CHAPTER EIGHT

Lydon might not be able to lay claim to any remarkable brilliance of intellect. At Harrow and Oxford his progress had been steady and respectable, but he had not distinguished himself like his friend Craig, for instance, to whom the acquisition of knowledge was an easy task, whose mental alertness was the delight of his masters and tutors.

But he was a shrewd young fellow, and endowed with a considerable fund of common-sense. He also possessed a dogged spirit of determination. When he once took a thing up he persevered with it, and was not easily daunted by obstacles. There were, at the present moment, two things he was resolved to find out by some means or other--the precise nature of Stormont’s business and the life history of the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew.

He thought the best thing he would do as a start was to go and consult Shelford, the solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn. As he was pretty well master of his own time, he paid him an early morning visit before he went to his business in Victoria Street. That genial gentleman was disengaged and saw him at once.

To him the young man related his accidental meeting with Miss Mayhew at the house of a mutual friend, and the two remarkable facts that she had a blemish on the neck, and was wearing a rather original piece of jewellery, similar in design to one he had seen in the drawing-room of the Villa des Cyclamens when he had called there to condole with Madame Makris on the tragedy.

Mr. Shelford was very much impressed, as Lydon was sure he would be: “One or other of the facts, taken singly, would not lead one very far,” he observed. “There are no doubt heaps of girls who may have a mark of this kind, and I suppose there is no piece of jewellery which is absolutely unique, which has not several replicas. But taken in conjunction, the evidence is very remarkable. Well, I suppose you want to go further into it. What you have learned about this young lady in the ordinary course does not satisfy you?”

Lydon answered that it certainly did not, that he wanted to have his suspicions disproved or confirmed. What did Shelford advise?

The solicitor was quite ready with an answer. “If you or I were to undertake the task of tracing the history of Miss Mayhew, I expect we should find out next to nothing. Such a business is not the least in our line. But there is, fortunately, a class of men who are experts in this kind of thing, and perform wonders if you give them something to go on. You have heard of course of private inquiry agents, perhaps may have employed one in your time?”

“I have heard of them, naturally. Some of them advertise their skill in tracking faithless wives and erring husbands. But I have never had occasion to avail myself of their services.”

“Then, if you want to get at the bottom of this, you had better go to one at once, while the scent is hot,” advised Mr. Shelford, speaking in a brisk tone. “Like every other profession, there are all sorts in it, some very smart, some the reverse. I can recommend you to a particularly good man, as keen as mustard. Whenever we have any of this sort of work, we give it to him, and he has always served us well. His name is Grewgus, and his office is in Craven Street, Strand. I will give you a note of introduction to him, and as he is a busy man, you had better ring him up for an appointment. Stay, as it is pretty early, he’ll be at his office. I’ll ring him up now and make an appointment for you.”

In a few minutes the affair was settled. Mr. Grewgus would be engaged practically the whole of the day, but he could see Mr. Lydon at six o’clock that evening, if convenient. If not, at ten o’clock the following morning. As the young man was anxious to get on with the matter as quickly as possible, he chose the evening.

“By the way, I have a little bit of news for you,” said Shelford as they shook hands at parting. “Poor Hugh Craig’s private fortune is sadly depleted. As far as we are able to make out, he has either parted voluntarily or been forced to part with something like twelve thousand pounds in the last eighteen months. You remember, of course, there were some vague allusions to blackmail in that letter he sent to you from Nice, under cover to us?”

“Yes, there was certainly reference to blackmail. But how could he have laid himself open to it? I knew Hugh the best part of my life--he was the soul of honour and probity. He could never have done anything that he would have been ashamed to come to light.”

The experienced man of the world shook his head. “The lives of a great many of us are a sealed book, Mr. Lydon. The poor fellow was no doubt distraught when he wrote that letter, and may have used the word without strict regard to its meaning. This harpy may have inveigled it out of him on some plausible pretext or another. All the cheques were drawn to himself, and paid in cash, so we have no means of knowing to whom the money actually went. But, as you can see, he was bled to a pretty good amount.”

