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Number Seventeen

by Louis Tracy · English · Gutenberg #4996 · 414,681 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Number Seventeen

Author: Louis Tracy


        
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4996]
                Most recently updated: December 10, 2017

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4996

Credits: Produced by Jim Weiler, xooqi.com


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NUMBER SEVENTEEN ***




Produced by Jim Weiler, xooqi.com







Number Seventeen

BY

Louis Tracy

1915




CHAPTER I

THE OUTCOME OF ARTISTIC CURIOSITY


"Taxi, sir? Yes, sir. No. 4 will be yours."

A red-faced, loud-breathing commissionaire, engaged in the lucrative
task of pocketing sixpences as quickly as he could summon cabs, vanished
in a swirl of macintoshes and umbrellas.

People who had arrived at the theater in fine weather were emerging into
a drizzle of rain. "All London," as the phrase goes, was flocking to see
the latest musical comedy at Daly's, but all London, regarded thus
collectively, is far from owning motor cars, or even affording taxicabs,
so the majority of the play-goers were hurrying on foot towards tube
railways and omnibus routes.

Still, a popular light opera could hardly fail to draw many patrons from
the upper ranks of society, and, in the crush at the main exit, Francis
Berrold Theydon, hesitating whether to walk or wait the hazard of a cab,
deemed himself fortunate when a panting commissionaire promised to
secure a taxi "in half a minute."

Automobiles of every known variety were snorting up to the curb and
bustling off again as promptly as their users could enter and bestow
themselves in dim interiors. Being a considerate person--wishful also to
light a cigarette--Theydon moved out of the way. In so doing, he was
cannoned against by an impetuous footman, whose cry, "Your car, sir,"
led him to follow the man's alert eyes.

He saw a tall, elderly gentleman, with clean-shaven, shrewd, and highly
intelligent features, of the type which finance, or the law, or a
combination of both, seems to evolve only in big cities, escorting a
young lady from the vestibule. Then Theydon remembered that he had
noticed this self-same girl's remarkable beauty as she was silhouetted
in white against the dark background of a first-tier box. He had even
speculated idly as to her identity, and had come to the conclusion, on
catching her face in profile, that she must be the daughter of the man
seated by her side but half-hidden behind a heavy curtain.

The likeness was momentarily lost now while the two neared him, yet
discovered anew when they halted for a second at his elbow. Oddly
enough, the man was carrying an umbrella, which he proceeded to open,
and his daughter's astonished question put their relationship beyond
doubt.

"Dad," she said, with a charming smile in which there was just a hint of
a pout, "aren't you coming home with me?"

"No. I must look in at the Constitutional Club. It's only a step. I'll
take no harm. This sleet looks worse than it is when every drop shines
in the glare of so many lamps. Now, in with you, Evelyn! Tell Downs to
come back, and don't forget which club. Anyhow, I'll tell him myself."

"Shall I wait up for you?"

"Well--er--I shan't be late. I'll be free by the time Downs returns."

"No. 4 taxi!" came a voice, and Theydon saw his commissionaire perched
on the step of a cab swinging in deftly behind the waiting car. The
girl, gazing at her father, happened to look for an instant at Theydon,
who, fearful lest his candidly admiring glance might have been a trifle
too sustained, pretended a hurried interest in an unlighted cigarette.
That was all. The three crossed the pavement almost simultaneously.

The next moment the unknown goddess was gone, though Theydon snatched a
final glimpse of her, faintly visible, yet no less radiantly lovely, as
she leaned forward from the depths of the limousine, and waved a
white-gloved hand to her father through a window jeweled with raindrops.

There was nothing in the incident to provoke a second thought.
Assuredly, Frank Theydon--as his friends called him--was not the only
man in the vestibule of Daly's Theater who had found the girl well worth
looking at, and it was the mere accident of propinquity which enabled
him to overhear the quite commonplace remarks of father and daughter.

A score of similar occurrences had probably taken place in the like
circumstances that night in London, and the maddest dreamer of fantastic
dreams would not have heard the fluttering wings of the spirit of
romance in connection with any one of them. It was by no means
marvelous, therefore, but rather in obedience to the accepted law of
things as they are when contrasted with things as they might be, if
Theydon both failed to attach any importance to that chance meeting and
proceeded forthwith to think of something else.

He did not forget it, of course. His artist's eyes had been far too
interested in a certain rare quality of delicate femininity in the
girl's face and figure, and his ear too quick to appreciate the music of
her cultured voice, that he should not be able to recall such pleasant
memories later. Indeed, during those fleeting moments on the threshold
of the theater, he had garnered quite a number of minor impressions, not
only of the girl, but of her father.

In some respects they were singularly alike. Thus, each had the same
proud, self-reliant carriage, the same large, brilliant eyes, serene
brow and firm mouth, the same repose of manner, the same clear, incisive
enunciation. Neither could move in any company, however eclectic,
without evoking comment.

They held in common that air of refinement and good breeding which is,
or should be, the best-marked attribute of an aristocracy. It was
impossible to imagine either in rags, but, given such a transformation,
each would be notable because of the amazing difference that would exist
between garb and mien.

It must not be imagined that Theydon indulged in this close analysis of
the physical characteristics of two complete strangers while his cab was
wheeling into the scurry of traffic in Cranbourn Street. Rather did he
essay a third time to light the cigarette which he still held between
his lips. And yet a third time was his intent balked.

A policeman stopped the east-bound stream of vehicles somewhat suddenly
at the corner of Charing Cross road; owing to the mud, the taxi skidded
a few feet beyond the line; a lamp was torn off by a heavy wagon coming
south; and a fierce argument between taxi driver and policeman resulted
in "numbers" being demanded for future vengeance. Then Theydon took a
hand in the dispute, poured oil on the troubled waters by tipping the
policeman half a crown and the driver half a sovereign--these sums being
his private estimate of damages to dignity and lamp--and the journey was
resumed, with a net loss, to the person who had absolutely nothing to do
with the affair, of twelve and sixpence in money and nearly ten minutes
in time.

Theydon was not rich, as shall be seen in due course, but he was
generous and impulsive. He hated the notion of any one suffering for
having done him a service, and the taxi man might reasonably be deemed a
real benefactor on that sloppy night.

So far as he was concerned, the delay of ten minutes was of no
consequence. It only meant a slightly deferred snuggling down into an
easy chair in his flat with a book and a pipe. That is how he would have
expressed himself if questioned on the point. In reality it influenced
and controlled his future in the most vital way, because, once the cab
had crossed Oxford Street and turned into the quiet thoroughfare on
which the first block of Innesmore Mansions abutted, he passed into a
new phase of existence.

The cigarette, lighted at last after the altercation, had filled the cab
with smoke to such an extent that Theydon lowered a window. At that
moment the driver was slowing down to take the corner of the even more
secluded road which contained Innesmore Mansions and the gardens
appertaining thereto, and nothing else. Necessarily, Theydon was looking
out, and he was very greatly surprised at seeing the unknown gentleman
of the theater walking rapidly round the same corner.

He could not be mistaken. The stranger tilted back his umbrella and
raised his eyes to ascertain the name of the street, as though he was
not quite sure of his whereabouts, and the glare of a lamp fell directly
on his clean-cut, almost classical face.

Being thus occupied, he did not glance at the passing cab, or
recognition might possibly have been mutual--possibly, though not
probably, because, during that brief pause on the steps of the theater,
he stood beside Theydon; hence, he was half-turned toward his daughter
while they were discussing the night's immediate program.

In itself the fact that he had gone in the direction of Innesmore
Mansions rather than toward the Constitutional Club was in nowise
remarkable. Nevertheless, he had deceived his daughter--deceived her
intentionally, and the knowledge came as a shock to his unsuspected
critic in Theydon.

He did not look the sort of man who would stoop to petty evasion of the
truth. It was as though a statue of Praxiteles, miraculously gifted with
life, should express its emotions, not in Attic Greek, but in the
up-to-date slang of the Strand.

"Well, I'm dashed!" said Theydon, or words to that effect, and his cab
sped on to the third doorway. Innesmore Mansions arranged its roomy
flats in blocks of six, and he occupied No. 18.

He held a florin in readiness; the rain, now falling heavily, did not
encourage any loitering on the pavement. For all that, he saw out of the
tail of his eye that the other man was approaching, though he had paused
to examine the numbers blazoned on a lamp over the first doorway.

"Good night, sir, and thank you!" said the taxi driver.

The cab made off as Theydon ran up a short flight of steps. Innesmore
Mansions did not boast elevators. The flats were comfortable, but not
absurdly expensive, and their inmates climbed stairs cheerfully; at
most, they had only to mount to a second storey. Each block owned a
uniformed porter, who, on a night like this, even in May, needed rousing
from his lair by a bell if in demand.

Theydon took the stairs two at a stride, opened the door of No. 18,
which, with No. 17, occupied the top landing. He was valeted and cooked
for by an ex-sergeant of the Army Service Corps and his wife, an
admirable couple named Bates, and the male of the species appeared
before Theydon had removed coat and opera hat in the tiny hall.

"Bring my tray in fifteen minutes, Bates, and that will be all for
tonight," said Theydon.

"Yes, sir," said Bates. "Remarkable change in the weather, sir."

"Rotten. Who would have expected this downpour after such a fine day?"

Bates took the coat and hat, and Theydon entered his sitting room, a
spacious, square apartment which faced the gardens. He had purposely
prevented Bates from coming immediately with his nightly fare, which
consisted of a glass of milk and a plate of bread and butter.

Truth to tell, the artistic temperament contains a spice of curiosity,
which is, in some sense, an exercise of the perceptive faculties.
Theydon wanted to raise a window and look out, an unusual action, and
one which, therefore, would induce Bates to wonder as to its cause.

For once in his life a man who bothered his head very little about other
people's business was puzzled, and meant to ascertain whether or not the
unknown was really calling on some resident in Innesmore Mansions. It
was a harmless bit of espionage. Theydon scarcely knew the names of the
other dwellers in his own block, and his acquaintance did not even go
that far with any of the remaining tenants of 48 flats, all told.

Still, to a writer, the vagaries of the tall stranger were decidedly
interesting, so he did open a window, and did thrust his head out, and
was just in time to see the owner of the limousine which would call at
the Constitutional Club in a quarter of an hour mount the steps leading
to Nos. 13-18. Somehow, the discovery gave Theydon a veritable thrill.

Could that pretty girl's father, by any chance, be coming to visit him?
A wildly improbable development had been whittled down to a five-to-one
chance. He closed the window and waited, yes, actually waited, for the
bell to ring!

The sitting room door was open, and it faced the hall door. Footsteps
sounded sharply on the slate steps of the stairway; when Theydon heard
some one climbing to the topmost landing he was almost convinced that,
as usual, the unexpected was about to happen. It did happen, but took
its own peculiar path. The unknown rang the bell of No. 17, and, after a
slight delay, was admitted.

Theydon smiled at the anticlimax. A trivial mystery had developed along
strictly orthodox lines. A rather good-looking and distinctly
well-dressed lady, a Mrs. Lester, occupied No. 17. She lived alone, too,
he believed. At any rate, he had never seen any other person, except an
elderly servant, enter or leave the opposite flat, and he had
encountered the tenant herself so seldom that he was not quite certain
of recognizing her apart from the environment of the staircase which
provided their occasional meeting place.

Then he sighed. Romance evidently denied her magic presence to one who
wooed her assiduously by his pen. He was yet to learn that the alluring
sprite had not only favored him with her attentions during the past
twenty minutes, but meant to stick to him like his own shadow for many a
day. And he frowned, too.

He did not approve of that pretty girl's father visiting the attractive
Mrs. Lester in conditions which savored of something underhanded and
clandestine. The man had deliberately misled his daughter. He left her
with a lie on his lips; yet never were appearances more deceptive, for
the stranger had the outward aspect of one whose word was his bond.

"Oh, dash it all, what business is it of mine, anyhow?" growled Theydon,
and he laughed sourly as he sat down to write a letter which Bates could
take to the post, thus himself practicing a slight deceit intended
solely to account for the deferred bringing of the tray.

It was apparently an unimportant missive which could well have been
postponed till the morning, being merely an announcement to a firm of
publishers that he would pay a business call later in the week. In less
than five minutes it, and another, making an appointment for Wednesday,
this being the night of Monday, were written, sealed, directed and
stamped.

He rang. Bates came, with laden hands, thinking the tray was in demand.

"Kindly post those for me," said Theydon, glancing at the letters.
"Better take an umbrella. It's raining cats and dogs."

The man had found the door open, and left it so when he entered. Before
he could answer, the door of No. 17 was opened and closed, with the
jingle inseparable from the presence of many small panes of glass in
leaden casing, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. For some
reason--probably because of the unusual fact that any one should be
leaving Mrs. Lester's flat at so late an hour, both men listened.

Then Bates recollected himself.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Oddly enough, the man's marked pause suggested a question to his
employer.

"Mrs. Lester's visitor didn't stop long," was the comment. "He came up
almost on my heels."

"I thought it must ha' bin a gentleman," said Bates.

"Why a 'gentleman'?" laughed Theydon.

"I mean, sir, that the step didn't sound like a lady's."

"Ah, I see."

Vaguely aware that he had committed himself to a definite knowledge as
to the sex of Mrs. Lester's visitor, Theydon added:

"I didn't actually see any one on the stairs, but I heard an arrival,
and jumped to the same conclusion as you, Bates."

Tacitly, master and man shared the same opinion--it was satisfactory to
know that Mrs. Lester's male visitors who called at the unconventional
hour of 11:30 p. m. were shown out so speedily. Innesmore Mansions were
intensely respectable.

No lady could live there alone whose credentials had not satisfied a
sharp-eyed secretary. Further, Theydon was aware of a momentary
disloyalty of thought toward the distinguished-looking father of that
remarkably handsome girl, and it pleased him to find that he had erred.

Bates went out, closing the door behind him: he donned an overcoat,
secured an umbrella and presently descended to the street. Yielding
again to impulse, Theydon reopened the window and peered down. The
stranger was walking away rapidly. A policeman, glistening in cape and
overalls, stood at the corner, near a pillar box.

The tall man, who topped the burly constable by some inches, halted for
a moment to post a letter. Whether by accident or design he held his
umbrella so that the other could not see his face. Then he disappeared.
Bates came into view. He dropped Theydon's letters into the box, but he
and the policeman exchanged a few words, which, his employer guessed,
must surely have dealt with the vagaries of the weather.

For an author of repute Theydon's surmises had been wide of the mark
several times that night. The policeman had seen the unknown coming out
from the doorway of Nos. 13-18, and had noted his stature and
appearance.

"Who's the toff who just left your lot?" he said, when Bates arrived.

"Dunno," said Bates. "Some one callin' on Mrs. Lester, I fancy. Why?"

"O, nothing. On'y, if I was togged up regardless on a night like this
I'd blue a cab fare."

"I didn't see him meself," commented Bates. "My boss 'eard him come, an'
both of us 'eard him go. He didn't stay more'n five minnits."

"Wish I was in his shoes. I've got to stick round here till six in the
morning," grinned the policeman.

"Well, cheer-o, mate."

"Cheer-o."

Bates looked in on his master before retiring for the night.

"What time shall I call you, sir?" he said.

Theydon was in the pipe and book stage, having exchanged his dress coat
for a smoking jacket. He was reading a treatise on aeronautics, and,
like every novice, had already formulated a flying scheme which would
supersede all known inventions.

"Not later than 8," he said. "I must be out by 9. And, by the way, I may
as well tell you now. After lunch tomorrow I am going to Brooklands. I
return to Waterloo at 6:40. As I have to dine in the West End at 7:30,
and my train may be a few minutes behind time, I want you to meet me
with a suitcase at the hairdresser's place on the main platform. I'll
dress there and go straight to my friend's house. It would be cutting
things rather fine if I attempted to come here."

"I'll have everything ready, sir."

Bates was eminently reliable in such matters. He could be depended on to
the last stud.

The storm which had raged overnight must have cleared the skies for the
following day, because Theydon never enjoyed an outing more than his
trip to the famous motor track. His business there, however, lay with
aviation. A popular magazine had commissioned him to write an article
summing up the progress and practical aims of the airmen and he was
devoting afternoon and evening to the quest of information. A couple of
experts and a photographer had given him plenty of raw material in the
open, but he looked forward with special zest to an undisturbed chat
that night with Mr. James Creighton Forbes, millionaire and
philanthropist, whose peculiar yet forcible theories as to the peaceful
conquest of the air were for the hour engaging the attention of the
world's press.

He had never met Mr. Forbes. When on the point of writing for an
appointment he had luckily remembered that the great man was a lifelong
friend of the professor of physics at his (Theydon's) university, and a
delightfully cordial introductory note was forthcoming in the course of
a couple of posts. This brought the invitation to dinner. "On Tuesday
evening I am dining _en famille_," wrote Mr. Forbes, "so, if you are
free, join us at 7:30, and we can talk uninterruptedly afterward."

The train was not late. Bates, erect and soldierly, was standing at the
rendezvous. With him were two men whom Theydon had never before seen.
One, a bulky, stalwart, florid-faced man of forty, had something of the
military aspect; the other supplied his direct antithesis, being small,
wizened and sallow.

The big man had a round, bullet head, prominent bright blue eyes, and
the cheek bones, chin and physical development of a heavyweight
pugilist. His companion, whose dark and recessed eyes were noticeably
bright, too, could not be more than half his weight, and Theydon would
not have been surprised if told that this diminutive person was a
dancing master. Naturally he classed both as acquaintances of his valet,
encountered by chance on the platform at Waterloo.

He was slightly astonished, therefore, when the two faced him, together
with Bates. A dramatic explanation of their presence was soon supplied.

"These gentlemen, sir, are Chief Inspector Winter and Detective
Inspector Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the ex-sergeant, in the awed
tone which some people cannot help using when speaking of members of the
Criminal Investigation Department.

Though daylight had not yet failed it was rather dark in that corner of
the station, and Theydon saw now what he had not perceived earlier, that
the usually sedate Bates was pale and harassed looking.

"Why, what's up?" he inquired, gazing blankly from one to the other of
the ominous pair.

"Haven't you seen the evening papers, Mr. Theydon?" said Winter, the
giant of the two.

"No, I've been at Brooklands since two o'clock. But what is it?"

"You don't know, then, that a murder was committed in the Innesmore
Mansions last night or early this morning?"

"Good Lord, no! Who was killed?"

"A Mrs. Lester, the lady--"

"Mrs. Lester, who lives in No. 17?"

"Yes."

"What a horrible thing! Why, only the day before yesterday I met her on
the stairs."

It was a banal statement, and Theydon knew it, but he blurted out the
first crazy words that would serve to cloak the monstrous thought which
leaped into his brain. And a picture danced before his mind's eye, a
picture, not of the fair and gracious woman who had been done to death,
but of a sweet-voiced girl in a white satin dress who was saying to a
fine-looking man standing by her side: "Dad, aren't you coming home with
me?"

His blurred senses were conscious of the strange medley produced by the
familiar noises of a railway station blending with the quietly
authoritative voice of the chief inspector.

"Mr. Furneaux and I have the inquiry in hand, Mr. Theydon," the
detective was saying. "We called at your flat, and Bates told us of the
sounds you both heard about 11:30 last night. I'm afraid we have rather
upset you by coming here, but Bates was unable to say what time you
would return home, so I thought you would not mind if we accompanied him
in order to find out the hour at which it would be convenient for you to
meet us at your flat--this evening, of course."

"You have certainly given me the shock of my life," Theydon gasped.
"That poor woman dead, murdered! It's too awful! How was she killed?"

"She was strangled."

"O, this is dreadful! Shall I wire an apology to the man I'm dining
with?"

"No need for that, Mr. Theydon," said Winter, sympathetically. "I'm
sorry now we blurted out our unpleasant news. But you had to be told,
and it was essential that we should get your story some time tonight.
Can you be home by eleven?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be there without fail."

"Thank you. We have a good many inquiries to make in the meantime.
Goodby, for the present."

The two made off. Winter had done all the talking, but Theydon was far
too disturbed to pay heed to the trivial fact that Furneaux, after one
swift glance, seemed to regard him as a negligible quantity. It was
borne in on him that the detective evidently believed he had something
of importance to say, and meant to render it almost impossible that he
should escape questioning while his memory was still active with
reference to events of the previous night.

And he had so little, yet so much, to tell. On his testimony alone it
would be a comparatively easy matter to establish beyond doubt the
identity of Mrs. Lester's last known visitor. And what would be the
outcome? He dared hardly trust his own too lively imagination. Whether
or not his testimony gave a clew to the police, the one irrevocable
issue was that somewhere in London there was a girl named Evelyn who
would regard a certain young man, Francis Berrold Theydon to wit, as a
loathsome and despicable Paul Pry.

Bates, somewhat relieved by the departure of the emissaries of Scotland
Yard, recalled his master's scattered wits to the affairs of the moment.

"It's getting on for seven, sir," he said. "I've engaged a dressing
room."

"Tell you what, Bates," said Theydon abstractedly, "it is my fixed
belief that you and I could do with a brandy and soda apiece."

"That would be a good idea, sir."

