“What, that beautiful girl I saw in Jane’s house?” said Mrs. Weatherwale in amazement. “You don’t tell me!”
“I do,” said Jim. “She has the mark on her wrist, a burn, and now I remember! Mrs. Groat knows she is the daughter of Lady Mary, too! It was the sight of that scar which brought about her stroke.”
“I don’t want any harm to happen to Jane, she hasn’t been a bad friend of mine, but it seems to me only justice to the young lady that she should have the letter. As a matter of fact, I nearly burnt it.”
“Thank God you didn’t,” said Jim fervently.
He carried his prize back by the first train that left for London and dashed into Salter’s office with his news.
“If your theory is correct.” said the old man when he had finished. “there ought not to be any difficulty in discovering the link between the child’s disappearance and her remarkable appearance in Cape Town as Eunice Weldon. We have had confirmation from South Africa that Eunice Weldon did die at this tender age, so, therefore, your Eunice cannot be the same girl. I should advise you to get busy because the day after tomorrow I hand over the Danton estate to Mrs. Groat’s new lawyers, and from what I can see of things,” said Mr. Salter grimly, “it is Digby Groat’s intention to sell immediately the whole of the Danton property.”
“Does that amount to much?”
“It represents more than three-quarters of the estate,” said the lawyer to Jim’s surprise. “The Lakeside properties are worth four hundred thousand pounds, they include about twenty-four homesteads and six fairly big farms. You remember he came here some time ago to question us as to whether he had the right of sale. I had a talk with Bennetts—they are his new solicitors—only this morning,” Mr. Salter went on stroking his big chin thoughtfully, “and it is pretty clear that Digby intends selling out. He showed Bennett the Power of Attorney which his mother gave him this morning.”
The lawyer was faithfully interpreting Digby Groat’s intentions. The will which Eunice had found had shocked him. He was determined that he should not be at the mercy of a capricious old woman who he knew disliked him as intensely as he hated her, and he had induced his mother to change her lawyers, not so much because he had any prejudice against Salter, but because he needed a new solicitor who would carry through the instructions which Salter would question.
Digby was determined to turn the lands and revenues of the Danton Estate into solid cash—cash which he could handle, and once it was in his bank he would breathe more freely.
That was the secret of his business in the city, the formation of a syndicate to take over the Danton properties on a cash basis, and he had so well succeeded in interesting several wealthy financiers in the scheme, that it wanted but the stroke of a pen to complete the deal.
“Aren’t there sufficient facts now,” asked Jim, “to prove that Eunice is Lady Mary’s daughter?”
Salter shook his head.
“No,” he said, “you must get a closer connection of evidence. But as I say, it should not be very difficult for you to do that. You know the date the child disappeared. It was on the 21st June, 1901. To refresh your memory I would remark that it was in that year the Boer War was being fought out.”
Jim’s first call was at the Union African Steamship Company, and he made that just when the office was closing.
Fortunately the assistant manager was there, took him into the office and made a search of his records.
“None of our ships left London River on the 20th or 21st June,” he said, “and, anyway, only our intermediate boats sail from there. The mail steamers sail from Southampton. The last ship to pass Southampton was the Central Castle. She was carrying troops to South Africa and she called at Plymouth on the 20th, so she must have passed Margate three days before.”
“What other lines of steamers run to South Africa?”
The manager gave him a list, and it was a longer one than Jim had expected.
He hurried home to break the news to Lady Mary, but she was out. Her maid, the mysterious Madge Benson, said she had left and did not expect to be back for two or three days, and Jim remembered that Lady Mary had talked of going to Paris.
“Do you know where she would stay in Paris?”
“I don’t even know she’s gone to Paris, sir,” said the woman with a smile. “Lady Mary never tells me her plans.”
Jim groaned.
