THE KING OF DIAMONDS
A Tale of Mystery and Adventure
By LOUIS TRACY
Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Pillar of Light," Etc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1904.
BY
EDWARD J. CLODE.
[Illustration: "INSTANT ACTION IS WORTH A CENTURY OF DIPLOMACY."]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. No. 3, Johnson's Mews 5
II. On the Edge of the Precipice 19
III. What the Meteor Contained 32
IV. Isaacstein 45
V. Perplexing a Magistrate 60
VI. A Game of Hazard 73
VII. A Business Transaction 87
VIII. The Transition 105
IX. A Decisive Battle 122
X. A Step Higher 136
XI. In Clover 151
XII. The Close of One Epoch 165
XIII. After Long Years 177
XIV. An Adventure 192
XV. A Face From the Past 208
XVI. The Master Fiend 223
XVII. The Inmates of the Grange House 238
XVIII. "Revenge is Mine; I Will Repay" 253
XIX. Philip Anson Redivivus 266
XX. Nemesis 281
XXI. The Rescue 293
XXII. A Settlement of Old Scores 307
THE KING OF DIAMONDS.
CHAPTER I.
_No. 3, Johnson's Mews._
"Is there no hope, doctor?"
"Absolutely none--now."
"If she had gone to the--the workhouse infirmary--would she have lived?"
The doctor paused. The gulp before that hateful word was not lost on
him. He tried professional severity, and bestowed some care on the
buttoning of a glove.
"I am surprised," he said, "that an excellent woman like your mother
should encourage your feelings of--er--repugnance toward--er----Confound
it, boy, have you no relatives or friends?"
"No, sir. We are alone in the world."
"And hard up, eh?"
The boy dug a hand into a pocket with the stolid indifference of
despair. He produced two shillings and some pennies. He picked out the
silver, and the man reddened in protest.
"Don't be stupid, Philip. That is your name, is it not? When I want my
fee I will ask for it. Your mother needs a nurse, wine, chicken broth.
You are old enough to realize that a doctor practicing in a
neighborhood like this might want such things himself and whistle for
them. But in the--er--infirmary they are provided by the State."
"Would my mother have lived had she consented to be taken there a month
ago?"
Again the man wondered at the stony persistence of the questioner, a
fearless-looking, active boy of fifteen, attired in worn clothes too
small for him, and wearing an old pair of boots several sizes too large.
The strong, young face, pinched with vigils and privation, the large,
earnest eyes, heavy with unshed tears, the lips, quivering in their
resolute compression over a chin that indicated great strength of
character, appealed far more to the doctor than the whimpering terror
with which the children of the poor usually meet the grim vision of
death.
The wrestle with the glove ceased and a kindly hand rested on Philip's
shoulder.
"No," came the quiet answer. "May God help you, she would not have
lived."
"God does not help anybody," was the amazing retort.
The doctor was shocked, visibly so.
"That is a foolish and wicked statement," he said, sternly. "Do not let
your mother hear such awful words. She has lived and will die a true
Christian. I have never met a woman of greater natural charm and real
piety. She has suffered so much that she merits the life eternal. It is
a reward, not a punishment. Cast away these terrible thoughts; go,
rather, and kneel by her side in prayer."
For an instant the great brown eyes blazed fiercely at him.
"Am I to pray that my mother shall be taken from me?"
"Even that, if it be God's will."
The gleam of passion yielded to utter helplessness. The boy again
brought forth his tiny store of money.
"Surely," he said, "I can buy some small amount of wine. In the shops
they sell things in tins that make chicken broth, don't they? I have a
fire and a kettle. Would you mind telling me----"
"There, there! You go to your mother, and endeavor to cheer her up. I
will see what I can do. What! Would you argue with me? Go at once; I
insist. Listen, she is calling for you!"
In that poor tenement there were no secrets. A rickety staircase,
crudely built against the retaining wall of the only living room on the
ground floor, led steeply to an apartment above, and culminated in an
opening that suggested a trapdoor. The walls, roughly paneled, were well
provided with shelves and pegs. The back door was fastened with a latch,
a contrivance rarely seen in the London of to-day. The front window
looked out into a badly-paved court girt by tumbledown stables. A
smaller window at the back revealed a dismal yard darkened by lofty
walls. Although little more than a stone's throw removed from the busy
Mile End Road, the place was singularly quiet. It was already dead, and
only waited the coming of men with pickaxes and crowbars to sweep away
the ruins.
The boy heard his name whispered rather than spoken. The sound
galvanized him into vivid consciousness.
"Doctor," he said, earnestly, "you will come back?"
"Yes, yes; within half an hour. Tell your mother to expect me."