Later on, about twelve o’clock, Lydon was rung up in his business room where he was hard at work. Stormont’s well-known voice came through the instrument. He was speaking from the _Cecil_, he said. Would Leonard lunch with him at one?

He wanted to settle up that little matter with him.

But for the concluding words, the young man might have declined the invitation, making some polite excuse. At the present moment he was too much disturbed in his mind about Mr. Stormont to hold any unnecessary intercourse with him. Repayment of the thousand pounds loan was evidently meant. The expected remittance was not a myth, as he had fancied more than once, but had actually arrived.

He, therefore, accepted. He did not consider Stormont was a safe enough man to have money left in his possession for too long. If he waited, he might only get a part of the debt, some more pressing creditor might be beforehand with him.

Besides, after all, he need not be so squeamish about meeting him. He had no intention of breaking with Gloria just because he had some strong suspicions of her uncle. He would be going to Effington on Friday for his usual weekly visit, and must perforce be the rubicund financier’s guest as before.

Stormont seemed more hearty and genial than ever when they met in the entrance hall. As on the previous occasion, he ordered a most lavish lunch and the most expensive wine. Before going into the restaurant, he slipped into his guest’s hand a rather bulky envelope. “I have brought it in cash,” he whispered, “ten one hundred notes. I should have liked to add something substantial for the accommodation, but you were so emphatic on that point that I didn’t dare.”

Well, Stormont, so far, had kept faith with him; that should certainly be accounted to him for righteousness. But Lydon could not help thinking how strangely the financier managed his affairs for a man of business. Why did he not give him a cheque instead of these bulky notes which he might not have time to pay in to-day? He hated carrying big money about with him.

Then his suspicions, which had become chronic since he had read that letter, leading him to put an unfavourable construction upon every action, recurred to him. Perhaps he owed his bank, not a trifling sum as he had pretended, but a very considerable amount, and had only partially settled with them. Hence his reason for not drawing a cheque.

Lydon was not in a very talkative mood; he was thinking of his forthcoming interview with the private inquiry agent. The host, however, was in the best possible spirits and conversed enough for the pair.

Towards the close of the meal, the young man roused himself from his reveries, and inquired casually whether he was likely to meet Miss Mayhew on his next visit to Effington.

Stormont answered in the negative, adding: “I understood she was going away almost directly on a visit to her brother in Paris.”

After a pause he added: “Splendid girl that, so clever, so accomplished. She’s a first-class linguist too. Gloria often says she wishes she could speak foreign languages like her. A capital woman of business too. She has been of some use to me and her uncle in that way on more than one occasion.”

“She has helped you in your business,” cried Lydon, rather surprised at such a frank admission from a man so reserved on the subject.

Mr. Stormont winked knowingly. In addition to the greater portion of the champagne, he had imbibed two glasses of very fine liqueur brandy. They had perhaps made him unusually communicative.

“In my line of business we often have to deal with persons in high places, some of whom are very susceptible, not to say inflammable. When you come across a person of this description--and there are plenty of them abroad--it is astonishing what influence a pretty and clever woman can wield. And her worst enemy must admit that Zillah is both.”

It seemed quite a straightforward sort of statement. Lydon, in spite of his suspicions, was bound to admit as much. He tried to lead the financier to talk further on the topic, but obviously he did not wish to pursue it. Perhaps he felt he had said enough.

At half-past two they separated. There was just time enough to walk briskly to Coutts, and pay in the thousand pounds. Leonard was busy at the office till it was time for him to keep his appointment in Craven Street with Mr. Grewgus.

He reached the offices of the private inquiry agent a few minutes past the hour. Mr. Grewgus himself was standing in the outer room apparently used by his staff. But there was nobody there except himself, a fact which he explained to his new client.

“I am alone, Mr. Lydon; I never keep my staff after the stroke of six. Of course I don’t restrict myself to the time-table. I am at the disposal of a client at almost any hour.”

Lydon rather liked the look of him. He was a tall, thin-faced man with rather hatchet features, clean-shaven. His manners were suave and courteous, his eyes keen, his expression was indicative of alert mentality.