There was nothing to do but wait until tomorrow and pursue his inquiries. In the meantime it was growing upon him that Eunice and he were bad friends. He smiled to himself. What would she say when she discovered that the woman who called him “Jim” was her mother! He must possess his soul in patience for another twenty-four hours.
Suddenly a thought came to him, a thought which struck the smile from his lips. Eunice Weldon might forgive him and might marry him and change the drab roadway of life to a path of flowers, but Dorothy Danton was a rich woman, wealthy beyond her dreams, and Jim Steele was a poor man. He sat back in his chair to consider that disquieting revelation. He could never marry the girl Eunice now, he thought; it would not be fair to her, or to him. Suppose she never knew! He smiled contemptuously at the thought.
“Get thee behind me, Satan.” he said to the little dog that crouched at his feet, watching him with eyes that never left his face. He bent down and patted the mongrel, who turned on his back with uplifted paws. “You and I have no particular reason to love Digby Groat, old fellow,” he said, for this was the dog he had rescued from Digby’s dissecting table, “and if he harms a hair of her head, he will be sorry he was ever born.”
He began his search in the morning, almost as soon as the shipping offices opened. One by one they blasted his hopes, and he scarcely dared make his last call which was at the office of the African Coastwise Line.
“And I don’t think it is much use going to them,” said the clerk at the last but one of his calls. “They don’t sail from London, they are a Liverpool firm, and all their packets sail direct from the Mersey. I don’t think we have ever had a Coastwise boat in the London docks. I happen to know,” he explained, “because I was in the Customs before I came to this firm.”
The Coastwise Line was an old-fashioned firm and occupied an old-fashioned office in a part of London which seemed to be untouched by the passing improvements of the age. It was one of those firms which have never succumbed to the blandishments of the Company Promoter, and the two senior partners of the firm, old gentlemen who had the appearance of being dignitaries of the Church, were seated on either side of a big partner’s table.
Jim was received with old-world courtesy and a chair was placed for him by a porter almost as ancient as the proprietors of the African Coastwise Line.
Both the gentlemen listened to his requirements in silence.
“I don’t think we have ever had a ship pass through the Straits of Dover,” said one, shaking his head. “We were originally a Liverpool firm, and though the offices have always been in London, Liverpool is our headquarters.”
“And Avonmouth,” murmured his partner.
“And Avonmouth, of course,” the elder of the two acknowledged the correction with a slight inclination of his head.
“Then there is no reason why I should trouble you, gentlemen,” said Jim with a heavy heart.
“It is no trouble, I assure you,” said the partner, “but to make absolutely sure we will get our sailings for—June, 1901, I think you said?”
He rang a bell, and to the middle-aged clerk, who looked so young, thought Jim, that he must be the office-boy, he made his request known. Presently the clerk came back with a big ledger which he laid on the partners’ desk. He watched the gentleman as his well-manicured finger ran carefully down the pages and suddenly stopped.
“Why, of course,” he said, looking up, “do you remember we took over a Union African trip when they were hard pressed with transport work?”
“To be sure,” said his partner. “It was the Battledore we sent out, she went from Tilbury
. The only ship of ours that has ever sailed from Thames River.”
“What date did it sail?” asked Jim eagerly.
“It sailed with the tide, which was apparently about eight o’clock in the morning of the 21st June. Let me see,” said the partner, rising and going to a big chart that hung on the wall, “that would bring her up to the North Foreland Light at about twelve o’clock. What time did the accident occur?”
“At noon,” said Jim huskily, and the partners looked at one another.
“I don’t remember anything peculiar being reported on that voyage,” said the senior slowly.
“You were in Switzerland at the time,” said the other, “and so was I. Mr. Mansar was in charge.”
“Is Mr. Mansar here?” asked Jim eagerly.
“He is dead,” said the partner gently. “Yes, poor Mr. Mansar is dead. He died at a comparatively early age of sixty-three, a very amiable man, who played the piano remarkably well.”
“The violin,” murmured his partner.
