by Guy Thorne
About the Book
Violet Milton is working as a shorthand typist in New York when she inherits the largest paper mill in Europe. Feisty Violet decides to take over the running of the English company, and is warned by a well meaning employee that something mysterious and dangerous is being manufactured in secret in a hidden part of the factory.
This story was written in the 1920s when political correctness in fiction was not even on the horizon, and a villain was often physically disabled or disfigured to make him or her appear more villainous. Note that the physical descriptions of the characters are from the original book. This is an old fashioned story of murder, industrial mayhem, and a weapon of mass destruction -- with a touch of romance.
The Fanshawe Murder
by
Guy Thorne
(1876-1923)
First published 1931
This edition ©North View Publishing 2016
The Fanshawe Murder is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this edition.
North View Publishing
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Book
Publisher's Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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(Publisher's note: There are some minor edits made to this story to help readability, while bringing the punctuation and formatting into line with modern practice. Nothing in the storyline has been changed.)
Chapter 1
VIOLET MILTON stood at the window of her private sitting room at the Midland Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, in the north of England.
Mrs. Herbert Wilkins, Violet's newly engaged companion, who had arrived at Liverpool the night before, was sitting at the breakfast table. She was a plump, placid lady of fifty who liked the good things of life. She knew that there was only a certain amount of fillet steak in the world, and was determined to get as much of it as she could for herself, so to speak.
"She will do," thought Violet Milton to herself. "She will give me respectability, as they seem to think it necessary for an unmarried girl to have someone like this with her in England. I'll take good care she never interferes with me in any way. Not that I have any fear of that. If I give her everything she wants to eat and drink, and a comfortable motorcar to be driven about in -- well, Mrs. Herbert Wilkins will be satisfied, and so shall I."
She came to the table, a tall girl with a springy walk, dressed in a simple coat and skirt of tweed, but cut by an artist in Bond Street, who earned fifteen hundred a year with his scissors.
"Aren't you going to have any breakfast, my dear?" asked Mrs. Herbert Wilkins.
Violet surveyed the table. "Grilled kidneys," she said, lifting one cover, "and, of course, bacon and eggs. How odd it seems to see an English breakfast-table again after America!
"You have lived in America a long time, haven't you, my dear?" said the elder lady, pouring out another cup of coffee.
"Since I was fifteen, Mrs. Wilkins. My father took me out then after my mother's death. He was an unsuccessful man and hoped to retrieve his fortunes in the States."
"Which," said Mrs. Wilkins, looking round the expensive sitting room, "which, of course, my dear, he did."
"Not a bit of it, poor thing. He died penniless when I was seventeen, By that time I had learnt shorthand and typewriting and I became a stenographer in Wall Street, New York."
Mrs. Wilkins was not at all sure what a stenographer was, so she wisely gave a little murmur intended to simulate interest, and said nothing.
Violet continued: "I got eight dollars a week at first, then ten, then fifteen, until I had worked myself up to the princely salary of twenty dollars."
"A great deal of money for a young girl," said Mrs. Wilkins, who had a vague idea that a dollar was an immense round coin of solid gold.
"I assure you I thought myself lucky. I became private secretary to Terence Kinsolving -- Bud Kin-solving he was called in the street."
"Do you mean that people shouted this at the poor gentleman?"
"Oh no; Bud was his nickname in Wall Street. Wall Street is a great business street and Bud, my proprietor, was one of the smartest business men in the section. He was very good to me, and taught me more business than most girls of my age know."
Mrs. Herbert Wilkins had now finished her breakfast, She leant back in her chair with a little sigh o£ content and prepared to devote her whole attention to her young hostess.
"Only to think of it!" the girl went on, her oval face glowing with health and excitement under its coronet of dead-black hair. "Two months ago I was a stenographer in Wall Street. Now I am the sole owner of the largest paper mills in Europe, and I have nearly a million of money as well."
Mrs. Herbert Wilkins woke up. She wished she had asked for four or five hundred a year instead of three -- her first thought. "What a charming child it is," was her second. For, in common with many people, Mrs. Wilkins would have thought the Witch of Endor charming if she had owned to the possession of a million pounds.
"Do tell me all about it," said the old lady.