The good idea was duly acted on. While Theydon was dressing Bates told
him what little he knew of the tragedy, which was discovered by Mrs.
Lester's maid when she brought a cup of tea to her mistress' bedroom at
ten o'clock that morning.

Bates himself was the first person appealed to by the distracted woman,
and he had the good sense to leave the body and its surroundings
untouched until a doctor and the police had been summoned by telephone.
Thenceforth the day had passed in a whirl of excitement, active in
respect to police inquiries and passive in its resistance to newspaper
interviewers. He saw no valid reason why his employer's plans should be
disturbed, so made no effort to communicate with him at Brooklands.

"Them 'tecs were very pressin', sir," said Bates, rather indignantly,
"very pressin', especially the little one. He almost wanted to know what
we had for breakfast."

At that Theydon laughed dolefully, and, as it happened, Bates's grim
humor prevented him from ascertaining the exact nature of Furneaux's
pertinacity. Moreover, the time was passing. At 7:15 Theydon called a
taxi and was carried swiftly to Mr. Forbes's house in Belgravia, while
Bates disposed himself and the dressing case on top of a northbound
omnibus.

The mere change of clothing, aided by the stimulant, had cleared
Theydon's faculties. Though he would gladly have foregone the dinner, he
realized that it was not a bad thing that he should be forced, as it
were, to wrench his thoughts from the nightmare of a crime with which
such a man as "Evelyn's" father might be associated, even innocently.

At any rate, he was given some hours to marshal his forces for the
discussion with the representatives of Scotland Yard. He knew well that
he must then face the dilemma boldly. Two courses were open. He could
either share Bates's scanty knowledge, no more and no less, or avow his
ampler observations. And why should he adopt the first of these
alternatives? Was he not bringing himself practically within the law?

Why should any man be shielded, no matter what his social position or
how beautiful his daughter, who might possibly have caused the death of
the pleasant-mannered and ladylike woman fated now to remain for ever a
tragic ghost in the memory of one who had dwelt under the same roof with
her for five months?

It was a thorny problem, yet it permitted of only one solution. Duty
must be done though the heavens fell.

This conviction grew on Theydon as his cab scurried across the Thames
and along Birdcage Walk. A pretty conceit could not be allowed to sweep
aside the first principles of citizenship. Indeed, so reassuring was
this reasoned judgment that he felt a sense of relief as he paid off the
cab and rang the bell of the Forbes mansion.

He gave his name to a footman, who disposed of his overcoat and hat, and
led him to an upstairs drawing room. Even the most fleeting glances at
hall and staircase revealed evidences of a highly trained artistic taste
gratified by great wealth. The furniture, the china, the pictures, were
each and all rare and well chosen.

"Mr. Theydon," announced the man, throwing wide the door.

A lady, bent over some prints spread on a distant table, turned at the
words, and hastened to greet the guest.

"My father is expecting you, Mr. Theydon," she said. "He was detained
rather late in the city, but will be here now at any moment."

Theydon was no neurotic boy, whose surcharged nerves were liable to
crack in a crisis demanding some unusual measure of self-control. Yet
the room and its contents--and, not least, the graceful girl advancing
with outstretched hand--swam before his eyes.

Because this was "Evelyn," and it was certain as the succession of night
to day that Mrs. Lester's mysterious visitor must have been "Evelyn's"
father, James Creighton Forbes.




CHAPTER II

THE COMPACT


So petrified was Theydon by coming face to face with the last person
breathing whom he expected to meet in that room, that he stumbled over a
small chair which lay directly between him and his hostess. At any other
time the gaucherie would have annoyed him exceedingly; in the existing
circumstances, no more fortunate incident could have happened, since it
brought Evelyn Forbes herself unwittingly to the rescue.

"I have spoken twenty times about chairs being left in that absurd
position," she cried, as their hands met, "but you know how
wooden-headed servants are. They will not learn to discriminate. People
often sit in that very place of an afternoon, because any one seated
just there sees the Canaletto on the opposite wall in the best light.
When the lamps are on, the reason for the chair simply ceases to exist,
and it becomes a trap for the unwary. You are by no means the first who
has been caught in it."

Theydon realized, with a species of irritation, that the girl was
discoursing volubly about the offending chair merely in order to
extricate an apparently shy and tongue-tied young man from a morass of
his own creation.

That an author of some note should not only behave like a country
bumpkin, but actually seem to need encouragement so that he should "feel
at home" in a London drawing room, was a fact so ridiculous that it
spurred his bemused wits into something approaching their normal
activity.

"I have not the excuse of the Canaletto," he said, compelling a pleasant
smile, "but may I plead an even more distracting vision? I came here
expecting to meet an elderly gentleman of the class which flippant
Americans describe as 'high-brow,' and I am suddenly brought face to
face with a Romney 'portrait of a lady' in real life. Is it likely that
such an insignificant object as a chair, and a small one at that, would
succeed in catching my eye?"

Evelyn Forbes laughed, with a joyous mingling of surprise and relief.
Most certainly, Mr. Theydon's manner of speech differed vastly from the
disconcerting expression of positive bewilderment, if not actual fright,
which marred his entrance.

"Do I really resemble a Romney? Which one?" she cried.

"An admitted masterpiece."

"Ah, but people who pay compliments deserve to be put on the rack. I
insist on a definition."

"Lady Hamilton as Joan of Arc."

He drew the bow at random, and was gratified to see that his hearer was
puzzled.

"I don't know that particular picture," she said, "but I cannot imagine
any model less adapted to the subject."

"Romney immortalized the best qualities of both," he answered promptly.
"Please, may I look at the Canaletto which indirectly waylaid me?"

She turned to cross the room, but stopped and faced him again with a
suddenness that argued an impulsive temperament.

"Now, I remember," she said. "Dad told me you had written novels and
some essays. Have you ever really seen Romney's portrait of Lady
Hamilton as Joan of Arc?"

Those fine eyes of hers pierced him with a glance of such candid inquiry
that he cast pretence to the winds.

"No," he said.

"Then you just invented the comparison as an excuse for colliding with
the chair?"

"Yes. At the same time I throw myself on the mercy of the court."

"It was rather clever of you."

He laughed, and their eyes met, at very close range.

"May I share the joke?" said a voice, and Theydon knew, before he
turned, that the man he had last seen disappearing around the corner of
Innesmore Mansions in a heavy rainstorm was in the room.

"Why did you tell me that Mr. Theydon was a serious scientific person?"
cried the girl. "He is anything but that. He can talk nonsense quite
admirably."

"So can a great many serious scientific persons, Evelyn. Glad to see
you, Mr. Theydon. Professor Scarth's letter paved the way for something
more than a formal meeting, so I thought you wouldn't mind giving us an
evening. My wife is not in town. She is a martyr to hay fever, and has
to fly from London to the sea early in May to escape. If caught here in
June nothing can save her. Tonight, as it happens, you're our only
guest, but my daughter is going to a musicale at Lady de Winton's after
dinner, so you and I will be free to soar into the empyrean through a
blaze of tobacco smoke."

Standing there, in that delightful drawing room, made welcome by a man
like Forbes, and admitted to a degree of charming intimacy by a girl
like Forbes's daughter, Theydon tried to believe that his meeting with
those ill-omened detectives at Waterloo Station was, in some sort, a
figment of the imagination.

But he was instantly and effectually brought back to a dour sense of
reality by Evelyn Forbes's next words. She, by chance, looked at Theydon
just as she had looked at him the previous night.

"Were you at Daly's Theater last night?" she inquired suddenly.

"Yes," he said. Then, finding there was no help for it, he went on:----

"You and I have hit on the same discovery, Miss Forbes. We three stood
together at the exit. I was waiting for a taxi, and saw you get into
your car. Now you know just why I fell over the chair."

Forbes glanced up quickly.

"Don't tell me Tomlinson forgot to move that infernal chair again!" he
cried. "Really, I must get rid either of our butler or the Canaletto,
yet I prize both."

"Don't blame Tomlinson, Dad," laughed the girl. "If Mr. Theydon hadn't
made an unconventional entry we would have talked about the weather, or
something equally stupid."

At that moment Tomlinson himself, imperturbable and portly, announced
that dinner was served. The three descended the stairs, chatting lightly
about the musical comedy witnessed overnight. It was no new revelation
to Theydon that truth should prove stranger than fiction, but the trite
phrase was fast assuming a fresh and sinister personal significance. He
believed, and not without good reason, that no man living had ever
undergone an experience comparable with his present adventure.

When he left that house he was going straight to two officers of the law
whose bounden duty it would become to call upon Mr. Forbes for a full
and true explanation of his visit to Mrs. Lester--provided, that is, he
(Theydon) told them what he knew. Talk about a death's-head grinning at
a feast! At that bright dinner-table he was a prey to keener emotion
than ever shook a Borgia entertaining one whom he meant to poison.

In sheer self-defense he talked with an animation he seldom displayed.
Evelyn was evidently much taken by him, and, fired by her manifest
interest, he indulged in fantastic paradox and wild flights of fancy.
Seemingly his exuberance stimulated Forbes, himself a well-informed and
epigrammatic talker.

An hour sped all too soon. The girl rose with a sigh.

"It's too bad that I should have to go," she said. "I shall be bored
stiff at Lady de Winton's. But I can't get out of it except by telling a
positive fib over the telephone. Dad, next time you ask Mr. Theydon to
dinner, please let me know in good time, and neither of you will be rid
of me so easily."

She shook hands with Theydon. While she was giving her father a parting
kiss the guest moved to the door and held it open. As she passed out she
smiled and her eyes said plainly:

"I like you. Come again soon."

Then she was gone and the pleasant room lost some of its glow and color.

"Don't sit down again, Theydon," said Forbes, rising. "We'll have coffee
brought to my den. What is your favorite liqueur--or shall we tell
Tomlinson to send along that decanter of port? It's a first-rate wine.
Another glass won't hurt you, or me, for that matter."

Theydon had hardly dared to touch the champagne supplied during the
meal. Abstemious at all times, because he found that wine or spirits
interfered with his capacity for work, he felt that a clear head and
steady nerves were called for that night more than any other night in
his life. Following the lead given by his host, therefore, he elected
for the port.

"You are right, too," said Forbes. "You remember Dr. Johnson's dictum:
'Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a
hero must drink brandy'? Tonight, not aspiring to the heroic, we'll
stick to port."

"It is a curious fact that on my return from Brooklands today I took a
glass of brandy," confessed Theydon. "I seldom, if ever, drink any
intoxicant before dining, but I needed a stimulant of a sort, and some
unknown tissue in me cried aloud for brandy."

He hoped vaguely that the comment would lead to something more explicit,
and thus bring him, without undue emphasis, so to speak, to the one
topic on which he was now resolved to obtain a decisive statement from
the man chiefly concerned before he faced the representatives of
Scotland Yard.

But Forbes, motioning to an easy chair in a well-appointed library, and
flinging himself into another, gave heed only to the one
word--Brooklands.

"Did you fly?" he asked.

"No. I was soaking in theory, not practice."

"Ah, theory. It would, indeed, seem to be true that folded away in some
convolution of our brain are the faculties of the fish and the bird.
Those latent powers are expanding daily. The submarine has already gone
far beyond the practical achievement of aerial craft. But why, in the
name of humanity, should every such development of man's almost
immeasurable resources be dedicated to warlike purposes? I am sick at
heart when I hear the first question put in these days to each inventor:
'Can you enable us to kill more of our fellowmen than we can kill with
existing appliances?' Is it a new engine, a new amalgam of metals, a new
explosive, a new field of electrical energy, one hears the same
vulture's cry--'How many, how far, how safely can we slay?' I regard
this lust for destruction as contemptible. It is a strange and
ignominious feature of modern life. Forgive me, Mr. Theydon, if I speak
strongly on this matter. The men who spread the bounds of science today
are, nominally, at any rate, Christians. They tell of peace and goodwill
to all, yet prepare unceasingly for some awful Armageddon.[*] We teach
Christ's gospel in pulpit and schoolhouse, strive to express it in our
laws, obey it in our lives and social relations, yet we are armed to the
teeth and ever arming, adding strength to the plates of our warships and
distance to the range of our guns, constantly riveting and welding and
forging monsters which shall shatter men and cities and States."

[*] This story was written before the outbreak of war in 1914.]

It was not the younger man now who talked brilliantly and forcibly.
Theydon, frankly abandoning the effort to twist the conversation to that
enigma which, the more he saw and heard of Forbes the more incredible it
became, listened enthralled to one who spoke with the conviction and
earnestness of a prophet.

"Don't imagine that I am framing an indictment against Christianity,"
went on Forbes passionately. "The Sermon on the Mount inspires all that
is great and noble in our everyday existence, all that is eternally
beautiful in our dreams of the future. But why this din of war, this
smoke of arsenals, this marching and drilling of the world's youth?
Nature's law appears to have two simple clauses. It enforces a principle
in the struggle for existence, a test in the survival of the fittest.
Great heavens, are not these enough, without having our ears deafened by
powder and drumming? That is why I am devoting a good deal of time and
no small amount of money to an international crusade against the warlike
idea, and I see no reason why a beginning should not be made with the
airship and the airplane. We are too late with the submarine, but,
before the golden hour passes, let us stop the navigation of the air
from forming part of the equipment of murder. Surely it can be done.
England and the United States, Italy, France and the rest of Europe--the
founts of civilization--can write the edict, with all the blazonry of
their glorious histories to illuminate the page--There shall be no war
in the air!'"

Theydon was carried away in spite of himself.

"You believe that the airship might develop along the unemotional lines
of the parcel post?" he inquired.

Forbes laughed.

"Exactly," he said. "I like your simile. No one suggests that we Britons
should endeavor to destroy our hated rivals by sending bombs through the
mails. Why, then, in the name of common sense, should the first--I might
almost say the only use of which the airship is commonly supposed
capable--be that of destruction? Don't you see the instant result of a
war-limiting ordinance of the kind I advocate? Suppose the peoples and
the rulers declared in their wisdom that soldiers and war material
should be contraband of the air--and suppose that airships do become
vehicles of practical utility--what a farce would soon be all the grim
fortresses, the guns, the giant steel structures now designed as
floating hells! Humanity has yet time to declare that the flying machine
shall be as harmless and serviceable as the penny post. I believe it can
be done. Come now, Mr. Theydon, I think you've caught on to my
scheme--will you help?"

Help! Here was a man expounding a new evangel, which might, indeed, be
visionary and impracticable, but was none the less essentially noble and
Christian in spirit, yet Theydon was debating whether or not he should
give testimony which would bring to that very room a couple of
detectives whose first questions would make clear to Forbes that he was
suspected of blood-guiltiness!

The notion was so utterly repellent that Theydon sighed deeply; his host
not unnaturally looked surprised.

"Of course, such a revolutionary idea strikes you as outside the pale of
common sense," he began, but the younger man stayed him with a gesture.
Here was an opportunity that must not be allowed to pass. No matter what
the cost--if he never saw Evelyn Forbes or her father again--he must
dispel the waking nightmare which held him in such an abnormal condition
of uncertainty and foreboding.

"Now that your daughter is gone I may venture to speak plainly," he
said. "I told you that, I felt the need of a brandy and soda at
Waterloo. As a matter of fact, I did not leave the Brooklands track
until six o'clock, and, as Innesmore Mansions, where I live, lie north,
and I was due here at 7:30, I had my man meet me at the station with a
suitcase, meaning to change my clothes in the dressing room there, and
come straight here. Guess my astonishment when I found Bates--Bates is
the name of my factotum--in the company of two strangers, whom he
introduced as representing the Criminal Investigation Department."

He paused. He had brought in his own address skilfully enough, and kept
his voice sufficiently under control that no tremor betrayed a knowledge
of Forbes's vital interest in any mention of that one block of flats
among the multitude.

Now, for the first time, Innesmore Mansions figured as his abode, the
correspondence which led to the dinner having centered in his club. But
not a flicker of eyelid nor twitch of mobile lips showed the slightest
concern on Forbes's part. Rather did he display at once a well-bred
astonishment on hearing Theydon's concluding words.

"Do you mean detectives from Scotland Yard?" he cried.

"Yes."

Forbes smiled, and commenced filling a pipe.

"Evidently they did not want you as a principal," he said.

His tone was genial, but slightly guarded. Theydon realized that this
man of great wealth and high social position had reminded himself that
his guest, though armed with the best of credentials, was quite unknown
to him otherwise, and that, perhaps, he had acted unwisely in inviting a
stranger to his house without making some preliminary inquiry. This
reversal of their roles was a conceit so ludicrous that Theydon smiled
too.

At any rate, he meant now to pursue an unpleasing task, and have done
with it.

"No," he said slowly. "It seems that I am the worst sort of witness in a
murder case. I may have heard, I may even have seen, the person
suspected of committing the crime, or, if that is going too far, the
person whom the police have good reason to regard as the last who saw
the poor victim alive and in ordinary conditions. But my testimony, such
as it is, is so slight and inconclusive that, of itself, no one could
hang a cat on it."

"Good gracious! That sounds interesting, though you have my sympathy. It
must be rather distressing to be mixed up in such an affair, even
indirectly."

Forbes struck precisely the right note of friendly inquiry. He wished to
hear more, and was at the same time relieved to find that Professor
Scarth had not introduced a notorious malefactor in the guise of a young
writer seeking material for an article on airships!

Theydon could have laughed aloud at this comedy of errors, but the fact
that at any moment it might develop into a tragedy exercises a wholesome
restraint.

"I happen to live at No. 18 Innesmore Mansions," he said. "Opposite--on
the same floor, I mean--lives, or did live, a Mrs. Lester. I do not--"

"Are you telling me that a Mrs. Lester of No. 17 Innesmore Mansions is
dead--has been murdered?"

Forbes's voice rang out vibrant, incisive. His ordinarily pale face had
blanched, and his deep-set eyes blazed with the fire of some fierce
emotion, but, beyond the slight elevation of tone and the change of
expression, he revealed to Theydon's quietly watchful scrutiny no sign
of the terror or distress which an evildoer might be expected to show on
learning that the law's vengeance was already shadowing him, even in so
remote a way as was indicated by the presence under his roof of a
witness regarded by the police as an important one.

"Yes!" stammered Theydon, quite taken aback by his companion's
vehemence. "Do you--know the lady? If so--I am sorry--I spoke so
unguardedly--"

"Good heavens, man, don't apologize for that! I am not a child or
weakling, that I should flinch in horror from one of life's dramatic
surprises! But, are you sure of what you are saying? Mrs. Lester
murdered! When?"

"About midnight last night, the doctor believes. That is what Bates told
me. I was so shaken on hearing his news, which was confirmed by the two
detectives, that I really gave little heed to details.... She was
strangled--a peculiarly atrocious thing where an attractive and ladylike
woman is concerned. I have never spoken to her, but have met her at odd
times on the stairs. I was immeasurably shocked, I assure you. In fact,
I was on the point of telegraphing an excuse to you for this evening,
but the Chief Inspector--Winter, I think his name is--said it would
suffice for his purpose if I met him at my flat about eleven o'clock, as
he was engaged on other inquiries which would occupy the intervening
hours."

"But if the news of this dastardly crime only reached you tonight at
Waterloo Station, and you have no personal acquaintance with Mrs.
Lester, what evidence can you give that will assist the police?"

"Mrs. Lester received a visitor last night, an incident so unusual that
I, who heard him arrive, and Bates, who was in my sitting room when we
both heard him depart, commented on the strangeness of it. That, I
suppose, is the reason why I am in request by Scotland Yard."

"You say 'him.' How did you know it was a man? Did you see him?"

"Er--that was impossible. We were in my flat, behind its closed door.
Bates and I deduced his sex from the sound of his footsteps."

Again Theydon nearly stammered. Events had certainly turned in the most
amazing way. Instead of carrying himself almost in the manner of a
judge, he was figuring rather as an unwilling witness in the hands of a
skilled and merciless cross-examining counsel.

"Did the police officers supply any theory of motive for the crime? Was
this poor woman killed for the sake of her few trinkets?"

By this time Theydon was stung into a species of revolt. It was he, not
Forbes, who should be snapping out searching questions.

"I regret to say that my nerves were not sufficiently under control at
Waterloo that I should listen carefully to each word," he said, almost
stiffly. "Bates had picked up such information as was available; but he,
though an ex-sergeant in the Army, was so upset as to be hardly
coherent. When I meet the detectives in the course of another hour I
shall probably gather something definite and reliable in the way of
details."

Forbes laid the pipe which he had filled but not lighted on the table.
He poured out a glass of port and drank it.

"Try that," he said, pushing the decanter toward Theydon. "They cannot
trouble you greatly. You have so little to tell."

"No, thanks. Nothing more for me tonight until the Scotland Yard men
have cleared out."

Forbes rose as he spoke and strode the length of the room and back with
the air of a man debating some weighty and difficult point.