Jim was not interested in the musical accomplishments of the deceased Mr. Mansar.
“Is there no way of finding out what happened on that voyage?”
It was the second of the partners who spoke.
“We can produce the log book of the Battledore.”
“I hope we can,” corrected the other. “The Battledore was sunk during the Great War, torpedoed off the Needles, but Captain Pinnings, who was in command of her at the time, is alive and hearty.”
“And his log book?” asked Jim.
“That we must investigate. We keep all log books at the Liverpool office, and I will write tonight to ask our managing clerk to send the book down, if it is in his possession.”
“This is very urgent,” said Jim earnestly. “You have been so kind that I would not press you if it were not a matter of the greatest importance. Would it be possible for me to go to Liverpool and see the log?”
“I think I can save you that trouble,” said the elder of the two, whose names Jim never knew. “Mr. Harry is coming down to London tomorrow, isn’t he?”
His friend nodded.
“Well, he can bring the book, if it exists. I will tell the clerk to telephone to Liverpool to that effect,” and with this Jim had to content himself, though it meant another twenty-four hours’ delay.
He reported progress to the lawyer, when he determined upon making a bold move. His first business was the protection of Eunice, and although he did not imagine that any immediate danger threatened her, she must be got out of 409, Grosvenor Square, at the earliest opportunity.
If Lady Mary were only in London, how simple it would be! As it was, he had neither the authority to command nor the influence to request.
He drove up to 409, Grosvenor Square, and was immediately shown into Digby Groat’s study.
“How do you do, Mr. Steele,” said that bland gentleman. “Take a seat, will you? It is much more comfortable than hiding under the table,” he added, and Jim smiled.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“I want to see Miss Weldon,” said Jim.
“I believe the lady is out; but I will inquire.”
He rang the bell and immediately a servant answered the summons.
“Will you ask Miss Weldon to step down here?”
“It is not necessary that I should see her here,” said Jim.
“Don’t worry,” smiled Digby. “I will make my exit at the proper moment.”
The maid returned, however, with the news that the lady had gone out.
“Very well,” said Jim, taking up his hat, and with a smile as bland as his unwilling host’s, “I will wait outside until she comes in.”
“Admirable persistence!” murmured Digby. “Perhaps I can find her.”
He went out and returned again in a few minutes with Eunice.
“The maid was quite misinformed,” he said urbanely. “Miss Weldon had not gone out.”
He favoured her with a little bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Eunice stood with her hands behind her, looking at the man on whom her hopes and thoughts had centred, and about whose conduct such a storm was still raging in her bosom.
“You want to see me, Mr. Steele?”
Her attitude shook his self-possession and drove from his mind all the carefully reasoned arguments he had prepared.
“I want you to leave this house, Eunice,” he said.
“Have you a new reason?” she asked, though she hated herself for the sarcasm.
“I have the best of reasons,” he said doggedly. “I am satisfied that you are the daughter of Lady Mary Danton.”
Again she smiled.
“I think you’ve used that argument before, haven’t you?”
“Listen, Eunice, I beg of you,” he pleaded. “I can prove that you are Lady Mary’s daughter. That scar on your wrist was made by Digby Groat when you were a baby. And there is no Eunice Weldon. We have proved that she died in Cape Town a year after you were born.”
She regarded him steadily, and his heart sank.
“That is very romantic,” she said, “and have you anything further to say?”
“Nothing, except the lady you saw in my room was your mother.”
Her eyes opened wider and then he saw a little smile come and go like a ray of winter sunshine on her lips.
“Really, Jim,” she said, “you should write stories. And if it interests you, I might tell you that I am leaving this house in a few days. I am going back to my old employment. I don’t want you to explain who the woman was who has the misfortune to be without a telephone and the good fortune to have the key of your flat,” she said, her anger swamping the pity she had for him. “I only want to tell you that you have shaken my faith in men more than Digby Groat or any other man could have done. You have hurt me beyond forgiveness.”
