Part 13

Dick read the letter with a troubled face.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry!” said Harry shrilly. “It’s disgraceful! I shall look a perfect fool! Leslie’s treated me very badly indeed--but that reference to the engagement ring is in shocking bad taste.”

“I thought you’d given her one,” said the patient Dick. “Didn’t you?”

“It is a barbarous and stupid practice. I never dreamt of giving her a ring. Why should I? She had a ring, a beautiful one. You must have seen it--a diamond that she always wears. What is the sense of it? The reference is in very bad taste--shocking!”

And yet, in spite of his agitation and anger, Dick thought he detected relief in his brother’s voice. But his vanity had been hurt, and that is a sore place with many men of greater calibre than Lord Chelford.

“Without any warning.… She was here yesterday, but said not a word about it!”

“You hardly gave her a chance,” said Dick. “You scarcely spoke to her, and really, Harry, you took no trouble to entertain her. Be reasonable.”

Harry fondled his chin and glared through the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles.

“I suppose not,” he said, with sudden mildness. “But, really, I’m not a marrying man. I want no more than my books and my mission. But I’m going to look a fool over this business, Dick.” His anger was rising again. “Everybody in the county knows we’re engaged, and they’ll come prying around to discover what is wrong. We shall have those beastly newspaper men sitting on the front step, and that is more than I can endure!”

“Then let them come to me,” said Dick. “I’ll give them all the explanation they need, and they’ll be sorry they asked. As for newspaper men--I eat ’em alive!”

Still his brother was not wholly mollified.

“What made her do it? Do you think she’s found somebody else she likes better?” He peered at Dick in his short-sighted way. “That would make it even worse. I’m very annoyed with Arthur Gwyn. He threw this girl at me----”

“Don’t let us talk about it,” said Dick sharply. “It isn’t a very dignified attitude to take.”

His brother looked at the letter dubiously.

“What am I to do?”

“Write a charming letter, freeing her,” said Dick. “You can do no less.”

“But do you think she’s got another man in her eye?” demanded Harry.

“She has probably a dozen,” said the other brutally. “Do as I tell you, Harry.”

And Harry Chelford went grumbling back to the library.

So she had done it! Dick hardly knew whether to be elated or depressed. A week ago he would have been the happiest man in England; to-day… he shrugged his broad shoulders, pulled his pipe from his pocket, and savagely stuffed tobacco into the bowl. This would mean a break, for a time, at any rate, between the Gwyns and Harry, and there arose an alarming thought. Suppose Harry transferred his legal business to another firm? That would mean ruin for Arthur Gwyn. Dick had so far been able to cover up the defalcations of Leslie Gwyn’s brother, and in a few months he could have obliterated all trace without hurt to the estate. But at this stage, if Harry insisted----

“His lordship would like to see you, sir.” The second footman had come up unnoticed behind him.

Dick steeled himself for the interview and went in. His brother was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, his hair rumpled, and an angry frown puckering the white skin of his forehead.

“Dick, I’m going to cut out these Gwyns,” he said. “I want you to ask your lawyers to take over from Arthur, and tell them to be deuced careful and check every item. That fellow handles my mother’s estate, and roughly I think he must have nearly fifty thousand pounds in securities. If there’s a penny missing, Dick, I’ll jail the fellow--I will, by God! He’s made a fool of me before all the county, and if I get half a chance I’m going to get back on him.”

Dick’s heart sank.

“What lawyers do you suggest?”

“Sampson & Howard. They’re good people and they’re not too friendly with Arthur. Will you take that in hand, Dick?”

Dick Alford nodded. As soon as he could escape from his brother’s presence, he went round to the garage and, taking out his car, drove to Willow House. Arthur was still on the lawn, walking up and down, and from his attitude of depression Dick gathered that something unusual had happened. Possibly he had been told about the breaking off of the engagement. But here he attributed the wrong cause.

“I want to see you, Gwyn.”