"Mr. Theydon," he said, at last, halting in front of the younger man and
gazing down at him with a direct intensity that was highly embarrassing
to one who had good cause to connect him with the actual crime. "I want
you to do me a favor--a great favor. It was in my mind at first to ask
you to permit me to go with you to Innesmore Mansions, and to be present
during the interview with the detectives. But a man in my position must
be circumspect. It would, perhaps, be unwise to appear too openly
interested. I don't mind telling you in confidence that I have known
Mrs. Lester many years. The shock of her death, severe as it must have
been to you, is slight as compared with my own sorrow and dismay. More
than that I dare not say until better informed. I remember now hearing
the newsboys shouting their ghoulish news, and I saw contents bills
making large type display of 'Murder of a lady,' but little did I
imagine that the victim was one whom--one whose loss I shall deplore....
Are you on the telephone?"

"Yes," said Theydon, thoroughly mystified anew by the announcement that
Forbes had even contemplated, or so much as hinted at, the astounding
imprudence of visiting Innesmore Mansions that night.

"Ring me up when the detectives have gone. I shall esteem your
assistance during this crisis as a real service."

For the life of him, Theydon could not frame the protest which ought to
have been made without delay and without hesitation.

"Yes," he said. "I'll do that. You can trust me absolutely."

Thus was he committed to secrecy. That promise sealed his lips.




CHAPTER III

IN THE TOILS


Theydon, though blessed, or cursed, with an active imagination--which
must surely be the prime equipment of a novelist--was shrewd and
level-headed in dealing with everyday affairs.

It was no small achievement that the son of a country rector, aided only
by a stout heart, a university education and an excellent physique--good
recommendations, each and all, but forming the stock-in-trade of many a
man on whose subsequent career "failure" is writ large--should have
forced himself to the front rank of the most overcrowded among the
professions before attaining his twenty-sixth year.

It may be taken for granted, therefore, that he was not lacking in the
qualities of close observation and critical analysis. He would, for
instance, be readier than the majority of his fellows to note the small
beginnings of events destined to become important.

Often, of course, his deductions would prove erroneous, but the mere
fact that he habitually exercised his wits in such a way rendered it
equally certain that his judgment would be accurate sometimes. One such
occasion presented itself a few seconds after he had left the Forbes
mansion.

A taxi, summoned by a footman, was in waiting, and Theydon was crossing
the pavement when he noticed a gray landaulet car at rest beneath the
trees at some distance. Mr. Forbes's house stood in a square, and the
gray car had been drawn up on the quiet side of the roadway, being
stationed there, apparently, to await its owner's behest. Gray cars are
common enough in London, but they are usually of the touring class.

Not often does one see a gray-painted landaulet; hence, the odd though
hardly remarkable fact occurred to Theydon that a precisely similar gray
automobile had occupied the center of the station yard at Waterloo when
he took a taxi from the rank.

Admittedly he was in a nervous and excited state. It could hardly be
otherwise after the strain of that astounding conversation with Forbes,
and there was no prospect of the tension being relaxed until the close
of the interview with the detectives, which he now regarded as the worse
ordeal of the two.

But this subconscious neurasthenia in no wise affected the reflex action
of his ordinary faculties. When, on leaving the square, and while his
cab was rattling along an aristocratic thoroughfare leading to
Knightsbridge, he peered through a tiny observation window in the back
of the vehicle, and ascertained that the gray car was stealing along
quietly about a hundred yards in the rear, he began to believe that its
presence both at Waterloo and outside Mr. Forbes's residence could not
be wholly accidental. When he had watched its persistent treading on his
heels along Piccadilly its intent became almost unmistakable.

The route to Innesmore Mansions traversed some of London's main
arteries, but, despite the rush of traffic due to the first flight of
homeward-bound playgoers, the gray car kept steadily on his track.
Amused at first, he became angry because of a notion which grew out of
the wonderment of finding himself the object of this persistent
espionage.

To make sure, and at the same time discover the sort of person who was
spying on him, he adopted a ruse. Leaning out, when about to cross
Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road, he said to his driver: "Turn
sharp to the right in Store Street, and pull up. I'll tell you when to
go on again."

The man obeyed. Theydon posted himself at the outer window, and in a
space of time so short that the excellence of the gray car's accelerator
was amply demonstrated, the pursuer swung into sight. A stolid-faced
chauffeur at the wheel did not appear discomfited at coming on his
quarry thus unexpectedly. He whirled past, seemingly quite oblivious of
Theydon's fixed stare. Though the weather was mild he wore an overcoat
with upturned collar, so that between its protecting flaps and a
low-peaked cap his face was well hidden. Still, Theydon received an
impression of a curiously wooden physiognomy.

The man might have been an automaton for all the heed he gave to the
taxi or its inquisitive occupant. But his aspect was almost forgotten in
the far stranger discovery that the car was empty. Both windows were
open, and the bright lights of a corner shop flashed into the interior,
yet not a soul was visible. Moreover, the car sped on unhesitatingly,
stopping some two hundred yards ahead.

So far as Theydon could tell, no one alighted. He jotted down the
number--XY 1314--on his shirt cuff.

"Did you happen to see that car waiting near the house I came from?" he
said to the taxi man, who, of course, provided an interested audience of
one.

"Yes, sir," was the ready answer. "It's not a London car. I've never
seen them letters afore."

"In other words, it may be a faked number."

"Likely enough, sir, but rather risky. The police are quick at spotting
that sort of thing."

"Can you take a hand in the game? I want to know where that car goes
to."

The man grinned.

"I wouldn't like to humbug you, sir. That there machine can lose me
quicker'n a Derby winner could pass a keb horse. Didn't you hear the hum
of the engine as it went by?"

"Thanks. Now go ahead to Innesmore Mansions."

He was paying the driver when the gray car stole quietly past the end of
the street, and that was the last he saw of it.

"There it goes again, sir," said the man. "Tell you wot, gimme your name
an' address. I'll make a few inquiries, an' keep me eyes open as well.
Then, if I hear anythink, I'll let you know."

Theydon scribbled the number of his flat on a card.

"There you are," he said. "Even if I happen to be out, I'll leave
instructions that you are to be paid half a crown for your trouble if
you call. By the way, what is your name?"

"Evans, sir."

There was really little doubt in Theydon's mind as to the reason why he
had been followed. He was fuming about it when Bates met him in the hall
of No. 18 with the whisper:

"Them two are waiting here now, sir."

Theydon glanced at his watch. The hour was ten minutes past eleven.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," he said, on entering the sitting room and
finding the detectives seated at his table, seemingly comparing notes,
because the Chief Inspector was talking, while Furneaux, the diminutive,
was glancing at a notebook.

"We have no reason to complain of being kept waiting a few minutes in
such comfortable quarters," said Winter pleasantly.

"O, I fancy I was detained by some zealous assistant of yours," said
Theydon, determined to carry the war into the enemy's territory.

At that Furneaux looked up quickly.

"Will you kindly tell me just what you mean, Mr. Theydon?" said Winter.

"Why? Is it news to you that a gray limousine car stalked me from
Waterloo to--to my friend's house, waited there three hours or more, and
has carefully escorted me home? I dislike that sort of thing. Moreover,
it strikes me as stupid. I didn't kill Mrs. Lester. It will save you and
me a good deal of time and worry if you accept that plain statement as a
fact."

"Won't you sit down?" said Winter quietly. "And--may I smoke? I didn't
like to ask Bates for permission to light up in your absence."

Theydon was not to be outdone in coolness. He opened a corner cupboard
and produced various boxes.

"The cigars are genuine Havanas," he said. "A birthday present from a
maiden aunt, who is wise enough to judge the quality of tobacco by the
price. Here, too, are Virginian, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes."

Winter inspected the cigars gravely.

"By Jove!" he cried, his big eyes bulging in joyous surprise. "Last
year's crop from the Don Juan y Guerrero plantation. Treasure that aunt
of yours, Mr. Theydon. None but herself can be her equal."

Theydon saw that the little man did not follow his chief's example.

"Don't you smoke?" he said.

"No, but if you'll not be horrified, I would like to smell one of those
Turks."

"Smell it?"

"Yes. That is the only way to enjoy the aroma and avoid nicotine
poisoning. My worthy chief dulls a sound intellect by the cigar habit.
What is worse, he excites a nervous system which is normally somewhat
bovine. You, also, I take it, are a confirmed smoker, so both of you are
at cross-purposes already."

Furneaux's voice was pitched in the curious piping note usually
associated with comic relief in a melodrama, but his wizened face was
solemn as a red Indian's. It was Theydon who smiled. His preconceived
ideas as to the appearance and demeanor of the London detective were
shattered. Really, there was no need to take these two seriously.

Winter, while lighting the cigar, grinned amiably at his colleague.
Furneaux passed a cigarette to and fro under his nostrils and sniffed.
Theydon reached for a pipe and tobacco jar and drew up a chair.

"Well," he said, "it is not my business to criticise your methods. I
have very little to tell you. I suppose Bates--"

"The really important thing is this car which followed you tonight,"
broke in Winter. "The details are fresh in your memory. What type of car
was it? Did you see the driver and occupants? What's its number?"

Theydon had not expected these questions. He looked his astonishment.

"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "What did I tell you?"

"O, shut up!" growled Winter. "I am asking just what you yourself are
itching to know."

"May I take it that the car has not been dogging me by your
instructions?" said Theydon. He was inclined to be skeptical, yet the
Chief Inspector seemed to have spoken quite candidly.

"Yes," said Winter, meeting the other's glance squarely. "We have no
reason on earth to doubt the truth of anything you have said, or may
say, with regard to this inquiry. The car is not ours. This is the first
we have heard of it. We accepted your word, Mr. Theydon, that you were
dining with a friend. Perhaps you will tell us now what his name is and
where he lives."

Theydon hesitated the fraction of a second. That, he knew instantly, was
a blunder, so he proceeded to rectify it.

"I was dining with Mr. James Creighton Forbes, of No. 11, Fortescue
Square," he said. "Probably you are acquainted with his name, so you
will realize that if my evidence proves of the slightest value I would
not like any reference to be made to the fact that I was his guest
tonight."

"I don't see how that can possibly enter into the matter, except in its
bearing on this mysterious car."

Though Winter was taking the lead, Theydon was aware that Furneaux, who
had given him scant attention hitherto, was now looking at him fixedly.
He imagined that the queer little man was all agog to learn something
about the automobile which had thrust itself so abruptly into the
affair.

"Exactly," he agreed. "I visited Mr. Forbes tonight for the first time.
We are mutually interested in aviation. That is why I went to Brooklands
today, and the invitation to dinner was the outcome of a letter of
introduction given me by Professor Scarth."

Then, thinking he had said enough on that point, he described the gray
car and its stolid-faced chauffeur to the best of his ability. He told
of the brief chat with the taxi driver and its result.

"Good!" nodded Winter. "I'm glad you did that. It may help. I am
doubtful of any information turning up, but you never can tell. The
number plate, at any rate, is certainly misleading. Now, about last
night? Try and be as accurate as possible with regard to time. Can you
give us the exact hour when you returned home?"

"I happened to note by the clock on the mantelpiece that I came in at
11:35."

Winter compared the clock's time with his watch.

"You had been to a theater?" he said.

"Yes--Daly's."

"It was raining heavily. Did you take a cab?"

"Yes."

"Were you delayed? The piece ended at 11:05."

"My cab met with a slight accident."

"What sort of accident?"

Theydon explained.

"In all likelihood you can discover the driver," he smiled, "and he will
establish my alibi."

His tone seemed to annoy Furneaux, who broke in:

"Don't you write novels?"

"Yes."

"Sensational?"

"Occasionally."

"Then you ought to be tickled to death, as the Americans say, at being
mixed up in a first-rate murder. This is no ordinary crime. Several
people will be older and wiser before the culprit is found and hanged."

"What Mr. Furneaux has in mind," purred Winter cheerfully, "is the
curious habit of some witnesses when questioned by the police. They arm
themselves against attack, as it were. You see, Mr. Theydon, we suspect
nobody. We try to ascertain facts, and hope to deduce a theory from
them. Over and over again we are mistaken. We are no more astute than
other men. Our sole advantage is a wide experience of criminal methods.
The detective of romance--if you'll forgive the allusion--simply doesn't
exist in real life."

"I accept the rebuke," said Theydon. "I suppose the gray car was still
rankling in my mind. From this moment I start afresh. At any rate, the
man who brought me from the theater might check my recollection of the
time."

Winter nodded. He was evidently pleased that Theydon was inclined to
share his view of the difficulties Scotland Yard encountered in its
fight against malefactors.

"Did you see or meet any one in particular while your car approached
these mansions, or when you ascended the stairs?"

"No," said Theydon.

He perceived intuitively that if the detectives found the driver of the
taxi which brought him from the theater it was possible the man might
have noticed Forbes, who had certainly been scrutinized a few minutes
later by a policeman, so he hastened to add:

"You said 'any one in particular.' I did see a tall, well-dressed
gentleman at the corner of the street, but there is nothing remarkable
in that."

"Which way was he heading?"

"In this direction."

"Then it is conceivable that he might be the man who called on Mrs.
Lester?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you pretty sure he was the man?"

Theydon permitted himself to look astonished.

"I?" he said. "How can I be sure? If you mean that, judging from the
interval of time between my seeing him at the corner and the sound of
footsteps on the stairs, followed by the opening of the door at No. 17,
it could be he, I accept that."

Winter nodded again. Apparently he was content with Theydon's
correction.

"As the weather was bad, you probably hurried in when your cab stopped?"
he said.

"That is equivalent to saying you credit me with sense enough to get in
out of the wet," smiled Theydon.

"Just so. And you wore an overcoat, which you removed on entering your
hall?"

"Yes," and Theydon's tone showed a certain bewilderment at these
trivialities.

"Then if you paid no special heed to the movements of the tall gentleman
you have mentioned, why did you open one of these windows and look out
soon after Bates went to the post?"

Theydon flushed like a schoolboy caught by a master under circumstances
which youth generally describes as "a clean cop."

"How on earth do you know I looked out?" he almost gasped.

"I'll tell you willingly. The discovery was Mr. Furneaux's, not mine.
When we came here this morning, and ascertained that you had been out at
a late hour last night, we asked your man if he could enlighten us as to
your movements. He did so. To the best of his belief you dined at a
club, and occupied a stall at Daly's Theater subsequently. He was sure,
too, you had not walked home through the rain, so it was easy to draw
the conclusion that you returned in a covered vehicle. Mr. Furneaux
requested Bates to produce the clothes you had worn, which, owing to the
uproar created by the news of the murder, had not been brushed and put
away. As a consequence the silk collar and part of the back of your
dress-coat bore the marks of raindrops. How had they got there? The only
logical deduction was that you had thrust your head and shoulders
through a window, and the time of the action is established almost
beyond doubt, because you had changed the coat when Bates came from the
pillar-box. It was either directly after you came in, or while Bates was
absent. Of course you may have looked out twice. Did you? Whether once
or twice, why did you do it?"

Theydon's feelings changed rapidly while Winter was delivering this very
convincing analysis of a few simple facts. He had passed at a bound from
the detected schoolboy stage to that of a man forcing his way through a
thicket who finds himself on the very lip of a precipice.

He remembered hazily that Bates had said something at Waterloo with
regard to the manner in which the detectives, especially Furneaux, had
questioned him. But it was too late to apply the warning thus conveyed.
If he faltered now he was forever discredited. These men would read his
perplexed face as if it were a printed page. In his distress he was
prepared to hear Winter or that little satyr, Furneaux, say mockingly:

"Why are you trying to screen James Creighton Forbes? What is he to you?
What matter his fame or social rank? We are here to see that justice is
done. Out with the truth, let who may suffer."

But neither of the pair said anything of the sort. Furneaux only
interjected a sarcastic comment.

"You will observe, Mr. Theydon, that even in a minor instance of
deductive reasoning, such as this, the man who smells rather than the
man who smokes tobacco solves the problem promptly."

Theydon threw out his hands in token of surrender. He thought he saw a
means of escape, and took it unhesitatingly.

"I'm vanquished," he said. "You force me to admit that I do know a
little, a very little, more than I have confessed hitherto about the man
who visited Mrs. Lester's flat last night. I have said nothing about the
matter thus far because I didn't want to be convicted of a piece of idle
curiosity worthy of a gossip-loving housemaid. I noticed the man I have
described staring at the name tablet of the street as my cab turned the
corner. I did not know him. I had never seen him before last night, but
he was of such distinguished appearance and his face was of so rare a
type that I was interested and wished to ascertain, if possible, on whom
he meant calling if, as it seemed, he was searching for an address in
these flats. Therefore, I did look out, and saw him enter the doorway
beneath. In due course I heard him arrive at Mrs. Lester's door--that
is, I assume it was he. Five minutes later Bates and I heard him depart.
To make sure, I looked out a second time. If you ask me why I behaved in
that way I cannot tell you. I have occupied this flat during the past
five months, and I have never previously, within my recollection, lifted
a window and gazed out to watch anybody's comings and goings. The thing
is inexplicable. All I can say is that it just happened."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Yes."

Theydon gave the assurance readily. It was beyond credence that either
detective should put the one question to which he was now firmly
resolved to give a misleading answer, and in this belief he was
justified, since not even Furneaux's uncanny intelligence could suggest
the fantastic notion that the man who walked through the rain the
previous night and the man with whom Theydon had dined that evening were
one and the same person.

"I don't blame you for adopting a policy of partial concealment," said
the Chief Inspector, spryly. "You are not the first, and you certainly
will not be the last witness from whom the police have to drag the
facts. Now that we have reached more intimate terms, can you help by
describing this stranger?"

Theydon complied at once. He drew just such a general sketch of Forbes
as a skilled observer of men might be expected to formulate after one
direct glance close at hand, supplemented by a view into a lamp-lit
street from a second-storey window on a rainy night.

"So far, so good," said Winter. "You have contrived to fill in several
details lacking in the description supplied by a policeman who chanced
to be standing at the corner when Mrs. Lester's visitor posted a letter.
Did you notice that?"

"Yes. Indeed, I believed that, whether intentionally or not, he held an
open umbrella at an angle which prevented the constable from seeing his
face."

"In fact, it's marvellous what you really do know when your memory is
jogged," snapped Furneaux.

Theydon did not resent the sarcasm. He smiled candidly into the little
detective's eyes.

"I suppose I deserve that," he said meekly.

"Why did you hide your knowledge of Mrs. Lester's visitor from your man
Bates?"

"I was rather ashamed of the subterfuge adopted in order to get him out
of the room while I opened the window the first time."

"That was understandable last night, but I fail to follow your reasoning
for a policy of silence when we told you at Waterloo that Mrs. Lester
had been killed."

"I was utterly taken aback by your news. I wanted time to think. I never
meant to hide any material fact at this interview."

"You have contrived to delay and hamper our inquiry for twelve
hours--twenty-four in reality. I can't make you out, Mr. Theydon. You
would never have said a word about your very accurate acquaintance with
this mysterious stranger's appearance had not last night's rainstorm
left its legible record on your clothes. Do you now vouch for it that
the man was completely unknown to you?"

"You are pleased to be severe, Mr. Furneaux, but, having placed myself
in a false position, I must accept your strictures. I assure you, on my
honor, that the man I saw was an absolute stranger."

Happily, Theydon was under no compulsion to choose his words. He met the
detective's searching gaze unflinchingly. Fate, after terrifying him,
had been kind. If Furneaux had expressed himself differently--if, for
instance, he had said: "Had you ever before seen the man?" or "Have you
now any reason for believing that you know his name?"--he would have
forced Theydon's hand in a way he was far from suspecting.

"It may surprise you to hear," piped the shrill, cracked voice, "that
there are dozens of policemen walking about London who would arrest you
on suspicion had you treated them as you have treated us."

"Then I can only say that I am fortunate in my inquisitors," smiled
Theydon.

Winter held up a massive fist in deprecation of these acerbities.

"You have nothing more to tell us?" he queried.

"Nothing!"

"Then we need not trouble you further tonight. Of course, if luck favors
us and we find the gentleman with the classical features--the most
unlikely person to commit a murder I have ever heard of--we shall want
you to identify him."

"I am at your service at any time. But before you go won't you enlighten
me somewhat? What did really happen? I have not even seen a newspaper
account of the crime."

"Would you care to examine No. 17?"

It was Furneaux who put the question, and Theydon was genuinely
astonished.

"Do you mean--" he began, but Furneaux laughed, almost savagely.

"I mean Mrs. Lester's flat," he said. "The poor woman's body is at the
mortuary. If you come with us we can reconstruct the crime. It occurred
about this very hour if the doctor's calculations are well founded."

Theydon rose.

"I shall be most--interested," he said. "By the way, Mr. Furneaux, yours
is a French name. Are you a Frenchman, may I ask?"

"A Jersey man. You think I am adopting some of the methods of the French
_juge d'instruction_, eh?"

"No. I cannot bring myself to believe that you regard me as a murderer."

The three passed out into the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Bates immediately
showed scared faces at the kitchen door.

"It's all right, Bates," said Theydon airily. "I'm not a prisoner. I'll
be with you again in a few minutes."

But Bates was profoundly disturbed.

"Wot beats me," he said to his wife when they were alone, "is why that
little ferret wanted to see the guv'nor's clothes. I looked 'em over
carefully afterwards, an' there wasn't a speck on 'em except some spots
of rain on the coat collar. It's a queer business, no matter how you
look at it. Mr. Theydon's manner was strange when he kem in last night.
He seemed to be list'nin' for something. I don't know wot to make of it,
Eliza. I reely don't."

