A note came to Sir Ralph Fairfield while he was lingering over his
breakfast, and the first sight of the writing, even before he broke open
the envelope, caused a thrill to run through him.
"You must see me at once," said the well-remembered writing
imperatively. "Urgent, urgent!"
The paper trembled in Fairfield's hands, and it was only the reminder of
the servant that the messenger was waiting that brought him sharply out
of his daze.
"Yes, yes. Show him in. And, Roberts, while I am engaged I don't want to
be disturbed by anybody or anything. Don't forget that."
If Roberts had not been so well trained it was possible that he might
have shown surprise at his master's order. For through the door he held
open there shambled an ungainly figure of a man, hunchbacked, with a
week's growth of beard about his chin, and wearing heavy, patched boots,
corduroys, a shabby jacket and a bright blue muffler. His cap he twisted
nervously in gnarled, dirty hands as he stood waiting just inside the
room till he was certain that the servant had retired out of hearing.
Then, with a swift movement, he locked the door, straightened himself
out, and strode with outstretched hand to where Fairfield stood,
stony-faced and impassive. The baronet deliberately put his hands behind
him, and the other halted suddenly.
"Fairfield!"
Then it was that the impassivity of Sir Ralph vanished. He gripped his
visitor by the arm, almost shaking him in a gust of quick, nervous
passion.
"You fool--you damned fool! Why have you come here? If they catch you,
you will be hanged. Do you know that? For all I know the place is
watched. They may have seen you come in. Perhaps the place is surrounded
now."
"I'll risk it," said the other coolly, drawing a chair up to the table.
"I've got to risk something. But I don't think they saw me come in. I
don't think they'll catch me, and if they do I don't think they'll hang
me. What do you think of that, Fairfield?"
There was the old languid mockery in his voice, but his friend, looking
at him closely, could see that the face had become a trifle thinner,
that beneath the dirt that begrimed it there were haggard traces that
betrayed worry and sleeplessness. Fairfield had thought much of Robert
Grell lately, but he had never dreamed that the hunted man would come to
him--come to him in broad daylight, without a word of warning. Did Grell
know that he was in touch with the police? Had he come, a driven,
desperate man, to fling reproaches at the friend who had joined in the
hunt? That was unlikely. Grell, murderer or not, was not that type. He
did nothing without a reason. He was, Fairfield reflected, a murderer--a
murderer who had not dared stay to face the consequences of his deed.
That surely severed all claims, whatever their old friendship might have
been.
"What do you want?" he asked, with a hard note in his voice. "Why have
you come to me?"
The man in the chair lifted his shoulders.
"That is fairly obvious. I want you to do what, if our situations were
reversed, I would do for you. I want money. If you can get me a few
hundreds I shall be all right."
A spasm contracted Fairfield's face for a second. He had not asked for
explanations. Grell had volunteered none. It seemed as though he were
taking for granted the assumption that he was guilty of the murder.
Surely an innocent man would have been eager to assert his innocence at
the first opportunity. When Sir Ralph answered, it was slowly, as though
he were weighing each word that he spoke. "I would be willing enough to
help a friend--you know that, Grell. But why you should think I would
lift a finger to help you evade justice I fail to see. I know enough of
the law to know that I should become an accessory to the fact."
"You really think I killed that man?" The words came quick and sharp,
like a pistol shot. "I thought you had known me long enough----"
"Words," interrupted Fairfield bitterly. "All words. You were the last
man I should have thought capable of such a thing; but all the facts are
against you. Need I go over them? Let me tell you that if ever a jury
knows what Scotland Yard knows and you stand in the dock, no earthly
power can save you. If that crime is on your conscience it seems to rest
lightly enough."
Grell stood up and rested one hand lightly on the sleeve of his
companion. "Fairfield, old chap," he said earnestly, "we have been
through enough together to prove to you that I am not a coward. I swear
on my honour that I had nothing to do with that man's death--though I
have had reason enough to wish him dead, God knows. Do you think it is
fear for myself that has driven me into hiding?"
Fairfield shook his head impatiently, and shaking himself clear paced
quickly up and down the room. "That's all very well, Grell," he said
more mildly, "but it is hardly convincing in the face of facts. You
disappear immediately after the murder, having got me to lie to cover
your retreat, and the next I hear from you is when you want money. It's
too thin. If I were you I should go now. For the sake of old times I
will say nothing about your visit here, but to help you by any other
means--no. If you had no hand in that murder, come out like a man and
make a fight for it. I will back you up."