Arthur Gwyn started and turned at the sound of the voice.

“Hullo!” he said awkwardly. “Does Harry know?”

Dick nodded.

“And he’s very angry, I suppose?”

“He is rather furious. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. Where is Leslie?”

“She’s in the house. Do you want her?”

“No,” said Dick quietly. “I want to talk with you. Come for a walk with me.”

They strolled out of all possibility of earshot from the house, and then:

“Harry has decided to take the legal management of the estate out of your hands, Gwyn,” he said. “He spoke to me this morning of some funds that you’re handling--about fifty thousand pounds’ worth of stock from the late Lady Chelford’s estate. Is that money intact?”

Arthur did not answer.

“Is that money intact?” asked Dick again.

“No,” said the other huskily; “not a penny of it.”

Dick stared at the man in horror.

“You mean the money is lost?”

Arthur nodded.

“Yes, I was persuaded to put it into an oil-field in Texas. The shares are not worth two cents a thousand.”

Dick groaned.

“Oh, you fool, you cussed fool!” he muttered. “Don’t you realize what this means? I can’t cover you up now, not even for Leslie’s sake. You madman!”

Arthur Gwyn passed his hand wearily over his eyes.

“What is the use of ragging me?” he asked plaintively. “I’ve been expecting this trouble, and have lived under the shadow of it for years. I’ll have to take my medicine.”

“And Leslie?” asked Dick sternly. “What of her? Has she to take your medicine, too?”

The man’s pallid face was distorted painfully.

“Don’t talk about Leslie, for God’s sake!” he said. “That’s the worst of it. I’m not scared of Dartmoor or bankruptcy or anything. Leslie’s the only fear I have.”

“Can you raise the money?”

Arthur gave a harsh little laugh.

“Raise it? How do you think I can raise fifty thousand?”

“You have no friends?”

The lawyer’s lips curled.

“Not fifty thousand pounds’ worth,” he said curtly. “No, I’m afraid, Alford, I’ve got to go through with it. I’ve been a blackguard, a vain, stupid fool--I’ve asked for all that is coming to me and I shall not squeal.”

Dick was silent, going over the problem that this horrible situation presented. Arthur could go to prison and stay there for the rest of his life, for all he cared… but Leslie: this would break her heart.

“There is one thing I want you to promise me----” he began, as he foresaw one possible solution which might present itself to Arthur’s mind.

The lawyer smiled and nodded.

“You can trust me,” he said. “I’ve got some sort of religion tucked away inside my system. Self-destruction is not my idea of a gentleman’s solution. I tell you I’ll stand up to anything that comes, and I’m not going to blow my brains out and leave a coroner’s jury of yokels and carpenters to discuss my private affairs and probe into my iniquities. When will the transfer take place?”

“We’ve got a week yet,” said Dick. “I can hold it up for that long; but once the papers are in the hands of the other lawyers, nothing can save you.”

A week! Arthur Gwyn pinched his lower lip in meditation. Seven days. So far as he was concerned, if he had seven years to make reparation he could not see daylight.

“And get out of your mind that you’re going to find the Chelford treasure,” said Dick, and the shock made the man jump.

“Why, how do you know----” he stammered.

“I know all about that. I tell you that you can cut it out. That isn’t a solution. It’s only robbing Peter to pay Peter; for if there is any gold--and heaven knows I doubt it--it belongs to Harry and must go to Harry. What about Leslie’s fortune? Of course that is non-existent. Does she know?”

“I told her this morning,” said the man, and now Dick understood his depression. “She took it like a brick; in fact, she seemed almost happy about it. And why, I can’t for the life of me understand. Women are queer things.”

“I know one woman who is the most wonderful thing in the world,” said Dick softly.

He did not wait to see Leslie, but left as hurriedly as he came, and the man who had been lying at full length beneath the laurel bushes waited till the two men had disappeared, and then crawled painfully and carefully back to the road, mounted the wall, and stepped out for the nearest telegraph office to send his news.

