MASTER OF THE SITUATION.
While John Bradfield still sat in his study, turning over the papers
from a locked drawer in his desk, tearing up some, and carefully
putting aside others, he heard again the creaking of the gate, and
looking out, saw, in the dusk which had now fallen, a figure which
seemed familiar to him. It disappeared at once by the lodge, and Mr.
Bradfield, after waiting a few minutes in vain watching for its return,
rang the bell, and asked whether anyone had come in by the back way
during the past few minutes. The servant said he thought not, but he
would inquire; and he returned a few moments later to say that no one
had come in.
Mr. Bradfield did not feel satisfied, although he gave no sign of his
dissatisfaction.
“I could have sworn it was Stelfox!” said he to himself, as he again
looked out of the window.
This time he saw another figure, whom there was no mistaking. The
blood mounted to his head as he saw that it was Chris Abercarne, who
was walking quickly back into the house. He was hard pressed for time,
working among the papers with something of the feeling of a fox that
burrows in the ground when the hounds are within hearing, but he felt
that he must spare a moment to speak to her.
Chris was startled by the change which had come upon him since he drove
her from the station. She knew of his interview with Dick, and, seen
by the light of that knowledge, his face betrayed more than he could
guess. The frown on it was not one of anger; it was the harassed,
worried frown of a hunted man. And her indignation against him changed
in a moment to pity; her face softened.
“You have been talking to--Richard, I suppose?” said he shortly, almost
rudely, pronouncing the name with an effort.
“Yes,” answered Chris gently.
“You’re in love with him, or fancy you are, of course?” pursued he
harshly.
Chris admitted that too.
“And you think I’ve ill-treated him, no doubt?”
The young girl’s face changed suddenly. She looked so sad, so wistful,
that he was touched.
“I--I hope not; oh, I hope not!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you have been so kind to my mother and me, that--that----”
“Well, that what?” said he, not looking at her, and trying to speak as
gruffly as ever.
“That I shouldn’t like to think----”
She paused again, and there was silence on both sides for a minute
or two. Chris was looking with wide eyes at the back of his head,
wondering with all her might whether it were possible for a man, a real
man, one, too, by no means without the milk of human kindness as far as
most people were concerned, to be guilty of the crimes which seemed to
have been brought home to him.
John Bradfield, for his part, had been flung, all in a moment, into a
sentimental mood. He had truly loved this girl, in his own way, which
was not, perhaps, the highest way, but still in a manner not to be
altogether despised, except by a woman who was entirely absorbed in
love for somebody else. Now he had got to lose her altogether; to lose
even that faint hope of holding her some day in his arms, which he had
nursed side by side with some particularly cruel and selfish designs
upon her favoured lover. For a moment he felt as if he must break down
in some sort of confession, perhaps some sort of appeal. Then the
sterner stuff in him hardened, and saying only, “Go along with you,” he
made way for her to pass him on her way upstairs.
Then with one look after her, one sigh, he dismissed her absolutely
from his mind, and gave himself up to the serious dangers of the
moment, and the way to escape them. For he did not deceive himself;
he knew that the cordon was closing round him, that before long the
outposts would close in, and the chain of evidence, each link of which
was now in the possession of a different person, would be complete
against him. It only wanted the garrulous and untrustworthy Marrable to
be questioned by either Stelfox, or Richard, or even Chris, for it to
become known that the fortune that he, Bradfield, had been enjoying,
was that left by Gilbert Wryde to him in trust for Richard, Gilbert’s
son.
If this had been all the story, John Bradfield might have got off
lightly. But the comparing of notes would lead not only to the
discovery of the fraud he had practised, but of the infamous means
by which he had maintained it. Then there was that little matter of
Richard’s disappearance at the time of the fire. What did Stelfox
know? Bradfield, who had mistrusted the man for some time, but who had
doubted the advisability of trying to “square” him, now wished that he
had done so. However, it was too late to spend the time in regrets, and
Mr. Bradfield went straight back to his study, and drawing down the
blinds and locking the doors, proceeded to unlock a safe which had been
built into the wall in one corner of the room.
As he took out, from some tin boxes inside, several bundles of papers,
he smiled to himself with considerable malicious satisfaction. He
took the papers to his desk, brought from a cupboard a strong leather
travelling-bag, and with just a loving glance at the papers, which
showed that he was too familiar with their exact contents to do more,
he thrust them into the bottom of the bag, which he then carefully
locked, putting the key in his pocket.
While enjoying to the full the pleasures of his quiet country life, and
of his beautiful mansion, the astute Northerner had never lost sight
of the fact that he might not be able to enjoy them for ever. He had
therefore made a provision against discovery, by opening an account, to
the extent of some thousands in each case, with several banks on the
Continent, and in that Paradise of unrepentant thieves, South America.
As long, therefore, as he could keep out of the hands of the police, it
would go hard with him if he found himself without the sinews of war.
The papers in the precious bag, which for the last few weeks he had
kept always near at hand, consisted of securities easily realisable,
and of the means of establishing his identity with the person who had
opened the banking accounts above mentioned.
With the bag in his hand, John Bradfield unlocked and opened his study
door softly, looked out, and listened. The person he most feared was
Stelfox, in whom he recognised a mind as astute as his own; and he
had a strong suspicion, in spite of the footman’s assurance to the
contrary, that Stelfox had, within the last hour, secretly entered the
house. John Bradfield felt that he must not only escape, but that he
must escape without Stelfox’s knowledge.
He went softly upstairs, the thick carpets altogether deadening the
sound of his footsteps, reached his bedroom, and packed in a Gladstone
bag such things as were strictly necessary for a sudden journey--a
change of clothes, some linen, the book he was reading. He was also
careful to put in his favourite opera-glasses, being determined to take
his journey not like a fugitive, but like a man of pleasure.
Then he left his bedroom as quietly and watchfully as he had
entered it, and going to the door of Marrable’s room, listened for
a few moments before going downstairs. He had not stood there for
half-a-dozen seconds before the expression of his face changed from one
of attention to one of mingled excitement and delight.
For Marrable, whom he had locked in asleep, was now awake, and
talking--talking in his wandering and foolish manner, but with unusual
emphasis and excitement.
And the answering voice was Stelfox’s.
Here was a bit of luck indeed. The cunning Stelfox had found his way
to the very person who could give him all the information he wanted,
and was now doubtless in the act of extracting it from his talkative
companion. And when he unlocked the door of Marrable’s room, and went
in, he had left the key outside.
Mr. Bradfield softly turned the key in the lock. Then, going quickly to
his workshop, which was only a few yards away, he returned with a pair
of nippers, and mounting on a chair, he neatly snipped the bell-wire in
two.
“Now,” said he to himself, “when they find they’re locked in, they will
ring the bell, and nobody will come. And that door will stand a good
many kicks.”
He looked at his watch as he ran quickly downstairs, and slipped out of
the house without meeting anybody.
“I can get a cab at the stand,” thought he. “I shall just have time
to catch the train. I shall book to London, but I shall get out at
Ashford, and go to Queensboro’, and on to Flushing. That’s just the
last thing I should be expected to do. So that if Stelfox has been fool
enough to chum up with the police on his lunatic’s behalf, I can give
them leg-bail easily.”