A DESPAIRING CALL
The great lawyer whom the telephone message from Deane had summoned sat
in a comfortable easy-chair adjoining Deane's writing-table. His manner
was serious, but not discouraging.
"You see, Deane," he said, "after all, it depends very much upon this
alleged document. The whole case practically hinges upon it. If the
defendants are unable to procure it, or a copy of it, or witnesses who
can swear to it, I do not think that they can do us much harm,
especially if we take the course which I have already suggested to our
counsel. As yet we have received no intimation that the other side have
the slightest trace of the document in question. If, on the other hand,
it should come into their possession, they are bound to notify us. May I
ask, Mr. Deane, what you believe the probabilities are as regards this
matter?"
"It isn't a matter of probability," Deane answered. "To the best of my
belief, there is no such document in existence."
"In that case," the lawyer continued, "I think that you need have no
further anxiety about the case. Of course, there is no chance of a long
sentence for the defendant. You understand that?"
"Perfectly," Deane answered. "I don't wish it. I should not have
prosecuted him at all, but it seemed the only way to stop what might
have grown into a serious annoyance."
"I am sorry," the lawyer said, "that the whole thing seems to have been
taken so seriously by the Press and the public. I see your shares have
dropped to a ridiculous amount."
"A chance for someone to make money," Deane remarked. "I am much obliged
to you for coming up, Hardaway."
The lawyer nodded and took his departure. Deane sat for some time in a
brown study. Fundamentally he had all the direct impulses and
propensities of a truthful man. The course of action into which he was
at present driven was distasteful--almost repugnant to him. Yet, after
all, he was only fighting Hefferom with his own weapons. The man was a
blackmailer,--nothing more or less. Yet the fact did not seem to Deane
to make his hands the cleaner. And there was the girl! The memory of her
face haunted him, her desperate plight had been only too apparent. If
that document of Sinclair's was worth the paper it was written on, it
was he who was the supplanter, the thief, morally responsible for her
grievous plight! He moved in his chair uneasily. It was almost a relief
when the telephone bell at his elbow rang.
"Is that Mr. Deane?" a woman's voice asked.
"Yes!" he answered.
"Mr. Stirling Deane?"
"Yes,--what is it?" he asked quickly.
There was a moment's silence. The terrified voice, which had still
seemed somehow familiar to him, was silent. He could hear from the room
to which the instrument was connected, the musical chiming of a Swiss
clock--the call of a bird--and then silence. His hand was upon the
receiver to ring up the Exchange when suddenly a cry of terror, a cry of
shrill, agonized terror, rang in his ear.
"Stirling! Mr. Deane! Stirling! Come--"
There was an abrupt cessation of that frantic cry. The last word was
muffled, as though something had been dashed against the speaker's
mouth. There was the sound of the falling of a chair or heavy piece of
furniture. Then silence!--silence ominous, heavy, maddening!...
Deane rang up the Exchange. The young lady who answered him was a little
annoyed at his vehemence.
"I want you to tell me to whom I have been speaking!" he exclaimed.
"Where was I rung up from a few moments ago?"
"No idea," the young lady answered tartly. "Didn't they give their
name?"
"I want to know where the call was from," Deane said. "Please tell me
quickly."
"We don't take any note of local calls," the young lady answered. "Ring
off, please!"
"Stop!" Deane cried. "Listen, please! This is important! I am Mr.
Deane--Mr. Stirling Deane--of the Incorporated Gold-Mines Association. I
have just been rung up by a woman in distress--some one who appealed for
help. She was dragged away from the telephone before she could tell me
where she was speaking from. You must try and find out the number for
me. You must do it! It may be a matter of life or death!"
There was an instant's silence--a buzzing noise--then a man's voice.
"Sorry, sir," he said, "our operator cannot remember the exact number
that was speaking to you. It was a house in Red Lion Square, though. She
is sure of that."
"How many subscribers have you there?" Deane asked swiftly.
"Twenty-four or five, sir," the man answered. "Sorry we can't help you
further."
Deane left the office in such a hurry that a whole crop of fresh rumors
were started. He drove as swiftly as his electric brougham could take
him to the corner of Red Lion Square. All the time with a telephone
directory on his knee, he was copying out addresses. He entered Red Lion
Square on foot, with the paper in his hand. There were twenty-eight
addresses. He had no idea where to begin.
Seven or eight were the addresses of business firms. He struck these
out. Then he tried the others. One after the other he interviewed all
sorts of people unsuccessfully. He was received everywhere with
suspicion. Most of the houses were converted flats or cheap
lodging-houses. Half-dressed women leered at him over the banisters;
shabby men of all ages were slavishly anxious to earn a tip. Gradually
he was forced to realize that his was a mad, almost hopeless search.
People stood at their doors and watched him, jeering. Women hung out of
the windows, shouting coarse invitations or derisive comments upon his
perseverance. His nerves were all on edge, his blood was hot with anger.
