“How did I know he would play a dirty trick on me like that?” growled Jackson; “besides, I’ve never heard of the Firearms Act.”
It was a stupid but a dangerous situation, thought Digby Groat, as he sat gnawing his nails in the library. It was an old theory of his that great schemes come to nought and great crimes are detected through some contemptible little slip on the part of the conspirators. What Jim had done in the simplest, easiest manner, was to set the police moving against the Thirteen, and to bring two of its members into the searching light of a magisterial inquiry. What was worse, he had associated Digby Groat with the proceedings, though Digby had an excuse that Jackson was his valet, and, as such, entitled to his interest. He had disclaimed all knowledge of Fuentes, but, as an act of generosity, as the Spaniard was a friend of his servant, had gone bail for him also.
Had the Thirteen brought off a big coup, their tracks would have been so hidden, their preparations so elaborated, that they would have defied detection. And here through a simple offence, which carried no more than a penalty of a five-pound fine, two of the members of the gang had come under police observation. Madmen!
It was a sleepless night for him—even his three hours was denied him. The doctor attending his mother did not leave until past three o’clock.
“It is not exactly a stroke, but I think a collapse due to some sudden shock.”
“Probably you’re right,” said Digby. “But I thought it best to call you in. Do you think she will recover?”
“Oh. yes. I should imagine she’ll be all right in the morning.”
Digby nodded. He agreed with that conclusion, without being particularly pleased to hear it.
Difficulties were increasing daily, it seemed; new obstacles were besetting the smooth path of his life, and he traced them one by one and reduced them to a single cause—Jim Steele.
The next morning, after he had telephoned to a shady solicitor whom he knew, ordering him to defend the two men who were to be charged at Marylebone with offences under the Firearms Act, he sent for Eunice Weldon.
“Miss Weldon,” he said, “I am making changes in this house, and I thought of taking my mother to the country next week. The air here doesn’t seem to agree with her, and I despair of her getting better unless she has a radical change of environment.”
She nodded gravely.
“I am afraid I shall not be able to accompany you, Mr. Groat.”
He looked up at her sharply.
“What do you mean, Miss Weldon?” he asked.
“There is not sufficient work for me to do here, and I have decided to return to my old employment,” she said.
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Weldon,” he said quietly, “but, of course, I will put no obstacle in your way. This has been a calamitous house recently, and your experience has not been an exceedingly happy one, and therefore I quite understand why you are anxious to leave us. I could have wished that you would have stayed with my mother until she was settled in my place in the country, but even on this point I will not press you.”
She expected that he would have been annoyed, and his courtesy impressed her.
“I shall not, of course, think of leaving until I have done all that I possibly can,” she hastened to add, as he expected her to do, “and really I have not been at all unhappy here, Mr. Groat.”
“Mr. Steele doesn’t like me, does he?” he smiled, and he saw her stiffen.
“Mr. Steele has no voice in my plans,” she said, “and I have not seen him for several days.”
So there had been a quarrel, thought Digby, and decided that he must know a little more of this. He was too wily to ask her point-blank, but the fact that they had not met on the previous day was known to him.
Eunice was glad to get the interview over and to go up to Mrs. Groat, who had sent for her a little earlier.
The old woman was in bed propped up with pillows, and apparently was her normal self again.
“You’ve been a long time,” she grumbled.
“I had to see your son, Mrs. Groat,” said Eunice.
The old woman muttered something under her breath.
“Shut the door and lock it,” she said. “Have you got your notebook?”
Eunice pulled up a chair to the bedside, and wondered what was the important epistle that Mrs. Groat had decided to dictate. Usually she hated writing letters except with her own hand, and the reason for her summons had taken the girl by surprise.
“I want you to write in my name to Mary Weatherwale. Write that down.” Old Mrs. Groat spelt the name. “The address is in Somerset-Hill Farm, Retherley, Somerset. Now say to her that I am very ill, and that I hope she will forgive our old quarrel and will come up and stay with me—underline that I am very ill,” said Jane Groat emphatically. “Tell her that I will pay her expenses and give her Ł5 a week. Is that too much?” she asked. “No, don’t put the salary at all. I’ll be bound she’ll come; they’re poorly on, the Weatherwales. Tell her she must come at once. Underline that, too.”
The girl scribbled down her instructions.
“Now listen, Miss Weldon.” Jane Groat lowered her voice. “You are to write this letter, and not to let my son know that you have done it: do you understand? Post it yourself; don’t give it to that horrible Jackson. And again I tell you not to let my son know.”
Eunice wondered what was the reason for the mystery, but she carried out the old woman’s instructions, and posted the letter without Digby’s knowledge.
There was no word from Jim, though she guessed he was the masked stranger who had knocked down Jackson in the hall. The strain of waiting was beginning to tell upon Eunice; she had grown oddly nervous, started at every sound, and it was this unusual exhibition of nerves which had finally decided her to leave Grosvenor Square and return to the less exciting life at the photographic studio.
Why didn’t Jim write, she asked herself fretfully, and immediately after relentless logic demanded of her why she did not write to Jim.
