CHAPTER TEN

After breakfast the next morning, Grewgus inquired if Lydon had any intention of making a long stay in Paris.

The young man replied in the negative. His business claimed him, his sweetheart claimed him, although he did not communicate the latter item to the detective. He had, up to the present, said nothing about her, or her relationship to Stormont. Naturally, he shrank from doing so.

“I take it, if I stayed, I could be of little use to you in your proceedings, Mr. Grewgus?” he queried.

The reply was polite, but quite emphatic. “Well, Mr. Lydon, I think not. If I detailed you off on the watching business, you might find it a very difficult job. Shadowing people is an art--of course Simmons and I are quite used to it.”

“I am sure I understand. If I attempted to follow Miss Mayhew about, she would soon spot it. You do it in some mysterious way, so that while observing, you contrive to escape observation.”

Grewgus was pleased to find his client took such a sensible view of the situation. He bestowed on him a cordial smile.

“Everybody to his job, Mr. Lydon. I may say to you that, speaking from a professional point of view, this promises to be an exceedingly interesting case, more especially when we succeed in getting on to the track of the man Edwards who is no doubt about. I don’t fancy the young woman is doing it all off her own bat.”

There was a certain air of satisfaction about Grewgus as he spoke which convinced his client he was engaged in a business after his own heart. There had been aroused in him those sleuth-like instincts, lacking which no man makes a good hunter of criminals.

Grewgus was away all the morning, and Lydon took advantage of his absence to stroll about and renew his rather slight acquaintance with the beautiful city. They met for _déjeuner_ at the same place where they had dined the previous evening.

There was news of some importance to communicate. Simmons had seen Miss Mayhew with a tall, elegant-looking young man in the Bois de Boulogne. They had separated very soon, and, surmising the man to be Edwards, he had followed him to his quarters in an hotel in a different part of the city, close to the Gare du Nord. Discreet inquiries elicited that the young man was registered under his proper name; he had not thought it necessary to change it like Miss Mayhew.

“It looks as he if were in charge of the job, and that the girl is playing her usual rôle of decoy,” remarked Grewgus, when he had imparted this information. “The two meet while this silly old Calliard is doing his business in Paris. No doubt Miss Mayhew and her elderly admirer will spend this evening and other evenings together till it is time to pluck him. The waiter told Simmons he is a married man. If he were not, we might give the young woman the benefit of the doubt, and credit her with the intention of pulling off an advantageous marriage.”

“In that case, the man Edwards wouldn’t be wanted,” observed Lydon, who was quite shrewd in his way. “He will probably appear upon the scene presently as the injured husband, or outraged brother, or something equally terrifying to this poor enamoured old man.”

Later on, Grewgus saw his client off at the station and wished him _bon voyage_. “I instructed my man in London to send a report of his discoveries with regard to Stormont and Whitehouse, not only to me here, but to you at your private address, as it will save time. I shall keep you posted at this end. Of course, for a day or two I may have nothing to communicate, as so far we have found out a good bit in the short time. We have located Edwards, we have proved beyond the smallest possibility of doubt that Zillah Mayhew and Elise Makris are one, by the presence of the mother. And, of course, our friend at Effington Hall stands revealed by his letter as the prime mover in the affair.”

Lydon arrived in London the same night, and early on the following morning sent a wire to Gloria asking her to meet him at the _Savoy_ for luncheon. On his breakfast table had lain an envelope addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting. It contained a long memorandum headed--“Copy of a report forwarded to Mr. Grewgus in Paris.” Obviously the detective’s agent had lost no time, he must have worked at top speed, as he could only have devoted two days to the inquiries.

The report read as follows: “I could not start as soon as I should have liked, as I had no personal knowledge of Stormont and had to travel down to Effington and hang about there till I had spotted the man, and learned something of his habits. On the next morning I shadowed him at Waterloo, and followed him to Hornby Square in the City. He went into a small suite of offices, on the entrance door of which were marked the names of Robinson & Company, financiers. Further inquiries elicited that his firm kept no staff, that only two men were there, sometimes together, sometimes alone, Stormont and a taciturn, rather unpleasant-looking man whom the porter knew by the name of Whitehouse.

“I shadowed Whitehouse when he left in the afternoon about four o’clock and found he occupies a flat Number 18 in Ashstead Mansions, off Sloane Square. The family consists of himself, his wife and a niece, Miss Mayhew. Both uncle and niece frequently take journeys abroad. He is known there as Glenthorne.”