He led the way into his own apartment, and, after placing a chair for the young man, invited him to state his business. Leonard told him the story as the reader already knows it. Grewgus listened without making any comment or interruption, but it was easy to see his trained intelligence grasped every detail. When Lydon was finished, he spoke:

“I understand that you wish me to find out all I can about this man, Howard Stormont, the nature of his business, etcetera, etcetera. Secondly, you want me to do the same thing with regard to the young woman, Zillah Mayhew, and this will necessarily involve her uncle, John Whitehouse, whom you say lives at 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square.”

Leonard intimated that the detective had accurately comprehended his requirements.

“You do not know the address of Stormont’s offices, only that they are somewhere in London. You have looked him up in the directory, as a matter of course? You have, and can’t locate him. Trading no doubt under another name. Nothing actually suspicious in that by itself, of course, but it is a little peculiar he should be so exceedingly reticent on the subject.”

He paused a minute or two to digest things before resuming: “Well, Mr. Lydon, I can leave Stormont to one of my lieutenants; I have no doubt he can soon be run to earth. The young lady will, I am sure, prove the more difficult job of the two. You say she is starting or has started for Paris?”

“The letter was written yesterday; I posted it last night. Therefore, if she obeys the instructions, she will leave to-day.”

“Quite so,” assented Mr. Grewgus. “I will, as I said, leave Stormont and the man Whitehouse to a deputy; we shall learn something about them in a very short time. I shall take Miss Mayhew in hand myself, and I ought to follow her to-morrow at the latest. But there is a little difficulty. I don’t know her by sight, although I dare say you can give me a pretty accurate description of her. Still, if she registers at the _Hôtel Terminus_ under another name, which is quite likely, time may be lost. Would it be possible for you to accompany me?”

“But wouldn’t our objects be defeated if I did? Remember, we have met at Effington Hall, and if she is the woman I believe her to be, she would be naturally interested in me as the friend of Hugh Craig. She would recognize me the moment she saw me.”

Mr. Grewgus smiled genially. “Quite right, Mr. Lydon, but I shouldn’t manage things as clumsily as that. If you will come round to the office an hour before we start, I will disguise you so effectually that your nearest and dearest will never suspect your real identity. You will enter it Leonard Lydon, you will leave it anything you decide upon. We are used to make-up here, I can assure you.”

There was something that appealed to him in the suggestion; it would be a decidedly novel experience to spy upon Miss Mayhew under an impenetrable disguise. He could easily spare a few days; there was some business in Paris he could attend to at the same time.

The weekly visit to Gloria was the only drawback. But for the moment the prospect of tracking Miss Mayhew outweighed the disappointment of not seeing his sweetheart. He would write her to-night, explaining that he had suddenly been summoned to Glasgow on important business which could not be delayed.

It was arranged, therefore, that Lydon should be round at the office early the next morning, and after he had assumed his disguise, the two men should proceed at once to Paris.

But Mr. Grewgus, who certainly did not spare himself in the interests of his clients, had something more to propose. A bright idea had suddenly occurred to him. He asked his client if he had any important engagements for that evening, and on receiving an answer in the negative, unfolded his plan.

“Well, as you can spare the time, I suggest that we take a peep at Ashstead Mansions and see if we can get anything useful out of the porter at the flats. Most of these fellows will talk if they can see money is about.”

“But, the same objection,” began the young man, and Mr. Grewgus interrupted him with uplifted hand and a quizzical smile.

“Of course, I foresee that. You might meet the Mayhew girl or Whitehouse, or both coming down the staircase, and they would at once smell a rat. What about having a rehearsal of that excellent disguise which you are going to assume to-morrow? I can rig you out comfortably in a quarter of an hour.”

Lydon agreed. There was an element of sport in the whole thing which the hatchet-faced detective seemed to enjoy as much as his client. Disguised in a heavy beard and moustache, the young man walked out of the detective’s office. They took a taxi and dismounted within a few yards of Ashstead Mansions.