In effect, since no man is a hero to his valet, what would Tomlinson,
butler at No. 11 Fortescue Square, have thought of his master if told
that Mrs. Lester's last known visitor was James Creighton Forbes?




CHAPTER IV

A TELEPHONIC TALK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES


Theydon's journalistic experiences had been, for the most part, those of
the "special correspondent," or descriptive writer. He had never entered
one of those fetid slums of a great city in which, too often, murder is
done, never sickened with the physical nausea of death in its most
revolting aspect, when some unhappy wretch's foul body serves only to
further pollute air already vile.

It was passing strange, therefore, that Winter had no sooner opened the
door of No. 17 than the novice of the party became aware of a heavy,
pungent scent which he associated with some affrighting and unclean
thing. At first he swept aside the phantasy. Strong as he was, his
nervous system had been subjected to severe strain that evening. He knew
well that the mind can create its own specters, that the five senses can
be subjugated by forces which science has not as yet either measured or
defined.

Moreover, he was standing in a hall furnished with a taste and quiet
elegance that must surely indicate similar features in each room of a
suite which, in other respects, bore an almost exact resemblance of his
own apartments. In sheer protest against the riot of an overwrought
imagination he brushed a hand across his eyes.

The chief inspector noted the action.

"You will find nothing grewsome here, I assure you," he said, quietly.
"Beyond a few signs of hurried rummaging of drawers and boxes there is
absolutely no indication of a crime having been committed."

"Mr. Theydon came prepared to see ghosts," squeaked Furneaux. "Evidently
he is not acquainted with the peculiar smell of a joss stick."

Theydon turned troubled eyes on the wizened little man who seemed to
have the power of reading his secret thought.

"A joss stick," he repeated. "Isn't that some sort of incense used by
Chinese in their temples?"

"Yes," said Furneaux.

"Lots of ladies burn them in their boudoirs nowadays," explained Winter
offhandedly.

"The Chinese burn them to propitiate evil spirits," murmured Furneaux.
"The Taou gods are mostly deities of a very unpleasant frame of mind.
The mere scowl of one of them from a painted fan suggests novel and
painful forms of torture. I've seen Shang Ti grinning at me from a
porcelain vase, otherwise exquisite, and felt my hair rising."

"I do wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, Charles," said Winter, frowning
heavily.

"Am I talking nonsense, Mr. Theydon?" demanded Furneaux. "Didn't your
flesh creep when that queer perfume assailed your nostrils, which are
not yet altogether atrophied by the reek of thousands of rank cigars?"

"Stop it!" commanded Winter, throwing open a door.

"And they christened him Leander--Leander, who swam the Hellespont for
love of a woman!" muttered Furneaux.

Theydon began to believe that both detectives were cranks of the first
order. Furneaux, whose extraordinary insight he actually feared, was
obviously an excellent example of the alliance between insanity and
genius. In a word, he failed, and not unreasonably, to understand that
when the Jersey man was mouthing a strange jargon of knowledge and
incoherence, and Winter was inclined to be snappy with his subordinate,
and each was more than rude to the other, they were then giving tongue
like hounds hot on the trail.

Winter's Christian names were James Leander, the latter being conferred
for no more classical reason than his father's association with a famous
boating club, but the fact supplied Furneaux with material for many a
quip. These things Theydon learnt later. At present he was giving all
his attention to Winter, who led the way into a dainty furnished
bedroom. The electric lights were governed by two switches. A pair of
lamps occupied the usual place in front of a dressing table; a third was
suspended from a canopy over the bed, and was controlled also by an
alternate switch behind the bolster. Winter turned on all three lights,
so the room was brilliantly illuminated.

Any place less likely to become the scene of a brutal crime could hardly
be imagined. It looked exactly what it was, the bedchamber of a refined
and well-bred woman, whose trained sense of color and design was shown
by the harmony of carpet, rugs, wall paper and furniture.

Winter pointed to a slight depression on the side of the bed. A white
linen coverlet was rumpled as though some one had sat there.

"That is where Ann Rogers, the maid, found her mistress at ten o'clock
this morning," he said. "As you see, the bed had not been slept in.
Indeed, Mrs. Lester was fully dressed. My belief is that she was pounced
on the instant she entered the room--probably to retire for the
night--strangled before she could utter a sound, and flung here when
dead."

Again Theydon was aware of the subtle, penetrating, and not wholly
unpleasing scent which Furneaux had attributed to the burning of a joss
stick, but his mind was focused on the detective's words, which
suggested a queer discrepancy between certain vague possibilities
already flitting through his brain and the terrible drama as it
presented itself to a skilled criminologist.

"But," he said, almost protestingly, "from what I have seen of Mrs.
Lester she was a strong and active woman. It is inconceivable that the
man who came here last night could have murdered her while I was writing
two brief notes. I am positive he did not remain five minutes, and Bates
or I, or both of us, must have heard some trampling of feet, some
indications of a struggle. Moreover, you think she was about to retire.
Doesn't that opinion conflict with the known facts?"

"What known facts?"

"Well--or--those I have mentioned. The brief visit, the open nature of
the arrival and departure, the posting of a letter, which, by the way,
may have been written in his presence."

"It was."

Theydon positively jumped. He would not be surprised now if Forbes's
name came out.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Mrs. Lester wrote to an aunt in Oxfordshire, a lady who lives in the
village of Iffley, near the first lock on the Thames below Oxford. As it
happened, this aunt, a Miss Beale, was lunching with a friend in Oxford
today, and some one showed her an early edition of a London evening
newspaper containing an account of the murder. Instead of yielding to
hysteria, and passing from one fainting fit into another, Miss Beale had
the rare good sense to go straight to the police station. One of our men
has interviewed her this evening, and she is coming here tomorrow, but
in the meantime the Oxford police telephoned the gist of the letter,
which is headed 'Monday, 11:30 p. m.' The hour is not quite accurate,
but near enough, since the context shows that a 'friend' had just called
and given certain information which had determined the writer to leave
London 'to-morrow'--meaning today--'or Wednesday at latest.' So you see,
Mr. Theydon, if the unknown is an honest man, he will soon hear of the
hue and cry raised by the murder, and declare himself to the police.
Indeed, for all I know, he may have reported himself to the Yard
already. In that event you will probably meet him again quite soon."

An electric bell jarred at the end of the main passage. It smote on
their ears with the loud emphasis of a pistol shot. Even the detectives
were startled, and Winter said, in a tone of distinct annoyance:

"Go and see who the deuce that is, Furneaux."

Furneaux returned promptly with Bates, pallid and apologetic.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the intruder, addressing Theydon, but allowing
his eyes to roam furtively about the room as though he expected to see
something ghoul-like and sinister, "Mr. Forbes has rung up--"

Theydon's voice literally quavered. For the first time in his life he
knew why a woman shrieks in the stress of sudden excitement.

"Tell Mr. Forbes I am still engaged with the gentlemen from Scotland
Yard," he gasped. "I'll give him a call the moment I'm free. He will
understand. Anyhow, I can't explain further now."

"Yes, sir," and Bates disappeared.

"Mr. Forbes? The gentleman you were dining with?" inquired Winter.

"Yes," said Theydon. He knew he ought to add something by way of
explanation, but his heart was thumping madly, and he dared not trust
his voice.

"You told him, I suppose, that Scotland Yard was worrying you, and he
wants to know the result?"

Then Theydon saw an avenue of escape, and took it eagerly.

"I spoke of the murder, of course," he said, "but Mr. Forbes was hardly
interested. He had seen the newspaper placards, and that was all he knew
of it. The truth is, he is wholly wrapped up in a scheme for reforming
mankind by excluding airships and aeroplanes from warlike operations,
and found me a somewhat preoccupied listener. He wants my help, such as
it is, and I have no doubt the present call is a preliminary to another
meeting tomorrow."

"Why not go to him? We'll wait. We can do nothing more tonight after
leaving here."

"Speaking candidly, I am not in a mood to discuss such visionary
projects. I shall be glad if Mr. Forbes has gone to bed when I do ring
him up."

Winter shook his head.

"Excuse me, Mr. Theydon, but I am older than you, and may 'venture on
advice,'" he said. "A writer who has his way to make in the world cannot
afford to slight a man of Mr. Forbes's standing. Go to him at once. It
will please him. Don't hurry."

Theydon realized that a continued refusal would certainly set Furneaux's
wits at work, and he dreaded the outcome. He went without another word.
When the outer door had closed behind him Winter turned to Furneaux.

"Well?" he said.

For answer Furneaux waved a hand and tiptoed into the hall. Waiting
until he heard the door of No. 18 slam he opened the latch of No. 17 so
cautiously that no sound was forthcoming. Soon he had an ear to
Theydon's letter box and was following attentively a one-sided
conversation.

Now, Theydon had thought hard during the few strides from one flat to
the other. His telephone was fixed close to the party wall dividing the
two sets of apartments and he was not certain that, in the absolute
quietude prevailing in Innesmore Mansions at that late hour, a voice
could not be overheard. True, he did not count on Furneaux playing the
eavesdropper at the slit of the letter box, but he resolved to take no
risks and say nothing that any one could make capital of.

So, when he had asked the exchange to reconnect him with the caller who
had just rung up, and he was put through, this is what Furneaux heard:

"That you, Mr. Forbes. Sorry I sent my man just now with a message that
must leave sounded rather curt, but the Scotland Yard people kindly
excused me, so I can give you a minute or two.... No, I'm sorry, but I
cannot come to luncheon tomorrow, nor go to Brooklands again this week.
You see, this dreadful murder which I spoke of will necessitate my
presence at an inquest, and the police seem to attach much significance
to the visit to Mrs. Lester last night of a man whom I saw in the
street, and whom Bates and I heard entering and leaving the poor lady's
flat.... Bates? O, he is my general factotum. He and his wife keep house
for me.... Yes, I'll gladly let you know the earliest date when I'll be
free. Then you and I can go into the flying proposition thoroughly....
No. The detectives have apparently not got any clew to the murderer, nor
even discovered any motive for the crime. They have taken me into No.
17. In fact, I was there when your call was made.... The murderer
ransacked the place thoroughly, but did not touch money or jewelry, I
understand. The only peculiar thing, if I may so describe it, about the
place, is the scent of a burnt joss stick. It clings to the passage and
the bedroom in which the body was found.... Ah, by the way, Mrs. Lester
wrote a letter, which her visitor posted, and the addressee, her aunt,
is in communication with the police. The text tends to clear the man of
suspicion.... Yes, if, by chance, I find myself at liberty tomorrow,
I'll 'phone you at your city office. I'll find the number in the
directory, of course?... O, thanks--I'll jot it down--00400 Bank....
Goodnight! Too bad that this wretched affair should interfere with our
crusade, which, the more I think of it, the stronger it appeals. _Au
revoir_, then."

In reality, Forbes had not said one word about his peace propaganda, but
he had evidently been quick to realize that Theydon was purposely giving
their talk a twist in that direction. A muttered "I
understand--perfectly," showed this, and he did not strive to conceal
the alarm which possessed him when Theydon spoke of the joss stick. He
murmured distinctly, "Great Heavens! Then I was not mistaken," and again
voiced his distress on hearing of the letter.

But he made matters easy by pressing Theydon to come and see him on the
morrow, either at his office in Old Broad Street or at his residence. On
the whole, Theydon did not care who heard what he had said, but it was a
relief to find that he had to ring for readmission to No. 17.

Furneaux opened the door.

"You soon got rid of your friend, then?" said the detective, while they
were on the way to rejoin Winter.

"Yes. It was just what I imagined--a pressing invitation to plunge
forthwith into Mr. Forbes's project for the regeneration of mankind. I
had to tell him frankly that you gentlemen had first claim on me. I
suppose I shall be wanted at the inquest?"

"Not tomorrow. The coroner will hear the medical evidence, and that of
Ann Rogers, if she is in a condition to appear, and there will be an
adjournment for a week."

"Ah, that reminds me. Didn't Mrs. Lester's servant admit the visitor
last night?"

Theydon put the question advisedly. He was calmer now, and had made up
his mind as to the course he should pursue. Although he had assured
Winter that he would recognize the stranger if confronted with him, and,
if Forbes was brought into the inquiry, the admission might prove
awkward, he meant to say that he had, indeed, noticed a remarkable
resemblance in the millionaire to the man he had seen looking up at the
name tablet on the corner, but felt that the likeness was only one of
those singular coincidences which abound in a cosmopolitan city.

The smartest cross-examiner at the bar could not shake him if he took
that stand. The sheer improbability of Forbes being the mysterious
visitor would justify his attitude, and the notion was so consoling that
he faced the two detectives with new confidence and a self-possession
that was exceedingly pleasant when compared, with his earlier
embarrassment.

"No," said Winter. "By a most remarkable chance, Ann Rogers was given
leave to spend the night with her father, who lives in Camden Town. He
is an old man and was taken ill last evening. He believes he asked some
one to telegraph to his daughter, asking her to come to him. She
certainly received a telegram and as certainly did visit him. Of course,
that phase of the affair will be cleared up thoroughly, but the main
facts are indisputable. Ann Rogers has her own latchkey. As Mrs. Lester
usually sat up late, being a lover of books, and seldom stirred before
ten o'clock, the maid waited until that hour before bringing her
mistress's cup of tea. That stain on the carpet near the door shows
where the tray fell from her hands."

Sometimes an artist obtains the strongest effect by one deft sweep of
the brush. Winter, though he would have blushed if described as an
artist in words, had achieved a similar result by his concluding
sentence. Theydon pictured the scene. He saw the limp form thrown across
the bed, the distorted face, the hands and arms posed grotesquely.

He heard the shrill scream of the terrified servant, an elderly woman
whom Bates described as "a quiet body," and could imagine the clatter of
the laden tray as it dropped from nerveless fingers. A sort of fury rose
within him. Mrs. Lester had been done to death in a horrible and
insensate way, and no matter who suffered, be he millionaire or pauper,
the wretch who committed the crime should be made to pay the penalty of
the law.

In that moment he forgot Evelyn Forbes, and thought only of the fair and
gracious woman whose agonized spirit had taken flight under the
compulsion of the tiger grip of some human brute now moving among his
fellow-creatures unknown and unsuspected. It was inconceivable that
Forbes should be guilty, but why should he not avow his acquaintance
with the victim, and thus aid the police in their quest?

He glowered savagely at the telltale stain, and vowed to rid his
conscience of an incubus. He would wait till the morrow and force Forbes
to come out into the open. Otherwise--

"You wish you had the murderer here now?"

Furneaux spoke softly, and with no trace of his wonted irony, but
Theydon was aware that once more the little detective had peered into
his very soul.

"Yes," he said, and there was a new gravity in his tone. "I do wish
that. I have never before been brought in contact with a crime of this
magnitude. It conveys a sort of personal responsibility. To think that I
was in my room, reading about aviation, while a woman's life was being
choked out of her within a few feet of where I was seated! O, it is
monstrous! Let me tell you two, here and now, that if I can do anything
to bring Mrs. Lester's slayer to justice, you can count on me, no matter
what the cost."

"I'm sure you mean what you say, Mr. Theydon," said Winter soothingly.
"Well, I suppose we can do no more tonight. I have little else to tell
you--"

"The skull--the ivory skull!" put in Furneaux.

For an instant an expression of annoyance flitted across the chief
inspector's good-humored face. Theydon did not see it, because
Furneaux's odd-sounding words caused him to look with astonishment at
the man who uttered them.

"An ivory skull!" he cried. "What has an ivory skull to do with the
murder of Mrs. Lester?"

"We cannot even begin to guess at its meaning yet," said Winter, who,
after one fierce glance at his colleague, had recovered his poise. "That
is why I did not mention it. I hate the introduction of bizarre features
into an inquiry of this sort. But, now that the thing has been spoken
of, I may as well state that when the medical examination was being made
at the mortuary a tiny skull, not bigger than a pea, and made of ivory,
was found inside Mrs. Lester's underbodice. The curious fact is that it
was loose. Had it been attached to a cord, or secured in some way, one
might regard it as a charm or amulet, because some women, even in the
London of today, are not beyond the reach of superstition in such
matters. But, as I say, it was not safeguarded at all, so we may
reasonably assume that it was not carried habitually. Of course,
Furneaux readily evolved a far-fetched theory that it is a sign, or
symbol, and was thrust out of sight among the clothing on the dead
woman's breast by the man who killed her. But that is idle guesswork. We
of the Yard seldom pay heed to theatrical notions of that kind. Here is
the article. I don't mind letting you see it, but kindly remember that
its existence must not be made known. I must have your promise not to
mention it to a living creature."

Furneaux chuckled derisively.

"That is precisely the sort of thing anybody would say who attached no
importance to the exhibit," he piped.

Winter so nearly lost his temper that he repressed the retort on his
lips. He contented himself, however, with producing a small white object
from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Theydon. It was a bit of
ivory, hollow, and very light, and fashioned as a skull.

Yet, it was by no means an ordinary creation. The artist who fashioned
it had gratified a morbid taste by imparting to the eyeless sockets and
close-set rows of teeth a malign and threatening grin. Wickedness, not
death, was suggested, but the craftsmanship was faultless. A collector
would have paid a large sum for it, while the average citizen would
refuse to have it in his house.

"What an extraordinary thing," said Theydon, turning the curio round and
round in his fingers.

"It's wonderfully well carved," agreed Winter.

"From that point of view it's a masterpiece, but what I meant was the
astounding fact that it should have been discovered on the dead woman's
body. Was it placed over her heart?"

"Why do you ask that?" came the sharp demand.

"Because--if it is a token of some vendetta--if the murderer wished to
signify that he had glutted his vengeance--"

"O, you're as bad as Furneaux," cried Winter impatiently. "Give it to
me. I must be off. The hour is long past midnight and I have a busy day
before me tomorrow."

Back in the seclusion of his own rooms, Theydon debated the question
whether or not he should endeavor to communicate with Forbes again that
night. Somehow it seemed to him that Forbes would be most concerned at
hearing of the gray car. And what of the ivory skull?

Suppose he knew of that! But a certain revulsion of feeling had come
over Theydon since the sheer brutality of the murder had been revealed.
He failed to see now why he should be so solicitous for Forbes's
welfare. No matter what private purpose the man might serve by
concealing his visit to Mrs. Lester, it ought to give way before the
paramount importance of tracking a pitiless and callous criminal.

So Theydon hardened his heart and went to bed, and, being sound in mind
and constitution, slept like a just man wearied. Nevertheless, the last
thing he saw before the curtain fell on his tired brain was an ivory
skull dancing in the darkness.

Greatly as the many problems attached to Mrs. Lester's death bewildered
him, he would have been even more perplexed if he had overheard the
conversation between Winter and Furneaux when they entered a taxi and
gave Scotland Yard as their destination.

"Look here, Charles," began Winter firmly; but the other stayed him with
a clutch of thin, nervous fingers on an arm strong enough to fell an ox.

"Listen first, James--lecture me afterward," pleaded Furneaux. "I can't
help yielding to impulse. And why should I strive to help it, anyhow?
How often has impulse led me to the goal when by every known rule of
evidence I was completely beaten? That is my plea. That is why I brought
that young fellow into No. 17, and watched the story of the tragedy
reshaping itself in his imagination. That is why, too, I spoke of the
ivory skull. Think what it means to one with the writer's temperament.
The skull will never leave his mind's eye. It will focus and control his
thoughts and actions. And I feel it in my bones that only by keeping in
touch with Mr. Francis Theydon shall we solve the Innesmore Mansions
mystery. I can't explain why I think this, no more than the receiver of
a wireless message can account for the waves of energy it picks up from
the void and transmutes into the ordered sequences of the Morse code.
All I know is that when I am near him I am, as the children say, 'warm,'
and when away from him, 'cold.' While he was examining the skull I was
positively 'hot,' and was half inclined to treat him as a thought
transference medium and order him sternly to speak.... No. Be calm! I
even bid you be honest. When have you, ever before, admitted an outsider
to your councils? And, if you make an exception of Theydon, why are you
doing it?"

Winter bit the end off a cigar with a vicious jerk of his round head. He
struck a match and created such a volume of smoke that Furneaux coughed
affectedly.

"The real clew," he said at last, "rests with the gray car. What did you
make of that?"

"That, my bulky friend, will figure in my memory as a reproach for many
a year. When, if ever, I am tempted to preen myself on some peculiarly
close piece of ratiocinative reasoning, I shall say: 'Little man, pigmy,
remember the gray car.'"

"You think that some one had the impudence to follow us, watch us in
Waterloo, and take up Theydon's trail when we had revealed it?"

"A-ha. It touched you, too, did it?"

"But why?"

"The some one in question wants to know that."

"You mean they are anxious to find out what we are doing?"

"Exactly."

Winter laughed cheerfully.

"Before long I shall begin to enjoy this hunt, Charles. I like to find
originality in a felon. It varies the routine. At any rate, it is
something new that you and I should be shadowed by the very people we
are in pursuit of--O, I was nearly forgetting. Anything fresh in that
telephone talk?"

"It seemed all right."

"Seemed?"