Philip ran up the stairs. Long practice had enabled him to move with a
minimum of noise. It was pitiful to see the manner in which he emerged,
with stealthy activity, into the creaking loft above. Here, at first
glance, there was an astonishing degree of comfort. Odd pieces of worn
carpet, neatly joined, covered the floor. The two windows, facing only
to the front of the dwelling, were curtained. The whitewashed walls were
almost hidden by cuttings from the colored periodicals published during
the previous Christmas season. A screen divided the room into two
compartments, each containing a tiny bed. On one of these, propped up
with pillows, lay the wasted figure of a woman over whose face the
shadows were falling fast. The extreme thinness, the waxen pallor, the
delicate texture of debilitated skin and unnatural brilliancy of the
eyes, gave her a remarkably youthful appearance. This fantastic trick of
death in life accentuated the resemblance between mother and son. The
boy, too, was sharply outlined by hunger, and, in the fading light of a
March day, the difference between the dread tokens of approaching
collapse and the transient effects of a scanty regimen on a vigorous
youth was not readily distinguishable.
"Do you want anything, mother dear?" said the boy, laying his hand
tenderly on the clammy forehead.
"Only to ask you, Phil, what it was that the doctor told you."
The voice was low and sweet--the diction that of an educated woman. The
boy, too, though his tones were strong and harsh, spoke with the accent
of good breeding. His manner and words gained some distinction from a
slight touch of French elegance and precision. This was only noticeable
in repose. When excited, or moved to deep feeling, the Continental
veneer acquired at the Lycée in Dieppe instantly vanished, and he became
the strenuous, emphatic Briton he undoubtedly was by birth and breeding.
"He said, dearest, that what you wanted was some good wine--nice things
to eat. He is an awfully fine chap, and I am afraid I was rude to him,
but he didn't seem to mind it a bit, and he is coming back soon with
chicken broth and port wine, and I don't know what."
His brave words were well meant, but the mother's heart understood him
too well to be deceived. A thin hand caught his wrist and feebly drew
him nearer.
"You say you were rude to him, Phil? How can that be possible? What did
you say or do to warrant such a description?"
He hesitated for a moment. With rare self-control in one so young, he
fiercely determined not to communicate his own despair to his mother. So
he laughed gently.
"We are so jolly hard up, you know, and it sounded strange in my ears to
talk about expensive luxuries which I could not buy. He has often told
us, dear, that you would be better cared for in the infirmary. I am
afraid now he was right, only we couldn't bear--to be parted. Could we,
mother?"
Not all his valor could control his tremulous lips. A beautiful smile
illumined the face of the invalid.
"So you are trying to hoodwink me, Phil, for the first time. I know what
the doctor said. He told you that I could not recover, and that I had
not long to live; in a word, that I am dying."
Then the boy gave way utterly. He flung himself down by the side of the
bed and buried his face in the coverlet.
"Oh, mother, mother!" he wailed, and his passionate sobs burst forth
with alarming vehemence. The poor woman vainly strove to soothe him. She
could not move, being paralyzed, but her fingers twined gently in his
hair, and she gasped, brokenly:
"Phil, darling, don't make it harder for me. Oh, calm yourself, my dear
one, if only for my sake. I have so much to say to you, and perhaps so
little time. Be strong, Philip. Be strong and brave, and all will be
well with you. I know you will miss me--we have been all in all to each
other since your father's death. But my memory must be sweet, not bitter
to you. When you think of me I want the recollection to inspire you to
do that which is right regardless of consequences, to strive always for
honor and for the approbation of your own conscience. My own dear boy,
we must bow to the will of God. We have indeed been sorely tried, you
far more than I, for I can look back on years of perfect happiness with
a loving husband and a delightful child, whereas you have been plunged
into poverty and misery at an age when life should be opening before you
with every promise of a successful career. Perhaps, Phil, your trials
have come to you early, as mine have found me late. I trust I have borne
reverses of health and fortune with patience and resignation. My present
sufferings will be a lasting joy to me if, in the life to come, I can
know that my example has been a stimulus to you amidst the chances and
changes of your career. Promise me, darling, that you will resign
yourself to the decrees of Providence even in the bitter hour of our
parting."
Her voice failed. Tears stood in her eyes. The knowledge came to her
anew that natural emotions can at times conquer all restraints. The
maternity strong within her clamored for the power to shield her
offspring from the dangers that would beset him. There was a maddening
pain in the thought that a few brief hours or minutes might unclasp her
arms from him forever.
It was Phil who first gave utterance to the wild protest in their souls.
"Mother," he mourned, bitterly, "I don't want to live without you. Let
us die together. If you cannot stay with me, then I swear----"
But a scream of terror, so shrill and vehement that it seemed to be
almost miraculous from so frail a form, froze the vow on his lips.