The porter, a young military-looking man, was standing outside the particular block they entered. Grewgus whispered in his companion’s ear. “I’ve reckoned him up in a single glance. I know the type. He will talk till doomsday after the first ten-shilling note is slipped in his hand. Of course, you won’t mind a bit of expense over the job?”

Lydon whispered back that, under the circumstances, expense was no object. He was prepared to spend a considerable amount of money to confirm or disprove his suspicions of Zillah Mayhew.

They went into the hall, and scrutinized the board containing the names of the particular block in which Number 18 was situated. The name of Whitehouse did not figure on it.

The detective rubbed his thin face. “This is 18 Ashstead Mansions, right enough, but nobody of the name of Whitehouse resides here. You are quite sure of the number?”

The young man smiled. Detectives perhaps resembled solicitors; they did not credit the average person with ordinary intelligence.

“Impossible for me to make a mistake,” he answered. “I was far too interested not to make sure. I only learned it last night.”

Seeing they were obviously perplexed, the porter strolled up to them. “Are you looking for somebody, sir?” he asked, addressing Grewgus, whom he evidently regarded as the more dominant personality of the two. “Perhaps I can assist you.”

Grewgus spoke in his rather precise, formal way. “Am I correct in saying that a Mr. Whitehouse occupies one of these flats?”

The military-looking man shook his head. “Nobody of that name in this block, sir, or any of the others.”

Grewgus turned to his companion with a finely simulated air of surprise. “Either we have been misinformed as to the precise locality or the name itself,” he said.

Lydon, not used to the subtle processes of the detective mind, thought it best to say as little as possible. He just muttered the safe words, “It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?” playing up to the lead given him by the astute Grewgus.

That gentleman extracted with a great air of deliberation a ten-shilling note from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into the receptive hand of the porter.

“I may as well tell you we are here to make a few inquiries about a certain party,” he said. “You say there is no Mr. Whitehouse here. Does a young lady named Mayhew reside in this or any of the other blocks?”

The porter, stimulated by the _douceur_ so promptly and adroitly administered, became voluble at once, thus justifying the detective’s hasty diagnosis of his temperament.

“Miss Mayhew, sir, lives with her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Glenthorne, in this block, Number 18. I believe she is their niece; I have heard her call him uncle.”

Grewgus turned to the disguised young man and addressed him with the utmost coolness and suavity. “Of course, we were given the wrong name. I suspected it after I searched that board.”

He turned to the porter, who, by the knowing smile that showed itself upon his good-looking face, appeared to be awaiting developments of an interesting character.

“Now can you tell us something about this Mr. Glenthorne? Do you know his profession, his business, his occupation?”

The smile on the porter’s face deepened, as he saw Grewgus’ hand steal ostentatiously to his pocket, and withdraw another note. It had evidently dawned on his mind by now that they were detectives, and were prepared to pay liberally for information.

“I could tell you about almost anybody in this block, sir, but not Mr. Glenthorne. When he is in London, he seems to go out every day, and returns at all sorts of hours, sometimes to lunch, sometimes to dinner, sometimes not till close upon midnight.”

“A gentleman apparently of quite irregular habits?” interjected the detective.

“Quite so, sir. Whatever his business is, it takes him away a good deal. He spends more than half the year abroad.”

“And what about Miss Mayhew? Is she as erratic?”

“Never stays here very long, sir. She was off to-day. From something I heard, I think she was bound for Paris.”

A second note found its way into the porter’s ready palm, and Grewgus was prepared to admit that he had earned it.

The two men were turning away, when the porter said in a low voice: “Here is Mr. Glenthorne, sir. Do you know him?”

Grewgus motioned him to silence. A well-remembered figure entered the hall and ascended the staircase. He cast a sharp glance at the two men, but it was evident he did not penetrate Lydon’s disguise.

When he was safely out of earshot, Leonard whispered to his companion: “It is the man whom I know as John Whitehouse.”

They went out into the street, and then the detective spoke. “Glenthorne in Ashstead Mansions, and Whitehouse when he visits his friends at Effington. The beginning of a very pretty mystery, Mr. Lydon. Perhaps our trip to Paris will help us to solve it.”