“Bobbie!”
The girl came toward him with both hands outstretched. Behind her in the
hall he saw a strange shadow.
“Hullo, dear! I came as soon as you wanted me, I hope?”
Mr. Dempsi was now visible. His black sombrero gave him a sinister
appearance. His voice was querulous, his manner menacing.
“Dear?” he asked deeply. “Who calls you ‘dear’? What is this man to you,
Diana?”
“My dear Mr. Dempsi,” she said wearily, “this gentleman.”
But he was furious; flung his hat on the ground and swung his cloak from
him with the air of a _capelerro_. Bobbie expected to see a belt with
knives and pistols--the poker dot waistcoat was an anticlimax.
“I will not endure it,” he stormed. “Do you hear, sir? You address this
lady as dear--explain!”
She saved Bobbie the trouble.
“This is Mr. Selsbury, my cousin.” Diana was dangerously quiet. Probably
Mr. Dempsi, from his long acquaintance with her, recognised the signs.
“Ah! Your cousin! I see the likeness. The same beautiful eyes, the same
firm but gentle mouth. The slight figure, the lovely hand----”
Bobbie was annoyed.
“Thank you very much, but when you’ve finished cataloguing my features
and describing my delectable points, perhaps you’ll tell me who you
are?”
He was antagonistic, and he needed no introduction. For he knew the
bearded man, and shared the spurious Gordon’s resentment and utter
dislike.
“This is Mr. Dempsi,” said Diana. “You’ve heard me speak of him?”
There was an appeal in her eyes which Bobbie could not resist. He made a
show of being happy to meet Mr. Dempsi. As an effort of simulation it
was a failure.
“Won’t you change your coat, Wop--Wopsy--upstairs?” she suggested.
Dempsi kissed her hand.
“My beloved--I go. Your word is law! Sir--cousin--Bobbie, forgive me.”
Bobbie forced a smile of friendliness. His gentle cousin thought he was
ill.
Mr. Dempsi went singing up the stairs: _Donna e mobile_ was the song. He
sang it happily and flatly, as though his throat rebelled against this
rejoicing in the fickleness of woman.
“Suffering cats!” said Bobbie, awe-stricken. “Is that the First Love?”
She nodded.
“And is that his style of conversation--a bit wearing, isn’t it?”
“Wearing? Bobbie, he’s just like that to every man who looks at me! He’s
changed in appearance--I suppose six years makes an awful difference. I
used to think there was room for nothing but improvement, for he was
only a boy then. But, oh, Bobbie, he’s worse! He wanted to strangle the
waiter at the Ritz-Carlton at lunch because he was rather good-looking
and had a sense of humour--he smiled when I made a feeble joke. And,
Bobbie, Double Dan----”
She saw that Bobbie knew, and sighed gratefully. Bobbie was to be a
tower of strength: she had guessed that all along.
“He’s here,” said the young man.
“You’ve seen him? Thank heavens! He _is_ like Gordon, isn’t he? The
make-up is astounding. I’ve tried to find out the secret. But he’s so
useful about the house. That alone betrays him. Gordon lived in the
clouds, where there were no laundry bills and no patent sweepers. And he
came in time to be Uncle Isaac. No, we haven’t any real Uncle Isaac, but
he served beautifully, and, what is more, he brought with him a
perfectly good aunt----”
“The audacious scoundrel!” Bobbie cried wrathfully. “Why, do you know,
he nearly deceived me? I wasn’t as clever as you. I talked with him for
ten minutes about his troubles. He’s evidently studied every detail of
appearance and association. And he makes no mistakes--he called me
Bobbie the first time he saw me.”
“He called me Diana. But he didn’t deceive me--not for a moment,” said
the girl, flopping into Gordon’s big chair. “This morning I caught him
trying to get into Gordon’s dressing-room! He has to be watched day and
night, and of course he has a perfectly good excuse for everything he
does. He said he wanted some clothes!”
Bobbie thought that a desire to change into clothing less vocal than
the suit he was wearing was not reprehensible even in Double Dan. But
the audacity of the man!
“The villain! I wish to heaven I hadn’t gone to Ostend.”
She reminded herself that she must ask him why he went at all. That
could wait, however.
“I had to arrange everything on the spot,” she said, going back to the
hectic moments of Saturday. “Luckily I remembered that little man’s
’phone number--you weren’t here when he told me? Hate, hate, ho,
Ammersmith. Then I had to invent a story--oh, positively dozens of
stories! They weren’t lies--just expedients. The stroke of genius was
the one about Uncle Isaac being eccentric. Happily Dempsi loves him.”