XXXVI

Mr. Gilder arrived at his cottage in the evening and found his “tenant” sitting on the doorstep smoking a pipe. Fortunately, the cottage was in the middle of a thin plantation of trees, and the river at the back made an approach from that direction impossible. Nevertheless, Mr. Gilder was alarmed at the lack of precaution the man showed.

“If you’re going to stay here you’ve got to keep inside the house. I tell you I don’t want people to know that you’re living here. Now, what is the big news?”

“Come inside,” said Thomas, with a grin, and his host felt that the invitation into his own house was a little superfluous.

Thomas was not a good story-teller, and it was with many “You see what I mean’s” and at inordinate length that he unravelled his tangled narrative.

“I’d been hanging round the house all the morning. I wanted to have a talk with the young lady----”

“What about?” demanded the other.

“About a certain thing----”

“Now, see here, Thomas: you’re not to speak to Miss Gwyn--do you understand? You’re not to approach her and you’re not to go anywhere near the house.”

“Well, it’s not a bad thing that I was there this morning,” grinned Thomas. “Because I heard something that will make you jump!”

It took half-an-hour for him to repeat, with more or less accuracy, the conversation he had heard on the lawn. When he came to the vital point, Mr. Gilder whistled.

Arthur Gwyn had managed the Chelford estate without his assistance, and Gilder was as ignorant of the particulars of the property as if it were in some other office.

“Fifty thousand, eh?” he mused. “Well, that’s more than Arthur Gwyn will collect in a hurry.”

“That’s what he said himself,” said Thomas. “He said to Alford: ‘Friends? Well, I haven’t got fifty thousand pounds’ worth’--those were his very words. He said, ‘I’ll go to Dartmoor, and that doesn’t worry me. What worries me is Leslie.’”

“Did you hear when the transfer was to be completed--I mean, when the stocks were to be handed over to the other lawyers?”

“In a week,” said Thomas. “Mr. Alford said, ‘I can hold it up for a week but I can’t keep it any longer. And once those papers are in the other bloke’s hands, your name is mud.’”

Fifty thousand pounds! Gilder paced up and down the narrow room, his hands behind him.

“You say that the engagement with his lordship is broken off?”

“He didn’t say so,” said the man, “but that’s how I took it. He said ‘Was Harry very annoyed?’ That’s his lordship. And Alford said ‘Yes, and he’s going to change his lawyers.’ And he said, ‘What about Leslie’s fortune?’----”

“Call her Miss Gwyn, will you?” interrupted Gilder roughly.

“He didn’t say Miss Gwyn, he said ‘Leslie.’ But to oblige you I’ll say Miss Gwyn,” said Thomas. “He said, ‘What about Miss Gwyn’s fortune? Is that gone?’ And Gwyn said, ‘Yes, every penny.’”

This was no news to Gilder--Arthur had told him as much.

“And here, Mr. Gilder--the Black Abbot was around last night. I’ve got an idea about him! His lordship’s scared to death of the Black Abbot. Did you know that?”

“Don’t talk to me about the Black Abbot!” snapped the man. He wanted to work this thing out, and the chatter of his guest disturbed him. “You keep inside and out of sight. I think you’d better go to London to-night. You’ve got money?”

“I’ve got a bit of money. I was a fool! There’s an old-fashioned diary in that library that his lordship would give a couple of thousand pounds to get back, and I had it in my hand! That is the thing I ought to have pinched.”

“And if it was found on you, you’d have been in prison. As it was, you had taken money and you got away with it.”

This point of view had not struck the ex-convict before.

“That’s true,” he agreed. “Lord! what a headpiece you’ve got, Mr. Gilder! If I had your brains----”

But Mr. Gilder was not in a mood for flattery.

“I’ve got an idea,” Thomas went on, unconscious of the distraction he was causing. “Let me go up to London to-night and come down to-morrow.”

