With the open verdict, the red bicycle case, as it was called, ended
for the time being, as no new evidence was forthcoming likely to
elucidate the problem. Wyke's assassin had suddenly emerged out of the
mists to commit the crime, and had as suddenly vanished into them
again. In spite of all efforts it was impossible for the police
authorities to find him.
Some society papers gave many details regarding the life of the dead
baronet, but stated nothing of any moment. Sir Hector had a good
income and a good position, apparently being a harmless old
trifler, who idled luxuriously day after day. He had no relations,
therefore the title became extinct, while the property--so said the
newspapers--lapsed to the Crown. For a time the old dandy was missed
in certain circles, but, as usual, was speedily forgotten. Even the
hinted romance of Miss Lemby being engaged against her will to Wyke
ceased to interest people, and the girl herself was very glad that
this should be the case.
At Hedgerton the sensation lasted longer. But when Mrs. Vence departed
bag and baggage, when Sergeant Purse took his leave, and Lemby
returned to London, the excitement gradually died away. Maranatha was
again placed in the hands of old Pedder as caretaker, and again was
advertised to let furnished.
When Christmas was over and the New Year dawned, Oliver Lemby proposed
to his daughter that they should return to the Antipodes. The
buccaneer was now weary of the restraints of civilisation, and having
failed to marry Claudia to a titled husband, desired to go back to
his old free life. Father and daughter discussed the matter in the
drawing-room of their Tenby Mansion flat, and quarrelled openly. This
was scarcely to be wondered at, as Lemby had a violent temper, while
Claudia was not the girl likely to submit to being bullied. The pirate
was half annoyed and half pleased by her opposition.
"You're a chip of the old block, my girl," he said, smoking furiously,
"and can hold your dashed own with anyone; but you ain't going to hold
it with me."
"Oh, you'll listen to sense, dad," said Claudia, coolly.
"That's so," Lemby assured her, in quite a dry American style; "but
then you ain't talking sense. What's the use of staying longer in
this worn-out country when you can't get a husband."
"I've got a husband," declared the girl, equably.
"I take your meaning. But the husband you've spotted ain't got no
handle to his name. That Craver chap you mean, don't you? Not much.
Rank and riches for you, Claudia, and if you don't hook them, back you
go with me to the South Seas."
"I won't," said Claudia, firmly. "Go yourself, dad, and leave me
here."
Lemby, lounging in a deep chair with a pipe between his teeth and a
glass of whisky at his elbow, stared at her with half-closed eyes. He
privately decided that she was much too handsome to be allowed to
throw herself away in a hurry. Claudia had a fine figure, hair like
sunshine, and laughing azure eyes, together with a perfect complexion,
very red lips, and the whitest of teeth. She was tall and largely
made, most imposing in her looks, and carried herself so haughtily
that the stately Roman name suited her exactly. If Lemby was not a
gentleman, his daughter was emphatically a lady, for race showed
itself plainly in her slender hands and feet, as in her finely-cut
features. From her father she inherited her large frame and shapely
body, while her ripe beauty came from her mother. The buccaneer had
captured a gentlewoman, who was lured into marriage by his dare-devil
looks. But for many years he had been a widower.
"It was a mighty pity Wyke died," said Lemby, regretfully, and
ignoring his daughter's defiance. "He had a title, five thousand a
year, and a fine house in Devonshire, besides a position in society. I
reckon you'd have fitted the position first-class, Claudia. Blamed bad
luck, I call it, his pegging out under the knife."
"Well, dad, he's dead, so there's no more to be said," said the girl,
impatiently.
"There's a heap more to be said, my dear. No one gets the title, I
guess, as the old man had no relatives. But the cash, Claudia?"
"I saw in some society paper that it goes to the Crown," said Claudia,
carelessly, for she was young enough to care little for money, never
having felt the need of it.
"I ain't so sure of that," muttered her father, slowly drinking the
whisky to inspire him; "the old man was so much in love with you that
he told me he intended to leave you the dibs."