"Phil! What are you saying? Oh, my son, my son, do not break my heart
before I die. Kiss me, dearest. I am cold. I can scarce see you. Come
nearer. Let me look once more into your brave eyes. You will be a great
man, Phil. I know it. Who should know your character like your mother?
But you must have faith in God always. I have prayed for you, and my
prayers will surely be granted. I will watch over you. If you are in
danger my spirit will come back to you across the void. We cannot be
parted. Oh, God, it is impossible! You are the life of my life. I am not
dead while you still live."
Even as she spoke, her left hand and arm, hitherto untouched by the
cruel blight which had made her a helpless invalid during many weary
months, became numb and rigid. She was dying now, not with the struggle
against the king of terrors which often marks the passing of humanity,
but with a slow torpidity more akin to sleep.
Her brain was clear, but the stock of nervous force had sunk so low that
her few remaining words were spoken with difficulty. They were mostly
endearing expressions, appeals to her loved one to hope and pray, to
trust steadfastly in the all-wise power that would direct his destiny.
With the last flicker of existence the maternal instinct became dominant
again and she asked him not to forget her.
The boy could only murmur agonized appeals to the merciless unseen not
to rob him of the only being he held dear on earth, but even in that
awful moment he had the strength to cease his frantic protests when they
seemed to cause her pain, and he forced himself to join her in prayer.
When the doctor brought a nurse and some small store of the much-needed
delicacies, Mrs. Anson was already unconscious.
The boy, aroused from frenzy by the steps on the stairs, shrieked
incoherently:
"I have killed my mother. See! She is dead. I killed her. I made her
cry. You told me to look after her until you returned. She cried and
screamed because I spoke so wildly. It is all my fault. I----"
"Hush! Your mother is not dead, but dying. Not all the skill of man can
save her. Let her die in peace."
No other words could have checked the wild torrent of lament that surged
from that wounded heart. So she still lived. There remained a faint
flicker of life. Not yet had she passed the dreadful barrier of
eternity. Through his blinding tears he thought he could discern a smile
on the worn face. The doctor watched Phil more narrowly than the sunken
frame on the bed. It was best that the paroxysm of grief should go
untrammeled. The nurse, a young woman unused as yet to the
inevitableness of death, moved timidly toward the windows and adjusted
the curtains to admit more light.
At last, when Phil's strength yielded to the strain of his sorrow and
the very force of his agony had spent itself, the doctor leaned over the
inanimate form and looked into the eyes.
"It has ended, Phil," he whispered. "Your mother is in heaven!"
In heaven! What a tocsin of woe in a message of faith! The boy suddenly
stood up. Hope was murdered within him. His tears ceased and his labored
breathing came under control with a mighty effort. He stooped and kissed
the pale cheeks twice.
"Good-by, mother," he said, and the dull pain in his voice was so
heartrending that the nurse's sympathies mastered her. She burst out
crying. Professional instinct came to the doctor's aid. He sharply
reprimanded the half-hysterical woman and sent her off on an errand to
bring those whose duty it is to render the last services to frail
mortality. The boy he led downstairs. He was a busy man, with many
claims on his time, but this strange youngster interested him, and he
resolved to turn the boy's thoughts forcibly away from the all-absorbing
horror of his mother's death.
"Have you a tumbler or a cup?" he said, sharply.
Phil handed him a tumbler. The doctor poured out some wine taken from
the nurse's basket, soaked a piece of bread in the liquor, and gave it
to the boy with an imperative command to eat it instantly.
Somewhat to his surprise, he was obeyed. While Phil was devouring the
food of which he stood so greatly in need, the doctor reviewed the
circumstances of this poverty-stricken household so far as they were
known to him. Mr. and Mrs. Anson had occupied a fairly good position in
Dieppe, where Philip's father was the agent of an old-established London
firm of coal shippers. About two years earlier, both husband and wife
were seriously injured in a motor car accident. Mr. Anson sustained
concussion of the brain, and practically never regained his senses,
though he lingered for some weeks and was subjected to two operations.
Mrs. Anson's spine was damaged, with the result that she changed from a
bright and vigorous woman into a decrepit invalid doomed to early death
from slow paralysis.
When the great expenses attendant on these mishaps were paid, she found
herself not only absolutely poor, but rendered incapable of the
slightest effort to turn her many and varied talents to account in order
to earn a livelihood. She came to London, where her late husband's
employers generously gave her rent-free possession of the tenement in
which she was lying dead, helped her with funds to furnish it modestly,
and found a clerkship for Philip with a promise of early promotion.
