Chapter IX

FOUR SQUARE JANE

I

Mr. Joe Lewinstein slouched to one of the long windows which gave

light to his magnificent drawing-room and stared gloomily across the

lawn.

The beds of geraniums and lobelias were half-obscured by a driving

mist of rain, and the well-kept lawns that were the pride of his many

gardeners were sodden and, in places, under water.

“Of course it had to rain to-day,” he said bitterly.

His large and comfortable wife looked up over her glasses.

“Why, Joe,” she said, “what’s the good of grousing? They haven’t come

down for an al fresco fête; they’ve come down for the dance and the

shooting, and anything else they can get out of us.”

“Oh, shut up, Miriam,” said Mr. Lewinstein irritably; “what does it

matter what they’re coming for? It’s what I want them for myself. You

don’t suppose I’ve risen from what I was to my present position

without learning anything, do you?” Mr. Lewinstein was fond of

referring to his almost meteoric rise in the world of high finance, if

not in the corresponding world of society. And, to do him justice, it

must be added that such companies as he had promoted, and they were

many, had been run on the most straightforward lines, nor had he, to

use his own words, risked the money of the “widows and orphans.” At

least, not unnecessarily.

“It’s knowing the right kind of people,” he continued, “and doing them

the right kind of turns that counts. It’s easier to make your second

million than your first, and I’m going to make it, Miriam,” he added,

with grim determination. “I’m going to make it, and I’m not sticking

at a few thousands in the way of expenses!”

A housewifely fear lest their entertainment that night was going to

cost them thousands floated through Mrs. Lewinstein’s mind, but she

said nothing.

“I’ll bet they’ve never seen a ball like ours is to-night,” her

husband continued with satisfaction, as he turned his back on the

window and came slowly towards his partner, “and the company will be

worth it, Miriam, you believe me. Everybody who’s anybody in the city

is coming. There’ll be more jewels here to-night than even I could

buy.”

His wife put down her paper with an impatient gesture.

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” she said. “I hope you know what

you’re doing. It’s a big responsibility.”

“What do you mean by responsibility?” asked Joe Lewinstein.

“All this loose money lying about,” said his wife. “Don’t you read the

paper? Don’t any of your friends tell you?”

Mr. Lewinstein burst into a peal of husky laughter.

“Oh, I know what’s biting you,” he said. “You’re thinking of Four

Square Jane.”

“Four Square Jane!” said the acid Mrs. Lewinstein. “I’d give her Four

Square Jane if I had her in this house!”

“She’s no common burglar,” said Mr. Lewinstein shaking his head,

whether in admonition or admiration it was difficult to say. “My

friend, Lord Belchester--my friend, Lord Belchester, told me it was an

absolute mystery how his wife lost those emeralds of hers. He was very

worried about it, was Belchester. He took about half the money he made

out of Consolidated Grains to buy those emeralds, and they were lost

about a month after he bought them. He thinks that the thief was one

of his guests.”

“Why do they call her Four Square Jane?” asked Mrs. Lewinstein

curiously.

Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

“She always leaves a certain mark behind her, a sort of printed label

with four squares, and the letter J in the middle,” he said. “It was

the police who called her Jane, and somehow the name has stuck.”

His wife picked up the paper and put it down again, looking

thoughtfully into the fire.

“And you’re bringing all these people down here to stop the night, and

you’re talking about them being loaded up with jewellery! You’ve got a

nerve, Joe.”

Mr. Lewinstein chuckled.

“I’ve got a detective, too,” he said. “I’ve asked Ross, who has the

biggest private detective agency in London, to send me his best

woman.”

“Goodness gracious,” said the dismayed Mrs. Lewinstein, “you’re not

having a woman here?”

“Yes, I am. She’s a lady, apparently one of the best girls Ross has

got. He told me that in cases like this it’s much less noticeable to

have a lady detective among the guests than a man. I told her to be

here at seven.”

Undoubtedly the Lewinstein’s house-party was the most impressive

affair that the county had seen. His guests were to arrive by a

special train from London and were to be met at the station by a small

fleet of motor cars, which he had pressed to his service from all

available sources. His own car was waiting at the door ready to take

him to the station to meet his “special” when a servant brought him a

card.

“Miss Caroline Smith,” he read. On the corner was the name of the Ross

Detective Agency.

“Tell the young lady I’ll see her in the library.”

He found her waiting for him. A personable, pretty girl, with

remarkably shrewd and clever eyes that beamed behind rimless glasses

and a veil, she met him with an elusive smile that came and went like

sunshine on a wintry day.

“So you’re a lady detective, eh?” said Lewinstein with ponderous good

humour; “you look young.”

“Why, yes,” said the girl, “even way home, where youth isn’t any

handicap, I’m looked upon as being a trifle under the limit.”

“Oh, you’re from America, are you?” said Mr. Lewinstein interested.

The girl nodded.

“This is my first work in England, and naturally I am rather nervous.”

She had a pleasant voice, a soft drawl, which suggested to Mr.

Lewinstein, who had spent some years on the other side, that she came

from one of the Southern States.

“Well, I suppose you pretty well know your duties in the game to

suppress this Four Square woman.”

She nodded.

“That may be a pretty tough proposition. You’ll give me leave to go

where I like, and do practically what I like, won’t you? That is

essential.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Lewinstein; “you will dine with us as our

guest?”

“No, that doesn’t work,” she replied. “The time I ought to be looking

round and taking notice, my attention is wholly absorbed by the man

who is taking me down to dinner and wants my views on prohibition.

“So, if you please, I’d like the whole run of your house. I can be

your young cousin, Miranda, from the high mountains of New Jersey.

What about your servants?”

“I can trust them with my life,” said Mr. Lewinstein.

She looked at him with a half-twinkle in her eyes.

“Can you tell me anything about this she-Raffles?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said her host, “except that she is one of these society

swells who frequent such--well, such parties as I am giving to-night.

There will be a lot of ladies here--some of the best in the land--that

is what makes it so difficult. As likely as not she will be one of

them.”

“Would you trust them all with your life?” she asked mischievously,

and then going on: “I think I know your Four Square woman. Mind,” she

raised her hand, “I’m not going to say that I shall discover her

here.”

“I hope to goodness you don’t,” said Joe heartily.

“Or if I do find her I’m going to denounce her. Perhaps you can tell

me something else about her.”

Mr. Lewinstein shook his head.

“The only thing I know is that when she’s made a haul, she usually

leaves behind a mark.”

“That I know,” said the girl nodding. “She does that in order that

suspicion shall not fall upon the servants.”

The girl thought a moment, tapping her teeth with a pencil, then she

said:

“Whatever I do, Mr. Lewinstein, you must not regard as remarkable. I

have set my mind on capturing Four Square Jane, and starting my career

in England with a big flourish of silver trumpets.” She smiled so

charmingly that Mrs. Lewinstein in the doorway raised her eyebrows.

“It is time you were going, Joseph,” she said severely. “What am I to

do with this young woman?”

“Let somebody show her her room,” said the temporarily flustered Mr.

Lewinstein, and hurried out to the waiting car.

Mrs. Lewinstein rang the bell. She had no interest in detectives,

especially pretty detectives of twenty-three.

Adchester Manor House was a large establishment, but it was packed to

its utmost capacity to accommodate the guests who arrived that night.

All Mrs. Lewinstein had said--that these pretty women and amusing men

had been lured into Buckinghamshire with a lively hope of favours to

come--might be true. Joe Lewinstein was not only a power in the City,

with the control of four great corporations, but the Lewinstein

interests stretched from Colorado to Vladivostock.