“Who?” asked the startled Bobbie. “Not Uncle Isaac surely? He gave me
the impression--but that was in his rôle of Gordon--that he hated him.”
“No, I mean Superbus. He took to him at once--it was the sort of thing
he would do. He kept white mice when he was a boy and adored them!
Dempsi thinks that he and Mr. Superbus must have both descended from
Julius Cæsar. He spent all the morning in the book room searching for
Cæsar’s Life.”
“How does Double Dan accept your treatment of him--and your discovery
that he was a fake?”
“That is the surprising thing,” said Diana in wonder. “He was meekness
itself--I never saw a man so quickly accept a situation as he did.”
“And the perfectly good aunt?”
Diana shrugged.
“She was difficult. That is natural, being a woman. But she is tame now.
I called her Aunt Lizzie to save a scandal. But”--her voice
sank--“they’re not married!”
Bobbie tried hard to look surprised.
“Aren’t they?”
Diana shook her head. There was some good Puritan blood in the Fords.
Bobbie never received evidence of its presence without a little shock of
surprise.
“No! Isn’t it terrible? They’re not married. They are not even engaged:
I could tell that by the way she orders him about. She does so with the
air of a woman who has nothing to lose. But I’m determined on one thing.
I thought it out before I went to bed. He shall marry her before he
leaves this house! She has been hopelessly compromised. This adventure
shall have one good result.”
Bobbie was not enthusiastic.
“I shouldn’t meddle if I were you,” he said, but made no impression on
her.
Gordon Selsbury came into the room unnoticed. He carried a dustpan and a
short-handled broom. He stood for a while irresolutely, neither of the
pair noticing him. Then:
“Have you heard from Gordon?”
Her face lit up.
“I’ve had the loveliest wires from him. Really he has been most
thoughtful! The dear man has telegraphed from almost every station.”
Bobbie coughed.
“Somehow I thought he would,” he said.
She was searching her handbag and brought out a folded paper.
“Here is the last, from Crewe; it didn’t arrive until ten o’clock this
morning. ‘Having a comfortable journey. Hope everything is going
smoothly--Gordon.’”
Bobbie sat up.
“Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” he protested warmly--too warmly, he
realised. “I mean, it’s too bad that didn’t arrive until to-day. Write
to the Post Office.”
Gordon growled under his breath, and took another step into the room.
Diana saw him, but made no sign. He was one with the furniture.
“If he’d only stay away for another week!” she sighed.
It was the opportunity for which Bobbie had hoped.
“You know, old Gordon isn’t such a bad chap,” he said. “I know one’s
first impression is that he is a terrible prig, and his manner is bad, I
admit; and he’s a thought conceited. These intellectuals are. Though
why, I’ve never understood.”
She shook her head. Evidently she had already found excuses for Gordon,
and there was no need for his championship.
“Conceited? But most men are, don’t you think? I wouldn’t call it
conceit--he’s a little self-important, that’s all.”
The hand that wielded the broom trembled, the dust-pan wobbled.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what he is,” said Bobbie thoughtfully. “Gordon
was rather spoilt as a kid, and that makes a man a little
self-important.”
“And pharisaical, don’t you think?” suggested Diana, considering. “I
ought not to say anything unkind. Really I’m not. He isn’t any worse for
our frankness.”
Mr. Gordon Selsbury half rose from his knees, his mouth working, his
face pale with fury.
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Bobbie regretfully. “And poor old
Gordon _has_ faults.”
“The faults of age,” said Diana. “He’s the sort of man who has been
forty-five ever since he was born; but, thank God, he’s not flighty!”
she added piously.
The sweeper nodded in agreement, but his faint smile was to vanish.
“Don’t put any man on a pedestal, my dear,” said Bobbie in the paternal
manner.
“Sneak!” said Gordon fiercely but inaudibly.
“The best of men make mistakes,” the traitor brother continued. “His
very innocence is a disadvantage. I could well imagine that a woman with
the right line of talk could twist him round her little finger!”
She dissented. Diana had her own views, and they were mainly unbendable.
“If I were his wife I should trust Gordon, Bobbie,” she said seriously.
“He’s the very soul of honour. Whatever you say of Gordon, you’ve got
to admit he’s that. He wouldn’t do anything undignified or vulgar. I
could imagine many things, but I could not imagine Gordon going to
Ostend, even in a mood of theosophical ecstasy, without a chaperone.”
