CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was a decided feeling of elation in Grewgus as he waited the advent of Lord Wraysbury. The loose strands were being gathered together by this unexpected visit.

He formed a rapid impression of the handsome young man as they exchanged a few conventional words of greeting. Rather impulsive, generous, easy-going, not burdened with any great excess of mentality, likely to be easily exploited by designing persons, trusting and unsuspicious.

The young nobleman was perfectly straightforward as to the object of his visit, and made no attempt to beat about the bush.

“The plain truth, Mr. Grewgus, is that I have made a fool of myself,” he told him. “Shelford, whose firm has acted for us for years, since my grandfather’s time, says there is no doubt it is a blackmailing case, and advised me to come here and tell you the whole story from the beginning to the very unpleasant end.”

“That will certainly be the best plan, Lord Wraysbury; Mr. Shelford told me as much over the ’phone. When I have learned all the details, it will be possible for me to tell you if I can help you.”

The young nobleman, in his pleasant, well-bred voice, proceeded to unfold the history of the relations with Mrs. Edwards--perfectly innocent relations he urged with a warmth that was undoubtedly genuine, which had led to the present trouble.

A couple of years ago he had met at Monte Carlo a Mrs. and Miss Glenthorne, mother and daughter. Miss Glenthorne was a very charming and attractive girl; the mother seemed somewhat of a nonentity and kept herself in the background, giving pride of place to her clever and particularly fascinating offspring.

At this point Grewgus interrupted his client.

“One moment, please. Is this Mrs. Glenthorne a stoutish woman, with a Jewish type of countenance?”

“Yes, I should certainly say there was more than a touch of the chosen race about her,” was the reply. “You know her, then?”

“I can hardly say as much as that, Lord Wraysbury. I have seen her once or twice, but I have never spoken to her. The point of importance so far as you are concerned is that I know something of her, also something of the daughter. Tell me, does not the young lady wear on every possible occasion a pendant of a very peculiar design, a big sapphire set in an unusual manner?”

Again the answer was in the affirmative. The young man was naturally greatly surprised at the detective’s display of knowledge.

“It seems I’ve come to the right place,” he remarked with an almost boyish glee. “I infer from your manner that what you know about them is not anything to their credit.”

Grewgus smiled with his somewhat enigmatic smile. “I think I would rather wait till the end of your story before I say anything, if you don’t mind. I shall interrupt you as little as possible, and when I do it will only be for the purpose of clearing up some point that suddenly suggests itself.”

The young nobleman proceeded with his story. The two women were staying at one of the less expensive hotels in the place; he gathered that the mother was a widow, and had been left an income that was comfortable, but not large, that enabled her and her daughter to enjoy life in a moderate and modest way. He first made their acquaintance at the tables, where the young woman occasionally risked a few francs. The mother never played.

Wraysbury made no secret of the fact that the girl interested him very considerably; she was clever, bright, amusing, and also beautiful. He was never at any moment seriously in love with her. The fact that she was a mere casual acquaintance, of whose antecedents he knew nothing, forbade any such happening. But in the free and easy atmosphere of Monte Carlo the acquaintance ripened considerably. Possibly onlookers might have considered it an obvious flirtation on both sides. All the time he was perfectly heart-whole, and he felt pretty certain that the young woman was in the same condition.

He took her to dinner on a few occasions, and every time the mother was present. He bought Miss Glenthorne flowers and chocolates, nothing of a more expensive nature, and no letters, not even the briefest note, had ever passed between them. There had never been the slightest attempt on his part at love-making.

His reasons for this attitude were perfectly honourable ones, as he explained to the detective. Everybody knew that he had come into possession of a considerable fortune, and that he was a more than usually eligible person from a matrimonial point of view. He was too modest to flatter himself that he had any special attractions for women, but his money was bound to have. Miss Glenthorne appeared to him then to be a well-conducted, modest girl, but no doubt, like the majority of women, she was anxious to settle herself well in life. Under such circumstances, it would have been conduct little short of dastardly if he had led her to entertain false hopes of becoming Lady Wraysbury.

“It was just a most agreeable acquaintance, nothing more,” concluded the young man as he finished this portion of his story.

In due course Wraysbury left Monte Carlo, and said good-bye to the two women. There was nothing of a sentimental nature in their parting, no reference to further meetings in the future. He learned that they did not visit Monte Carlo frequently, and they very seldom came to England. He thought it extremely improbable that he would ever come across the couple again. In due course the memory of the dark, handsome girl faded away from his active recollections.

Then one day, as Grewgus already had learned from Lydon, he met the young woman at the _Ritz_, after this considerable period. She was accompanied by a smart-looking man, whom she introduced as her husband by the fairly common name of Edwards. She pressed him warmly to call at their house in Curzon Street, an invitation which was heartily seconded by the husband.