But Gilder did not hear him. Fifty thousand pounds! And for that price he could buy--Leslie Gwyn! His pulse quickened at the thought. There were no “ifs” or “buts.” She would gladly make that sacrifice for her brother’s sake. This time he had them all in the hollow of his hand: Leslie, Arthur Gwyn, and last, but not least in dislike, Dick Alford.

Mentally he reviewed his financial position. He had considerably more than a hundred thousand pounds in gilt-edged securities, which were easily realizable--or transferable. He had house property in the north of London, and a fairly large fluid balance at the bank. And he was fifty. There were fifteen years of life ahead of him--fifteen happy years. How could he better use his money than in buying happiness? The life companionship of that fragrant thing, and afterward a will whereby she lost all interest in his property if she married again--Mr. Gilder thought a long way ahead. And his marriage would be a knife in the heart of the Second Son, for he guessed Dick Alford’s secret.

He saw his way now; the plan was foolproof and invincible. Nothing stood between him and the realization of what had once been a wild and foolish hope.

“A week? You’re sure of that?”

Thomas nodded. His cunning eyes had not left Gilder’s face. Unconscious of the curious scrutiny, Fabrian asked:

“Why do you think this news is interesting to me?”

The man grinned and closed his right eye in a significant wink.

“Didn’t you ask me to tell you how often the young lady went to Fossaway Manor? Didn’t you tell me to write everything that happened between her and his lordship?”

Gilder was silent.

It was not a comfortable thought that he had employed such a man as this to watch the girl he loved.

“You’d better keep close here,” he said. “I don’t want you to be seen by the villagers or by the people from Fossaway Manor. Does anybody know you’re here?”

“No, sir. Not even Miss Gwyn: she never asked----”

Gilder interrupted him brusquely.

“If you’re going to town, go by night, and come back by night. I’m not so sure that it won’t be a good idea to stay here after all.”

He got back to London late in the evening and spent the night in a strict examination of his finances. He had dismissed from his mind all thoughts of the Chelford treasure. Mary Wenner had certainly justification for her confidence. He himself had been deceived when he had looked through the grating and seen those cylinders neatly arranged on the stone bench. Who had moved them--the Black Abbot? There must be some explanation for him. But he had his own ideas on the subject, and the moment had not yet arrived when he could test his theory.

The next morning he spent in the City and at Somerset House, examining the will of the late Lady Chelford. Her legacies were set forth in detail, and the character of the shares and stocks with which Arthur Gwyn had been entrusted were particularized, and John Henry Gwyn, Arthur’s uncle, named as trustee. A search of the court files failed to reveal any successor to Arthur’s uncle, and apparently no trustee had been appointed, the stocks being left in Arthur’s care. He would of course have authority to sell and reinvest, and there would be no trouble if shares of a corresponding value were handed over to Harry Chelford’s new solicitors.

* * *

Arthur Gwyn had spent a very busy day in the seclusion of his study. His task was not a pleasant one: he was putting in order the chaos of his affairs, and as the list of his liabilities grew, he himself seemed to grow older.

He had interrupted his work only to lunch with his sister, and Leslie, who thought that the cause of his distress was her vanished fortune, did her best to cheer him. His first act had been to gather on paper the remnants of her vanished quarter of a million, and the remnant was pitiably small, amounting to less than two thousand pounds. He told her this at lunch.

“But that’s really a much larger amount than I expected, Arthur,” she smiled. “We shall be able to live for two years on that.”

It was in his mind to say that he would possibly be living for five years on less, but he wanted to avert that news until it was inevitable that she should know.

At five o’clock she was having tea in solitary state when the maid brought her a card. She had not heard the arrival of the visitor’s motor car, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house. She took the card and read it.

“I don’t think I want to see this gentleman,” she said. “Will you ask Mr. Gwyn----”

And then she remembered the struggle on the lawn and Arthur’s damaged eye.

“Yes, I’ll see him,” she said. “Ask him to come in.”