Leonard smiled as he read this part. It was evident that the hall-porter at Ashstead Mansions had again been a source of information.

“There seems little or no business doing at Hornby Square, so far as I could gather. There are a very few occasional callers, and a fair amount of correspondence. Taking the aspect of things in a general conjunction, and remembering the suspicious circumstance that the man Whitehouse calls himself Glenthorne in private life, I should say the office in Hornby Square is used as a blind, and that no legitimate business is carried on there.”

There was a letter to Lydon accompanying the report signed John Ross, in which the writer stated that he was forwarding it in compliance with the instructions of his principal, Mr. Grewgus.

Lydon laid the report down, thinking that it fully confirmed his suspicions, and marvelling what an immense amount had come to light in consequence of his sudden determination to open the letter to Zillah Mayhew. If Stormont only knew, how he would curse his sister’s officiousness in getting those letters posted.

As he expected might be the case, he found Gloria very hurt that her sweetheart had not written to her during his brief absence. It was very unkind, she told him: if the positions had been reversed, she would have sent him a long letter every day.

He hated lying to the charming girl, she was always so frank and open herself. But what was he to do under the circumstances? He could not admit that the journey to Glasgow was a myth, that he had really gone to Paris to get evidence against her uncle.

The day might come when he would have to open her eyes as to Stormont’s real character, but it had not arrived yet. He must have stronger evidence than he possessed at the moment.

“My darling, you can’t imagine how busy I was,” he pleaded in excuse of his neglect. “I was rushing about from place to place; when I had a spare second I was ’phoning somebody or writing telegrams.”

Being a very sweet-tempered girl, she was soon placated, and made no further allusion to the distasteful subject. Nothing of any moment had happened at Effington; there had been one dinner party during his absence, and there was to be another one on his next weekly visit, on the Saturday.

“I think uncle is drawing in his horns a bit,” she observed. “He seems to be cutting it down to one dinner party a week instead of two or three. He has been up to London a good deal more lately; he says he has a great deal of business on. So that I daresay consoles him for the comparative lack of gaiety. But, of course, he’s never really happy unless he is entertaining.”

“And I suppose he doesn’t really care twopence for the people on whom he lavishes so much of his money?” queried Lydon.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” was the answer. “It’s just a form of excitement. That’s the pity of it. I am fond enough of company in a reasonable sort of way, but then I would choose people I really liked for themselves, for their qualities, not because they lived in a big house and were important people in the neighbourhood.”

He rather looked forward with distaste to his next visit to Effington. It would be so difficult to avoid showing a change of manner to Stormont. He knew that a dozen times in the day an almost irresistible impulse would overtake him, prompting him to tell the rubicund hypocrite that he knew him for what he was, the friend and abettor of Elise Makris, the decoy of a gang of blackmailers. The day would come when he must tell him, but for the present he must practise patience.

He must wait till his case was strengthened, so as to leave Stormont no loophole for plausible explanation. If confronted now, how easy for him to say that he knew nothing of the girl’s criminal activities, that he could not be supposed to be aware she was leading a double life. He could hear him rolling out in an unctuous voice some such words as these:

“My dear Leonard, do be reasonable. I made her acquaintance through Whitehouse, a most respectable man with whom I have been associated in business for years. I found she had great aptitude. She is useful to me, with her charm of manner, in many delicate and difficult financial negotiations with important people. The man Edwards is one of my trusted agents. I often send him when I cannot go myself, confident that he will look after my interests faithfully. Your suspicions are the merest moonshine.”

He might even be able to wriggle his way out, with regard to the man John Whitehouse. He would say that he carried on two businesses under two different names for the sake of distinguishing them. That at Hornby Court he was Whitehouse, at his other offices Glenthorne.

No, he must not yet show in his manner that he was on his track. But he would avoid him as much as possible, see as little of him as he could, take long walks and drives with Gloria. To do him justice, the so-called financier did leave the lovers pretty much to themselves; so did Mrs. Barnard, who might or might not be in the secret of her brother’s double life.

Still, he would have to sit through a good many meals with his host, and he would find it trying. He was not very fond of those lavish dinner parties which gave Stormont such keen pleasure, but he felt rather grateful for this particular one which would keep them very much apart for that evening.

On that same Saturday afternoon, a very strange thing occurred. Mrs. Barnard had gone out to luncheon that day, and the three sat chatting together for some little time after the meal was concluded, Lydon being the most silent member of the party.

Presently they went out into the hall together, the young man having suggested to his sweetheart that they should take a stroll in the grounds. A peculiar spectacle met their view.