She went for a walk in the park that afternoon hoping that she would see him, but although she sat for an hour under his favourite tree, he did not put in an appearance and she went home depressed and angry with herself.
A stamp upon a postcard would have brought him, but that postcard she would not write.
The next day brought Mrs. Mary Weatherwale, a stout, cheery woman of sixty, with a rosy apple face. She came in a four-wheeled cab, depositing her luggage in the hall, and greeted Eunice like an old friend.
“How is she, my darling?” (“Darling” was a favourite word of hers, Eunice discovered with amusement.) “Poor old Jane, I haven’t seen her for years and years. We used to be good friends once, you know, very good friends, but she—but there, let bygones be bygones, darling; show me to her room, will you?”
It required all the cheerfulness of Mrs. Weatherwale to disguise her shock at the appearance of her one-time friend.
“Why, Jane,” she said, “what’s the matter with you?”
“Sit down, Mary,” said the other pettishly. “All right, young lady, you needn’t wait.”
This ungrateful dismissal was addressed to Eunice, who was very glad to make her escape. She was passing through the hall later in the afternoon, when Digby Groat came in. He looked at the luggage, which had not been removed from the hall, and turned with a frown to Eunice.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. “To whom does this belong?”
“A friend of Mrs. Groat is coming to stay,” said Eunice.
“A friend of mother’s?” he answered quickly. “Do you know her name?”
“Mrs. Weatherwale.”
She saw an instant change come over his face.
“Mrs. Weatherwale, eh,” he said slowly. “Coming to stay here? At my mother’s invitation, I suppose.” He stripped his gloves and flung them on to the hall table and went up the stairs two at a time.
What happened in the sick-room Eunice could only guess. The first intimation she had that
all was not well, was the appearance of Mrs. Weatherwale strutting down the stairs, her face as red as a turkey-cock, her bead bonnet trembling with anger. She caught sight of Eunice and beckoned her.
“Get somebody to find a cab for me, my darling,” she said. “I’m going back to Somerset. I’ve been thrown out, my darling! What do you think of that? A woman of my age and my respectability; thrown out by a dirty little devil of a boy that I wouldn’t harbour in my cow-yard.” She was choleric and her voice was trembling with her righteous rage. “I’m talking about you,” she said, raising her voice, and addressing somebody, apparently Digby, who was out of sight of Eunice. “You always were a cruel little beast, and if anything happens to your mother, I’m going to the police.”
“You had better get out before I send for a policeman,” said Digby’s growling voice.
“I know you,” she shook her fist at her invisible enemy. “I’ve known you for twenty-three years, my boy, and a more cruel and nastier man never lived!”
Digby came slowly down the stairs, a smile on his face.
“Really, Mrs. Weatherwale,” he said, “you are unreasonable. I simply do not want my mother to be associated with the kind of people she chose as her friends when she was a girl. I can’t be responsible for her vulgar tastes then; I certainly am responsible now.”
The rosy face of the woman flushed an even deeper red.
“Common! Vulgar!” she spluttered. “You say that? You dirty little foreigner. Ah! That got home. I know your secret, Mr. Digby Groat!”
If eyes could kill, she would have died at that moment. He turned at the foot of the stairs and walked into his study, and slammed the door behind him.
“Whenever you want to know anything about that!”—Mrs. Weatherwale pointed at the closed door—“send for me. I’ve got letters from his mother about him when he was a child of so high that would make your hair stand on ends, darling.”
When at last a cab bore the indignant lady from Grosvenor Square, Eunice breathed a sigh of relief. One more family skeleton, she thought, but she had already inspected the grisly bones. She would not be sorry to follow in Mrs. Weatherwale’s footsteps, though, unknown to her, Digby Groat had other plans.
Those plans were maturing, when he heard a sharp rat-tat at the door and came out into the hall. “Was that a telegram for me?” he asked.
“No, for me,” said Eunice, and there was no need to ask whom that message was from; her shining eyes, her flushed face, told their own story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“JIM!”
Eunice came running across the grass with outstretched hands, oblivious to the fact that it was broad daylight and that she was being watched by at least a hundred idle loungers in the park.
Jim took both her hands in his and she experienced a moment of serene comfort. Then they both talked at once; they were both apologetic, interrupting one another’s explanations with the expression of their own contrition.
“Jim, I’m going to leave Mrs. Groat’s house,” she said when they had reached sanity.
“Thank God for that,” said Jim.
“You are so solemn about it,” she laughed. “Did you really think I was in any danger there?”
“I know you were,” he said.
She had so much to tell him that she did not know where to begin.
“Were you sorry not to see me?”
“The days I have not seen you are dead, and wiped off the calendar,” said Jim.
“Oh, before I forget,” said Eunice, “Mrs. Weatherwale has gone.”
“Mrs. Weatherwale!” he repeated, puzzled.
“I haven’t told you? No, of course not. I did not see you yesterday. But Mrs. Groat asked me to write to Mrs. Weatherwale, who is an old friend of hers, asking her to come and stay. I think Mrs. Groat is rather afraid of Digby.”
“And she came?” asked Jim.
The girl nodded.