"Well, it was too straightforward. Theydon puzzles me. I admit it
frankly. He also worries me. But let me handle him in my own way. Have
no fear that he will use our material for newspaper purposes. With
regard to the Innesmore Mansions affair, Theydon will lie close as a
fish. Why? No use asking you, of course. You despise intuition. When you
die some one should begin your epitaph: 'From information received.' But
I'll stick to Theydon. See if I don't, even if I have to go up with him
in one of Forbes's airships."




CHAPTER V

A LEAP IN THE DARK


With the morning Theydon brought a mature and impartial judgment to bear
on his perplexities. The average man, if asked to form an opinion on any
difficult point, will probably arrive at a saner decision during the
first pipe after breakfast than at any other given hour of the day.
Excellent physiological reasons account for this truism. The sound mind
in a sound body is then working under the most favorable conditions.

It is free from the strain of affairs. The cold, clear morning light
divests problems of the undue importance, or, it may be, the glamour of
novelty, which they possessed overnight. At any rate, Frank Theydon,
clenching a pipe between his teeth, and gazing thoughtfully through an
open window at the trees in Innesmore Gardens, reviewed yesterday's
happenings calmly and critically, and arrived at the settled conviction
that his proper course was to visit Scotland Yard and make known to the
authorities the one vital fact he had withheld from their ken thus far.

It was not for him to assess the significance of Mr. Forbes's desire to
remain in the background. If the millionaire's excuse, or explanation,
of his failure to communicate at once with the Criminal Investigation
Department was a sufficiently valid one, Scotland Yard would be
satisfied and might agree to keep his name out of the inquiry.

On the other hand, he, Theydon, might be balking the course of justice
by holding his tongue. There was yet a third possibility, one fraught
with personal discredit. Mr. Forbes himself might realize that a policy
of candor offered the only dignified course.

Suppose he was minded to tell the detectives that he was the man who
visited Mrs. Lester shortly before midnight, what would Winter and
Furneaux think of the young gentleman who had actually dined with Forbes
before they took him into their confidence--who heard with such
righteous indignation how Mrs. Lester met her death--yet brazenly
concealed the fact that he had just left the house of one whom they were
so anxious to meet and question?

Of course, the radiant vision of Evelyn Forbes intruded on this
well-considered and unemotional analysis; but Theydon resolutely shook
his head.

"No, by Jove!" he communed. "You mustn't make an ass of yourself, my
boy, because a pretty girl was gracious for an hour or so. Be honest
with yourself, old chap! If there were no Evelyn, or if Evelyn were
harelipped and squinted, you wouldn't hesitate a second--now, would
you?"

Yet he had given a promise. How reconcile an immediate call on Scotland
Yard with the guarantee of secrecy demanded by Forbes? Well, he must put
himself right with Forbes without delay--tell him straightforwardly that
the bond could not hold. Theydon was no lawyer, but he was assured that
an agreement founded on positive wrong was not tenable, legally or
morally.

He would be adamant with Forbes, and decline to countenance any plea in
support of continued silence. If Forbes's demand was reasonable,
Scotland Yard would grant it. If justice compelled Forbes to come out
into the open, no private citizen should attempt to defeat the ends of
justice.

"So that settles it," announced Theydon firmly if not cheerfully. "I'll
ring up Forbes, and get the thing over and done with. I'll never see his
daughter again, I suppose, but that can't be helped. 'Tis better to have
seen and lost than never to have seen at all."

He turned from the window, walked to the fireplace, tapped his pipe
firmly on the grate, and was about to go into the hall and call up the
telephone exchange, when the door-bell rang. He was aware of a muffled
conversation between Bates and a visitor. Then the valet appeared,
obviously ill at ease.

"If you please, sir," he announced, "a lady, a Miss Beale, of Oxford,
who says she is Mrs. Lester's aunt, wishes to see you."

Theydon was immensely surprised, as well he might be. But there was only
one thing to be done.

"Show her in," he said.

Miss Beale entered. She was slight of figure, middle-aged and
gray-haired. The wanness of her thin features was accentuated by an
attire of deep mourning, but the pallor in her cheeks fled for an
instant when she set eyes on Theydon.

"Pray forgive the intrusion," she faltered. "I--I expected to meet an
older man."

It was a curious utterance, and Theydon tried to relieve her evident
nervousness by being mildly humorous.

"I hope to correct my juvenile appearance in course of time," he said,
smiling. "Meanwhile, won't you be seated? You are not quite unknown to
me, Miss Beale. That is--I heard of you last night from the Scotland
Yard people."

She sat down at once, but seemed to be at a loss for words. Her lips
trembled, and Theydon thought she was going to cry.

"Have you traveled from Oxford this morning?" he said, simulating a
courteous nonchalance he was far from feeling. "If so, you must have
started from home at an ungodly hour. Let me have some breakfast
prepared for you."

"No--no," she stammered.

"Well, a cup of tea, then? Come, now, no woman ever refuses a cup of
tea."

"You are very kind."

He rang the bell.

"I would not have ventured to call on you if I had not seen your name in
the newspaper," she went on.

Miss Beale certainly had the knack of saying unexpected things. It was
nothing new that Theydon should find his own name in print, but on this
occasion he could not choose but associate the distinction with the
crime in No. 17; that he should be mentioned in connection with it was
neither anticipated nor pleasing. At the same time he realized the
astounding fact that he had not even glanced at a newspaper during
twenty-four hours.

"What in the world have the newspapers to say about me?" he cried.

"It--it said--that Mr. Francis Berrold Theydon, the well-known author,
lived in No. 18, the flat exactly opposite that which my unhappy niece
occupied. I--I have read some of your books, Mr. Theydon, and I pictured
you quite a serious-looking person of my own age."

He laughed. Bates entered, and was almost shocked at finding his master
in such lively mood.

"Oh, this lady has traveled from Oxford this morning; a cup of tea and
some nice toast, please, Bates," said Theydon. Then when the two were
alone together again, he brushed aside the question of his age as
irrelevant.

"I assure you that since this time yesterday I have lost some of the
careless buoyancy of youth," he said. "I had not the honor of Mrs.
Lester's acquaintance, but I knew her well by sight, and I received the
shock of my life last evening when I heard of her terrible end. It is an
extraordinary thing, seeing that we were such close neighbors, but I
believe you got the news long before I did, because I left home early
and heard nothing of what had happened till my man met me at Waterloo in
the evening."

"You have seen the--the detectives in the meantime?"

"Yes."

"Then you will be able to tell me something definite. I have promised to
call at Scotland Yard at eleven o'clock, and the only scraps of
intelligence I have gathered are those in the papers. I would have come
to London last night, but was afraid to travel, lest I should faint in
the train. Moreover, some one in London promised to send a detective to
see me. He came, but could give no information. Indeed, he wanted to
learn certain things from me. So, after a weary night, I caught the
first train, and it occurred to me, as you lived so near, that you might
be kind enough to--to--"

The long speech was too much for her, and her lips quivered pitifully a
second time.

"I fully understand," said Theydon sympathetically. "Now, I'm positive
you have eaten hardly anything today. Won't you let me order an egg?"

"No, please. I'll be glad of the tea, but I cannot make a meal--yet. Is
it true that my niece was absolutely alone in her flat on Monday night?"

Seeing that Miss Beale was consumed with anxiety to hear an intelligible
version of the tragedy, Theydon at once recited all, or nearly all, that
was known to him. The only points he suppressed were those with
reference to the gray car and the ivory skull. The lady listened
attentively and with more self-control than he gave her credit for.

Bates came in with a laden tray, on which a boiled egg appeared. Mrs.
Bates had used her discretion, and decided that any one who had set out
from Oxford so early in the day must be in need of more solid
refreshment than tea and toast. Thus cozened, as it were, into eating,
Miss Beale tackled the egg, and Theydon was glad to note that she made a
fairly good meal, being probably unaware of her hunger until the means
of sating it presented itself.

But she missed no word of his story, and when he made an end, put some
shrewd questions.

"I take it," she said, "that the strange gentleman who visited my niece
on Monday night posted the very letter which I received by the second
delivery yesterday?"

"That is what the police believe," replied Theydon.

"Then it would seem that she resolved to come to me at Iffley as the
result of something he told her?"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I heard from her only last Saturday, and she not only said
nothing about coming to Oxfordshire, but asked me to arrange to spend a
fortnight in London before we both went to Cornwall for the Summer."

"Ah! That is rather important, I should imagine," said Theydon
thoughtfully.

"It is odd, too, that you and the detectives should have noticed the
smell of a joss stick in the flat," went on Miss Beale. "Edith--my
niece, you know--could not bear the smell of joss sticks. They reminded
her of Shanghai, where she lost her husband."

Theydon looked more startled than such a seemingly simple statement
warranted. He had realized already that the ivory skull was the work of
an Oriental artist, and the mention of Shanghai brought that sinister
symbol very vividly to his mind's eye.

"Mrs. Lester had lived in China, then?" he said.

"Yes. She was out there nearly six years. Her husband died suddenly last
October--he was poisoned, she firmly believed--and, of course, she came
home at once."

"What was Mr. Lester's business, or profession?"

"He was a barrister. I do not mean that he practised in the Consular
courts. He was making his way in England, but was offered some sort of
appointment in Shanghai. The post was so lucrative that he relinquished
a growing connection at the bar. I have never really understood what he
did. I fancy he had to report on commercial matters to some firm of
bankers in London, but he supplied very little positive information
before Edith and he sailed. Indeed, I took it that his mission was
highly confidential, and about that time there was a lot in the
newspapers about rival negotiators for a big Chinese loan, so I formed
the opinion that he was sent out in connection with something of the
sort. Neither he nor Edith meant to remain long in the Far East. At
first their letters always spoke of an early return. Then, when the
years dragged on, and I asked for definite news of their homecoming,
Edith said that Arthur could not get away until the country's political
affairs were in a more settled state. Finally came a cablegram from
Edith: 'Arthur dead; sailing immediately,' and my niece was with me
within a few weeks. The supposed cause of her husband's death was some
virulent type of fever, but, as I said, Edith was convinced that he had
been poisoned."

"Why?"

"That I never understood. She never willingly talked about Shanghai, or
her life there. Indeed, she was always most anxious that no one should
know she had ever lived in China. Yet she had plenty of friends out
there. I gathered that Arthur had left her well provided for
financially, and they were a most devoted couple. Edith was the only
relative I possessed. It is very dreadful, Mr. Theydon, that she should
be taken from me in such a way."

Her hearer was almost thankful that she yielded to the inevitable rush
of emotion. It gave him time to collect his wits, which had lost their
poise when that wicked-looking little skull was, so to speak, thrust
forcibly into his recollection.

"In a word," he said, at last, "you are Mrs. Lester's next-of-kin and
probably her heiress?"

"Yes, I suppose so, though I was not thinking of that," came the tearful
answer.

"Yet the relationship entails certain responsibilities," said Theydon
firmly. "You should be legally represented at the inquest. Are your
affairs in the hands of any firm of solicitors?"

"Yes--at Oxford. I contrived to call at their office yesterday and they
recommended me to consult these people," and Miss Beale produced a card
from a handbag. Theydon read the name and address of a well-known West
End firm.

"Good," he said. "I recommend you to go there at once. By the way, was
any one looking after Mrs. Lester's interests? Surely she had dealings
with a bank or an agency?"

"Y--yes. I do happen to know the source from which her income came.
She--made a secret of it--in a measure."

"Pray don't tell me anything of that sort. Your legal adviser might not
approve."

"But what does it matter now? Poor Edith is dead. Her affairs cannot
help being dragged into the light of day. She had some railway shares
and bonds, some of which were left to her by her father, and others
which came under a marriage settlement, but the greater part of her
revenue was derived from a monthly payment made by the bank of which Mr.
James Creighton Forbes is the head."

Miss Beale naturally misinterpreted the blank stare with which Theydon
received this remarkable statement.

"I don't see why any one should wish to conceal a simple matter of
business like that," she said nervously. "May I explain that I have an
impression, not founded on anything quite tangible, that Mr. Forbes was
largely interested in the syndicate which sent Arthur Lester to China,
so it is very likely that the payment of an annuity, or pension, to
Arthur's widow would be left in his care. I do not know. I am only
guessing. But that matter, and others, can hardly fail to be cleared up
by the police inquiry."

Theydon recovered his self-control as rapidly as he had lost it. He
glanced at the clock--10:15. Within half an hour, or less, Miss Beale
would be on her way to Scotland Yard. He must act promptly and
decisively, or he would find himself in a distinctly unfavorable
position in his relations with the Criminal Investigation Department.

"I happen to be acquainted with Mr. Forbes," he said, striving
desperately to appear cool and methodical when his brain was seething.
"Would you mind if I just rang him up on the telephone? A few words now
might enlighten us materially."

"O, you are most helpful," said the lady, blushing again with timid
gratitude. "I am so glad I summoned up courage to call on you. I was
terrified at the idea of going to the Police Headquarters, but I shall
not mind it at all now."

Soon Theydon was asking for "00400, Bank." He had left the door of his
sitting room open purposely. No matter what the outcome, he no longer
dared keep the compact of silence into which he had entered with Forbes.
But the millionaire was not at his office. In response to a very
determined request for a word with some one in authority, "on a matter
of real urgency," the clerk who had answered the call brought "Mr.
Forbes's secretary," a Mr. Macdonald, to the telephone.

"It is important, vitally important, that I should speak with Mr. Forbes
within the next few minutes," said Theydon, after giving his name and
address. "Do you expect him to arrive soon? Or shall I try and reach him
at Fortescue Square?"

"Mr. Forbes will not be here till midday," came a voice with a
pronounced Scottish intonation. "I'm doubtful, too, if ye'll catch him
at home. Can I give him a message?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Well, I cannot say."

"But do you know?"

"I'll be glad to give him a message."

"It will be too late, then. Please understand, Mr. Macdonald, that I am
making this call at Mr. Forbes's express wish. It is, as I have said,
vitally important that I should get in touch with him without delay."

Scottish caution was not to be overcome by an appeal of that sort.

"I cannot go beyond what I have said," was the reply. "If you like to
ask at his house--"

"O, ring off!" cried Theydon, who pictured the secretary as a lanky
hollow-cheeked Scot, a model of discretion and trustworthiness, no
doubt, but utterly unequal to a crisis demanding some measure of
self-confident initiative. In reality, Mr. Macdonald was short and
stout, and quite a jovial little man.

After an exasperating delay, he got into communication with the Forbes
mansion in Fortescue Square.

"I'm Mr. Frank Theydon," he said, striving to speak unconcernedly. "Is
Mr. Forbes in?"

"No, sir."

"Is that you, Tomlinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Forbes at once?"

"Isn't he at his office, sir?"

"No. He will not be there till 12 o'clock."

A pause of indecision on Tomlinson's part. Then, a possible solution of
the difficulty.

"Would you care to have a word with Miss Evelyn, sir?"

"O, yes, yes."

Theydon blurted out this emphatic acceptance of the butler's suggestion
without a thought as to its possible consequences. He was racking his
brain in a frenzy of uncertainty as to how he should frame his words
when he heard quite clearly a woman's footsteps on the parquet flooring,
and caught Evelyn Forbes's voice saying to Tomlinson: "How fortunate!
Mr. Theydon is the very person I wished to speak to, but I simply dared
not ring him up."

The slight incident only provided Theydon with a new source of
wonderment. Why should Evelyn Forbes want speech with him at that early
hour? Perhaps she would explain. He could only hope so, and trust to
luck in the choice of his own phrases.

"That you, Mr. Theydon?" came the girl's voice, sweet in its cadence yet
ominously eager. "How nice of you to anticipate my unspoken thought! I
have been horribly anxious ever since I read of that awful affair at
Innesmore Mansions. That poor lady's flat is next door to yours, is it
not?"

"Yes, but--"

"O, you cannot choke off a woman's curiosity quite so easily. You see, I
happen to know that Mrs. Lester's sad death affects my father in some
way, and I realize now that you two were just on pins and needles to get
rid of me last night so that you might talk freely."

"Miss Forbes, I assure you--"

"Wait till I've finished, and you will not be under the necessity of
telling me any polite fibs. You men are all alike. You think the giddy
feminine brain is not fitted to cope with mysteries, and that is where
you are utterly mistaken. A woman's intuition often peers deeper than a
man's logic. I--"

"Do forgive me," broke in Theydon despairingly, "but I am really most
anxious to know how and where I can get a word with your father. I would
not be so rude as to interrupt you if I hadn't the best of excuses. Tell
me where to find him now, and I promise to give you a call immediately
afterward."

"He's at the Home Office."

"At the Home Office!"

Some hint of utter bewilderment in Theydon's tone must have reached the
girl's alert ear.

"Ah! _Touche!_" she cried. "Now will you be good and tell me why Dad
should receive a little ivory skull by this morning's post?"

Theydon knew that he paled. His very scalp tingled with an apprehension
of some shadowy yet none the less affrighting evil. But he schooled
himself to say, with a semblance of calm interest:

"What exactly do you mean, Miss Forbes?"

She laughed lightly. Theydon was so flurried that he did not realize the
possibility of Evelyn Forbes being as quick to mask her real feelings as
he himself was.

"Dad and I make a point of breakfasting together at nine o'clock every
morning," she said. "We were talking about you, and he told me of the
dreadful thing that happened to Mrs. Lester. I was reading the account
of the tragedy in a newspaper, when I happened to glance at him. He was
going through his letters, and I was just a trifle curious to know what
was in a flat box which came by registered post. He opened it carelessly
and something fell out and rolled across the table. I picked it up and
saw that it was a small piece of ivory, carved with extraordinary skill
to represent a skull. Indeed, it was so clever as to be decidedly
repulsive. I was going to say something when I saw that the letter which
was in the same box had alarmed him so greatly that, for a second or
two, I thought he would faint. But he can be very strong and stern at
times, and he recovered himself instantly, was quite vexed with me
because I had examined the ivory skull, and forbade my going out until
he had returned from the Home Office. Tomlinson and the other men have
orders not to admit any one to the house, no matter on what pretext, and
I'm sure the letter and its nasty little token are bound up in some way
with Mrs. Lester's death. Won't you let me into the secret? I shan't
scream or do anything foolish, but I do think I am entitled to know what
you know if it affects my father."

A sudden change in the girl's voice warned Theydon of a restraint of
which he had been unconscious hitherto. He tried to temporize, to
whittle away her fears. That was a duty he owed to Forbes, who was
clearly resolved not to take his daughter into his confidence--for the
present, at any rate.

"I really fail to see why you should assume some connection between the
crime which was committed here on Monday night and the arrival of a
somewhat singular package at your house this morning," he said
reassuringly.

"Like every other woman, I jump at conclusions," she answered. "Why
should this crime, in particular, have worried my father? Unfortunately,
the newspapers are full of such horrid things, yet he hardly ever pays
them any attention. No, Mr. Theydon, I am not mistaken. He either knew
Mrs. Lester, and was shocked at her death, or saw in it some personal
menace. Then comes the letter, with its obvious threat, and I am ordered
to remain at home, under a strong guard, while he hurries off to
Whitehall. You have met my father, Mr. Theydon. Do you regard him as the
sort of man who would rush off in a panic to consult the Home Secretary
without very grave and weighty reasons?"

"But you can hardly be certain that a wretched crime in this
comparatively insignificant quarter of London supplies the actual motive
of Mr. Forbes's action," urged Theydon.

The girl stamped an impatient foot. He heard it distinctly.

"Of course I am certain," she cried. "Why won't you be candid? You know
I am right--I can tell it from your voice, and your guarded way of
talking--"

An inspiration came to Theydon's relief in that instant.

"Pardon the interruption," he said, "but I must point out that both of
us are acting unwisely in discussing such matters over the telephone.
Really, neither must say another word, except this--when I have found
your father I'll ask his permission to come and see you. Perhaps we
three can arrange to meet somewhere for luncheon. That is absolutely the
farthest limit to which I dare go at this moment."

"O, very well!"

The receiver was hung up in a temper, and the prompt ring-off jarred
disagreeably in Theydon's ear. If he was puzzled before, he was
thoroughly at sea now. But he took a bold course, and cared not a jot
whether or not it was a prudent one.

The mere sound of Evelyn Forbes's voice had steeled his heart and
conscience against the dictates of common sense. Let the detectives
think what they might, the girl's father must be allowed to carry
through his plans without let or hindrance.

"Miss Beale," said Theydon, gazing fixedly into the sorrow-laden eyes of
the quiet little lady whom he found seated where he had left her, "I'm
going to tell you something very important, very serious, something so
far-reaching and momentous that neither you nor I can measure its
effect. You heard the conversation on the telephone?"

"I heard what you were saying, but could not understand much of it,"
said his visitor in a scared way.

"I have been trying to communicate with Mr. Forbes, but his daughter
tells me that the murder of your niece seems to have affected him in a
manner which is incomprehensible to her, and even more so to me, though
I am acquainted with facts which her father and I have purposely kept
from her knowledge. Mr. Forbes has gone hurriedly to the Home Office. I
suppose you know what that means? He is about to give the Home Secretary
certain information, and it is not for you or me to interfere with his
discretion. Now, if you tell the Scotland Yard people what you have told
me, namely, that Mr. Forbes was the intermediary through whom Mrs.
Lester received the greater part of her income, he will be brought
prominently into the inquiry. You see that, don't you?"