“You knew nothing, of course, of this man Edwards?” queried Grewgus.

“Nothing at all. We had a rather long chat, in which he did a good deal of the talking, and he seemed to know his way about. He spoke of attending Ascot and Goodwood and Henley; said he had seen me at all these places. I had certainly not seen him, should not have known him if I had,” was Wraysbury’s answer.

“I take it, he was not at all in your world?”

“Most certainly not, but my impression of him was that he was a very pleasant and gentlemanly fellow. Well, when we parted, I certainly said that I would call; I could not very well hurt their feelings by a positive refusal. But really I had no intention of going. As a single girl, Miss Glenthorne was a most pleasant casual acquaintance, but I did not particularly wish to mix myself up with the Curzon Street ménage.”

“And, later on, I suppose you changed your mind?”

A slight wave of colour swept over the young man’s face at the question. “Unfortunately, as it turned out, I did. I’m afraid I’m rather a vacillating sort of chap, making good resolutions one minute and breaking them the next. I don’t quite know what led me to break them in this case. I think principally a silly sort of curiosity to know how she would comport herself in her new rôle of married woman. I was, to a certain extent, interested in her, but by no means unduly fascinated. And perhaps, Mr. Grewgus, you may not believe me when I say it, but I am not a libertine, and have no desire to run after other men’s wives.”

Certainly, Lord Wraysbury gave the detective the impression of being a quite honourable and clean-living young fellow. But possibly the seductive Zillah had exercised over him a fascination which he would not admit to himself.

So he made his first call in Curzon Street. Edwards happened to be at home, and laid himself out to be especially agreeable to the visitor. The wife was charming, too, but she seemed a little pensive and _distraite_, as if she had something on her mind. Lord Wraysbury noted that the married couple did not seem to address much of the conversation to each other. He left the house with a distinct impression that the pair had had a recent quarrel, or that there was just a little rift within the lute in their married life.

He left in due course, but not before he had accepted an invitation to dine informally with them a couple of days later. He had done his best to get out of it, but Edwards, to whom he had rather taken a fancy, had been so insistent that his resistance was overborne. And here again curiosity played a large part in his decision. He could easily have thrown them over, but he wanted to test his suspicions, to see if all was right between this very charming woman and her equally charming husband.

But he had not so far the least idea of the game that was being played. Everything seemed square and above-board. There was evidently plenty of money about; the house was run on a liberal scale. Edwards himself was a most companionable and gentlemanly fellow. He was not quite sure there might not be some ulterior motive in this extreme friendliness, this insistent hospitality. But he fancied it might be a social one. Probably they were ambitious, and wanted to climb in the world. If they made a friend of him he might be disposed to help them in their designs.

He went to dinner. “Quite an informal affair,” he explained to Grewgus. “There was only one other guest, a very breezy, red-faced man, just a trifle vulgar. His name was Stormont, and Mrs. Edwards addressed him as uncle. I gathered he had known her from a child and was excessively fond of her, but he was no actual relation. My original suspicions were rather confirmed; there seemed a certain coldness between husband and wife, veiled under the appearance of great politeness. I couldn’t understand it. Mrs. Edwards’ conduct as a young wife seemed to me to be quite perfect. I could not help thinking it must be his fault.”

He went again very shortly to a second dinner. As on the previous occasion, there was only one other guest. This time it was her real uncle, a man named Glenthorne, a rather gloomy, taciturn fellow, whom he judged to be altogether of a superior class to Stormont. But of the two he preferred the adopted uncle.

He went to Curzon Street three or four times after that, once to the big party which the pair had given as a sort of house-warming. All the time, from various signs and symptoms, his conviction grew that Mrs. Edwards’ life was not a happy one, in spite of her efforts to mask the fact under an assumption of cheerfulness and high spirits.

The climax was quickly reached. On a certain day Wraysbury received a note from her, asking if he would call that evening after eight o’clock. She could not ask him to dinner for reasons she would explain when she saw him. She was about to take a very important step, and, presuming on their old acquaintance, she would like to consult him as to the prudence of it. If he were engaged that evening, would he make it the next, or the next after that?

“Of course, now I come to think of it, there was something suspicious in that note,” said the young nobleman. “I ought to have told her to write to me what she wanted to consult me about, and I would preserve absolute silence and destroy the letter; but I’m foolishly unsuspicious, and I went, being disengaged that night.

“To my great surprise, the door was opened by Mrs. Edwards herself. She appeared in a state of great agitation; I thought at the time she had been crying.

“‘Oh, Lord Wraysbury, I am in the greatest trouble,’ she said in a distressed voice. ‘Come up to the drawing-room for just a few minutes, so that I can tell you about it. There is no danger. My husband is in the country and won’t be back for a week. I have sent the servants out to the theatre, so that we might be alone. That is why I couldn’t ask you to dinner.’”