"Well, my father had an elder brother, Sir William Milton, my uncle. They had a very violent quarrel when they were young and they never made it up at all. I never saw Sir William and hardly knew of his existence. Two months ago he died, and has left me simply everything without reservation. That's all. It's very simple, but it's extremely startling."
"God bless you, my dear," said Mrs. Wilkins, with heart-felt emotion. "Why, you have the world at your feet. You may marry a duke, or even a member of some reigning European house!"
"I am half an American," said Violet, "but that's not one of my ambitions, thank heavens! Marry a duke ? Why, I should have a duck-fit."
"A what?"
"Oh, nothing. It's only an expression people use in America sometimes."
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head. She had always thought it a great pity that Columbus did not stay at home. "Well, what are your plans? What are you going to do?" she asked.
Violet looked at her wrist-watch. "In an hour," she said, "my new automobile -- motorcar, you know -- will be at the door and we are going to inspect my works."
"Where the paper is made?"
"Yes, and the money too. Being with Bud Kinsolving six years has made me keen on industrial enterprises. I guess I could show the people at my works a thing or two. I don't know what I shall do after, but for the present I am going to run those works myself."
"My dear!" said the old lady.
Violet gave a little nod, a nod which Mrs. Herbert Wilkins and a great many other people soon began to know. It simply meant "the queen wishes it and there is no more to be said."
"I employ," said Miss Milton proudly, "some two thousand five hundred hands, an army of clerks, sub-managers, managers, up to lofty people who draw their two and three thousand a year. I have a private wharf and landing-stage on the River Mersey. I have six steamers, with their captains, m
ates and crews. What a field for energy, Mrs. Wilkins! I expect they will open their eyes some this morning when I put them wise as to my intentions."
Violet was enjoying the impression made by her American slang. She did not talk it usually, but the temptation to do so now was irresistible, for she had a keen sense of humour.
"Mrs. Wilkins is a precious old thing," she said to herself. "I shan't want to go to the theatre after my day's work is over."
The chaperon understood little or nothing of what the girl was saying. She only heard one unpleasant word, a word which she had always disliked and always would -- the word "energy," and it faltered from her lips now.
"That will be my department, not yours," said Violet, with a radiant smile. "You will have nothing whatever to do but make yourself comfortable in every way. There is everything that the world can offer to be got in Liverpool, just the same as in London. I will not ask you to help me in my schemes. You will have your own car and driver, and do just what you like. And if you would like a Pekinese I will wire for one tomorrow."
"Dear child," murmured the old lady, considerably relieved. "Of course I shall be delighted to see them make the paper which supplies the money. In an hour, did you say? Very well, then, I will be ready."
Violet went to her bedroom -- she had no maid as yet -- put on her hat and then returned to the sitting room. She quite meant what she said. The girl had a will of steel, though she was not in the least unfeminine or unsexed. She knew she had a good brain. She wanted to prove her ability to herself for a time, at any rate. She did not want the vote. She did not want to oust men from their positions. She simply wanted to see if she could run a great business, and when she had proved that to her own satisfaction she would probably give up the whole thing and turn to something else.
I am only two-and-twenty: there are years before me yet," she murmured to herself. "I will have a try, at any rate. Certainly it will be the greatest possible fun."
An hour afterwards a Rolls Royce stood at the door of the hotel. Violet, with her companion, the former in a great coat of sable, were bowed into the car.
"My first two extravagances," said Violet, touching the sable motor-coat. "This and the car. You have no idea how I enjoy it, Mrs. Wilkins. I suppose you have lived in luxury all your life."
"Since my husband's death, certainly. I have been very fortunate. But," she added, with a wistful note in her voice, "it has always been the luxury of other people."
Violet began to have a greater respect for the old lady's intellectual capacity as they rolled away through the streets of the old seaport.
There is always something brisk and nimble in the air of Liverpool. It is one of the most exhilarating cities in Europe. The navies of the world go up and down its mighty river. Men of all nations jostle each other in the streets, and the excitement that broods over the centre of arrival and departure is never absent. A bright spring sun, though the day was cold, poured down upon the magnificent facade of St. George's Hall and the Picture Gallery beyond.
