THE WOLVES
AND THE LAMB
A complete list of the books by J. S. Fletcher already published may
be found at the back of this volume.
THE WOLVES
AND THE LAMB
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
ALFRED · A · KNOPF
MCMXXV
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. ·
PUBLISHED, JANUARY, 1925 · SET UP, ELECTROTYPED
AND PRINTED BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS,
BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · ESPARTO PAPER MANUFACTURED
IN SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED BY W. F.
ETHERINGTON & CO., NEW YORK · BOUND BY H.
WOLFF ESTATE, NEW YORK. ·
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I THE WOLVES, 9
II THE LAMB, 17
III A DEAD MAN’S ORDERS, 25
IV “HE WILL BE JUST IN TIME!” 33
V THE INITIAL PACES, 41
VI MRS. WALSINGHAM AT HOME, 50
VII CARSDALE’S CAREFULNESS, 59
VIII A PLEDGE REDEEMED, 67
IX PLAIN SPEECH, 75
X NEWS FOR MRS. WALSINGHAM, 83
XI UNFORESEEN, 91
XII MR. CARSDALE’S CHAMBERS, 99
XIII THE BOND STREET JEWELLER, 107
XIV BURGOYNE STARTS A NEW TRAIL, 115
XV MRS. WALSINGHAM ADMITS, 123
XVI CONSPIRATORS, 131
XVII A STUDENT OF PROBLEMS, 139
XVIII BLAIR’S THIRD NOTION, 147
XIX THE MAN AT THE THEATRE DOOR, 156
XX MR. CARSDALE IS CONFRONTED, 165
XXI A WEAVING OF WEBS, 173
XXII A COUNCIL OF WAR, 181
XXIII THE EVE OF THE BATTLE, 189
XXIV MISS GUYNER INTERVENES, 197
XXV THE BLANK CHEQUE, 205
XXVI EVERY WOMAN FOR HERSELF, 213
XXVII PLAIN TRUTH, 221
XXVIII A QUESTION OF ACCOUNT, 229
XXIX THE SILENT TENANT, 237
XXX BURGOYNE FACES THE MUSIC, 246
XXXI WAS IT MURDER? 254
XXXII SLEUTH HOUNDS, 262
XXXIII SANCTUARY, 270
XXXIV KNIGHT-ERRANT, 277
XXXV FOR SYLVIE’S SAKE, 285
XXXVI INSPECTOR SKARRATT INVESTIGATES, 293
XXXVII THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR, 301
XXXVIII SALVING A FORTUNE, 309
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB
CHAPTER I
THE WOLVES
“Three Hundred Thousand Pounds! And in the hand of an inexperienced
youngster of twenty-one. And--incidentally--in Mr. Barclay Leverton’s!”
Carsdale flung down the letter which he had been reading, and with a
cynical laugh that came as a note of exclamation at the end of his
involuntary burst into speech, crossed the room, and throwing open the
window, leaned over the sill and looked out upon Norfolk Street, lying
deep down below. It was nearly ten o’clock of a lovely May morning,
and in the street itself, and in the Strand at its head, and along
the Embankment at its foot, men were quickening their last paces in
a laudable desire to be in office or chambers by the hour at which
London, laziest city in the world in respect to its early business
hours, gets into harness for the day. There was a sense of generous
warmth and of new life in the spring air; the people who tenanted
the floor immediately beneath the offices of Leverton & Carsdale had
taken a fancy that year to ornament their window-ledges with flowers,
and the scent of the well-filled boxes, just watered by a girl-clerk,
came floating up to Carsdale’s nostrils as he leaned out. But Carsdale
neither noticed the hurrying men, nor the bright sunlight, nor the
fragrance of the innocent blossoms; all that he was conscious of as he
stood there, drumming impatient fingers on the sill, and staring with
unseeing eyes at the high buildings in front, or the moving figures
below, was that a callow youth had expressed a desire to entrust
Barclay Leverton with the management and investment of a fortune of
three hundred thousand pounds. A fine sum, thought Carsdale, with
another cynical laugh; a fine, handsome, substantial, comfortable
sum!--a sum out of which there should be good pickings for whoever was
lucky enough to handle it.
The striking of the neighbouring clocks roused Carsdale from his
reverie, and with an impatient shrug of his shoulders he turned from
the window and went back to the desk, on which he had thrown the letter
which had given him food for thought. But instead of picking it up and
reading it again, he took a cigar from an open box, and having lighted
it, turned and contemplated his own reflection in a mirror which hung
over the mantelpiece. This personal inspection was as critical as if
it was being made by another man; when it was over, he felt somewhat
impressed by himself. He was tall; he had a good figure; he could
smile pleasantly and ingratiatingly; he possessed a handsome face and
curly dark hair, and darker eyes: he was scrupulously well-dressed;
by a mere effort of will he could assume a cheery, good-tempered,
optimistic expression which was very taking and had often proved useful
in critical situations. And blowing out a cloud of opalescent smoke, he
nodded at his mirrored self and smiled.