"Yes. I suppose that something of the sort must happen."

"Well, I want you to suppress that vital fact until we know more about
this affair. It will not be for long. Each of us must tell our story
without reservation at some future date--whether this afternoon, or
tomorrow, or a week hence, I cannot say now. But I do ask you to keep
your knowledge to yourself until I have had an opportunity of consulting
Mr. Forbes. I undertake to tell you the exact position of matters
without delay, and I accept all responsibility for my present advice."

"I know little of the world, Mr. Theydon," said Miss Beale, rising, and
beginning to draw on her gloves, "but I shall be very greatly surprised
if you are advising me to act otherwise than honorably. I shall
certainly not utter a word about Mr. Forbes at Scotland Yard. When all
is said and done, my statement to you was largely guesswork. You must
remember that I have never seen Mr. Forbes, nor hardly ever heard his
name except in connection with public matters in the Press. O, yes. I
make that promise readily. I trust you implicitly!"




CHAPTER VI

CLOSE QUARTERS


Theydon escorted Miss Beale downstairs. As they passed the closed door
of No. 17, the lady shivered.

"To think that within the next few days I would have been staying there
with Edith, and planning evenings at the theater before going to
Newquay!" she murmured; there was a pitiful catch in her voice that told
better than words how the remainder of her existence would be darkened
by the tragedy.

At best she was a shrinking, timid little woman, for whom life probably
held but narrow interests. Such as they were, their placid content was
forever shattered. The death of her niece had closed the one chief
avenue leading to the outer world. She would retire to the quiet
back-water of Iffley, to become more faded, more insignificant, more
lonely each year.

Theydon commiserated with her deeply and did not hesitate to utter his
thoughts while putting her into a cab.

"Have you no friends in London?" he inquired. "I don't like the notion
of sending you off alone into this wilderness. London is the worst place
in the world for any one in distress. The heedless multitude seems to be
callous and unsympathetic. It isn't, in reality. It simply doesn't know,
and doesn't bother."

"I used to claim some acquaintances here, but I have lost track of them
for years," she said. "In any event, I shall have more than enough to
occupy my mind today. The inquest opens at three o'clock, and I must
face the ordeal of identifying Edith's body. The detective told me that
this should be done by a relation, while the only other person who could
act--Ann Rogers--has been nearly out of her mind since yesterday
morning."

"Where are you staying?"

She mentioned a small hotel in the West End.

"I used to go there with my people when I was a girl," she added, sadly.

"Then I'll get my sister to call. You'll like her. She's a jolly good
sort, and a chat with another woman will be far more beneficial than the
society of detectives and lawyers and such-like strange fowl. Keep your
spirits up, Miss Beale. Nothing that you can say or do now will restore
the life so cruelly taken, but you and I, each in our own way, can
strive to bring the murderer to justice. I am convinced that a distinct
step in that direction will be taken this very day. You can count on
seeing or hearing from me as soon as possible after I have discussed
matters with Mr. Forbes. Meanwhile, don't forget to have a lawyer
representing you at the inquest."

They parted as though they were friends of long standing. Theydon was
genuinely sorry for this gray-haired woman's plight, and she evidently
regarded him as a kind-hearted and eminently trustworthy young man. He
stood and watched the cab as it bore her off swiftly into the maelstrom
of London. He could not help thinking that seldom had he met one less
fitted for the notoriety thrust upon all connected with a much-talked-of
crime.

When the press interviewers, the photographers, the hundred and one
officials with whom she must be brought in contact, were done with her,
poor Miss Beale would retire to her Oxfordshire nook in a state of
mental bewilderment that would baffle description. In one of his books
Theydon had endeavored to depict just such a middle-aged spinster
confronted with a situation not wholly unlike that which now faced Miss
Beale.

He smiled grimly when he realized how far fiction had wandered from
fact. The woman of his imagination had acted with a strength of
character, a decisiveness, that outwitted and confounded certain
scheming personages in the story. How different was the reality! Miss
Beale, rushing across London in a taxi, reminded him of nothing more
masterful than a cage-bird turned loose in a tempest.

He was about to reenter the mansions, meaning to telephone to both the
Fortescue Square house and the Old Broad Street offices, and ask for
instant news of Mr. Forbes in either locality. He was so preoccupied
that he failed to notice an approaching taxicab, though the driver was
signaling, and even tooted a motor horn loudly in the endeavor to
attract his attention.

He did, however, catch his own name, and halted.

"Beg pardon, sir, but you are Mr. Theydon, aren't you?" said the man.

Then Theydon recognized Evans, the taxi-driver, who had brought him from
Fortescue Square.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Any news of the gray car?"

"Yes, sir, I think so," was the somewhat surprising answer. "When I
dropped you last night I got a fare to Euston. Then I took a gentleman
to the Langham, an', as I felt like a snack, I pulled into the nearest
cab rank. I was having some corfee an' a sandwich when I 'appened to
speak about the gray car to one of the chaps. 'That's odd,' he said.
'Quarter of an hour ago I had a theater job to Langham Plice, an' a gray
landaulette stopped in front of the Chinese Embassy. It kem along from
the east side, too.' He didn't notice the number, sir, so there may be
nothink in it, after all, but I thought you might like to hear wot my
pal said."

"Was the car empty? Did it call for some one at the Embassy?"

"That's the queer part of it, sir. I axed pertic'ler. This gray car
brought a gentleman, a small, youngish man, 'oo skipped up the Embassy
steps like a lamplighter, and went in afore you could s'y 'knife.'
Somebody might ha' bin watchin' for him through the keyhole, the door
was opened that quick. Then the car went off. My friend wouldn't ha'
given a second thought to it if the gentleman hadn't vanished like a
jack-in-the-box. That's w'y he remembered the color of the car."

Theydon tried to look as though Evans's statement merely puzzled him,
whereas his mind was already busy with the extraordinary coincidences
which the haphazard events of a few hours had produced. Was the Far East
bound up in some mysterious way with Mrs. Lester's death? Did the crime
possess a political significance? If so, an explanation by Forbes was
more than ever demanded.

"Your informant was not mistaken about the Chinese Embassy, I suppose?"
he said.

"No, sir. He's always in that district. His garage is at the back of
Great Portland Street. He knows most of them there Chinks by sight."

"Then that gray car can hardly have been our gray car," commented
Theydon, deeming it wise to prevent the sharp-witted taxi-driver from
jumping at conclusions.

"I'm afraid not, sir. Still, I just took the liberty--"

"I'm very much obliged to you, of course. I said half-a-crown, didn't I?
Here you are. Keep an eye open for XY 1314 and let me know if you hear
or see anything of it."

"Thank you, sir." Then Evans lifted his eyes to the block of buildings.
"A nasty business this murder which was done 'ere the other night, sir,"
he went on. "One 'ud hardly b'lieve it possible for such things to tike
plice in London nowadays."

Much as he was disinclined for gossip of the sort at the moment, Theydon
saw that he must endeavor to dissociate the gray car and the crime from
their dangerous juxtaposition in the man's mind, so he spoke about Mrs.
Lester's attractive appearance, harped on the apparent aimlessness of
the deed, hinted darkly at clews in the possession of the police, and
finally got rid of the well-meaning chauffeur. Back he went to his
telephone, and having ascertained that Mr. Forbes was fully expected to
put in an appearance at the city office before noon, settled down to
read the newspapers.

They contained sensational but fairly accurate accounts of the tragedy.
One enterprising journal had published an interview with Bates, whom the
reporter described as "a typical British man-servant," which was
amusing, since Bates had "retired noncommissioned officer" written all
over his square frame and soldierly features.

The same journalist spoke of Theydon himself, and had even ferreted out
the fact that Mrs. Lester was the widow of an English barrister who had
died at Shanghai. On reaction, Theydon saw that there was nothing
unusual in this statement. The connection between the metropolitan press
and the bar is old and intimate, and scores of junior barristers must
remember Arthur Lester's beginnings.

Resolved to possess his soul in patience till twelve o'clock, the hour
being yet barely 11:30 a. m., Theydon tackled a page of reviews, since
there is always consolation for a writer in learning at second hand what
sheer drivel others can produce.

He was growling at the discovery that some hapless essayist had
appropriated a title which he himself had marked down for his next book,
when the door-bell rang. He did not give much heed, because so many
tradesmen called during the course of each morning, so he was surprised
and startled when Bates announced:

"Mr. Forbes to see you, sir."

Had a powerful spring concealed in the seat of his chair been released
suddenly, Theydon could not have bounced to his feet with greater speed.
Forbes came in. He was pale, but self-contained and clear-eyed.

"Forgive an unceremonious visit," he said. "I'm glad to find you at
home. I meant to arrive here sooner, but I was detained on business of
some importance."

By this time Bates had closed the door; Theydon explained his presence
in the flat by saying that within a few minutes he would have been
telephoning again to Old Broad Street.

"Ah! Did you speak to Macdonald?" said Forbes, dropping into a chair
with a curious lassitude of manner which did not escape Theydon.

"Yes. I have been most anxious to have a word with you--"

Forbes broke in with a short laugh.

"You would get nothing out of Macdonald," he said. "He knows that my
visits to the Chinese Embassy are few and far between and generally have
to do with--but what is it now? Why should you be so perturbed when I
mention the Chinese Embassy?"

Theydon was literally astounded, and did not strive to hide his
agitation. But he was by no means tongue-tied. Now, most emphatically,
was he determined to have done with pretense. Whether by accident or
design, Forbes had placed himself with his back to the window.

The younger man deliberately crossed the room, pulled up the blind, thus
admitting the flood of light which comes only from the upper third of a
window, and sat down in such a position that Forbes was compelled to
turn in order to face him.

"Before you utter another word, Mr. Forbes," he said gravely, "let me
tell you that in my efforts to trace your whereabouts I also called up
Fortescue Square. Miss Forbes came to the telephone. She said you had
gone to the Home Office. By some feminine necromancy, too, she divined
the link which binds you with the death of Mrs. Lester. She was
distressed on your account, and I was hard put to it to extricate myself
from the risk of saying something which I might regret. I--"

"What do you imply by that remark?" interrupted Forbes, piercing the
other with a look that was strangely reminiscent of his daughter's
candid scrutiny.

"I imply the serious fact that I know who visited Mrs. Lester before she
met her death. I not only heard her visitor's arrival and departure, but
saw him at the corner of these mansions while on my way home from Daly's
Theater, and again when he posted a letter in the pillar box on the same
corner. If such unwonted interest on my part in the movements of one who
was then a complete stranger surprises you, let me remind you that only
a few minutes earlier I had stood by his side at the door of the theater
and heard him telling his daughter that he intended to walk to the
Constitutional Club."

Forbes smiled, but uttered no word. His expression was inscrutable. His
pallor reminded Theydon of the tint of ivory, of that waxen-white Dutch
grisaille beloved of fifteenth century illuminators of manuscripts. His
silence was disturbing, almost irritating, his manner singularly calm.

These negative indications conveyed absolutely nothing to Theydon, who
for the second time in their brief acquaintance found himself in the
ridiculous position of one explaining a fault rather than, as he
imagined, arraigning a man under suspicion.

"So we had better dispense with ambiguities, Mr. Forbes," he went on,
speaking with a precision that sounded oddly in his own ears. "It was
you who called on Mrs. Lester on Monday night, you who posted the letter
she wrote to Miss Beale at Iffley, Oxfordshire, you for whom the police
are now searching. I have contrived thus far to keep your secret, but
the situation is passing out of my control. I would help you if I
could--"

"Why?"

The monosyllable, sharp and insistent, was disconcerting as the
unexpected crack of a whip, but Theydon answered valiantly:

"Because of the monstrous absurdities with which Fate has plagued me
during the past two days, I appeal now for outspokenness, so I set an
example. Had it not been for your daughter's remarkably attractive
appearance I should not, in all likelihood, have given a second glance
at my neighbors on the steps of the theater. But I cannot forget that I
did see both her and you--indeed, Miss Forbes herself recalled the
incident--and the close questioning of the Scotland Yard men who were
here last night showed me the folly of imagining that I could deny all
knowledge of you. I recognize now that some impish contriving of
circumstances forced this knowledge upon me. The sudden downpour of
rain, and the fact that I was delayed by a slight accident to my cab,
conspired with the apparently simple chance which led me to overhear the
conversation between Miss Forbes and yourself. I tried hard to baffle
the detectives--"

"Again I ask 'Why?'"

Theydon was rapidly being wound up to a pitch of excited resentment.

"Why?" he cried. "Was I not your guest? How could I come from a house
where I had been admitted to a delightful intimacy and tell the
representatives of the law that my host was the man they were looking
for?"

During some seconds Forbes bent his eyes on the floor, seemingly in deep
thought.

"Theydon," he said at last, looking up in his direct way, "I am your
senior by a good many years--am old enough, as the saying goes, to be
your father. I may venture, therefore, to give you a piece of sound
advice. Pack a kit-bag, catch the afternoon boat train for Boulogne, and
go for a walking tour in Normandy and Brittany. When I was your age and
a junior in a bank I had to take my holidays in May; each year I tramped
that corner of France. I recommend it as a playground. It will appeal to
your literary instincts, and it has the immeasurable advantage just now
of being practically as remote from London as the Sahara."

It must not be forgotten that Theydon was a romancer, an idealist. The
"lounge suit" of the modern tailor hampers the play of such qualities no
more than the beaten armor of the age of chivalry.

"If my departure for France will relieve Miss Forbes of anxiety on your
behalf, I'll go," he vowed.

Forbes regarded him with a new interest.

"I believe you mean that," he said.

"I do."

"But I cannot send you out of the country on a false pretense. It was
your safety and well-being, not my daughter's, that I was thinking of."

"What have I to fear?"

"I do not know. I am like a man wandering by night in a jungle alive
with fearsome beasts and reptiles."

"Yet you had some reason for suggesting my prompt departure."

"Yes. It is an absurd thing to say, but I believe I am putting you in
danger of your life by coming here this morning."

"Can't you speak plainly, Mr. Forbes? What good purpose do you serve by
holding forth these vague terrors? If, as Miss Forbes told me, you have
visited the Home Office, I take it you made yourself clear to the
authorities--assuming, that is, you went there in connection with the
amazing conditions which seem to be bound up with this crime."

"There is a certain class of knowledge which is in itself dangerous to
those who possess it, no matter whether or not it affects them in any
particular. I recommend you, in good faith, to leave London today."

"If my own safety is the only consideration I refuse as readily as I
agreed before."

Theydon's tone grew somewhat impatient. He really fancied that Forbes
was trifling with him. Indeed, a queer doubt of the man's complete
sanity now peeped up in him. Forbes was regarded as a crank by a large
section of the public on account of his peace propaganda; if that
opinion were justified why should he not be eccentric in other respects?

It was fantastic, almost stupid, to look upon him as responsible for
Mrs. Lester's murder, but there was always a possibility that he might
be utilizing the chance which led him to her apartments shortly before
the crime was committed to cover himself and his movements with a veil
of spurious mystery. In a word, though Theydon had likened his visitor's
face to a mask of ivory he had momentarily forgotten the ominous token
found on Mrs. Lester's body and duplicated in Forbes's own house by the
morning's post.

Forbes spread wide his hands with the air of one who heard, but was
allowing his thoughts to wander. When next he spoke it was only to
increase the crazy inconsequence of their talk.

"Later--perhaps today--perhaps it may never be necessary--I may explain
myself to your heart's content," he said slowly. "At present I am here
to ask a favor. In the first place, is Mrs. Lester's flat in charge of
the police?"

"I suppose so," said Theydon.

"Is there a detective or constable on duty there now?"

"I am not sure. I imagine there is not. When the Scotland Yard men and I
came out after midnight they locked the door and took away the key.
The--er--body is at the mortuary, awaiting the opening of the inquest at
three o'clock."

"Ah! I hoped that would be so. Can you ascertain for certain?"

"But why?"

"Because I wish to go in there. And that brings me to the favor I seek.
The secretary of these flats, even the hall porter, should have a master
key. Borrow it on some pretext. They will give it to you."

"Really, Mr. Forbes--" gasped Theydon, voicing his surprise as a
preliminary to a decided refusal. He was interrupted by the insistent
clang of the telephone--that curt herald which brooks no delay in
answering its demand for an audience.

"Pardon me one moment," he said. "I'll just see who that is."

The inquirer was Evelyn Forbes.

"I've waited patiently--" she began, but he stopped her instantly by
saying that her father was with him.

"Please ask him to come to the phone," she said.

Forbes rose at once. He merely assured the girl that he was engaged in
important business and would be home soon after the luncheon hour.
Meanwhile, she was not to go out, and his orders must be obeyed to the
letter.

"Now, Theydon," he said, coming back to the sitting room, "what about
that key?"

The most extraordinary feature of an extraordinary case was the way in
which the mere sound of Evelyn Forbes's voice stilled any qualms of
conscience in Theydon's breast. He knew he was acting foolishly in
conducting a blind inquiry on his own account, an inquiry which might
well arouse the anger and active resentment of the police, but he
offered a sop to his better judgment by consulting Bates.

Then came a veritable surprise.

"The fact is, sir," admitted Bates nervously, "we have Ann Rogers's key
in the kitchen. When she went away on Monday she left it here, bein'
afraid of losin' it. Of course, she took it on Tuesday mornin', and
after goin' from one fit of hysterics into another she gev it to us
again."

Theydon's face was eloquent of the serious view of this avowal.

"Did you tell the police?" he said.

"No, sir. My missus an' me clean forgot all about it."

"So, while Mrs. Lester was being killed, the key of her flat was
actually in your possession?"

"I suppose it might be put that way, sir."

By this time Theydon was becoming exasperated at the veritable
conspiracy which fate had engineered for the express purpose,
apparently, of entangling him in an abominable crime.

"Why on earth didn't you mention such an important fact to the
detectives?" he almost shouted, "Don't you see they are bound to
think--"

"O, a plague on the detectives and on what they think!" broke in Forbes
imperiously. "It doesn't matter a straw what they think, and very little
what they do. This affair goes a long way beyond the four-mile radius,
Theydon. The vital point is that your man has the key. Where is it? Let
us go in there at once!"

"You offered me some advice, Mr. Forbes," said Theydon firmly. "Let me
now return it in kind. If you wish to examine Mrs. Lester's flat why not
seek the permission of Scotland Yard?"

"My good fellow, I have spent a valuable hour this morning in persuading
the Home Secretary that the less Scotland Yard interferes in my behalf
the more effectually shall I be protected. I don't want any detective
within a mile of my house or office. But, as I have told you already,
explanations must wait--You, Bates, look a man who can hold his tongue.
Do so, and with Mr. Theydon's permission I'll make it worth your while
when this storm has blown over--Now, give me that key."

Theydon was silenced, if not convinced. He realized, of course, that he
must make a full confession to the Criminal Investigation Department
before the sun went down, but argued that he might as well see the
present adventure through.

Soon he and Forbes were standing at the door of No. 17. Forbes curbed
his impatience sufficiently to permit of any one who happened to be in
the interior answering the summons of the electric bell. Of course, no
one came. The police had no reason to remain in charge of the place, and
Ann Rogers would have become a raving lunatic if left alone there for
one half-hour.

The aromatic odor of the burnt joss stick still clung to the suite of
apartments, and Forbes noticed it at once.

"Where was the body found?" he asked.

Theydon led the way to the bedroom. He related Winter's theory of the
crime, and pointed out its seeming aimlessness. So far as the police
could ascertain from the half-crazy servant, none of Mrs. Lester's
jewels was missing. Even her gold purse, containing a fair sum of money,
was found on the dressing-table.

He did not know that the detectives had taken away a few scraps of torn
paper thrown carelessly into the grate and had carefully gathered up a
tiny snake-like curl of white ash from the tiled hearth, which, on
analysis, would probably prove to be the remains of the joss stick.

Forbes gazed at the impression on the side of the bed as though the body
of the woman whom he had last seen in full possession of her grace and
beauty were still lying there. The vision seemed to affect him
profoundly. He did not speak for fully a minute, and, when speech came,
his voice was low and strained.

"Tell me everything you know," he said. "The Scotland Yard men took an
unusual step in admitting you to their conclave. They must have had some
motive. Tell me what they said, their very words, if you can recall
them."

Theydon was uncomfortably aware of a strange compulsion to obey. His
commonplace, everyday senses cried out in revolt, and warned him that he
was tampering dangerously with matters which should be left to the cold
scrutiny of the law, but some subconscious instinct overpowered these
prudent monitors, and he gave an almost exact account of his talk with
Winter and Furneaux.

Then followed questions, eager, searching, almost uncanny in their
prescience.

"The little one--who strikes me as having more brains than I credit the
ordinary London policeman with--spoke of the evil deities of China. How
did such an extraordinary topic crop up?"

"In connection with the joss stick."

"Yes, yes. But I don't see the inference."

"Mr. Winter alluded to the habit some ladies have of burning such
incense in their houses, whereupon Furneaux remarked that the Chinese
use them to propitiate harmful spirits."

"Was that all?"

Theydon felt insensibly that his companion was hinting at something more
definite, but he was bound in honor to respect the confidence reposed in
him.