"I like this city," said Violet. "It is stimulating. It is real. I am going to be happy here."
The chauffeur was a local man and knew his way about Liverpool. He drove them through the busy parts of Walton towards Bootle, and over and over again they caught a glimpse of the tossing estuary, all yellow and pearl lights, while the south-west wind that blew over the Blundell sands was like champagne. All around them was a monumental industry, a gigantic and inspiring toil, and when the car stopped at last before gates set in a long, high wall, which extended almost as far as the eye could see, Violet was in the highest spirits. She felt the joy of power. Hitherto she had only known it vicariously and through others. Her dark blue eyes sparkled. The lovely curve of the mouth was tremulous and eager, and from the low forehead to the firm and resolute chin the girl's face was one picture of happiness.
Half a dozen people were waiting at the gates, which were thrown open for the automobile to enter. The ladies found themselves in a huge yard -- a miniature township, rather -- surrounded on all sides by tall buildings, and taller chimneys, while the throbbing of engines was ceaseless. Mingled with the salt air from the sea Violet detected a curious, but not unpleasant, smell of chemicals.
A shortish, venerable old man was waiting, and helped them to alight. By his side stood a much taller man, who instantly attracted Violet's attention. His age was perhaps forty-three or four. He was dressed with an extraordinary care, a dandyism that seemed out of place in this kingdom of machinery and smoke. He wore a small golden beard, trimmed to a careful point, and a golden moustache, which showed a rather large, red mouth and a splendid row of shining teeth. The nose was aquiline and powerful, the eyes a deep, penetrating grey, and the hair, which was cut short in military fashion, was the same colour as his beard. Altogether, he was a singularly handsome man, moving and speaking with the assured air of a man of the world, at home wherever he might be. The old gentleman was Mr. Hallet, solicitor to the late Sir William Milton and now to Violet herself. Him she knew, and she guessed who the other man was.
"Let me, my dear Miss Milton," said the old gentleman, "introduce Mr. Peter Fanshawe to you. Of course you know his name as the director of the Milton Mills."
The tall man smiled and bowed. "You have brought the spring with you, Miss Milton," he said, in a beautifully modulated voice. "So you have come to survey your kingdom!"
Mrs. Herbert Wilkins was introduced and the little party moved across a corner of the vast enclosure to where an immense building of stone housed the offices of the firm.
"This, Miss Milton, is the Board Room," said old Mr. Hallet, introducing the little party into a panelled room with an open fireplace, in which a large fire glowed. There was a morocco covered table in the centre of the room and various padded chairs set round it.
"Hardly an interesting room to you, Miss Milton," said Peter Fanshawe. "Still, this is where we meet when we want to confer upon any point connected with our operations."
"We?" said Violet.
Mrs. Herbert Wilkins had promptly sat down in an armchair by the fire. Mr. Hallet, and especially Mr. Fanshawe, looked up quickly at the word.
Fanshawe smiled. "I mean your colonels and captains, Miss Violet," he said, and he spoke in the tones of a man offering a box of chocolates to a young girl.
"Well, I hope you are all loyal and devoted," said Violet, infusing a dry, New York note into her voice. "As you are only colonels and captains, you obviously want a general. I am here, Mr. Fanshawe!"
"And delighted to see you, Miss Milton."
"I am glad to hear it," the girl said, and her voice rang out in the room. "I am going to take charge of this business, right here and now. I hope you will all work under my banner as loyally as you did under that of my uncle."
Old Mr. Hallet stared. Mr. Peter Fanshawe stared too, but his eyes were not quite so dull and fish-like as the solicitor's.
"How charming!" Fanshawe said. "You will really come and look us up now and then, Miss Violet?"
Violet shook her head. "No," she said shortly. "I am going to stay here and supervise. I had a very good business training in the States and I am going to see what it is worth at Milton Mills, Liverpool, County Lancashire, England."
"But, my dear Miss Milton..." the old solicitor spluttered.
"I am glad you think so kindly of me," Violet replied. "Thank you, Mr. Hallet. Mr. Fanshawe. Kindly tell me if you use rezin soap or aluminium sulphate in the production of engine-sized paper. Printers' ink spreads on paper treated with rezin soap alone. There are complaints from some of my customers as to the recent issue of solid surface paper from my mills."