"Thanks." There was a dry bitterness in Grell's tone that did not escape
Sir Ralph. "I couldn't have got better advice if I'd gone to Scotland
Yard itself." His voice changed to a certain quality of harshness. "Look
here, Fairfield. Suppose I do know something about this business;
suppose I know who Harry Goldenburg was, and how and why he was killed;
suppose I had stayed while inquiries were being made, then I should
either have to have betrayed a friend or taken the burden on my own
shoulders; suppose I say I was honest that night when I asked you to
conceal my absence from the St. Jermyn's Club; that I did nothing which
I would not do over again"--he banged his fist on the table and his eyes
glowed fiercely--"I tell you I have had no choice in this matter. Even
you, who know me as well as any man, do not know what I had been
through until that man lay dead. Since then I have suffered hell. The
police have been at my heels ever since. I carried little enough money
away with me, and I dared not attempt to change a cheque while I was
thought to be dead." He drew a gold watch from his pocket. "I dare not
even pawn this, for even the pawnbrokers are watched. They stopped all
my efforts to raise money in other directions, and have isolated me from
my friends. I have fifteen shillings left, and yet since they routed me
out of cover the day before yesterday I have not dared get a lodging for
fear that I might arouse suspicion. I slept on the Embankment last
night."
He paused, breathless from his own vehemence. Fairfield had seen him in
moments of danger, yet never had he seen him so roused out of himself.
He could see one of the sinewy hands actually trembling, and that alone
was proof enough of the violence of the hunted man's emotion. He went to
a side table, and pouring out a generous dose of brandy from a decanter,
squirted a little soda-water in it and handed it to Grell. But his face
was still hard and set.
"Drink that," he said. And then, as the other obeyed: "It is no use
fencing with the question, Grell. If you want me to help you you will
have to give some explanation. I am not going to dip my hands in this
business blindly. Don't think it's a matter of you and I simply. This
concerns Eileen."
Grell put down his empty glass and stared into the other's eyes.
"Ah yes, Eileen," he said quietly. "What about her?"
"This," Fairfield spoke tensely, "that if you are guilty you have ruined
her life; if you are innocent and cannot prove it you might as well be
guilty. I'll not conceal from you that I have given Scotland Yard some
measure of assistance in trying to find you. Do you know why? Because I
judged you to be a man. Because I thought that if put to it you might
prove your innocence or take the only course that could spare her the
degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted as a murderer."
A grim unmirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips. He understood well
enough what was meant. "You always were a good friend, Fairfield," he
retorted. "Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me."
"Will you use it if I do?" burst impulsively from Fairfield's white
lips. He was sincere in his suggestion. To his mind there was only one
escape from the predicament in which his friend found himself. Anything
was preferable, in his mind, to the open scandal of public trial.
"Don't be a fool," said Grell, making a gesture as though waving the
subject aside. "I shall not commit suicide--at any rate, while I've got
a fighting chance. Let's get to the point. Will you lend me some money?"
The clear-cut face of Fairfield had gone very pale. When he answered it
was with dry lips and almost in a whisper.
"Not a farthing." And then with more emphasis--"Not a farthing."
A mist was before his eyes. The lock of the door clicked and Grell
shambled out. For ten minutes or more Ralph Fairfield remained, his
fingers twitching at the buttons of his waistcoat. A revulsion of
feeling had come. Had he done right? Was Grell's course the wisest,
after all? How had his own feelings towards Eileen influenced him in his
decision not to help the man who had been his friend?
He resolved to try to shake the matter from his mind, and his hand
sought the bell-push. Twice he rang without receiving any reply, and he
flung open the door and called imperatively--
"Roberts!"
Still his man failed to answer. He walked quickly through all the rooms
that constituted his apartments. There was no trace of the missing
servant. A quick suspicion tugged at his brain, and he wondered why he
had not thought of it before. Of course, Roberts knew Grell, but the
disguise of the explorer was not absolutely impenetrable. In spite of
his clothes, his missing moustache, and his tousled hair dyed black,
Fairfield had known him. Why not the servant? And if Roberts had
recognised him and was missing--
Fairfield began to hurriedly put on an overcoat.