Chapter Nine

Lady Moron was talking.

“A detective? Really, I don’t see why you should be worried about detectives, Chesney. You are not, I hope, a member of the criminal classes?”

“Of course I’m not,” he said brusquely, almost rudely, “but I loathe this fellow. His name’s Dorn--Michael Dorn. He is the only private detective in England who is worth twopence. They call him into Scotland Yard for consultations; they think so much of him. He was the fellow that organised the raid on the Limbo Club, and he tried to get a conviction against me for being one of the proprietors, which of course I wasn’t.”

Michael Dorn had passed out of sight now, and the girl was thankful that their interest had been so concentrated upon his hateful presence that they had not noticed her; otherwise she must have betrayed her knowledge of the man.

A detective! At this moment Mr. Chesney Praye was amplifying his description.

“That fellow’s got the nerve of the devil,” he said, unconsciously echoing Elizabetta Smith. “He is utterly unscrupulous, and would ‘shop’ his own maiden aunt to get a conviction. He used to be a Deputy Commissioner of Police in India, but resigned to take up the case of an African millionaire who lost some documents and paid him a fortune for recovering them--at least, that’s the yarn I’ve heard.”

What did “shop” mean, she wondered, and guessed that it was synonymous with “betray.” And what sort of a man was this Mr. Chesney Praye that he could use these cant terms in the face of his noble employer? She had heard of men and women who occupied so well-established a position in the households of the great that they could grow familiar with the people they were paid to respect, and she supposed this was one such.

It was left to Lord Moron to protest.

“Don’t like ‘shop,’ old thing,” he quavered. “Sort of a low-down term to use before a young lady--what?”

Again those menacing eyes of his mother cowed him.

“It does not shock me, Selwyn, and I have no reason to suppose that my secretary will be shocked either.”

He wilted under the glance, muttered something incoherent and stole guiltily out of the room. Lois would gladly have followed, but there was no excuse. Instead, it was Mr. Chesney Praye who was dismissed.

“You must run along now, Chesney,” said the countess. “I want to have a little talk with Miss Reddle.”

Chesney, with his ever-ready grin, took a somewhat elaborate farewell of his hostess, bending to kiss her plump white hand that was so covered with jewels that Lois wondered whimsically whether he would cut his lip.

“You, young lady, I hope to meet again,” he said briskly, as he shook hands with unnecessary warmth, his bright eyes never leaving hers. “I might take her around a bit, don’t you think, countess? Is she from the country?”

“Miss Reddle has lived for some years in town,” said Lady Moron, and the reproof in her voice would have chilled most persons, but Chesney Praye was not the kind to be snubbed.

“Anyway, she hasn’t seen the sights I shall probably show her. Perhaps her ladyship will let you come and dine one night at the club. Do you dance?”

“If I’m allowed to choose my own partners, I dance rather well,” said Lois.

“Then you shall choose me,” said the thick-skinned young man, “for I’m a dandy hopper!”

It was some time after they were left alone before Lady Moron spoke. She stood, surveying the square below, her hands behind her, and Lois thought her ladyship must have forgotten that she was present, until the countess spoke, without turning her head.

“There will be nothing for you to do to-day. I’ve answered all my letters. We lunch at one-thirty, and you, of course, will invariably be at our table except when we have visitors. Dinner is at eight o’clock. You will be allowed to go out every other afternoon from five to ten, and such weekends as I am in the country will be your own. Thank you very much, Miss Reddle,” and with this dismissal Lois went directly up to her room, wondering how she would fill in her spare time between meals.

When Chesney Praye left the house in Chester Square he looked left and right, and presently saw what he sought. An idle man, standing at the corner of the street, his back towards the red-faced young man. Hesitating only a moment, he turned resolutely towards the seemingly unconscious Michael Dorn.

“Look here, Dorn!”

Dorn turned round slowly.

“Good morning, Mr. Praye,” he said, with a lift of his eyebrows, as though the man who confronted him was the last person in the world he expected to meet in that place at that time.

“What’s your idea in tailing me?”

Michael Dorn’s eyebrows met in seeming perplexity.

“‘Tailing’? Oh, you mean following you, I suppose? I haven’t quite got used to the argot of the London underworld. In India we call it----”

“Never mind what you call it in India,” said the other roughly. “What’s the great idea?”

Dorn looked at him with a thoughtful expression.

“Are you under the impression that I’m tailing you?”

“I’m not only under that impression--I know,” said the other, his face growing darker. “I spotted you this morning when I came out of my rooms in St. James’ Street, and thought you were there by accident. And one of your bloodhounds has been up to the Limbo Club, pumping the waiters. What’s the general scheme?”

“Curiosity,” murmured the other, “just idle curiosity. I’m thinking of writing a book on the bizarre criminal, and naturally you’d have a few pages all to yourself.”