For a moment her voice quivered, and then with an effort of will she pulled herself together and walked to the door. “Good-bye, Jim,” she said, and was gone.
He stood as she had left him, stunned, unable to believe his ears. Her scorn struck him like a whip, the injustice of her view of him deprived him of speech.
For a second a blinding wave of anger drowned all other emotions, but this passed. He could have gone now, for there was no hope of seeing her again and explaining even if he had been willing to offer any explanation.
But he stayed on. He was anxious to meet Digby Groat and find from his attitude what part he had played in forming the girl’s mind. The humour of the situation struck him and he laughed, though his laughter was filtered through a pain that was so nearly physical that he could not distinguish the one from the other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE end was coming. Digby Groat took too sane a view of things to mistake the signs.
For two years he had been in negotiation with a land agent in San Paulo and had practically completed the purchase of an estate. By subterranean methods he had skilfully disguised the identity of the purchaser, and on that magnificent ranch he intended to spend a not unpleasant life. It might not come to a question of flight, in which case the ranch would be a diversion from the humdrum life of England. And more than ever was he determined that Eunice Weldon should accompany him, and share, at any rate, a year of his life. Afterwards—he shrugged his shoulders. Women had come into his life before, had at first fascinated, and then bored him, and had disappeared from his ken. Probably Eunice would go the same way, though he could not contemplate the possibility at the moment.
The hours of the morning passed all too slowly for Jim Steele. The partner brothers had said that their “Mr. Harry” would arrive at one o’clock, and punctually at that hour Jim was waiting in the outer office.
Mr. Harry’s train, however, must have been late. It was nearer two when he came in, followed by a porter carrying a thick parcel under his arm. Presently the porter came out. “Will you go in, sir,” he said respectfully, and Jim stepped quickly into the room.
/> Mr. Harry, whom he had thought of as a boy, was a grave man of fifty, and apparently the younger brother of the eldest partner.
“We have found the log of the Battledore,” said that gentleman, “but I have forgotten the date.”
“June 21st,” said Jim.
The log lay open upon the big table, and its presence brought an atmosphere of romance into this quiet orderly office.
“Here we are,” said the partner. “Battledore left Tilbury 9 a.m. on the tide. Wind east by south-east, sea smooth, hazy.” He ran his fingers down. “This is what I think you want.”
For Jim it was a moment of intense drama. The partner was reading some preliminary and suddenly he came to the entry which was to make all the difference in the world to the woman whom Jim loved dearer than life.
“‘Heavy fog, speed reduced at 11.50 to half. Reduced to quarter speed at 12.1. Bosun reported that we had run down small rowing boat and that he had seen two persons in the water. Able seaman Grant went overboard and rescued child. The second person was not found. Speed increased, endeavoured to speak Dungeness, but weather too hazy for flag signals’—this was before the days of wireless, you must understand, Mr. Steele.” Jim nodded.
“‘Sex of child discovered, girl, apparent age a few months. Child handed to stewardess.’”
Entry followed entry, but there was no further reference to the child until he came to Funchal.
“In the island of Madeira,” he explained. “‘Arrived Funchal 6 a.m. Reported recovery of child to British Consul, who said he would cable to London.’”
The next entry was: “Dakka—a port on the West Coast of Africa and French protectorate,” said the partner. “‘Received cable from British Consul at Funchal saying no loss of child reported to London police.’”
There was no other entry which affected Jim until one on the third day before the ship arrived at Cape Town.
“‘Mr. Weldon, a Cape Town resident who is travelling with his wife for her health, has offered to adopt the child picked up by us on June 21st, having recently lost one of his own. Mr. Weldon being known to the Captain and vouched for by Canon Jesson’—this was apparently a fellow-passenger of his,” explained the partner—“‘the child was handed to his care, on condition that the matter was reported to the authorities in Cape Town.’”
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