It was a particularly brilliant party which sat down to dinner that

night, and if Mr. Lewinstein swelled a little with pride, that pride

was certainly justified. On his right sat Lady Ovingham, a thin woman

with the prettiness that consists chiefly in huge appealing eyes and

an almost alarming pallor of skin. Her appearance greatly belied her

character, for she was an unusually able business woman, and had

partnered Mr. Lewinstein in some of his safer speculations. An arm

covered from wrist to elbow with diamond bracelets testified to the

success of these ventures in finance, for Lady Ovingham had a way of

investing her money in diamonds, for she knew that these stones would

not suddenly depreciate in value.

The conversation was animated and, in many cases, hilarious, for Mr.

Lewinstein had mixed his guests as carefully as his butler had mixed

the cocktails, and both things helped materially towards the success

of the evening.

It was towards the end of the dinner that the first disagreeable

incident occurred. His butler leant over him, ostensibly to pour out a

glass of wine, and whispered:

“That young lady that came this afternoon, sir, has been taken ill.”

“Ill!” said Mr. Lewinstein in dismay. “What happened?”

“She complained of a bad headache, was seized with tremblings, and had

to be taken up to her room,” said the butler in a low voice.

“Send into the village for the doctor.”

“I did, sir,” said the man, “but the doctor had been called away to

London on an important consultation.”

Mr. Lewinstein frowned. Then a little gleam of relief came to him. The

detective had asked him not to be alarmed at anything that might

happen. Possibly this was a ruse for her own purpose. She ought to

have told him though, he complained to himself.

“Very good, wait till dinner is over,” he said.

When that function was finished, and the guests had reached the coffee

and cigarette stage before entering the big ballroom or retiring to

their cards, Mr. Lewinstein climbed to the third floor to the tiny

bedroom which had been allocated by his lady wife as being adequate

for a lady detective.

He knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said a faint voice.

The girl was lying on the bed, covered with an eiderdown quilt, and

she was shivering.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me

even.”

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Lewinstein in dismay, “you’re not really ill,

are you?”

“I’m afraid so; I’m awfully sorry. I don’t know what has happened to

me, and I have a feeling that my illness is not wholly accidental. I

was feeling well until I had a cup of tea, which was brought to my

room, when suddenly I was taken with these shivers. Can you get me a

doctor?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Mr. Lewinstein, for he had a kindly heart.

He went downstairs a somewhat anxious man. If, as the girl seemed to

suggest, she had been doped, that presupposed the presence in the

house either of Four Square Jane or one of her working partners. He

reached the hall to find the butler waiting.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the butler, “but rather a fortunate thing has

happened. A gentleman who has run short of petrol came up to the house

to borrow a supply----”

“Well?” said Mr. Lewinstein.

“Well, sir, he happens to be a doctor,” said the butler. “I asked him

to see you, sir.”

“Fine,” said Mr. Lewinstein enthusiastically, “that’s a good idea of

yours. Bring him into the library.”

The stranded motorist, a tall young man, came in full of apologies.

“I say, it’s awfully good of you to let me have this juice,” he said.

“The fact is, my silly ass of a man packed me two empty tins.”

“Delighted to help you, doctor,” said Mr. Lewinstein genially; “and

now perhaps you can help me.”

The young man looked at the other suspiciously.

“You haven’t anybody ill, have you?” he asked, “I promised my partner

I wouldn’t look at a patient for three months. You see,” he explained,

“I’ve had rather a heavy time lately, and I’m a bit run down.”

“You’d be doing us a real kindness if you’d look at this young lady,”

said Mr. Lewinstein earnestly. “I don’t know what to make of her,

doctor.”

“Setheridge is my name,” said the doctor. “All right, I’ll look at

your patient. It was ungracious of me to pull a face I suppose. Where

is she? Is she one of your guests by the way? I seem to have butted in

on a party.”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Lewinstein hesitated, “she is--er--a visitor.”

He led the way up to the room, and the young man walked in and looked

at the shivering girl with the easy confident smile of the experienced

practitioner.

“Hullo,” he said, “what’s the matter with you?”

He took her wrist in his hand and looked at his watch, and Mr.

Lewinstein, standing in the open doorway, saw him frown. He bent down

and examined the eyes, then pulled up the sleeve of his patient’s

dress and whistled.

“Is it serious?” she asked anxiously.

“Not very, if you are taken care of; though you may lose some of that

hair,” he said, with a smile at the brown mop on the pillow.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Scarlet fever, my young friend.”

“Scarlet fever!” It was Mr. Lewinstein who gasped the words. “You

don’t mean that?”

The doctor walked out and joined him on the landing, closing the door

behind him.

“It’s scarlet fever, all right. Have you any idea where she was

infected?”

“Scarlet fever,” moaned Mr. Lewinstein; “and I’ve got the house full

of aristocracy!”

“Well, the best thing you can do is to keep the aristocracy in

ignorance of the fact. Get the girl out of the house.”

“But how? How?” wailed Mr. Lewinstein.

The doctor scratched his head.

“Of course, I don’t want to do it,” he said slowly; “but I can’t very

well leave a girl in a mess like this. May I use your telephone?”

“Certainly, use anything you like; but, for goodness’ sake, get the

girl away!”

Mr. Lewinstein showed him the library, where the young man called up a

number and gave some instructions. Apparently his telephone interview

was satisfactory, for he came back to the hall, where Mr. Lewinstein

was nervously drumming his fingers on the polished surface of a table,

with a smile.

“I can get an ambulance out here, but not before three in the

morning,” he said; “anyway, that will suit us, because your guests

will be abed and asleep by then, and most of the servants also, I

suppose. And we can get her out without anybody being the wiser.”

“I’m awfully obliged to you, doctor,” said Mr. Lewinstein, “anything

you like to charge me----”

The doctor waved fees out of consideration.

Then a thought occurred to Mr. Lewinstein.

“Doctor, could that disease be communicated to the girl by means of a

drug, or anything?”

“Why do you ask?” said the other quickly.

“Well, because she was all right till she had a cup of tea. I must

take you into my confidence,” he said, lowering his voice. “She is a

detective, brought down here to look after my guests. There have been

a number of robberies committed lately by a woman who calls herself

‘Four Square Jane,’ and, to be on the safe side, I had this girl down

to protect the property of my friends. When I saw her before dinner

she was as well as you or I; then a cup of tea was given to her, and

immediately she had these shiverings.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

“It is curious you should say that,” he said; “for though she has the

symptoms of scarlet fever, she has others which are not usually to be

found in scarlet fever cases. Do you suggest that this woman, this

Four Square person, is in the house?”

“Either she or her agent,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “She has several

people who work with her by all accounts.”

“And you believe that she has given this girl a drug to put her out of

the way?”

“That’s my idea.”

“By jove!” said the young man, “that’s rather a scheme. Well, anyway,

there will be plenty of people knocking about to-night, so your guests

will be safe for to-night.”

The girl had been housed in the servants’ wing, but fortunately in a

room isolated from all the others. Mr. Lewinstein made several trips

upstairs during the course of the evening, saw through the open door

the doctor sitting by the side of the bed, and was content. His guests

retired towards one o’clock and the agitated Mrs. Lewinstein, to whom

the news of the catastrophe had been imparted, having been

successfully induced to go to bed, Mr. Lewinstein breathed more

freely.