A bronzed-looking, elderly man, with a shaggy beard and moustache, rather shabbily dressed, was standing inside close by the door. A smart-looking young footman stood near to him, with rather the air of mounting guard. Duncan, the butler, was advancing in the direction of the dining-room, but halted when he saw the party approaching.

He spoke in his grave, respectful voice, in which there seemed just a tinge of surprise. “A--a--person wishes to see you, sir. He declines to give his name, says he wants to surprise you.”

Stormont started for a second, then advanced towards the new-comer whom he could not see very distinctly, as he was afflicted with short-sight. Then, when he got close to him, his face went pale under its tan, and the words dropped from his lips slowly, as if they were forced from him. “Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful.”

The shabby-looking man burst into a loud laugh and extended a hand. Lydon noticed it was not over-clean, and the other took it with evident embarrassment.

“Tom Newcombe it is, your old pal. Glad to see you again, Howard, and to find things are so well with you. That gentleman is quite right, I wouldn’t give my name, I wanted to give you a surprise.” He glanced at the footman. “I think this young fellow has got an idea I’m a burglar or something of the sort; he’s been looking at me suspiciously ever since I came in.”

There was an awkward pause. Stormont’s agitated countenance showed that he was very much upset by this unexpected arrival of his “old pal.” The footman disappeared rapidly. Duncan retreated with his slow, majestic step, his grave face looking graver than ever. Before he came to Effington, he had lived all his life in refined and aristocratic families. Never had he known, in his respectable experience, such an occurrence as this--a shabby-looking stranger entering the house and greeting the owner as “your old pal.” There is no doubt the dignified butler was thoroughly shaken.

Lydon was very generous-hearted, and in spite of the altered feelings with which he now regarded Stormont, he could not but feel a wave of pity for the man, subjected to such a rude shock in the very midst of his splendour, before the eyes of his astonished servants. Thinking the most tactful course was to withdraw, he touched Gloria lightly on the arm.

“Let us go for our stroll,” he said, and she, understanding his object, nodded her head. They went out and left the agitated Stormont to deal with Mr. Tom Newcombe.

When they were in the grounds, she turned to him, a look of surprise, Lydon fancied a faint hint of trouble, in her clear, candid blue eyes. “What can it mean, Leonard? Such a common fellow too, his way of talking! Not a broken-down gentleman. You heard him speak of uncle as his ‘old pal.’ Where in the name of wonder could he have known him?”

“Do you know anything of your uncle’s past, of his life as a young man?” As her sweetheart put the question, his thought was that she probably knew as little of the past as she did of the present.

The girl answered him with her usual frankness. “Nothing. From some little things father dropped, I gathered that he was rather wild in his youth. I don’t fancy they had ever been very good friends as young men. I am sure you have noticed how little Uncle Howard ever talks about himself, about his business or his past. I know nothing about these things. Auntie may know more about them than I do, but I don’t fancy very much. He is so strangely reticent. He certainly told her he was going to borrow money from you, but I expect he did so because he thought you might let it out to one of us. If he had been sure of your silence, she would never have heard a word about it, I am convinced.”

After a short pause, she resumed the subject. “I cannot understand it, the man is obviously of such a common class. The Stormonts come from very homely stock, I know, but they are miles above this. I don’t think I have ever told you much about the family history, which I learned from my father, not my uncle. I don’t think I have ever heard him allude to his family. He is as reticent about them as he is about himself.”

She proceeded to tell him about the past Stormonts. Her grandfather was a small tradesman in a Midland town, his family consisted of two sons, Howard and Jasper. Although not ambitious for himself, he was for his children, and he stinted and screwed to give them a good education to enable them to do better in the world than their father.

That education had stood them in good stead and developed their native brains. Jasper, the elder of the two, was a very clever fellow, although he had made nothing like the money his brother had done. This, in Gloria’s opinion, was simply due to lack of opportunity, to that absence of luck which plays such a large part in human affairs. And what money Jasper did make he took good care of.

“But although he has never tried to make any show, father’s career has been one of steady success,” she concluded with an air of pardonable pride. “And he is one of the most upright men, with high ideals of duty. He has not got Uncle Howard’s robust geniality, but he has most lovable qualities. I should be so pleased for you to meet him.”

They strolled about for a long time before they returned to the house. Before they went in, Gloria had confided to her lover her perplexity as to what Stormont would do with his unwelcome guest. Mr. Newcombe certainly could not join the ultra-respectable dinner party that would assemble in the evening.