“I think John Carsdale is more likely to attract a youngster than
Barclay Leverton is!” he muttered as he turned from the mirror and
placed the tip of a finger on one of a series of electric bells. “The
great thing is--the usual thing--opportunity--opportunity!”
The door opened with a noiseless jerk, and a boy’s head and shoulders
appeared. The shoulders were garbed in a smart uniform of blue and
silver; the head, surmounted by an unruly thatch of sandy-coloured
hair, seemed unduly large for the shoulders, and was fronted by a face
which for its distinguishing features showed a turned-up snub nose, a
very wide mouth, and a pair of remarkably alert blue eyes. The eyes
fastened upon Carsdale in a silent inquiry.
“Ask Mrs. Walsingham to be kind enough to come here,” said Carsdale.
The sharp face disappeared as instantaneously as it had shot into
sight; the door closed. And Carsdale sat down at the desk, and picking
up the letter, fingered it nervously until the reopening of the door
roused him from the train of thought into which he had fallen. Then he
looked up, half rising from his chair.
“Shut the door, Sylvie,” he said in a whisper. “I--I want to talk to
you.”
The woman who entered glanced sharply at Carsdale with a slight
uplifting of her fine eyebrows, silently closed the door, and took the
chair at the side of the desk which he indicated with an outstretched
finger. For a moment he regarded her critically.
“You’re looking very well this morning,” he said, suddenly. “In fact,
at your best. And I’m glad of it.”
The woman smiled--a quiet, inscrutable smile which suggested many
things. She was a pretty woman with all the outward signs of refinement
and delicacy strongly marked; her hair, her teeth, her hands all showed
the elaborate care of a person scrupulously particular about the
details of the toilet; if she was gowned somewhat elaborately for a
business office, if the rings which sparkled on her slim white fingers
seemed a little conspicuous amongst books and papers, both rings and
gowns were in the best of taste, and seemed to belong to the wearer as
naturally as her fine eyes and delicate ears. Wherever she went, this
was a woman to be noticed--very careful and discerning observers would
have said, after a keen inspection of her, that she was also a woman
of considerable possibilities in more directions than one.
“And why this particular expression of pleasure?” she said,
half-mockingly, half-satirically. “For some reason of--business, eh?”
Carsdale tossed the letter which he was still nervously fingering
across to her.
“It’s an excellent idea to have a fascinating young woman in an office,
Mrs. Walsingham,” he said, with a light laugh. “There--read that.”
Mrs. Walsingham took the letter and glanced it rapidly over as a
preliminary to a careful reading.
“Oh?” she remarked. “A private letter to Mr. Leverton.”
“It wasn’t marked private,” answered Carsdale carelessly. “And haven’t
I been opening all Leverton’s letters since he was taken ill? By the
by, have you heard anything this morning?”
“Yes. He had a very bad night,” replied Mrs. Walsingham. “I am to
telephone again later, after the doctors have been. Now let me read
this letter, whatever it may be.”
What Mrs. Walsingham, secretary to Leverton & Carsdale, and particular
friend of John Carsdale, read, was a communication written in a
boyish hand, bearing date of the previous day, and addressed from
a Southampton hotel. And as she read, she decided that the writer,
however young and callow he might be, was frank and candid and trusting
to a degree which might involve him in danger.
“DEAR MR. LEVERTON” (ran the letter): “I am a stranger to you, but
you will remember that you and my father, Martin Shrewsbury, were
close friends before he left England for the West Indies, some years
ago. I am his only son--and only child--Richard--age twenty-one. My
dear father suddenly died six weeks ago, and of course I have come
in for everything--he left me, in all, a little more than £300,000.
It is really about this that I am writing to you. The money is
now--everything having been cleared up here--in bankers’ hands in
London. Of course, I want to invest it. I have heard my father speak
highly of you as a financial man, and I found your address amongst
his papers. Perhaps, for the sake of your old friendship, you will
give me the benefit of your experience and advice? You see, I have
never been in England before. My father meant to send me to school in
England, but when I was about old enough to leave, my mother died,
and as he had no one but me, my coming was put off from time to time,
and in the end I stayed at home. So I don’t know much of English
matters, nor of business, except of what I learnt on our plantations.