Somewhere within a few hundred, perhaps a few yards of him, this girl
was in the hands of persons who meant ill to her. The terror in her
voice was no ordinary fear. She was face to face with the worst that
could happen.
He reached the last house on his list. It was on the further side of the
square, and one of the most respectable in appearance. Contrary to what
was apparently the usual custom, the front door was closed, and most of
the blinds drawn. There was no sign of life about the place when he rang
the bell. Yet after scarcely a moment's delay the door was thrown open,
and a neatly dressed parlor-maid answered his summons.
Deane adopted new tactics. He drew a sovereign from his waistcoat
pocket, and held it between his fingers. "You are on the telephone, I
believe," he said, "number 0198. Someone rang me up from here about an
hour or so ago. I recognized the voice, but the message was indistinct.
Will you tell Miss Rowan that I am here?"
The girl shook her head. "There is no one of that name living here,
sir," she answered.
"A rather pale young lady, tall and slim, who has just arrived," Deane
persisted. "I am anxious to find her quickly. Can't you help me?"
He pulled out a handful of gold, and the girl looked at it with covetous
eyes. She sighed as she once more shook her head.
"There is no one here of that name, sir," she said,--"no young lady at
all, in fact."
"You are quite sure?" Deane asked, with a sinking heart.
"Quite, sir," the girl answered confidently.
She made a movement as though to close the door. It is possible that
Deane would have taken the hint and departed, but for that last
searching look which he threw at her. He thrust his boot against the
door, and resumed his place on the inner side of the threshold. From
there he looked at her once more. He was right. There were traces of
powder on her cheeks, and her eyebrows were certainly not natural.
Underneath her trim black skirt he had caught a glimpse of brown
open-worked stockings, and tan shoes with a large bow and high heels.
Instinctively he felt that no ordinary servant would have been allowed
to go about like this.
"I should like to see your mistress before I go," Deane said firmly.
"Please go and tell her. I will not detain her more than a few moments."
"She's not in," the girl answered, with a distinct change of manner.
"Please don't stay about here or I shall get into trouble."
"I am sorry," Deane answered, "but if she is not in, I am going to wait
for her."
He was in the hall now,--a miserable, untidy place with a broken-down
mirror and hat-rack as sole furniture, and covered with a much soiled
oilcloth. The stairs were right ahead of him, and Deane looked up. He
looked into a woman's face as she leaned over the well of the banisters,
looking down. Almost immediately she drew away and came down.
Deane rose up to meet her. She was dressed in black, was very pale, with
large earrings,--pretty in a way, and certainly not of formidable
appearance.
"You wished to see me?" she asked, a little hesitatingly, as she reached
the bottom stair. "I thought I heard you tell my servant that you wished
to speak to her mistress."
"You are right, madam," Deane answered. "I do wish to speak to you."
"And what is it that you wish?" the lady asked.
"An act of kindness," Deane answered, "for which I am willing to pay--to
pay heavily. I am in search of a young lady who rang me up only an hour
or so ago from this locality,--I believe from this house. I am offering
a reward of two hundred pounds for any one who may help me in my
search."
He raised his voice. He meant the servant, or the person who was posing
as a servant, to hear him. He was unable to observe her closely, but he
noticed that she moved a little nearer, and appeared to be listening
intently.
"I am afraid that you have come to the wrong house," the lady answered
gently. "This is not a very nice neighborhood, I know, but we are quite
respectable people here, and we are not upon the telephone at all."
"Not on the telephone at all?" Deane repeated. "But I have your name and
number from the telephone company,--number 0198--Mrs. Garvice!"
"Mrs. Garvice has left," the lady declared. "I have taken the house, but
the telephone was of no use to me, so I have had it taken away."
"May I see the place where the instrument was?" Deane asked. "I have a
particular reason for asking."
"Certainly not!" the lady answered, a little sharply. "Open the door,
Hilda. We have nothing else to say to you, sir."
The maid obeyed, and Deane reluctantly took up his hat. He was already
upon the threshold when he suddenly stopped. A remarkable change came
over him. He stepped quickly back. The woman had gone as pale as death.
From one of the rooms upstairs came the shrill, unmistakable summons of
a telephone bell, and mingling with it the chiming of a cuckoo clock.
"Shut the door," Deane ordered sternly. "Madam," he said, turning
towards the lady of the house, "it is still within your power to earn
that two hundred pounds!"
The woman looked at him curiously. "Two hundred pounds," she said, "is a
great deal of money. One does not carry about sums like that."
Deane thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little roll of
notes. "I have twelve ten-pound notes here," he said, "and I can write a
cheque for the balance. You know what I want. If you turn me away, I
shall be back with a search warrant in less than half-an-hour."
She held out her hand for the notes. "Follow me," she said. "You
understand that I am simply a lodging-house keeper. I cannot be
responsible for my tenants or their actions."
"I understand that," Deane answered eagerly. "Quick! Lead the way
upstairs."