At half-past one he made his third visit to the door of the sick room,

for he, himself, was not without dread of infection, and saw through

the open door the doctor sitting reading a book near the head of the

bed.

He stole quietly down, so quietly that he almost surprised a slim

figure that was stealing along the darkened corridor whence opened the

bedrooms of the principal guests.

She flattened herself into a recess, and he passed her so closely that

she could have touched him. She waited until he had disappeared, and

then crossed to one of the doors and felt gingerly at the key-hole.

The occupant had made the mistake of locking the door and taking out

the key, and in a second she had inserted one of her own, and softly

turning it, had tip-toed into the room.

She stood listening; there was a steady breathing, and she made her

way to the dressing-table, where her deft fingers began a rapid but

silent search. Presently she found what she wanted, a smooth leather

case, and shook it gently. She was not a minute in the room before she

was out again, closing the door softly behind her.

She had half-opened the next door before she saw that there was a

light in the room and she stood motionless in the shadow of the

doorway. On the far side of the bed the little table-lamp was still

burning, and it would, she reflected, have helped her a great deal, if

only she could have been sure that the person who was lying among the

frilled pillows of the bed was really asleep. She waited rigid, and

with all her senses alert for five minutes, till the sound of regular

breathing from the bed reassured her. Then she slipped forward to the

dressing-table. Here, her task was easy. No less than a dozen little

velvet and leather cases lay strewn on the silk cover. She opened them

noiselessly one by one, and put their glittering contents into her

pocket, leaving the cases as they had been.

As she was handling the last of the jewels a thought struck her, and

she peered more closely at the sleeping figure. A thin pretty woman,

it seemed in the half-light. So this was the businesslike Lady

Ovingham. She left the room as noiselessly as she had entered it, and

more quickly, and tried the next door in the passage.

This one had not been locked.

It was Mrs. Lewinstein’s own room, but she was not sleeping quietly.

The door had been left open for her lord, who had made a promise to

see his wife to make arrangements for the morrow. This promise he had

quite forgotten in his perturbation. There was a little safe let into

the wall, and the keys were hanging in the lock; for Mr. Lewinstein,

who, being a prudent, careful man, was in the habit of depositing his

diamond studs every night.

The girl’s fingers went into the interior of the safe, and presently

she found what she wanted. Mrs. Lewinstein stopped breathing heavily,

grunted, and turned, and the girl stood stock-still. Presently the

snoring recommenced, and she stole out into the corridor.

As she closed each door she stopped only long enough to press a small

label against the surface of the handle before she passed on to the

next room.

Downstairs in the library, Mr. Lewinstein heard the soft purr of a

motor car, and rose with a sigh of relief. Only his butler had been

let into the secret, and that sleepy retainer, who was dozing in one

of the hall chairs, heard the sound with as great relief as his

employer. He opened the big front door.

Outside was a motor-ambulance from which two men had descended. They

pulled out a stretcher and a bundle of blankets, and made their way

into the hall.

“I will show you the way,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “You will make as

little noise as possible, please.”

He led the procession up the carpeted stairs, and came at last to the

girl’s room.

“Oh, here you are,” said the doctor, yawning. “Set the stretcher by

the side of the bed. You had better stand away some distance, Mr.

Lewinstein,” he said, and that gentleman obeyed with alacrity.

Presently the door opened and the stretcher came out, bearing the

blanket-enveloped figure of the girl, her face just visible, and she

favoured Mr. Lewinstein with a pathetic smile as she passed.

The stairs were negotiated without any difficulty by the attendants,

and carefully the stretcher was pushed into the interior of the

ambulance.

“That’s all right,” said the doctor; “if I were you I would have that

bedroom locked up and fumigated to-morrow.”

“I’m awfully obliged to you, doctor. If you will give me your address

I would like to send you a cheque.”

“Oh, rubbish,” said the other cheerfully, “I am only too happy to

serve you. I will go into the village to pick up my car and get back

to town myself.”

“Where will you take this young woman?” asked Mr. Lewinstein.

“To the County Fever Hospital,” replied the other carelessly. “That’s

where you’re taking her, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the attendants.

Mr. Lewinstein waited on the steps until the red lights of the car had

disappeared, then stepped inside with the sense of having managed a

very difficult situation rather well.

“That will do for the night,” he said to the butler. “Thank you for

waiting up.”

He found himself walking, with a little smile on his lips, along the

corridor to his own room.

As he was passing his wife’s door he stumbled over something.

Stooping, he picked up a case. There was an electric switch close by,

and he flooded the corridor with light.

“Jumping Moses!” he gasped, for the thing he held in his hand was his

wife’s jewel case.

He made a run for her door, and was just gripping the handle, when the

label there caught his eye, and he stared in hopeless bewilderment at

the sign of Four Square Jane.

* * * * *

An ambulance stopped at a cross-road, where a big car was waiting, and

the patient, who had long since thrown off her blankets, came out. She

pulled after her a heavy bag, which one of the two attendants lifted

for her and placed in the car. The doctor was sitting at the wheel.

“I was afraid I was going to keep you waiting,” he said. “I only just

got here in time.”

He turned to the attendant.

“I shall see you to-morrow, Jack.”

“Yes, doctor,” replied the other.

He touched his hat to Four Square Jane, and walked back to the

ambulance, waiting only to change the number plates before he drove

away in the opposite direction to London.

“Are you ready?” asked the doctor.

“Quite ready,” said the girl, dropping in by his side. “You were late,

Jim. I nearly pulled a real fit when I heard they’d sent for the local

sawbones.”

“You needn’t have worried,” said the man at the wheel, as he started

the car forward. “I got a pal to wire calling him to London. Did you

get the stuff?”

“Yards of it,” said Four Square Jane laconically. “There will be some

sad hearts in Lewinstein’s house to-morrow.”

He smiled.

“By the way,” she said, “that lady detective Ross sent, how far did

she get?”

“As far as the station,” said the doctor, “which reminds me that I

forgot to let her out of the garage where I locked her.”

“Let her stay,” said Four Square Jane. “I hate the idea of

she-detectives, anyway--it’s so unwomanly.”

II

The chairman of the Bloxley Road Hospital for Women took his seat at

the head of the table, with a grim nod of recognition for his

colleagues, and a more respectful inclination of his head for that

eminent surgeon, Sir John Denham, who was attending this momentous

meeting of the Governors by special invitation.

Doctor Parsons, the chairman, pushed aside a little brown paper parcel

which lay on his blotting pad, and which he saw, after a cursory

glance, was addressed to himself. Presumably this contained the new

vaccine tubes which he had ordered from the research laboratory. He

cast a swift glance from left to right, smiling a little bitterly at

the glum faces of the staff.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “Bloxley Road Hospital looks like

closing.”

“Is it as bad as that, sir?” asked one of the surgeons with a troubled

face, and Dr. Parsons nodded.

“I suppose you didn’t have any luck, Sir John?”

Sir John Denham shook his head.

“I have been to everybody in London who is likely to help. It is

little short of a crime that the hospital should have to close down,

and that’s just how it stands, doesn’t it, Parsons?”

The doctor nodded his head.

“I’ve already shut two wards out of four,” he said. “We ourselves have

had no salaries for a fortnight, but that, of course, does not matter.

And the devil of it is that women are clamouring to get into this

hospital--I’ve got a waiting list of nearly eighty.”

Sir John nodded gravely.

“It’s a terrible state of affairs,” he said. “Do you know Lewinstein?”