“She came and stayed about one hour, then arrived my lord Digby, who bundled her unceremoniously into the street. There is no love lost there, either, Jim. The dear old lady hated him. She was a charming old soul and called me ‘darling.’”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Jim. “I can call you darling even though I am not a charming old soul. Go on. So she went away? I wonder what she knows about Digby?”
“She knows everything. She knows about Estremeda, of that I am sure. Jim, doesn’t that make a difference?”
He shook his head.
“If you mean does it make any difference about Digby inheriting his mother’s money when she gets it, I can tell you that it makes none. The will does not specify that he is the son of John Groat, and the fact that he was born before she married this unfortunate shipping clerk does not affect the issue.”
“When is the money to be made over to the Groats?”
“Next Thursday,” said Jim, with a groan, “and I am just as far from stopping the transfer of the property as I have ever been.”
He had not told her of his meeting with Lady Mary Danton. That was not his secret alone. Nor could he tell her that Lady Mary was the woman who had warned her.
They strolled across the Park towards the Serpentine and Jim was unusually preoccupied.
“Do you know, Eunice, that I have an uncanny feeling that you really are in some way associated with the Danton fortune?”
She laughed and clung tighter to his arm.
“Jim, you would make me Queen of England if you could,” she said, “and you have just as much chance of raising me to the throne as you have of proving that I am somebody else’s child. I don’t want to be anybody else’s, really,” she said. “I was very, very fond of my mother, and it nearly broke my heart when she died. And daddy was a darling.”
He nodded.
“Of course, it is a fantastic idea,” he said, “and I am flying in face of all the facts. I have taken the trouble to discover where you were born. I have a friend in Cape Town who made the inquiries for me.”
“Eunice May Weldon,” she laughed. “So you can abandon that idea, can’t you?” she said.
Strolling along by the side of the Serpentine, they had reached the bridge near the magazine and were standing waiting until a car had passed before they crossed the road. Somebody in the car raised his hat.
“Who was that?” said Jim.
“Digby Groat,” she smiled, “my nearly late employer! Don’t let us go to the tea-shop, Jim,” she said; “let us go to your flat—I’d love to.”
He looked at her dubiously.
“It is not customary for bachelors to give tea-parties to young females,” he said.
“I’m sure it is”—she waved aside his objection. “I’m perfectly certain it happens every day, only they don’t speak about it.”
The flat delighted her and she took off her coat and busied herself in the little kitchenette.
“You told me it was an attic with bare boards,” she said reproachfully as she was laying the cloth.
To Jim, stretched in his big chair, she was a thing of sheer delight. He wanted no more than to sit for ever and watch her flitting from room to room. The sound of her fresh voice was a delicious narcotic, and even when she called him, as she did, again and again, to explain some curio of his which hung in the hall, the spell was not broken.
“Everything is speckless,” she said as she brought in the tea, “and I’m sure you haven’t polished up those brasses and cleaned that china.”
“You’re right first time,” said Jim lazily. “An unprepossessing lady comes in every morning at half-past seven and works her fingers to the bone, as she has told me more times than once, though she manages to keep more flesh on those bones than seems comfortable for her.”
“And there is your famous train,” she said, jumping up and going to the window as an express whizzed down the declivity. “Oh, Jim, look at those boys,” she gasped in horror.
Across the line and supported by two stout poles, one of which stood in the courtyard of the flat, was
a stretch of thin telegraph wires, and on these a small and adventurous urchin was pulling himself across hand-over-hand, to the joy of his companions seated on the opposite wall of the cutting.
“The young devil,” said Jim admiringly.
Another train shrieked past, and running down into Euston trains moved at a good speed. The telegraph wire had sagged under the weight of the boy to such an extent that he had to lift up his legs to avoid touching the tops of the carriages.
“If the police catch him,” mused Jim, “they will fine him a sovereign and give him a birching. In reality he ought to be given a medal. These little beggars are the soldiers of the future, Eunice, and some day he will reproduce that fearlessness of danger, and he will earn the Victoria Cross a jolly sight more than I earned it.”
She laughed and dropped her head against his shoulder.
“You queer man,” she said, and then returned to the contemplation of the young climber, who had now reached the opposite wall amidst the approving yells and shouts of his diminutive comrades.
“Now let us drink our tea, because I must get back,” said the girl.
The cup was to her lips when the door opened and a woman came in. Eunice did not hear the turning of the handle, and her first intimation of the stranger’s presence was the word “Jim.” She looked up. The woman in the doorway was, by all standards, beautiful, she noticed with a pang. Age had not lined or marred the beauty of her face and the strands of grey in her hair added to her attraction. For a moment they looked at one another, the woman and the girl, and then the intruder, with a nod and a smile, said:
“I will see you again. I am sorry,” and went out closing the door behind her.
The silence that followed was painful. Jim started three times to speak, but stopped as he realized the futility of explaining to the girl the reason of the woman’s presence. He could not tell her she was Lady Mary Danton.
“She called you ‘Jim,’” said the girl slowly. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“Er—yes,” he replied awkwardly. “She is Mrs. Fane, a neighbour.”
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