It was half an hour before Diana came back, and she still showed the
effects of the shock she had received at breakfast time.
“Hullo, Bobbie!” She glanced at his face. “What is the matter?”
“Diana”--he spoke slowly--“you’re in some kind of trouble.”
“Some kind!” She flung her hat recklessly on the table. “Every kind, my
dear child!”
He did not smile.
“Gordon told me that he had left fifty thousand dollars in the safe to
pay an American who’s calling on Sunday. He gave me the combination.”
She stood before him, her hands behind her.
“Well?”
“The money is not there.”
A little pause.
“And do you know why?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been worried to death. He didn’t take it?”
She shook her head.
“No, I took it,” she said. “Bobbie, Dempsi is alive!”
“Alive? Dempsi? Impossible!”
She nodded many times.
“He is alive! I’ve had a letter from him this morning--thirteen
pages--you could have used any one of them as a mustard leaf. I’m
scared!”
“But I thought he was lost in the bush?” said Bobbie.
She smiled painfully and dropped into the chair in which Gordon had
spent the night.
“He was found in the bush,” she said. “He had fever or something and was
discovered by the Jackies. They took him to their village. Bobbie,
Dempsi is half Irish and half Italian. Which half is most mad? Because
that’s the half that wrote.”
Bobbie considered for a long time.
“He knows you’re not married?”
She shook her head.
“What?”
“No,” said Diana calmly. “We talked on the telephone just after you left
the room, and his first words were: ‘Are you single? We’ll be married
to-morrow. If you’re married, you’ll be a widow to-night!’ I knew at
once that it was Dempsi.”
“What did you say?” he asked, awe-stricken.
“I told him I was married,” she said, with such coolness that he was
inarticulate. “I couldn’t very well explain why I was here if I wasn’t
married, could I? Then he got so violent that I told him I was a widow.
Bobbie, isn’t lying easy?”
Bobbie could say nothing.
“Then he sprang another one on me, and I told him that I was living with
my Uncle Isaac--I used to have an Uncle Isaac,” she said in
self-defence. “He was a sort of an adopted uncle. He died of delirium
tremens. All our family have done something out of the common. I
couldn’t say I was living alone in this big house, and anyhow, Gordon is
away. It’s wonderful luck, his going.”
Bobbie paced the floor in a state of supreme agitation.
“What about the money?” he asked.
“I owed it to him. Before he ran away into the bush we had a terrible
scene. He wanted me to elope with him, and when I wouldn’t, he said he
would commit suicide. He was like a madman; he cried over me, he kissed
my feet, and then went off to lose himself in the bush. He didn’t even
do that properly.”
“And the money?”
“He gave it to me, or the cat or somebody. Anyway, I had it. Dempsi
hadn’t a relation in the world, and I just banked the money with my
own.” She bit her lip. “I intended putting up such a beautiful monument
to him,” she added thoughtfully.
Bobbie drew a sigh of relief.
“Well, my dear girl, as you’ve obviously sent him the money, the worst
is over. You can replace it: the banks do not close till twelve.”
“How am I to replace it?” she asked scornfully. “I’ve no money in my own
bank, except a few pounds that I opened the account with when I came to
London. I took the fifty thousand dollars and put eight thousand pounds
to my own account. Here’s the rest.” She drew out a wad of bills and
handed them to him.
Bobbie looked at her aghast.
“But this Tilmet, this American--you’ve got to find the money for him?”
“I thought you’d get it for me,” she said, her big eyes fixed pleadingly
on him.
He looked at his watch.
“It’ll want some doing. You can’t raise eight thousand in real money in
two hours. Is this money of Gordon’s in your bank?”
She nodded.
“I’m sending Dempsi a cheque by special messenger. He’s living in a
little hotel in the Edgware Road.”
“He mentioned the money then?”
“He made a casual reference,” she said, “which my conscience probably
magnified into a demand. Phew!” She fanned herself with her hand.
Bobbie locked away the remaining ten thousand dollars.
“I’ll see what I can do. May I telephone?”
She nodded.
“You may do anything you please except ask me to marry Dempsi,” she said
wearily.
His first call was to his bank, and the conversation was not
encouraging. Bobbie had just paid from his account heavy bills, and he
was slightly overdrawn. To the suggestion that the overdraft should be
increased, the manager turned an unsympathetic ear. And then, at the end
of the third call, when Bobbie was in a condition of frenzy, Eleanor
came in with a telegram, and the girl opened it quickly.
“Saved!” she whooped.
“What is it?” said Bobbie, snatching the form from her hand.