Peter Fanshawe opened his mouth, shut it again and stared at Violet.
Mr. Hallet clucked like a frightened hen.
"You see," Violet went on, with dangerous sweetness, "I rather foresaw this moment. You're only accustomed to English girls and soft-shell heiresses. I am an heiress who has come plumb in the centre of her inheritance. I am
going to hold the reins of this business in my two hands for as long as it pleases me."
There was a dead silence. Hallet broke it
"But, my dear Miss Milton, it is impossible, quite impossible."
"I will ask you two questions, Mr. Hallet," Violet said. "The first is this. Am I, or am I not, the sole proprietress of this business?"
"Well, of course..."
"Answer me, please."
"You are."
"So I sort of guessed, Mr. Hallet. My second question is: Do you wish me to retain you as solicitor to my estate and my personal advisor, or don't you? Anticipating your objections, I have already communicated with Messrs. Leuson & Leuson in London. They will be ready to relieve you of your responsibilities."
The old man was not without some dignity. "I am not accustomed to these pertinacious questions," he said. "You are a very charming and beautiful young lady. Everything is yours. For many, many years I was your uncle's trusted advisor. From my connection with him I have made a not inconsiderable fortune. I now beg to resign my responsibilities and will meet Messrs. Leuson & Leuson whenever you please, my dear."
It was beautifully done and it was sincere. A pang of regret went through Violet's heart. She went up to the old gentleman and shook him by the hand. He, she knew very well, did not matter very much either way. But she knew also -- with her hard business training in New York -- that if she weakened with him, there would be a much harder battle to fight. "I thank you for all you have done," she said sweetly. "You and I must have many talks over the past. Meanwhile, I accept your resignation, and be sure that, if I may say so, you will not be the loser."
Then she turned to Peter Fanshawe. "And now, Mr. Fanshawe," she said graciously, but with a very decided note in her voice, "I will be glad if you will conduct me round the principal parts of the works. I only want to get a bird's-eye view this morning. I just want to see how your methods differ from ours in the States."
This was sheer American bluff on Violet's part. When the news of her inheritance had come, and she had determined to try her hand at managing her own affairs, she had evoked the assistance of Terence Kinsolving. The "Bud" had given her introductions to the director of a famous paper mill at Holyoke, Massachusetts, and she had spent a week at these works, picking up a superficial knowledge of what was going on. Of course, she had only touched the fringe of the subject, but her alert and receptive mind had, at least, made it possible for her to talk glibly on the subject.
She knew that this smiling man, Peter Fanshawe, was one of the first chemists and inventors in connection with paper making in Europe. He was probably the very best man that could be found for his position. Old Sir William had seen to that, and had allowed him the greatest liberty. Violet did not hope to deceive such an expert for long. But she was determined not to be cross-questioned and to keep her own counsel.
They started on their tour -- Mrs. Herbert Wilkins excusing herself on the plea of fatigue. For nearly an hour and a half the girl progressed over her domains.
Through the vast bleaching houses, where the pulp poured from the breaking engines into the huge potchers, to the great hall of the press rollers and the sand-traps, they went to the loading-houses. Then they visited the paper machines, where the pulp, white as milk, spread itself over endless wire meshes until, after passing through the great rollers, it entered the hall of the drying cylinders, from thence only to emerge again to the embraces of the chilled rollers and the calenders.
Peter Fanshawe explained everything with suave deference. He seemed to take it for granted that Miss Milton meant what she said, and he treated the girl with an equality and confidence which would have flattered her had she felt it was sincere. She could not feel this. She had taken a violent dislike to Mr. Fanshawe. An instinct warned her that he was raging inwardly at her decision. However, she allowed nothing of her knowledge to escape her, but made a resolve to go very fully into the matter of Mr. Fanshawe at no distant date. After an hour and a half's steady progress, when she was beginning to feel a little tired, they came to the very end of the works, where they abutted the riverside.
"And what is this, Mr. Fanshawe?" Violet asked, pointing to a high wall covered with iron spikes and with a small but massive door in it.
"That, Miss Milton, is your uncle's private house."
"His private house? I thought he lived at Southport."