Bobbie shifted uneasily. He was by nature honest, in spite of his being
a tea-broker. There were certain fundamentals in his code with which he
could not dispense, even to shield Gordon.
“N-no, perhaps not,” he said.
She smiled scornfully.
“Perhaps! You know he wouldn’t, Bobbie! I can’t think of his doing a
thing like that. Why, Gordon is the very antithesis of vulgarity! Could
you imagine him engaged in a clandestine friendship with a woman like
Aunt Lizzie? It is absurd. Can you imagine him walking into this house
with a strange female and pretending that he doesn’t know her when he is
detected? I should imagine not!”
Still Bobbie had a duty to perform.
“I think you’re mad to trust any man absolutely,” he said firmly. “No
man is worthy of that confidence.”
She laughed.
“You’re a cynical bachelor.”
A voice came from the background. An indignant and an emphatic voice.
“That is just what I say,” said Gordon. “I can’t imagine a more immoral
point of view, striking at the very roots--er--um----”
He almost cringed under Diana’s gaze.
“How dare you interrupt?” she demanded.
“I--er--I----”
Bobbie took a hand.
“Now see here, my friend, you take my advice and drop this pretence,” he
said gravely. “You will deceive nobody--though I can understand why you
have not given up hope--and you may get yourself into very serious
trouble. If I had my way, you would be in that position at this moment,
but my cousin, for an excellent reason, has refrained from handing you
over to the police. That generosity ought to be appreciated by you.”
Gordon set his teeth, cast broom and brush to the devil and leapt up.
“I don’t care--I will tell the truth,” he said doggedly. “In spite of
everything--in spite of all appearances, I am Gordon Selsbury.”
He looked round: Superbus was at the door, a buff envelope in his hand.
It was no use; he went down on his knees and groped for the dustpan. He
was beaten.
“A wire for you, ma’am. I never knew they came on Sunday.”
She took the envelope and tore it open.
“Another! ‘Aberdeen. Very good journey and looking forward to my return.
Gordon.’”
Bobbie gaped.
“What an artist!” he said.
She turned on him with a frown.
“I say, what a nasty journey!” corrected Bobbie.
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
“Do you know, I’m beginning to feel quite different toward Gordon,” she
said.
The sweeper sat up on his heels expectantly. For a second she became
conscious of his presence.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked coldly.
“Nothing--nothing.” The despairing man stooped to his task.
“Where is your--your accomplice?” she asked.
Gordon turned his head.
“She’s reading--‘How to be Happy though Married,’” he said cynically.
Kindness was wasted on such a man.
“What are you going to do with Dempsi?” asked Bobbie, leaning across and
dropping his voice.
She made a little face.
“I’m in despair, Bobbie. I can’t count on his losing himself again. The
only thing he shows any signs of losing is his head--and I never knew
him when he had one worth losing. Well?”
It was Superbus again. She wished he wouldn’t put his hand on his heart
before he bowed.
“That parson gentleman’s called again,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“He’s the Vicar of Banhurst.”
Superbus was country-bred and was schooled in the values of
ecclesiastical rank. The Vicar of Banhurst was a person of eminence. To
Diana he was part of the marriage trap. The steel grille that would cut
her off from freedom. She was panic-stricken by his very presence in the
house.
“Tell him I’m ill,” she said frantically. “Tell him--I’m--I’m very ill.
Ask him to come to-morrow. And please, please don’t tell Mr. Dempsi he
is here.”
“He said if you’d call him up--” Superbus offered tentatively the
clerical card. She waved it away.
“I don’t want his address--I don’t _want_ it!”
Mr. Superbus did his bow and went out. Her face was the picture of woe.
“Bobbie, what am I to do? That’s the third time he’s called to-day.”
“Who is he?”
“The clergyman. Dempsi’s idea! He thinks our marriage is a matter of
hours! It is so like Dempsi, so absurdly, so tragically mad; but he’d
hardly been with me two minutes before he told me he was sending for the
parson to ‘make us one’! And I know which one! I read the review of a
book to-day by a man whose name I forget. It doesn’t matter. He says
that there are conditions in which assassination is the purest and
noblest expression of public sentiment. Will you get it for me?”
“But he couldn’t marry you in the evening,” persisted Bobbie. “It is
against the law.”
She was darkly amused.
“Against the law! What is a little thing like that to Dempsi? He is the
law!”
“It seems a simple matter to get him away.” Bobbie searched his mind for
a solution. “Have you any plan?”
Had she any plan? Was there a moment of consciousness in the day that
she did not form a new scheme to rid herself of her electric incubus?