“Slightly,” said the doctor with a faint smile. “I know him well

enough to cadge from him; but it was no go. Mr. Lewinstein would get

no credit from having his name on our subscription list, and he is

rather out for credit. As a matter of fact, he did subscribe once

before. By the way, talking of Lewinstein reminds me that Lord

Claythorpe, a close friend of his, has bought his niece a £50,000

pearl necklace as a wedding present. It was in all the morning

papers.”

“I saw it,” said Sir John.

“Really, I sometimes feel that I would like to turn burglar,” said the

exasperated chairman, “and join the gang of that--what do you call the

lady?--the person who stole that Venetian armlet that is being

advertised for so industriously. She went down in the guise of a

detective to Lewinstein’s house. Apparently she cleared out all the

guests and bolted in the night, and amongst the things she took was an

armlet belonging to one of the Doges of Venice, worth a fortune. At

any rate, they are advertising for its return.”

“Whose is it?”

“Lord Claythorpe’s. His wife was wearing it. Like a fool she took it

down to Lewinstein’s place. Claythorpe is a bit of a connoisseur, and

they say he has been off his head since his wife came back and

reported the loss.”

At that moment the telephone bell rang, and the doctor pulled the

instrument towards him with a little frown.

“I told those people in the office not to put anybody through,” he

said and lifted the receiver.

“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and the soft pleasant voice of a girl

replied:

“Is that Dr. Parsons?”

“Yes, it is I,” said the doctor.

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I read your moving appeal for

funds in the _Morning Post_ to-day.”

The doctor’s face brightened. This little hospital was his life’s

work, and the very hint of a promise that help was coming, however

meagre that help might be, cheered him.

“I’m glad you were moved by it,” he said, half in humour and half in

earnest; “and I trust that you will be moved to some purpose. Am I

wrong in suspecting you to be a possible subscriber?”

There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

“You are appealing for £8,000 to carry on the hospital for another

six months,” said the girl.

“That’s right,” nodded the doctor.

“Well, I’ve sent you £10,000,” was the surprising reply, and the

doctor gasped.

“You’ve sent me £10,000!” he said hollowly. “You’re joking, I

suppose.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly sent you £10,000,” said the voice--“that is

to say, in money. I have sent you the money’s worth. I sent a parcel

to you last night. Have you got it?”

The doctor looked round.

“Yes,” he said, “there is a parcel here, posted at Clapham. Is that

from you?”

“That’s from me,” said the girl’s voice. “I am relieved to know that

you have found it.”

“What’s in it?” demanded the man curiously.

“A very interesting armlet which was, and probably is still, the

property of Lord Claythorpe.”

“What do you mean?” asked the doctor sharply.

“It is the armlet I stole from him,” said the voice; “and there is a

reward of £10,000 for its return. I want you to return it, and apply

the money to your hospital.”

“To whom am I speaking?” asked Dr. Parsons huskily.

“To Four Square Jane!” was the reply and there was a “click!” as the

receiver was hung up.

With trembling fingers the doctor tore the tape which bound the little

parcel, pulled the brown-paper cover aside, disclosing a small wooden

box with a sliding lid. This he pushed back, and there, in its bed of

cotton wool, glittered and flashed the famous Venetian Armlet.

It was a nine days’ wonder. The daily Press, which for the past weeks

had had to satisfy itself with extravagant weather reports and

uninteresting divorce cases, fell upon this latest sensation with

enthusiasm, and there was not a Sunday paper in the country that did

not “feature” it in the largest of black type. For it was the greatest

story that had been printed for years.

The securing of the reward was not to be so simple a matter as the

Press and Dr. Parsons imagined. A telephone message had acquainted

Lord Claythorpe with the recovery of his jewel, and the doctor himself

carried it to Belgrave Square. Lord Claythorpe was a thin little man,

bald of head, and yellow of face. He suffered from some sort of

chronic jaundice, which not only tinged his skin, but gave a certain

yellowy hue to his temper. He received the doctor in his beautiful

library, one wall of which, as Dr. Parsons noticed, was covered with

the doors of small safes which had been let into the wall itself. For

Lord Claythorpe was a great connoisseur of precious stones, and argued

that it was just as absurd to keep your gems all behind one door as it

was to keep all your eggs in one basket.

“Yes, yes,” he said a little testily; “that is the jewel. I wouldn’t

have lost it for anything. If my fool of a--if her ladyship hadn’t

taken it down with her I shouldn’t have had all this bother and worry.

This is one of the rarest ornaments in the kingdom.”

He descanted upon the peculiar artistic value and historical interest

of this precious armlet for the greater part of a quarter of an hour,

during which time Dr. Parsons shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for

no mention of the reward had been made. At last Parsons managed to

murmur a hint.

“Reward--er--reward,” said his lordship uncomfortably, “there was some

talk of a reward. But surely, Dr. Parsons, you do not intend to

benefit your--er--charitable institution at the expense of a

law-abiding citizen? Or, might I say, receive a subscription at the

hands of a malicious and wicked criminal?”

“I am wholly uninterested in the moral character of any person who

donates money to my hospital,” said Parsons boldly. “The only thing

that troubles me is the lack of funds.”

“Perhaps,” said his lordship hopefully, “if I put my name down as an

annual subscriber for----”

The doctor waited.

“Say ten guineas a year,” suggested Lord Claythorpe.

“You offered a £10,000 reward,” said the doctor, his anger rising.

“Either your lordship is going to pay that reward or you are not. If

you refuse to pay I shall go to the Press and tell them.”

“The reward was for the conviction of the thief,” said his lordship in

triumph. “You don’t deny that. Now, you haven’t brought the thief

along to be convicted.”

“It was for any information that would lead to the recovery of the

jewel,” said the angry doctor; “and that is what I have brought

you--not only information, but the jewel itself. There was some talk

of conviction; but that, I am informed, is the usual thing to put into

an advertisement of this character.”

For half an hour they haggled, and the doctor was in despair. He knew

that it might mean ruin to take this curmudgeon into court, and so

after a painful argument he accepted, with a sense of despair, the

£4,000 which Lord Claythorpe most reluctantly paid.

That night his lordship gave a dinner party in honour of his niece,

whose wedding was to take place two days later. Only one person spoke

at that dinner party, and that person was Lord Claythorpe. For not

only had he to tell his guests what were his sensations when he learnt

the jewel was lost, but he had to describe vividly and graphically his

emotions on its restoration. But the choicest morsel he retained to

the last.

“This doctor fellow wanted £10,000--the impertinence of it! I knew

very well I was offering too large a reward, and I told those police

people so. Of course, the armlet is worth three times that amount, but

that is nothing to do with it. But I beat him down! I beat him down!”

“So I saw,” said the easy-going Mr. Lewinstein.

“So you saw?” said Lord Claythorpe suspiciously. “Where did you see

it? I thought nobody knew but myself. Has that infernal doctor been

talking?”

“I expect so,” said Lewinstein. “I read it in the evening papers

to-night. They’ve got quite a story about it. I’m afraid it’s not

going to do you any good, Claythorpe. If Jane hears about it----”

“Jane!” scoffed his lordship. “What the deuce do I care for Jane?”

Lewinstein nodded, and catching his wife’s eye, smiled.

“I didn’t care for Jane--until Jane came and bit me,” he said

philosophically. “Until I saw her four little squares labelled on my

door, and missed the contents of my private safe. I tell you that girl

is no ordinary crook. She returned the armlet to you because she

wanted to benefit the hospital, and if she hasn’t benefited the

hospital as much as she hoped I’d like to bet a thousand pounds to a

penny that she’s going to get the balance from you.”