It was my father’s earnest wish that I should come to England as
soon as he was dead; he had left his affairs in such a state that
everything could be immediately wound up. So here I am, and I feel
everything very strange!
“I intend to leave Southampton for London early to-morrow morning,
and I will venture to call upon you as soon as possible after my
arrival.
“Yours sincerely,
“RICHARD SHREWSBURY.”
Mrs. Walsingham read this letter twice over before she folded it up and
handed it back across the desk. Her face was as calm and inscrutable as
ever when she looked at Carsdale.
“Well?” she said.
Carsdale waved his cigar with a flourish that suggested much.
“Three hundred thousand pounds!” he exclaimed.
Mrs. Walsingham regarded him steadily out of her half-closed eyes.
“Well?” she repeated.
Carsdale sprang to his feet and began to pace the room. “Three hundred
thousand pounds!--a raw youth of one-and-twenty who has never set foot
in England before!--my dear Sylvie, what a chance for you and me!” he
said, presently coming to a halt at the side of his companion’s chair.
“What a chance!”
“This letter is addressed to Barclay Leverton,” she said pointedly.
“Barclay Leverton,” answered Carsdale, “is very ill in bed, and is
likely to remain there for some weeks. This young Johnny Rawbones is
coming here to-day--to-day!--and we shall see him. And--you and I are
clever people, Sylvie.”
“Middlingly clever--there is room for improvement in each of us,”
answered Mrs. Walsingham. “So--you want to be first in the field?”
“Naturally! And it ought to be an easy thing,” said Carsdale. “The
youngster comes here--Mr. Leverton is unfortunately away from business
but his partner, Mr. Carsdale, is not, and Mr. Carsdale, who has
opened and read Mr. Shrewsbury’s letter, will be happy to do all that
Mr. Leverton would wish to do for the son of his old friend. And--Mr.
Carsdale can make himself very ingratiating to young gentlemen with
money. So--if she pleases--can Mrs. Walsingham.”
“If she pleases,” observed Mrs. Walsingham. “The ‘if’ is an important
word, though a small one.”
“And three hundred thousand pounds is an important matter,” said
Carsdale. “I think that you and I together, Sylvie, should be able to
do something with this boy before he sees Leverton. We can enjoy a long
start--and first impressions make a big difference. That’s why I said
I was so glad to see you looking at your best this morning.”
Mrs. Walsingham made no immediate reply. She sat twisting the rings
about her fingers and apparently lost in thought. And suddenly she
turned sharply on Carsdale, who was still pacing up and down, puffing
hard and fast at his big cigar.
“You’ve got to remember, Jack,” she said, in quick, decisive tones,
“that Leverton and this boy are sure to meet--eventually.”
“It’s the start I want,” answered Carsdale. “Only let me--and you--get
our spoons into the pudding first! And, according to the doctors, if
Leverton recovers pretty quickly, it’ll be weeks and weeks before he’s
fit for business. So that----”
Mrs. Walsingham held up a finger.
“Details, Jack--attend to details!” she said, warningly. “Remember
there’s such a person as Miss Frances Leverton in the world.”
“A girl of nineteen against--against you and me!” exclaimed Carsdale.
“Come, come! Why----”
“Frances Leverton, in her way, is as sharp as you are,” interrupted
Mrs. Walsingham. “You know as well as I do that she’s been coming here
every two or three days ever since her father was taken ill, wanting
to know everything. How would you keep her from finding out about this
boy? And when Leverton found that you’d kept that letter from him----”
“Yes, Frances is decidedly in the way,” said Carsdale, hastily. “But
that can be got over. The youngster could be kept away from here,
and----”
A sharp ring at the telephone which stood on the desk broke in upon
Carsdale’s observations. He flung aside his half-smoked cigar, and
dropping into his chair, picked up the receiver.
“Yes--yes!” he said mechanically. “Yes--this is Mr. Carsdale. Yes--what
do you say?”
Mrs. Walsingham, who had taken possession of Richard Shrewsbury’s
letter again, and was re-reading it thoughtfully, heard a sudden, sharp
exclamation from Carsdale, and turned to see him drop the receiver as
he wheeled round his chair. He stared at her with widening eyes.
“Leverton’s dead!” he exclaimed. “D’you hear? Leverton’s dead!”
“Dead?” she said. “Why----”
“Died twenty minutes ago,” answered Carsdale. “The doctor says----”
But at that moment the door opened, and the sandy hair and sharp blue
eyes of the office-boy showed themselves again. And this time sounds
came from the wide mouth.
“A gentleman, sir--Mr. Richard Shrewsbury!”