"Sir William had a house there, certainly, but he spent much of his time at the works themselves. He had this house built for himself, walled off, as you see."
"I should like to see inside it, Mr. Fanshawe."
"Certainly, Miss Milton, but I am afraid I haven't got the key now. Perhaps some other day would suit you."
"No time like the present, Mr. Fanshawe. 'Do it now' is our motto in America. Where is the key?"
Fanshawe thought for a little. Stealing a glance at him the girl saw his face was overcast and lowering. As a matter of fact," he said at length, "I believe Mr. Gerald Boynton has it. He went to fetch some plans which have been in the house since Sir William died and which he wanted."
During her progress Violet had been introduced to the heads and foremen of many departments. She had shaken hands with all of them, pleased at their hearty, North Country greeting and the keen, appreciative eyes by which they regarded her.
"Boynton? "she said. "I don't remember any such name. Who is Mr. Boynton?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Boynton was engaged this morning upon some experiments, so I thought it would be best to leave him undisturbed," Fanshawe answered. He shrugged his shoulders and there was a slightly depreciative note in his voice. "Boynton holds the post of independent experimentalist -- under myself, of course."
"An important post, Mr. Fanshawe?
"Not really, Miss Milton. The young fellow certainly made one or two minor improvements in our machinery, and he has a fair knowledge of the caustic soda and calcium bisulphite process, but his work is of very little consequence. We pay him eight hundred a year, but perhaps when we get into harness, Miss Milton," and here Mr. Fanshawe showed his strong, white teeth in a somewhat ironical smile, "perhaps you will consider the matter of employing someone who can do the work equally well at half the salary."
"Certainly, Mr. Fanshawe," Violet answered sweetly, making a mental note that Fanshawe was an enemy of this Mr. Boynton. "And now about the key?"
Fanshawe bit his lip. "If you really wish it, Miss Milton," he began, "I will send a man to Mr. Boynton."
"Please do, Mr. Fanshawe."
Fanshawe was turning round when he stopped short: a somewhat peculiar expression came upon his face. "I don't think it will be necessary," he said. "Here is Mr. Boynton himself."
A tall, clean-shaven young man, with dark red hair and a finely chiselled face, was walking towards them. He had a roll of plans under his arm, and Violet noticed that he walked with the springy step of an athlete. He raised his cap as he came up to them, and was about to pass through the door in the wall when Fanshawe stopped him.
"This is fortunate," he said. "Boynton, this is Miss Milton, who is now, you know, our chief. She wants to go over Sir William's house."
The young man started. A look of surprise came into his eyes for a moment and then he bowed. Violet held out her hand.
"I have been going round the works and making everyone's acquaintance," she said pleasantly, "but somehow I missed you."
"I have been in my own office all the morning," the young man said, with a little flush. "Had I known you were coming I should have made every effort to see you, of course"
"You have the key, Boynton? "Fanshawe interrupted.
And Violet made another mental note that this extremely handsome and attractive young man had been told nothing of her visit. A wicked impulse came to her.
"As you have been so very kind as to show me everything this morning, Mr. Fanshawe, and I have kept you for nearly two hours, I am sure you must have important duties elsewhere in the works. I will ask Mr. Boynton t
o show me the house and to bring me back to the office. Would you mind telling Mrs. Herbert Wilkins that I shall not be very long?"
This was such a definite dismissal, although it was charmingly done, that Fanshawe could not but accept it. "Certainly, Miss Milton," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, although he smiled as usual. "I will tell Mrs. Wilkins at once." Lifting his hat he turned away, and Violet caught an ugly gleam in the grey eyes, which confirmed her sudden dislike of the director.
Violet gave a cry of delight as Boynton unlocked the door in the high wall and they passed through. She might have been a hundred miles away from the busy factory behind them.
A low house of stone, with a roof of red tiles and tall Tudor chimneys, stood before them. Steps led down to the porch -- for the ground sloped away to the river -- and on each side of the steps was a sunken Dutch garden, beautifully kept and tended. There were two stone pools of water in which goldfish were swimming: this side of the high, encircling wall was covered with ivy. There was something so unexpected and fantastic in this sudden vision of quiet beauty that it seemed like an illustration to a fairy story.