“Let her try!” Lord Claythorpe snapped his fingers. “For years the

best burglars in Europe have been making a study of my methods, and

three of them have got as far as the safe doors. But you know my

system, Lewinstein,” he chuckled, “ten safes, and seven of them empty.

That baffles ’em! Why, Lew Smith, who is the cleverest

burglar--according to Scotland Yard--who ever went into or came out of

prison, worked all night on two empty safes in my cupboard.”

“Doesn’t anybody know which safes you use?”

“Nobody,” replied the other promptly; “and only one of the three

contains jewellery worth taking. No; it’s nine to one against the

burglar ever finding the safe.”

“What do you do?” asked the interested Lewinstein. “Change the

contents of the safe every night?”

Lord Claythorpe grinned and nodded.

“In the daytime,” he said, “I keep most of my valuables in the big

safe in the corner of my study. That is where I put such things as the

Doges’ armlet. At night, before the servants retire, I take all the

valuable cases out of my big safe and put them on the library table.

My butler and my footman stand outside the door--outside, you

understand--and then I switch out all the lights, open the safe in the

darkness, put in the jewellery, lock the safe, pocket my keys, and

there you are!”

Lewinstein grunted, though the rest of the table had some word of

applause for the genius and prescience of the little man.

“I think that’s rather unnecessary,” said Lewinstein, his practical

mind revolting from anything which had a touch of the theatrical; “but

I suppose you know your own business best.”

“You suppose rightly,” snapped Claythorpe, who was not used to having

his judgment or his wisdom questioned.

“I can only warn you,” said the persistent Lewinstein, “that in Four

Square Jane you are dealing with a person who wouldn’t be stopped if

you had fifty safes, and a policeman sitting on top of every one of

them.”

“Four Square Jane!” scoffed his lordship, “don’t worry about her! I

have a detective here----”

Mr. Lewinstein laughed a bitter little laugh.

“So had I,” he said shortly. “A female detective, may I ask?”

“Of course not. I’ve got the best man from Scotland Yard,” said Lord

Claythorpe.

“What I should like to know is this,” said the other lowering his

voice, “have you any kind of suspicious woman in the house?”

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Claythorpe bridling.

“Can you account for all your lady guests? There are a dozen here

to-night. Do you know them all?”

“Every one of them,” said his lordship promptly. “Of course, I

wouldn’t have strangers in the house at this moment. I have dear

Joyce’s wedding presents----”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “Would you mind

if I had a little look round myself?”

There was a sneer on Lord Claythorpe’s thin lips.

“Turning detective, Joe?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Lewinstein. “I’ve been bitten myself, and

I know just where it hurts.”

Lewinstein was given the run of the big house in Belgrave Square, and

that evening he made one or two important discoveries.

The first was that “the best detective from Scotland Yard” was a

private detective, and although not a Headquarters’ officer, still a

man of unquestionable honesty and experience, who had been employed by

his lordship before.

“It’s not much of a job,” admitted the detective. “I have to sit with

my back to the door of his study all night long. His lordship doesn’t

like anybody in the study itself--what’s that?” he asked suddenly.

They were standing within half a dozen paces of the library door, and

the detective’s sensitive ears had caught a sound.

“I heard nothing,” said Lewinstein.

“I swear I heard a sound inside that room. Do you mind staying here

while I go for his lordship?”

“Why don’t you go in?” asked the other.

“Because his lordship keeps the library door locked,” grinned the

detective. “I won’t keep you waiting long, sir.”

He found Lord Claythorpe playing bridge, and brought that nobleman

along, an agitated and alarmed figure. With shaking hands he inserted

the key in the lock of the heavy door and swung it open.

“You go in first, officer,” he said nervously. “You’ll find the switch

on the right-hand side.”

The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the

apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and

this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was

closed and had apparently not been opened.

“That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.”

“The wind?” suggested Lewinstein.

“It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically

closed.”

“Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said

his lordship; but the detective shook his head.

“An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl

couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.”

“Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my

good fellow.”

There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could

hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character.

“Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship.

“Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door

which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them.

By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein,

who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial

which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His

lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and

switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he

deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of

the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he

emerged.

“That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the

keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay

here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective.

“Yes, my lord,” said the man.

On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord

Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective

agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard.

“The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until

after the wedding,” he said.

“I think you’re wise,” responded Mr. Lewinstein.

He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host,

went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the

point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the

front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep

gripping between them a frail and slender figure.

“It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got

her! Can we come in?”

“Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?”

And yet there was no need for him to ask.

The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy

veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the

tightly-fitting little felt hat on her head.

“Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with

satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private

detective.

“Who are you?” asked his lordship.

“Sergeant Felton, from Scotland Yard, sir. Are you Lord Claythorpe?”

“Yes,” said his lordship.

“We’ve been watching the house,” said the man, “and we saw her dodging

down the side passage which leads to your stables. Now then, young

woman, let’s have a look at your face.”

“No, no, no,” said the girl struggling, “there are reasons. The Chief

Commissioner knows the reason.”

Her captor hesitated and looked at his companion.

“I think we’d better get the superintendent in charge of the case

before we go any further, my lord,” he said.

He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

“Hold out your hands,” he said, and snapped the glittering bracelets

on her wrists.

“Have you got a strong room, my lord, where I can keep her till the

superintendent comes?”

“In my library,” said his lordship.

“Has it got a good door?”

Lord Claythorpe smiled.

He himself unlocked the library door and switched on the lights, and

the girl was pushed into the room and on to a chair. The detective

took a strap from his pocket and secured her ankles together.

“I’m not taking any risks with you, my lady,” he said. “I don’t know

who you are, but I shall know in a very short time. Now I want to

telephone. Have you a telephone here?”

“There is one in the hall.”

The detective looked at the girl, and scratched his chin.

“I don’t like leaving her alone, Robinson. You had better stay with

her. Remember, you’re not to take your eyes off her, see?”

They went out together, his lordship closing and locking the door

behind them, whilst the man went in search of a telephone number.

“By the way, you can hear my man if he shouts, can’t you?” he asked.

“No,” said his lordship promptly. “You can hear nothing through that

door. But surely your man is capable of looking after a girl?”

Lewinstein, a silent spectator of these happenings, smiled. He had no

illusions as to the resources of that girl, and was anxious to see the

end of this adventure. In the meantime, behind the locked doors of the

library the girl held out her hands and the “detective” with her

unlocked the handcuffs. She bent and loosened the strap, then moved

quickly to the wall where the ten safes were embedded. Each she

examined quickly.

“These are the three, Jimmy,” she said, and her companion nodded.

“I won’t ask you how you know,” he said admiringly.

“It was easy,” she said. “As soon as I got in here I gummed some thin

black silk over the edges of each door. These three have been broken,

so these three safes have been opened. We’ll take a chance on this

one. Give me the key.”

The “detective” opened a little leather case which he had taken from

his pocket, and revealed some queerly shaped instruments. Three times

the girl tried, each time withdrawing the tool from the keyhole to

readjust the mechanism of her skeleton key, and at the third time the

lock snapped back, and the door swung open. “Got it first time,” she

said in triumph.

She pulled out a case, opened it and took one fleeting look, then

thrust the jewel case into a long pocket on one side of her dress. In

twenty seconds the safe was emptied, and the girl nodded to her

companion.

“Get the window open. Put the light out first. You’ll find it a

squeeze, Jimmy. It’s easy enough for me.”