Chesney Praye’s eyes were veritable slits as he tapped the other gently on the waistcoat.

“I’m going to give you a tip, Dorn,” he said. “Keep your finger out of my pie, or you’re going to get it burnt!”

“One good tip deserves another,” said Dorn. “And mine is, keep your finger off my waistcoat or you’ll be severely kicked!”

He said it in the most pleasant manner, but the furious man knew that he meant every word, and dropped his hand. Before he could master his wrath, Dorn went on:

“You’ve got a good job, Praye--don’t lose it. I understand that you’re financial adviser to a very noble lady--unprepossessing, but noble. If, by chance, I hear you’re advising her to put money in some of your wildcat schemes, or advising her to finance some of the little gambling houses which you have found so profitable in the past, I shall be coming right along after you with a real policeman.”

“You damned amateur!” spluttered the other.

“You have found the chink in my armour.” Dorn was coolness itself, and the shadow of laughter gleamed in his fine eyes. “I hate being called ‘amateur’! I have warned you.”

“You’re not in India now----” began Chesney, and recognised his mistake too late.

“I am not in India now, nor are you,” Dorn’s voice was gentle, almost silken. “Seven years ago I was in India--in Delhi--and there was a certain smart young Government official, also a financial adviser to some heads of departments, whose accounts went a little wonky. He was some twenty thousand pounds short. The money was never discovered. It was generally thought that the financial authority was more of a fool than a rogue, and, although he was dismissed from the public service, he was not prosecuted.”

Chesney Praye licked his dry lips.

“I, for my part, advised his prosecution,” Dorn went on. “In fact, I knew that the money was lying at a bank in Bombay, in the name of a lady friend. The Simla big-wigs were so scared of a scandal that the thief”--he paused and watched the other wince--“this thief was allowed to transfer his ill-gotten gains to Europe. And lo! I meet him again in the rôle of financial adviser!”

Chesney found his voice.

“There’s a law of libel in this country,” he said.

“There are several other laws, including the very excellent criminal law,” said Dorn. “And the statute of limitations does not apply to felonies. One loud squeal in an irresponsible newspaper, and they’d have to pinch you, whether the Government liked it or not.”

Chesney Praye looked first one way and then the other, and presently his eyes caught the detective’s. He was paler than he had been.

“I didn’t associate you with that business,” he said. “I knew I had an enemy somewhere in the background. It was you, was it?”

Dorn nodded.

“It was I--by the way, where is your dissolute friend, Dr. Tappatt, located? I thought he must have drunk himself to death, but I hear that he is in London--you introduced him to the countess a year ago. Did you tell her about his queer record? Or is he now her medical adviser? Or is he running one of the famous unregistered homes for mental cases? That man will hang sooner or later.”

Praye did not reply. His face was working nervously; for a second he had a mad impulse to strike at his tormentor, but thought better of it. It was in a calmer voice that he said:

“I don’t see why we should quarrel over what is past. You’re wrong when you think I made money out of that Delhi business, and I haven’t seen Tappatt for months. But I know I can’t convince you. Let’s bury the hatchet.”

Michael Dorn looked down at the extended hand, but made no effort to take it.

“If I bury any hatchet with you, Praye,” he said, “it will only put me to the expense of buying a new one. You go your way and let your way be as straight as possible. If you run foul of me, I’m going to hurt you, and I assure you I shall hurt you bad!”

He saw the flaming hate in the man’s eyes, and his own gaze did not waver. Suddenly Praye turned on his heels and walked away.

The detective waited until the man was out of sight, then strolled along the side-street, passed up the mews at the back of Chester Gardens, and made a careful examination of the back premises of No. 307. The stables and garages on the other side of the mews interested him considerably, and it was some time before he was clear of the mews, and met the silent little man whom he had sent out on an errand the morning Lois Reddle had visited his flat.

“Wills, there’s a garage to let in this mews. I have an idea that it belongs to her ladyship--her own cars are at the Belgrave Garage. Go along and see the agents, tell them you wish to rent the place and get the keys--to-night if possible--to-morrow certain.”

He handed a note he had made of the agent’s address to the other, and without a word the silent Wills strolled away. He never asked questions--which, to Michael Dorn, was his chief charm.

Michael came into Chester Square from the opposite end. He saw Lady Moron’s big Rolls standing at the doorway, and presently had the felicity of seeing her ladyship, accompanied by her son, enter the car and drive away. She was going shopping and would come back to lunch, he thought, and loafed along the side-walk, slackening his pace as he came opposite the house. There was no sign of the girl, but Michael Dorn was a very patient man. It was not Lois whom he expected or wished to see. The man for whom he was waiting came out ten minutes after Lady Moron’s car had turned from Chester Square. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a somewhat unpleasant face, whom Michael knew to be Lady Moron’s butler. Him he followed at a distance, and this time Michael made a very profitable trail.