This problem was presently solved by Stormont himself, who later on came into the billiard-room to find them.

He had recovered a good deal from the shock, but it was easy to see by his nervous, jerky manner, that he was still very ill at ease over this disconcerting experience, and the necessity of furnishing some explanation of it.

He tried to carry it off in his usual hearty bluff way, but Lydon knew that he would have given a big sum of money for it not to have happened.

“Strange after all these years, very strange! Poor old Tom Newcombe to have come down so; he was fairly prosperous at one time. A rough diamond, but one of the best, one of the very best.” It was obvious to both there was no real heartiness in his voice as he pronounced these warm eulogies on the shabby-looking man.

He went on in the same jerky, unconvincing manner, addressing himself rather more directly to his niece. “I suppose you are wondering how I came to know him?”

“I think we are,” said Gloria, speaking with her usual directness. “He spoke as if you had been on very intimate terms.”

“So we were, so we were,” was the reply. “I must reveal a little bit of my life that I have said nothing to you about before. Even your aunt and father know very little of it. When I was quite a youngster, I was a bit inclined to kick over the traces. And, in one of my wild moods, I went out to Australia in the hope of making my fortune quickly. It was there I met Tom Newcombe, who had been lucky and made quite a respectable pile. In that land of democratic equality we chummed up together. After a few years I left, having made no headway. But during that trying time Newcombe was a splendid pal to me, let me share with him when I was wanting a meal. I have never set eyes on him since. And now poor old Tom has turned up, broke to the world. One of the saddest things I know.”

Lydon was firmly convinced the man was lying, that he had invented this explanation of his acquaintance with the rough-looking stranger. Even Gloria looked somewhat doubtful.

“What are you going to do with him, uncle? Will he stay here?” she asked quickly.

“Of course. Could I turn out a man who befriended me as he did?” answered Stormont with a fine show of virtuous rectitude. “A pity we have got that party on to-night. I should have been proud to have such a fine fellow at my table, in spite of the fact that he is not quite of our--er--class. But he is a sensible chap and sees things clearly. He has no evening clothes, and none of mine would fit him. He will have his dinner in my study, and I shall instruct the servants to show him the greatest respect. There will be nobody here to-morrow, and he can then join us.”

He was carrying it out very bravely, as well as anybody could, turning the rough Tom Newcombe into almost a hero. But Lydon disbelieved every word he said, as he naturally would, and Gloria did not seem very convinced.

“You are going to help him, of course?” she said in the same quiet tone.

A generous glow seemed to animate Stormont’s whole manner as he replied to her. And Lydon was more than ever convinced that the man was acting for all he was worth.

“I should think so. I have heaps of faults, but want of humanity, thank Heaven, is not one of them. I shall help poor old Tom as long as he wants help, as he helped me when I was in need.”

With the utterance of these noble sentiments, the conversation ended. Stormont went away to shut up with his guest till dinner-time. The respectable people of the neighbourhood came to the banquet and did full justice to it, in ignorance that not far from them, in the host’s study, a shabby-looking man, waited upon by a rather supercilious footman, was partaking in solitude of the same rich viands and choice wines.

When the last carriage had rolled away, Mrs. Barnard went to bed, explaining that she was tired with her long day. Was it because she wished to avoid any conversation with her niece about the unexpected guest?

Stormont went to look after Newcombe. He promised to join them shortly in the billiard-room, as the night was still young.

He came in looking rather relieved, and proposed a three-handed game. “I’ve set the poor chap in front of a bottle of whisky; it will do him good after his privations,” he said genially. “I hope, though, he won’t take too much; he has a little weakness in that direction.”

They had not played more than half an hour when the door opened, and the shabby figure of Mr. Newcombe appeared. His face was very flushed, there was no doubt about his condition. His gait was uncertain, and his voice was decidedly thick.

Advancing towards the billiard-table, he looked at his host with a very unfriendly expression, in which Lydon saw, or perhaps fancied he saw, a hint of menace.

“Look here, Stormont, my boy. Old pal as you may have been, I’m not going to stand much more of this sort of thing. I’m being treated in a way I don’t like. It’s devilish unhandsome, to say the least of it.”

The more than half-drunken man was meditating a scene in revenge for some real or fancied grievance. Gloria paled and reddened by turns and looked apprehensively at her uncle.

Lydon waited developments. Would this fellow in his cups, and without the least control over his faculties, blurt out something that would give the lie to Stormont’s hastily concocted story?