Outside the “detective-sergeant” was having trouble with the ’phone.

He put it down and turned despairingly to his lordship.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll run down to Scotland Yard. I’ve got a

motor-bicycle waiting. I don’t seem able to get into touch with the

superintendent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going into the room and

keeping my man company for a little while.”

“Surely,” said his lordship indignantly, “your man is perfectly

capable of carrying out his instructions without my assistance? I am

scarcely accustomed----” He paused for breath.

“Very good, sir,” said the “sergeant” respectfully.

A little later they heard the “pop-pop” of his motor-bicycle as it

left.

“We had better do what the sergeant suggests,” said Lewinstein, “we

can’t do any harm by going in, at any rate.”

“My dear fellow,” repeated his lordship testily, “that police officer

is quite capable of looking after the girl. Don’t you agree, Johnson?”

Johnson, the private detective, did not immediately reply.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that I feel a bit

uneasy about the lady being in the same room as the jewels.”

“Good lord!” gasped his lordship, “I didn’t think of that. Pooh! Pooh!

There’s a policeman with her. You know these officers, I suppose,

Johnson?”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Johnson frankly, “I don’t. I’m not brought much

into touch with Scotland Yard men, and they’re constantly changing

from one division to another, so it’s difficult to keep up with them.”

His lordship pondered, a horrible fear growing within him.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right, Lewinstein,” he said, “we’ll go in.”

He put the key in the door and turned it. The room was in darkness.

“Are you there?” squeaked his lordship in such a tone of consternation

that Lewinstein could have laughed.

There was a click and the lights went on, but the room was empty.

Lord Claythorpe’s first glance was to the safes. Apparently they were

closed, but on three of them was a square label, and Lewinstein was

the first to see and understand the significance of that sign.

“What is it? What is it?” said Lord Claythorpe in a shrill tremolo,

pointing with shaking fingers to the labels.

“The visiting card of Four Square Jane!” said Lewinstein.

III

Chief Superintendent Dawes, of Scotland Yard, was a comparatively

young man, considering the important position he held. It was the

boast of his department--Peter himself did very little talking about

his achievements--that never once, after he had picked up a trail, was

Peter ever baffled.

A clean-shaven, youngish looking man, with grey hair at his temples,

Peter took a philosophical view of crime and criminals, holding

neither horror towards the former, nor malice towards the latter.

If he had a passion at all it was for the crime which contained within

itself a problem. Anything out of the ordinary, or anything bizarre

fascinated him, and it was one of the main regrets of his life that it

had never once fallen to his lot to conduct an investigation into the

many Four Square mysteries which came to the Metropolitan police.

It was after the affair at Lord Claythorpe’s that Peter Dawes was

turned loose to discover and apprehend this girl criminal, and he

welcomed the opportunity to take charge of a case which had always

interested him. To the almost hysterical telephone message Scotland

Yard had received from Lord Claythorpe Peter did not pay too much

attention. He realized that it was of the greatest importance that he

should keep his mind unhampered and unprejudiced by the many and often

contradictory “clues” which everyone who had been affected by Four

Square Jane’s robberies insisted on discussing with him.

He interviewed an agitated man at four o’clock in the morning, and

Lord Claythorpe was frantic.

“It’s terrible, terrible,” he wailed, “what are you people at Scotland

Yard doing that you allow these villainies to continue? It is

monstrous!”

Peter Dawes, who was not unused to outbursts on the part of the

victimized, listened to the squeal with equanimity.

“As I understand it, this woman came here with two men who pretended

to have her in custody?”

“Two detectives!” moaned his lordship.

“If they called themselves detectives, then you were deceived,” said

Peter with a smile. “They persuaded you to allow the prisoner and one

of her captors to spend ten minutes in the library where your jewels

are kept. Now tell me, when the crime occurred had your guests left?”

Lord Claythorpe nodded wearily.

“They had all gone,” he said, “except my friend Lewinstein.”

Peter made an examination of the room, and a gleam of interest came

into his eyes when he saw the curious labels. He examined the floor

and the window-bars, and made as careful a search of the floor as

possible.

“I can’t do much at this hour,” he said. “At daylight I will come back

and have a good look through this room. Don’t allow anybody in to dust

or to sweep it.”

He returned at nine o’clock, and to his surprise, Lord Claythorpe,

whom he had expected would be in bed and asleep, was waiting for him

in the library, and wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.

“Look at this,” exclaimed the old man, and waved a letter wildly.

Dawes took the document and read:

“You are very mean, old man! When you lost your Venetian armlet you

offered a reward of ten thousand pounds. I sent that armlet to a

hospital greatly in need of funds, and the doctor who presented my

gift to the hospital was entitled to the full reward. I have taken

your pearls because you swindled the hospital out of six thousand

pounds. This time you will not get your property back.”

There was no signature, but the familiar mark, roughly drawn, the four

squares and the centred “J.”

“This was written on a Yost,” said Peter Dawes, looking at the

document critically. “The paper is the common stuff you buy in penny

packages--so is the envelope. How did it come?”

“It came by district messenger,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Now what do

you think, officer? Is there any chance of my getting those pearls

back?”

“There is a chance, but it is a pretty faint one,” said Peter.

He went back to Scotland Yard, and reported to his chief.

“So far as I can understand, the operations of this woman began about

twelve months ago. She has been constantly robbing, not the ordinary

people who are subjected to this kind of victimization, but people

with bloated bank balances, and so far as my investigations go, bank

balances accumulated as a direct consequence of shady exploitation

companies.”

“What does she do with the money?” asked the Commissioner curiously.

“That’s the weird thing about it,” replied Dawes. “I’m fairly certain

that she donates very large sums to all kinds of charities. For

example, after the Lewinstein burglary a big crêche in the East End

of London received from an anonymous donor the sum of four thousand

pounds. Simultaneously, another sum of four thousand was given to one

of the West End hospitals. After the Talbot burglary three thousand

pounds, which represented nearly the whole of the amount stolen, was

left by some unknown person to the West End Maternity Hospital. I have

an idea that we shall discover she is somebody who is in close touch

with hospital work, and that behind these crimes there is some

quixotic notion of helping the poor at the expense of the grossly

rich.”

“Very beautiful,” said the Chief drily, “but unfortunately her

admirable intentions do not interest us. In our eyes she is a common

thief.”

“She is something more than that,” said Peter quietly; “she is the

cleverest criminal that has come my way since I have been associated

with Scotland Yard. This is the one thing one has dreaded, and yet one

has hoped to meet--a criminal with a brain.”

“Has anybody seen this woman?” said the Commissioner interested.

“They have, and they haven’t,” replied Peter Dawes. “That sounds

cryptic, but it only means that she has been seen by people who could

not recognize her again. Lewinstein saw her, Claythorpe saw her, but

she was veiled and unrecognizable. My difficulty, of course, is to

discover where she is going to strike next. Even if she is only

hitting at the grossly rich she has forty thousand people to strike

at. Obviously, it is impossible to protect them all. But somehow----”

he hesitated.

“Yes?” said the Chief.

“Well, a careful study of her methods helps me a little,” replied

Dawes. “I have been looking round to discover who the next victim will

be. He must be somebody very wealthy, and somebody who makes a parade

of his wealth, and I have fined down the issue to about four men.

Gregory Smith, Carl Sweiss, Mr. Thomas Scott, and John Tresser. I am

inclined to believe it is Tresser she is after. You see, Tresser has

made a great fortune, not by the straightest means in the world, and

he hasn’t forgotten to advertise his riches. He is the fellow who

bought the Duke of Haslemere’s house, and his collection of

pictures--you will remember the stuff that has been written about.”