"It is beautiful," Violet cried enthusiastically, dancing down the steps. "Who would have expected it here!"
"It was Sir William's whim," Gerald Boynton answered. "He loved this house, Miss Milton, and spent a great deal of his time here. It is beautiful inside too, and even then you have not seen its chief feature."
As he spoke, he unlocked the front door and passed through a small vestibule into a charming lounge hall, panelled in green. There was an open hearth of tiles. Persian rugs lay about the parquet floor, and delightful lounges and deep, embracing chairs stood about everywhere.
"This is one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, Miss Milton," the young man said. "To the right is the dining room. To the left is a large room which Sir William used as his study. There are six bedrooms, a beautifully fitted marble bathroom and an orchid-house, which you reach through the dining room."
"It is a dream! "Violet said again. "I think you will say so more than ever if you will just come this way."
Violet followed him to the other end of the hall, where there was a curtained door. He pulled aside the curtain, opened the door, and they came out upon a long, glass-roofed veranda which went the whole length of the house. It was very wide and spacious. Again the floor was of parquet, and there were many saddle-back chairs. Against the wall of the house were two big shelves filled with volumes, and one or two tall palms stood in green barrels with copper bands. The veranda was entirely enclosed by glass, but sliding doors could open it at various points. Boynton pulled back one of these now and they went out on to a little gravel terrace with a low stone wall. In the centre of the wall was a water-gate, and steps leading down to the tideway itself.
"This creek, Miss Milton," Boynton said, "is quite private. You see, it ends fifty yards to the right there -- where there is another wall, which Sir William had built to shut out the view of the works. Round to the left -- you can't see it from here, owing to the garden wall -- is our own private wharf where the steamers load and unload and take paper to all parts of the world. This little bit of water is absolutely screened off from everything. Sir William kept a fine little motorboat in that boathouse you see at the end of the terrace. He used to come out here and smoke on summer evenings and talk to Elijah Winterbotham. He found the place a great relief from business cares, and yet he was always on the spot."
"It's perfectly ideal, Mr. Boynton. It will suit me down to the ground. Since you weren't told I was coming to the works this morning, you will not have heard my decision?"
Boynton bowed, but said nothing.
"I am a business woman," Violet said, unconscious how ludicrous the words sounded coming from her. "I am going to take charge of the works and be at the head of everything. For the present, at any rate, I shall live here."
Boynton showed no surprise whatever. Violet had been attracted by him from the first. She liked the quiet certainty of his manner. She saw at once that he was a thoroughly well-bred man. It had pleased her immensely that he had expressed no surprise at what must have been a startling statement to him.
"It is a great task, Miss Milton," he said earnestly, "but we want someone with absolute power here. Miss Milton, may I ask you something? I hope you won't think it presumptuous of me."
"Ask anything you like, Mr. Boynton," she replied.
"It isn't for myself: it is for the man I spoke about just now, Elijah Winterbotham."
"Who is he, Mr. Boynton?"
"He is a Lancashire man of the best type; shrewd, witty and faithful as a bulldog. In his spare time he is a clever amateur gardener, and he directed Sir William's people in the making of the Dutch gardens on the other side of the house. Latterly, he was much with Sir William in this very place. Sir William trusted him entirely, and would doubtless have made provision for him had not his end been so unexpected and sudden. The man is the most valuable employee that any master could wish for."
"You want me to promote him or raise his salary?" Violet asked.
"No, Miss Milton," Boynton replied. "The day after Sir William died Winterbotham was given a month's wages and dismissed. It's not my place to offer you advice. I know that. But as I shall not be here much longer I venture to do so this once." He paused for a moment, his brow knitted into thought. He seemed to be pondering what he should say. Finally he looked up and she saw how clear and frank his brown eyes were. "If you were to reinstate Winterbotham, Miss Milton," he said, "you would be doing yourself, as well as a very worthy fellow, a very great service."
They had been walking up and down the terrace for some minutes in the soft, spring air. Far away on the water a great liner was slipping out towards the sea. The gulls wheeled about the estuary, rejoicing in the sunlight. Only a faint and distant throbbing spoke of the great hive of industry behind them.