Wraysbury did not quite like the look of things, the absence of both husband and servants, but he was still unsuspicious. The woman played her part so well that he attributed her rather foolish act to her acute distress of mind. He was quite sure it was connected with her husband, and that his suspicions of the unhappiness of their married life were going to be confirmed by her revelations.

He went up to the drawing-room with her, resolving to get out of the embarrassing situation as soon as he could, and she at once burst forth into an impassioned account of her wrongs and sufferings.

According to her account, Edwards, so genial and gentlemanly in public life, was a bully and a brute. On many occasions she had suffered personal violence at his hands. She rolled up her sleeve and showed a shapely arm on which appeared a big bruise which had been inflicted a couple of days ago. She had no positive evidence of infidelity, but she had grave suspicions of his relations with other women. On Wraysbury remarking that it was very early in their married life for such a thing to occur, she made a confession.

“I must tell you a little secret. We have been married for some time; it was kept quiet for certain reasons of his own. The truth is, Lord Wraysbury, he is tired of me. I feel I can stand it no longer. I have made up my mind to leave him. I’m sure you can’t blame me.”

This was evidently the subject on which she had wanted his advice, and still unsuspicious, the young man answered her question.

“But after all, Mrs. Edwards, I am not the person to whom you should come for advice,” he had told her. “You are not without friends, who would not feel the responsibility as I should. There is your mother, your uncle, this man Stormont, who has the same regard for you that he would have for his own niece. Have you spoken to them, or if you have not, would it not be wise to do so, before taking such a serious step?”

She had answered him with a profusion of tears that her mother was a woman of weak character, who would make any sacrifice for the sake of peace. She would advise her to bear her burden with as much fortitude as she could. Both Glenthorne and Stormont would oppose her. They were very worldly men; they would point out to her the folly of forfeiting the advantages which her position as the wife of a rich man gave her; they would remind her of the equivocal status of an unattached woman who was neither maid, wife nor widow.

Suddenly she burst into a fit of passionate weeping, drew her chair close to his and laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, please befriend me,” she wailed. “The others will give me advice that will suit themselves. Be my friend. Tell me what to do.”

And at this moment, the most compromising one in their interview, the door opened, and Edwards walked into the room. Not the smiling, genial man he had known up to the present, but another person altogether, his eyes glaring, his face contorted with fury. He thundered at the weeping woman to go to her room and leave him alone to deal with her lover.

He turned to the discomfited young nobleman and spoke with an angry snarl in his voice when she had obeyed his order.

“And what have you to say, my lord, in explanation of this vile outrage upon an unsuspecting man?”

Wraysbury made the best defence he could, a perfectly truthful one. He had come there in answer to a note from his wife, asking him to call upon her in reference to a subject on which she wanted advice.

Edwards listened in stony silence. His fury had died down, but his voice had an inflection of cutting sarcasm when he replied:

“Do you believe such a story would take in a child? You must think me a simpleton to credit it. I had not intended to return for another week, but the sudden illness of a friend caused me to change my plans,” he said. “I came home, as I imagined, to the society of a faithful wife. After I had put my key into the door, I noticed an unnatural stillness in the house. I go down into the lower regions; there is not a servant left in the place--they have been got out of the way by some cunning means. I go up the stairs to the drawing-room. As I ascend I hear the sound of voices--presently that of a woman sobbing. I open the door and see her with her hand upon your arm. What conclusion am I to draw from that? You have stolen her in my absence, and the servants have been got out of the way. You can show me twenty letters; they are a part of the game to try and avert suspicion in the remote event of discovery.”

Wraysbury was nonplussed. To any husband the situation might have borne the interpretation he put upon it.

Edwards spoke again in a peremptory voice. “Leave this house, Lord Wraysbury, at once; your presence has polluted it too long. But don’t think for a moment that, because you occupy a high position in the world, and I am in your eyes a mere nobody, that you are going to go scot-free. Neither shall this worthless woman whom you have dazzled with your fine manners and your great fortune. Before long you will hear from my solicitors.”

Wraysbury knew that argument was useless. He left Curzon Street feeling bitterly humiliated.

And as he walked along there dawned upon him the conviction that this was no unrehearsed scene to which he had been subjected, that there had been a cunning plot between husband and wife to entrap him. The woman’s tears were simulated; her story of ill-treatment was a myth. That bruise she showed him had been purposely made to lend colour to her story.

Two days later a letter arrived from a firm of solicitors, stating that they were instructed by their client Mr. Edwards to bring an action for divorce, and requesting the name of a firm who would act for him in the matter.

He made an appointment with Mr. Shelford, but before the time arrived for him to keep it, he had a visit from Glenthorne, whose usually grave face looked graver than ever when he met Wraysbury.