It was dated Paris and was from the American’s secretary.
“Feared Mr. Tilmet has contracted measles. Will not be able to
arrive in London for another fortnight.”
“Thank God for measles!” wailed Diana.
Bobbie wiped his streaming forehead.
“I’ve a good mind to take the remainder of this money away,” he said, “I
don’t like it being in the house.”
For answer, she opened the drawer of the desk and took out the
black-muzzled Browning.
“Burglars are my specialty,” she said.
“Would you mind putting that lethal weapon away?” said Bobbie. “What a
bloodthirsty little devil you are!”
“I am,” said Diana. “There’s murder in my bones at this particular
moment. Yes, Eleanor?”
“Are you going to see Mr. Superbus?”
“I didn’t know he was here. Ask him to come in, will you?”
Mr. Superbus came, in his stately, senatorial fashion, and was
introduced to Bobbie. It was obvious he sought a very private interview
indeed, but Diana explained in what relationship Bobbie stood.
“I’m sorry to have missed Mr. Selsbury,” said Julius. “Information
having come to me last night through my secret agent about a certain
party.”
“You mean Double Dan?”
Diana reacted instantly. For the moment she hadn’t a care in the world.
“It’s no laughing matter, miss.” Mr. Superbus shook his head, and
invited, with a wave of the hand, bent forward to see his feet and sat
down slowly. “No, it isn’t any laughing matter, ma’am--miss. If he
walked in at that door”--he pointed--“made up for the part, you’d think
it was your father.”
Diana raised a protesting hand.
“May I explain, in passing, that Mr. Selsbury is not my father?”
Julius graciously indicated that she had his permission.
“Dan is wonderful! I was telling my good lady only this morning that, if
she sees a fellow looking like me trying to get into the house when I’m
supposed to be away, she must make him take his shirt off--I’ve got a
lucky mole on my shoulder, miss--ma’am--miss. Why moles are supposed to
be lucky I’ve never discovered.”
Diana turned to Bobbie.
“This is rather alarming.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bobbie. “Lots of people have moles.”
“Don’t be absurd. I mean Double Dan.”
“But why should he come here?” asked Bobbie, well aware that the
contents of the safe, such as they were, justified a visit. But it was
Mr. Superbus who answered.
“That’s what they all say, but there’s always a reason, miss. My good
lady said to me ‘Why should he come here?’ but I pointed out
that--what’s in that safe? Any valuables there?” He pointed to the wall.
“Nothing very much,” said Diana hastily. “Tell us some more about this
person, Mr. Superbus.”
Mr. Superbus smiled to himself.
“I’m the greatest living authority on him,” he said modestly, “that’s
what I am! He’s a very plausible fellow, and works with a girl. Whether
or not--well, let’s say it’s his wife. She wangles the information out
of the fellow that Dan is going to rob. Do you see?”
Diana nodded.
“I see. She’s a sort of decoy who gets to know the victim.”
“Know him! Well, I should say she did, miss--it would be much easier to
tell you everything if you was ma’am.”
“Well, imagine I am,” smiled Diana. “She gets to know him very well?”
Mr. Superbus nodded.
“I should say so! She starts a hand-holding friendship, if I might
describe it.”
“But surely not always?” interrupted Bobbie. “She didn’t catch old
Mendlesohn that way? He must be sixty-five!”
Mr. Superbus was amused.
“Sixty-five! Why, of course she did! The sixty-fivers are the worst.
They’re easy. Mind you, there’s nothing more than a high-class
friendship in it, if I may use the word. The people she likes to get
hold of are the thinkers--she’s got a classy line of language. You know
the sort of stuff that highbrows talk.”
“A soul, in fact?” smiled Diana. “Does she represent herself as being
married?”
He nodded.
“Yes, there’s always a husband in the background. Sometimes he lives
abroad, sometimes he’s in a lunatic asylum, but he’s mostly out of the
way.”
Bobbie staggered and caught hold of a chair for support. Happily, Diana
did not notice his wan excitement.
“And then what happens?” she asked, a little nervous as to whether Mr.
Superbus was still confounding “miss” with “ma’am.”
“Well, she lures him away,” said Mr. Superbus. “There’s no other word
for it. She _lures_ him away. And whilst they’re away, up comes Double
Dan with all the dear departed’s little tricks--his voice, his funny
little ways, which the girl has been studying and passing on to Dan. You
understand, miss? I’ve collected all this information myself. It’s a
coop with me. ‘Coop’ is French for ‘cop.’”
“And the girl?” asked Diana.