But the cup of sorrow is seldom left half filled. Barely had the widow
settled down to a hopeful struggle on behalf of her beloved son than a
quarrel between partners led to the sale of the firm's business to a
limited liability company. Economies were effected to make way for
salaried directors. Philip was dismissed, with several other junior
employees, and the stable yard was marked out as a suitable site for the
storage of coal required by the local factories.
This development took place early in the New Year, and the new company
allowed Mrs. Anson to occupy her tiny abode until the last day of March.
It was now March 5th, and how the widow and her son had lived during the
past two months the doctor could only guess from the gradual depletion
of their little store of furniture.
It was odd that such an intelligent and well-bred woman should be so
completely shut off from the rest of the world, and his first question
to Phil sought to determine this mystery.
"Surely," he said, "there is some one to whom you can appeal for help.
Your father and mother must have had some relatives--even distant
cousins--and, if they are written to, a friendly hand may be
forthcoming."
Philip shook his head. The mere taste of food had provoked a ravenous
appetite. He could not eat fast enough. The doctor stayed him.
"Better wait a couple of hours, Phil, and then you can tackle a hearty
meal. That's the thing. I like to see such prompt obedience, but you
certainly have wonderful self-control for one so young. I may tell you,
to relieve present anxieties, that a few employees of your father's firm
have guaranteed the expenses of your mother's funeral, and they also
gave me a sovereign to tide you over the next few days."
Funeral! The word struck with sledge-hammer force. Phil had not thought
of that. He remembered the dismal pomp of such events in this squalid
locality, the loud sobbing of women, the hard-faced agony of men, the
frightened curiosity of children. His mother, so dear, so tender, so
soft-cheeked--the bright, beautiful, laughing woman of their life in
Dieppe--to be taken away from him forever, and permitted to fade slowly
into nothingness in some dreadful place, hidden from the sunshine and
the flowers she loved! For the first time he understood death. When his
father was killed his mother was left. Anxious tending on her dispelled
the horror of the greater tragedy. Now all was lost. The tears that he
hated were welling forth again, and he savagely bit his lip.
"You have been--very good--to us, doctor," he forced himself to say. "If
ever--I can repay you----"
"There, there, not a word! Bless my soul, yours is a difficult case."
Again the doctor tackled his glove. He glanced at his watch.
"Four o'clock! I am an hour late on my rounds. No, Phil. Don't go
upstairs. There are some women coming. Wait until they have tended your
mother. And--one last word. It will do you no good to keep vigil by her
side. Best think of her as living, not dead. You will be grateful for my
advice in after life."
The women arrived, coarse but kindly-hearted creatures. One of them gave
the boy a packet of letters.
"I found 'em under the dear lydy's pillow," she said. Neither poverty
nor death robbed Mrs. Anson of the respect paid to her by all who came
in contact with her.
He sat down, untied a string which bound the letters together, and
looked at the address on the first envelope. It bore his mother's name
and a recent postmark. Wondering dolefully what correspondence she could
have had during these later months that demanded such careful
preservation, he took out the letter. Suddenly he hesitated. Perhaps
these documents alluded to something which his mother did not wish him
to know. For an instant his impulse was to consign the packet to the
fire. No; that might be wrong. He would glance at their general purport
and then commit them to the flames if he thought fit.
The letter in his hand was headed: "The Hall, Beltham, Devon," and dated
about a month earlier. It read:
"DEAR MADAM: I am requested by Sir Philip Morland to ask you not to
trouble him with further correspondence. This is the fourth time I
have been desired by him to write in these terms, so please note
that your letters will in future remain unanswered.
"Yours truly,
"LOUISA MORLAND."
The curt incivility of the note brought an angry flush to the boy's
face. Who was Sir Philip Morland that he should dare to offer this
insult to a lady? Evidently a relative, and a near one, for Morland was
his mother's name, and his own Christian name suggested a family
connection. Yet she had never spoken of any such person.
Three other letters, of preceding dates, showed that "Louisa Morland"
kept accurate reckoning. There were half a dozen more, from a firm of
solicitors. Some of these were merely formal acknowledgments of letters
received and forwarded, but one stated that they "were instructed by
Lady Morland to inform Mrs. Anson that Sir Philip Morland declined
either to see or hear from her."
That was all. Philip sprang up with face aflame. He was alone in the
house now, alone with his dead mother.
He went upstairs, with the letters crushed in his right hand as though
he would choke a reptile which had stung the only being he loved. He
bent over the shrunken form, so placid, so resigned, so angelic in the
peace of death, and his hot tears fell unchecked.
"You poor darling," he murmured, "I believe you humbled yourself even to
beg from these people for my sake. What can I do to show my love for
you?"