The Chief nodded.

“There is a wonderful Romney, isn’t there?”

“That’s the picture,” replied Dawes. “Tresser, of course, doesn’t know

a picture from a gas-stove. He knows that the Romney is wonderful, but

only because he has been told so. Moreover, he is the fellow who has

been giving the newspapers his views on charity--told them that he

never spent a penny on public institutions, and never gave away a cent

that he didn’t get a cent’s worth of value for. A thing like that

would excite Jane’s mind; and then, in addition, the actual artistic

and monetary value of the Romney is largely advertised--why, I should

imagine that the attraction is almost irresistible!”

Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests

in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at

night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the

Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man

with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye.

The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview.

“Sit down--sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble,

hey?”

Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as

to a business proposition.

“I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but

she’s not going to get anything from me--you can take my word! As to

the Rumney--is that how you pronounce it?--well, as to that picture,

don’t worry!”

“But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect

your collection.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must

sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.”

“Where do you keep the Romney at night--still hanging?” asked Peter,

and Mr. Tresser laughed.

“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room.

The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of

opening.”

Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of

bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a

strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and,

anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it

was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely.

He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great

rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having

secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious

detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the

Romney--a beautiful example of the master’s art.

Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that

he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of

accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door--that

through which he had come--and the windows at both ends were not only

barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance

and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and

narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no

curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller

blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day.

Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was

satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s

pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He

went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and

afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three

o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his

mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the

Assistant Chief Commissioner.

“Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and

Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief

Commissioner.

“Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted.

“What do you mean?” said Peter.

“I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter

could only stare at him.

“When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago--you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make

inquiries on the spot.”

Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way

through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the

big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he

discovered them, were simple.

At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and

muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see

the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”

He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He

talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a

long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the

excellence of his quality as an art critic--which meant that he was

the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very

gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way

to the picture gallery.

“Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter.

“Yes, sir.”

“And nobody went in with him?”

“No, sir.”

Peter nodded.

“Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have

been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.”

“The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney

in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that

time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes;

that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the

floor.

“Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man

came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he

left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered

and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name

‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.”

“What was she like?” said Peter.

“Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.”

Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came

out--he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby,

and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a

handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen

silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the

vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money--he thanked

them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking

to himself all the time, and finally disappeared.

He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked:

“Which is the Romney picture?”

“In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the

door.”

“But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty

frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.”

The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had

disappeared!

In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the

place, was the sign of Four Square Jane.

The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight

to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station--the second

went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him

proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley

Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not

troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab.

“And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.

“Oh, she just went away,” said the attendant; “she was here for some

time, and then she went off. Her address was in the visitor’s book.

There was no chance of her carrying the picture away--none whatever,”

said the attendant emphatically. “She was wearing a short little

skirt, and light summery things, and it was impossible to have

concealed a big canvas like that.”

Peter went in to inspect the frame. The picture had been cut flush

with the borders. He looked around, making a careful examination of

the apartment, but discovered nothing, except, immediately in front of

the picture, a long, white pin. It was the sort of pin that bankers

use to fasten notes together. And there was no other clue.

Mr. Tresser took his loss very calmly until the newspapers came out

with details of the theft. It was only then that he seemed impressed

by its value, and offered a reward for its recovery.

The stolen Romney became the principal topic of conversation in clubs

and in society circles. It filled columns of the newspapers, and

exercised the imagination of some of the brightest young men in the

amateur criminal investigation business. All the crime experts were

gathered together at the scene of the happening and their theories,

elaborate and ingenious, provided interesting subject matter for the

speculative reader.

Peter Dawes, armed with the two addresses he had taken from the

visitors’ book, the address of the old man and of the girl, went round

that afternoon to make a personal investigation, only to discover that

neither the learned Mr. Smith nor the innocent child were known at the

addresses they had given.

Peter reported to headquarters with a very definite view as to how the

crime was committed.

“The old man was a blind,” he said, “he was sent in to create

suspicion and keep the eyes of the attendants upon himself. He

purposely bored everybody with his long-winded discourse on art in

order to be left alone. He went into the saloon knowing that his bulky

appearance would induce the attendants to keep their eyes on him. Then

he came out--the thing was timed beautifully--just as the child came

in. That was the lovely plan.

“The money was dropped to direct all attention on the old man, and at

that moment, probably, the picture was cut from its frame, and it was

hidden. Where it was hidden, or how the girl got it out is a mystery.

The attendants are most certain that she could not have had it

concealed about her, and I have made experiments with a thick canvas

cut to the size of the picture, and it certainly does seem that the

picture would have so bulged that they could not have failed to have

noticed it.”

“But who was the girl?”

“Four Square Jane!” said Peter promptly.

“Impossible!”

Peter smiled.

“It is the easiest thing in the world for a young girl to make herself

look younger. Short frocks, and hair in plaits--and there you are!

Four Square Jane is something more than clever.”

“One moment,” said the Chief, “could she have handed it through the

window to somebody else?”

Peter shook his head.

“I have thought of that,” he said, “but the windows were closed and

there was a wire-netting which made that method of disposal

impossible. No, by some means or other she got the picture out under

the noses of the attendants. Then she came out and announced

innocently that she could not find the Romney picture--naturally there

was a wild rush to the saloon. For three minutes no notice was being

taken of the ‘child’.”

“Do you think one of the attendants was in collusion?”

“That is also possible,” said Peter, “but every man has a record of

good, steady service. They’re all married men and none of them has the

slightest thing against him.”

“And what will she do with the picture? She can’t dispose of it,”

protested the Chief.

“She’s after the reward,” said Peter with a smile, “I tell you, Chief,

this thing has put me on my mettle. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve got my

hand on Jane yet, but I’m living on hopes.”

“After the reward,” repeated the Chief; “that’s pretty substantial.

But surely you are going to fix her when she hands the picture over?”

“Not on your life,” replied Peter, and took out of his pocket a

telegram and laid it on the table before the other. It read:

“The Romney will be returned on condition that Mr. Tresser undertakes

to pay the sum of five thousand pounds to the Great Panton Street

Hospital for Children. On his signing an agreement to pay this sum,

the picture will be restored.

“Jane.”

“What did Tresser say about that?”

“Tresser agrees,” answered Peter, “and has sent a note to the

secretary of the Great Panton Street Hospital to that effect. We are

advertising the fact of his agreement very widely in the newspapers.”

At three o’clock that afternoon came another telegram, addressed this

time to Peter Dawes--it annoyed him to know that the girl was so well

informed that she was aware of the fact that he was in charge of the

case.

“I will restore the picture at eight o’clock to-night. Be in the

picture gallery, and please take all precautions. Don’t let me escape

this time--The Four Square Jane.”

The telegram was handed in at the General Post Office.

Peter Dawes neglected no precaution. He had really not the faintest

hope that he would make the capture, but it would not be his fault if

Four Square Jane were not put under lock and key.

A small party assembled in the gloomy hall of Mr. Tresser’s own house.

Dawes and two detective officers, Mr. Tresser himself--he sucked at a

big cigar and seemed the least concerned of those present--the three

attendants, and a representative of the Great Panton Street Hospital

were there.

“Do you think she’ll come in person?” asked Tresser. “I would rather

like to see that Jane. She certainly put one over on me, but I bear

her no ill-will.”