"If I married him, I suppose--not otherwise."
"That ain't certain, my girl. You were willing to marry him, so----"
"I wasn't!" she flashed out, sharply. "You forced me."
"Why shouldn't I force you? You are my daughter, ain't you?"
"Yes; but I'm not your slave. I didn't want to be Lady Wyke."
"No. You wish to be Mrs. Edwin Craver, and I'll jolly well see as you
don't. Seems to me, Claudia, that it would be only fair for him to
leave you his pile."
"Didn't he give you an explanation when you called?"
"No. I told you before that he didn't. Said as he'd come back to the
drawing-room to clear things up, and naturally didn't when he pegged
out in the study below. Anyhow, it's on the cards as he might have
made a will in your favour. And," added the buccaneer, emphatically,
"I'm dashed well determined to see the sharp as handles his business."
"Mr. Sandal, in Lincoln's Inn Fields?"
"That's him. Wyke told you as he told me about Sandal when he
mentioned that marriage settlements were to be drawn up. I guess I'll
look him up to see if the old man did the right thing by you. It's
dashed queer as he should have postponed the marriage when he
worshipped the blamed ground you walked on, Claudia, my girl."
"It is strange; it was strange," admitted Claudia, pondering. "I can't
understand it myself, although I am glad that he acted as he did.
Perhaps, knowing that I loved Edwin, he changed his mind about making
me his miserable wife."
"Miserable!" jeered the pirate, contemptuously. "Miserable with a
title and five thousand a year. Shucks! my girl, you're talking
through your hat. Well, I reckon I'll see Sandal, and learn if there's
a will in your favour."
"I don't want Sir Hector's money," said Claudia, setting her mouth
obstinately. "I don't accept a penny of his money, will or no will."
"Then I'll accept it for you," said Lemby, coolly, and heaved his big
body out of the chair. "We can't live on nothing, can we?"
Claudia turned sharply from the window, out of which she was looking.
"Live on nothing?" she repeated, blankly, for the words conveyed no
sense to her.
"That's it, my girl." Lemby stretched himself with a yawn. "My pile
never was a big one. It's time for us to get back to the Sunny South
and make dollars, failing the old man's cash dropping in."
"But I thought we were rich," expostulated Claudia, in dismay. "If
not, why did we come to England to live in so expensive a style?"
"Oh, I wanted to do the right thing by you, my girl," said the pirate,
truculently. "I saw as you were a high-stepper when I looked you up at
that blamed school in Sydney. I had enough to give us a few years of
luxury, so I yanked you home to snatch a husband of the sort I
wanted."
"In plain English," cried Claudia, turning very red, and clenching her
hands as she faced her father, "you took me into the slave-market; to
sell me to the highest bidder?"
"Shucks!" said Lemby, uneasily, for Claudia had a whirlwind temper,
which was rising rapidly.
"It's not shucks, or anything like shucks," she retorted, stamping her
foot. "I don't recognise your right to choose mv husband. I am a human
being as well as your daughter, and I intend to arrange my life for
myself."
"What about the ten commandments?" sneered Lemby, hedging. "'Children,
obey your parents,' ain't it?"
"'Parents, respect your children,'" counter-quoted the girl. "And how
can I respect you, dad, when you tried to force me into a disagreeable
marriage. Like a fool, I allowed you to bully me into promising to
marry Sir Hector. But now that he is dead and buried I shall act as I
please."
"I shan't let you."
"I shan't ask you to let me. See here, dad, it's time we understood
one another, as you are going the wrong way to work with me. Have you
any money?"
"Enough to get back first-class to Australia with a few dollars to see
the year out. And I guess I can raise enough in Sydney to hire a
schooner and to take up the copra business again. If I stay here I
can't get along anyhow. It depends if Wyke left you the dibs."
"I don't believe he has left me any dibs, as you call it," said
Claudia, who was now very pale, for the revelation had startled her
considerably. "Can't you leave me enough to live on for six months? I
can get a situation as a governess until Edwin is rich enough to marry
me."