"I don't quite understand," he temporized.

"Was nothing said as to the finding of some object, such as a small
article obviously Chinese in origin, which might turn an inquirer's
thought into that channel?"

"The conversation I am relating took place the moment after we had
entered the flat. We were standing in the hall. It was wholly the
outcome of the strange smell which was immediately perceptible."

Forbes passed a hand over his eyes.

"I wonder," he breathed.

Then, turning quickly on Theydon, he repeats the question.

"Are you quite sure they did not mention the discovery in this room of
any object which could be regarded, even remotely, as a sign or symbol
left by the murderer to show that his crime was an act of vengeance, or
retaliation?"

Theydon hesitated. Unquestionably he was in a position of no ordinary
difficulty. But his doubts were solved by an interruption that brought
his heart into his mouth, because a thin, high-pitched voice came
through the half-open door:

"Are you thinking of a small ivory skull, Mr. Forbes?"




CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN MR. FORBES EXPLAINS HIMSELF


Even the boldest may flinch when confronted with that which is
apparently a manifestation of the supernatural. Theydon and Forbes were
standing in a chamber of death. To the best of their belief they were
alone in an otherwise empty flat, and those ominous words coming from
some one unknown and unseen blanched their faces with terror.

But Theydon was a healthy and athletic young Englishman, and Forbes was
of the rare order which combines a frame of exceptional physique with a
mind accustomed to think imperially; two such men might be trusted to
display real grit if surrounded by a horde of veritable spooks.

The door was thrown wide as they turned at the sound of the words, and
Theydon recognized in a strange little figure--wearing a blue serge
suit, a straw hat and brown boots--Furneaux, the man whom he had looked
on as somewhat of a crank and visionary during their talk of the
previous night.

"You?" he gasped, and the note of recognition was sharpened by a sudden
sense of dismay, almost of alarm, because of the overwhelming knowledge
that now all his scheming had collapsed, while the representatives of
Scotland Yard would regard him as nothing more than a poor sort of
trickster.

But Forbes was not in the habit of yielding to any man, no matter what
his status, or howsoever awe-inspiring might be the department of state
which he represented.

"Who the devil are you, at any rate?" he cried angrily. "And what right
have you to spy on gentlemen in this manner, listening to their
conversation, and breaking in with a cheap stage effect obviously
intended to startle?"

Furneaux remained motionless, his feet set well apart and his hands
thrust into his trousers pockets. The trim, natty figure, the spruce and
Summer-like attire, the small, wizened face with its cynically humorous
and wide-awake aspect--above all, a certain jauntiness of air and
cocksure expression--certainly did not suggest a comedian fresh from the
boards.

"You tell," he said, nodding to Theydon.

"This is Mr. Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the latter nervously. He
imagined he could detect in Furneaux's glance a mixture of amusement and
contempt, amusement at the notion that any amateur should harbor the
belief that the two best men in the "Yard" could be egregiously
hoodwinked, and contempt of one who so far forgot himself as even to
dare attempt such a thing in relation to a police inquiry into a murder.

"I don't know, and care less, who Mr. Furneaux of Scotland Yard may be,"
went on Forbes hotly. "I resent his intrusion, and wish to be relieved
of his presence."

"Why?" said Furneaux.

"I have given my reasons to the Home Secretary. That mere statement must
suffice for you."

"Really, I must ask you to be more explicit."

"I visited the Home Office this morning, and placed such evidence in the
hands of the Home Secretary that Scotland Yard will be requested to
suspend all further investigation into the death of Mrs. Lester."

"Do you mean that the Home Secretary has sanctioned the breaking off of
this inquiry."

"In the conditions--"

"Because, if that is what your words imply, Mr. Forbes, I may tell you
at once that I don't believe you. It is more than any Home Secretary
dare do, and if you harbor any lingering doubts on the point, go to Mr.
Theydon's telephone, ring up the Home Office, and tell the gentleman at
the other end of the wire exactly what I have said. Of course you really
don't mean anything of the sort. By virtue of some special and inside
knowledge of certain facts communicated to the Home Secretary, you may
have persuaded him to promise that, provided the ends of justice are not
defeated thereby, every precaution will be taken to keep the main lines
of the inquiry secret until the whole position can be laid before the
law officers of the Crown. The Home Secretary may have gone that far,
Mr. Forbes, but not one inch farther, and you know it."

The two antagonists, so singularly disproportionate in size, were yet so
perfectly matched in the vastly more important qualities of brain and
nerve that the contest lost all sense of inequality. Theydon felt
himself of no account in this duel. He was like an urchin watching
open-mouthed a combat of gladiators.

Forbes, not without a perceptible effort, choked down his wrath and
recovered his poise.

"You have gaged the state of affairs accurately enough," he said,
speaking more calmly. "May I, then, recommend you to consult your direct
superiors before carrying your investigations any furthur, Mr.--"

"Furneaux--Charles Francois Furneaux."

"Just so, Mr. Charles Francois Furneaux."

"I give you my full name, because one of the peculiar features of this
case is the inability of some persons mixed up in it to recall names, or
even the mere salient facts," and the detective's glance dwelt for an
instant on Theydon, who, again, in his own estimation, shrank into the
boots of a fourth-form boy detected by a master in an overt breach of
college rules.

But the little man was speaking impressively, and, Theydon compelled his
wandering wits to pay attention.

"It will clear the air, perhaps," went on Furneaux, "if I point out that
if any one here is playing the spy--carrying on some underhanded game,
that is--it is not I. These apartments are in charge of the police. The
manager of the whole block of flats and the porter of this particular
section have been warned that no one can be allowed to enter No. 17, on
any pretext, until our inquiry is closed. Now, Mr. Forbes, kindly
explain how you contrived to get possession of a key."

An experienced man of the world like Forbes could hardly fail to see
that he was in a false position, and that any persistent attempt to
browbeat the detective would not only meet with utter failure but might
possibly compromise him gravely.

"That was a simple matter," he said. "Mrs. Lester's servant left her key
in Mr. Theydon's establishment. Bates surprised both his master and me
by producing it when I expressed a wish to examine the place."

"But why adopt such a clandestine method?"

Forbes's face, usually so classic in outline, assumed a certain
rigidity, and his firm chin grew markedly aggressive.

"I don't answer questions put in that way," he said.

Furneaux laughed sardonically.

"You meet with greater respect in Capel Court, I have no doubt," he
snapped. "There you stand on a pedestal, with one hand flourishing a
check-book and the other resting gracefully on the neck of a golden
calf. Here, you are simply an ordinary citizen behaving in a suspicious
manner. If the uniformed policeman on the neighboring beat knew what I
know of your recent movements he would arrest you without ceremony, and
charge you with being concerned in the murder of Mrs. Lester. Between
you and Mr. Theydon, the work of my department has been hindered and
burked most scandalously. Don't glare at me like that! I don't care
tuppence for your millions and your social position. What I do care
about is the horrible risk you and each member of your family are
incurring. You know why, and while you are still alive I mean to force
you to speak. Tell me now why Mrs. Lester was killed. Tell me, too, why
the same hand which thrust a little ivory skull into the dead woman's
underbodice caused a similar token to be delivered to you by this
morning's post. Ah, that touches you, does it? Now, my worthy financier
and philanthropist, step down from your pedestal and behave like a being
of flesh and blood!"

Forbes positively wilted under that extraordinary attack. His white face
grew wan, and his eyes dilated with surprise and terror. The detective's
words seemed to have the effect of a paralytic shock. Thenceforth he was
under dog in the fight.

"How do you know," he gasped, "that I received an ivory skull this
morning? Have you been to my house? Did my daughter tell you?"

Furneaux chuckled.

"You're ready to listen, eh? Well, I don't mind telling you that I have
not stirred out of this flat since seven o'clock this morning, and I
question if your letters were delivered in Fortescue Square at that
hour."

"I give in," said Forbes curtly. "Need we remain here? The smell of that
cursed joss stick oppresses me."

Then Theydon found his tongue.

"If Mr. Furneaux cares to abandon his vigil, my flat is entirely at your
disposal," he said.

"My vigil, as you accurately describe it, has ended for the time being,"
said Furneaux, apparently mollified by the millionaire's surrender. "I
was sure that if I remained here long enough I would clear away some of
the fog attached to a case which promises to be one of the most
remarkable I have ever investigated. Come, gentlemen, let us be amiable
to one another. I'm sorry if I lost my temper just now, but I regard
myself as being the only detective in existence who uses other sections
of his brain than those governed by statutes made and provided, and it
riles me when men of superior intelligence like yourselves treat me as
though my mission in life was to direct the traffic and keep a sharp eye
on mischievous juveniles.... Mr. Theydon, can that soldier-servant of
yours make coffee?"

"His wife can," said Theydon.

"Will you be good enough, then, to set her to work? Thus far, since the
sun rose, I have stayed the pangs of hunger with an apple and a glass of
water."

By this time, Theydon had thoroughly revised his first estimate of the
diminutive detective. Indeed, he was beginning to look on him as a quite
noteworthy person, a man whose mental equipment it was most unwise to
assess at any lower valuation than the somewhat exalted one which
Furneaux himself had set forth with such refreshing candor.

As for Forbes, the millionaire seemed to have sunk into a species of
stupor since Furneaux spoke of the ivory skull. He uttered no word until
the three were seated in Theydon's room, and his expression was so
woebegone that it stirred even the mercurial Jerseyite to pity.

"I imagine that a cup of coffee will do you also a world of good," he
said. Then, whirling round on Theydon, he stuck a question into him as
if each word was a stiletto.

"Where do you get your coffee?"

"At the grocer's," was the surprised answer.

"Is that all you know about it?"

"Yes."

"Singular thing, isn't it?" mused the detective aloud, "how idiotic men
and women can be in their attitude to the supreme things of life. What
is of greater importance than the food we eat and the liquors we drink?
Through them the body reconstitutes itself hourly and daily. Providence
gives us a perfect engine, yet we clog and choke its shafts and
cylinders by supplying it haphazard with any sort of fuel and lubricant,
no matter how unsuited either may be to its purpose. Take coffee, for
instance. The physiological action of coffee depends on the presence of
the alkaloid caffeine, which varies from 0.6 percent in the Arabian
berry to 2 percent in that of Sierra Leone. Again, the aromatic oil,
caffeine, which is developed by roasting, increases in quantity the
longer the seeds are kept. Unfortunately, coffee beans lose weight
during storage, so you have a clear commercial reason why grocers should
not sell the best coffee, unless under compulsion of an enlightened
public opinion. Now you, Mr. Forbes, would never dream of putting your
money into a investment without full and careful inquiry into the
history and scope of the proposed undertaking, while our young friend
here would snort furiously at a split infinitive or a false rhyme, yet,
when I submit the vital problem of the sort of coffee you imbibe--the
very essence and nutriment of your brains and bodies--you hear the kind
of answer I receive."

All this, of course, was excellent fooling, intended to dispel the
brooding horror which had suddenly descended upon Forbes since it was
borne in on him that the demoniac wrath wreaked on Mrs. Lester was now
directed with equal ferocity against his family and himself.

To an extent, Furneaux's scheme succeeded. A gleam of interest shot from
the millionaire's eyes. They lost their introspective look. He even
smiled wistfully.

"You are a man after my own heart, Mr. Furneaux," he said. "I had no
idea that the Criminal Investigation Department employed philosophers of
your caliber. I suppose that you and I are about to swallow coffee
containing indeterminate percentages of the chief constituents you
named."

"One does not look at gift coffee in the cup," grinned the little man,
obviously well pleased with himself. "But, if ever you two gentlemen
favor my obscure dwelling with a visit, and partake of a meal, you will
have a strict analysis with every bite and sup. There is a grocer in
Battersea who used to tremble at sight of me. Now he has learned wisdom,
and has quadrupled his trade by publishing learned disquisitions on the
nature and quality of each principal article he sells. You ought to read
his treatise on butter. He is an authority on the dietetic value of jam.
The nutritive properties of his cheese are ruining the local butchers."

Furneaux's efforts were rewarded when the really excellent beverage
provided by Mrs. Bates was disposed of. Forbes seemingly atoned for his
earlier secretiveness by placing every fact in his possession fully and
fairly before his auditors.

"Nearly seven years ago," he said, "I made a very large sum of money by
amalgamating certain shipping interests at a favorable moment. Thus, as
it happened, I had at command practically unlimited resources when I was
asked to finance the cause of reform in China. The wretched lot of the
Chinese Nation had always appealed to my sympathies. Some hundreds of
millions of the most industrious and peace-loving people in the world
have been exploited for centuries by a predatory caste. Given a chance
to expand, freed from the shackles of the Manchus, the Chinese, in my
opinion, contain the elements which go to form a great race. But the
Manchus held them in bondage, body and soul, and, so powerful is
self-interest, there has never been an Emperor or statesman who strove
to elevate the masses who was not mercilessly assassinated as soon as he
allowed his intent to become known. The only path to freedom lay through
revolution, and I had reason to believe that the ruling faction could be
overthrown by a well-organized and properly financed movement without
the appalling bloodshed which often accompanies such dynastic changes.
At any rate, I entered the conspiracy, heart and soul. But I met with
two difficulties at the outset. I could not exercise efficient financial
control in London, and I could neither go and live in the Far East nor
transact my business through ordinary banking channels. So I had to find
a substitute, and my choice fell on a rising young barrister named
Arthur Lester, whom I had known since he was a boy who had married the
daughter of an old friend. He had a taste for adventure, and was alive
to the magnificent career which lay before one who helped materially in
the rebirth of China. In a word, he went to Shanghai as my agent, and
the outcome of his work there is the present Chinese constitution. Of
course, as holds good in all human affairs, events did not follow the
precise track mapped out for them. But, on the whole, he and I were
satisfied. China is awake at last. The giant has stirred, and, if his
first uncertain steps have deviated from the open road of reform, he
will never again sink into the torpor of the past centuries. Manchu
arrogance and domination, at any rate, are shadows of the past, but
unhappily, the conquerors who have been so effectually thrust aside have
now embarked on a secret campaign of vengeance and reaction. A society
which calls itself the 'Young Manchus' is inspired by one principle, and
one only, and that is 'death to the reformers.' I don't suppose you
gentlemen follow closely the trend of affairs in China, but you must
have read of the assassinations of prominent men reported occasionally
in the newspapers."

Furneaux clicked his tongue so loudly that Forbes stopped speaking and
looked at him, thinking, apparently, that the little detective meant to
say something. He did, but it was Theydon whom he addressed.

"I'd give a week's pay if Winter was here now, and I could see those big
eyes of his bulging out of his head," he cackled.

Theydon nodded. He understood perfectly. Then he caught Forbes's
inquiring glance, and explained matters.

"Mr. Furneaux hinted last night at some such development as that which
your present statement conveys, and his colleague, Mr. Winter, pretended
to scout it," he said.

"Pretended!" shrieked Furneaux, instantly in a rage.

"That was how it struck me," said Theydon coolly.

"Didn't I drag the Chinese aspect of the crime out of him with pincers?"
came the indignant demand.

"Unquestionably. I only remark that your large-sized friend had it
tucked away all the time at the back of his head."

Furneaux pounded the table so viciously that the cups rattled.

"Of course, he has a nose to smell joss sticks, and eyes to see an ivory
skull, but didn't he say I was talking nonsense when I spoke about Shang
Ti scowling from a porcelain vase?" he shrilled.

"Yes. For all that, I don't think he missed the least hint of your
meaning."

Furneaux gazed at Theydon fixedly.

"Sorry," he said, with an acid tone that was almost malicious. "I
imagined you were so busy throwing dust in our eyes that you wouldn't
have noticed such fine shades of perception on Winter's part."

But Theydon was now able to measure this strange little man with some
degree of accuracy; he only smiled.

"As a thrower of dust I was a most abject failure," he said.

Furneaux smiled and turned to the millionaire.

"Pardon the interruption," he said. "Like every artist, I am pained when
my best efforts are scoffed at by heedless mediocrity. You, at least,
will understand what a big thing it was to deduce even the vaguest
outline of the truth from the facts at my command."

"I certainly do," agreed Forbes. "Until this morning I was convinced
that Mrs. Lester's death removed the one person in England who knew of
my connection with the revolution in China. To revert to the Young
Manchus--they have secured far more victims than the world at large is
aware of. I am sure that they poisoned Arthur Lester, and his wife held
the same view. They aim at nothing less than the extinction of the
democratic cause by the murder of every prominent man connected with it.
But they never yet have been able to obtain a full and authentic list of
the reform leaders. They suspected poor Lester of complicity in the
movement, and killed him. It was through Mrs. Lester that I first became
aware of their existence as an active organization, and I hoped that
when she had returned to England, and was living quietly in London, she
would be lost sight of--ignored, in fact. Nevertheless, both she and I
thought it prudent that our acquaintance should cease until the turmoil
in China had subsided. For that reason I never visited her, nor did I
permit the growth of friendship between her and my wife and daughter--a
friendship which, in happier conditions, would have been natural and
inevitable. But we were woefully mistaken. An Oriental vendetta neither
slackens nor dies. By some means wholly unknown to me, the Young Manchus
must have discovered, or guessed, that in leaving Lester's widow out of
their reckoning they had lost a promising clew. Be that as it may, they
followed her to London, and, by a singular fatality, I was the first to
know of it. Last Monday, while driving home from the city, my car was
held up in Piccadilly for a few seconds. Looking idly out at the passing
crowd, I saw a Chinaman in European clothes. He was waiting to cross the
road, so I was able to scrutinize him carefully, and, owing to a scar on
the left side of his face, recognized him. His name is Wong Li Fu, a
Manchu of the Manchus, a mandarin of almost imperial lineage. Some years
ago he was a young attache at the Chinese Embassy here. Suddenly, while
on the way to my house, I recollected that certain members of the
Revolutionary Committee had spoken of this very man as being one of the
ablest and most unscrupulous adherents of the Manchu faction in Pekin.
Somehow, his presence in London was disconcerting and menacing. Who more
likely than he, I argued, to be a leading spirit among the Young
Manchus? In any event, London was not big enough to hold both Mrs.
Lester and him, and I decided to visit her that very night, tell her I
had seen Wong Li Fu, and advise her to go away into the country, leaving
no record of her whereabouts. I happened to be taking my daughter to
Daly's Theater, and contrived to slip away on some pretext after the
performance. I found Mrs. Lester alone in her flat, and she fell in with
my views at once, because she, too, had heard of this very man, and the
mere sound of his name terrified her. I was half inclined to urge that
she should go to an hotel for the night, but the lateness of the hour
and the seeming fact that if danger threatened she was safe at least
till the morrow, prevented me."

Furneaux, sitting on the edge of a chair, his head bent forward, his
piercing black eyes intent as those of a hawk, a hand resting on each
knee, his attitude curiously suggestive of a readiness to spring forward
at any instant, now leaned over and tapped the millionaire decisively on
the shoulder.

"You couldn't have saved her, Mr. Forbes," he said gravely. "She was
marked down as the first warning. Didn't the letter you received this
morning tell you something of the sort?"

Agitation gave place to utter astonishment in Forbes's face.

"In Heaven's name, how do you know anything of any letter?" he cried.

"I will tell you later. But am I not right?"

"Yes, you are."

"Where is it? May I see it?"

Forbes took a creased and soiled document from a small, flat cardboard
box which he carried in the breast pocket of his coat. But first he
withdrew from the box a little object, and placed it on the table. It
was an ivory skull, and the very presence of such a sinister token
brought some hint of the charnel-house into the cozy and sunlit room.

Furneaux, a creature oddly constituted either of all nerves or of no
nerves, disregarded the skull. He had eyes only for the few words typed
on a single sheet of note-paper. They ran:

"James Creighton Forbes: If you are willing to come to terms, announce
the fact by advertisement in Thursday's Times. Address your reply to Y.
M., and sign it 'J. C. F.' Yield, and you will hear further. Refuse, and
no other warning will be given."




CHAPTER VIII

THE FIRST COUNTER-STROKE


Furneaux apparently made up his mind with reference to the contents of a
somewhat enigmatic message after one quick, unerring perusal.

"The man who wrote that took a great many things for granted," he said.
"He assumed, firstly, that you knew of Mrs. Lester's death and
understood its significance; secondly, that you are aware of the nature
of the 'terms' he will offer; thirdly, that you may hesitate between
compliance and threatened death. 'Y. M.,' of course, can be read as
'Young Manchus.' Even there, the writer exhibits artistic reticence....
Frankly, Mr. Forbes, I wish you had come straight to Scotland Yard on
Monday evening instead of wasting those precious hours at Daly's
Theater."

Forbes was moved to energetic protest.

"How was I to deduce the true nature of these hell hounds' mission from
a casual glance vouchsafed of one who may or may not be their leader?"
he cried.

"Yet you treated your discovery as serious enough to warrant a prompt
visit to the woman with whom association was dangerous?"

"Yes; I wanted to act secretly."