“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the

roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you

anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.”

“Anyway, the messenger----” began Tresser.

Peter shook his head.

“The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have

taken precautions--all the district messenger offices have been warned

to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel

addressed here.”

Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square

Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a

ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door.

It was a telegraph boy.

Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message

through carefully, and laughed--a hopeless, admiring laugh.

“She’s done it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Tresser.

“Come in here,” said Peter.

He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on

the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square

Jane had stuck.

He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows.

“The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.”

He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly

revolved.

There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to

the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.

* * * * *

“I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief.

It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.

“She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and

pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the

blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that

infernal thing down!”

“The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this--Who _is_

Four Square Jane?”

“That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.”

IV

Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and

aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not

reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and

there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not

creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.

According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous

beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair

to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and

admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that

success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One

half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a

deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great

heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without

mercy.

And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained

that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had

from Joyce.

Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the

least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her,

and Joyce did understand her mother.

They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde

Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very

thoughtful.

“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try

to keep your mind from wandering.”

“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.

“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”

“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You

didn’t like her manner or something.”

“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.

The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never

wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane

Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present

conversation.

“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little

romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing

wrong with her.”

Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.

“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.

“Why do you say that, mother?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that

this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”

Joyce laughed.

“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.

“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her

mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours,

or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little

shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose

you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has

disappeared?”

Joyce nodded.

“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.

“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are

marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s

dearest friend.”

“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of

exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding

him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him.

In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but

I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be

married off in this way.”

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no

other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And

short-sightedness,” she added.

“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce,

after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to

marry Francis.”

She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of

the young man under discussion.

“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.

Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.

“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t

you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that

this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”

“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is

that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances

socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce,

that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your

uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best

interests at heart.”

“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I

should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe,

the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was

protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord

Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would

choose his own idiot son!”

“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement.

He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and

one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”

“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can

turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains.

Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord

Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”

Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.

“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you

would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a

penniless engineer and a forger!”

The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.

“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not

forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and

paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated

his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of

Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”

Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.

“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all

your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you

an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson

was led astray----”

“I tell you he did _not_ do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against

him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him

a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”

Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.

“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said,

“let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he

is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue

any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.

“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”

Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.

“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and

I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all

the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other

conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”

The girl laughed.

“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with

them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.

“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor

Francis.”

The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the

park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.

“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married

to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right.

One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”

A maid came in at this moment.

“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs.

Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.

The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A

small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and

awkward arms--if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this

young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the

morrow.

He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.

“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little

giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”

The girl looked at him thoughtfully.

“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much

difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of

people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of

thing.”

She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.

“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends

of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”

“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his

hand straying to his pocket.

This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination,

and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.

“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not

only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown

people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly

distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked

mysteriously.

She shook her head.

He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a

heavily scented letter.

He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:--

“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married

to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy

day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take

farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again.

You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last

time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in _The Times_, and I

will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock

to-morrow night.”

“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.

“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.

“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of

course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement

in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to

keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that,

and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake,

don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he

is!”

“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with

him, aren’t we?”

“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little

indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s

going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on

Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he

doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to

him.”

He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl

had to suppress a smile.

She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car

had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who

was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed

to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the

papacy.

It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square

Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously

interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his

lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.

“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you

can be sure of that.”

Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted

him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which

was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once

but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in

his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out

and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was

not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his

own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally

uninteresting subject.

For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again

and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce

had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy

with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards

people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.

That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure

to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late,

in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the

meeting.

“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe

disapprovingly.

“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was

veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk.

I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”--with a fine air of

unconcern--“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a

second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’”

“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very

singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of

seclusion in one of our religious houses.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a

person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your

wedding eve.”

Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his

patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he

evolved a sermon from the incident--a sermon which could not fail to

gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere

dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.

“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low

voice.

“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister

Agatha.”

This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the

various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was

impossible that he should remember their names.

He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a

sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in

the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler,

and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.

“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and

I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”

“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m

afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”

A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid

inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a

newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were

untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to

bed.

The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was

one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was

crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than

usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an

uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not

disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him

the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope

which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table

that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature

of Four Square Jane. The letter read:--

“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the

happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to

your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who

had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will

in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup

and the lip.”

“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again,

and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That

explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.

* * * * *

Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the

usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the

altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from

the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.

“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and

Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.

He opened it and gasped.

“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the

neighbouring pews could hear.

Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It

was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which

might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own

wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched

the proceedings with a smile of indifference.

As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened

and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley,

with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the

door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time,

and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he

reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.

And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party

disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them.

On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed--“Marriage

License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce

Wilberforce.”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as

he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”

“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.

“This license,” began the clergyman.

“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before

yesterday. It is a special license--there’s nothing wrong with it, is

there?”

Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.

“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it.

Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----”

“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake,

what has happened?”

For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope,

opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.

“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore

under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar

squares.

“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”

Mr. Maggerley shook his head.

“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha.

Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his

study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by

anybody.

So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!

V

Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat

in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord

Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a

wide and varied character.

The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him,

jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his

face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as

he could have wished them.

“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a

malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me,

my son, and my niece.”

“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord

Claythorpe hesitated.

“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the

niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man,

and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”

The detective nodded.

“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.

“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she

has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of

her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my

dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees----”

“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective

quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.

“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have

that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best

man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”

“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I

understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to

be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several

raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by

robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of

the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had

been granted by the Bishop of London.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty

of getting another license.”

Lord Claythorpe sniffed.

“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally

prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust

upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning

that her mother was compelled to take her--or rather, to send her--to

a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a

month.”

“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in

addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was

in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why

you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The

man forged my name----”

“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the

case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me

here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the

previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say,

a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no

evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I

suppose your lordship knows that?”

His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the

usual manner--which was to abuse the police.

Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who

had been in charge of the forgery case.

“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele.

But he was a quiet enough young fellow--a civil engineer, so far as my

memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s

companies.”

Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief

Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the

aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of

respectability.

“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in

the world of the idle rich?”

The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.

“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of

fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from

directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as

recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”

“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.

“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though

I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he

said.

“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly.

“Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle

thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting

the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”

The men’s eyes met.

“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective

shrugged his shoulders.

“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his

association with Four Square Jane.”

Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.

“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which

are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the

impoverishment of Claythorpe?”

“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought

Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt,

robbing the rich to keep the poor.”

The inspector smiled.

“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her

jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re

difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if

old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she

took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”

“There have been instances,” said Peter.

“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it

was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as

himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s

searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money--at any rate,

when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”

“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.

“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and

Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he

double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”

* * * * *

Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business

was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St. James’ Street.

The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald

Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew

a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even

Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.

After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away

from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs

which led to the little suite--it was more like a flat than an office

and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by

the side door--in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.

The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe

took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three

minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:

“What did the detective want your lordship for?”

“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.

“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was

one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.

Claythorpe nodded.

“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.

Another silence, and then Remington asked:

“I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”

There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe looked up.

“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made

arrangements about----”

Remington nodded.

“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay

in the vaults at the bank don’t you think, especially in view of this

girl’s activities?”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my

instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by

questioning any act of mine?”

Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.

“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely

suggesting that----”

“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice

to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”

“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to

be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the

accountant are bringing it.”

“Good!” said Claythorpe, “to-morrow I will take it down to my country

place.”

Remington was silent.

“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe

twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square

Jane, too.”

“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”