"He shan't marry you," declared Lemby, looking fierce. "Craver's only
a manager in that blamed motor-car factory. He ain't even a partner."
"He will be a partner one day when he gets money to put into the
firm," said the girl in a low voice and keeping her temper well in
hand.
"And where's he going to get the cash? His father's just a blamed
sky-pilot in a dashed township, the place where Wyke handed in his
cheques. Craver will never be rich, and will never have a title, so he
don't marry you."
She clenched her hands, hardened her face, and stepped up to her
tyrannical parent looking just as fierce as he did. "I don't want a
title, and I don't want money," she said, passionately. "I want to
marry the man I love, and Edwin is that man. I intend to become his
wife, in spite of you."
"You just try it, that's all."
"I intend to try. I have begun to try."
"You'll obey me."
"I shan't. I'll obey my conscience."
"I'll twist your neck, dash you!" roared the buccaneer, infuriated by
this opposition, which he quite expected.
"Oh, no you won't!" Claudia slipped aside, as he lunged forward, and
placed the breadth of the room between them. "You were always a bully
father, and are just the kind of slave-driver who should be in the
forecastle of a tramp steamer. But you don't bully me. I'll die first.
So there," and she stamped.
"Dashed spitfire, you are," he growled. "Have it your own silly way.
But you don't marry that engineer bounder, mind."
"Edwin is not a bounder!" cried Claudia, indignantly. "He's a
bred-and-born gentleman. While I," she added, bitingly, "I am your
daughter."
"Oh"--Lemby began to laugh good-humouredly--"I see what you're getting
at, my girl. No, I ain't a gilded Lord, for sure, and never pretended
to be. I'm just plain Oliver Lemby, as deals square by them as deals
square with him. But your mother was a lady, Claudia, so your blood
ain't all mud, remember."
"Why don't you remember, dad," she retorted, angrily, "and treat me
with some sort of respect? I know you're kind-hearted, and mean well:
but your manners are awful. Be civil."
"I am civil--as civil as I need be to my own daughter."
"Because I am your daughter, that's no reason why I should be bullied.
But it's no use talking, dada," she ended wearily, "you'll never
understand."
"I understand this--that I'm going to move heaven and earth to get
that cash of Wyke's which ought to come to you," said Lemby, sullenly;
"and whether I get it or not, I've got to get out of this country, and
you too."
"Why have you to get out?" asked Claudia, stuck by the queer
expression on her father's florid face.
Lemby shuffled and twisted, evading a direct answer. "I ain't got any
dibs, for one thing. I told you so."
"But if you get this money of Sir Hector's?" asked the girl, trying to
arrive at his meaning, for she saw that there was something behind his
speech.
"I'll go, all the same." Lemby looked at the carpet and scowled.
"But why?"
"Because I choose to. That's why," he burst out furiously.
"Now, dad"--Claudia held up a warning hand--"we have had one scene, so
don't let us have another. You won't succeed in getting your way with
me."
"You are an ungrateful minx!"
"Oh" Claudia sat down with a careless shrug--"call me as many names as
you like. That matters little. But don't go too far."
"What will you do if--"
"If you go too far," interrupted the girl, her breast heaving with
passion, and her eyes flashing, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll
leave this flat and go out to find a situation."
"Nobody will take you," said Lemby, uneasily, for he knew, what she
was capable of when her temper was aroused, as it certainly was at
present.
"That's my business, dad."
The buccaneer walked towards the door, halted there irresolutely, and
then looked round the room cautiously. After a long pause, he stole
forward lightly to bend down and whisper in his daughter's ear. "If
you don't come with me and light out straight, you'll see me in
trouble."
"What kind of trouble asked Claudia, shrinking back.
"Trouble of the worst. I've risked a lot to get that cash of Sir
Hector's."
"Risked what?" Claudia shivered and faltered.
"My good name, my liberty, my life."
"Dad!" She sprang up with a cry.
"My life," repeated Lemby, emphatically, and walked out of the room.