"Just so. You were afraid the police would bungle the job. Between you
and Mr. Theydon, you have exhibited remarkable skill in heading us off
the scent. Fortunately, we were able to dispense with your assistance,
having other matters to occupy our brains. You two were ripe nuts
waiting to be cracked and have the contents extracted at leisure. There
were a few freshly broken shells lying about which invited immediate
attention. For instance, some four months ago, a well-known and
reputable firm of private inquiry agents was instructed from Canton to
secure all possible information about Mrs. Lester and you--yes, you, Mr.
Forbes--your household, friends, methods of living, servants,
tradesmen,--every sort of fact, indeed, which might be useful to a
thoroughgoing and well-organized society of cutthroats like the Young
Manchus. The inquiry agents did their work well, and were handsomely
paid for it. I haven't the least doubt that Wong Li Fu knows what brand
of cigars you favor, and what you eat for breakfast. His informants sent
us a copy of their notes an hour after the murder was announced in the
newspapers. Mr. Lester is 'removed' in Shanghai. His widow comes home.
The inquiry agents receive instructions. They forward their report to
Canton, and Wong Li Fu turns up in London. The program is a tribute to
the excellence and regularity of the mail service between England and
the Far East."

While the detective was speaking, Forbes's face, already haggard, had
grown desperate.

"I care little for my own life," he said, "but I shall stop short of no
measures to protect my wife and daughter."

"I certainly recommend that an armed guard should be on duty day and
night in any house where you may happen to be living at the moment,"
replied Furneaux airily. "I really think that if your safety alone were
at stake I would do you a good turn by arresting you on suspicion."

"On suspicion of what crime?"

"Of killing Mrs. Lester, to be sure."

"I regard you as a clever man, Mr. Furneaux, so may I remind you that
this is neither the time nor the place for a display of gross humor?"

Theydon expected that Furneaux would flare into anger at this
well-deserved rebuke; but, much to his surprise, the detective treated
the matter argumentatively.

"Personally, I have looked on you from the outset as an innocent man,"
he said placidly. "But, just to show how circumstantial evidence may be
twisted into plausible error, let me point out that nearly all the known
facts conspire against you. Have you considered how dexterously a
prosecuting counsel would treat your admission that Mrs. Lester was the
one person in England who knew of your connection with the revolutionary
party in China? And how would you set about convincing a stolid British
jury that you were acting in the interests of law and order in
concealing your visit to No. 17 on the night of the murder? These
fine-drawn speculations, however, are a sheer waste of breath. Suppose
we concoct an advertisement for the Times?"

"Do you mean that I am to parley with these ruffians?"

"Of course you are."

"But the Home Secretary agreed with me that no action should be taken
until the Chinese Legation had considered the matter."

"And, pray, what can the Legation do?"

"They have their own sources of information. When all is said and done,
Orientals are best fitted to deal with Orientals."

Furneaux laughed sarcastically.

"If I remember rightly, the way in which the Chinese Embassy dealt with
one of your pet reformers some years ago did not win general approval.
No, Mr. Forbes, we must try and circumvent the wily Chinese by other
methods than torture and imprisonment. Of what avail will it be if this
fellow, Wong Li Fu, is laid by the heels? Isn't it more than certain
that he has plenty of determined helpers? Do you imagine that he killed
Mrs. Lester? Not a bit of it. He will be able to produce the clearest
proof that he was miles away from Innesmore Mansions on Monday night.
Now, let's see how we can get him to show his hand a little more openly.
How would this be? 'Y. M.--Terms can be arranged. J. C. F.' The terms
are, of course, that the whole gang be hanged or sent to penal servitude
and deported."

"One moment," struck in Theydon. "I have something to say before you
decide on any definite action. I need hardly inflict on you, Mr.
Furneaux, an explanation of my silence hitherto. I don't even apologize
for it. Faced by a similar dilemma tomorrow I should probably take the
same line. But, to adopt your own simile, now that Mr. Forbes has come
out of his shell, and admits his presence here on Monday night, my
self-imposed restrictions cease. In the first place, then, Miss Beale
came here this morning--"

"Excellent! I wondered who the lady was," put in Furneaux.

"And, secondly, the gray car which pursued me on Monday seems to have
been partly identified later. A car resembling it in every detail
deposited some one at the Chinese Legation in Portland Place, at an hour
which corresponds closely with its presence here."

"Ah, that is important! I like that! I wasn't far wrong when I sensed
you as an absolute carrier of clew-germs in this affair," cried
Furneaux.

"The Chinese Embassy!" gasped Forbes. "What car? And why should any car
pursue you? Do you mean that you were followed on leaving my house?"

It was lamentable to watch the inroad which each successive shock was
making on Forbes's physical resources, but Theydon affected to ignore
the new fright in his eyes, and told him what had happened. Although he
could see that Furneaux was in a fever of impatience to learn the later
news, he thought that Forbes should know the facts in view of the
remarkable statement that he had visited the Chinese Embassy that
morning.

In one respect, the recital was a test of the millionaire's professed
readiness to deal candidly with the police. Theydon was half inclined to
believe that the other was still wishful to conceal that part of the
day's doings. But he was mistaken. When he had finished his own story,
and given the taxi-man's version of the gray car's appearance in
Portland Place, Forbes threw out his hands in a gesture of despair.

"If the Embassy people are playing me false I do not know whom to
trust," he said brokenly; "I have just come from there, and they assure
me that if Wong Li Fu and his gang are in London they are absolutely
ignorant of the fact."

"Pooh!" cried Furneaux, snapping a thumb and forefinger. "Don't worry
about that! Put yourself in the position of the Chinese Ambassador. He
can't even guess who may be the ruler of China from one day to another.
Yesterday it was an old woman, today a dictator, tomorrow the mob; who
can foretell what shape the lava erupted from a volcano will take? Bet
you a new hat, Mr. Forbes, that the minute the embassy heard of Mrs.
Lester's murder they put two and two together and kept a sharp eye on
these mansions and on your house. That gray car is nothing more nor less
than a red herring accidentally drawn across the trail. Some cute
Chinaman said 'Hallo! that murdered woman is the wife of Forbes's agent
in Shanghai. Now, let's see what Forbes is doing, and who visits him,
and perhaps we'll learn something.' Want a bet?"

Forbes could not help but recover some of his shattered nerve in view of
the detective's airy optimism. Still, he was shaken and dubious.

"Don't forget that the Chinese Ambassador has no knowledge whatsoever of
my share in the revolution," he said.

"And don't forget that for ways which are dark and tricks which are vain
the heathen Chinee is peculiar," retorted Furneaux. "How can you be sure
that there is not in the Embassy at this moment a full statement of your
payments into the reformers' funds, as well as the list of conspirators
which our friend Wong Li Fu is in search of?"

"I think that such a thing is almost impossible."

"Is there anything really impossible? We used to believe that once a man
was dead he could not be brought to life again. A Frenchman has just
demonstrated that by a judicious application of galvanism to the heart
and salt water to the veins any average corpse can be revived."

Evidently Furneaux was enjoying himself. He sat there, absorbing new
impressions and irradiating scraps of irrelevant knowledge in a way that
would have been full of significance to Winter had he been present.
Furneaux was never so mercurial, never so ready to jump from one subject
to another, as when his subtle brain was working at high pressure.

He actually reveled in a crime which lay on the borderland of the exotic
and the grotesque. Like the French philosopher in Poe's "Tales of
Mystery and Imagination," the savant who read his newspaper in a dingy
Paris room, and solved by sheer force of intellect extraordinary
criminal problems which baffled the shrewdest official minds, he felt in
relation to this particular tragedy that he required only to be brought
in touch with certain contingent forces bound up with it--Forbes, for
instance, and, in a minor degree, Theydon--and in due course he would be
able to go forth and find the master wrongdoer.

Suddenly the millionaire seemed to cast off the cloak of despair which
clogged his energies and impaired his brilliant intellect. He rose to
his feet and involuntarily squared his shoulders.

"Surely we are wasting valuable hours which should be given to action,"
he cried. "I am going to the city and shall arrange for a prolonged
absence from my office. Then I'll hurry home, perfect my defenses, and
defy these murderous curs. My wife must come to London. In a crisis like
this I must have my loved ones under my own personal supervision. I can
still shoot straight and quick, and woe betide any man, white or yellow,
who enters my house unbidden. As for this infernal symbol--!"

He raised a clenched fist, and would have pounded into fragments the
thin fabric of the ivory skull still lying where he had placed it on the
table had not Furneaux snatched it into safety.

"No, no!" protested the detective. "I want that for purposes of
comparison. Kindly give me that typed note, too, Mr. Forbes. It may bear
finger-marks. You never can tell. The cardboard box in which it was
posted also. Thank you. Now, a few more questions before you go. How
much money did you provide for the revolutionaries?"

"Two millions sterling."

"As a gift or a loan?"

"If they failed, I lost every farthing, of course. If they succeeded, I
was to recoup myself by financing the new government."

"But I gather that they have neither failed nor succeeded. China has a
constitution, but the Presidential election was conducted on lines
suspiciously akin to those recently adopted in Mexico."

"Nevertheless negotiations are now on foot for a big loan."

"If you died, what would become of the two millions?"

"They would be lost irretrievably."

Furneaux sat back in his chair.

"That gives one furiously to think," he said. "The gray car comes back
into the picture."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. But I'll tell you what--the man who first spoke of a
Chinese puzzle as a metaphor for something downright bewildering knew
what he was talking about."

Forbes put a hand to his forehead in an unconscious gesture of
hopelessness.

"My brain is reeling," he muttered. "To think that in the London of
today we should live in abject terror of a band of Mongolian ruffians!
Why do you remain here, man? You vaunt the prowess of your
department--why are you not scouring every haunt of Chinamen in the East
End? Spread your net widely enough, and you will surely get hold of some
minor scoundrel who will talk for fear or money. Bribe him to the point
where he cannot refuse to speak. Wong Li Fu is the only man I fear. Put
him where he can accomplish no mischief, and the rest of his crew will
be powerless!"

"When you come to count up the achievements of my friend Winter and
myself--in the face of stupid but none the less disheartening
obstacles--we have not done so badly in two days," said Furneaux
complacently.

"Can I drive you anywhere? My car is waiting."

"No, thanks. The truth is, Mr. Forbes, I look on you as a disturbing
influence. A man who can talk as calmly as you about dropping two
millions on a crazy project to introduce Western methods into China is
not fitted for the phlegmatic and judicial atmosphere of Scotland Yard.
If I want any money I'll come to you. If not, and all goes well at No.
11 Fortescue Square, the next time I'll trouble you will be when you are
asked to identify Wong Li Fu, dead or alive."

Forbes seemed hardly to be aware of Furneaux's words. He went out.
Theydon accompanied him, and, as they descended the stairs together, the
older man said brokenly:

"It is my wife and daughter for whom I fear. I can hardly control my
senses when I think of these yellow fiends contemplating vengeance on me
through them. Theydon--do you believe in that detective? He is either a
vain fool or a genius. By the way, I forgot to ask him how he found out
that I had received the warning delivered by this morning's post."

"I'll try and worm an explanation out of him. If he tells me I'll
telephone you later. He is an extraordinary creature, but abnormally
clever at his work, I am sure. For my own part, I feel disposed to trust
him implicitly. I wish you had met his colleague, Chief Inspector
Winter. He is the sort of man whose mere presence inspires confidence."

Forbes halted on the step of the automobile and glanced at his watch.

"I shall be home in an hour," he said. "After that I shall not stir out
all day. Telephone me if you have any news. Why not dine with us
tonight?"

Theydon's eyes sparkled. He was longing to meet Evelyn Forbes once more,
but a wretched doubt diminished the glow of gratification which the
prospect brought. Should he, or should he not, tell the girl's father of
the rather indiscreet admissions she had made during their brief talk
that morning?

That minor worry, however, was banished suddenly and forever. Furneaux,
taking the three steps which led from entrance hall to pavement with a
flying leap, cannoned right into Forbes, whom he grasped with both
hands, quite as much by way of emphasis as to check the impetus of his
diminutive body.

"In with you!" he piped. "Tell your chauffeur to obey my orders, no
matter what they are!"

Action, determination, were as the breath of the millionaire's nostrils.
He aroused himself instantly.

"You hear, Downs!" he said to the chauffeur.

Downs was one of those strange beings who have been evolved by the age
of petrol, an automaton compounded, seemingly, of steel springs and
leather. He had long ago lost the art of speech, having cultivated
delicacy of hearing and quickness of sight at the expense of all other
human faculties. The old-time coachman possessed a certain fluent
jargon, which enabled him to chide or encourage his horses and exchange
suitable comments with the drivers of brewers' drays and market carts,
but the modern chauffeur is all an ear for the rhythm of machinery, all
an eye for the nice calculation of the hazards of the road fifty yards
ahead.

At any rate, Downs mumbled something which resembled "Yes, sir," Forbes
sprang in and slammed the door, Furneaux raced round the front of the
car and perched himself beside Downs, and the heavy automobile was
almost into its normal stride before it had traveled twice its own
length.

Theydon was left gaping on the pavement. He saw that the car turned
west, and caught a glimpse of Furneaux's outstretched hand with
forefinger pointing like the barrel of a pistol.

"Fool!" he cried, in bitter self-apostrophe. "Why didn't I jump in after
Forbes? Now I am out of the hunt! I wonder what the deuce Furneaux saw
or heard?"

That concluding thought sent him back to the flat, two steps at a time.

"Bates!" he shouted. "Has Mr. Furneaux used the telephone, or did any
one ring up?"

"No, sir," said Bates, coming hurriedly at that urgent call. "Fust thing
I knew was he was tearin' out, an' runnin' downstairs like mad."

"O, double-distilled idiot that I am!" growled Theydon again. "Why
didn't I go with them!"

As though the gods heard his plaint and meant to crush him with their
answer, the telephone bell sounded at his elbow. Mechanically, he lifted
the receiver off its hook, and immediately became aware of Tomlinson's
voice, with some element of flurry and distress in its unctuous accents.

"That you, Mr. Theydon?" said the butler.

"Yes."

"Have you had any news of Mr. Forbes, sir?"

"Yes. He has just left me."

"Ah, if only I had known, and had given you a call before ringing up the
city!"

"What is it? Can I do anything?"

"It's Miss Evelyn, sir."

"Yes, what of her?"

"She's gone, sir."

Theydon's heart apparently stopped for a second, and then raced madly
into tumultuous action again.

"Gone! Good Lord, man, what do you mean?" he almost groaned.

"A telegram came from Mrs. Forbes, at Eastbourne, saying she was ill and
wanted Miss Evelyn. I tried all I knew to persuade Miss Evelyn to wait
until she had spoken to her father, but she wouldn't listen--she just
threw on a hat and a wrap, and took a taxi to Victoria."

Some membrane or film of tissue which might have served hitherto to shut
off from Frank Theydon's cheery temperament any real knowledge of the
pitfalls which may beset the path of the unwary seemed in that instant
to shrivel as though it had been devoured by flame.

He knew, how or why he could never tell, that the girl had been drawn
into the plot which had already claimed so many victims and sought so
many more. All doubt vanished. He spoke and acted with the swift
certainty of a man tackling an emergency for which he had prepared
during a long period of training and expectation.

"Mr. Forbes may arrive at any moment, Tomlinson," he said. "Tell his
office people to let you know if he goes first to the city. When you
hear from or see him, say that I have either accompanied or followed
Miss Evelyn to Eastbourne. If I do not catch the same train I shall take
prompt measures in other respects. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

It was easy to distinguish the relief in Tomlinson's utterance, relief
mingled, doubtless, with astonishment that a comparative stranger should
display such an authoritative and prompt interest in the family affairs.

"That is all. Write down my message, lest you omit any part of it."

Theydon rang off.

"Come!" he said to Bates, who had not retired to his den, but was
listening, discreet yet rabbit-eared, to these queer proceedings.
Followed by the man-servant, he darted into the sitting room and did
several things at once.

He unlocked a drawer and took from it a considerable sum of money which
he kept there for emergency journeys, also pocketing an automatic
pistol. Pouncing on an A B C time table, he looked up the trains for
Eastbourne. A fast train left Victoria at 1:25 p. m. The hour was now
1:05.

Meanwhile he was talking.

"Bates," he said, "I promised Miss Beale, the lady who came here this
morning, that my sister, Mrs. Paxton, would visit her this evening, say
about six. Miss Beale is staying at Smith's Hotel, Jermyn Street. Go to
Mrs. Paxton, and see her, waiting at her house if she happens to be out.
Tell everything you know about Mrs. Lester's death, and ask her to take
care of Miss Beale this evening. She will understand. I'll wire her at
Smith's Hotel before the dinner hour, if possible. If anybody calls
here, I leave it to your discretion and your wife's whether or not they
should be informed of my movements. Mr. Forbes or the police, of course,
must be told everything. Miss Forbes is probably in the 1:25 p. m. train
for Eastbourne, and I am going with her. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll wire or 'phone you later."

Grabbing a straw hat and a bundle of telegraph forms, Theydon vanished,
not even waiting to slam the outer door. Bates, who had seen service,
knew that men in time of stress and danger acted just like the detective
and his own employer.

"By Jingo!" he muttered, beginning to assemble the empty coffee-cups on
a tray. "Things is wakin' up here, an' no mistake!"

Theydon was fortunate in finding a taxicab depositing a fare at a
neighboring block. Just before he reached the vehicle a gentleman
hurried out of the building and forestalled him. Theydon dashed up, and
caught the other man by the arm.

"My need is urgent," he said. "Let, me have this cab."

The stranger smiled good-humoredly. He was an American and had not the
least objection to being hustled by a Britisher; indeed he rather
appreciated this exhibition of haste as a novel experience.

"I'm on a hair-trigger myself," he said, pleasantly. "I want to make
Victoria pretty quick. Can I give you a lift?"

"In with you!" cried Theydon. "Now, cabby, half a sovereign if you get
us to Victoria, Brighton line, in 15 minutes. I'll pay all fines."

Then they were off, and the Trans-Atlantic cousins were banged against
one another as the cab whirled round in a sharp semicircle.

"Say!" cried the American, "this reminds one of home. I've been here a
week, an' had a kind of notion that London air was half fog, half dope.
But you're awake all right. Bet you a five spot you're after a girl!"

"I pay," said Theydon, his eyes glistening. "And such a girl! Her
portrait on the paper wrap of a 50-cent novel would sell it in
millions!"

"Gee whiz! Is it like that? Go right ahead, Augustus! Never mind me.
Take this old bus all the way to Paris. I'll find the fares and hold
your hat. But kindly shift that gun into your opposite pocket. You've
dug it into my thigh quite often enough. If you want to get first drop
on the other fellow, shove it up your sleeve!"




CHAPTER IX

SHARP WORK


The American's easy-going badinage provided the best sort of tonic.
Theydon laughed as he transferred the pistol from one pocket to the
other.

"My motto is 'Defense, not Defiance,'" he said. "I hope sincerely that I
shall not be called on to shoot, or even threaten any one. Using
firearms, although for self-protection, is a very serious matter in this
country. May I ask your name? Mine's Theydon. I live in those mansions
we have just quitted."

"And I'm George T. Handyside, 21,097 Park Avenue, Chicago," was the
answer.

"Is that your telephone number?"

"No, sir. It's my home address."

"Well, Mr. Handyside, if ever I come to Chicago, I'll travel along Park
Avenue and give you a call. How many days' journey are you from the
center of the city?"

"Say, Mr. Theydon, I'm real glad to make your acquaintance. I haven't
been joshed in that way since I left the steamer. This little island of
yours is all right as a beauty spot, but I do wish your people wouldn't
carry such a grouch agin' life generally. Great Scott! It'll do 'em a
heap of good to try a real chesty laugh occasionally."

"Tell me where I can drop across you in London later in the week, and
I'll see if we can't find a smile somewhere."

The American scribbled the name of a Strand hotel on a card, which
Theydon disposed in his pocketbook, at the same time producing one of
his own cards.

"You'll hear from me," he said. "Now, Mr. Handyside, pardon me for the
next few minutes. I have to write telegrams."

The first was to Forbes, addressed in duplicate to Old Broad Street and
Fortescue Square. It ran:

"If this message is not qualified by another within a few minutes I am
in the 1:25 train for Eastbourne."

Then to Winter:

"Young lady summoned to Eastbourne by telegram stating that her mother
is ill. Suspect the message as bogus and emanating from Y. M. See
Furneaux. He will explain. Am hoping to travel by same train. If
disappointed will wire again immediately.--Theydon."

He read each slip carefully, to make sure that the phraseology was
clear. The speed at which the cab was traveling rendered his handwriting
somewhat illegible, but he thought he saw a means of circumventing that
difficulty.

"Which place are you going?" he inquired of his unexpected companion.

"To a place called Sutton."

"What time does your train leave?"

"Guess it's about 1:30."

"You have five more minutes at your disposal than I have. Will you hand
in these three messages at the telegraph office? I'll read them to you,
in case the counter clerk is doubtful about any of my words."

"Sure thing, Mr. Theydon. You've interested me. I don't care a row of
beans if I drop out Sutton altogether."

"I'm greatly obliged, but that is not necessary. You'll have loads of
time. We're in the Park already, and our driver has a clear run to
Victoria. Now, listen!"

Mr. Handyside did listen, and pricked his ears at the mention of
Scotland Yard.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed, "this is better'n a life-line movie! For the love
of Millie, l

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