“Oh, she gets away too--pretends her husband’s come back unexpectedly
from foreign parts; but she does it so that the fellow can’t return
home. Usually he’s told people that he’s going away for a fortnight or
so, and naturally, he doesn’t want to come back.”
“How perfectly disgusting!” said Diana with a wry face.
“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Superbus earnestly. “Having allowed a
gentleman to go so far----”
“At any rate, we need not have any fear about Mr. Selsbury,” said Diana
with a quiet smile.
Evidently Mr. Superbus _had_ fears about Mr. Selsbury. He looked around
in his mysterious way, and then:
“He’s gone out of town, hasn’t he?”
Diana nodded.
“For any length of time?”
“For a week,” said Diana.
Superbus rubbed his chin.
“It’s rather a delicate matter, but I am a family man, ma’am--miss. Has
he gone away on business--no chance of a----?”
“Of a what?”
“Of a lure?”
Diana laughed softly.
“Absolutely no chance.” Diana was thinking quickly. “What sort of a
woman would this be--his confederate, I mean--pretty?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” replied Julius.
“Are you going, Bobbie?”
Bobbie was following the detective from the room.
“Yes, I’ve got to see a man,” he said a little incoherently.
There was still time to catch Gordon, and he was resolved to take the
risk.
With Bobbie out of the way, the girl rang the bell, and, when Eleanor
came, she found her mistress at the writing-table, blotting an envelope.
“Put your hat on, Eleanor, and deliver this letter to the Marble Arch
Hotel. Take a taxi.”
“Yes, madam,” said Eleanor in surprise.
“Ask to see Mr. Dempsi.”
Diana made an attempt to be unconcerned, and failed dismally.
“If he kisses the letter, or anything like that--you mustn’t be
surprised. He is very impulsive: he might even kiss you,” she added.
Eleanor stiffened.
“Indeed, miss?”
“He won’t mean anything by it.” Diana was tremulously diplomatic. “He
always kisses people when he sees them. I--I shouldn’t be surprised if
he kissed me when he calls--we’re old friends, and people do that sort
of thing in--in Australia.”
“Indeed, madam?” said Eleanor, her interest in the British Empire
awakened.
“I’m afraid Mr. Selsbury wouldn’t understand,” Diana went on lightly.
“Men are rather narrow. If you told him----”
“I should never dream of telling Mr. Selsbury, madam,” said Eleanor
indignantly.
The girl came in dressed before she went.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ford, but it has just occurred to me,” she said
hesitantly. “If this foreign gentleman should kiss me, might I be bold
enough to ask you not to mention it to Trenter?”
“You may rely on me, Eleanor,” said Diana firmly. “We women must stand
together.”
She watched the girl through the window till she was out of sight, then
flopped back in her chair. The papers stood in a rack at her hand,
unopened, unread. She reached out and found one, but there was no drama
that could quite over-shadow that which was being played out in her
heart.
She heard a tap and looked round. It was not at the door; it seemed to
be at the stained-glass window. There was a little window square, level
with the ledge, which could be opened and closed as a casement, and
against this she saw the shadow of a head, and, with her heart thumping
wildly, walked across the room.
“Who is there?” she asked.
Then came a voice that chilled her to the marrow.
“Don’t you know me, beloved?”
“Mr. Dempsi!” she gasped. “You mustn’t come here, really you mustn’t!
My--my Uncle Isaac isn’t at home, and I can’t receive you.”
With an effort of will she jerked open the window and looked down upon a
bearded face and eyes that shone. A wide-brimmed sombrero at the back of
his head; hanging from his shoulders, a long black cape. He might have
stepped from an opera.
“I--I can’t see you now, really I can’t! Won’t you call next Wednesday
week?”
So that was Dempsi! She remembered dimly some resemblance to the
bare-faced boy she had known. Perhaps that wild glitter of eye, that
furious gesticulation.
“Diana,” he breathed, “I’ve come back from the grave to claim you!”
“Yes, yes, but not now,” she said, in an agony of apprehension. “Go back
to your grave till three o’clock. I’ll see you then.”
The shadow disappeared. How had he got there? Curiosity. Opening the
window an eighth of an inch, she saw him scaling the wall with an
agility which would have been admirable in any other conditions. Slowly
she walked up the stairs to her room, closed and locked the door behind
her, and sat down heavily on her bed.
Once upon a time her aunt had carefully loaded a shot-gun designed for
this same Dempsi. Tears came into her eyes.
“Dear auntie!” she half-sobbed. “You understood men so well!”