“I’ve a hundred, and they’re all futile and foolish. I thought of
running away. That seems about the only sane idea I have had.”
“Running away? To where?” he asked.
“To Scotland. To join Gordon.”
Bobbie jumped up, a very perturbed young man.
“You mustn’t do that!” he cried. “Whatever you do, don’t do that, Diana!
In the first place, none of us knows where he is; in the second
place--well ... I shouldn’t do it.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Why not? I could tell Gordon the whole truth, and I’m sure he would be
nice and sympathetic. I feel very sure of Gordon in a great crisis like
this--it is a very dear feeling to have.” She smiled a little
pathetically.
“Suppose Dempsi followed you--and he certainly would,” urged Bobbie.
“Suppose he found that you’d deceived him, and came upon you on the
moors with Gordon?”
The smile deepened; into her eyes came a faraway look.
“That’s an idea. Gordon would have his gun on the moors,” she said.
“Hush! Here he comes.”
Bobbie had agreed readily to stay the night, for the great Superbus was
tired, being human, as he explained, and having only one pair of eyes
that needed rest.
There was a slight scene at dinner (Heloise cooked this, and Diana’s
respect for her increased).
Dempsi, in his most extravagant mood, called for wine. He wanted wine,
red wine--to drink the health of his bride. He demanded that it be red
and rosy. That it bubbled with the laughter of sunny vineyards. That its
hue be as of the warm, rich blood of youth, palpitating, pulsing,
seething with love. This he said in so many words. Bobbie said something
terse and offensive, and offered him a whisky and soda. Mr. Dempsi
looked black, and Diana hastily intervened. But she might as well have
attempted to stay the tide of time. Dempsi made a remarkably quick
recovery; spoke tremulously of his happiness; kissed Diana’s hand; gave
her for the third time the history of his life.
When he lay in the foul huts of the natives, recovering from his fever,
when he searched the world through for traces of his lost love, when,
under the starry skies of the Australian bush, he pressed on
desperately, doggedly, unflinchingly, following the trail of his divine
lady--this was the thought he had--Diana! That some day she should be
his! The past sad years should be blotted out and forgotten. All the
misery of life would vanish as in a cloud.
“Rot!” said Bobbie.
Mr. Dempsi dissolved into tears.
“Really, Diana, I can’t stand that fellow,” said Bobbie, when the
devoted lover had flooded from the room.
Diana lay back limp in her chair, fanning herself with her handkerchief.
“Bobbie, he’s--he’s terrible!” she moaned. “Bobbie, there must be some
other solution than murder?”
Mr. Dempsi, in his temperamental way, recovered his equilibrium before
he had crossed the hall. Julius Superbus was making up The Study fire as
he came in--Dempsi went straight to him, laid his hand on his shoulder,
too overcome for speech.
“Ah, my friend!” he murmured.
Julius, at a loss for a suitable response, played for safety.
“Good-evening, sir,” he said, and patted his fellow Roman on the head.
“The one friend I have in this house--the one understanding soul! The
one honest creature that is faithful to my memory.”
Mr. Dempsi invariably spoke of himself as though he had recently
returned from a brief holiday in heaven.
“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said Julius generously. “There are others.”
“I do say it! I, Guiseppi Dempsi! Who denies my right?” he demanded
fiercely.
Julius backed off.
“Not me, sir, I’m sure,” he said hastily. “It’s the last thing in the
world I’d dream of doing.”
Guiseppi grew gentle again.
“The moment I saw you, I said: ‘Here is a man with vision, a big man, a
man of sensibility! Superbus has a heart, feeling, _simpatico_--a man of
affairs, a keen-eyed officer of the law!”
Mr. Superbus moved uneasily. He had all an amateur detective’s fear of
misrepresentation. He coughed.
“Not exactly an officer of the law, sir. In a sense I am, and in a sense
I’m not, though I used to be when I was a bailiff in the County Court.”
Dempsi smiled.
“But now you are a detective. A disciple of the immortal Holmes--what a
man, what ingenuity! You are this--you told me?”
Julius hastened to correct a wrong impression.
“Private, sir, private. As I explained to you, sir, I was brought
in----”
Dempsi never allowed anybody else to talk.
“To watch for a despicable scoundrel,” said Dempsi hotly. “That such
should be at liberty! Double Dan! Even his name is deplorable! Ah! You
are surprised that I have heard of this violator of sanctuaries? You
clever detective, you are astounded and flabbergasted that I also know
of this pestiferous brigand? Superbus, I ask a favour: when you have
discovered him, send for me.”