"I will do what you ask with the greatest pleasure," Violet said, quite certain that some deep reason underlay this request. She had made several discoveries that morning -- had become aware of curious undercurrents, antagonisms, a hint of mystery. But she knew how to wait and only register these things in her mind for future reference.
Five minutes later they were back in the office, and Violet had announced her intention of moving into the secluded house within three days.
As far as the Milton Paper Mills were concerned -- or, at least, those who directed them -- the next three days were a whirlwind.
The beautiful, imperious girl crushed down every obstacle and established herself in Sir William's "Fancy" with an ease and certainty which astonished everyone.
Peter Fanshawe went grinning about the works explaining to everyone that Miss Milton had acted upon his advice and that everyone must look to their laurels now.
Gerald Boynton sat tight in his laboratory and said nothing. There was a great hum and stir in the mills.
Violet's domestic requirements were simple. The cook-housekeeper was the wife of the butler -- both servants who had been with Sir William. A housemaid, a maid for Mrs. Herbert Wilkins -- Violet saw the efficacy of that at once -- and the House behind the Wall was complete.
In the rush of all this Violet had seen little or nothing of her lieutenants of industry. Once Mr. Fanshawe had arrived and hoped that she was settling in very comfortably. She had not met Gerald Boynton again.
About eleven o'clock upon the night of her second day of occupation, Violet sat alone in the glass veranda. Mrs. Wilkins had retired early and the servants had also gone to bed. With a shaded electric light upon the table opposite her, Violet leant back in a long chair, thinking deeply. She was thoroughly settled. Unlimited wealth and unlimited energy had done that. Tomorrow she would take up the reins of government.
She got up from her seat and looked through the great panes of plate-glass. There was a shimmering gleam of gold upon the water. It was a clear night and the moon was high in the heavens. Pushing open one of the sliding glass pan
els she went down the steps to the terrace. The air was fresh and sweet, and the riding lights of the liners moored in the fairway beyond shone like jewels. The night hum of the vast city behind her was faint and far away. She went to the stone parapet and leaned upon it, listening with pleasure to the soft lap, lap of the tide, wondering what new experiences were in store for her, resolving she would not fail in the task she had undertaken.
As she leant there she became conscious of the click of oars in the rowlocks, and even as she turned her head to the left a small boat shot round the edge of the dividing wall and made straight for the terrace steps. It was sculled by a single man.
The iron gates leading to the steps were, as Violet knew, unlocked. There was certainly something stealthy and purposeful about the dark figure. Nine girls out of ten would have rushed back into the house and summoned the servants. Violet did nothing of the kind. She was not a pupil of Bud Kinsolving for nothing. She stepped up to the gate just as the man was fastening his boat to a ring in the wall.
"What do you want here?" she said sternly.
"Miss Milton?" came in a low voice.
"Yes. What do you want?"
"Eh, that's a bit of luck," said the man, in pronounced Lancashire accent. "Miss, can I have a word wi' ye? It's a matter of great importance."
"Why do you come here like a thief in the night, if you want to see me?"
"I want to see ye privately, miss. I am Elijah Winterbotham. I hear that you kindly promised to reinstate me. Mister Boynton sent me t'news."
"Well, you can come and thank me tomorrow if you like," Violet said, though she was beginning to be interested, for there was something appealing in the man's manner.
"I thank ye right heartily now. But I must have a word wi' ye, if y' please. Miss..." his face became pleading and earnest, "... miss, I was in the confidence of your uncle. I've come by night in order that I might get a word wi' ye and no one know of it."
"Come in," said Violet.
The man touched his cap and mounted the steps. Violet led him into the veranda and turned on several electric lights. She saw a small, wiry-bearded man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair and deep-set, honest eyes. The man's face reassured her at once.
"What have you to tell me?" she asked.
The man looked straight at her. "Ye're going to take over the management of the mills, miss?" he enquired. "It's common talk."
"I am," replied Violet.
"Well, then, miss, as I were a faithful servant to Sir William, so I'll be to you. Miss, there's summat going on in these works that's black and wicked! There's summat which, if I'm not mistaken, and Sir William wasn't mistaken -- though he was taken so sudden -- is going on within three hundred yards of your house, which is as bad as bad can be."
