it was
not obscured by this persistent frivolity, which, after all, is only a
youthful fault."
"But if Maunders wants to marry her----"
"He doesn't, Mr. Dimsdale. I can vouch for that. He wants to marry
your niece."
"What!" Dimsdale, who was lighting a cigar, wheeled round with an
astonished air. "Why, I thought you loved Lucy?"
"So I do," replied Vernon earnestly, "and she loves me. But Maunders
is a fascinating fellow and a dangerous, unscrupulous rival."
"I quite believe it. Eh, what? The fellow's a scoundrel," grunted Mr.
Dimsdale crossly. "He should be tarred and feathered. Still, if things
are as you say, I don't mind Ida asking him to the ball. But she must
ask Towton also," he added with sudden determination.
"She will do so, although she dreads his love-making. However, she may
grow sick of Maunders when she finds he is running after Lucy Corsoon,
and Towton may catch her heart in the recoil."
"Hope so; hope so," muttered Dimsdale, turning his cigar in his lips.
"I want to see my little girl safely married to Towton, who is as good
a fellow as ever breathed."
"But not a young fellow. However, it is wiser to let events take their
course for the present, Mr. Dimsdale. Opposition, as I say, will only
make Ida more wilful, since she is filled with romance natural at her
age."
"Ouf," breathed the old man, wiping his brow with a bandanna
handkerchief. "What a handful women are! But there," he dismissed the
subject with a wave of his hand, "let us leave these trivialities and
talk business. Have you heard anything more about The Spider?"
"Well, I made enquiries at Scotland Yard, and find that he is very
much wanted by the police."
Mr. Dimsdale grunted. "Humph! The police are always wanting and never
getting."
"The Spider is too clever for them," protested Vernon anxiously. "He
won't be too clever for me," said the elder man with sudden ferocity,
and slapping his hand on the table. "Eh, what? Am I to be blackmailed
by an infernal scoundrel who swears that he will tell a parcel of lies
if I don't pay him one thousand pounds. Hang him."
"If it is merely lies, why pay?" asked Vernon drily.
"There is a grain of truth in the lies," admitted Dimsdale crossly.
"The absolute truth I can face, but the lies make me out to be a very
queer person indeed. I shall tell you all when we secure this man."
Vernon looked up astonished. "How do you propose to secure him? If you
arrest him, his accomplice will spread the lies you talk of, by
postcard amongst your acquaintances, as is usually the case in The
Spider's business."
"I'll risk that, sir; I'll risk that," said Dimsdale with a defiant
air; "but I'm hanged if he'll get a penny out of me. I shall set the
trap, and you will be in this room behind a screen to rush out and
seize him when I give the signal. Understand? Eh, what? Understand?
Come, come! Speak up."
"What sort of trap do you propose to lay?" asked Arthur cautiously.
"Well," Dimsdale leaned back, twisting his half-smoked cigar between
his fingers. "It was the masked ball--this silly form of
entertainment, which Ida insists upon having for her birthday--which
gave me the idea. You see, with the chance of being masked and
mingling amongst my guests, The Spider will be the more ready to come,
and will suspect nothing. I am writing to him to-morrow, telling him
about this ball, and am suggesting that he should come wearing a mask
to enjoy it. Then, at eleven o'clock, say, he can secretly meet me in
this room to receive the money."
"Cash?" echoed Vernon significantly.
"Of course. The fellow's too clever to risk cheques. They would put
the police on his track; would put the police on his track, my boy."
"But do you intend to pay the money?"
"No, no, no, no! How stupid you are, Arthur. Use your brains, use your
brains, boy. I shall offer to pay the money, and then you, concealed
behind the screen--that Japanese one up in the corner--can rush out
and----"
"But I have no authority to arrest him," interrupted Vernon
impatiently. "Why not post a policeman, or a plain-clothes detective,
to catch the beast?"
"I don't want any policeman in my house," retorted Dimsdale gruffly;
"and you are detective enough for me. If he blackmails me, you will be
the witness, and we will have every right to hold him. Then you can
take him away and hand him over to the Hampstead police."
"He may show fight."
"Then have a revolver with you," snapped the old man. "I don't want a
scandal and a row on Ida's birthday, and in my house."
"It seems to me that you are going the best way to have one," said
Vernon deliberately; "much better let me inform the police and have
the thing done in an orderly fashion."
"No, I tell you." Dimsdale again slapped the table. "I'll do it my own
way or not at all. If I catch the beast by laying this trap, both
myself and Mrs. Bedge and many other people will be safe. But if we
call in the police, however secretly, The Spider--who seems to have
ears and eyes all over him--will get wind of the ambush."
Vernon nodded. "There's something in that," he assented. "Perhaps on
those grounds it will be better that we should engineer the job
together. Well," he stood up straight and slim, "I shall come here on
the night of the ball--by the way, when does it take place?"
"Monday week. It's a short notice, but Ida only thought yesterday of
this way to celebrate her birthday."
"Are you quite sure," asked Vernon, taking up his tall hat, "that it
is advisable to lay this trap on the night of the ball?"
"Yes, I do; yes, I do," said Dimsdale in a fussy manner. "The mere
idea of masks, which will enable the scoundrel to hide his infernal
face without comment, will recommend itself to him. He will think that
he is exceptionally safe, not dreaming that I intend to fight."
"You will fight, then?"
"Am I not laying a trap into which he will walk?" inquired Dimsdale
with much exasperation. "Of course I fight, as my secret is not such a
very bad one. I can defend myself, and I am willing to risk that being
known which I had rather were kept silent, for the sake of saving
other people from being blackmailed by the beast. Eh, what? Am I not
right?"
"Yes, I think you are. But I wish you would tell me your secret."
"After we have captured this scamp I shall do so, and then I shall
tell you the absolute truth together with his embroideries. Don't look
so grave, boy. I haven't committed a murder or stolen from the till."
"I never thought of such a thing," said Vernon hastily, "but----"
Dimsdale good-humouredly pushed him towards the window. "I know your
doubts, my boy, but later I can satisfy them. Meanwhile let us settle
that I am a scoundrel, and look on this trap as one set by a thief to
catch a thief. By the way, does Maunders know of the threat made by
The Spider against his mother. She intended to tell him, you know."
"I am not aware, sir. Maunders has not been near me since that night
at the Athenian Club--the same night when I met you at Towton's rooms.
Well, I shall come to the ball. Meantime, let me know----"
"I'll advise you if I hear from The Spider. There, get out. Good-bye,
unless you'll have a cup of tea or a glass of wine."
Vernon declined and departed. The girls were no longer on the verandah
or even in the garden.