There was a significant glitter in his eyes. His half-closed hands
already dripped with the blood of his victim. Mr. Superbus was
spellbound.
“Send for me,” repeated Dempsi deliberately. “I haven’t killed a man for
years. But I will not speak of that. I am too sorry for his wife and
family. I have a tender heart.” He gazed at Julius in admiration. “So
you are a detective! One of that great and silent army of watchers,
everlastingly on duty, standing between peaceable citizens like Guiseppi
Dempsi and the vultures who prey upon society!”
Dempsi held out his hand. Mr. Superbus, his eyes modestly lowered, took
it. He felt for once that he was being taken at a proper valuation.
Dempsi was a man of the world, a Sir Hubert whose praise was praise
indeed. Julius made a mental note of the words for future exhibition.
At any moment Dempsi might switch off to an unimportant subject.
“Yes, it is a bit of a job,” agreed Julius. “The public don’t
understand.”
“They wouldn’t,” said Mr. Dempsi scornfully.
“We take some risks,” Mr. Superbus went on. “You can’t get about town
without taking risks--I was nearly run over by a ’bus yesterday.”
Dempsi was impressed.
“No!”
Julius nodded.
“I was--in the execution of me duty,” he said. “I saw a suspicious
looking man--he looked like a fellow that had been owing me money for
years--and crossed the road to have a look at him.” His gesture
suggested a swerving motor ’bus. “As near as that,” he said simply but
impressively.
Dempsi shuddered appropriately.
“Ah, it is fine work! Have you brought many men to justice? I see you
have, but it is too painful to talk about. I understand your fine
feelings--you are worthy.”
“Well, I’ve brought them to the County Court,” said Julius. “That’s not
exactly to justice. People who can’t pay their bills and owe tradesmen
money.”
The other regarded him in awe.
“I wonder you can sleep at night,” he said in a hushed voice.
Julius smiled callously. He suggested thereby that the ruin of small
litigants meant less to him than the indubitable fact that flies have
corns and suffer from asthma.
“They never get on my mind,” he said; “and as for sleeping--I’m a
pretty good sleeper; nothing disturbs me.”
He hoped, at any rate, that nothing would disturb him that night, for he
was sleeping on a made-up bed in The Study. It was Diana’s idea and he
viewed all Diana’s ideas with a suspicion which was, it must be
confessed, justifiable.
“Ah, a good conscience!” said Dempsi. “What a beautiful thing!”
Mr. Superbus wasn’t sure whether this admirable characteristic of his
was due entirely to conscience.
“A good digestion’s got something to do with it,” he said. “I’m a
careful feeder.”
“Tell me,” said Dempsi confidentially, “have you served her long--my
queen?”
Mr. Superbus called up to memory his acquaintance with contemporary
history.
“I thought you had a king in Italy?” he said.
Dempsi laughed.
“No, no, you mistake me--my sweet lady--my Diana?” he asked softly. “I
am jealous of your privilege in serving her.”
“Oh, you mean ma’am? No, I’ve only just got to know her.”
Dempsi changed the subject abruptly.
“I will go to bed. To-night there is no lock upon my door. If Double Dan
comes, you will let me know?”
He need not ask that question. Given consciousness and the ability to
scream, all the house would know from Julius that the monster had
arrived.
“Why, certainly. But I can manage him.”
Dempsi bit his lower lip, viewing his friend thoughtfully.
“Yes, yes, I shall know the moment the firing starts--at the first bang
I will be by your side.”
Julius turned white. In moments of great excitement all great Romans go
white. Cæsar Borgia had that failing. And for the matter of that, so had
Nero, the celebrated fire-bug.
“Firing?” he asked faintly.
Dempsi nodded.
“He is armed--certain to be. But remember this--and let it be in your
mind all the time; the thought may comfort you--when you fall I shall be
ready to take your place.”
Julius stretched his neck forward.
“When--when I fall?” he said unsteadily. “I’m not likely to fall if I
keep to the carpets--it’s the par-kay that does me in.”
“You will look up and see me”--Dempsi obviously relished the picture he
drew--“perhaps the last thing you will ever see on earth--standing over
your prostrate body, pierced, my poor Superbus, by a dozen bullets. I
shall be there, face to face with your murderer!”
Julius closed his eyes and his lips moved. Yet he was not at his
devotional exercises. Before his horrified vision spread a veritable
panorama of tragedy with one notable figure in the foreground somewhat
inanimate.