Gilder was dressed as for an official visit. He carried a glossy silk hat, an incongruous sight in the country, in his gloved hand; his morning coat sported a large yellow rose; his patent shoes shone violently. Before he came to Willow House he had called at his own cottage to refresh his memory on one or two points, but the house was empty. Thomas had evidently gone up to town, as he had said he would. At first he was annoyed, but later he was glad that the man was not there. After all, he knew enough, more than enough for the comfort of Leslie Gwyn.

She met him with a distant little bow.

“I’m afraid you will not regard me as a welcome visitor, Miss Gwyn,” he said; “but I have a little business to discuss with you, and I should be grateful if you would give me a few minutes of your time.”

“Will you sit down, please?” she said coldly.

He was gazing at her with that queer, hungry look she had seen in his face before.

“I understand your engagement with Lord Chelford is broken off?” And, when she did not answer: “It was partly that which brought me here, and partly something much more serious--something,” he said, with distinct deliberation, “which affects you very closely, Miss Gwyn.”

He paused, expecting a reply, but received none. She sat bolt upright in one of the deep chairs that abounded in the room, her hands folded lightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on his.

“I was, as you probably know, for many years your brother’s right-hand man. In consequence, I have a very intimate knowledge of his affairs; and not only his affairs but the affairs of his clients. I know, for example, that your large fortune is mythical.”

If he had expected to shock her he was disappointed. She nodded slightly.

“I know that also, Mr. Gilder,” she said. “I hope you haven’t made this long journey to tell me this?”

For a second he was staggered. He had expected his announcement to be the first of two tremendous sensations; she saw the disappointment in his face and could have smiled.

“There is another matter,” he said, recovering himself, “which does not directly affect you. Your brother administered the estate of the late Lady Chelford, in the sense that he had in his charge stocks and bonds to the value of fifty-one thousand pounds. That is quite usual in an old-fashioned lawyer’s business, but to-day of course the stocks would be in the hands of the bank, and the dividends automatically credited.”

Her heart nearly stopped beating. He saw the colour fade from her face and was very sure of himself.

“My brother has--that money?” she said.

“He _had_ it.” He emphasized the word. “I understand that the present Lord Chelford is changing his lawyers, and in a week’s time those stocks are to be handed over to another firm.”

She was speechless, knowing that he was telling the truth, understanding only too well just all that this narrative implied.

“Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money,” Gilder went on suavely; “a very difficult sum to raise in a week. And in a week that money must be in your brother’s hands.”

She raised her eyes, and, seeing the pain in them, he was almost sorry for her.

“You mean--that the money--that Arthur hasn’t those stocks to transfer?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure of this?”

“Absolutely sure.”

A long silence, when the ticking of the little French clock came so loudly to their ears that instinctively both glanced at the mantelpiece together.

“Why do you tell me all this?”

He cleared his voice.

“A few days ago I told you, rather uncouthly, I am afraid, that I loved you,” he said. “You may not credit me with the--the affectionate reverence I have for you--but I love you! There is nothing in the world I would not do for you, no price that I would not pay.”

Her eyes did not waver; she seemed to be reading his very soul.

“Even to the extent of providing fifty thousand pounds in a week?” she said in a low voice.

“Even to that extent,” he answered.

She rose slowly to her feet.

“Will you write down your address?”

So calm was her voice that she might have been discussing an ordinary matter of business.

“I know where you live, but I have forgotten the name of the building and the number.”

He wrote it down with an unsteady hand and left the paper where she had placed it.

“I must know to-morrow,” he said, “yes or no.”

She dropped her head.

“You shall know to-morrow,” she said. “If I tell you I will marry you, you can make the arrangement about the money--I will not fail you.”

Without another word, he walked to the door, turned, and favoured her with a deep bow, and went out into the hall. She heard the whirr of his car grow fainter and fainter. But still she did not move.

XXXVII

The door opened. It was Arthur.